An Acquaintance with Darkness (3 page)

When I told Mama about Richmond, she sighed. "So the war will soon be over, then. I am glad I lived long enough to see it. Have there been any letters from my sister?"

"No. But I'm sure it's just that she's too busy, Mama," I said.

"You can't go to Richmond to live now. She'll have all she can do keeping her own body and soul together." She seemed resigned. "Where will you go?"

"Mrs. Keckley has offered to find me a place." I didn't tell her the Surratts had offered, too.

She nodded. "Elizabeth is a good woman. I'm lucky to have her as a friend ... Emily, you must promise me something. When I die, don't let my brother have anything to do with my body or the funeral."

I almost dropped the fresh daffodils I was arranging in a vase. "Mama, please don't speak of dying."

"I am dying, Emily. We all know it. So you must promise me."

"I promise, Mama."

"He'll want to arrange things. Run things. And do things. He has no rights. I want that understood. When I die, send for the reverend. He is to see to it that I am buried in a lead coffin."

"Yes, Mama." I did not like this talk about lead coffins and dying. But she was set on being morbid this first sunny morning in weeks.

"Now take me downstairs. I will receive Valentine in my parlor. Not in my bedroom, like an invalid."

Somehow I managed to get her downstairs without letting her fall and kill herself. I had just about propped her in a chair in the parlor and lit a fire in the grate, to ward off the chilliness of the room from so many days of rain, when Uncle Valentine arrived.

He was a half hour late. And agitated. In the hall I took his stovepipe hat. It was just like Mr. Lincoln's. And he wore a shawl around his shoulders like Lincoln, too. Uncle Valentine adored Lincoln.

"Horse racing on E Street!" he said. "Within a stone's throw from the Congressional cemetery! Have people no respect?"

"Whose funeral were you attending?" Mama asked.

"Nobody's funeral." He stepped into the parlor. "Haven't I a right to go to the cemetery and visit the grave of an old friend?"

"What old friend?" Mama asked.

"Does it matter?" He handed me a package. "For the flower of H Street," he said. Then he kissed me. "Hello, Emily, how are you, dear? How is school?"

"Fine." He liked me. I was not a coquette, he said, like most Southern girls. I did not bat my eyelashes and pretend helplessness. Who did I have to bat my eyelashes at? How could I pretend helplessness? I'd been Mama's mainstay.

Before we moved to Washington I didn't really know him. Since moving here I knew him only from his visits to Mama, which always had undercurrents of arguments. It came out in one of those discussions that it was through him that I'd been accepted into the fancy Miss Winefred Martin's. You had to have family connections to get into the school. Uncle Valentine knew the headmistress, Miss Martin herself, from when he'd been young. And had cleared the way for my acceptance.

Many times he wanted to take me somewhere: to the opera, to the Baptist church on Tenth Street to hear Adeline Patti make her Washington debut, to the National Theater, to Harvey's for oysters. Mama would never let me go. "He wants to steal you away from me," she'd say. "He has no children of his own. He has always envied me you."

"Are you keeping up with your lessons?" Uncle Valentine asked.

"Yes, sir." He had made arrangements with my school so that I could study at home for a few days, since Mama was failing. He'd spoken to Miss Martin about it. "But I'm no flower, Uncle Valentine," I said.

"You're a flower about to bloom. You're just waiting for the right time."

My daddy would have said that. I missed my daddy. That was part of why I liked Uncle Valentine. I needed to hear things like this from a man I could look up to. But I liked him, too, because he kept coming to see Mama, in spite of her insults. And because he was debonair. He had a flair about him that bespoke a man of the world. He was an important surgeon in Washington. He had led the fight to get the offal cleaned from the streets to prevent disease. He knew influential people. Young medical students considered themselves lucky to get into his classes. Everyone respected him. Everyone but Mama.

He loved baseball almost as much as he loved Abraham Lincoln.

"They're the same," he'd say. "In baseball, three strikes and you're out. Lincoln's had his two strikes already, his crazy wife and his bad generals. All he needs is one more and he's out."

He would not conjecture what the one more was.

"How are you, Mary Louise?" He stood in front of Mama, bowed, took her hand, and kissed it. Then he held on to the hand.

"Don't take my pulse, Valentine," Mama said. "I have my own doctor."

