The Packet

by Michael C. Cordell

"Closing time, mister," the barkeep called to the gray man sitting at the end of the bar.  "One more for the road?"

The man shook his head and stood up from his stool.  He swayed a little in place, but managed to find his sea legs before he began the long trek to the exit.  He tipped his cap in the barkeep's direction and pushed open the louvered door into the chilled night air.

"Hey, fellow," he called after him.  "You're not from these parts, are ya?"  I'd be careful if I was you.  There's some ornery people around here just itching to tussle with a stranger."

The man looked back and smiled.  "Nope, I'm just passing through, but thanks for your concern.  I'm not going very far."  He walked outside and limped his way down West Maine Street, struggling to maintain his balance as he passed the parade of closed shops along the route.

At South Grand Avenue, he turned left and stopped, then spun around twice to get his bearings.  The red brick facade of the Grand Avenue Hotel caught his eye.  He wrapped his overcoat around him and began his drunken stumble toward the ramshackle buileg.

The night manager sat at the front desk, huddled with a woolen blanket across his shoulders.  The sound of country western singing hissed from the speaker of the nearby Victrola.  He looked up at the stranger and watched him try to negotiate the short flight of stairs to the lobby.

"Excuse me," the man began, "but did I receive a delivery today?"

The night manager squinted as if he could read the stranger's mind.  "Nope, can't say I've seen any packages at all."

"Can you check anyway?  Room 210.  The name is David George."

Shrugging, the night manager grabbed his cane and hauled himself off his chair.  "Hold on," he said, opening a door to the back, then closing it behind him.

George leaned over the counter and listened to the music until the needle on the Victrola reached the end of the record.  After several minutes, the night manager emerged and glared at stranger hovering over his desk until the man's feet dropped back to the floor.

"No, nothing," the old man reported as he sat back down in his chair, lifting the needle and returning the record player's arm back to its stand.

"Are you sure?  I was expecting something today.  Could you check someplace else?"

The night manager stood up again and brought his face close to George's.

"Look, I went through every piece of mail back there and I didn't see one thing for 'David George' or even an 'in care of' addressee.  I know that back room inside and out and trust me, there's nothing there waiting for you."

George dropped his head, dejected.

The night manager patted him on the shoulder.  "Why don't you go to your room and get some sleep?  The morning mail gets here about ten o'clock.  I'll make sure that the day manager comes to your room if anything arrives for you."

George nodded.  "Thank you kindly.  Good night."

#

He limped down the narrow hallway and up the stairs to his room.  After several tries, he negotiated the lock on the door and stumbled inside.

His valise remained undisturbed by the bed.  He dropped into the rickety chair near the dresser and bent over to untie his shoes.  The flood of alcohol rushed to his head, causing his stomach to lurch, but only for a moment.  He stood again and rolled down the stained bedspread, folded back the threadbare blanket and slid under the sheets.   After three days of hard travel and even more days drinking, George fell into a deep sleep within minutes.

In his dream, he is walking down a spiral staircase into a thick fog.  The dank air envelops him, but at first he feels no fear.  Even the inarticulate screams he hears in the distance do not dissuade him from his descent.  As he progresses, the voice becomes more coherent.

"Save me, oh God, save me," cries the unseen supplicant, over and over.

"I'm coming, I'm coming,” he shouts, “Wait for me."

Deeper into the bowels of eternity he drops, but no matter how far he goes, he cannot find the poor person calling for his help.  Instead, he reaches the bottom step of the almost endless spiral staircase and falls, tumbling, spinning out of control until he slams into the ground.

George shot up from the pillow, coughing and gagging on the bile that he excreted during his nightmare.  He hung his head over the bed and waited for the spasms to subside.  After several minutes, he got up and staggered to the bathroom.  He poured a glass of water from the tap and took several swallows, then ran a toothbrush over his teeth, but no matter what he did, the acrid taste still lingered.

He returned to bed and lit a candle, then grabbed the leather-bound journal and fountain pen from the nightstand.  Several minutes passed as he flipped through the earlier pages, pausing at times to read a passage.  He finally turned to a clean page and began to write. George recorded every detail of his day, of his dream, of every impression that came to him since his last entry.

