An Acquaintance with Darkness - Ann Rinaldi [32]
Annie pushed past her mother then and came out onto the steps. She held my arm and guided me down the steps. I limped. "Your foot is bleeding," she said.
"It doesn't matter."
She walked me down the path into the garden. Uncle Valentine was still waiting. He had his arms out in a gesture of appeal. I felt torn, confused, destroyed. I didn't know what was happening. I still didn't believe that President Lincoln was dead. It was all some kind of a bad dream and I would wake up soon in my little bed in my room and get up and dress and come here to have breakfast.
"Go with your uncle for now," Annie said.
"Annie, no. We had plans. You promised."
"Well, I can't keep my promise. Go with your uncle. Until we see how all this turns out." She was begging me, in the rain.
"You mean the president isn't dead?"
"No, he's dead, Emily. We know that. They showed us his bloody shirt—those detectives, when they came here last night."
"Oh, how awful."
"Yes. It's a nightmare. Nightmares don't only happen when you sleep, Emily. Most of them happen when you're awake. I know that now. And I know we've been living in one, only I was too stupid to recognize it. And now we've got to pay."
"I'll stay here and help you."
"No, you must go. Please, Emily. I need to handle things. And I can't with you around. Please, I need time. Go with your uncle and we'll straighten this all out in a few days. Then you can come with us. Here or wherever we go."
I felt hope. I believed her. "Truly, Annie?"
"Yes. I need you for a friend, Emily. I need a friend now. I'll be in touch. I promise."
So I went limping to Uncle Valentine, who was right once again about things. And who stood there, his coat open, his cravat askew, his shirt and hair dripping, and held his arms out to me, looking as if he wished he had never been right about anything at all in his life.
He hurried me inside, through our house, and toward the front door.
"I'm not dressed," I said.
"Not important," he answered.
"My foot is cut and bleeding. It hurts."
"I'll carry you." And he did. He picked me up, opened the door, and carried me down our front steps in the rain. He put me in the carriage.
"My things! I'm not going without my things!"
"I'll send back for them."
"No!" I started to get out of the carriage.
"All right," he said, "all right. Where are they?"
I told him and he was like a man crazed, running in and out of the house for my portmanteaus and boxes. I sat there telling him where they were and what to get. My foot was bleeding. He just kept running, back and forth from the carriage to the house, mumbling something about doing heads. His last trip in the house I begged him to go into my room and reach under my pillow to where I kept a small velvet sack. And bring it.
He brought it. He never asked what was in it, even though it jingled. It held Johnny's twenty gold pieces. Soon all my things were loaded in the carriage. We drove off, and I left the house, forever. And the night-blooming cereus, which had likely already drooped its head because it could not stand the light of day.
We drove off down Washington's maddened streets. The rain was steady and cold. But people were gathering on corners like the sun was out. They were standing there staring at nothing in disbelief. Negroes stood in the middle of the avenues weeping. Soldiers had turned out with drawn bayonets.
Squads of infantrymen were mustering; people were ripping down the red, white, and blue buntings and putting up black crepe. Others were running by, screaming. Some galloped past us on horses. Newsboys were crying as they yelled the news.
Uncle Valentine used his whip on his horse and we raced through the streets to his house. He didn't stop out front but drove in through the wrought-iron gates.
Merry Andrews stood at the gates. And closed them behind us. They made a clinking, solid sound. Uncle Valentine wiped his brow. "Thank God, we're home," he said.
Maude came to meet us. "They say Secretary of State Seward had his throat cut by an assassin as he lay in his sickbed. And Grant is dead,