9
UNCLE VALENTINE took me into his office and attended to my foot. But first he did a strange thing. He washed his hands with warm water and soap that Maude brought in.
“I’ve been in correspondence with a man named Lister, who is a professor of surgery in Glasgow,” he said. “He believes that the air and dirt on the hands causes putrefaction. I’ve fought with officials in this city to clean the offal off the streets.”
I looked around. I saw instruments, terrible things; vials, jars, books. One was Observations on the Gastric Juice and Physiology of Digestion. Another, The Injuries of Nerves and Their Consequences.
Uncle Valentine washed and cleansed my wound. I had never seen him do doctor things before, and I decided he was very good at it. Marietta held my hand. She had come downstairs. Why was she here, I wondered? And not teaching? She handed him things. “Are you a nurse?” I asked her.
We’d all heard about Florence Nightingale, nurse during the Crimean War. And our own Clara Barton, who’d followed the army in our war.
“No,” Marietta answered. “But if I could, I’d be a doctor.”
“Women can’t be doctors,” I said.
“Yes, they can,” Uncle Valentine told me. “And they are. Dr. Mary Walker was an assistant surgeon during the war. She was taken prisoner by the Rebels, exchanged for a soldier, and given a medal. She visits and lectures here in Washington frequently.”
What with all the talk, my foot was soon finished, stitched up and all. But it hurt. Uncle Valentine gave me a powder and told Marietta to take me to my room.
My room. I hobbled upstairs. Marietta brought along my things. When she wasn’t looking I fished the velvet sack with the twenty gold pieces out of my pocket and hid it under the pillows on the bed. I’d find a better place for it later.
“You’d best get in that bed,” she advised. “That powder is going to start to work soon.” She was unpacking my clothing and putting it into the chiffonier.
“Why are you here?” I asked.
“Lincoln,” she said. “It’s so terrible. They closed the schools. Nobody knows what’s really happened yet. They’re saying it’s a Confederate plot. There are thirty thousand Confederate soldiers in town on parole after Lee’s surrender. I came in case any of them were attacked. Your uncle might need me.”
“Is it true about women being doctors?”
“Yes.” She was hanging my dresses.
“Then why don’t you become one if you want to? Uncle Valentine could help you.”
“I’m part Negro. It’s difficult enough for white women who want to become doctors.”
“You look white.”
“There is always someone who would find out. I don’t wish to put myself through that. So I teach. And I help your uncle in his laboratory, though it’s not supposed to be known.”
“Why?”
“Dr. Walker is the exception, not the rule. Women don’t help in laboratories in this country. We’re very behind Europe. Oh yes, your uncle has been summoned to the White House.”
“The White House?”
“Yes. The authorities want his advice. Likely about what to inject in Lincoln’s body so it holds up for the funeral. He knows about that. And he wants to see the head wound. He’s very interested in head wounds.”
“He says he knows nothing about them.”
“Not enough yet, no. But he will learn. He is doing some very important work in medicine. If you are going to live here, don’t pry.”
“I didn’t say I was going to live here.”
She gave my pillow a final pat. “You will.”
The powder was starting to work. Rain was pouring down outside. Even through the closed windows we could hear the shouts of the people in the streets. “Kill the damn Rebels! Kill the traitors!”
“I fear for Annie and Mrs. Mary,” I allowed.
“And what of this Johnny of yours?” She arched her brows at me.
“He isn’t mine,” I said sadly. “He never was mine. And he’s in Canada.”
“Change your clothing. I’ll bring some hot tea.”
I took off my wet clothing, toweled myself dry, and put on the dressing gown. It felt soft and comforting. My head was spinning from the powder.
Marietta brought up the tea. It was darkening now, so she lighted the gaslight. Then the bells started to ring, what seemed like dozens of them, from all over; deep and solemn, they rang, some from distances far across the city.
“The death bells for Lincoln,” she said, “and it’s about time, too. Your uncle said Secretary Stanton ordered them hours ago. Oh, that reminds me, if you hear anything, don’t be frightened.”
“Like what?”
“Sometimes Addie Bassett gets out of her room at night. She’s locked in days, because the medicine makes her woozy. Nights she’s allowed to walk around, though the rest of the house is locked. She’s harmless, so don’t worry.”
“She’s locked in days?”
“It’s for her own good.”
Of course, I thought. Like my being here is for my own good.
Marietta’s smile deepened. “It is for your own good,” she said. And before I could reply she was gone.
