Obscure Reflections of the Interior

She was rushing against time and the clock was ticking fast revealing that it was already four thirty. Usually the parks department personnel quit at five sharp. She had covered the whiskey laced S’mores with tin foil and proceeded to the footbridge that arched across the Prospect Expressway and opened up near the Kensington horse stables on Caton Place. It had been an early spring and the trees were full and green. The cherry blossoms had already burst with their fluffy pink blossoms and spread a carpet of velvety rose on the ground. Ashley moved cautiously down the empty street once again. On a beautiful warm spring day she thought it odd that no one was out making their way to the park or just enjoying the sunshine. She continued down Caton Avenue along the Parade grounds. It began to grow populated again with kids playing soccer and peewee baseball. She moved along to the corner of Marlborough Street where a pretzel wagon was positioned to sell salty dough to game attendees along with endless supplies of bottled water. As she peered down the alleyway to the stunning columned house she saw a parks department person crossing the yard.

“Excuse me?” Ashley queried. The man stopped. “Is the house still open?” He looked at her strangely and replied in Spanish shaking his head.

“Gracias.” She said in her drawl even though she did not understand a word he uttered. He moved quickly out of sight to a green pick-up and drove away. She mounted the front porch and knocked on the great door. There was no answer. She tried the brass knob and it was locked. Ashley was determined to get inside and so she walked around to the side of the house just like the nosey neighbors in North Carolina might do. She spied the woodpile that looked as though it had been picked through by vagabonds. Then she rounded the corner to the back of the house where she found muddy tracks leading from the backdoor. It was a path well worn. She knocked and waited and to her delight she saw the woman dressed in the same dark wool Victorian outfit. She wore a look of concern as she slowly opened the door.

“Heeey.” Ashley said. “I brought you some cookies---I—I made ‘em myself. I hope you don’t think it forward of me.”

The woman smiled a little and was truly taken by Ashley’s generosity. She waved her inside. As Ashley entered she took in the old kitchen with its cast iron stove, spice racks and huge pantry.

“I didn’t catch your name the last time I was here.” Ashley said as the woman surveyed the sweets.

“Victoria.” The woman replied as they sat down in the parlor. There was a small fire in the fireplace that Ashley thought was very strange. She did not see smoke issuing from the chimney when she walked up and it was May and the weather was warmish with no need to build a fire.

“It is a true rarity to find a working fireplace in New York City these days.” Ashley offered and she realized that the room was a bit warm and the s’mores might very well melt.

“The house has been very cold of late.” Victoria said enigmatically. It made sense somehow. It was an old Victorian structure and dense. It probably held the chill left over from winter. Sometimes the brownstone where Ashley lived would be cold inside when the outside air was warm.

“Soooo…How are you doing?” Ashley asked cheerfully. Victoria demurely bit into a corner of the s’more and her face lit up.

“These are delectable.” She purred.

“Oh, that makes me so happy. You know I make ‘em with a secret ingredient.” And she winked which had become her signature habit. Victoria reacted to the wink with a coy questioning smile.

“It’s my Grama’s recipe from Cherokee County. I wanted to cheer you up since you seemed so…I don’t know...forlorn, I guess is the word.” Victoria looked down and remained silent for a moment. “I don’t mean to be a busybody---it’s just that I was concerned for you.” Ashley added and she reached out to touch Victoria’s arm. A tingling rush coursed through her as she made contact and Ashley felt strangely comfortable, even sensual in the platonic sense.

“I am so grateful for your company and your lovely gift.” Victoria said and she shifted in her chair for a moment. She was so earnest it was heart-warming. And Ashley felt as if she was engaged in something exquisitely intense and numinous.

“Oh my goodness. Are you expecting?” Ashley exclaimed. Then she blushed at being forward once again but for some reason she couldn’t help herself. Victoria’s hands moved to the slight baby bump in her thick wool dress and a heartfelt smile bloomed across her face.

