Abby blinked. Silas tried to kill President Lincoln? He wrote the confession himself. She re-read the page, twice. Nothing changed.
Morton’s mouth hung open. A speck of orange candy clung to his lip.
“It makes no sense, none whatsoever.” Abby shook her head back and forth. “I’m no history geek, but my dad told me all about the Civil War. The only assassination attempt on Lincoln’s life came a lot later, by John Wilkes Booth at some theater.”
“It happened on April 14, 1865,” Morton said. “At the Ford Theater.”
“How can you remember that?”
“I don’t know. It happened on Good Friday, right before Easter. I’m better at history than sports.” Morton patted his stomach.
“But what about Silas? You read what he wrote right before this. On the same day he’s supposed to have tried to kill him, he called President Lincoln ‘a great man.’ He admired him, so why would he try to assassinate him?” She leafed through several more blank pages at the end of the notebook, then went back and scanned each page again. “Look at this. Right along the binding, close to the center, some pages have been removed.”
Morton examined it. “Someone took a razor blade and did surgery on it.”
Abby nodded. “Exactly. Leticia must have removed important information. But if she protected this and hid it, and it tells about her son’s shame, why remove the part that must tell the reason he’s a hero?”
“I don’t know.” Morton scratched his head. “Like I said when you showed me her letter the first time, he’s her kid; no matter what he did he must have been a hero to her. Maybe she wrote that to make a bad situation look better, you know, to spare the family from what Silas really did. Isn’t it time to eat? I’m starving.”
Abby ignored him. “Must I always state the obvious? Leticia loved Silas, she loved him a lot. Why would she remove a section of his diary that tells the world good things about him and leave in his confession? That doesn’t make any sense. What about those Bible passages she underlined? It seemed to say someone else tried to kill the president and Silas was the one who saved him.” Abby thought for a minute, concentrating on all the facts swirling through her mind.
“Remember the tombstone at Dravo Cemetery? Silas died on March 27, 1862. That’s only two weeks after he wrote about trying to kill President Lincoln. It’s too convenient. There’s more to this, I know it. Remember, Leticia also wrote about keeping a secret and not telling William, whoever that is. And she said Silas rests in peace; who would rest in peace after trying to kill the president?”
“Abs, chill,” Morton said. “The Bible stuff is your opinion. Who knows? Maybe Leticia underlined things she liked that don’t mean anything. Your imagination can be scary. And you sound like a conspiracy theory freak. Didn’t you ever hear about KISS?”
“If you think I’m going to kiss you, you’re crazy.” Abby put her finger down her throat and produced a fake gag.
Morton puckered up his lips and smacked them together. “No, it means Keep It Simple Stupid. Anyway, Silas probably wrote about his trial, and then maybe they put him in jail or hung him, and he couldn’t write anymore. His mother might have destroyed it to protect his memory. That’s the big secret she didn’t want anyone to know. Since he didn’t succeed with the assassination, it’s one of those footnotes to history. Stay up late some night, and you’ll hear about it on The History Channel.”
“But still, why save his confession? Why not destroy that, too?” Abby thought her head might explode. “Maybe she saved that part because it has his signature, the last time he ever wrote his name. And she hid it because of the awful thing he tried to do. Maybe you’re right; he was a hero to her because she loved him. It still doesn’t make sense to me, but I guess not everything in life makes sense.”
“Great. I’m going home to help my mom make dinner. Later.” Morton clattered down the steps. The faint slam of the screen door moments later left the house silent.
Abby closed the diary, put it back inside the Bible cover, and shoved the book under her bed. She yawned and plopped on the quilt, arms and legs limp and splayed out. Instead of making things right, she found more problems. And Silas hadn’t shown up to explain anything.
Sighing, she dragged her weary body off the bed and down the steps. Wandering onto the front porch, she sunk into the soft cotton cushions of the big wicker rocking chair. The peaceful view usually relaxed her. Spring flowers had given way to summer blooms, and the heady scent of roses wafted through the air. She inhaled the aroma, like comfort food for the nose.
A couple rode past on the bike trail, laughing; they waved, and Abby waved back.
“Sure, why not have fun? Just because my life sucks doesn’t mean everyone’s does. Great, now I’m talking to myself.”
