Tomb With a View

If I was casting a Biblical epic movie, I would have chosen James A. Garfield to play God. He was a big, burly man with a stubborn chin and eyes that looked like they could bore right through a person. Of course, the beard helped reinforce the whole Old Testament image. He had a hairline that had receded up to the top of his head, a long, broad nose, and a set to his shoulders that said he wasn’t going to stand for nonsense—from anybody.

“He was born right here in Ohio, you know. Not too very far from where we are right now.” Marjorie skimmed a loving hand over the picture. “He was a teacher, and an attorney, and the president of a college. He was also a staunch abolitionist, and a hero in the Civil War. He was promoted all the way to major general, and he only left the military because he was elected to serve in the House of Representatives, and Abraham Lincoln himself personally begged him to give up the Army and come to Washington, where he could be of even better service. He was elected to the presidency in 1880, took office in March, and by July . . .”

I doubted Marjorie was allergic to gardenias, but she sniffled just like I did. “He was shot by a crazed man in July and died of his wounds the following September. The assassin was put to death for his crime. He was hanged. But in spite of the fact that justice was done, our country suffered a terrible loss. The president was truly an amazing man.”

And I had the truly amazing (and sounding more impossible by the moment) task of working with this Garfield-a-holic. With no other choice, I figured we’d better get down to business. It was that or tell Ella I’d lick envelopes and empty trash cans while somebody else dealt with Marjorie.

“That means we’re going to want to put on some kind of amazing commemoration party for him, right?” I didn’t wait for her to answer because, frankly, I didn’t much care what she had to say. “What exactly does Ella want us to do?”

“Nobody said Ms. Silverman’s plans were set in stone. She’s thinking of a small, tasteful display here in the memorial using some of the items the cemetery owns supplemented by some of my own things.”

I was almost afraid to ask. “And you’re thinking . . .?”

“I’ve got a collection!” Marjorie’s dark, beady eyes sparkled. As if just thinking about it got her all hot and bothered, she fanned a hand in front of her face. A whiff of gardenia rose into the air. Rather than start sneezing again, I went to stand near the doorway that led into the memorial’s entryway. “It’s a wonderful collection! You’ll see. You’ll come to my house tomorrow.” It wasn’t a request, and since she knew it, she rattled off her address. “Seven o’clock. I’ll show you some of my special things. That way I can choose what will go on display and you can—”

“Schlepp it over here for you?” I was going for ironic. She didn’t get it.

Marjorie nodded. “It would be useful to have someone help me transport my collection, but only if you can be very careful.”

“Oh, I can.” I zoomed right past irony all the way to sarcasm, but she never noticed.

“We’ll go through it all systematically. First the Garfield books, then the artworks, then Garfield memorabilia,” she said, oblivious to the glazing over of my eyes. “Then we’ll move on to the Garfield ephemera, you know memorial cards from the funeral service, the invitation to his inauguration. I’ve even got an original tintype of him taken in his Army uniform. Very rare, of course, and quite valuable.”

I was supposed to be impressed. There was no chance of that, but everything Marjorie said did start to fall into place. “Aha!” I pointed a finger her way. “That explains the whole thing! You collect all this stuff because you’re looking for proof that you’re really related to him.”

“I’m not looking for anything.” She said this in the superior sort of way she said everything else so, of course, I didn’t pay much attention. “What I’m doing is upholding a sacred trust. I’m helping to preserve the memory not only of one of my ancestors, but of one of the truly great American presidents. His term in office was certainly short, but it is often underrated.”

“You would know.”

Again, my words hit the irony wall and bounced back without making a dent. Marjorie simply smiled. “Yes,” she said, “I do know. Because in case you haven’t noticed, I’m something of an expert. In fact, I would go so far as to say that I know more than anybody about the late, great president.”

Oh yeah?

I wasn’t so sure.

Because just as she was saying this, there was a little ripple in the air right behind Marjorie and a mist that took shape little by little until it was unmistakable, down to the beard.

If Marjorie knew everything there was to know about James A. Garfield, I wondered if she knew his ghost was standing right behind her.

3

The office phone rang, and ubervolunteer that she was, Marjorie didn’t waste any time. She answered it with a snappy, “This is the Garfield Memorial. Marjorie Klinker, docent, speaking,” and proceeded to ignore me completely.