Around 3:30, he reviewed his newest insights, then closed the journal, blew out the candle and fell back to sleep.

A knock on the door jarred him awake.  He glanced at his pocket watch and called from his bed, "Yeah, what is it?"

"Mr. George, this is Caleb from the front desk.  The night manager told me you were waiting for a delivery?"

George swung his legs over the side of the bed and hurried to the door, opening it.  "What time is it?"

"It's almost 10:15, sir.  In the morning."

"I know it's morning," George snarled, rubbing his eyes.  "So, did I get anything?"

Caleb hesitated.  "Yes, I think so."

"What do you mean, you 'think so'?"

"Well, there's something addressed to 'D.E.G.," care of this hotel.  You're the only D.E.G. we have staying here, as far I can tell anyway."

"I'll be right down."

George threw on the shirt and pants he wore the previous night, then left the room.  He walked with dread to the front desk, half anticipating, half fearing what waited for him. Caleb was waiting for him, package in hand.

The day manager slid the clipboard over to him, pointing to the next empty line.  "Please sign here."

George scribbled his signature, then hurried back to his room with the delivery.

#

He pulled his pocketknife out of its leather case and sat down in front of the wash table, moving the basin to the floor to make room for the packet.   With two quick slashes he cut the strings and removed the brown wrapping paper.

George's hands trembled as lifted the lid on the slim cedarwood box, then reached in and removed the object encased in green velvet.  Pausing to inhale the scent emanating from the fragrant wood, he peeled back the velvet and withdrew a tiny pistol.

George traced the ornate barrel on the Derringer, felt the etched stock once again.  Almost forty years had passed since he last held that gun and the events of that day still burned in his memory.

He picked up the note that still laid in the box and unfolded it.

December 12, 1902

It took a lot of doing, my friend, but I was able to remove this from that cursed place.  I hope it brings you what you're looking for. 

- D. Herold Jr.

George folded the note and stuck it in his pocket, then looked at the gun again.  Without a ball or powder, this isn't going to be much good, he thought to himself.

He wrapped the green velvet around the Derringer and placed it in the box.  After stowing the container into his valise, he put on his hat and coat and left the room.

"Hello, Mr. George," Caleb greeted him again.  "Everything okay with the parcel you got?"

"Yes, just fine," George told him.  "Look, is there a gun shop anywhere in town?"

Caleb laughed.  "Bars and guns are what we do best here in Enid.  You looking for anything in particular?"

"You might say that.  Where's it that most folks go?"

"Virgil's is the place everyone seems to take a shine to.  It's over on East Elm.  Just head down Grand and make a left, you can't miss it."

"Thank you right kindly, Caleb," George said, tipping his hat and heading to the door.

"Hey mister, tell ol' Virgil that Caleb sent ya, okay?"

"I will," George replied with a wave.

#

"Howdy, stranger," the old man behind the counter said.  "What can I do for ya?"

"Are you Virgil?  Caleb over at the Grand Avenue Hotel sent me here," George said.

"Yes, sir, I'm Virgil."

"Good.  You look like someone who's been around awhile."

Virgil chuckled.  "You might say that."

"Look, I have a .44 caliber Derringer made about fifty years ago."

The old man whistled.  "My goodness, friend, that's a rare piece.  Are you fixin' to sell it?"

"No, sir," George said, shaking his head.  "I'm really just looking to buy some balls and powder for it."

"For something like that today?" Virgil asked.  "Almost impossible in these parts, I'm afraid.  I could find it in the catalogs, but it will take at least three months to get here, even if I could find it."

George frowned.  "That's a shame.  What about any of the other gun stores in town?"

"Nope, I'm pretty sure you'll turn up empty there, too.  Maybe you should just buy another gun.  I have plenty here and I'll make you a good deal."

"No thanks, Virgil, I'll wait for now.  Thank you for your kindness."

"Glad to be of service, Mister uh -- "

"The name is David George.  Tell me, where's a man likely to find a hearty meal for little money here?"

"That's easy, Mr. George.  Emma's Kitchen over on Randolph is the place I go.  It's only a block south of here."

"Thanks again, Virgil."

Ten minutes later, George found himself in front of Emma's.  He walked in, the bells over the door announcing his entrance.