“Aren’t you hot in that costume?” Ashley asked. Victoria shook her head ‘no’ and then reached for Ashley’s hand. Once again a zing of an almost electric nature shot through her body and Ashley felt as if she were on a ship riding the waves of a vast ocean. Her heart grew warm and she held fast as Victoria led her up to the second floor landing where the statue of Tammany stood. The visage of the old Indian took Ashley’s breath away. She walked up to it and touched the finely hewn wood. It was dried out from years of radiator heat and fireplace soot. His regal face reminded her of all her ancestors birthed for generations in the great Smokey Mountains.

“Amazing.” Ashley murmured and she felt the intense desire to own the statue somehow. “Who is it?” She asked.

“Tammany.” Victoria replied. “My husband found him.”

“This should be in a museum---It should be at the American Indian Museum in the old custom house downtown.” Ashley sputtered. “Does your husband work for the parks?”

Victoria shook her head ‘no’.

“He’s ill.” She replied almost whispering and the forlorn look washed across her face again.

“I’m so sorry.” Ashley said and the thought of cancer or some other debilitating condition like ALS or Parkinson’s flashed across her mind. She stepped close to Victoria. “Will he recover?”

“I don’t know.” Victoria said and she turned to make her way back downstairs. Then she stopped suddenly on the staircase and gazed up at Ashley. Her piercing eyes seemed to cut straight through to Ashley’s soul and a small epiphany seemed to move across Victoria’s face like a subtle shadow or a change in the color of light. There was an ineffable knowing.

“If he does not…Then the Indian is yours.” And she turned and quickly made her way back into the kitchen. Ashley followed and watched as Victoria put the box of s’mores safely away in the large pantry.

“The Indian is mine?” She echoed astounded. Victoria nodded again in agreement and Ashley was unsure how to feel about it all.

“Well. It’s five. I guess you have to close up now.” Ashley said awkwardly and she moved through the kitchen and towards the back door. Victoria turned and stepped quickly towards the exit. “You’ll come back?” She asked concerned.

“Sure.” Ashley purred. “I’ll come back.”

“I only have Michelangelo to keep me company at the moment.” Victoria added and then she bent down to collect an old wooden bucket. Who was Michelangelo? Ashley thought and then she assumed maybe she had a coffee table book of the great Buonarroti’s paintings to keep her occupied.

“I’ll drop by again sometime.” Ashley added and by this time she was in the yard. She passed the old green truck and a different grounds man jumped out and approached her.

“Excuse me.” He said. Ashley stopped. “What were you doing in that house?”

“I was talking to the museum lady, Victoria.” She said and she started walking.

“This is condemned property. You can’t just wander around in there.” He explained. “And if there are any squatters there that you’re feeding they will be run out.”

“What?” Ashley said stunned.

“Structurally unsound. Didn’t you see the tape? And the fence? And the rats? Don’t let me catch you going in there again.” He said with a reprimanding tone.

“What are you going to do? Arrest me?” She said defiantly. “Get over yourself.” And she walked away leaving the guy hang-jawed. It couldn’t possibly be condemned, she thought. Surely the guy was trying to mess with her. She would find out from Victoria herself what the truth was. For now she had to hustle back home and change for dinner.

“I shall fetch the undertaker, Mr. Watkins.” Miriam said and Henry seemed concerned. “Don’t look so worried. The snow has stopped and poor Nell has been stuck in the cellar for nigh on two days. I must do my best to maintain some sort of propriety concerning her funeral.” She continued as she wrapped herself up in her wool cape and thick black hat.

“If you insist.” He murmured. “I do wish you would take one of the Irishmen with you.”

“Nonsense.” She replied. “Mr. Riedleman is only three streets away and I will feel better knowing that preparations are underway.”

