Assassin (7 page)

Reluctant to encourage my grandmother further in her ambitions concerning my becoming a dressmaker, I voiced the first real worry that came to my mind. “But
Mrs. Lincoln,” I protested, “you know how full of moods she is. Won’t she rage about me being there?”

Grandmother shook her head. “No, ’tis the strangest thing. Lizzie Keckley seems a pure magician with the woman. I’ve seen it myself, Mrs. Lincoln in a fit, screaming at us about some little thing. In comes Lizzie, she brushes Mrs. Lincoln’s hair or gets her a bouquet of flowers from the conservatory. First thing we know, Mrs. Lincoln is all gentle and sweet.” Grandmother took off her bonnet and hung it on the wooden rack beside the door. When she turned back to me, she smiled. “Don’t fret over Mrs. Lincoln. She’ll be glad enough to have you.”

Mrs. Keckley was usually in the White House at least every second day, but the schedule was uncertain. Often Mrs. Lincoln would decide she was wanted for something and send a coach to pick her up. I was to come each afternoon to help in the kitchen unless Mrs. Keckley was present with something she wanted to show me.

I remember so well that first day of instruction. I came to stand in the doorway, hunched and full of dread.

Mrs. Keckley bent over a buttonhole she was making. She wore a black dress with just a slight gathering of white lace at the throat. She was, I knew, in mourning for her son, who had been killed just last month in a battle in Missouri. “Doesn’t even have a grave to visit,” my grandmother had told me. “He’s buried alongside all the others, no names to mark them.”

It was my grandmother who noticed me. “Here’s Bella,” she said.

Mrs. Keckley looked up, her eyes sad but kind. She put down her work, came to take me by the hand, and drew me into the room. “I like teaching girls,” she told me. “Been doing so most of my life, slave and free. Last time was in Baltimore where I taught girls of my race to sew. I suspect I still know how to teach.” She pulled a chair for me to sit beside her.

After that first lesson, I was never shy with Mrs. Keckley again, and in fact became so comfortable that once when my grandmother was not in the room, I confided in her. I had sat beside her for several lessons by then, and when I conquered a difficult stitch, she said, “You’ll be an expert with a needle before you’re a woman grown.”

I dropped my eyes to study my hands. “Please don’t tell my grandmother.” I lowered my voice to a whisper. “The truth is, I have no wish to be a dressmaker.” I thought suddenly that such a statement might be something of an insult to her and her efforts. “I mean,” I added quickly, “it’s a fine employment, I’m sure. It must be splendid to make dresses for such grand ladies as Mrs. Lincoln.” I shrugged my shoulders. “It is just that since I was but small, I’ve dreamed of being on the stage.”

“Oh, the theater, is it?” She did not speak in such a way as to make me feel ridiculous by indicating her belief that I could never have such a profession. She smiled.
“Well, let’s just go on with the lessons, shall we? A body never knows what lies ahead, and dressmaking is a skill that comes in handy in a woman’s life. Why, you might want to make costumes for yourself, or for that matter might gain entrance to the theater through making costumes for others.”

From that moment on, I became a dedicated student, bringing with me each time a small notebook where I recorded steps just as Mrs. Keckley told them to me. Sometimes, too, I would make simple drawings to help me understand. I was sitting on the back stairs one day waiting for my grandmother and studying my notebook when Willie Lincoln came bounding down the stairs.

He stopped when he saw me. “Bella,” he said, and he smiled at me, just a little. He stood beside me, wanting, I thought, to sit down, but like me feeling shy without Steven with us. He paused for a minute, then said, “I’ve not seen you lately.”

“I’ve been busy,” I told him, “learning how to sew from your mother’s dressmaker.”

Willie smiled again, this time more fully and in a natural way. He moved his hand from the rail and lowered himself to sit beside me. “What’s in your notebook?”

I noticed then that he too had a notebook. “Mine has notes from my sewing lesson,” I told him. “What’s in yours?”

“Mine has my poems in it,” he said.

“Poems you liked from your lessons?” I asked.

He shook his head and looked down shyly. “Poems I have written,” he said. He studied my face for a minute and decided to risk a question. “Would you like to see the one I’m going to send to the newspaper? It’s about the death of Father’s friend, Colonel Edward Baker. He got killed in battle.”