"Howdy, stranger," greeted a woman in a stained apron.  "Have a seat anywhere you want.  I'll stop by with a menu in a minute."

George slid into a corner booth and looked around the nearly empty dining room.

"Sorry about the wait," the waitress said on her return, handing him a menu.  "The other girl is late, so I'm covering all the tables by my lonesome.  Coffee?"

"Yeah, sure," George replied, opening the menu.  "And get me a couple of eggs over easy with bacon and potatoes, please."

"Sure thing," the waitress replied, her eyes lingering on his face.

"Anything wrong?"

"No, sir, just admiring your mustache is all.  I've asked my husband to grow one that full, but he can't do it.  Doesn't run in his family, I guess."

"I've had it for many years," George said, smoothing it.

"Makes you look like someone I should know," she replied, taking his menu from him.  "I'll be back with your coffee in a second."

George watched her walk away, continuing to smooth his mustache.

"New in town, stranger?" asked a patron sitting at the counter, looking back at him.

"A bit.  I lived over near Waukomis, but I got into Enid on New Year's Day," George told him.  "I'm staying at the Grand Avenue Hotel right now."

"Planning to stick around?"

George shrugged.  "All depends if I can get work."

"What do you do?"

"A lot of things, but mostly house painting."

The man at the counter chuckled.  "I don't think you're going to find much work in Enid.  No one here cares if the paint's peeling off their house in sheets."

"Now, James, behave yourself," the waitress said as she walked by, cuffing the man on the back of his head.  "You just like to run down this old town to whoever you like.  Gettin' tired of it, too."

James rubbed the spot where the waitress hit him.  "Come on, Emma, you don't have to do that."

"If you deserve it, I do," she told him, pouring coffee for George.  "Need cream, darlin'?"

"Nah, black is fine," George told her, taking a sip.

"You're eggs'll be up in a minute."

Emma looked over at James, who sat huddled over his breakfast, ignoring the both of them now.

"Don't mind him," she advised George in a low voice.  "He's just an old crank, but he's still a good customer."

George nodded, but didn't reply.

"Food up!" came a shout from the kitchen.

"That'll be your breakfast, hon," Emma said.  "Be right back."

In a few moments she returned, carrying a tray with his breakfast.  She unloaded the plates in front of him and stood back, watching him.

"Thanks," George said, glancing up at her.  "Ma'am, you're staring at me again."

"Oh, I am?  Sorry about that, stranger, for some reason you look awfully familiar to me.  Do you come through these parts often?"

"Nope, I'm from down south, actually,  Just traveling through on the way to visit a friend."

Emma patted him on the shoulder.  "I'm sorry, didn't mean anything by it.  It's just we don't get such, well, dapper men just coming through town that often.  Enid's a nice little town, but hardly that exciting."

"What do you do for fun?" George wanted to know, taking a bite of his eggs.

"Not much!" James interjected with a laugh.  "There isn't even theater anywhere close to here.  The local band holds concerts sometimes, though."

"My husband's the lead trombone," Emma disclosed.  "I never seen that man smile so much as when he's playing that horn."

George smiled.  "Sounds like the town could use a little different entertainment."

"You're right about that," she said.  "What do you have in mind?"

"Well, I did a little acting when I was younger, maybe I could arrange something."

James turned toward him.  "Acting?  What kind?  Vaudeville or something?"

George shook his head.  "No, real stage acting.  Shakespeare, that kind of thing."

"Fancy," Emma exclaimed.  "You do have the looks to be an actor."

"Better watch it, Emma, or I'll sic your husband on him," James teased, laughing at his own joke.

Emma waved her hand at him.  "Oh, go ahead and do that, you old crank, and see if you get a free drink in his bar ever again."

"Bar?  You mean O'Shaughnessy's?" George asked.  "I was drinking there just last night.  Nice little tavern."

"Yep, that's my Pat.  He runs a tidy little bar, if I do say so myself."

"I have to agree, that's the place to go," James admitted. 

"Maybe Pat would be interested in bring a little entertainment to his establishment," George said.

Emma nodded.  "Go on and ask him.  He won't get mad at ya just for askin'"

"I'll do that, thanks, Emma."

"Sure thing, stranger."

"Call me George.  David George."

