Here and Again Page 14

  Laundry folded on the table gave way to homework, which then was cleared for dinner—pinto beans, collards, and corn bread. This was a standard dinner in the Smoot-Martin household. Not only was it nutritious and cheap, but it was Jesse’s favorite and was served at least three times a week.

  On her way out to check the horses, Bea asked if anyone wanted to come with her. Osbee gazed over to Ginger with raised eyebrows. Ginger shrugged, hearing herself offer to go, but Oliver jumped at the chance. With a grin, Bea took Oliver’s hand and shut the door behind them.

  Stepping over to the sink, Ginger poured herself a cup of coffee and took a sip. She watched Bea and Oliver cross the yard to the barn. Oliver had not complained about beans and collards. The more she thought on this, the more she realized he never complained about beans and collards. She had never been aware of his notable good humor at that meal. But then, maybe that was just another thing she missed, occupied as she was with her work.

  “Henry?” Her voice was distant as she set her cup down. Rolling up her sleeves, Ginger dipped her hands into the soapy water of the sink.

  “Yeah?” He didn’t look up from his book.

  “Your legs hurt anymore when you grow?”

  “Yes. I take Motrin like you said.”

  “Oh.” At least he was taking care of it. Yet a small churn of guilt rolled over in her stomach. She hadn’t known and wasn’t there to care for him.

  He stood. “I’m going out to check the horses with Oliver and Bea,” he said, shutting his book with finality.

  He stood and slid into his coat. The door banged shut and there was silence in the house. As Ginger washed the plate, she noticed the white sky was now dimmed and the snow was lit purple. Henry ran to the barn, his dark body but a racing shadow.

  •••

  Henry stood by his mother as they gazed down upon the infamous bridge over Antietam Creek. He took her hand in the silence that followed their father’s dissertation on Burnside’s efforts to cross it with the Confederate cannon raging iron and fury at them from the other side. In that quiet, Oliver, who was just three and situated upon his father’s shoulders, continued to whistle the strange birdcall he had been whistling ever since they crossed the cornfield where Jackson had fought near the Dunker Church.

  “Why is it sometimes called Antietam and sometimes Sharpsburg?” eight-year-old Henry asked his father.

  “The North often called the battles the names of the rivers nearby, whereas the South called them by their towns. So Manassas to the South is the Battle of Bull Run to the North, as Bull Run Creek flowed through the field of combat. Antietam—North. Sharpsburg—South.”

  “Yeah, but why?” Henry pressed.

  “I’m not really sure,” Jesse replied, staring down at the bridge. His eyes were unfocused, gazing away to a far and distant place where he soon was to be deployed. Ginger wished they had not come here. It was too close to his leaving and he was always dark at these times. Battlefields were dark places—not good when one’s mood was dark.

  Oliver stopped whistling and sat up straight, jerking his head around in his mother’s direction.

  “I heard it again!” he said excitedly. “The bird answered!”

  “Shh, so we can hear,” Ginger said with a shiver, and they all stood still waiting for the bird. It had answered eerily in the Dunker Church. The chapel was small and white and the interior was almost a perfect square. Around its periphery, two rows of wooden pews encircled the center where the preacher would stand, relaying God’s message or marking the time for the hymns. There was no organ, no piano. There would have been just voices singing in multiple and complex harmonies as a sacred harp.

  But there was no singing this day, just the bird whistling a question over and over. Oliver answered as Ginger and her family searched the pews and the cast-iron stove for the bird that surely must have been caught somewhere inside. But they didn’t find it, and as they moved on, walking together hand in hand or upon shoulders, the bird whistled after them. Ginger fought the urge to look back, feeling greatly like the outcome of doing so would be the same sentence passed on to Lot’s wife but uncontrollably she gazed over her shoulder. A thin shimmering dust cloud wavered in the apricot-colored light and then the bird went silent. Since that moment, there had been no birdsong, though Oliver whistled and whistled.

  Now dusk hung around them in a purplish hue, the air misty from a gentle spring thunderstorm that had passed over as they pulled into the battlefield parking lot. The bird called in reply far afield.

  “There it is!” Oliver smiled brightly. His face was all life and light, contrasting his father’s dark eyes as they gazed over to Ginger.

  “It is the violet hour,” he said, wearing an apologetic smile.

  “Can we stay?” Bea asked excitedly. “A Smoot can see the spirits in the violet hour. That’s what Grandpa Henry always said.”

  “Well, spirits need rest and we need to eat,” Ginger replied, shaking her head. “Smoot or no Smoot, the violet hour is best passed indoors and with food.”

  Bea slumped and she turned from the bridge, skulking back in the direction of the car.

  Henry let go of his mother’s hand, trotted after his sister, and cried out, “‘In the world’s broad field of battle, in the great barnyard of life.’”

  He nudged Bea as he passed her and she quickly gave chase, yelling, “‘Be not like those lazy cattle; be the rooster through the strife.’”

