Abby sat by her bedroom window, sheaf of papers in her lap, staring outside.
“What’s the problem?” Morton pulled his chair closer. “We waited all day to read what Silas wrote, and now you’re zoning out on me.”
“It’s a big deal. We know this belonged to him because the cut edges match the other part of the diary we found in the Bible. We’re about to discover the mystery of Silas and President Lincoln. We’re reading his diary in the house, maybe even the room, where he grew up.”
“That’s it?” Morton said.
Abby hesitated. “What if we read this and it turns out Silas did try to assassinate Lincoln? I don’t know if I want to know. It’s like a movie with a sad ending; I make up something happy and pretend that’s the real story. I already made up an ending for Silas that makes him a hero. I don’t want to find out he’s a villain after all.”
She stopped short of telling Morton that it had become more than solving a mystery. It had become vindication of the man she loved. Even if that love had no basis in reality or explanation. Could she love Silas if he was guilty of such a crime?
“Then I’ll read it.” Morton grabbed for the pages. “You can ask me what it’s about if you ever want to know.”
Abby held them out of reach. “Back off. I’ll read it.”
“I knew I could get you to do it.” Morton grinned. “That’s called reverse psychology.”
Abby rolled her eyes and focused on the diary pages.
“March 12, 1862
Terrible, terrible day! My heart is heavy, that I am witness to these events. I felt so proud when President Lincoln came in the garden. He stands tall, but stooped; more so after this day, I fear. I saluted. He shook my hand, and thanked me—me!—for serving the cause of freedom.
The noon hour being nigh, he bade me farewell soon after. A man jumped out from some bushes. I watched him point a gun at the president, and then heard a bang, so loud my ears was set to ringing. President Lincoln, he fell back unharmed, but the feller with the gun made to shoot agin. I give that evil-doer a shove the likes of which I never done before. People came a-runnin’ and all hell broke loose. Soldiers dragged me away before I cud see anything more. I pray President Lincoln lives.
Abby stopped reading. “I knew it. Silas didn’t do anything wrong. He is a hero.”
“Something’s not right.” Morton frowned. “There’s more to the story, if Leticia wrote he died ‘in shame.’
“He-did-not-do-it.” Abby emphasized each word. “Weren’t you listening? You want him to be the bad guy?”
“Abs, come on. History is history. You can’t change things that happened already, even if you want to. All you can do is figure them out.”
Abby thought about Silas. She knew in the depth of her heart that he had to be innocent. If only she could prove it. She picked up the next page of the diary.
“March 12, 1862
I am asked to serve my country. What shud I do? Ma, if you read these words, I pray you forgive me. I fear I must do what he asks.
The president himself talked to me. He is unharmed. He sez the feller with the gun is a Confederate spy, sneaked in from Canada to do harm to our cause. The Union Generals are afraid if word of this gets out, the Rebs in the South will get all fired up ’cause they came so close to killing our president.
This is the plan. Mr. Lincoln asked me to make a sacrifice for my country. I am to say I tried to kill him, so no one ever knows how close the Rebs come to making good on their threat. I have to go to prison, quiet-like, and wait a spell, like I’m waitin’ to get hanged. People will forgit what’s happenin’ and I kin go somewhere safe until the war is over. Then the newspapers will print the truth. I’ll be a real hero, Ma. You will be proud of your son.
So it don’t get out, you kin’t tell no one, except mebbe Priscilla, who knows what it is to keep a secret. Abigail’s constitution is not strong; shield her from this, even if you have to get Twones in on it. Be special careful to keep it from brother William. I wish Pa were still alive so you weren’t alone with this, but God will take care of us both.
I love you, Ma. I will write when I kin. Your loving son, Silas Munroe.”
Abby hugged the pages to her chest, drawing strength from the words written in Silas’s own hand. “It’s so not fair. And the date of his death on the tombstone is March 27, 1862. That’s only two weeks after he wrote the so-called confession. What happened to him?” A horrible thought struck her. “You don’t think they really did hang him, do you? I knew I shouldn’t read this. The answers only gave me more questions.”