“As you see fit.” Henry replied. And she moved out into the frosty cold. It bit her cheeks and nose and she could see her breath. It was so cold she thought her breath might freeze in mid-air. The Irishmen had shoveled a narrow path out to Grove Street and down to the corner. However, the snow was six feet deep and she moved through white canyons that at times turned into crevasses. Because everything was white and she could not see above the snowline her perspective and navigation became incredibly difficult. The unlucky few who ventured out on this day found that the snow paths only allowed for the breadth of one person. Squeezing by another passing in the opposite direction became a challenge. Miriam had planned to see the undertaker and then from there inquire as to the condition of the trains running to Brooklyn. Her desire to find Victoria grew with each step and yet with each block she became increasingly aware of the danger and risk involved in such an attempt. Perhaps it was folly. She moved to Christopher Street and towards the river. She could feel the biting wind coming off the water but she could not see it. As she neared the brownstone she realized the signs were buried and the first floor of the houses were under snow. It had been some time since she had visited Mr. Riedelman and so her memory of the outside of his business escaped her. It seemed her adventure would be fruitless. Suddenly a man in black attempted to emerge from his building. With great difficulty he began digging and looked like a badger as he flung snow high up into the air. Mrs. Hopkins approached the gentleman as he rested between furious bouts of shoveling.

“Mr. Riedelman?” She said loud and clear.

“Yes?” The man answered.

“It’s Mrs. Hopkins from the Thornton house. May I be of some assistance?” She said.

“Give me a moment and I vill be free of dees white chains.” He said and his accent was definitely German. Mrs. Hopkins waited patiently until she could see the undertakers face in the shadow of his own doorway. He crawled out into the pathway like a crab skittering towards freedom. “Vell now dat is betta.” He added as he brushed the snow from his wool suit and overcoat. He tamed his wiry gray hair and stuffed it under his top hat that was encircled with a black sash that flowed down the back, a sign of constant mourning.

“Vot can I do for you?” He said sweetly.

“One of our servants unfortunately succumbed to the storm.” Mrs. Hopkins began.

“Let us valk now.” Mr. Riedelman said and he offered his arm as support. However she actually had to walk behind him thru the narrow frosted corridors.

“Nell, our newest girl died two days ago. She’s in the cellar.” She continued.

“Irish I am supposing.” He said softly.

“Yes.” Miriam answered.

“Ve’ll need a priest. I shall arrange it. Take me to her please.” He requested and they walked the three streets back to the Grove Street house.

Richard followed Chelsea as she made her way downtown. He found walking through the city fascinating. People talking into small black box type things and not interacting at all with one another. Everyone seemed to be floating in their own little bubble. Private conversations were being made public on every street and corner and then he studied people who seemed to be mashing buttons on these small devices as they walked heads down and oblivious to the natural world. It seemed a shame that on such a beautiful day people were being distracted with these boxes. Gazing down and not up---up to the sky---up to the person before you---up to the forces of inspiration. These odd contraptions sucked in a large portion of their souls. The majority were husks floating in the wind, their lights half dimmed by not being present. He watched his wife as she did the same. It was bizarre behavior having a series of different conversations with an object placed at her ear. And when he noticed her heart light it was not running at its full intensity. She had become removed in a way. As he strolled down Sixth Avenue several paces behind his wife he was well aware that people were stopping and staring at him even as they talked on their devices. After a while he decided to indulge a few and tip his top hat as he walked by and bid the surprised individual a good day. It was fun. It reminded him of his days when he used to be an actor in the East End streets. Then when one man screamed, “Fucking Freak!” Richard had to contain himself and let it roll off. He could certainly have engaged in a fight, but he did not want to lose sight of her so he kept on going. Chelsea stopped in front of a store and continued talking on her cell phone. Richard stepped around and thought perhaps she might finally recognize him. But she kept her head down through most of the conversation. When she did look up she seemed to look right past him. So he decided to into the store. It was an upscale pet boutique and the salesman was a bit unnerved by Richard’s appearance.

“Yes, sir, How can I help you?” The salesman said.

“I’m simply browsing.” Richard replied and he gazed out through the plate glass window.

“Are you looking for anything in particular? Dog accoutrements? Or perhaps you have a cat?” The salesman continued.

“Would you mind too much if I asked you to get my wife’s attention. She’s just outside talking on that ‘thing’.” Richard requested.

