Literally Dead by James Conroy

Author:James Conroy
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Knox Robinson Publishing

CHAPTER TWENTY

Carl Sandburg had an office in Lincoln Park. As the nation’s acknowledged expert on our sixteenth president, it seemed appropriate. He owned a brownstone but utilized only the second floor while leasing the ground level and third floor to a tailor shop and haberdashery below, and two musicians from the Chicago Philharmonic above. As we were climbing the stairs, melancholy cello music drifted down from upstairs.

Fleckenstein unlocked the office and said something about making coffee as she disappeared to the back of the apartment. Millay asked Sandburg if he had any gin and he assured her his bar was stocked. He showed her a double –door cabinet in the front room.

“You come this way,” he directed me and led the way down a narrow hallway. “This is my private office,” he said opening the second door.

The room was a lot like Darrow’s office, including a rocking chair next to a tall floor lamp. Sandburg lit the lamp and bade me sit in the rocker. I did, the August Jansen file still bound with string now in my lap.

“Julie will bring you coffee when it’s ready,” Sandburg said. Then he lit another lamp on his desk. “If there’s anything else you need, just ask. Edna and I will be in the parlor. Julie’s office is next to the kitchen.”

He came around the rocker and put a hand on my shoulder. His face was grim but it softened as he exerted pressure with his hand.

“If this is difficult,” he said, “I’m sorry, but it has to be.”

“I know that,” I said. “I’ll be okay, Mister Sandburg.”

He smiled gently. “You’re a nice young man, Amos. This will be a long road on a dark night,” he said. “Pilgrim to pilgrim, you might as well call me Carl.”

“I’m not afraid of the dark, Carl.”

His hand squeezed again and he turned for the door closing it behind him as he left me alone.

I looked down at the wad of typescript in my lap. The top page under the cord had the typed notation:

An accurate rendering of the file of Professor Dwight Eldon concerning the facts and circumstances regarding the death of August Jansen. Every word herein faithfully copied from the carbons of the original.

It was signed by Julie Fleckenstein in blue script and dated three days ago.

From the apartment above I still heard the faint moan of the cello. I put the top page on the floor beside my chair and commenced to read. At some point, ten, maybe twenty pages into the file, I started to rock in the chair. It may have been the music – I’m not sure. Slowly back and forth rocking, the words were absorbed into my brain. I knew some of the story already. And without skipping ahead, I knew the finale. The enlightenment came from the intricacies of the plot. The pile of papers on the floor grew.

Dwight Eldon approached the project with academic discipline. It read like a history text, complete with footnotes. Anywhere he injected an opinion or supposition he clearly indicated it as such.

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