My mother is moving for the first time in thirty years, but memories have no sense of time and so the thing in the attic lingers.

It grew from late-night fights, watered by my parents’ rage and disappointment. Their misery piled up like guano beneath the attic window and in that fertile earth, something else grew.

I crawled up the ladder sometimes to cry to it, sweating in the dark while my parents screamed their dissatisfaction at one another.

By the time I was a teenager, its roots burrowed through the walls from the attic, spreading beneath the new siding like termites. In the concrete masquerading as wood, insects would’ve found nothing to eat, but the thing in the attic gorged itself. With every room it infiltrated it heard more, grew more, until nowhere was safe.

I went up the stairs sideways to keep it from sneaking up on me.

My mother sends me photos as she packs: stuffed animals, a journal with only three pages of childish scrawl, a yearbook from a school whose reunions I’ll never attend.

*Are these important to you?*

The trash piles up and her dutiful new husband carries it away while my childhood accumulates behind her like the artifacts of an archeological dig.

I track her progress through the house by text.

In the kitchen: a kitschy collection of dishes and the entire cookware aisle of Home Goods.

*Do you need this?*

In the living room: Grandma’s old furniture, too formal for my mother's new house.

*Let’s keep it in the family.*

On Saturday, in the morning before the heat gathers in the eaves like the bats that cling to the louvered vents, she makes her way to the attic and I wonder if she’ll finally see it.

“Why are there mosquitoes?” I asked her, in the summer darkness when I was young enough to believe she had all the answers.

“They feed the bats,” she replied. “One bat eats hundreds of them every night.”

’Why are there bats, then?”

“To eat the mosquitoes.”

The bats swooped through the air, flicking and darting almost too fast to see in pursuit of something no one else wanted. In the morning they pressed close together, secrets incarnate in furry little bodies, hiding from the light.

The contract is closed, the house is empty.

I creep up the attic ladder one last time.

The thing in the attic doesn’t fight me. It is replete, content to wait for a new family, to feed on their suburban aspirations, inevitable disappointments, and small tragedies.

The gasoline vaporizes into dizzying fumes and I hope the bats have found a new home. Standing on the ladder, I toss a match. The air explodes, chasing darkness from the corners as it tosses me down the last few rungs onto my back, winded.

The thing in the attic watches me from the fire and I wonder as it burns if it is sprouting again in my mother’s new home, or in mine.

Even in the very early hours of the morning, the heat was oppressive. My windows and curtains were drawn against the night air and the fevers it brought. A candle lit my writing desk as I looked down at the finished letter there. There were several others, finished and sealed in a stack, but this last one had hurt the most to write. Several years before, I had cause to write a similar letter, but it never seemed to get easier. My dear Theodosia, the only thing it would pain me to leave behind, and my greatest pride. My head ached as I sanded the letter, folded and sealed it. My hands went calmly through the familiar motions, long-fingered and deft. I checked my watch, holding the face near the candle to see the gold hands. The portraits of Theo and her mother regarded each other on its face. The faith that had so consoled my wife in her last painful months did nothing for me despite all her wishes. I reached out for faith and found empty resignation. Three hours until dawn.

I lay on the couch in my office on Wall Street with no expectation of sleep. This affair in the morning would change my fortunes, one way or another. My stomach seethed, although I had eaten only a little bread and some wine the evening before. In the dark, close heat, I lay quietly. There were no plans to be made yet beyond tomorrow. My papers were in order; aside from Theo, only my legion of creditors would be disappointed by my death. All other paths had closed themselves off to me.

My friend Van Ness shook me awake. I must have slept, although when the blank darkness changed from waking to sleep I don't remember. He lit the lamps as I dressed. There was little to say to one another, so we kept silent. More than enough words had been spilled already. My costume for the event was familiar and simple. I had worn it before, to the same sort of meeting, and had needed to replace a button on the coat afterward. The suit was black and simple, the trousers wider-legged than was fashionable and the coat loose-fitting. I felt the patch on the front panel where a lead ball had passed through and my hands stilled. Van Ness noticed my hesitation and handed me my hat.

We walked out together into the dim pre-dawn street. Few others were about, until we reached the docks. Already, men there were beginning the day’s work. We greeted passing gentlemen with nods, and shook hands with the oarsmen of my hired barge. I carried nothing but an umbrella, and neither did Van Ness. Birds began to call as the barge slowly nosed out into the Hudson. The oars slid into the water in a steady beat, bearing us across the river. The cliff ahead began to lighten, dawn revealing layers of color in the exposed face above the trees and brush of the bank. There was little traffic on the water, and the crossing passed more quickly than I expected.

