Later Edwin will learn more of those final weeks. At some point while re-crossing the Isthmus (and probably drunk), Father had been robbed of all the money he’d made June give him. Penniless and disoriented, he’d gotten as far as New Orleans on the charity of strangers. There he’d taken an engagement at the St. Charles Theatre, where he performed over six nights and earned more than enough to get back to home. His reviews had been excellent, many noting his remarkable vigor and energy.

But sometime after boarding the Chenoweth, he’d fallen ill. He’d told no one, but remained in his cabin, drinking copious amounts of water drawn straight from the river. It may have been the water that killed him. It may have been the lack of prompt medical attention. Had Edwin been with him, he might very well have lived. Edwin certainly thinks so. He never forgives himself.

In spite of the raving and drunkenness, the violence and temper, the Booth children all adored their father. Edwin immediately rewrites his stories from the road. He insists, with no evidence, that on that night in New York when he first played Richard III, Father came secretly to watch, that he was proud of what he saw. Edwin deeply regrets telling June that Father never cared about him. So he wasn’t Father’s favorite? He was always the one Father needed and that should have mattered more.

At night, in search of sleep, Edwin loops through their final parting—how Father laughed and said he was a pirate, how the ship and his figure disappeared into the fog. He revises this memory, works it and works it, until it becomes a reluctant parting on his side. Until he can make himself believe that this really was the case, that these really were his feelings, he can’t fall asleep.

June has a letter from Mother, a letter written to the two of them, which he gives Edwin on the day after his arrival. Edwin takes it to the small attic he’s sleeping in. He wants to read it in private. He sits on the floor beneath the tiny window, where the light is best. His knees are bent, his back hard to the wall. The handwriting is his mother’s, but also not exactly. Edwin thinks her hand must have been shaking, the words themselves seem to shiver. This letter tells both of her boys not to come home. She writes that the funeral is already over, that the family will rent out the Baltimore house and move back to the farm. Her own desires, she says, are not to be considered. The boys must remain where they are and make the best of their opportunities.

There is one point on which Edwin is quite mistaken. He believes that his father died a wealthy man. Years will pass before anyone tells him otherwise.