  They laughed as they raced up the hill.

  “Who’s that they’re reciting?” Ginger asked.

  “Oliver Wendell Holmes, the senior,” Jesse replied.

  “That’s my name!” Oliver declared, riding upon his father’s shoulders toward her.

  “You hear my bird, Mama?”

  “I did.” She forced a smile as she tiptoed up to Jesse, kissed his cheek, and then took his hand.

  “Shall we tell a story from Beatrix Potter tonight?” she asked her son.

  “Yeah, yeah. The tale of Jeremy Fisher?” Oliver offered.

  “The life of a frog does have a lot to teach,” she agreed. “And is a far lighter tale than that of battlefields.”

  “Sorry,” Jesse whispered. “Frog it is.” He pulled her to him and kissed her and arm in arm they followed Henry and Bea through the growing darkness.

  •••

  The heavens had turned a fluorescent purple; the entire farmyard looked like a snow globe made of amethyst waiting to be tilted into motion.

  “The violet hour,” Ginger whispered.

  “That it is,” Osbee agreed as she wrapped her right arm around the younger woman’s waist. “The hour for ghosts to walk free.”

  Ginger turned and looked into Osbee’s face. The purple light poured in the window, softening the old woman’s wrinkles. She was a beauty in her day, Ginger had no doubt.

  “I hope not,” Ginger replied.

  February 19, 1862

  Winchester

  My love, Juliette,

  We have returned to Winchester, from where we left in January. It was strangely springtime weather the day we left; the day after it turned with a winter storm, blowing in, and has seemingly ne’er a thought of retreating since. We marched as one body through the weather to Bath. Again, we engaged the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad. We have good reason to disturb that line as it replenishes our enemies, but many of us have sat around fires in quiet laughter. We are not in battle with men; we fight fire and metal.

  With several skirmishes behind us, we came to the Potomac River on the Virginia side, where we found the town of Hancock, Maryland, garrisoned. We shot artillery into the town for two days without much effect but did, yet again, win against the railroad. We destroyed a part of the line. Having victory over boxcars, we, with low humor, cheered our success and withdrew, as we could not find a way over the river.

  Ne
xt, we headed to Romney. There was a small defeat of some of our forward lines at Hanging Rock Pass, but we entered Romney nonetheless on the 10th. Winter had set up camp with us and there were many in our company who had never experienced such. I had great sympathy for them. As we had no ability to move forward into Maryland as planned, hindered as we were by snow, Jackson left part of our company in Romney and we followed him back down to Winchester.

  We arrived on the 24th, at which point we heard that the commander of the regiment we left in Romney complained to Richmond. I am unclear what exactly transpired, but that division was removed from the Valley District under Jackson, leaving us with only our 4,000 men. Hence, we are left securing the lower Shenandoah with half the strength. There is now movement north of here and I feel we might be obliged to leave the poor townsfolk of Winchester yet again. How they continue I cannot say. First they are under Confederate control. Then Union. Then Confederate. Winchester seems to be the fulcrum around which this tedious affair is balancing.

  We skirt Maryland, my Juliette, and if I may—is there anywhere else you can stay? I cannot say where the war will move but I am afraid for you in Sharpsburg. Please, if possible, take your aging father from there. What we shall find on the other side of winter is anyone’s guess. Please, dearest.

  I shall say my humor has returned as Avery falls back in my mind as memory. I know, though, there will be more fighting to come. I purposefully think of this day, this moment, as all there is. I try not to think too much of what is to come. But night returns and now and then I hear that bird and I think of you. Is it you, my love? Do you whistle to me from a far, distant place, calling me to you? What was last fall a dark portending call is now this spring a song of hope. Please keep yourself safe.

  Your devoted,

  Samuel

  Chapter 11

  The Calf Has Insurance

  Ginger trotted to her truck, hot coffee in hand and the kitchen light flowing from the open door where Osbee stood. It was cold and still and the night sky was so clear, Ginger could see the Milky Way churning slowly above her. She climbed into her wretched truck, the smell of vomit hiding just under the veil of cold air, waiting to be found by the warmth of the heater—olly, olly oxen free. Ginger really had no wish to seek the vomit but it came free without asking, so as she turned onto 81 she dug through her bag and found her perfume. She sprayed it around liberally.

  There was no new snow and the roads were clear. As she approached Oak Flat, she held her breath, tiptoeing past Samuel and Jacob Esch and any further weirdness that might pop out of the dark trees on this winding road in West Virginia. Grace had it that she pulled into the empty parking lot of Franklin District Community Hospital with no unexpected passengers, so she parked her car in the employee parking lot and hiked over the snow to the emergency room.

  Reality still had not found its anchor and Ginger’s mind was still sloshing around like sloosh in a hot pan, but somehow the familiar face of Margery T., RN, unlocking the glass door was settling. There was work to be done, people to help and heal, and nothing can keep one in the reality of the moment greater than an emergency. To Ginger’s disappointment, though, the ER was empty. The acute care was empty and as Margery T., RN, shuffled out the glass door on her trek to her vehicle, Ginger looked longingly at the silent ambulance resting in the driveway across the street.

