Asia had never in her life been out alone, not even in daylight. She was always with family or else with a man hired to see her safely on. She was small enough to be stepped on in the crowd as she made her way down from the gallery. She was so buffeted about by the women’s hoops and skirts that she could hardly keep on her feet. So she stood, hugging the wall, until the crowd was past.
But as soon as the upper floors emptied, a workman appeared, moving quickly through, extinguishing the lights on the middle floors as fast as he could. Asia had to run to follow him, and she wasn’t fast enough. Even the sound of his footsteps vanished and only the faintest light remained.
“Don’t be an infant,” she imagined Pearl saying, but Pearl’s words without Pearl had no effect. Asia was in the museum proper now, the stage still three floors down. She had to move from the staircase on one side of the building to the staircase on the other, right through the exhibits, in order to keep descending. This was a place every schoolchild in Baltimore knew well. She’d seen the collections many times with schoolmates and teachers. She’d stood and gazed in wonder on the fossilized jaw of the North American mastodon. But never alone and never at night.
The passageway she fled down took her straight into the taxidermied leopards, panthers, and lions, all posed with their mouths agape, their teeth sharp and shining.
Gasping, she went another way and there, grinning at her, was the skeleton of a man seated in a cane chair. Even in the daytime, even in the company of her classmates, she’d found these things frightening. In the dark, they were a horror. She ran on, lost in a maze of passages and doorways, cases and stairs.
By the time she found the doors to the outside, the crowd was entirely gone, the dark street empty except for one hack. Her father, swathed in his winter coat, hat, and muffler, was just climbing inside.
“Father!” she called, her voice catching. And again, louder. “Father!” till he turned.
“Who are you, child?” he asked.
“Asia. I’m Asia,” and he reached out his two hands to lift her in.
Of course, there was trouble to follow. Mother had been frantic over her absence. Going to Father’s performances had been expressly forbidden. What if she had been two minutes later, missed Father completely? What might have happened to her then?
There would be no more evenings with Pearl, although Pearl’s family moved on soon after, so those would have stopped anyway. A whipping was coming, but who would deliver it? Her father, who seemed to be in a good mood and might go easy? Or the murderous Duke of Gloucester?
The boys were all in bed and the house hushed. Since she’d missed supper, she was given a piece of buttered toast to eat while she awaited the belt. She couldn’t manage a bite.
Her father ate lightly after a performance, only gruel and pickled beets. “I acted well tonight,” he told Mother.
So it was only acting? Asia couldn’t quite believe that. For days after, she would see Richard in her father’s face. His blue eyes would go black. His kindly face would seem a mere mask over Richard’s scowling ambitions.
A day later, still suffering the effects of her spanking, Asia stood on a chair to pull the Cibber from her father’s shelf. She skimmed through until she found that first line—Take up the sword again, or take up me. She read the scene, then read it again.
When next she was required to perform a piece at school, that was the one she picked. An odd choice for a ten-year-old girl—Richard making his desperate love to Lady Anne—but when she stood at the top of the staircase, which was where all school performances took place, her classmates crowding the steps beneath while she shouted her lines above them, she heard the schoolmaster applauding. “Well done, little Booth. Well done,” he said. “Just try that last bit again with a touch more longing.”
* * *
—
Many of Father’s papers, playbills, reviews, mementoes of various sorts, and, best of all, letters remain in trunks in the attic of the Exeter house. The letters Father wrote are scattered over the globe, but the ones written to him are neatly organized, tied in bundles according to date. What history those trunks contain! Asia and John tell Mother that they’re writing a book. She seems to approve. They ask her to bring the trunks to the farm when she next goes to town and she promises to do so.
On the day this finally happens, John and Asia have ridden out to the rocks at Deer Creek, a tributary of the Susquehanna River. In years past, tournaments with armor and tilting have been held here. June and Rosalie attended these as children. John does so now.
Asia is riding without a saddle yet not astride. This takes concentration and balance, particularly at the trot, but Asia has these things to spare. She leans into Fanny’s neck. The way Fanny smells is just about Asia’s favorite thing in the world.
John’s horse is also black, a fast colt named Cola di Rienzi after the Roman dictator, or more accurately after Cola as romanticized by Edward Bulwer-Lytton and Richard Wagner.
Unexpectedly, the Booths have the popular spot all to themselves. Asia strips off her stockings, hoists her skirts, and wades. Some of the rocks shift about as she steps on them. There is always the thrilling chance she might fall in. The heat and humidity are so high today, she almost wishes for it. She lets her hem dip, an inch, then two.
John bends from the waist, submerging his entire head. He stands again, shakes like a dog. They sit together on a rock in the shade. The water that drips from John’s hair onto his shirt evaporates quickly.
They talk about their futures. John says that he wants to do something important, something with weight and consequence, something that will leave a mark. Asia can have no such hopes, but she is excited to think that someone might read the book about Father. In her own small way, she wishes to add esteem to the Booth name. John is not so interested in that. “No,” he says, “I want to be known for something more than simply being Father’s son.”
The creek is clear right through to the bottom, a wavering lens that makes the submerged stones oscillate in size. The sun and the sound of the nearby waterfall are lulling Asia to sleep. “？‘Men at some time are masters of their fates,’？” John says, thinking perhaps again of the gypsy’s curse. And then, “Did you ever think that growing up so steeped in Shakespeare’s plays has left its mark on us? That maybe our dreams are bigger than other people’s? I know I can’t be just a farmer. I can’t be buried my whole life out here where nothing ever happens.”
It’s so normal for Asia to dream for John instead of herself that she doesn’t even notice doing it. A book about Father doesn’t strike her as a big dream. But John, of course, John will be extraordinary.
They return home, contented, logy with sun, water, horse, and dreams. To her surprise, Asia sees smoke coming from the chimney. She points this out to John. The day is so hot. It makes no sense.
They send the horses to the stable and go inside. There they find Mother, red and sweating in the sweltering room. She’s pulled her chair next to the fireplace. Father’s trunks are open, the bundles of letters piled about Mother’s black skirts. She is reading every letter. And then, when she finishes, Mother is feeding every letter into the fire.