Praying for Sleep

LINCOLN.
    “That’s where you killed him, isn’t it, Michael? The theater?”
    This is surely a miracle. Oh, God in your infinite brilliance . . .
    “Ford . . . Lincoln . . . Ford’s Theater . . . Yessir, I sure did. Make no mistake. I snuck into the presidential box at ten-thirty on April 14, the year of our Lord eighteen hundred and sixty-five. It was Good Friday. I came up behind him and put a bullet into his head. The President didn’t die right away but lingered until the next day. He linnnnngered.”
    “You yelled, ‘Sic semper tyrannis.’ ”
    “They’ve been after me ever since.” Michael looked at his doctor. No, he was no impostor. It was truly Dr. Richard. You look tired, Doctor, Michael thought. I’m awake and you’re asleep. What do you make of that? He gazed up at the sign again.
    “I want to help you.”
    Michael chuckled.
    “I’d like you to come back with me to the hospital.”
    “That’s nuts, Dr. Richard. I just left there. Why would I want to go back?”
    “Because you’ll be safe. There are people looking for you, people who want to hurt you.”
    Michael snapped, “ I’ve been telling you that for months.”
    “That’s true, you have.” The doctor laughed.
    Michael took the pistol from his pocket. Dr. Richard’s eyes flicked down momentarily but returned immediately to his patient’s. “Michael, I’ve done a lot for you. I got you the job on the farm. You like that job, don’t you? You like to work with the cows, I know you do.”
    The pistol was warm. It was comfortable in his hand. It was, he thought, quite fashionable. “I’ve been wondering if—wouldn’t this be strange—if this was the same gun I’d used.”
    “To shoot Lincoln?”
    “The very same gun. That would have a special meaning. That would make a lot of sense. Do you like the scent of blood, Dr. Richard? When do you think a soul makes the a- scent to heaven? Do you think souls linnnnger on earth awhile?”
    Why is he stepping closer to me? Michael wondered. When he’s this close, it’s easier to read my mind.
    “I wouldn’t know.”
    Michael held the pistol close to his face, smelling the metal. “But how do you explain that it was just there for me? This gun. It was just there in the store. The store with the heads.”
    A shudder ran through Michael Hrubek.
    “What heads?”
    “All the little heads. White and smooth. Beautiful little white heads.”
    “Those skulls?” Dr. Richard nodded toward the sign pole.
    Michael blinked but said nothing.
    “So you shot Lincoln, did you, Michael?”
    “Sure did. I was willing and abe -le.”
    “Why didn’t you ever tell me about it? In any of our sessions?”
    Michael’s stomach twisted with unbridled anxiety. “It was . . .”
    “Why?”
    Fear prickled at his neck. Between rapid breaths, Michael answered, “It was too terrible. I did a terrible thing. Terrible! He was such a great man. And look what I did. It was . . . It hurts! Don’t fucking ask me any more.”
    “What,” Dr. Richard asked gently, “was so terrible about it? What was too terrible to tell me?”
    “Many things. Too numerous to go into.”
    “Tell me about one.”
    “No.”
    “Just pick one thing and tell me, Michael.”
    “No.”
    “Please. Now. Quick.”
    “No!” What’s this fucker up to?
    “Yes, Michael. Tell me.” For an instant the thin doctor’s eyes grew fierce and commanding. He ordered, “Now! Tell me!”
    “The moon,” Michael blurted. “It . . .”
    “What about the moon?”
    “It rose bloody red. The moon is a sheet of blood. Eve is wrapped in the sheet.”
    “Who’s Eve, Michael?”
    “Nice try, fucker. Don’t expect me to say anything more.” Michael swallowed and looked around nervously.
    “Where did the blood come from?”
    “The moon. Ha, just kidding.”
    “Where, Michael? Where did the blood come from? Where?!”
    In a whisper: “From . . . their head.”
    “ Whose head, Michael?” Dr. Richard said, then shouted, “Tell me! Whose head?”
    Michael began to speak then he smiled grimly and snarled, “Don’t try to trick me, fucker. His head. His, his, his head. Abraham Lincoln’s head. The sixteenth president of the United States’ head. The rail-splitter from Illinois’s head. That’s who I meant. I put a fucker of a bullet in his head.”
    “Is that what you mean when you’d say ‘ahead,’ Michael? You were talking about somebody who got hurt in the head? Who? Who else got hurt, besides Lincoln?”
    Michael