INTERMISSION: Feature to resume in 20 min

Dear Reader

From time to time I have crossed that sacred imaginary line between reader and writer, interjecting my opinion or possibly shedding light on an overlooked detail, inference or path misconstrued. For me to do this is to risk total rejection from some and maybe all of the very, very, few sets of eyes on this work. But in my defense, I am not really a ‘Writer’. No, no, no, people like Poe are writers, people like the grand ole man Hemingway and the sheer magic of F. Scott Fitzgerald. So many thousands upon thousands who have come before and sat at a sprawling desk, or cafe; or maybe some insufferably hot tiny room somewhere or even a cool rooftop. Notice I am carefully not including a school or university or some training ground for those who create wonderful stories and show them to their professor, or teacher and wonder why they only get a reassuring smile or pointed out grammatical mistakes. They then look at the instructor as cruel, or petty or even jealous of the wonderful story they have written as a class assignment. The old saying, “Those who can, do, and those who can’t teach”, is one great big Gott damn lie! The saying should be “They teach, so others can do”. The guiding factor being a separate place in hell for those who set young minds down the wrong path (and you know who you are).  Even a good teacher knows not how to convey to the student that the early words put on the paper by the student are not from the student. How can the teacher tell the pupil, without overstepping his or her bounds that words; their words do not come from the assignment but from the inner soul of the writer. All the land swimming in the world does not prepare you for the first gulp of water that goes over your head. The stories of writers saying they wrote the same sentence over and over so many times it almost drove them insane are true. Hemingway just wanted to write one true sentence all his life! What gets tapped out on typewriter, scratched out in cuneiform, etched in stone or just simple old pencil is not the form that tells the story. It is the story teller trying to get as close to the imaginary 100 percent conveyance that he or she can get. Not even Siamese twins get close to that number.

Photographers take pictures of breathtaking scenes, and the mundane and true ugliness in this world and present it in the best way they can. But that moment, that here and now time was their perfection. The art, the photo, the reproduction was only the shell of what was really there and now they have the proof.

So to say that I am a writer when I have mentioned those who have come before and gotten much closer in conveying to their readers; is to point to the mirror and say that’s the guy your looking for, he did it with that pencil right over there. The simple truth is I am just a wordsmith pedaling crafted letters like pearls strung together as proof that I did dive for them, I did clean them off and weed out the impure ones from my heart and soul.  Oh yes, I do have that 100 percent in my head and it is a beautiful thing.

INTERMISSION OVER: Please return to your seats.

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The Fat, sick, dead, and nearly stupid Pt. 1 26

“Do you think you can handle this job, Edward Brutus Booth?’

“Mr. Lincoln, I will never disappoint you, even if my life depends on it.”

“Strong words, but if you’re going to work for me then you are going to call me Abraham. Never call me Abe—I don’t like it either.”

Edward Brutus Booth became the bodyguard, or personal assistant to Abraham Lincoln the third at 4 pm on a very pleasant afternoon.

For the plethora of guests waiting for an entrance, Abraham didn’t disappoint them when he came down the stairway flanked by his new bodyguard, slash personal assistant, and two very large state troupers behind, minus a thin man in an impeccable suit.

In the back of the house the 50 piece Eagles Veterans band had just played Aura Lee with a three violin lead that brought the audience to a standing ovation. They all turned to see Abraham come through the double doors. For a moment nothing stirred or moved as if everyone realized they were being placed into living history and wanted to stay in the moment. The silence broke into laughter when Abraham said, “Hey anyone know where he’s at?” This started the band up again playing a familiar tune that brought couples to the dance floor. Hildene Estates did what it was built for by it’s original owner Robert Todd Lincoln and that was to make all guests welcome.

Edward Booth proved to be worth his new appointment as he introduced guests of every ilk in American royalty or poor man’s success story. Old oil barons told their story only to be upstaged by new tech breeds giving their rendition of poor as the wrong brand of  computer at ivy league colleges. It seemed as if the fat, the sick, the dead and nearly stupid had swooped down from every corner of the country to get a glimpse of a living legend; if only long enough to see him with two left feet on the dance floor or drowning his sorrows at the amply stocked open bar. This was a night for all to remember.

Abraham looked down just in time to see a small woman standing in front of him. She wore the glossy smile of one champagne glass too many.