“Certainly.” The salesman said smiling and he walked over to the window and tapped gently. After a moment Chelsea turned and she dropped her cell phone.

“Well done sir!” Richard said and he stepped into full view in the window.

Chelsea retrieved her phone quickly, “Hello? Hello?” She said but the call had been disconnected. She stood there for what seemed a few minutes staring at Richard who smiled kindly at her through the glass. She wasn’t sure how to feel. He had to be a ghost or something, but her heart swelled and she felt as though she were being reunited with a love from long ago. She wanted to cry but no tears came forth. She was concerned that maybe her imagination had over run her normally grounded mind.

“God, I hope I’m not going crazy.” She murmured to herself and Richard immediately shook his head ‘no’ from inside the store. Then as she gathered her wits she moved into the store to see him clearly.

“Good afternoon, ma’am. Can I help you?” The salesman asked cheerfully.

“Um. In a minute.” Chelsea replied distracted and fixated on Richard.

“I told you I’d get better.” Richard said enigmatically. And as he reached out to take her hand Chelsea was seized by a tide of emotions and her body felt as if it vibrated and hummed. She was ecstatically joyful as if her most fervent private wish had been fulfilled and yet she was not aware of what that wish had been.

“Cat or dog, Miss?” The salesman said growing a little more assertive. Chelsea turned and replied, “Neither.”

“Then I’m sorry. I can’t help you.” The salesman answered and turned on his heel with an attitude. Just then Chelsea realized she was alone in the pet store her hand outstretched as if in an imaginary grasp. The electric hum she had experienced had faded and she looked around as other customers tried not to stare.

“Did you just see a man in here in a frock coat and top hat?” Chelsea asked a middle-aged woman. The woman shook her head ‘no’ and quickly shuffled by. Then an older gentleman stepped up.

“Yes. I saw a gentleman in Victorian garb in here. He’s obviously part of some small theatre troupe doing Dickens or Shaw somewhere. Odd to do Dickens in the Spring, though.” He added.

“Thank you.” Chelsea said and she walked outside to see where Richard had gone.

“You’re not supposed to do that! It’s unnatural.” Nell chided as she walked up alongside Richard.

“I don’t like your tone.” Richard said gruffly.

“It is against the laws of nature.” She repeated vehemently. “You’re not supposed to be here! Victoria is waiting for you in Brooklyn. You need to go home!” She said angrily.

“Nell. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you speak like this before. What is the matter, lass?” He said and his demeanor changed to that of a loving father figure.

“I’m cold. And I just want to go to sleep. And company is coming.” She said and she began to grow upset.

“There, there, now. I’ll make sure you get home.” Richard cooed. And they began walking in the direction of Grove Street.

Murmurs of the Heart

“Ashley?---Ashley!” a man called from the other side and he knocked on the door with force.  She opened the door and saw her landlord standing there about to rap again. 

“Oh!” He exclaimed.  He was a small nebbishy little man in a drab sweater and khakis, horn rimmed glasses and worn saddle shoes left over from high school….probably from  the sixties.  She glared at him as she adjusted her T-shirt.

“I’m sorry to bother---I’m not bothering you, am I?” He asked innocently.  She did not answer but continued to glare. “Well, I’m concerned about the rat problem---you know we have a rat problem.”

“uh-huh.” She said.

“Have you seen any?” He asked.

“In the street, sure.” She answered.

“No I mean in the building.” He replied.

“So far I haven’t seen any rats but I have seen a few mice.” She answered in her drawl.

“You have to make sure that you put your grains like cereal and bread into the ice box.  That’s what I do and I take the trash outside every night before I go to bed so there is nothing for anything to nibble on.” He explained.

“Uh-huh.” She mumbled.

“They just run races in the backyard.  Have you seen them out the window?  ---I have, JESUS! GOD! They repulse me.” And he quivered and shook as if a cockroach ran right up his back. She started to close her door and smile nicely but he thrust his arm through.

