Peering through the downpour, Abby saw an old house across the street, weathered white wood with a slate roof. The sign in front read: Elizabeth Township Historical Society. She sprinted for the building, scanning the sign on her way past: Open Tuesday, Wednesday, Saturday 10:00 a.m. to 3:00 p.m. Research Librarian available.
The crumbling stepping stone path led to a front porch. Half of the area had been glassed in to display an old carriage. She leaned forward and rung out her soaked hair, making a dark, wet spot on the worn greenish-blue indoor-outdoor carpeting.
The Civil War tombstone from yesterday’s bike accident popped into her mind, and she checked her watch. Maybe they would have some information about the cemetery or the graves. Which might help make sense of the strange dream-soldier. For some unknown reason, he had invaded her heart, as crazy as it seemed.
A bell jingled when she entered the building, but no one appeared in response. Except for the ticking of an unseen clock, silence hung over the house. Period furniture filled the front room, along with mementos of bygone years. Abby looked up as she passed a curved oak staircase, loosely barred with an orange ribbon, and continued to a doorway on the left leading downstairs. She descended the tread-covered steps.
The walls of the stairwell were covered with vintage black and white photographs. One depicted several elderly men standing at attention, dressed in old military uniforms. Their caps sat askew on their heads, buttons straining over abdomens that must have seen slimmer days. They stared at the unseen photographer with blank, unblinking eyes. A small square of white paper taped to the wall identified them as Civil War veterans.
At the bottom of the steps, Abby glanced to the right and uttered a yelp. A skull sat on a shelf in front of her face, empty eye sockets staring. She took a step back, noting antique medical equipment in a glass case below the skull. A hand-lettered sign stated: Dr. Prescott, circa 1910.
She giggled. Did the equipment or the skull belong to good old Dr. Prescott?
Antique lanterns and a jumbled storage room yielded nothing of further interest, and she went back upstairs. A whiff of Estee Lauder Youth Dew perfume hovered at the top, reminding Abby of her grandmother.
A very short, gray-haired lady stepped out from a back room, exuding the fragrance. Thick-soled white sneakers, fastened with Velcro, squeaked as she walked. Rimless glasses sat lopsided on her well-powdered nose. She sneezed into a handkerchief embroidered with yellow daisies. A hand-made pink cardigan sweater, miss-buttoned, covered a pair of flowered slacks in garish hues. On her right wrist a silver charm bracelet clanged with every movement. Her tiny eyes darted this way and that. She reminded Abby of a scrawny, colorful bird.
She gave Abby a pleasant smile and tucked a lock of white hair behind her ear, setting off a screech from the hearing aid lodged there. “May I help you, dear? I’m Mrs. Thurman. I don’t believe you’ve been in before.”
“Hi. I’m waiting for my bike to be repaired and thought I’d check things out.”
“Feel free to look around in the display rooms. We have quite an assortment of local items, furniture, clothes and such. Just do be careful, dear.” Mrs. Thurman gazed around as if perplexed. “Oh yes, and of course we have over three thousand volumes dealing with local history in our library.”
Abby pulled her wallet from her backpack. “Do you charge a fee to help with research? And do you have time now? I’m interested in something specific, a local gravestone.”
Mrs. Thurman shook her head. “Oh my, I’m so sorry. Mr. Holcomb, our research librarian, retired. I can point you in the right direction and give you some general information, but after that, you’re on your own.”
Abby got oriented to the small room designated as the library, then Mrs. Thurman left her alone. It seemed very quiet after the squeaking shoes and clanging jewelry. High shelves lined the walls, stacked with books and periodicals in all shapes and sizes. Some were old and dusty, others more recent. The musty smell of aged paper permeated the space.
She leafed through copies of the “Western Pennsylvania Genealogical Society Quarterly,” Pennsylvania History Magazine, and a “Township Cemetery Listing of Graves,” scanning names of people long deceased and the location of their final resting places.
After searching through several other titles, Abby had to admit Morton had been right; no useful records on the old cemetery seemed to exist, just dry lists of little interest.
She stepped to the window to check the weather. The rain had stopped. A chocolate milkshake at Dairy Delicious would be perfect for an early lunch. Old tombstone research or ice cream—no contest.
On her way out of the reading room she spotted an orange plastic milk crate behind a partially closed closet door that read: Employees Only. She glanced around; no Mrs. Thurman. It would be easy enough to hear her coming. What could be so special that only employees had access in a small place like this one?