“So what is your name?” Abraham asked.

“You’re a Lincoln,” she said rocking back and forth on two inch heels. Her cheeks were almost as rosy as her lipstick.

“Yes I am. Who are you?”

She took another sip of bubbly courage and repeated, “you’re a Lincoln.”

Edward Booth didn’t need a Cue and helped the young lady to a steady chair. He brought back an entirely different breed.

“Abraham, this is Miss…” was all Edward could get out.

“And just who are you?” the exquisitely dressed tall blonde woman asked Edward.

“Well I am Mr Lincoln’s personal…”

“Your nobody, and I wish to talk to Abraham.” She turned to Abraham. “Do you know who I am?”

Woman or man Edward gave Abraham the look; should I? Just give me the nod and she will be gone. He got the look that made him step backwards.

“We were class mates, Burr and Burton? You do remember me? Of course you do. After that, I spent time at Wellesley, top of my class as always. I guess it was expected of me all along. Good breeding is hard to come by in these times”

She reached back and touched her long neck then looked down as if admiring herself in a form fitting Cheri Lemont. She looked at the cut and fit of Abraham’s suit.

“Abraham noticed, “It’s a Lincoln the third…one of a kind. Just like me.”

She went on about her family tree and good fortune amassed off the backs of those less fortunate. As a Jackson working at Hildene he was all too familiar with this type. He listened long enough to spot a familiar face from across the dance floor.

“Did you know that Edward’s last name is Booth?”

She turned to Edward Brutus Booth and her professionally sculpted jaw dropped long enough for Abraham to loose himself among the dancers on the floor.

He walked between swirling dancers, side stepped champagne toting waiters and occasional onlookers as easily as any seasoned celebrity. When he was standing on the non swinging side of the kitchen doors he looked down at a woman. She looked to be in her thirties or if any older timeless. Jet black hair fell over her shoulders and seemed to blend into a vintage dark crushed velvet evening gown. A single turquoise pendant hung from around her neck and to the trained eye it was museum grade old. She was looking desperately to see someone

“Abegail Night Raven,” was all he said to the woman sitting in a chair wedged conveniently between a serving station and lectern. What she was looking for found her.

“No, yes, I mean, I am but my name is also Abegail Jones” If it were possible to see a person of American  Indian descent blush then Abegail Night Raven Jones did just that.

She looked around and saw that the band had stopped playing and everyone’s attention was on them and only them.

“Why has everything stopped? She asked.

“They are waiting,” Abraham answered and offered his hand.

“For what?” She noticed even the wait staff stopped and was waiting.

“For us to have my  first dance. You do know how to dance to this music?”

Abegail Night Raven Jones looked up at the man in front of her and said, “l have been doing that all my life,” and she took Abraham’s outstretched hand and they danced.






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Edward Brutus Booth, one size too small 25

Knock….Knock was the sound that made them both turn their heads and when they did there was a large man leaning against the doorway. He seemed to be just on the tip of his forties with a shaven head and not quite a weightlifters build. The way he evenly shifted his weight on the balls of his feet showed he was not easily caught off balance. Grey eyes kept searching up and down Abraham. His one size too small off the rack suit did not compliment his body nor did the thin white scar that ran from his cheek to his ear. He tilted his head almost as a way to hide the scar. He was sizing Abraham up.

“Sorry, sir I was trying to imagine you in a different way.”

“Maybe in a stove pipe hat and a beard?”

“Not so, I was thinking this man never wore dungarees or got so much as a nail dirty. So it seemed kind of funny that you grew up here as hired help.”

“I did, when I was a Jackson, and let me assure you that there isn’t a milking stall, barn chore or garden plot front or back that I haven’t done many times over.”

“I just thought I would never live to see this day. you.”

“In living color and a tailored suit, you know who I am now who are you?” Abraham asked.

“My name is Ed, ” the man said then leaned forward to shake hands, still giving Abraham the once, and even twice over with those grey eyes.  Being one to face intimidation in or out of a court, Abraham didn’t blink while looking this man straight in the face. What was he looking for came to Abraham’s mind just before Ce Ce spoke up.

“Ed is the president two years running of the National Preservation Register of historical places, Hildene Estates. He was to be your personal aid.”

Ed interrupted, “It’s in the historical by laws. It’s been amended three times, the last time was in 1950. If a place so decreed historical should have a living biological resident, then so shall they fall under the guidelines of faithful preservation by any and all means possible.”