“Wait.” He said.  “Oh, I’m sorry.” And he removed his arm.  “The reason I came by is to tell you that the exterminator will be by today about three o’clock. It’s a preventative measure…Will you be home?”

“Probably not.” Ashley said and she started to close the door again.

“Well, then I’ll let myself in if you don’t answer.” He replied his face moving in tandem with the closing door.

“Whatever.” She said and the door clicked as it hit the latch. She moved back into her kitchen and gazed at the clock as she sipped the remnants of her morning coffee.  It was about eleven. Martha Stewart was on. She could paint for four hours and then go for a walk while the pest control man sprayed the apartment.  Or she could treat herself to the Met. Then she thought about the woman who seemed frail and upset at the historic house a week or so before.  Maybe she should make some peanut butter cookies and take them by.  That might make her feel better, she thought.  Oh.  But what if she didn’t like peanut butter.  Southern people like peanuts so it was a no brainer when she lived in North Carolina. S’mores.  Mmmm s’mores, yes.  She’d make two batches.  One for the woman in the old house and one for herself.  She started going through her pie-safe like a woman obsessed.  She needed marshmallows, of course.  She needed graham crackers, chocolate and maybe even a touch of whiskey to give ‘em a kick.  Vanilla.  Did she have vanilla? Just then the phone rang.  She was about to let it go to voice mail and then she thought maybe she should answer.  She looked at the number on the fourth ring and did not recognize it.  Telemarketer? Maybe. What the hell.  “Hello?”  Someone was on the other line but it crackled and hissed. “Hello?”

“Ashley.” A woman said.

“Yes?”

“It’s Chelsea.” 

“Oh, heeey.” Ashley replied sweetly. “How are you?”

“I’m good.  I, I’ve been wanting to call you for a while but I’ve been under deadline on a few things.” She said apologetically.

“Oh that’s alright.  People get busy.” Ashley said as she continued searching for vanilla.

“Anyway, I know I promised that I would look through the archives at work for you.” Chelsea said.

“You did?” Ashley seemed surprised.  She couldn’t quite remember what for.

“Um, you know, you told me about that painter Richard Rhys.”

“Oh my god---yes. Yes!” She said.

“Well, I found some information at the Public Library oddly enough.” She answered.

“You did?” Ashley cooed.

“Yep. So…” Chelsea said trying to form the next words. “Hey, would you be up for having dinner or something tonight?”

“Um, hold on.  Let me check something.” Ashley said and she looked at her calendar that remained blank for days on end. “Yeah, I think I can swing it.  What time?”

“Six?” Chelsea said.

“I, um, well, I have to run an errand and deliver some baked goods here in Brooklyn.  Can you do seven?” Ashley replied.

“Sure…yeah, sure I can do seven. Meet me at Rafaella on twenty-first and ninth.” Chelsea said.

“You got it.  I’ll see you then.” Ashley said and she hung up the phone.  Just then she spied the small bottle of vanilla. AHA!

 

While Ashley was busy talking with her landlord Richard realized that Nell had hung his suit there on the door knob.  He got up quickly, grabbed his clothes and tip-toed into a small anti-room.  It was the bathroom.  He looked at the commode for some time thinking that chamber pots had certainly come a long way.  This woman must be rich, he thought.  She doesn’t have any appropriate clothes but she has an exquisite toilet.  It was all so confusing.  He dressed quickly and tried to tame his thick black hair. 

“Nell!” He said.  “Nell?”  Nell scurried up to the bathroom door.

“We’re not supposed to be here!” She said and she looked around nervously.

“You keep saying that.  Stop saying that.” Richard instructed.

“It’s true.” She said.

“If we’re not supposed to be here then where, pray tell, are we ‘supposed’ to be?” He asked.

“I don’t know.” She said and she looked frightened.

“You look positively petrified.” He said as he straightened his tie. “I must find my way back to the Library.”

“Why?” Nell asked.  He turned and gave her a look. She never asked why before.

“Because I need to see Victoria and that is where I saw her last.” He said.

“I don’t think she’s there.  She’s very worried about you, sir.” She answered.

