The Exchange
The Exchange
“Did you bring it?” the mustachioed man asked the new arrival. He had been crouched in the darkened corner, waiting for well over an hour.
“Of course,” the fair-haired man confirmed. Their business dealing required a clandestine approach, and so their utterances were low and muffled, like an adulterer’s lewd suggestion in the ear of a new lover while his spouse was in close proximity. Another man’s boisterous voice could be heard somewhere, but they paid no mind.
“What was the reason for your delay?” His throat was painful, as dry and cracked as the wooden boards on which he sat. The mustachioed man removed several folded bills of enviable denomination from his vest pocket and silently pressed them into the late one’s hand.
“My horse became lame, a victim of a snake’s bite, I believe. It took me some unaccounted time to secure another for the journey.” The fair-haired man produced his delivery and held it a few inches from his chest, awaiting the payer’s grasp of it, thus completing his required duty.
“Is it ready?” The thing was sheathed in a length of burlap, but the man felt the familiar shape. He slid his hand under the cloth and made contact with his purchase.
“As promised, John,” the deliverer said. Both men now stood in calculated darkness. “I assure you, it is in good working order and will be quite sufficient.”
“Thank you, my friend,” John whispered. The two men huddled in the unlit corner, awaiting an opportunity or possibly an unintentional sign. The fair-haired man was ready to depart, as his presence was no longer necessary. He spied John, in a reverential state, head down, and heard him repeating a Latin phrase in a soft, barely audible breathiness. After several minutes of this, John looked up, apparently content with the course of his next actions.
“Shall I go?” the fair-haired man said.
“Yes, go now, and pronounce your innocence, should it be questioned.” John handed the burlap cover to his compatriot and exited the shadows. The fair-haired man did the same but headed in the opposite direction and down the unquestioning staircase. At the bottom, he paused, hand on rail. The small room had several occupants, all in their best Good Friday vestments but displaying casual demeanors. He tried to still his heart but found it an impossible task. A feeling of being stranded and exposed washed over him, and he had an overwhelming urge to escape the room, the building, and the town as well.
“How is he?” The question startled the fair-haired man, and he looked around for its broadcaster. An elderly gentleman, dressed in official city garments, had made his way to the stairway without notice. The fair-haired man stood sullen, without comment, until the questioner gazed up the stairs to indicate his meaning.
“Oh, fine, my dear sir,” he managed to answer, restructuring his comportment to belie his knowledge of the actual circumstances. “Enjoying the show.” His anemic smile was an inadequate addendum to construe any believability.
“I assumed he would,” the elder one stated nevertheless. “Mustn’t be forever bridled to the sober tasks of his post.” The two men nodded in silent agreement. There was an assault of laughter from the main theater. The fair-haired man began to perspire suddenly and tremendously. His hand gripped the banister with agonizing pressure. He felt he needed an immediate change of atmosphere, so he made for the exit, his intended destination a nearby alehouse of high repute.
But before he could so much as point his boot toward the door, the report from John’s gun sounded and echoed down the wooden stairway. Within mere seconds, a ruckus ensued, and shouts from men and wails from female attendees were heard throughout the playhouse. A ghost-faced woman appeared from the top of the staircase—her white dress and hands stained with blood—and shouted, “The president has been shot !” This caused further distress among all the individuals in the antechamber, and a swift reorganization of priorities was implemented.
The fair-haired man finally made his way out of doors but immediately fell to the ground and discharged into the gutter, the refreshing coolness of the evening air notwithstanding. A police sergeant, witnessing the sickness, came over to assess the cause of his distress but heard the commotion inside and entered the theater through the same side door the hapless delivery agent had just exited.
Quite soon after, the entire building was amassed with police and government officials, but alas, by this time, John had leapt from the balcony to the stage and had escaped through a rear door. The fair-haired man began his journey home and, by sheer will, arrived there two hours later. On the way, he was demonized by the terrorizing thoughts that he had been identified and remembered and would soon be sought as a conspirator to the crime.
I was five years of age at the time when my father entered my bedroom and, assuming his son was asleep, concealed his earnings inside the wooden crate I used to contain my playthings. “Papa,” I said softly, not wanting my mother to know I was awake.
“Hush, son,” my father breathed into my ear. “Go back to sleep, and we will speak again at breakfast.” The following day, my father seemed oddly quiet and perpetually agitated. He became sick with fever and couldn’t work. This condition lasted several days, but when it finally was broken, he became more fretful than ever, telling tales of incredulity. My mother and he fought with consistent anguish. I had discovered my father’s cache by this point but was reluctant to disclose this finding to either of them.
On the twelfth day after my father’s visit to my room, I found him hanging by his neck in the barn, his head covered with burlap sacking.
After the funeral, I gave my mother the banknotes I had found. She bent down and whispered her order to me, “You forget about this, and you forget about him.” Later that night, when the sky was black, I saw her burning the bills in a metal drum out back.
I turned 103 this year. The president was just shot, and I still remember.