“I would,” I told him. He opened his notebook and pushed it toward me. I do not remember much about the poem, although I was impressed with it. I do remember one line that I read aloud. “His voice is silent in the hall.”

“It’s because he is dead,” Willie explained. “He can’t talk anymore. Father cried when he heard the news.”

“My father is in the war too,” I told him. “I don’t live with him, but I got a letter from him yesterday that told me he had joined.” I did not tell him that my father fought for the other side.

“How old are you?” he asked.

“Eleven. I just had my birthday.”

“I’ll be eleven in two months, just before Christmas,” he said.

“Steven is twelve. He’s gone off to school, you know.”

Willie nodded. “We could still be friends, though,” he said. “I mean, even without Steven.” He laughed a little. “Maybe someday I will write a poem just for you.”

“And maybe someday, I will stitch a handkerchief for you.”

“Make it blue, if you do,” he said. “Blue is my favorite color because it’s the color of our uniforms.”

Almost every day that fall, Willie would be waiting for me on the stairs after my lesson with Mrs. Keckley. “I watch for you,” he told me, “and when I know you are here, I hurry to finish my studies early.”

Some days we played marbles. Some days we just talked. Willie told me he worried about his father. “I’m awful afraid someone will hurt him,” he said. “Mama says he should be more careful, but he says what will be will be.” Willie shrugged. “Sometimes I wish we had never come to Washington City.”

“Oh,” I said, “but the country needs your father.”

He nodded his head and tried to smile. “I know,” he said softly. “Besides, if we hadn’t come here, I would never have had you for a friend.” Walking home that evening, I, too, worried that harm might come to Mr. Lincoln.

“I talk to Willie Lincoln almost every day,” I wrote to Steven. “Of course, he could never be my very best friend, like you are, but he is awful nice. He sure does worry about his father.”

I had forgotten all about the poem and handkerchief agreement, but Willie hadn’t. One cold day in early February he seemed a little quiet when I first joined him. After a few minutes, he said, “I wrote a poem for you, but you might think it is foolish.”

“I won’t.” I shook my head. “I’m sure it is good. Let me see.”

“I’ll read it,” he said, and he took a paper from his pocket.

When this big house gets sad
,

Bella makes it not so bad
.

I always wait for her on the stairs
.

And when I’m afraid, she cares
.

She is pretty and very sweet
,

Being her friend is a real treat
.

Grandmother started down the stairs toward us then. “It’s awful nice,” I whispered. Embarrassed, I jumped up and hurried toward the backdoor.

“When are you going to make that blue handkerchief for me?” he called after me. Too shy to answer, I just waved my hand at him as I opened the backdoor. The next day Mrs. Keckley told me during my lesson that Willie had developed a fever during the night. “It came on terrible sudden,” she said with a sigh. “I’m worried about the child.”

A big party had been planned the next day, so there were no lessons. My grandmother, when she finally came home that evening, told me that Willie was worse. “They say he is burning with fever,” she said. “Mrs. Lincoln thought to cancel the party, but they decided to go on with it. She was at his bedside often, though, the mister, too. They do dote on that child.”

I was sitting beside the fire, but a cold feeling passed through my body. I pulled my shawl closer. “How bad is he?” I asked, and I knew my voice sounded shaky.

My grandmother came over to touch my cheek.
“You’ve no fever, have you child?” I shook my head. “Don’t fret, Bella, girl,” she said. “The boy is the son of the president. No expense will be spared. He’ll have doctors and medicine aplenty.”

I could not eat my supper that night, wanted only to sit beside the fire in an effort to warm away the fear I felt inside. My mother, I was sure, had not wanted for doctors nor for medicine aplenty.

There were no lessons at the White House now. Day after day, Grandmother came home to say Willie had not improved. I wished mightily for blue material to make him a handkerchief. I knew of one piece of blue cloth in the house. In the corner of our tiny cottage sat an old chifforobe that held our meager supply of clothing. Inside, I knew, was my greatest joy, the Sunday dress that my grandmother had recently made for me. It was exactly the right shade of blue. I had worn the dress twice.

Probably if I had told my grandmother how desperately I wanted a piece of bright blue cloth, she would have gotten me one. Never able to talk of the things that meant most to me, I was loath to try to explain. On the fourth day, I could fight the urge no longer. I took the dress from its hanger, caressed the folds of the skirt, carried it to the table, measured, as I had been taught, and cut a large square. I took careful, even stitches to put in the hem. Finishing just before my grandmother was expected, I held it up to admire. Even Mrs. Keckley would say it was well done.

