An Acquaintance with Darkness (11 page)

"I fear for Annie and Mrs. Mary," I allowed.

"And what of this Johnny of yours?" She arched her brows at me.

"He isn't mine," I said sadly. "He never was mine. And he's in Canada."

"Change your clothing. I'll bring some hot tea."

I took off my wet clothing, toweled myself dry, and put on the dressing gown. It felt soft and comforting. My head was spinning from the powder.

Marietta brought up the tea. It was darkening now, so she lighted the gaslight. Then the bells started to ring, what seemed like dozens of them, from all over; deep and solemn, they rang, some from distances far across the city.

"The death bells for Lincoln," she said, "and it's about time, too. Your uncle said Secretary Stanton ordered them hours ago. Oh, that reminds me, if you hear anything, don't be frightened."

"Like what?"

"Sometimes Addie Bassett gets out of her room at night. She's locked in days, because the medicine makes her woozy. Nights she's allowed to walk around, though the rest of the house is locked. She's harmless, so don't worry."

"She's locked in days?"

"It's for her own good."

Of course,
I thought.
Like my being here is for my own good.

Marietta's smile deepened. "It is for your own good," she said. And before I could reply she was gone.

I drank my tea. I read a bit. I heard some noise outside and went to look out. Uncle Valentine's carriage was just going out the gate. Merry Andrews secured the gate behind it, then leaped back up inside and they drove off. Would Uncle Valentine take Merry into the White House with him? A dwarf? Why not? Tom Thumb and his wife had been received by the Lincolns. Oh, the world had gone mad.

It was raining in gusts. I was glad for the warm fire in the grate, for the rain had chilled the room. I leaned back in the chair and listened to the steady tolling of the death bells. I must have closed my eyes and dozed.

Images flashed through my mind. Uncle Valentine telling me they were looking for Surratt and Booth. Johnny handing me that handkerchief with SUNDAY written on it. Uncle Valentine carrying me out of the house. Mrs. Mary saying how the police were asking entrance, searching, demanding answers. Me running through the backyards in my bare feet in the rain. The Negroes weeping in the street. Annie promising she'd stay in touch. Marietta saying "Don't pry." Inside me my feelings were all crossed, like cavalry sabers clashing. I struggled to wake from this sleep, which was more disturbed than restful. But I could not rouse myself.

Then something else roused me. "Little missy." It was a whisper. "Little missy."

I opened my eyes. An old hag of a nigra woman was bending over me. Her hair hung about her, gray and disheveled. She had two teeth missing in front. Her breath smelled like that of a hedgehog. I screamed.

She touched my arm lightly. "Hush, little missy. Please."

I froze more than I hushed.

"My, you're a pretty one. Did they just bring you in?"

"I just came, yes."

"What ails you? The Wasting Disease? Like me? Oh no, I see the bandage on your foot. Do it hurt?"

"Yes, but I've taken a powder. It dulls the pain."

"You cain't be a prisoner. They doan keep prisoners here but on the third floor."

"I'm visiting." This must be Addie, then. I looked at her. Her clothing was clean, though her breathing seemed to be a difficult business. She took great breaths between sentences. Of course, that could be from her weight. She was very fat. And she smelled of some kind of medicine. "My uncle Valentine doesn't keep prisoners," I told her.

"Your uncle, is he? He be a good man. But I needs to get away. They keep me prisoner here. Locks me in my room days. And locks the house up nights. Would you help me get away?"

"You're Addie Bassett."

She took my measure with eyes so old they made me shiver. "What did they tell you of me, then?"

"That you're sick, and he's taking care of you."

"Hmmph," she said. Then she nodded. "Yes. He's takin' care o' me. Like my old master's son would care for birds with broken wings he catched. Those birds always wanna get away even if just to die free in the woods. I'm gonna die anyways. So I wanna die free." Then she cocked her head and listened. "What are the bells for? What are people yelling in the streets?"

"The president had died."

"Linkum?"

"Yes."

A great cry of dismay escaped her throat. And she raised her arms to heaven. Tears rolled down her face like on the Negroes' in the streets. She wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron. "Linkum, my Lord, Linkum." Then she said something strange. "My fault," she said.