Abraham listened then said,” I am a lawyer and that means, you are my body guard?”

“Yes sir, Mr…,” Ed hesitated, the next words were almost reverent, “Mr. Lincoln.”

“Now Ed I think you should be leaving. You remember that you promised, if you met Mr. Lincoln, you would leave quietly.”

“Just a moment more, Mr. Lincoln can I be straight forward with you sir?’

“Only if it is better than what we are doing right now Ed. I could tell you had something to say at the first knock.”

“Earlier today I was relieved of my position, although I have not broken any rules. The vice president of the historical register is being appointed to take my position.”

“Well, for now it doesn’t sound fair Ed, why don’t you tell me the reason. There is always a reason.”

“It’s not what I have done, sir. It is just who I am. I was not given this position, I earned it and worked very hard for it.”

Abraham could see that he needed coaxing, “Okay, cut to chase, just who are you?”

For a moment Ed had trouble talking until he noticed Ce Ce shaking her head at what she knew he was going to say.

“My full name is Edward Brutus Booth.”Booth Crest1

Abraham looked away then back at the man with the grey eyes, as he had done with coy jurors not yet convinced of his arguement. “Is that as in Edwin Booth, John Wilkes Booth’s brother?”

“Yes, my great, great grandfather.”

“You have to leave now,” Ce Ce reminded Ed.”

“Just a minute Ce Ce, let me handle my own affairs. So Ed, tell me how you got that scar on your face?”

Ed reached up and touched the usual reminder of his teen years.

“It was a fight.”

Abraham the lawyer asked the next question.

“And just what was this fight about, Mr. Booth?”

“Well, I was never very popular in school, so two older class men didn’t like my name and said some things, then they thought it would be fun to break a bottle across my head.”

Edward Brutus Booth looked at Ce Ce who now was not going to stop him from what he was going to say because she wanted to know about the scar too.

They said my family was a bunch of killers and if I had the chance I would kill a president too.”

“Did you win?” Abraham threw it in as an after thought.

“I always win..sir.”

“Your great great grandfather killed no one Ed, it was his brother.”

“I’ve lived with that fact all my life, but most people don’t see it that way.”

Just then two state troupers reached the top of the stairs a moment behind a thin man in an impeccable suit, he was pointing a bony finger at Ed.”

“That’s him officers, remove him from the premises.”

They started into the room and Abraham looked back at Ed while he held up one hand to the men entering the room. “Wait, do you think you can handle this job, Mr. Edward Brutus Booth?”

“Mr. Lincoln, I will not disappoint you, even if my life depends on it.”

“If you’re going to work for me, then you are going to call me Abraham or Mr. Lincoln. Never call me Abe, because I didn’t like it either.”

Edward Brutus Booth became the bodyguard, or personal assistant to Abraham Lincoln the third at 4 pm on one very pleasant afternoon.



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Not a Jackson, a Lincoln now 24

“Mr. Lincoln? Mr. Lincoln? Please wake up Mr. Lincoln, ” a female voice gently asked.

“Huh, “was the only reply from the recently anointed Abraham Lincoln the third as he looked around a familiar room and the same familiar feeling that he wasn’t supposed to be there. He got up quickly and startled Cee Cee the inside tour guide for the Hildene Estate.

“Guess I forgot where I was at,” Abraham said rubbing the back of his neck. He was not used to sleeping in a full bed for quite some time. The cot in his make shift office had always been so low he could reach down and touch the floor, that kept him grounded. Now he was laying in the bed of his great, great grandfather and could not reach the floor and was well, uncomfortable about being so comfortable.

“Sorry I startled you Cee Cee but old habits are hard to break.”

“What habit is that Mr. Lincoln?

“For starters my cot isn’t this comfortable and I had a very unusual dream. Now only bits and pieces seem to stick with me. I remember steps and lots of faces and an angel with a lightning bolt in her hand way up in the sky. When you woke me I looked around the room and was going to run for the door. You know, wrong place wrong time.”

Abraham noticed the quizzical look on Cee Cee and smiled when he saw what she was wearing. “Well, I have seen you in the kitchen, with flour on your face but never have I seen you in that attire.”

