The Cry of the Wind by Kurt R. A. Giambastiani

Author:Kurt R. A. Giambastiani [Giambastiani, Kurt R. A.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781480165199
Published: 2013-02-16T07:00:00+00:00

Chapter 15

Wednesday, May 21, A.D. 1890

The White House

Washington, District of Columbia

Custer gave Libbie a lopsided smile as he felt the familiar tabletop with his fingers. It was incredibly out of place, this big workhorse of a table, its oak heavy and dark, its taloned legs and its broad surface scarred with ages of service, but it had been Custer’s longtime friend, having traveled with him through service both military and political. He had found it in a stable he had purchased up in Michigan Territory, cloaked in canvas, piled high with tools and crates. As old as the nation itself, the table had seen hard use before he had found it, and harder use since. Custer had brought it with him from Michigan to Missouri, through the nightmare of the Kansa Campaign, and back up to Santee Territory before returning home for a brief time in Michigan. From there, he had brought it to Washington, from the Capitol to the White House, and now he had brought it from his offices down the hall to this room, the library, where he spent his days.

But while the table held its own against the hundreds of leather-bound spines that flanked the room, it did less well when compared to the library’s finer furnishings such as the plush Queen Anne chairs, the glittering chandelier, or the curved-leg side tables. Next to them, it seemed as clumsy and out of place as he himself felt next to Libbie. Scarred, ungainly, inelegant, it did not grace the oval room; it invaded it.

And Custer was perfectly fine with that. It was precisely what he had wanted; the last phase to the library’s transformation. Sitting at his table, leaning against its comfortable strength, he felt like a man again. His damnable wheelchair, the hated symbol of his continued infirmity, stood close at hand should it be needed, but it stood there empty. Custer sat in a chair at his table, a normal man ready for a normal day’s work.

Well, he thought as he looked at Libbie, standing beside him—knowing the assistance she was here to provide—perhaps not completely normal. Not yet.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” she asked him.

“Yes,” he said, or a close approximation of it, still unable to eradicate the lateral lisp that the stroke had wrapped around his tongue. “Are you?”

She took a wide-eyed breath of air and sighed. “I think so,” she said.

“Don’ le’ him rattle you,” Custer said, struggling with the words. “He’ jus’a New Yor’ banker. No’ a Firs’ Lady.” Though slurred and lisped and filled with elisions, Libbie was so familiar with his speech patterns that she understood him perfectly. Which was, of course, why he had asked her here.

The door to the library opened and Samuel entered, a sheaf of papers under his arm. Custer tried to remember when Samuel had ever entered a room without a sheaf of papers under his arm and couldn’t recall such a moment. Behind him came Douglas, bearing a tray with cut-crystal tumblers, a seltzer bottle, and a whisky decanter.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.