The Age of Hamilton

Chapter 10

"Alexander?" Her voice, although gentle, shook my mind from the sheet of paper in front of me. I glanced up slowly removing the glasses from my eyes. Elizabeth was propped up against the wall, hair seemingly damp from running her wet hands through her graying curls.

"What did Angelica tell you?"

In her hand was a newspaper. "This has nothing to do with our daughter, Alexander."

I raised my eyebrows, slowly placing the quill down. Mute, Elizabeth walked forward, her footsteps muffled by the stockings covering her lower calf and feet. Her arm extended, loosely gripping the crumpled sheets of paper connected by a thin strand of twine. Reluctantly, I received the newspaper and watched as Elizabeth folded her arms across her chest. Her shoulders jerked as if a harshly cold breeze wafted through the room. I glanced up at her expecting an answer to the unspecified quiet that settled upon the office.

The tagline was unmarked of its writer. The title immediately reached out and tugged at my attention. Is Alexander Hamilton Truly the Least Flawed Candidate?

Gripping the paper, the words seemed to deliver an unfamiliar emotion that began to boil within me. I trembled, the paper creating a ripping sound as I read through each word searching, scanning. I lowered the paper once again removing my glasses and met her gaze. "Is it true? Are you behind the riots?"

I scoffed. I chuckled at her insane equivocation to believe any word that I were to say. I couldn't even run...an immigrant is unable to run. I am a citizen though...I shook my head clearing it. This disturbance, the sudden uprising of citizens had been oddly similar to the commotion associated with the whiskey tax. My whiskey tax. The rebellion was stricken down by Washington, the first and last president to ride a white horse into battle. Gripping the arm of the desk chair, chills skittered up my spine like a spider crawling on flesh. "I am not behind the riots. Why the hell would I-?"

"The violence hasn't simmered." Elizabeth stated blandly, pointing at the window. I shook my head as I yanked back the brown curtain. Billowing black smoke slowly rose up into the air. Faint gunshots sliced through the air. For a moment, I pondered a thought that danced across my mind. Could I lead a small group of men to squash this riot? The cops were becoming more isolated, more of a rag tag group of utterly exhausted and abused men. Finally, I returned my attention to my wife whose eyebrows had been quirked in silent inquiry.

Disgusted as well as very much annoyed, I gripped my palms. "What do you expect me to do?"

Elizabeth scoffed, folding her arms across her chest, an apparent sign of defiance. So that's where Angelica received her defiance. I thought amused. "What are you even doing in here?" She inquired as I fingered through a leather-bound notebook of old clippings of newspaper articles. Rubbing my eyes, I slowly rose from the chair. My knees popped in protest as I made my way towards Eliza. "Eliza," I breathed, the scent of the smoke of a fire that eased off of her skin tamed the rage that burned within me.

Write. Write? That's all I do. For a brief moment, I saw a flicker of a young man, no older than twenty, as he stood in the corner closest to the bookshelves, arms across his chest, amusement glimmering in his gaze. Snapping out of my daze, I pulled away from Elizabeth, "What's for supper?"

Such a unnecessary question. I thought as I watched Elizabeth from the other side of the room.

"I have yet to figure that out. Your daughter and I were planning on it being a surprise but I am unsure of whether or not you will be coming down for dinner."

I returned my attention to my desk, searching for a vacant sheet of paper. Thumbing one towards my right hand, the faint gunfire grew into a soft drum-like rhythm. I quickly stood up and gazed out the window, men in black suits slowly walked towards the center square. I froze up, the pen clattered to the floor. I cursed. Grabbing my jacket, I jogged towards Elizabeth, noticing Angelica with her own pen in hand, writing a letter to the woman she was named after. For the briefest of moments, I saw myself in the young girl. I saw the craving to serve the country. Shaking my head, I returned my attention to Eliza, who held a wooden spoon in her hand. Flour dusted the backs of her hands. Coiling my arms around her waist gently, my lips grazed the pressure point of her lower jaw. An audible squeak escaped her as her hand rose to cover her mouth.