"Nice to meet ya, Mr. George," Emma replied, patting on the back again.  "You go ahead and finish your breakfast now before it gets cold."

George took little time to eat his food and walked up to the cash register to pay his bill.  Emma stood there waiting for him.

"Don't forget to let Pat know his Emma sent you his way.  He'll take real good care of ya."

"Thank you for your hospitality, Emma."

"Nah, think nothing of it," she replied, handing him his change.

"You don't know how rarely she shows it, friend," James shouted, snickering.

"Maybe if I ignore him, he'll go away," Emma said to George, loud enough for James to hear.

George smiled and left the restaurant, the sounds of their squabbling following him out the door.

#

Pat O'Shaughnessy poured George an ale from the tap and placed it in front of him.

"Two bits, friend," the barkeep told him.

George paid him and took a long swig, then wiped his mouth.  "Nice little place you have here," he said.  "As you have seen, I've become quite fond of it."

"Oh, it'll do,"  O'Shaughnessy replied, smiling.  "So, if I may ask, what brings you to Enid?"

George looked at the liquor bottles lining the shelves behind the barkeep and shrugged.  "I'm not really sure.  Ran out of work outside of town and needed to look elsewhere."

"What do ya do?"

"I paint. Buildings.  Not very good at it, either.  But a man's gotta eat."

"And drink, don't forget," O'Shaughnessy joked.

"Aye, never forget that," George said, lifting his glass in salute.  "You know, Pat, I was over at Emma's place having breakfast this morning.  Quite a woman."

Pat nodded.  "Yes, indeed, she is a saint.  Kind of you to say so."

"My pleasure.  I was telling her about my old life before I decided house painting was better."

Pat raised an eyebrow.  "Now what would that be?"

"Well, I was an actor of some renown."

"An actor, you say?  Can't remember if I ever met any of you fellas before."

"David E. George, at your service," George replied, extending his hand.

"Pleased to meet ya.  George, huh?  No offense, friend, but I'm afraid I never heard of you before.  You said you were famous?" O'Shaughnessy said.

"I guess you'd say so.  I played most of the theaters on the east coast.  Stageplays, mostly the classics, though I acted in some modern productions, too.  Which brings me to my proposal."

O'Shaughnessy leaned over the bar.  "Yes?" he drawled.

"I noticed that the inside of your place could use a little freshening up.  I'll paint it for free, as long as you pay for the materials."

"Hmm, go on.  What's the catch?"

"Once the painting's done, I'd like to put on a performance for the town here.  Kind of show off the new paint job and it allows me to be on stage again, even for a little while.  What do you think?"

O'Shaughnessy shrugged.  He stood up and started wiping glasses with a bar towel.  "Give me a little time to talk it over with Emma."

"Okay, that sounds fair.  Just so you know, she thought it was a great idea."

"You already told her?"

"No, not the whole plan, but she did seem to think Enid needed some different entertainment."

O'Shaughnessy nodded.  "That's probably true.  She told you about our little band, did she?"

"Yes, sir, she said you blew a mighty fine horn."

O'Shaughnessy laughed.  "Well, I'm no John Philip Sousa, but I can carry a tune.  No matter how good the boys are, though, I know we can use some variety around here."

"So you'll do it?"

"I tell you what, Mr. George.  You get me an estimate on how much the paint and supplies will cost me and I'll think it over.  In the meantime, I'll talk with Emma to make sure she agrees it's a good idea."

"That's all I can ask, Pat.  Who can I talk to about getting paint and such?"

"Tom's General Store has all kinds of hardware supplies.  I'm sure you can find the fixings for making paint there.  His place is on North 4th Street.  It's not far."

George stood up from the barstool.  "Very good, I'll speak to you later.

#

After a couple of wrong turns, George found the general store.

"Are you the owner?" he asked a man on his knees, hanging tools on a rack.

"Yeah, I'm Tom," replied the man.  He looked up at George and kept working.  "Never seen you around before.  What do you need?"

"Pat O'Shaughnessy said you might have some fixings for making paint."

"Well, it all depends on what kind of painting you're planning."

"The list is pretty simple, really.  Linseed varnish, pigment and arsenic for the paint.  I'll also need a brush, a couple of cans, rags, turpentine and a stir stick."

The proprietor stood up.  "What color pigment?"

