The Forgotten Adventures of Dolley Madison

19 December, 1793
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

What am I supposed to do?

Her eyes burned with tears of frustration. James, her brother-in-law, had again ignored her request for the accounting documents from her late husband’s business, of which James had been the book keeper. Without the documents she could not settle the estate, and she needed to settle the estate to provide for her surviving son. Her lawyer friend had helped with these issues in the past, but he had returned to New York to spend Christmas with his dying wife.

She strode about the room, frustration feeding her anger, churning her thoughts. James never gave him grief. He seemed terrified of the man. On two previous occasions his mere presence had elicited meek compliance from the bookish James. He ignores me because I am a just a woman. James is a bully. Why if I were a man I would . . . I would . . .

What would I do?

She saw her reflection in the full-length mirror across the room. Staring back was a forlorn girl, trembling with helpless rage. A victim in need of a protector, alone and afraid.

Fear. How do you control fear?

She stood with her right side toward the person in the mirror, ramrod straight. Arms at her side, she turned her head to the right, looking over her shoulder to lock eyes with those other eyes. Mouth closed, she breathed slow and deep through her nose.

Inhale – two – three – four. . .

Hold – two – three – four. . .

Exhale – two – three – four. . .

Hold - two – three – four.

She continued to breathe in this fashion for several minutes, emptying her mind of fear, of love, of hate, of mercy, studying those other eyes, brilliant blue eyes like her own, eyes still red from crying but which now glimmered in anticipation.

Anticipation of . . . what?

She recalled the the pistol she had held: its weight on her arm, the sensation of the polished maple grip in her hand, the exhilaration of its discharge, the satisfaction of the shot hitting the point of aim. She raised her right hand so that the sights of her imaginary pistol touched the line extending from her eyes to those in the mirror. Her finger caressed the trigger.

She held this pose for three seconds, imagining herself again wreathed in smoke. She lowered her arm and regarded the reflected image. For a moment she was transfixed by the glittering eyes of a predator, a gaze emanating menace and death. . . and then she perceived herself, eyes wide in disbelief.

Her Quaker-indoctrinated soul recoiled in horror. In my heart I have murdered Friend James! No amount of money or suffering is worth that. Yet . . .  it was not James that I envisioned shooting. I was aiming at . . . myself. My fear. My frustration. My helplessness. Are those not opponents worthy of destruction?

The wall clock chimed the hour, unheard.

Two women stood in the room, one of flesh, one a reflection. Backs straight, each with her side towards the other, arms down. They breathed in unison, slow and deep, as they purged their minds of intrusive thoughts from the outside world. Each contemplated the other with heads turned over the shoulder, eyes locked in the impassive gaze of the supremely confident.

They waited.

Their arms raised, each extending her imaginary pistol towards the other.

They smiled.