The bargemen landed us in New Jersey, easing the barge into the mud to anchor it. They waited on their benches, hired for a round trip. One took some bread from his pocket and chewed without any evidence of enjoyment. The other yawned. The normalcy of the scene was maddening. Van Ness and I strolled companionably up the bank, out of sight of the barge, and followed a narrow trail up to a ledge on the cliff face. Newly cut branches showed where men had come through before us. The dry ground showed no footprints. A few yards further and I could hear low voices ahead, in the clearing on the ledge.

I paused and removed my hat to wipe away sweat from the climb. Insects hummed and whined in the air about me. My hands were cool despite the heat.

Three men waited for us. Doctor Hosack, looking uncomfortable, turned away from the other two and greeted us on his way back down to the boats. A portmanteau sat unopened on the cleared ground between us. Van Ness and Mr. Pendleton met next to it, greeting one another coolly. There was little to be said this morning, besides the formalities. This meeting had been months in planning and years in the making.

The other man waited with impatience in every muscle of his frame. His graying red hair was lightened in the old-fashioned way with powder, although his attire was new and fashionably cut. He had gained some weight since I had seen him last, singing at a dinner party, but fairly vibrated with intensity. He looked courteously away from me as our friends argued some fine point in low voices. I wished we could speak face-to-face, but the hour for that had passed. The breeze down the river rustled the branches around us, blessedly cool.

An agreement on the terms seemed to be reached: Pendleton reached down into the portmanteau and retrieved a pair of gentleman’s pistols. In sight of both of us, he and Van Ness loaded the weapons, shook hands, and separated. Van Ness handed one to me, his face troubled. We had lost choice of position, and I would shoot second.

The pistol in my hand was unexpectedly heavy. Each face of the octagonal barrel gleamed with oil, and the sun glinted on the sights. It was a beautiful weapon, engraved and well-maintained, but it was not a dueling pistol. Such was to be expected of this low-born opponent. I felt the weight of it in my hand and my body remembered years spent on the battlefield, and the more recent encounter. I had stood in nearly the same place, with one of the same set of pistols in my hand. My friend then was more anxious than I: he loaded it incorrectly, despite my instructions. Today there were no such accidents.

My opponent moved to the north end of the ledge and I faced him. His eyes were striking in his pale, set face. There was no sign of weakness or reluctance, only implacable purpose. He squinted down the sight of his weapon, pointing it here and there against the morning sunlight. Pendleton paced out the distance. I took my place, holding the pistol lightly by my side. My heart raced, although my face was calm. I was cold from my toes to my fingertips. I turned sideways to him, drawing myself as tall as I could. My feet scuffed the dirt, seeking clear footing. My free arm folded behind my back and my coat hung loose as I raised the pistol to eye height. My shoulder shielded my face. The sights lined up on my opponent’s hip. He mirrored my pose, right foot forward, right arm extended. The bore of his pistol glared at me. My memories of dozens of battles flashed through my mind at once, and I drew a steadying breath.

“Ready?” Pendleton asked, safe from the line of fire on my left side.

Hamilton lowered his arm, switched the pistol to his left hand. I lowered mine as well and waited. He dug in his coat pocket, unfolded his glasses and put them on. Again he sighted down the barrel of his pistol, trying the light. My fear sharpened into anger. Even now he was scheming, trying to intimidate me into retracting my challenge. He had forgotten I was a man of honor, a gentleman and a soldier.

Van Ness folded his arms behind his back, side by side with Pendleton. Hamilton’s posturing ended in the expected pose again. I raised the pistol, extended it, met my opponent’s eyes. Every muscle in my body was tense and expectant. I rested my finger on the trigger and waited.

Pendleton’s voice sounded faint and distant.

“Present!” He called, and an instant later Hamilton’s pistol barked out a cloud of black smoke. The report startled me, no matter that I had been expecting it. I had never been shot in all my time as a soldier, and felt no pain now. The smoke drifted away. I realigned my sights on his hip. Pendleton should have been counting down to my turn to fire, but I heard nothing except the echoes of the shot. Hamilton met my eyes again, lowering his hand after the pistol’s recoil. The pull of the trigger was such a small action. My finger tightened against the trigger’s resistance. The barrel wavered. The weapon leapt in my hand. Smoke filled the air around me with the bitterness of saltpeter and Hamilton staggered.

The breeze carried away the smoke and I watched him fall to one knee, then down on one side. I knew well what death looks like, coming over a man’s face; I had seen it in the war and I saw it again now. Van Ness hurried towards me with an umbrella to shield my face as he chivvied me down the trail.

Now, after the pistols had spoken, I found I could too.

“I have to go back!” I told my friend, turning back as I spoke. “I have to speak to him.”

Van Ness took my arm and steered me forcefully down the path. Now that I would speak, there was nothing left to be said.