"I'd like to make a eighty-twenty mix of iron oxide brown and ochre.  Since I'm going to be painting the inside of O'Shaughnessy's tavern, I'll need quite a bit."

Tom nodded.  "I think I have everything you need.  You want to wait while I gather everything?"

"Not yet.  How much will it all cost?"

The proprietor pulled out a pencil and pad and began scratching out the inventory.

"I think ten dollars out to cover it all.  I'll even throw in a drop cloth I have stored in the storeroom, though I want that back when you're done," Tom said, handing the estimate to George.

George nodded.  "Okay, let me see if Pat agrees with this price.  I think it should be okay, though."

"Fine, I'll collect the goods and have them here waiting for you when you return."

"Thanks, Tom."

George hurried back to O'Shaughnessy's.

"Ten dollars, huh?" O'Shaughnessy said, scratching his chin as he reviewed the estimate.  "I think I can live with that."

"Don't you want to talk to Emma first?"

O'Shaughnessy shrugged.  "Nah, she's always telling me to spruce up this place.  Now she can have her way and I can get some peace at home."  He took out ten dollars from the cash register and handed it to George.

"Thanks, Pat, I'll be back to start in a couple of hours."

"Wonderful.  See you then."

By three o'clock, George had the paint mixed and the drop cloth laid out.  O'Shaughnessy watched him work while tending to customers, most of whom gave no notice of the man painting at the back of the tavern.

Three days later, George touched up the last of the paint and stood back to admire his work.  O'Shaughnessy handed him an ale and poured one for himself.

"I tell you, David, you've completely brightened up the place.  Here's to you," O'Shaughnessy said, raising his glass.

The two men drained their mugs and set them on the bar.

"When do you think you'll want to have your show?" O'Shaughnessy asked.

"How's Saturday night sound?  That will give me a couple of days to rehearse and for the smell of paint to dissipate some."

"Very good.  I'll get the word out around town so we can have a packed house."

"Thank you, Pat."

"No, it's you I should be thanking, David."

"What about these leftover supplies?" George asked, pointing to a box on the floor.

"Take 'em," O'Shaughnessy said, with a wave of his hand.  "Now you'll have a head start on your next job should you stay in town."

"Wonderful, I appreciate that."

"Now off with ya, you have some work to do," O'Shaughnessy said, nodding toward the door.

#

George returned to his hotel room and after a bath and change of clothes, pulled some books from his valise and lay on the bed to study.  After a couple of read-throughs, the dialog came back to him and before long, he was orating as well as in his former days. 

Three hours later, his eyes grew heavy and before long, George fell into a sound sleep.  Soon, the same dream came again to haunt him and like all the other times before, he was unable to help the person calling to him for help.  Each time, the old pain returned, but stronger than ever.

A knock stirred him from his uneasy slumber.  He rubbed his eyes and answered the door.

"Sorry for disturbing you, Mr. George," Caleb began.  "I heard that you are planning a performance over at O'Shaughnessy's and I was wondering . . ."

"Yes?" George prompted, smiling.

"I was wondering if you need anyone else to act with.  You know, another character in the play you're going to do or something."

Caleb stood at the door, head hanging and waiting for the verdict.

"Of course, Caleb, I'd be happy to have another player in my company.  Have you had any experience with that sort of thing?"

Caleb chuckled.  "Nope, though I know I playacted a lot when I was a kid to get myself out of trouble."

"That's a start," George acknowledged.  "Well, I guess we'd better get started."

"If you don't mind, Mr. George, let's rehearse downstairs so I can tend the front desk at the same time."

"Fine, but as long as you call me 'David' from now on.  After all, we're fellow actors now."

"Okay, David," Caleb enunciated, grinning.

#

The pair spent the next two days rehearsing, with George in the role of director and mentor as well as actor.  Caleb proved to be a rapt and naturally talented student and between the two of them, the roles quickly developed.  While Caleb was away, George spent the free hours painting the sets.

By Saturday afternoon, they were ready to appear on the stage.  The two men walked to the tavern to prepare for the show.

"Gentlemen, how are ya?" O'Shaughnessy greeted, drawing two ales from the tap and handing them to the actors.

"Fine, just fine, Pat," George said, raising his glass in thanks.  "We're just here to place the set for the first act."

