Elizabeth had nearly finished closing procedure when she heard a faint shout as it echoed through the hallways.
The clock above the brochure rack read 5:33 or so. On Sundays, the Chicago History Museum doors were locked at five o’clock. Three times before, she had encountered guests afterhours. One time it was a teenage couple, perhaps ten years younger than Elizabeth, that had hoped to spend the night in the museum and do indecent things in the Abraham Lincoln exhibit, which is where Elizabeth had found them — partly clothed. Before security arrived to escort the couple from the premises, Elizabeth gave them an earful.
“Here this man was killed for his beliefs,” she had shouted passionately. “For pioneering freedom and equality for all, he paid the ultimate price. And you defile his memory by rubbing Victoria’s Secret Pink panties — oh, a thong, even better—all over a copy of the Emancipation Proclamation?”
When she told the story to new front-desk associates—and she always did when training them on closing procedure—she wore her proudest look. She had to; because when Al, the security guard that had been on duty that evening, told the story, he exaggerated the perpetrators reactions, saying that they “pointed at Beth’s face” and “laughed their asses off” and so on. Elizabeth remembered some disrespect, sure, but not to the extent Al portrayed it, and so she remained resolute in her story and counted it as a proud moment indeed.
She walked toward the shout, and though she ambled slightly, she arrived at the Great Chicago Fire exhibit.
“Hello?” she asked into the darkness, and then felt silly. She reasoned with herself that it was the proper thing to say, and felt satisfied with her logic.
“You there,” came a tiny voice. “Look here. I’m over here, I say.”
Elizabeth peered into one of the dioramas of that fateful night and saw shifting a small form. She had never doubted her senses before, and she had no pre-existing condition that might give way to delirium. But there she saw, after wiping her eyes once and blinking twice, a tiny, self-conscious cow just outside O’Leary’s barn.
“Girl, are you okay?” she asked in a thick, Irish accent. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”
She scanned the exhibit to certify her privacy before conversing with the tiny man.
“Or just a talking cow? A one-ounce, miniature talking cow.”
“Call me Barb,” the cow said cheerfully.
“Okay.”
“I didn’t do it, you know.”
“Didn’t do what?”
“Start the fire. I didn’t knock over the lantern.”
“Okay.”
“Will you just change the placard to reflect that?”
“Excuse me?”
“That sign beside you is rather vague. It suggests that perhaps I did kick the lantern over.”
Elizabeth scanned the sign and confirmed the cow was correct. She was deeply disturbed by the unfolding events, but a bit sympathetic to the cow; that is, until Barb became argumentative and distasteful:
“Anyone with a bit of reason knows it was that asshole with the peg-leg, and please, pardon my French,” the cow said scornfully.
“Daniel Sullivan?” she asked, and a quarrelsome heat filled her cheeks.
“That’s him. He was the cruel kind, and quite duplicitous. He couldn’t wait to get his grubby hands on my udders. Hungry for my delicious milk, he was. One sip and I’d dare say you’d be thieving it as well, which is why I won’t be sharing a sip with you, young girl!”
“Hello?” Elizabeth shouted toward the exhibit’s entrance. She thought she had heard a sound; or rather, she wished she had heard a sound. She desperately hoped for the thump of security guard boots. If Al were to come around, he’d snap her out of this.
“Who are you talking to? Pegleg Sullivan?”
And at this half-humor, the cow laughed generously. She had quite a delicate laugh, not what one might expect of a cow.
“So will you change it?”
“Change what?” Elizabeth asked rather annoyed.
“The placard. It’s misleading, you know.”
“You know,” Elizabeth fired back. “I”m beginning to think you did kick the lantern, and poor Pegleg is your scapegoat.”
“Were I seeking a scapegoat, I’d simply blame Will — an actual goat. He was stabled alongside me!”
And the cow laughed generously.
“Who’s your witness?” Elizabeth asked and pushed her glasses high on the bridge of her nose and crossed her arms.
“Why, there was no one there but Pegleg and I. I’m the only witness!”
“A cow? Who is going to believe a cow? You’re a barnyard animal. You are not a credible witness. You are unable to swear under oath. You plead the fifth by default. You produce milk, not testimony. You are an expert in lactation, not forensics. Also, you’re virtually nonexistent. You weigh a single ounce on a good day. In fact, I’m all but convinced of Pegleg’s innocence now. I’m pretty sure you kicked the lantern down. You know you killed 300 people, right? A cow, responsible for the deaths of hundreds, trying to persuade me to promote her story, to change history. A cow named Barb—that’s not very Irish. Well, I’m done. I’m not buying it and I’m done.”
With that, and before the cow might counter, Elizabeth marched away. She managed three pleasing, self-important strides before she stopped. The exhibit—very quiet, very still—refused to release her. Long, legendary fingers gripped her wrist and pulled her back, and when she looked into the diorama, Barb was gone. There was no trace of magic or hallucinations or even a miniature cow for that matter. After one miserable moment, Elizabeth attacked the placard that told the O’Leary story that Barb detested so. She tugged it this way and that; gripped the top and lifted her feet, pulling down with all her weight; grunted and shrieked and cursed it.
She stepped back, and then saw something looming in the shadows. A tall, mysterious figure, towering with authority, peering with curiosity. When Elizabeth turned, and after the blood drained from her face and her hands went cold and clammy, she spoke with quiet, shaky voice.
“How long have you been here?”
“The whole time,” Al said.
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