“Of course, we all hope it turns out to be a mistake,” Mrs. Aldrich says, the doubt evident in her voice.

“We must wait and see,” Thomas Aldrich says.

More friends of Edwin’s arrive—the Osgoods, the Taylors. These people have never spoken two words to Rosalie before. She’s stiff with resentment. She sees through their postures of sympathy. This is the most exciting thing ever to happen to them, tourists to the land of grief. And she feels the insult to John, that anyone would believe such a thing. Worse, she can see that they’re persuading Mother.

The doorbell rings again along with the postman’s whistle. He’s delivering a letter from John. There is a terrible power in that letter arriving at that minute. Mother’s hands are shaking so that she can’t open it. She hands it to Rosalie. Rosalie wishes she and Mother were alone.

April 14th, two a.m.

Dearest Mother:

I know you expect a letter from me, and I’m sure you will hardly forgive me. But indeed I have nothing to write about. Everything is dull; that is, has been till last night. (The illumination.)

Everything was bright and splendid. More so in my eyes if it had been displayed in a nobler cause. But so goes the world. Might makes right. I only drop you these few lines to let you know I am well, and to say I have not heard from you. Excuse brevity, am in haste. Had one from Rose. With best love to you, I am your affectionate son ever,

John

Is that the letter a boy writes to his mother on the very day he means to murder the president? Rosalie doesn’t think so. She holds the paper out with an emphatic shake. The letter is passed from hand to hand until it comes back to her.

Mother is still sobbing on the couch. “Oh God, if this be true, let him shoot himself. Let him not live to be hanged! Spare us that at least, that disgrace to our name. Have that one ounce of pity, God.” Edwin’s friends are clustered around her, Thomas Aldrich kneeling at her feet.

Why is everyone behaving as if this is true? Rosalie’s conviction becomes agonized, defensive, less like conviction. She holds the letter against her bodice, as close to her heart as it can be. John’s own words in John’s own hand. Her proof of his innocence.

All day long, they hear the newsboys calling from the street that Abraham Lincoln is dead and John Wilkes Booth arrested.

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