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Authors: Jerome Charyn
Tags: Historical fiction, Lincoln
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like a tomcat. I wanted to squeeze her nipples and touch her down below. I wanted to break her teeth with my own sucking mouth. Æsop wasn’t in the barnyard. It was Abraham Lincoln, the teller of tall tales who had never been near enough a woman to break her teeth or breathe in the aromas of her berry bush.
I snuck off with Miss Ann right at the tail end of the parade, kidnapped her on my pony. I’d never been as bold in all my life, not even when I was a river pilot set upon by a small band of slaves that had been woken into thievery by their master. It was on the Mississip, outside New Orleans. I flew at them with both arms while their white master watched from the shore. “Slug him, Jefferson,” he said, “slug him, John.” My heart was thumping like a crazy man as I pitched them into the water. But it thumped much faster now.
“Where are we going, Abraham?”
“Let the postman’s horse decide,” I said in a kind of raucous growl that seemed almost supernatural to my own ear, since I was a man with such a thin reed of a voice.
Miss Ann sat cradled in my lap, both her arms around me, her face next to mine. Our noses touched and then we kissed. And it’s peculiar how imaginings can overshoot their mark. I didn’t know the first thing about the taste of a woman’s mouth—it was like that honey the shouters cry about in their hymns; Ann had honey and spice on her lips. But with all the learning of a land surveyor, it was still hard to kiss on a horse.
I’d inherited an Indian pony from my constituents, the Clary’s Grove Boys, and this little horse had a mind of his own. He stopped in the dead of a tiny clearing, about a mile north of New Salem. And I let Ann slide down off my lap, and then I dismounted.
“Mr. Lincoln,” she said, with a quiver in her cheeks, “did you bargain for more than a kiss?”
Her eyes had flecks of crazy silver in them.
I’d never bargained with a woman before. Oh, I’d visited a whores’ camp while I was surveying near Petersburg. I didn’t do a damn thing. The whores were as worn as I was. And the cash I paid them was a kind of charity. But I wasn’t quick enough with Ann.
Her mood changed, and the quivering was gone. “There’s nothing worse than an old maid with a betrothal hanging around her neck like a noose.”
“Miss Ann,” I said, “you’re far, far from twenty-one.”
I tried to kiss her, but she pulled away. The light in the clearing burnt a deep red in her hair. My whole damn body was like a wounded pulse. And Miss Ann seemed to take a little pleasure in my pain.
“We’re back to bargaining,” she said. “Well, Mr. Lincoln, what would you like?”
“To see under your bodice,” I said.
The words could have flown from the beak of some bizarre parrot. That’s how wildish they were. But she didn’t blush to hear them. And she didn’t look down as she removed her bodice and her chemise. Her silver eyes were fixed on Abe Lincoln. My knees buckled out for a moment. Even my pony stared at her bosoms. They were higher and firmer than I had ever imagined, the nipples pink in the sunlight, each breast with tiny islands of blue veins.
I didn’t howl in the warm wind that came off the little trees. I reached over and touched her nipples with my rough hands. Then I surveyed her breasts with the same hands. In all my dreams I couldn’t have created another such delight. The pony snorted.
Ann had freckles on her shoulders. We stood like that, my hands trying to remember the contours of her flesh. I can’t even say how long we were in the clearing . . . until she broke the spell in a voice that was half a whisper.
“Abraham, that’s more than Mack has ever seen.”
She was shivering now. She put her chemise back on, and I hoisted her into the saddle; we rode in silence, with Annie near the horn.
6.
Vandalia
T HE S TATE CAPITAL was a town of eight hundred citizens, with its own peculiar civilization—you could find a passel of squaws,
I snuck off with Miss Ann right at the tail end of the parade, kidnapped her on my pony. I’d never been as bold in all my life, not even when I was a river pilot set upon by a small band of slaves that had been woken into thievery by their master. It was on the Mississip, outside New Orleans. I flew at them with both arms while their white master watched from the shore. “Slug him, Jefferson,” he said, “slug him, John.” My heart was thumping like a crazy man as I pitched them into the water. But it thumped much faster now.
“Where are we going, Abraham?”
“Let the postman’s horse decide,” I said in a kind of raucous growl that seemed almost supernatural to my own ear, since I was a man with such a thin reed of a voice.
Miss Ann sat cradled in my lap, both her arms around me, her face next to mine. Our noses touched and then we kissed. And it’s peculiar how imaginings can overshoot their mark. I didn’t know the first thing about the taste of a woman’s mouth—it was like that honey the shouters cry about in their hymns; Ann had honey and spice on her lips. But with all the learning of a land surveyor, it was still hard to kiss on a horse.
I’d inherited an Indian pony from my constituents, the Clary’s Grove Boys, and this little horse had a mind of his own. He stopped in the dead of a tiny clearing, about a mile north of New Salem. And I let Ann slide down off my lap, and then I dismounted.
“Mr. Lincoln,” she said, with a quiver in her cheeks, “did you bargain for more than a kiss?”
Her eyes had flecks of crazy silver in them.
I’d never bargained with a woman before. Oh, I’d visited a whores’ camp while I was surveying near Petersburg. I didn’t do a damn thing. The whores were as worn as I was. And the cash I paid them was a kind of charity. But I wasn’t quick enough with Ann.
Her mood changed, and the quivering was gone. “There’s nothing worse than an old maid with a betrothal hanging around her neck like a noose.”
“Miss Ann,” I said, “you’re far, far from twenty-one.”
I tried to kiss her, but she pulled away. The light in the clearing burnt a deep red in her hair. My whole damn body was like a wounded pulse. And Miss Ann seemed to take a little pleasure in my pain.
“We’re back to bargaining,” she said. “Well, Mr. Lincoln, what would you like?”
“To see under your bodice,” I said.
The words could have flown from the beak of some bizarre parrot. That’s how wildish they were. But she didn’t blush to hear them. And she didn’t look down as she removed her bodice and her chemise. Her silver eyes were fixed on Abe Lincoln. My knees buckled out for a moment. Even my pony stared at her bosoms. They were higher and firmer than I had ever imagined, the nipples pink in the sunlight, each breast with tiny islands of blue veins.
I didn’t howl in the warm wind that came off the little trees. I reached over and touched her nipples with my rough hands. Then I surveyed her breasts with the same hands. In all my dreams I couldn’t have created another such delight. The pony snorted.
Ann had freckles on her shoulders. We stood like that, my hands trying to remember the contours of her flesh. I can’t even say how long we were in the clearing . . . until she broke the spell in a voice that was half a whisper.
“Abraham, that’s more than Mack has ever seen.”
She was shivering now. She put her chemise back on, and I hoisted her into the saddle; we rode in silence, with Annie near the horn.
6.
Vandalia
T HE S TATE CAPITAL was a town of eight hundred citizens, with its own peculiar civilization—you could find a passel of squaws,
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