Lincoln in the Bardo

Roger Bevins III now tells his own story, saying he discovered early in life that he was attracted to men. He calls this attraction a “certain predilection” and adds that, though this “predilection” has always felt “quite natural and even wonderful” to him, nobody else ever seemed capable of seeing his love of men in such a favorable light. “I wished to be happy (as I believe all wish to be happy), and so undertook an innocent—well, a rather innocent—friendship with a fellow in my school.” This “fellow” was named Gilbert, and Bevins quickly came to love him. Unfortunately, though, Gilbert told him one afternoon that he wanted to end their secret love affair in order to “live correctly.” In turn, Bevins lost all desire to live.

Bevins continues his story, explaining that losing Gilbert led him to slit his wrists with a butcher’s knife, leaving behind two notes—one to his parents, which said (in so many words) “I am sorry,” and another to Gilbert, which said (also summarily), “I have loved, and therefore depart fulfilled.” As soon as he cut himself, though, he regretted his decision. “Feeling nauseous at the quantity of blood and its sudden percussive redness against the whiteness of the tub,” he says, “I settled myself woozily down on the floor, at which time I—well, it is a little embarrassing, but let me just say it: I changed my mind.”

Lying on the kitchen floor next to the porcelain tub over which he slit his wrists, Roger Bevins III suddenly realized “how unspeakably beautiful” the world is, “How precisely engineered for our pleasure.” Each small physical occurrence (a slant of sunlight, the scent of food on the wind, everything) has now become unspeakably lovely for Bevins—so lovely, in fact, that he can’t stop enumerating them now as he remembers the world he’s left behind. “Sir. Friend,” interrupts Hans Vollman. “Am I—am I doing it again?” asks Bevins. “Take a breath. All is well. I believe you are somewhat alarming our new arrival,” Vollman replies. “Many apologies, young sir. I only meant, in my way, to welcome you,” says Bevins.

Resuming his story, Bevins explains that he now lies prostrate on the kitchen floor, waiting with his head next to an orange peel for his mother to find him so that he can “be revived, and rise, and clean up the awful mess […] and go outside, into that beautiful world, a new and more courageous man, and begin to live!” He resolves to follow his “predilection” with “gusto,” loving whomever he pleases because he is has been “freed now of all fear, hesitation, and timidity.” Listing the many things he’ll fully enjoy once he recovers, he waxes poetic yet again about the many sensory delights of life on earth. “Friend. Bevins,” Vollman interrupts, stopping him once more.

At this point, Willie Lincoln finally speaks, saying, “‘Bevins’ had several sets of eyes     All darting to and fro     Several noses     All sniffing      His hands (he had multiple sets of hands, or else his hands were so quick they seemed to be many) struck this way and that, picking things up, bringing them to his face with a most inquisitive     Little bit scary.” Apparently, as Bevins tells his story, he grows so many new “eyes noses and hands” that his body disappears beneath the many added parts. “Eyes like grapes on a vine,” Willie notes, “Hands feeling the eyes     Noses smelling the hands     Slashes on every one of the wrists.”

Vollman explains that Willie Lincoln observes Bevins from the roof of his own “sick-house” (a “white stone home”). Bevins interjects that the boy also periodically glances at Vollman himself, but Vollman tries to shush his friend. Nonetheless, Bevins is correct that Willie has noticed Vollman’s odd physical appearance. As the boy notes, “The other man (the one hit by a beam)     Quite naked     Member swollen to the size of     Could not take my eyes off     It bounced as he     Body like a dumpling     Broad flat nose like a sheep’s     Quite naked indeed     Awful dent in the head     How could he walk around and talk with such a nasty—” Interrupting the boy, Vollman announces the arrival of their friend the Reverend Everly Thomas, who sprints over looking like he always looks: “eyebrows arched high, looking behind himself anxiously, hair sticking straight up, mouth in a perfect O of terror.”

“A newcomer?” says the Reverend in a calm voice, despite his startled demeanor. “I believe we have the honor of addressing a Mr. Carroll,” says Mr. Bevins, but the young boy only stares at him blankly. “No doubt you are feeling a certain pull?” asks Vollman. “An urge? To go? Somewhere? More comfortable?” Despite these urgings, though, Willie merely says, “I feel I am to wait.” When Vollman asks what, exactly, he intends to wait for, the boy says, “My mother. My father. They will come shortly. To collect me.”

Hans Vollman shakes his head somberly, telling Willie that his parents may indeed come, but they won’t collect him. “In any event, they will not stay long,” he says. “All the while wishing themselves elsewhere,” adds Roger Bevins III. “Thinking only of lunch,” says the Reverend. Despite these pieces of advice, though, Willie decides to stay, thinking about how he has barely even had the chance to play with his new Christmas toys and considering the fact that soon spring will come. “I am to wait,” he says.