I had no notion of what I would tell my grandmother about the dress or how I would get the gift to Willie. No sewing was being done in the White House. Mrs. Keckley nursed Willie and tried to keep Mrs. Lincoln calm.

When Grandmother did come home that evening, she had news. Tad too was ill. “The little one is no ways as bad as his brother,” she said. “Their mother’s a wreck, poor thing, but it’s Mr. Lincoln as breaks my heart. Oh, the look on that man’s face when he comes out of that room.” She shook her head. “And him with the weight of this terrible war to boot.”

The next day I folded the handkerchief into a small square and put it into my coat pocket. I would, I had decided, take it to the White House. The guard, of course, did not stop me, and I saw no one else as I entered the backdoor and climbed the stairs. On the second floor, the door to Mr. Lincoln’s personal office was open. I stopped to look in.

The floor had a dark green carpet. I could see spots of dark green wallpaper too, but mostly the walls were covered with war maps and drawings. Newspapers were stacked on the desk and tables, along with great stacks of mail. Mr. Lincoln sat at the desk, his back to me. He seemed to be staring out the window before him.

I pulled in a great breath and tiptoed into the room to stand beside him. I thought he would turn toward me, but he did not. I waited, but his eyes never left the window. I
thought of leaving as quietly as I had come in, but I wanted mightily to give that handkerchief to Willie.

Finally, I put out my hand and touched the top of his long, suit-covered arm. “Mr. President, sir,” I whispered softly.

He did not start, did not seem startled at all, but only turned to look at me, a sort of glazed expression in his soft gray eyes. “You’re Mistress Cora’s granddaughter,” he said, and I nodded. “Our Willie’s sick, but I suspect you knew that.” I nodded again. “Tad too, but the doctor says Tad will mend. Willie, though . . .”

I took the blue material from my pocket, and I held out my hand with it lying flat against my palm. “It’s a handkerchief,” I said. “I made it special for Willie.” Tears were coming up from my chest, and I could hear them in my voice. “He told me he was partial to blue, like the soldiers’ uniforms.”

“Why, thank you for making it,” he said, and taking the handkerchief, he held it up to the light from the window. “You’ve done fine work. I’ll see that Willie gets this.”

He laid the cloth on his desk, swiveled in his chair, and put his arms around me. I could feel the sorrow pouring out of his heart, coming through his white shirt and black coat. I could feel the sorrow filling up the room and spilling over into the hall, but when he released me, I looked into his eyes and saw that heartbreak was still there too.

I said nothing more, just turned and moved quickly back into the hall. I never told my grandmother about cutting my Sunday dress. Probably Mrs. Keckley told her about the handkerchief. Maybe she even showed the piece to Grandmother. At any rate, a few days later I was surprised to see that my dress had been remade. The frayed skirt had been removed from the bright blue bodice, and a new skirt of a darker blue attached.

Willie died on February 20. My grandmother came home that evening very tired, her face all drawn with pain. “They say the president said, ‘My poor boy. He was too good for this earth, but we loved him so. This is hard, hard.’ Then he broke down and cried. I heard him from out in the hall. That great, huge man, broken like a baby.” She wiped at her eyes.

The next night after we were in our beds, she asked, “Do you want to see him, child? They’ve laid him out in the Green Room in a white coffin, and him dressed in a fancy suit. The help all viewed him today, but I can take you tomorrow if you want to go.”

I pulled the blanket up to my chin. My first impulse was to say no. I had found no comfort in looking at my mother’s white face and closed eyes. I was about to say so when I changed my mind. I could not say why, but I did want to see Willie Lincoln.

My grandmother had said “the green room,” and I supposed she meant the president’s office, where I had seen the green carpet and green wallpaper. I imagined the
white coffin there, surrounded by maps and stacks of newspapers. I wondered if the president would sit at his desk as mourners filed by.

I was wrong. The Green Room was a big parlor on the first floor, with velvet drapes and dark wooden furniture polished to a shine. The coffin stood in the middle of the floor. I dropped Grandmother’s hand when we entered the door and moved to stand beside him.