"Your fault?"

She nodded. "He set me free. Gave me my freedom. A gift. Then I went an' lost it. He musta heard 'bout that. Addie Bassett lost the gift he give her. Musta killed him, poor man."

"No," I said, "you didn't kill him. Someone else did. He was shot. They're looking, now, for the person who did it."

"I did it. Me, an' all my kind who take this gift from this man and wander in the streets an' doan work an' earn our keep. But wait fer the white man to lead us. I did it." She sobbed and walked away from me, across the floorboards that creaked under her heavy weight. She stood looking out the window, wiping her eyes and quieting herself. Her great bulk cast a shadow across the room. "What do that mean? My freedom gone now?"

"No, your freedom isn't gone. President Lincoln gave it to you for always."

"I still gots it?"

"Yes."

She turned, unbelieving. She held out her hands to me. "Then it's more 'portant that I get outta here. Help me get outta here, please. I gotta use my freedom right."

I shook my head, no. "I can't do that. You're sick."

"I'se better now. As better as I ever be. Gonna die anyways. I jus' wants a chance to do somethin' wif this freedom Mr. Linkum give me, before I die. Please. I kin do things. I jus' had a spell o' bad luck. I wanna go out there an' help my people."

"How?"

"I was workin' fer the Relief Society. I got sick. They found me in the streets and brought me here."

"But you said you weren't working and that's why you killed President Lincoln."

She bowed her head. "I wuz workin', but I wuz drinkin', too. I doan drink no more. Tha's one good thing that come o' my bein here. Please help me—please."

"I can't," I said again. "I'm sorry."

She walked back across the room to lean over me. "Missy, you know what he does? Do you?"

I backed away. "No."

"Well, you gonna be livin' here, you gonna find out. An' when you do, you'll help old Addie. Yes, you will.
Un-hun!
" She gave the last words deep emphasis.

"What does he do?" I croaked.

"That ain't fer me to tell, missy. No, sir, no." She shook her head. Her white hair stuck out every which way. "It's fer you to find out yourself."

I thought of all the terrible things Mama had hinted about Uncle Valentine. "Is it bad?" I whispered.

"Ain't fer me to tell, no, sir," she said again. "Old Addie got only so many words left in her. An' she ain't 'bout to waste 'em talkin' 'bout things she cain't do nuthin' 'bout. You'll find out, sure 'nuf. An' when you does, you'll help old Addie leave." Then she waddled out of the room.

"Wait!" I begged. But she was gone. A gust of rain beat against the windows. The candles flickered. The room was silent except for the distant tolling of the death bells for Lincoln. And the rain pattering against the windows. I looked around.

Had I dreamed her? I rubbed my eyes. What was Uncle Valentine doing in this house that she would not tell me? Why had Marietta warned me not to pry? Oh, I wished I were home in the narrow little house on H Street. I wished Mama had not died. I wished Johnny would come knocking at the door. Or Annie. What was happening to Annie and her mother?

I took another powder. My foot was starting to hurt. Then I decided to just get in bed and lie back and rest for a while. I fell asleep. And I never woke until the sun's rays were pouring in my window the next morning.

T
HE NEXT DAY
started out innocently enough. Which should have given me warning. I hadn't had an innocent day in months. I woke feeling refreshed, but when I got up, my foot was throbbing again. I hobbled around the room, dressed, and went down the stairs.

Some people were still yelling in the streets. And the death bells were still tolling. But the sun was shining and the birds were singing and I was starved.

Uncle Valentine was at breakfast, waiting for me.

He looked tired. "Good morning, Emily. Did you sleep well?"

"Yes."

"I see you're limping. How is the foot?"

"It hurts a little."

"I'll change the dressing later. You must eat now. Fix yourself a plate. Everything is there on the sideboard."

Maude had an array of good things set out. Fish and ham and eggs; biscuits, grits, coffee. I looked around. The table was set with four places, good china and sterling. "Who's coming?"

"I never know who. Sometimes a colleague will drop by. Sometimes Marietta. Or one of my students. I'm always grateful for company. But now that you're here, I won't have to worry about eating alone anymore, will I?"

