Bury The Hatchet

August the fourth was never an easy day for her and the passing of thirty-three others had done little to alter her perspective. At best, the years had coated its memory with a dim and fragile veneer. But like the outline of an old scar, some faint trace always remained in her heart and in her mind. On this August the fourth it was 1925 and she was sixty-seven years old. Wasn't it, couldn't it, now be time to forget? Yes, she thought, standing resolute in front of the library's big bay window, the new kitten purring in her old arms. This room, with its high, white linen ceiling and brown wallpaper flourished with bright pink flowers was her favorite spot in the whole house. The heavy glass panes both kept her from and connected her to the flow of life that streamed below along elegant French Street in the "Hill" section of Fall River, Massachusetts.

Here, with her many books she found some salvation, some escape from what became the most sensational murder trial of the century. But murder's a small world and the pillared mahogany fireplace, whose mantle held the Oriental vase of beautiful yellow roses had a secret all its own, separate and apart from the house on Second Street and that ghastly day in the summer of 1892.

There was no clock here in the library and she wondered what time it was. Judging from the night shadows she guessed it to be somewhere near midnight. She was good at that, for over the years she had learned to live as one of shadows, always on the verge of existence, but never really there. If she was to keep her promise to Emma, she would have to act very soon because outside the summer air was rustling with all the impatience of a coming storm. But then, she had waited all these years. Would one more night really matter? A sudden crack of thunder and the splatter of rain against the glass distracted her. She cried softly when the startled kitten scampered out of her grasp and onto the rose patterned rug. Still, the eyes that had learned so long ago never to give anything away were fixed on the window and the silent darkness of the garden below. They glared through the blurry glass, two blue, lonely orbs.