This, I hope you approve Mr. Lincoln?” She began to fuss with the bustled dress she was wearing that looked straight out of the eightteen fifties.

“Lincoln huh, Cee Cee do you remember when I worked here? Remember when I worked this place from the barn stalls to the gardens and pretty much everything in between?


Well, it’s still me old Abraham, just the last name changed. ”

“Can I say something Abraham?”

“Always happy to listen Cee Cee.”

“Yes, I do remember your work at Hildene and I never had a problem with you, no one did as far as I can remember. And maybe you don’t know it yet but things are changed, they really are. What I mean to say is you are special in a way no one else is. You are a Lincoln now and I just know destined to do great things, this had to happen for a reason. I hope you can see that Abraham.”

Abraham looked at the petite five foot nothing young woman dressed in period attire and wondered where her insight had come from? What was she seeing that he had not seen all his life? Inside he was still one foot in front of the other flesh and blood Abraham; but not a Jackson a Lincoln now.

Abraham smiled that broad grin he used so many times to win confidence in a court room and said, “Just tell me one thing, do I have to dress up like Abraham Lincoln the first?

They both had a good laugh and while Abraham was asleep, he was given an entire closet of tailored suits to wear. He picked out a medium grey suit that had a sewn in label with the Lincoln III sewn inside. The suit fit like it had been waiting all his life.




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Great men,working men,robbers and thieves 23

Abraham brought his scooter to a stop at the front of the Hildene Estate. He sat there with only the put put sound of his scooter and tried to take in the the breadth and depth of four hundred and twelve acres that sprawled over rolling hills and valley. Almost as an afterthought Hildene Mansion sat smack dab in the middle like a brick and mortar flower. As many times as he worked the the gardens, cleaned stalls and planted flowers and got the working farm ready for the new season, he had never looked at it as more than a place to live and work. On the day he left for law school in New York he remembered his father standing in front waving at him. He wore that old straw hat, patched dungaree’s and that big grin on his face like he owned the place. Maybe he did know that he owned the place; who knows? But, never in a thousand years could Abraham ever entertain the notion that it was his too. What the hell was Robert Todd Lincoln thinking when he set this all up to keep everyone in the dark? Did he have more plans yet to come? What new surprises could unfold later? Abraham didn’t know, but he did know his great, great grandfather had enough bad things happen to him in politics to vow to stay out of them. And maybe that’s why he lived so long? Was this his way of getting back at those who took the lives from the Lincoln family? For now it was entirely too much to wrap his head around. He gave the scooter handle a twist and the little motor growled through it’s pipes.


“So let’s find out what’s next,” he said out loud and drove up the drive to Hildene Mansion.

Over the front face of the big house hung a large white banner with five words on it, ‘Welcome Home Abraham Lincoln III’.

The head caretaker Jim Simson walked across the drive and greeted him with a big bear hug and then shook his hand. He was barrel chested and always clean cut and knew every chore personally on the estate. Jim was hired when Abraham left for school in New York. All he could say after looking at Abraham from head to toe was, “Abraham it’s so good to see you. I mean, Mr. Lincoln sir.”

“Jim, always good to see you, and it’s still just Abraham.”

When your father passed away, they made me temporary Estate, and grounds manager. I don’t know if you want to change that right away.”

Abraham put his hand on the caretakers thick shoulder and looked him directly in the eyes man to man.

“Well Jim, do you know what’s wrong in the barn, the house and the grounds?

“Yes,” Jim said and looked a little puzzled.

“More important Jim, do you know how to fix it when no one else does?”

“Sure, that’s what I do, ” he answered to the man who seemed to be listening to him with more than his ears.

“Then, Jim as long as I am around you’ll have that job. Now I’m going to take my stuff and put it in my old room in the servants quarters and then figure out what to do from there.”

“Abraham, your room is gone, they needed more space for the kitchen and now it is a storage room.”

“Then where am I going to stay?”

Jim took his box and what little clothes he had and said follow me Abraham. They walked through the wide open front doors and after hugs, hand shakes and every manor of astonishment subsided they climbed the main staircase upstairs. At the top of the landing Jim headed  directly into Robert Todd Lincoln’s room and put his things on the bed.

“I’m gonna put these things on the bed, because this is your room now Abraham. Hope you don’t mind but they’re planning a little shin-dig, later on. I’m not supposed to say anything but I just can’t keep it a secret a minute longer. There is going to be someone to tell you much more than I can a little later. Again, thank you….Mr. Lincoln.”