Another thought popped into her mind. Silas couldn’t trust his brother; could she trust hers? The Confederate spy came from Canada. Jack came from Canada. Could he be some kind of a spy? Ridiculous. Right?
“I don’t know what happened,” Morton said. “I never heard about any of this, not in school, not on TV, not in books … nowhere. Sounds like you’re a lot tougher than the first Abigail, like we’ll ever know her identity.”
Abby experienced a twinge at thinking about an Abigail who had known Silas during his life. Friend? Girlfriend? She shook off what she refused to identify as jealousy for someone long dead. The mere thought of Silas hurting and in pain seemed like too much to consider. Would he tell her the rest of the story? Or would she never see him now that his innocence had been proven?
She shook her head. “Did they have conspiracies back then? Would the government really have silenced him once and for all? This sucks. And now we’ll never know what really happened. Leticia must have been so sad, not to just lose her son in the war, but to have this huge secret to keep.”
“I wonder what the deal is with his brother William,” Morton said. “It’s freaky that Silas fought for the North, and his brother sympathized with the South.”
“One more thing Leticia had to worry about.”
Crack.
Abby squealed. “That’s what I heard last night. Jack must be shooting the gun again.”
Morton laughed. “Abs, you need to chill. Someone’s setting off firecrackers, it happens every year at this time.”
“At this time?”
“Duh, Fourth of July’s coming up, remember? Fireworks at Point State Park, hot dogs, flags lining the streets, everyone wearing red, white, and blue.”
“That means Jack’s leaving soon.” Tears sprung to Abby’s eyes.
“Then I’ll be celebrating for sure. He’s scary.”
“Like you know anything.” Abby turned away. “Later, okay?”
“Yeah, well, he’s a moron, even if he is your brother. I’m glad I’m an only child.” Morton left Abby alone.
She looked out her side window at the barn. New shingles covered the roof, a dull matte black on top of the faded red barn wood siding. Jack did exactly what he said he would. But what about all the times he acted like a psycho? Were they really that bad? It had to do with his brother’s death. Just like she had been a bitch every time her dad’s passing came up.
Softer images came into Abby’s mind, superimposed over the hard-edged ones. Jack had been sensitive and caring, too, and Lisa trusted him. She wanted to love him, wanted to have no reservations about her own flesh and blood brother.
Abby envisioned his light blue eyes and strong, calloused hands. Moments, like images on the computer, flipped through her mind: Jack’s golden hair, shining like her own; tears of grief in his eyes; his hand ruffling her hair; Jack’s face buried on her shoulder; their shared sameness in Lisa.
As if emerging from her thoughts, she watched Jack walk to the barn, sweat glistening on his back; he reached up and wiped it off with his T-shirt. He seemed to sense her presence and turned to face the house. Squinting, he covered his eyes with one hand and looked directly at Abby with a smile and a small wave. She pressed one hand, palm-out, on the glass.
“Abigail.” Hands settled on her shoulders, warm, real hands. “Now you know.”
At that moment Abby experienced a connection with Silas so powerful she had to hold onto the window frame to keep from falling. The thought of ever saying good-bye to him sent tears down her cheeks. She turned to face him.
Aside from a slight wavering, Silas could be alive. He swept the hat from his head and pushed the hair out of his eyes. “Been a long time since I wooed a lady. I best clean up a bit, or you will be sending me to the woodshed.”
“I’m not sending you anywhere. Unless I can come with you.” Abby faltered. “Can you stay with me?”
“I don’t rightly know. But I am with you now.” He closed his eyes and leaned into Abby, pressing his soft mouth against hers.
She returned his kiss, as if she could hold onto him with her lips for a lifetime. His arms surrounded her, both solid and fluid at the same time, their movement enticing her to want even more.
