over into the hall, but when he released me, I looked into his eyes and saw that heartbreak was still there too.
I said nothing more, just turned and moved quickly back into the hall. I never told my grandmother about cutting my Sunday dress. Probably Mrs. Keckley told her about the handkerchief. Maybe she even showed the piece to Grandmother. At any rate, a few days later I was surprised to see that my dress had been remade. The frayed skirt had been removed from the bright blue bodice, and a new skirt of a darker blue attached.
Willie died on February 20. My grandmother came home that evening very tired, her face all drawn with pain. “They say the president said, ‘My poor boy. He was too good for this earth, but we loved him so. This is hard, hard.’ Then he broke down and cried. I heard him from out in the hall. That great, huge man, broken like a baby.” She wiped at her eyes.
The next night after we were in our beds, she asked, “Do you want to see him, child? They’ve laid him out in the Green Room in a white coffin, and him dressed in a fancy suit. The help all viewed him today, but I can take you tomorrow if you want to go.”
I pulled the blanket up to my chin. My first impulse was to say no. I had found no comfort in looking at my mother’s white face and closed eyes. I was about to say so when I changed my mind. I could not say why, but I did want to see Willie Lincoln.
My grandmother had said “the green room,” and I supposed she meant the president’s office, where I had seen the green carpet and green wallpaper. I imagined thewhite coffin there, surrounded by maps and stacks of newspapers. I wondered if the president would sit at his desk as mourners filed by.
I was wrong. The Green Room was a big parlor on the first floor, with velvet drapes and dark wooden furniture polished to a shine. The coffin stood in the middle of the floor. I dropped Grandmother’s hand when we entered the door and moved to stand beside him.
His hair was not wild, as I had always seen it, but neatly combed and parted. His hands were crossed, and he held a bouquet of small purple flowers. I looked down at him and wondered how death could slip into a person and take away the breath. I was ready to step away when I saw the handkerchief. Folded neatly into the breast pocket of his suit jacket was the handkerchief I had made for him. My hand went to my mouth to keep me from crying out loud, but I was glad, deeply glad, I had made the handkerchief.
The rest of that winter was hard for me. Not long after Willie’s funeral, Tad did recover, but Mrs. Lincoln, they said, spent most of her days in bed. No parties or dinners were held at the White House, and there was no need for any sewing to be done. Mrs. Keckley spent her days trying to comfort Mrs. Lincoln. I had not supposed I would miss my sewing lessons so much, but I did.
I wrote letters to Steven, and when the winter wind was not sharp, I would walk about Washington City, my head down, thinking of all I had lost, my mother, father,Steven, and now my new friend Willie. Sometimes I would walk down Pennsylvania Avenue to see the White House in hopes of seeing the president. Poor, dear man, he had loved his son so much. Had my father ever loved me that way? I would stand, staring up at the window where I imagined Mr. Lincoln might sit, and I would pretend that he was my father. It was all right, I told myself, to pretend. After all, I did not even know where my own father was.
8
Wilkes
HIS STORY
I cannot understand Lucy. She is like no other woman I have ever known. Always I have been able to lead women to think as I think. Yet here is a woman who loves me, I know she does. Still she will not agree with me about the Union or about the evils of Abraham Lincoln.
“You could not say he is heartless had you attended his son’s funeral,” she told me at dinner one evening. “The sorrow in that man’s face.” She closed her eyes for a moment and shook her head
I said nothing more, just turned and moved quickly back into the hall. I never told my grandmother about cutting my Sunday dress. Probably Mrs. Keckley told her about the handkerchief. Maybe she even showed the piece to Grandmother. At any rate, a few days later I was surprised to see that my dress had been remade. The frayed skirt had been removed from the bright blue bodice, and a new skirt of a darker blue attached.
Willie died on February 20. My grandmother came home that evening very tired, her face all drawn with pain. “They say the president said, ‘My poor boy. He was too good for this earth, but we loved him so. This is hard, hard.’ Then he broke down and cried. I heard him from out in the hall. That great, huge man, broken like a baby.” She wiped at her eyes.
The next night after we were in our beds, she asked, “Do you want to see him, child? They’ve laid him out in the Green Room in a white coffin, and him dressed in a fancy suit. The help all viewed him today, but I can take you tomorrow if you want to go.”
I pulled the blanket up to my chin. My first impulse was to say no. I had found no comfort in looking at my mother’s white face and closed eyes. I was about to say so when I changed my mind. I could not say why, but I did want to see Willie Lincoln.
My grandmother had said “the green room,” and I supposed she meant the president’s office, where I had seen the green carpet and green wallpaper. I imagined thewhite coffin there, surrounded by maps and stacks of newspapers. I wondered if the president would sit at his desk as mourners filed by.
I was wrong. The Green Room was a big parlor on the first floor, with velvet drapes and dark wooden furniture polished to a shine. The coffin stood in the middle of the floor. I dropped Grandmother’s hand when we entered the door and moved to stand beside him.
His hair was not wild, as I had always seen it, but neatly combed and parted. His hands were crossed, and he held a bouquet of small purple flowers. I looked down at him and wondered how death could slip into a person and take away the breath. I was ready to step away when I saw the handkerchief. Folded neatly into the breast pocket of his suit jacket was the handkerchief I had made for him. My hand went to my mouth to keep me from crying out loud, but I was glad, deeply glad, I had made the handkerchief.
The rest of that winter was hard for me. Not long after Willie’s funeral, Tad did recover, but Mrs. Lincoln, they said, spent most of her days in bed. No parties or dinners were held at the White House, and there was no need for any sewing to be done. Mrs. Keckley spent her days trying to comfort Mrs. Lincoln. I had not supposed I would miss my sewing lessons so much, but I did.
I wrote letters to Steven, and when the winter wind was not sharp, I would walk about Washington City, my head down, thinking of all I had lost, my mother, father,Steven, and now my new friend Willie. Sometimes I would walk down Pennsylvania Avenue to see the White House in hopes of seeing the president. Poor, dear man, he had loved his son so much. Had my father ever loved me that way? I would stand, staring up at the window where I imagined Mr. Lincoln might sit, and I would pretend that he was my father. It was all right, I told myself, to pretend. After all, I did not even know where my own father was.
8
Wilkes
HIS STORY
I cannot understand Lucy. She is like no other woman I have ever known. Always I have been able to lead women to think as I think. Yet here is a woman who loves me, I know she does. Still she will not agree with me about the Union or about the evils of Abraham Lincoln.
“You could not say he is heartless had you attended his son’s funeral,” she told me at dinner one evening. “The sorrow in that man’s face.” She closed her eyes for a moment and shook her head
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