He blames John for the complete and final crushing of their mother’s spirit. He blames John for the damage to their father’s name. He blames John for the death of the president he loved and for all that the country suffered as a result. All of it down to John.

But as often happens, the years pass, and his memories move backwards. He remembers John as the only family member to attend his wedding, so filled with happiness over Edwin’s happiness. He remembers their game of dueling Shakespeare: The skies are painted with unnumbered sparks; They are all fire, and every one doth shine.

Younger still: He remembers their summers on the farm, digging for Indian treasures, knocking together rafts that last only long enough for a single go. He remembers the high-spirited boy with a head full of quixotic dreams, dashing about with his wooden sword.

Still younger: He remembers fireflies and tadpoles, clouds of pigeons, trees to climb and streams to cross, and John begging to come, tagging along behind, running to keep up. “He was my brother,” Edwin reminds an intrusive reporter who seems to have forgotten this.

ix

Eventually, Rosalie reads the many newspaper accounts of Lincoln’s death that Mrs. Aldrich has so kindly given her—as if she might make a scrapbook!—accounts she’s wanted to burn, but been unable. Eyewitness accounts.

They tend toward the lurid. They read like a play, a melodrama. Rosalie is an excellent reader. She sees it all vividly. John and Edwin both always preferred to play the villains.

There was a standing ovation for Lincoln when he and his party arrived, somewhat late. Was John already there? No one says so.

Third act. The theater must not have been very dark, because now John is seen at the back of the parquet by one of the actresses onstage. She recognizes him, all in black, she says, his face as pale as death. Moving towards the stairs, but then she has a line or two to deliver and stops watching him.

People in the dress circle take up the story. He ascended the steps and wove through the seats. He’s well known to many. No one thinks it’s odd that he’s there. He’s heard to be humming.

Two army officers are in his path, but move aside for him. The president’s guard has gone out for a drink, but his messenger, Charles Forbes, is near the door to the president’s box. Helen DuBarry, seated nearby, overhears John tell Forbes he has a communication for the president. He gives him the card of a US senator, quite likely the father of Lucy Hale. Forbes recognizes John. He waves him on, a decision he’ll regret the rest of his life.

John makes it to the president’s box, then stops. He removes his hat and stands for a few minutes, leaning against the wall.