"Wonderful.  There's been a buzz all over town about tonight's show.  I think we're going to have a packed house."

Caleb began coughing.  George slapped him on the back a few times to help.

"I'm okay," Caleb sputtered.  "Just thought of all the people staring at me and made me feel a bit scared."

George laughed.  "Stage fright's perfectly normal, Caleb.  Don't worry about a thing.  Once you start going, your nerves will settle down."

"Caleb, I have faith in ya, me boy," O'Shaughnessy said.  "Everyone will love what you two gents do no matter what."

"Thanks, Pat," Caleb said, still a little green.

"Shall we get to those sets then?" George asked, patting Caleb on the shoulder.

"Oh, I meant to tell ya, Emma and her women friends will have your costumes over here by five o'clock," O’Shaughnessy said.

"That won't give us much time for a dress rehearsal," George said.  "But I think we can manage it anyway.  Right, Caleb?"

"Right!" Caleb said, with enthusiasm born of false bravado.

#

George peeked through the makeshift curtains to look upon the crowd.  Just as O'Shaughnessy promised, there wasn't a free seat in the house and the crowd noise already began swelling the small tavern.

Caleb paced the floor, mumbling to himself.

"Caleb, you'd better settle down, or you won't have anything left for the stage." George said, laughing.

"Oh, I'm sorry, David," Caleb replied, standing still.  "I'm just going over my lines again."

"One bit of advice from an old hand at this: don't over-rehearse.  That can make your acting appear to be rote and stale.  Just remember, the audience are friends and family.  You're here to entertain them and they're here to be entertained.  They're not looking for a spotless performance, just something they'll be talking about long after the final curtain closes."

"You're right, David.  I'm ready to get going."

"Me, too.  Pat will announce us soon."

A few moments later, the crowd hushed.

"Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming to O'Shaughnessy's for tonight's stageplay featuring David E. George, a visitor to our town and a former professional actor, and our own Caleb Drummond, from the Grand Avenue Hotel.  Please give them a warm welcome, shall we?"

O'Shaughnessy stepped stage right and pulled open the curtain.

For the next hour, George and Caleb acted scenes from The Merchant of Venice, Macbeth and As You Like It.  After each piece, the crowd roared their approval, demanding more.  The curtained opened once again and George stood alone on the stage.

"Ladies and gentlemen, Caleb and I appreciate your enthusiasm and graciousness tonight.  For the last act this evening, I would like to perform Mark Antony's famous speech from Julius Caesar."

Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears;

I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him;

The evil that men do lives after them,

The good is oft interred with their bones, . . .

As George orated, the patrons remained deathly silent, their attention fully upon the actor.  George put every ounce of himself into his final monologue, his years of training and performing holding the crowd in awe.

. . . O judgment! thou art fled to brutish beasts,

And men have lost their reason.... Bear with me;

My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar,

And I must pause till it come back to me.

George bowed before the audience, who stood and cheered in response.  He gestured to Caleb to join him and the two men received an enthusiastic reception from the crowd, bowing until O'Shaughnessy closed the curtain for the last time.

The tavern owner hurried back stage.

"You gents were wonderful," he proclaimed.  "I've never seen such acting in my life and I'm sure that goes for the rest of the town, too."

"Thank you for your kindness, Pat," George said.  "I admit, that was the most fun I've had in years.  What about you, Caleb?"

The younger man nodded.  "I never felt what I did when everyone stood clapping for us.  I want to do that again and again."

"Be careful, my friend, you've been bit by the acting bug.  It's not an easy road to walk down, I have to warn you." George said, slapping him on the back.

"I'm ready and willing," Caleb said, grinning.

"Now, gents, let's get down to the bar.  There are a couple of ales with your name on them waiting for you."

The three men walked through the tavern and were met with a barrage of good wishes from those that remained.

George and Caleb sat down on barstools and drank their ales.

"David, why did you quit acting?" Caleb asked him.  "How could you ever give up getting that kind of feeling?"

George looked down in his glass.  "Sometimes there are more important things in your life than acting, Caleb.  And sometimes, when you look back, you realize you made a mistake at the time to think that way, but you can't turned back the clock."

"I don't understand, I guess."