He released her hand and sat down. I brought him his usual glass of wine. He sipped it and regarded Mama. "Has Dr. Dent been around?"

"Last week."

"Does he have you on the same medicine?"

"Yes."

"It's not doing you much good, Mary Louise."

"I'm much better," Mama insisted. "I'm up and around today and feeling much better."

"Your eyes are too bright. Your face is feverish."

"She's run out of medicine," I blurted out.

"Emily!" Mama chided.

But I didn't care. "I've sent a note around to Thompson's for more," I said. "A man is bringing it this afternoon."

Uncle Valentine slipped a hand into his pocket, withdrew his billfold, and put some money on a small table.

"We don't need that," Mama said quickly.

"Don't be foolish, Mary Louise."

"We have money, Uncle Valentine," I said. We didn't; I did. But neither Mama nor he knew it. Mama's pride wouldn't let her deny it, of course. "And anyway," I added, "Thompson's won't charge us."

"Not charge you?" He scoffed. "Thompson's charges everybody twice what their medicine is worth. Why has he suddenly developed this altruistic streak? In honor of Richmond falling?"

"In honor of my friendship with Johnny Surratt," I said. "Johnny made the arrangements. His friend works for Mr. Thompson."

He scowled. "Surratt?" He seemed to be searching his mind for something. He set down his wineglass. But he said nothing.

"Johnny and Emily were always friends," Mama told him. "You remember. From Maryland. He's been like a brother to her. You know his mother and I went to school together."

"That fancy girls' school. It gave you notions, Mary Louise."

"All girls have a right to notions," Mama said.

"You haven't spoken to his mother since her brother foreclosed on your home."

"I won't deny the children their friendship. Neither Mary nor I protest it. But it's over now with Johnny. He left the other day on a long trip."

I'll say one thing for Mama. She has always allowed me my friendship with Johnny and Annie. She was defending those friendships now. Of course, she would defend my friendship with the Devil himself if it meant going against her brother. Still, I thought this as good a time as any to tell her I'd been invited to live with the Surratts.

"My friendship with Johnny isn't over," I said. And I told her about the invitation. To my surprise, it wasn't Mama who was upset by it. It was Uncle Valentine.

"You can't be meaning to let this child go and live with the Surratts, Mary Louise," he said.

"I'm glad to know she has people to care for her."

"She has me."

"Don't start that again, Valentine."

"I'm your brother! Her blood uncle. You'd rather have her live with strangers?"

"Mary is still a dear friend to Emily. She runs a good boardinghouse. Her daughter, Annie, is only a few years older than Emily and like a big sister. Emily can't go to Richmond now. And she needs to stay here and finish her schooling."

"She can live with me," Uncle Valentine said again. "For once in your life, Mary Louise, listen to me. You never did before."

"I know. And I married Edward. He wasn't a good provider. And we lost our home."

"Edward was a good provider. It just wasn't enough for you, Mary Louise. You were too much the Southern belle."

"I never was!" Mama said. But she preened, nevertheless, tossed her head; and for a moment I could see the remains of the Southern belle my uncle accused her of being. "You may be right about me," she sniffed, "but you are not right about the Surratts."

I fetched a tray of tea and poured Mama a cup, then put honey in it. I feared for her. She was using all her strength to best Uncle Valentine. Tomorrow she'd be spent.

"Don't argue," I pleaded.

"We must settle this," Mama told me. Then she turned to her brother, and it was as if I were not even in the room. "You may know baseball, Valentine. And sickness. But you do not know people."

"I know of the Surratts," he said. "They are trouble."

"Trouble?" Mama even managed a laugh, though she near choked on it and I had to give her water and pat her back. Then she waved me away. "Trouble? And you are not?"

"I have honest dealings, Mary Louise."

"Honest, indeed!" Mama smiled. It was a smug smile, as if she knew something. "I am too close to the grave to have you mince words with me, Valentine."

"I won't mince, then. The Surratt house in Maryland is a stopping place for blockade runners, spies, and no-'counts."

"We know Johnny has run the blockade. He's Secesh. We are at war, Valentine."

"Dr. Mudd, a colleague of mine in Maryland, told me of them. John Wilkes Booth made a trip down there with Johnny Surratt. Booth claimed he wanted to buy a farm from Mudd. Mudd thinks Booth just wanted to get to know the lay of the land."