She opened the door, cringing as the hinges protested, and slid the crate forward. Only two books, but huge ones. The top volume turned out to be a dictionary, way out-of-date; she set it aside. A Bible rested below it. Abby heaved it out of the crate. She hauled it over to a table, dropping it with a thud; still no Mrs. Thurman. Maybe she blew a battery in her hearing aid.
The worn cover of the Bible felt like quilted leather, thick and padded, with the words Holy Bible and a dove embossed in gold. It closed with two tarnished brass hasps. Although it may have locked long ago, it popped open easily when Abby pressed the mechanism. She scanned the first page, an ornate, multi-colored scene of Bible figures.
The heading, in elaborate lettering, stated, “Pictorial Family Bible.”
The only personal information appeared in the form of a hand-written entry at the top of the next page, in spidery, faded ink: “Presented to Mrs. Leticia Jean Munroe on the occasion of the birth of her son Silas Jacob Munroe, June 9, in the year of our Lord 1843; Ladies’ Guild, Dravo Methodist Church.” A dried rose, pressed between the parchment pages, crumbled into powdery dust as Abby touched the fragile flower.
Gently she turned the pages, fascinated by the archaic language and drawings. Halfway through a handful of old photographs fell out. Faded prints—heads only—of people in old-fashioned clothing, gave no clue to their identity. An advertisement on the back of one stated, “Photographed by Harbaugh & Green, No. 43 Federal Street, Allegheny.”
In the center of the Bible she found pages for Marriages, Births, Deaths, & Memoranda; they were ripped, the entries missing. Closing the book, Abby noticed something sticking out at an odd angle. A folded piece of thin, yellowed paper protruded.
She extracted the document, opened it, and walked to the window to see it better. Pale gray cursive script crossed the paper in uneven lines.
“New Store, May 1862,” Abby whispered into the empty room. “Dear Daughter, Your parcel received last night and very much obliged to you. I am mush better this morning, as I have been for some time. I eat yesterday, some kind of beef tea, wich done me so much good. I have not so much pain at the stomagh, and I feel mush relieved. Hope is will continue. Know our Silas, rest in peace, sleeps with the angels after what he did for Mr. Lincoln. This gives me peace, mor than tea. Wish coud share with all, know secret must be kept. Greaves me, he lies in shame when shud be hero. Remember Gene III. William visits agin about Friday. Do not tell him nothing. My love to you all, Leticia Jean Munroe, your Mother.”
Abby became aware of her heart echoing in her ears as she rescanned the note. The name Silas seemed to jump off the page. Her finger traced the letters.
“Abigail …”
Abby whipped around; no one else seemed to be nearby. Clearly, her brain must be on overload because of … what? Whatever. She wished she’d paid more attention to her dad or to history class. Mr. Lincoln as in the Civil War president? What did this guy Silas do? How could she find out? Because—for some reason—she had the unshakable thought, I have to clear his name.
“I’m sorry, dear, but I’m closing up for lunch,” Mrs. Thurman said as she entered the room. She looked at the Bible, open on the table. “Now where did you find that old musty-dusty thing?”
Heat rose in Abby’s cheeks. “It just, um, I saw this milk crate and there were some books …”
“Of course.” Mrs. Thurman shook her head, sending her hot pink earrings into a spin. “Those are set for the antique store down the way. Our library has several other historic Bibles that are in excellent shape. We can’t keep everything you know.”
Abby hesitated. “Could I have it, if you don’t need it for the library?”
Mrs. Thurman’s stomach growled, loud and insistent. “Well now, I don’t think I can give it away to just anyone. It is already promised. You come back again and look at the other Bibles.” She shooed Abby out of the room and jingled away toward the foyer.
Abby took one last look at the Bible on the table. She reached out to return the letter to it, then stopped and slid it into her backpack instead. She hurried out the front door, waved at Mrs. Thurman, and left the building, hearing the click of the deadbolt behind her.
The pavement gleamed as the sun peeked out from behind a huge, dark cloud. Abby brushed past a laurel bush, creating a cascade of leftover raindrops that splashed onto her arm. She didn’t notice.
At Sweet Rides she paid for her bike at the counter and wheeled it out of the store.
Riding home, questions about the long-dead Munroe family and President Lincoln swirled like a tornado in her brain.
“I’ll find out what happened, Silas. You can count on me.” Abby’s words drifted away in the wind, as a new sense of purpose settled in her heart.