She couldn’t shake the sluggishness that had captured her since reading Silas’s confession. Clearing his name had given her a goal. The burgeoning love growing within her now seemed to be for a murderer. It couldn’t possibly be true. How could someone, who had been as gentle and tender with her as Silas had been, commit such a violent act? Would she have to give him up, like everyone else she had loved? Could she? Surely he’d explain everything the next time he came to her …
Abby jumped as something brushed against her leg. She relaxed at the touch of soft fur against her bare skin. “Hey, Kitty, how’s my girl?” Kitty wound around and around Abby’s ankle, whiskers tickling. Abby picked her up, stroking her back until she settled, purring, draped over the arm of the rocker and Abby’s lap.
“Where have you been? Chasing those nasty little mice? You might be small, but you’re mighty. I’ll bet every rodent between here and McKeesport is afraid of you.”
The combination of rocking, a gentle breeze off the river, and Kitty’s warm presence lulled Abby from pensive to sleepy. Her head settled against the back of the chair, and her soft snores soon ruffled the fur on Kitty’s back.
As her sleep deepened, she watched Silas float through the gate, up the path, and onto the porch, as if carried along on the wind. He still wore the tattered, dark blue uniform, and this time he carried an old rifle. His dark hair almost covered one eye, and his dimple pierced his cheek.
“Abigail.” His muffled voice echoed.
“Am I dreaming? Or are you really here with me?”
“You sure are dreaming,” Silas answered. “But I am real.”
For some reason this made perfect sense to Abby. “Did you do it? Did you try to kill President Lincoln?”
Silas saluted. “I ain’t allowed to speak about it. Trust me. Trust my love.”
Abby peered at him. “I don’t believe you did anything wrong. But I need your help to prove it.”
Silas smiled a sad, lop-sided grin. “But I need you.”
Now that he came to her often, Abby studied him closer than before as he hovered in front of her several inches off the plank floor. He had pale cheeks, sideburns, and sad eyes, smoky-green like a forest plant growing in the shade. A sparse growth of whiskers and wisp of a mustache barely covered his handsome face. Dark brown curls extended below his cap. He wore no boots; his toes peeked through the layer of old rags wrapped around his feet.
“Where are your shoes?”
“They wore out. I don’t need ’em now.”
“It’s all so confusing. Your grave is at Dravo cemetery. I read your diary. But I also touched your hand. I kissed you. And …” Abby stopped, embarrassed to continue.
“You kin tell me.”
Her voice came out in whispered confession. “And I love you, Silas. Even though it makes no sense. But I know it’s true, more than anything I’ve ever known in my life.”
Silas nodded and removed his cap; his hair floated around his face like a cloud. “Kin I tell you the truth, Abigail? Will you keep my secret?”
“Yes. I promise, and I always keep my promises. At least I always kept them to my dad. But he’s dead, too.” An ache seeped through her body, starting in her toes and traveling through her bloodstream up her legs, into her heart. The grief lodged there, pulsating with a life of its own. The unpleasant tingle of it hurt.
“Don’t be sad.” Silas knelt in front of her chair. “Your pa, he will always love you, and he’s at peace. Give your sorrow to me.” He reached forward and passed his hand in front of her eyes, ragged fingernails turned so close to her face she saw each particle of dirt embedded around the cuticles.
Abby shook her head, a slow-motion effort. “No. Sadness is the only thing I have left of my dad. You can’t take it away. I need it. I need him.”
Silas smiled. “You only think you need to be unhappy. I kin take your burden for a little while, then I’ll give it back if you want it.”
Abby exhaled. A black mist came from her mouth.
Silas caught it in his hand and flung it into the current of air, blowing it away with his white-tinged breath. Then he rested his head on her lap.
The blackness drifted into the trees and disappeared in the orange glow of sunset.
“I feel so light.” Abby stroked his hair. “What can I do for you, to show you how much you mean to me?”
“I want you to know my secret—and share my burden.”
“I’ll help you.” Abby smoothed the hair back from his face, leaned down, and kissed his temple. “Did you do it, did you try to kill President Lincoln? Please tell me you’re innocent.”
“Words are but lines writ on parchment, here today, gone tomorrow. Believe in me, Abigail. Believe in yourself. Believe in us. That’s the secret.”
“But that doesn’t tell me anything. Help me. What should I do?”
“Abigail … my love.” Silas drifted off the porch, following the smoke of Abby’s despair into the sky.