I drank my tea. I read a bit. I heard some noise outside and went to look out. Uncle Valentine’s carriage was just going out the gate. Merry Andrews secured the gate behind it, then leaped back up inside and they drove off. Would Uncle Valentine take Merry into the White House with him? A dwarf? Why not? Tom Thumb and his wife had been received by the Lincolns. Oh, the world had gone mad.
It was raining in gusts. I was glad for the warm fire in the grate, for the rain had chilled the room. I leaned back in the chair and listened to the steady tolling of the death bells. I must have closed my eyes and dozed.
Images flashed through my mind. Uncle Valentine telling me they were looking for Surratt and Booth. Johnny handing me that handkerchief with SUNDAY written on it. Uncle Valentine carrying me out of the house. Mrs. Mary saying how the police were asking entrance, searching, demanding answers. Me running through the backyards in my bare feet in the rain. The Negroes weeping in the street. Annie promising she’d stay in touch. Marietta saying “Don’t pry.” Inside me my feelings were all crossed, like cavalry sabers clashing. I struggled to wake from this sleep, which was more disturbed than restful. But I could not rouse myself.
Then something else roused me. “Little missy.” It was a whisper. “Little missy.”
I opened my eyes. An old hag of a nigra woman was bending over me. Her hair hung about her, gray and disheveled. She had two teeth missing in front. Her breath smelled like that of a hedgehog. I screamed.
She touched my arm lightly. “Hush, little missy. Please.”
I froze more than I hushed.
“My, you’re a pretty one. Did they just bring you in?”
“I just came, yes.”
“What ails you? The Wasting Disease? Like me? Oh no, I see the bandage on your foot. Do it hurt?”
“Yes, but I’ve taken a powder. It dulls the pain.”
“You cain’t be a prisoner. They doan keep prisoners here but on the third floor.”
“I’m visiting.” This must be Addie, then. I looked at her. Her clothing was clean, though her breathing seemed to be a difficult business. She took great breaths between sentences. Of course, that could be from her weight. She was very fat. And she smelled of some kind of medicine. “My uncle Valentine doesn’t keep prisoners,” I told her.
“Your uncle, is he? He be a good man. But I needs to get away. They keep me prisoner here. Locks me in my room days. And locks the house up nights. Would you help me get away?”
“You’re Addie Bassett.”
She took my measure with eyes so old they made me shiver. “What did they tell you of me, then?”
“That you’re sick, and he’s taking care of you.”
“Hmmph,” she said. Then she nodded. “Yes. He’s takin’ care o’ me. Like my old master’s son would care for birds with broken wings he catched. Those birds always wanna get away even if just to die free in the woods. I’m gonna die anyways. So I wanna die free.” Then she cocked her head and listened. “What are the bells for? What are people yelling in the streets?”
“The president had died.”
“Linkum?”
“Yes.”
A great cry of dismay escaped her throat. And she raised her arms to heaven. Tears rolled down her face like on the Negroes’ in the streets. She wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron. “Linkum, my Lord, Linkum.” Then she said something strange. “My fault,” she said.
“Your fault?”
She nodded. “He set me free. Gave me my freedom. A gift. Then I went an’ lost it. He musta heard ’bout that. Addie Bassett lost the gift he give her. Musta killed him, poor man.”
“No,” I said, “you didn’t kill him. Someone else did. He was shot. They’re looking, now, for the person who did it.”
“I did it. Me, an’ all my kind who take this gift from this man and wander in the streets an’ doan work an’ earn our keep. But wait fer the white man to lead us. I did it.” She sobbed and walked away from me, across the floorboards that creaked under her heavy weight. She stood looking out the window, wiping her eyes and quieting herself. Her great bulk cast a shadow across the room. “What do that mean? My freedom gone now?”
“No, your freedom isn’t gone. President Lincoln gave it to you for always.”
“I still gots it?”
“Yes.”
She turned, unbelieving. She held out her hands to me. “Then it’s more ’portant that I get outta here. Help me get outta here, please. I gotta use my freedom right.”
I shook my head, no. “I can’t do that. You’re sick.”
“I’se better now. As better as I ever be. Gonna die anyways. I jus’ wants a chance to do somethin’ wif this freedom Mr. Linkum give me, before I die. Please. I kin do things. I jus’ had a spell o’ bad luck. I wanna go out there an’ help my people.”
“How?”
“I was workin’ fer the Relief Society. I got sick. They found me in the streets and brought me here.”
“But you said you weren’t working and that’s why you killed President Lincoln.”
She bowed her head. “I wuz workin’, but I wuz drinkin’, too. I doan drink no more. Tha’s one 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.