“Nonetheless, I shall make my way to the Public Library this afternoon.” He said.

“Yes sir.” Nell replied obediently.  Just then Ashley walked between them.  Richard and Nell remained stiff like statues and waited for Ashley to say something like ‘what are you two strange people doing in my house?’ followed by a scream.

“I don’t think she can see us.” Nell whispered.  Richard put a finger to his lips and remained frozen.  Ashley pulled her shorts down and sat on the toilet. 

“Two boxes of graham crackers should do it.  A bag of marshmallows---butter, I need butter…and…” She said to herself.  Richard was shocked and he moved slowly and deliberately to step out of the loo.

“My god!” He said exasperated.  “She has no modesty whatsoever.”

“She can’t see us.” Nell explained.  “We’ve invaded her privacy.  We should go and leave the poor dear in peace.”

“Do you know how to get to the library?” Richard asked.  Nell just shook her head and shrugged her shoulders.  “Well it can’t be that hard.  I assume the trains are running.  We’ll make our way to Wall Street and go from there.” He said as he stepped towards the door.

 

Chelsea made one last phone call out in front of the New York public library before entering. 

“Is Patricia Niall in, please?  Sure.  I’ll hold.”  She stood for a moment watching tourists gawk over the tremendous granite lions that marked the entrance to the building.

“Hi.  Miz Niall.  It’s Chelsea Barrett…Yes, one of the writers.  I wanted to discuss doing an interview with Damien Hirst….I know just about everyone has…uh-huh….uh-huh…I know the slicing and dicing animal stuff is old news…Sure…Well? I have a different angle on him…I want to piggy back another piece with the Hirst article…I’d rather speak in person if that’s alright with you…Tomorrow?  Sure. Thank you.”  As she hung up she made a thumbs up sign and sauntered inside.  Weeks before she had discovered the volume with the old photograph of Mr. Rhys, but since the Library was about to close she was unable to read through the letters and other clippings and today she decided she would a take a long lunch break and continue her sleuthing.  Her investigative work at the city morgue archives uncovered what he died of and now she wanted to find out personal things about him.  The letters might reveal how he felt and expressed himself about current affairs or simply about Mrs. Thornton.  She felt as though she were tapping away at the tip of an iceberg.  Chelsea could very well rediscover a major artistic talent and it could make her career.  It might even be made into a movie.  She giggled at the thought.  Strangely enough she felt even more excited about telling Ashley all the information she had uncovered thus far. 

Angela the archivist escorted Chelsea to the area where the records were kept. 

“Let me know if I can assist you.”  Angela offered as she peeled off her white cotton gloves.  The room was brisk and musty.  The only lights in the room were the overhead fluorescents.  Chelsea hated fluorescents.  They cast a weird spectrum and took the healthy pallor away from people and things.  She opened the volume and held the old tintype of Richard in her hand.  There was something extremely familiar about him and again a feeling of sadness washed over her.  She wished he were still alive so that she could talk to him. She carefully moved the clippings and began to sift through the papers.  She untied the ribbon that held a group of letters together.  She studied the perfect cursive forms of his handwriting.  No one wrote like that these days anymore.  No one cared enough about how a letter is hand executed.  On the back of one of the letters she discovered a small sketch.  It was exquisite.  It reminded her of Sargent.  Written beneath in faded pencil, “My dearest Victoria, my love beyond all loves.”  It was a portrait of Victoria herself, a very intimate rendering of sipping tea in the garden, perhaps.  Something about it made her heart swell.  She felt strangely emotional about it.  Chelsea prided herself on being able to control her feelings.  Standing before masterpieces that take one’s breath away like Van Gogh’s Starry Night or Courbet’s, The Painter’s Studio and Goya’s The Shootings of May Third in Madrid elicited waves of excitement and a kind of overwhelming satisfaction.  But this particular piece of art brought tears.  Not tears laden from sadness but tears somehow laced with joy and discovery.

