Edwin Stanton’s entire body shuddered as he coughed uncontrollably. Damned asthma. His earliest memories were of lying in bed back in Steubenville, Ohio, with his parents hovering over his bed as he wheezed, his chest expanding and contracting dramatically. His lungs craved air, which struggled through the swollen bronchial tubes. He hated his body for not functioning up to his ambitions as he grew into a young man studying the law. He fought against his disability while he established a practice. His determination made him a valuable asset for large companies and for his years in government. Asthma never stopped him. Perhaps the struggle against the impossible made him more resilient and more intolerant of the weaknesses of others.
His wife Ellen tapped at his bedroom door before entering. She shuddered slightly at the frigid December winds blowing through the open window. Exposure to excessive cold was the first line of defense when an asthma attack began. Going over to his side, she placed her slender hand across his forehead.
“No excess perspiration,” she murmured, more as a comment to herself than a conversation with him. “That’s good. Perhaps we can control it this time without any undue stress.” Ellen looked down and smiled at him wanly. “I told you not to attend those holiday dinners, but you never listen to me, do you, my dear?”
Stanton’s wife was the only person allowed to utter gentle rebukes. He trucked no insubordination from anyone else. He did not even venture excuses for his heavy holiday season because they never held any sway with her. President Grant had just announced Stanton’s appointment as Chief Justice of the United States and therefore he had become the prized guest of honor in Washington social circles. He would not be sworn in until after January 1, 1870, so until then Stanton felt persuaded to bask in his newfound popularity.
“Of course, you are right.” Those were the only words he uttered before a new wheezing spasm convulsed his body.
She shrugged. “I must admit I enjoyed the conviviality of the Christmas gatherings after all those years of war and the terrible confrontation with President Johnson.”
“When will the doctor’s aide arrive with the sulphate of quinine?” Stanton did not like it when Ellen reminded him of his crimes and subsequent cover-up. “I don’t know how you allowed the household to be bereft of the only medicine that soothes me.”
“Each home we visited was insufferably hot and overly decorated with holiday greenery, don’t you agree? As soon as I started perspiring, I knew your lungs would begin to contract. And the fragrance of the evergreens overcame even my own senses.” She paused to pat his shoulder reassuringly. “Yes, I should have known better. I don’t know why but I thought I had another bottle tucked away in some cabinet or other.”
“Yes, you should have,” Stanton agreed petulantly.
“Edwin, dear,” Ellen said, lifting her hand from his shoulder, “Your life would be so much more pleasant if you weren’t so insufferably superior. Do you remember the man who sat next to you at the White House dinner? I thought he would never stop talking about his near-death experiences at the battle of Gettysburg. The look on your face was priceless. And then the party at Benjamin Butler’s house. That clumsy waiter spilt coffee in your lap. How you howled.” Ellen chuckled and then clucked him under his bearded chin. “And here I am teasing you about your discomfort. But you have to admit. Whenever someone of your temperament suffers a bit of humiliation—well, I must say, it is amusing.”
“A distinct rap at the front door echoed throughout the house.
“Ah, your medicine has arrived at last.” She left without another word.
A twinge of wistful regret momentarily replaced the numbing asthmatic pain in his chest. Yes, he told himself, the fact he would never be held legally accountable for his actions did comfort him. His being Chief Justice assured him of that, but he mourned wife’s alienation over the years. Stanton was sure she had no inkling that he had held the Lincolns captive in the Executive Mansion basement, nor that he masterminded a string of murders in 1865 or that he orchestrated the impeachment of Andrew Johnson solely to cover up his other crimes. Yet she must have sensed something was amiss. She was kind and nurturing in a motherly fashion, but Ellen exhibited no warmth or romance for him as her husband. She even moved to another bedroom after Lincoln’s assassination. Of course, her excuse that his chronic asthmatic attacks kept her awake was a genuine justification. Yet Stanton could not help but think the aura of guilt that emanated from his psyche must have repelled her.
Hearing voices in the foyer and subsequent steps up the stairs, he struggled to prop himself up on his pillow. Stanton anticipated a nurse to appear with a bottle of sulphate of quinine and to apply the nasal drops, a momentary respite from his discomfort. When the door opened, Stanton wrinkled his brow. Before him was a matronly, rather heavy-set woman in nurse’s attire. She wore thick-lensed glasses and clutched a small black doctor’s bag.
“Dear, this is Miss—what did you say your name was?” Ellen said.
“Cordie Zook, Ma’am,” the woman said in a distinct Pennsylvania Dutch accent.
“Yes, Miss Zook.” Ellen smiled briefly.