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.
10. Black Sunday
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
"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.
10. Black Sunday
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
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