The Mayor

This is a story based on a legend from Maine. It is also the continuation of short stories based around United States’ legends and folklore. This story comes from true ghost stories about Samuel Dale. This is the second third story of the series.

Samuel Dale smiled as he looked at himself in his parlor mirror inside his three story house, which doubled as the mayor’s office. His light brown hair was combed to the side, as his blue eyes evoked a cheerfulness that made him a popular mayor. He gave his new tuxedo a tug and turned around to see the preparations for tonight’s party were running smoothly.

The front parlor and dining room were bustling with people cleaning or setting up decor. No one seemed to notice Sam Dale, as he was often called by friends, walk in and marvel at the progress being made.

“Splendid! Everything is splendid. This is what top dollar allows one to have? How great!”

Everyone stopped and looked at him, echoing Dale’s happiness.

“No, no. Don’t mind me. Please, continue,” Dale said as he walked around the rooms marveling at his ideas coming to life.

Just a month prior, the city of Chicago, Illinois suffered a terrible fire — known today as the Great Fire of 1871. Many cities, most of them from in or around Illinois, offered Chicago assistance in the recovery following the fire. Bangor, Maine, which had experienced a horrendous fire that devastated the city, offered to help the wounded Windy City. With this connection of devastation, Sam Dale wanted to help the suffering Chicagoians through a though time he, and his fellow Bangor citizens, knew all too well.

To help the cause, he started raising money that would be sent to Chicago. The money was raised at various parties in Bangor. Donations came from people of wealth and city municipalities. Prior to the event at the mayor’s office, Bangor had raised $10,000 for Chicago.

The party that Sam Dale was excited for was a vehicle to announce to the rest of the country of this generous act of kindness from his people of Bangor, Maine. For this main event, Dale invited all of Bangor’s elite class. He hoped the good news would make them squeak out some last minute money.

There was another reason for Dale to be excited for his party. Just a couple days prior, he got wind of some glorious news: President Ulysses S. Grant was visiting Bangor. Sam Dale made sure to send notice to the president that it would be an honor to have him stop by the party, in hopes to help the cause of Chicago’s relief fund he had put together.

Dale sent out lavish invitations, promising gifts and a night they would not forgot. He heard back from almost everyone, with the majority saying that they could not wait to attend the party. However, one person did not respond to Sam Dale’s invitation: President Ulysses S. Grant.

+ + +

“Sir? I looked into the Grant situation.”

Sam Dale was at his desk, a floor above the site that night’s party. He was filling out some paperwork when his assistant, Tom Meeks, knocked at the door.

“Yes, Meeks. What did you find?”

Meeks, aged 22 with a spring in his step, had known Sam Dale all his life. The two had been life long neighbors until Dale was elected mayor. Instead of moving next door, Meeks became an assistant to the mayor.

“Well, I don’t know if this was a mental lapse on your part,” Meeks began as he stepped into Sam Dale’s office, “but it seems that no invitation was sent to the president.”

Terror took over Sam Dale’s face; his perfect evening was as good as shattered.

“What? How?”

“I doubled checked the postage costs coming from this office and only 19 invitations were sent out.” 
 
 Sam Dale nodded, “Yes, 19 sounds right.”

“Yes, 19 is right if you’re only counting the Bangor citizens you invited. President Grant would’ve made 20.”

Silence entered the room, only to be overtaken by the knocking of the window shutters outside.

“That probably explains why we have’t heard back,” Dale said with disappointment.

Meeks, expecting a breakdown of Sam Dale’s sanity as he knew the importance of this evening to the mayor, saw a lightbulb go off and a smile emerge on Sam Dale’s face.

“No matter at all. I just thought of something that will bring an unforgettableness to the evening. Ha ha! I love it when these ideas come from no where! Don’t worry, Meeks, the president will show.”

The excitement bowled over to Meeks, as well, “Sir, what do you have in mind?”

Sam Dale got up from his desk and grabbed his coat and hat, “Where is the president staying, Tom?”

Tom Meeks rummaged through some papers the mayor had given him about President Grant’s New England tour and found the answer to Sam Dale’s question: “The Bangor House, sir.”

“Excellent. Make sure the preparations are up to the standards and that Mrs. Dale and the children are ready for tonight.” 
 
 Sam Dale raced down the hall, only to stop mid step, “Oh, Tom, make sure Varina knows she is to welcome the guests until my return, if I am late.”

He continued down the staircase and out the door, humming “Hail to the Chief”.

+ + +

“Tom, Mr. Dale isn’t back yet is he?” Varina Dale whispered as Bangor’s social elite conversed in the front parlor of the mayor’s house.

“I haven’t seen him.” 
 
 The party had officially started an hour before Mrs. Dale became worried where her husband disappeared. The guests were become restless.

“I heard there’s an announcement to be made tonight?” one woman asked.

“Where is Mayor Dale? I expected an unforgettable evening!” A man persisted.

Mrs. Dale was doing the best she could to entertain the patrons, but was becoming restless herself. As if on queue to the questions being thrown at Mrs. Dale, a sudden sense of relief overcame her when she heard the front door swing open. In a grand way, Samuel Dale walked in, glowing with happiness.

“My oh my, what a crowd!” he exclaimed, entering the front door.

Some smiled at his entrance; some were clearly perturbed. Yet, they all turned around to see what Sam Dale had up his sleeve.

“Ladies and gentlemen, it is an honor to present the President of the United States,” he announced as he ushered in Ulysses S. Grant, a cigar in the left hand and a disgruntled look on his face. When Grant saw the people staring back, he smiled ever so slightly.