Abraham looked around the room briefly, ran his hand over the bed head board then laid down on the pillow and looked up at the ceiling. He’d done this before as a boy, only because he couldn’t understand why the room was so important. He got quite the scolding and his Grandfather was told it better not happen again. Well, it did happen again Abraham thought, yes it would happen again and again.

He laid on the bed of Robert Todd Lincoln as Abraham Lincoln the third and did what great men, working men, robbers thieves and saints and every failure of every walk of life eventually do; they dream.


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Shake the hand of A.L. III 22

Nine O’clock came when the lock opened from the inside of the Town Hall by Roberta Orsen and not a minute sooner.  Roberta wouldn’t have it any other way since she became the twenty-sixth town clerk for Manchester Vermont on the urging of her mother and grandmother. When she won by a narrow margin, yet margin enough the first thing she did was to take out a very old wallet snapshot of her mother and grandmother and smile. She was proud to serve in her job and just as proud to be the seventh consecutive female to hold the honorable position. No matter who was on the other side of the door she would not open until the proper time, every time.

Abraham opened the door came in and set his old burnt box on the clean counter. He cleared his throat to signal he was waiting. Roberta just shook her head with her back turned to him and usual impatience.

“Be with you in due time, I’m sure everyone is important, Mr Jackson.”

She turned to him, looked at the tattered and burned box then looked at him in a slightly different way. He didn’t bother to respond and opened the box and took out an old envelope with a red wax seal. Across the face of the envelope were the words, ‘Only to be opened by the town clerk Manchester Vermont by penalty of law.’ It was signed and dated, D.K. Simmonds Town clerk Manchester Vermont August 1, 1891.

Roberta Orsen took the envelope carefully from him and broke the seal and took out the letter inside. She read it to herself and then her entire expression began to change when she looked up at the man standing in front of her. This made her step from around the counter and go to the door and lock it, flip the open sign to closed on the window and pull the shade down. She needed complete privacy now. She then walked over to an old picture of a group of men that hung on the wall, took it down and over to her desk. She used a letter opener to break the glass.  Behind the broken glass and picture was a key, a gold plated key. Inscribed on the key was the name Robert Todd Lincoln.

“Year after year it’s always the same simple request when we get the funding to do a remodel of the Town Hall. The stipulation is that this photograph remain over the door undisturbed. It’s been here quite some time.”

“Some things never change,”  Abraham replied.

She went to the back room and he could hear her going down steps to the lower  level of the building. It took her ten minutes to come back into the room.

When she did come back she had a box in her hand that was not burned or tattered but was covered in dust from sitting so long. The box was identical to the the one Abraham set on the counter. She set it down and used the same key that opened the first box. The lid bumped twice then opened. She took out another sealed envelope opened and read it to herself. As she read she kept looking up at the man in front of her like any moment he would disappear. She spread out the documents from her box and the ones that Abraham brought, then opened a lower drawer in her desk and took out the Great Seal of the State of Vermont and pressed it into an ink pad.The Great Seal of VT

“Just a moment,” she said and got her purse from the desk, then brought out a worn color photograph of her deceased mother and grandmother.  She propped it up to see it while she talked.

“I, Roberta A. Orsen being of sound mind and body, and operating in the official capacity given to me by the great State of Vermont in these United States Of America hereby declare the documents before me to be valid and legal on this twenty-second day of June, in the year of twenty twelve. She lifted the seal and brought it down on every document in front of her. She took a deep breath then looked again at the picture of her mother and grandmother then reached her hand across the desk between her and Abraham.

“With my mother and grandmother watching, I would be proud to be the first to shake the hand of Abraham Lincoln the third.”

The newly noted and now legally documented Abraham Lincoln the third shook her hand and just said, “Thank you very much.”

Abraham turned to leave.

“That will be fifty-five dollars Mr Lincoln,” Roberta said and took out a receipt pad. “In order for the documents to be legal and binding there has to be a record of payment. I am sure neither one of us should start telling lies now Mr. Lincoln.”

