An Acquaintance with Darkness - Ann Rinaldi [59]
Mrs. Springer spoke about gentle things. The roses she was cultivating in her garden, her love of Shakespeare. Dr. Springer was doing experiments to prove that flies were the culprits in the transmission of hospital gangrene. He was in the Peninsular campaign in 1862. And he observed that troops in motion most of the time were healthier. "It wasn't because of exercise and better morale," he told us. "It was because they left their dirt behind them."
I enjoyed myself immensely. And I forgot about Annie. The next day, when she came to the house, we had a fight. And from there everything in my life turned sour as bad milk.
Annie and I were alone. As usual, Maude was off to a funeral. I lit some astral lamps and they made a nice glow in the parlor. I made tea and served applesauce cake. I told her the story about the Newfoundland dog in New York walking under the president's casket.
She didn't smile.
"Uncle Valentine's guests are always so interesting," I said.
"Well, I'm glad you're enjoying yourself here, Emily. I really am." She crumbled bits of applesauce cake in her dish with her fingers.
"I didn't say I was enjoying myself. I said things were interesting."
"It's the same thing. You know what I did yesterday?"
"You were invited for supper. You didn't come." I hadn't told her about Johnny's letter yet. I was waiting to surprise her at the right moment. It hadn't yet come.
"I went to visit my mother. They put her in a smaller cell. She has no bed but straw on the floor. One thin blanket. She has to relieve herself in a bucket, out in the open, in full view of the guards. My mother is a lady. How can she live like that?"
"I heard the others who were arrested are confined in ironclads on the river," I said, "with hoods over their heads at all times."
"Are you telling me my mother is lucky?" She was spoiling for a fight.
"No."
"They won't let me bring her any supplies."
"Perhaps you can bring her something else," I said. And I told her about Johnny's letter. I didn't tell her about Johnny's man in Washington.
Her expression never changed while I recited the contents of the letter to her. I had committed it to memory.
"Let me see it," she said.
"I can't. I burned it."
"You burned it!" Now she really had something to pounce on me about.
"As Johnny directed."
"It would have meant so much to Mama!"
"It would have led them to Johnny."
"How? You said he didn't tell you where he was."
"It would have led them to me," I told her.
She looked at me. "Are you saying you're ashamed to know Johnny?"
"No. But they don't know the Johnny we know. They think he was in on the plot. Uncle Valentine doesn't want them thinking I was."
"Oh, I see. Because that would ruin all those lovely Thursday-night dinners for you."
Tears came to my eyes. "That isn't fair."
She didn't care. She kept right at it, hitting me one blow after another. "Or maybe he doesn't want the attention of the authorities on him. With what he does."
"What are you talking about, Annie?"
"You know. This doctor business. And what he does with dead bodies."
For a moment I couldn't speak. Then I found my tongue. "Whatever he does, it's all proper and legal. And he went to the prison and spoke up for his friend Dr. Mudd. That doesn't sound like he's trying to avoid the authorities. I think you're being hateful and mean, Annie. Uncle Valentine was good to you. Didn't he get the lawyers for your mother?"
"Oh, what do I care about dead bodies or what he does with them, anyway? The only dead body I care about is John Booth's. I'm glad he was shot. I'm glad they killed him. I'd have killed him myself if they didn't. All I care about is Mama. And the way I have to see her in prison every day. What do you expect?"
"I expect you to be reasonable."
"Who is reasonable in Washington these days? Find me one reasonable person. Everyone has a gripe, a fear, a hatred.