"What is wrong with wanting to know the lay of the land if you are going to buy a farm in Maryland? I wish my Edward had learned the lay of the land."

"Why would anyone venture into Maryland now, with such devastation there, to buy a farm? The Surratts are up to no good, the lot of them. Something evil is brewing there."

"Evil," Mama repeated.

"Yes. I know evil when I see it."

"You should," Mama said. "But you are wrong this time. You may object to Booth as an actor and therefore not desirable company for young girls, but with Johnny gone, I doubt if Booth will be coming around anymore. You go out of your way to distress me. If there is nothing else you can say to convince me that Emily should not live there, you should hold your tongue. I know you want her to live with you. But I do not wish it. And it distresses me that you would attempt to tarnish the name of my old friend to secure your own ends."

"It distresses me that you are so angry because I want to give your daughter a good home. And try to keep her from having me as her protector, even after you are gone."

I could stand it no longer. "Stop fussing," I said.

They both looked at me as if they'd forgotten I was there.

"I love you both." My voice broke. "I really do love you, Uncle Valentine. In spite of what Mama says. I can't bear to see you arguing all the time. I always wanted a brother. Or a sister. And you two have each other and all you do is fight!"

There was shocked silence. I got up. "I'll fetch your coffee, Uncle Valentine," I said.

"I can't stay for coffee."

"You'll stay!" I almost shouted it. "It's dear. Twenty-one cents a pound! I got it at market yesterday and you'll stay. And stop fussing! Both of you!"

He stayed. I brought out the coffee and some peach cobbler. I'd made it that morning. They didn't argue anymore. Uncle Valentine started telling us how he'd summoned the police, and the sporting men who'd been racing their horses on E Street had been arrested for reckless driving.

I wasn't listening to him. All I was pondering was what he'd said about the Surratts' house. And how evil was going on there. And Ella May's words about there being a curse on the street we were living on. Then that serpent-in-the-bosom business that Elizabeth Keckley had spoken of.

Could all these people be wrong? I shivered, then looked up and saw Mama was failing. "You'll have to go, Uncle Valentine," I said.

He left. I walked him into the hall. He put on his stovepipe hat, his coat and shawl. "You're a good girl,
Emily," he said. "A fine girl. You know your mind. I hope you'll sort things out for yourself and not hold against me anything that your mother has said."

"I won't," I promised.

"Are you going back to school soon?"

"Yes. I'd like to go back after everything is over."

"Your mother could linger for weeks."

"Well, I must find someone to come stay with Mama during the day. Ella May up and left, and I'm alone now."

"I'll send over Maude. She can spare the time."

"Thank you, Uncle Valentine."

"If you come and live with me, I'll not be overbearing. I'll not tell you what to do, but I'd be honored to have you. Think on it, Emily."

I said I would, to please him. But I never intended to live with him. Oh, he had a lovely house on a fancy street.... I'd never been inside. Mama had pointed it out to me once. Who would not want to live in a house like that?

"Let me know if your mother worsens," he said.

I promised that, too. He left. I never thanked him for the violet water.

M
AMA TOOK TO HER BED
the day after Uncle Valentine's visit and never got out again.

It wasn't his fault. He had done what any brother would do, come to visit her. If I had a brother and I were dying, I'd want that.

Mama coughed and coughed so. And got weaker and weaker. Sometimes she lay so still I thought she'd died on me. But then she would start coughing again. Her forehead was hot, her hands clammy, her breath shallow.

I got frightened and ran to the Surratts' to get a servant to take a note to Dr. Dent. He came around, but there was little he could do. He wrote an order for more medicine. Again I went to the Surratts', and got a servant to take the order to Thompson's Drug Store.

Then I waited all afternoon. But Johnny's friend David Herold never delivered the medicine.

I went to the Surratts' a third time. A servant ushered me in. Mrs. Mary was in the parlor.

So was John Wilkes Booth. I stopped short, seeing him. He was pacing back and forth. He looked disheveled, angry. Like an alien thing in that dainty parlor. "Damn them, damn them," he was saying. "Damn all the talk of surrender! Couldn't Lee have held on?" He directed the question at me.