Chapter 30

In Which I Try to Recall Jemma’s Last Night

November 10, 1860

Dear Jemma,

I loved reading about the surprise dessert you’re making for your mama. But the part in your letter about the Maple Tree and all his sorrows made me weep like a baby. I don’t recall much about your uncle Ezekiel, but I did love those ducks, too. I imagine the Maple Tree never got over the hurt of losing his brother. How could he? I remember my own brothers in my prayers every night.

I do not recall much about the time you left. I just know I missed you something awful when my daddy told me you were gone. I thought I’d done something to hurt your feelings, since you never said good-bye and we never got to exchange presents or spit in our hands and seal our friendship. But now I know there was no time for saying good-bye.

After they buried the Pickled Onion’s husband, my daddy got real quiet. He never talked about that night, so I don’t know what happened. I only heard dribs and drabs from gossips around town. And I wasn’t allowed to go to the funeral—Daddy thought it was bad luck to have a child so close to the Grim Reaper. But still, it didn’t stop all the dying that was to come—my mama passing, followed so quickly by my brothers. And then Daddy himself.

My question to you now is, How did it happen? Tell me all you can about how the Pickled Onion’s husband came to his tragic end, if you feel that you won’t put anyone in danger.

I’m mighty grateful for your help piecing together this mystery. And I will do all I can to help you, too, and tell the Maple Tree what needs telling. I don’t know if the Pickled Onion’s work will take me to see Phil O’Dell again. But I sure can try to find a way to get there.

And I believe someday you will, too—you just have to be extra safe about it.

I wonder if the news has reached you there in Canada. Abraham Lincoln won the contest for president of the United States. And folks say he intends to put an end to slavery. Can you imagine that? What a day it would be for you and your mama and the Maple Tree.

I dreamed last night that you came here to Chicago, and we rode my mule, Whiskey, past Potter Palmer’s emporium and ate fried bread on Lake Street. You sold stacks of your pies and made more money than could fit into your purse.

Very truly your friend,

Nell