"Someday you will, I promise.  Just remember to keep your priorities straight and your head cool.  Passion is an important asset for an actor, but don't let it carry you away."

George stood up.  "And now, if you don't mind, I'm going to go back to my room.  I'm kind of worn out from the performance."

"I think I'll stay here," Caleb replied.  "Thanks for giving me this chance, David.  I promise I'll always remember what you taught me."

"Excellent.  Good night, my friend."

The two men shook hands and George navigated his way through the crowd to the door.

O'Shaughnessy walked over to Caleb.  "Where did David run off to?"

"He's tired, so he's turning in early."

"Good man, that David George," O'Shaughnessy said, pouring Caleb another ale and handing him the mug.

"So are you," Caleb joked, pointing to the mug.

#

George returned to his room and changed out of his clothes into his bedshirt.  He pulled out his journal, sat down at the wash table and began to write.

January 12, 1903

Dear Friends,

I write to you with a heavy heart.  My return to the stage for the last time reminded me of all those years gone by since I was able to hold my head up proudly before God and mankind.  The brief joy I felt in front of the adoring crowd tonight only temporarily distracted me from my guilt. 

I murdered one of the best men who ever lived, but at the time, I thought him to be the Devil himself.  Since that fateful day, I have hidden in every shadow, cursed to walk the Earth as one of the forever damned.

And so, I must now bow out and leave history to judge me, for what I did deserves judgment of the harshest kind.  When I stand before my Maker, I can only beg for forgiveness and hope for a reprieve from the endless torture I most certainly face.

God bless you and the South!

- JWB

George capped his pen and laid it across the journal, then picked up the box of leftover painting supplies and walked to the bed.

I hope I have enough to do the job right, he thought as he lay down and got comfortable.

#

The next afternoon, Caleb ran up to George's door and knocked.

"David, the newspaper came out and we made the front page!" he announced.  "Let me in, I have to show you."

Caleb pounded on the door several times, then turned the handle.

"David?" he called, stepping inside.

Caleb looked at the bed and spotted George's prone figure.  For a moment, he thought the actor was still asleep.

"Wake up, David," he said, shaking him.  He turned George over on his back and saw his face drained of color, the body rigid and cold.

"Oh my God, David!" Caleb shouted, running out of the room and down the hall.  "Help!  Help!"

An hour later, the police arrived and after reading George's journal and examining the empty bottle of arsenic on the nightstand, tentatively concluded the death was a suicide.

"Who's 'JWB?'" one of the cops asked Caleb, looking at the last page.  "I thought his name was David E. George."

"It was," Caleb replied, puzzled.  "At least that's what he told me."

"Probably an alias," the other cop surmised.  "Just a drifter on the lam, I reckon."

Caleb shrugged.  "I guess we'll never know," he said as watched George's body being carried out of the room.  "Though he was a fine actor."

#

The story of David E. George, aka John St. Helen, is based on the claim by George himself that he was none other than John Wilkes Booth, the famous actor who assassinated Abraham Lincoln, the sixteenth President of the United States, shortly after the end of the American Civil War on April 14, 1865.  Legend has it that Booth was not killed in a barn several weeks after the murder of the beloved president, but rather escaped, courtesy of co-conspirators strategically located throughout the South. 

Much of this short story is purely fictional, though some "facts" in relation to George were included:  he was a mediocre house painter; as the bartender known as John St. Helen, he would stage productions of classic plays at the bars he worked in, starring himself; he died in Enid, OK,  allegedly of arsenic poisoning at his own hand and found in his room at the Grand Avenue Hotel.

The rest of the story about George after his former attorney claimed his body is even stranger.  His remains were mummified and displayed at the 1904 World's Fair and at carnivals and circus side shows for years.  In the 1930's, doctors performed an examination on the mummy and concluded that George's body was indeed that of John Wilkes Booth.

At some point, the mummy disappeared where it is presumed to remain in private hands, its whereabouts unknown.  In recent years, some individuals have appealed to have Booth's remains exhumed in order to confirm, using DNA testing, whether or not the assassin was truly interred in that spot, but a judge rejected the request, claiming that there was flimsy evidence supporting the belief that Booth's body was not in that grave.

Perhaps some day the truth will finally prevail . . .