Abraham reached in his pockets and set thirteen cents on the counter. It was all he had. Roberta looked again at her picture and said,  ” Mr Lincoln my grandmother came to this country with a frail little girl, the clothes on their backs and not much else. But they were Orsen women that worked hard and believed in this country. She also believed my mother would someday make her proud, and she did, she saved every cent she could and sent me to school. I wanted to honor my mother and grandmother and so I became the twenty-sixth town clerk of Manchester Vermont and no how, no way, am I going to dishonor their memory, now Mr. Lincoln, THINK!”

Abraham Jackson the man and not Abraham Lincoln the name became a lawyer, and a dam good lawyer because he could think outside the box in a court room when it counted. This was no different.

“If these papers are legal and binding then all properties of my heritage belong to me.”


“Hand me the key, ” Abraham said, examined it then slid it over the desk to her, “I’d say this covers the expense.”

“It does and then some. Your receipt Mr. Lincoln.”

Abraham Lincoln the third secured his box of documents to his trusty scooter and headed to the only place that would give him comfort and time to think……


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Ye Olde Tavern Manchester VT, Circa 1790 21

Abraham picked his head up from reading the most important documents he had ever seen in his life, then looked around the room he was sitting in. He looked at the cheaply framed diplomas and sparse pictures on the barn wood walls. The well used on loan law books set in milk crates had started to get mildew from the weather. Abraham looked at the donated cot folded up in the corner of the room and then at the card table he called a desk. No matter how hard he squinted it still was the same tool shed around the back of Ye Olde Tavern in Manchester Vermont. Even the Attorney at Law shingle on his door had “STOP”  in red letters stenciled on the reverse side. So what was he really looking at? He was looking at the life of a man who really did not know what he was, let alone who he is? Or maybe he was just looking at a man who would probably live and die with a small amount of change in his pocket and if lucky a few people he could call friends. Like a melody of the slow sad song, “Is that all there is” began to play over and over in his head. That sing song drone on long enough for the soft fog of discontent and disillusion to set in. Was he going to be just another unsatisfied and unfulfilled dreamer drifting through history? Not now or ever again he thought and breathed out,  “I will not be a failure, I am Abraham Lincoln the Third.”

The next morning came early as a banging on the other side of the office/tool shed wall. It was Mandy the owner of  Ye olde Tavern. All she said was that breakfast was ready and would not stay ready very long.  The newly awakened Abraham Lincoln III rubbed sleep from his eyes and took his tattered and burned box with him to the restaurant side of the Tavern. He sat at a window seat just below old framed pictures of men in beards and women in bustled dresses. They were standing in front of the tavern as if it had always been there and always would. Abraham just looked out at passing traffic until the head waiter brought his favorite breakfast bowl of country scrambled eggs on top of spiced diced potatoes with a three link of sausage overlay, beside that was a wedge of glazed cornbread. The coffee was hot and filled a large mug with the words, “Boss” stenciled on the side.  Mandy created this breakfast for him and never served it to anyone else. She called it the, Linc 3 special but would not tell him why. As far as he knew, he was the only one served breakfast at the Tavern, because the doors opened for business at 5 o’clock pm.


“Lawyer my ass,” the waiter said to him when passing his table. “You’re just a free loading bum drinking out of the Boss’ cup”.

“Two seconds later Mandys voice came from the kitchen,  “yeah, and he’ll be drinking out of that cup when your looking for another job if you have anything else to say.”

The waiter was quiet all the way to kitchen with a rather worried look on his face. Only Mandy cooked his breakfast. She let him use the shed as payment for representing her in court on a expansion zoning law for her restaurant. It was an old law that was more bent than broken, but he managed to convince the Mayor on a Sunday that the statute was unfair to her and should be removed.  She became impressed not so by his knowledge of the law but his sincerity and powers of persuasion in court. She won the case and told him she couldn’t pay him in money but  would allow him the use of the shed to conduct business. She knew he needed a place and regular meals far more than the fifty dollar charge for his services. He accepted and had been living and working there for the past six months.

After breakfast he had about 20 minutes to get to the Manchester town hall. He arrived early and stood outside the building. The town clerk could see him though the window. It was five minutes before opening. Abraham tapped on the window and she looked at him and shook her head. She knew him. He had been there often enough to be an annoyance, with his long lean face and those penetrating eyes, searching eyes that seemed to probe her very thoughts if they strayed from the information he was looking for. He would have to wait until nine A.M. like any other person, because he was not special, even if he did grow up on the Heldene Estate.


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