I filled my plate and sat down to eat.

He was reading his newspaper. "For years people called Lincoln a clown and a gorilla, or a Negro-lover. And now they are making him a saint," he said. "His portrait is hanging out front of so many houses. Mobs wanted to burn down Ford's Theater last night. They still might do it."

"Did you go to the White House?"

"Yes." He set down his cup and shuddered. "Poor man. He never had a chance. Oh, there is so much for us yet to learn in the medical profession, Emily. So much. This is a terrible thing, terrible. I hear authorities have raided Booth's room at the National Hotel and seized his papers. The War Department has offered fifty thousand dollars' reward for Booth. And twenty-five thousand for each of his accomplices."

I wondered if that meant Johnny. Was Johnny an accomplice?

It was then that the front-door bell rang and Maude went to answer it. She came into the dining room. "A letter. For Emily."

"Well, give it to her," Uncle Valentine said.

I trembled, taking it. Was it from Johnny? It was from Annie: "Meet me today at the cemetery. Say you're going to visit your mother's grave. Three o'clock." Nothing more. I stuffed it in my pocket and said nothing.

"They are advising homeowners to drape their houses in black bunting," Uncle Valentine was reading. "Mobs are attacking any houses not so decorated. Maude?" He called out.

She came running. "Yes, Dr. Bransby?"

"Do we have any black bunting?"

"Now, why would we have such?"

"Every house should have black bunting, Maude. Every house should be prepared."

"For what? The assassination of a president? There has not been one in my lifetime, Dr. Bransby. And I certainly hope I shall never see one again."

"It says here," and he continued reading, "that if there is no bunting available, old black dresses should be torn up and made into bunting."

"I have no old black dresses, Dr. Bransby. And I'll not give any of my good ones."

"You could dye paper with ink and hang that," I offered.

They looked at me as if I had uncommon powers. "Wonderful idea!" Uncle Valentine said. "Where did you get it?"

"We do it at school sometimes. When we cut silhouettes."

Uncle Valentine asked Maude if we had enough paper, then. "I'll see, Dr. Bransby," she said. And she went to see.

"Would you be so good as to help Maude make the black decorations this afternoon, Emily?" he asked me. "I don't want to be perceived as a Southern sympathizer and have my house attacked."

"I'm going out this afternoon."

"Out? Where out?"

"To visit my mother's grave. With my friend Annie." The moment I mentioned her name I knew I shouldn't have.

He scowled. "Not today, please," he said. "I can't permit you to go out today."

Permit?
I stared at him.

He shook his head. "First, you must keep off that foot, or the stitches won't hold. It could become infected. Second, the city has gone mad. People still think it's a conspiracy. No one is sure who was involved. Everyone is under suspicion."

"I won't be under suspicion, Uncle Valentine. I'm only going to visit my mother's grave."

"To meet Annie Surratt," he said, "brother of Johnny. Daughter of the woman whose house the detectives visited the other night, waving Lincoln's bloody shirt. No, Emily, you are not going."

"I must go. Annie needs me."

"No," he said again. "I'm sorry, but I must forbid it."

Forbid?
"You have no right to forbid it."

He looked at me for a long moment. His eyes were very brown and sad. Then he sighed and got up without saying a word, went out of the room and across the hall to his office.

I sat waiting. I may have been only fourteen, but I knew by then that whenever someone says they are sorry about having to do something, they are not a bit sorry. And they have just been waiting for the right opportunity to do it.

He was back in a few minutes. Without saying a word he put a paper down gently on the table beside me.

Apparently he had gone to court—or wherever one goes to get such a paper—and had it drawn up. He had friends in high places. He knew how to get such things done.

The paper said I was underage. It had a lot of
heretofores
and
whereases
that I didn't understand. But what it said that I did understand was that I was under his jurisdiction.

Oh, it couched the message in fancy feathers. It said things about my happiness, well-being, and security. It said I needed a protector. There was even a phrase bringing Southern honor into it.

"What does this mean?" I asked him.

"That I am responsible for you." He was stirring his coffee.

"I don't need anybody to be responsible for me."

"You're only fourteen. A minor child. You need a protector."

"I can take care of myself."