“Hello, everyone. Pleasure to meet you all!”

He tossed his cigar on the floor and went around the room shaking hands and welcoming guests. The room filled with glorious gasps of amazement. They shook the president’s hand and ask questions the president was not ready to answer for that late in the evening. Sam Dale stood as he looked on at his guests, who seemed pleasantly shocked at Grant’s arrival. He hoped the money would soon follow now that President Grant had made the party.

Mrs. Dale walked over to her husband,“Sam, how did you get President Grant? Tom told me you forgot to invite him!”

“Oh, the president is a fine man. I told him this was for Chicago’s relief and very urgent. He was delighted to come.”

Varina was impressed and was proud of her husband.

Once the president had dealt with everyone and had a drink or two, he bid everyone a good night. He announced he was leaving for Boston and had to get up early the following morning. A servant went with Grant out the front door to walk him back to the hotel. With everyone still in awe, Sam Dale made his announcement: “Everyone, please, attention! Everyone! A few words, if you’ll allow me…”

The awed whispers silenced,“I’ve never been more prouder of Bangor. Why? We have raised $10,000 to help Chicago get back to the fine city it was. Isn’t that wonderful? Our little town of Bangor. Incredible. They will be writing about this in the histories of this city… this state… AND this country for years to come. If you haven’t already — or if you have and are feeling generous — please donate to this wonderful cause. I myself donated $500. Can anyone beat me?”

Sam Dale laughed at this inclusion of humor.

He urged people to donate and sent around a collection plate. Throughout the evening, as he chatted with everyone in attendance, he noticed people donating. His mind raced at the tough of the amount of money being donated from his guests. The money was being poured in left and right, with many saying that they knew of more people that were willing to donate.

Over the course of the night, the party shrunk to fewer and fewer people. Once the conversation had died down to a quiet murmur of a few guests, Tom Meeks walked over to a dozing off Sam Dale.

“Sir, wow, what an evening!”

Sam Dale sat up, “Glorious, Mr. Meeks, glorious.”

“I put the money in your office and locked the place up.” 
 
 “Good boy. In fact, give me the key. I want to count it right now.”

Tom Meeks gave the mayor a stern look, but followed with a trusting nod. Meeks handed the keys to Sam Dale and bid him a good night.

“Thank you. You too,” standing up, he shouted, “Good night, everyone! Glorious party.”

A weak applause filled the parlor.

Sam Dale walked up the stairs and headed to his office, humming “Hail to the Chief”.

+ + +

Varina Dale took her kids to church that Sunday, in hopes to seek a reassuring friend in their priest. In the days that followed their party, reports came to her attention, and the attention of the city, that Samuel Dale had stolen the Chicago relief funds. The rumors were grim: instead of the money being sent to Chicago, Dale pocketed the cash himself. Some even said he paid an actor to play Ulysses S. Grant at their most recent party.

The reports were backed by banks in Chicago — and in Bangor — because they reported that no money had ever been transferred to or from either city by Sam Dale or one of his clerks. Believing the rumors, people became shocked and angered. Sam Dale, at home, had become agitated. Gone was the lightness and friendliness he was known for. When asked about these accusations, no straight answer was given to Varina. She did not like this change of demeanor.

Following her trip to church, Varina vowed to fix this ordeal. She was done losing sleep over it.

+ + +

Tom Meeks heard the screams from across the street. He rushed outside to meet whatever had caused the screaming, only to see servants of the mayor’s house to be calling for help from the 2nd floor windows. Fear rushed into Tom as he sprinted into the house and up the stairs. Varina was in Sam Dale’s office, tears flooding her face.

“Sam!! Oh dear lord…”

Tom finally saw what caused the screaming. Samuel Dale, Mayor of Bangor, lay dead on the floor in front of his desk. No gunshot wounds. No stabbing wounds. The man simply was lying on the floor, breathless. A servant was checking any sign of a pulse, but Tom Meeks knew that the man had died. In fact, he was not all that surprised. With the rumors floating around about Samuel Dale, it could be easily understood why he’d take his own life, an opinion Meeks believed to be true.

That opinion was solidified by the autopsy report that followed months after Samuel Dale’s death. The report noted that he died from a poison that Sam Dale ingested. Once the pride of Bangor, Maine and its citizens, the story of Sam Dale became and is now a sorrow spot of the city’s legacy.

+ + +

However, it was that story that drove Elise Alton to volunteer at the Bangor Historical Society, now located at the former home of Samuel Dale. Alton was fascinated by the seeming two personalities of Bangor’s former mayor: one being a sweet, kind man with the other being a selfish and greedy.

“I hope you got everything down. I’d hate to run through it again.”

Elise was being shown around the place by a fellow volunteer who had been with the society for many years.

“What can you tell me about Samuel Dale, you know, the estranged mayor?” Elise eagerly asked.

Her tour guide chuckled, “Oh, Sam Dale. He wanted the glory and paid for it with his life. But, you know, your typical story of one man’s quest for riches.” 
 
 “Right. Where does his ghost appear? I hear he haunts the place. Should I keep my eyes open for his spirit?” 
 
 “Oh no — we’ve never seen Mr. Dale appear. Mostly things moving around and things disappearing.”

“Oh, well, if you don’t see anything, then how do you know it is Dale?”

Another chuckle, “That’s because of what’s disappearing!” ‘

Elise, expecting an answer, played along, “OK, what’s disappearing?”
 
 “Our wallets.”