 

Richard entered through the front doors of the New York Public Library.  People looked at him strangely and he wondered why they stared in rapt fascination.  He nervously straightened his tie and smoothed his frock coat.  It was a warm spring day and his black wool suit seemed out of place, but he felt a constant chill and almost wished he had brought his over coat with him.  At times he could even see his breath.  He moved up the stairs that lead to the second floor balcony over the Rose Main Reading Room.  It was the expansive ornate room that was more akin to a cathedral than a place of research.  At the end of one of the balconies he saw the closed off door that led to the rehearsal area where Booth had been working.  Curious, he wondered if Booth was still there.  He slowly turned the handle and the door opened with ease.  He peeked in to find the room had completely changed.  There was a grand wooden desk in the center with windows looking out onto a vast green lawn.  Portraits of regal men hung in gold leaf frames.  He recognized one as being George Washington.  Suddenly an extremely tall, thin man with a beard entered and sat down at his desk.  He was completely entranced with his own thoughts.  Contemplative and even a bit melancholy the gentleman held his head in his hands for some time as Richard stood there watching him.  He looked up and his grey eyes were piercing and majestic.  He studied Richard for a moment as a sudden realization swept over him.

“Why did you do it?” He asked resignedly.

“Sir?” Richard answered confused.  At that moment he realized he was in the presence of Mr. Lincoln.

“The war was over.  It was a time of mending.” Lincoln said. “How could you do that to my wife---in front of my wife?”

“It wasn’t me!” Richard exclaimed as he stepped closer. “People say I look like Booth, but I’m not Booth.  My Name is Rhys.”  Lincoln studied him for a moment.

“Oh…well then.  What can I do for you, Mr. Rhys?”  Lincoln said and his voice was soft.

“Oh, Nothing, sir.  I was just looking for my wife.” Richard answered. “But since I’m here I do have a question.” Lincoln sat up and looked him in the eye.  “Why did the war have to go on for so long?” The president took in a long breath and he turned the words over in his mind for quite a long moment. Then he looked at Richard.

“I honestly don’t know.  I wish I could answer you.  I wish with all my heart that it would have been over at that first Bull Run.” Then he turned and looked over the correspondence on his desk.  Richard was almost completely out the door when the President added, “Your wife isn’t here.  She is at your estate.”  Richard nodded and turned. “She’s very worried about you.” Lincoln gazed at him sternly.

“Thank you, sir.” Richard said and he slipped away quickly.  His heart was racing.  He had just seen Abraham Lincoln in the oval office.  It was a thrill beyond his wildest imagination.  He had wanted to ask that question since he was a boy.  What would Martin Tosher think about it?  He wished he could tell Martin.

 

He moved to the room where the old maps hung on the wall.  As he opened the door he could see his wife sitting at the long wooden table.  She held a letter in her hands and her eyes were red and moist.  She set it down and the tears flowed easily.  He quietly moved towards her and sat across from her.

“What is it?” He asked.  But she did not answer.  She was caught up in her own pensive thoughts.  He looked down to see the letter and it was from him.  He turned it and scanned the words.  It was a love letter he had written while she was away on one of her lecture circuits.  He wondered why she seemed so melancholy as the words were filled with hope and optimism and the beginning of a life together.  There were plans for renovating the Grove Street house and collecting furniture crafted from the best artisans in Europe.  Victoria had even considered using Louis Comfort Tiffany’s glassworks in the manor house.  Then he flipped it over to find the quick little drawing he had done of her a week or so before.  It brought a smile to his face.  For once the rendering was done he and Victoria had gone upstairs and he had made love to her once again.  It was the moment of conception for their second child.

He placed his hand on hers and after a time she drew it away and wrapped her arms about herself as if she had caught a chill. 

“Victoria?” He said.  She could not hear him.  He could see his breath again and he grew ever more concerned.  She glanced at her timepiece and quickly put the volume of memorabilia away.

“Victoria?” He tried again. And again she did not respond.  “I will make you hear me!” He said.  And he followed her out of the room and through the library.  He would follow her wherever she went even if it took another hundred years.