Silas broke the contact. He looked full into her face. “Mr. Whitman said, ‘What is that you express in your eyes? It seems to me more than all the print I have read in my life.’”
“If my eyes are saying ‘I love you,’ then they’re telling you what I want you to know.” Abby hated to break the moment. But the need to understand overcame her reluctance. “How did you die? Who was Abigail?”
Silas nodded, solemn and still. “The first Abigail sure did love me, and I loved her. But she died because of me. As for the end of my story … ” He shrugged. “You’ll mebbe git that for yourself—or mebbe not. Does it matter?”
“Nothing matters. Except for you. Me. Us. We matter because in your death you’ve given me new life.”
Silas swept Abby into his arms. He floated across the room, carrying her to the bed and placing her very gently on it. His form settled next to hers, pressing in close. “You are my reward, Abigail. It ain’t a soldier thing to say, but you make my soul glad.”
“Tell me we can be together forever.”
Silas sighed. “Mr. Whitman says, ‘Happiness not in another place, but this place; not for another hour, but this hour.’”
A great sense of peace came over Abby, tempered with vibrations that seemed to move through every cell in her body. Silas became light and airy, melding with her as his essence surrounded her. Total well-being flowed through Abby’s veins, pulsating as every beat of Silas’s heart synced with hers. It left her sated and drowsy.
“Abigail. You are my one and only love. Forevermore.”
Abby awoke in her bed and reached for Silas. Her hand touched empty air. She expected to feel a sense of loss. Instead, hope infused her with purpose. “Silas? Come back to me when you can. Please. Come back to me.”
The answer she received, silence, did not surprise her.
“Abby, dinner.” Lisa called from downstairs.
With a deep sigh, Abby patted the rumpled quilt, got up, and looked in the mirror. Nothing had changed. Everything had changed. She and Silas had been happy together “this hour.” It had to be enough. For now.
She ran a brush through her hair and made her way to the kitchen, sliding into the chair across from her mother. “I’m not very hungry. We had Chinese for lunch.”
“Eat what you want,” Lisa said. “It’s just nice to have your company. We’ve both been so busy since we moved. I bought some used DVD’s for the guests, and there’s at least one you’d like. Let’s watch a movie later, after I run over to Mrs. Blank’s with some strawberries I picked up for her.”
“Sure. I have a couple things to do after dinner anyway.” She thought about Jack’s story about her dad’s hunting rifle. “Did Dad ever get a deer?”
“What do you mean, ‘get a deer?’ Your father didn’t hunt,” Lisa said. “At least not when I knew him.”
“Then why’d he have a hunting rifle?”
“As far as I know, he didn’t own any weapons. Even if he did have one, there’s no way he’d have kept it with you in the house. He was a stickler for safety first.”
“So you’re telling me Dad never owned a gun, and we didn’t bring one with us when we moved?”
“That’s right.” Lisa frowned. “Why?”
“Morton got into talking about hunting, and I thought Dad used to hunt, that’s all. I assumed he owned a rifle.” Abby felt the creeping fingers of distrust move up her spine.
“Well, no guns here. It’s not like we need one for self-defense, and I have no idea how to use one even if we did. Want some pie?”
“No thanks. I’ll clean up the kitchen while you’re out.”
Lisa raised her eyebrows, but merely said, “Thanks, honey. See you later.”
Abby leaned both hands against the sink, inhaling the lemony aroma of the dish detergent, an everyday fragrance as common as dinner. She hung her head. The memory of the sharp, metallic odor from behind the barn, and the smell of a fired gun, took its place
Jack had lied. He outright lied, again. She thought about lies. Silas lied to save his country, even at the cost of hurting his family. Why did Jack lie? Not to save the nation, that’s for sure; he didn’t even seem to like the United States. But there must be a reason, a good reason. And if she could discover what Silas lied about 150 years earlier, she could find out what Jack lied about today.