  “Work, work,” she mumbled to herself and headed to the medicine cabinet to take inventory. Margery had already finished that. She walked into the kitchen; Margery had restocked the cupboards and had obviously scrubbed the counters. If she had actually scrubbed the kitchen counters, then it followed that everything else was complete. Kitchen counters usually were cleaned in rural hospitals even after wiping down the waiting room. Good thing there was no cleaning staff at night, for they would have found themselves with nothing do except keep Ginger company at the triage station. So odd. It was Friday. Something always happened on Fridays.

  There Ginger sat, arranging and rearranging the thermometers, the sphygmomanometer, the files in the drawers. Leaning forward, she put her head on the desk, gazing at the clock, which read three thirty-two a.m.

  •••

  “Ginger?”

  She looked around, the mist hanging heavy before her. It was soft purple and at her feet the river lapped the edge of its muddy bed. The water was inky and thick—liquid obsidian.

  “Ginger, can you hear me?” It was Jesse. His voice called through the mist over the water.

  “I hear you. Where are we?”

  “It’s the violet hour.”

  “I can’t see you, Jesse.”

  “I’m here, across the river.”

  “In Elysium?”

  “I am home.” He laughed deeply. She loved that laugh. It was earthy and always came easily to him when he was up to something. Usually what he was up to was something mischievous—something for her to discover.

  “What are you up to?” She folded her arms over her chest.

  He laughed again as if she’d caught him in his mischief and, in his laugh, the mist cleared a little. She found him resting his back on his ash tree, a twig fishing rod in hand with the line bobbing in the black water. He was dressed in a soiled shirt and butternut wool pants and his tattered shoes sat next to his thigh. His legs were long in front of him, his right one lying on top of his left. A small smile grew on his face when he saw her and, in response, a small smile grew on hers.

  Ginger gazed around, looking up the steep hill of the state park behind her and down the river’s edge. Surely she must have crossed in the boat, but she could not find it anywhere.

  “How can I get across?” she asked.

  “You have work to do over there to come over here.”

  “But that’s home,” Ginger said.

  “Is it?”

  His smile faded and he looked at her with shadow eyes—with eyes like Samuel’s. She caught her breath. “Is—is this the river Lethe?” she whispered.

  He rolled his shadowed eyes. “This is the Shenandoah, Ginger. How many years have you lived here?”

  “It doesn’t exactly look like the Shenandoah. The water is black.”

  “That’s because you’re on that side.”

  Her throat grew thick as her chest tightened. “I want to be by your side,” she said.

  “I am always at your side.”

  Ginger began to weep, her tears reflecting the violet sky above as they fell into the inky water of the Shenandoah below. “This is a dream,” she whispered.

  “It is. It is your dream and I am yet in it. See? Now you must build the bridge to your home, Ginger, my love. There shall I always be.”

  There was a rapping above and when she gazed up she saw a crow tapping the branch above her head. She looked across the river and found the fog falling again.

  Jesse smiled a small smile at her as he disappeared behind the violet veil of mist.

  “Wait!” she yelled.

  •••

  Ginger started, blinking in the light of the emergency room, watching the clock on the desk roll from three thirty-three a.m. to three thirty-four a.m. She lifted her hand to her face and found her cheeks damp with tears.

  A gentle rap at the glass door brought her fully to her feet. Quickly coming around the triage desk, she found a disheveled man standing at the door. He had a long, graying brown beard and held a knit hat in his hands. His red-and-black-checkered wool coat hung loosely over his thin frame and his jeans were tucked into his untied leather work boots. He smiled, his hazel eyes bright. Ginger walked to the door, thinking he looked exactly like any picture of an Appalachian mountaineer that had ever been taken or drawn.

  “Sorry,” he said, his words muffled by the glass door.

  “This is what we’re here for,” Ginger said to reassure him as she turned the lock. She swung the door open and his face grimaced as h
e walked in.

  “Ah din’t come in earlier,” he explained, “because ah din’t feel lahke anything happened. But as ah was laying in bed, mah lower back just began pitchin’ a fit.”

  Ginger took the man by the elbow and led him to triage. “You’re here for your back, then,” Ginger said, as she began to take his vitals.

  “Ah had a car accidint this morning.”

  “Oh?”

  “Ah hit a calf.”

  Ginger stopped squeezing the sphygmomanometer and pulled the stethoscope from her ears.

  “Beg pardon?”

  “Ah hit Jack Wolfe’s calf.”

  “Jack Wolfe.” Ginger smiled, remembering the old man who had wanted a candy bar.

  “Yuh.” The mountaineer grinned. “Ah see you know ’im.”

  “I met him once,” she said. “So you hit his calf.”

  “Jack’s not all he once was, yah know, and ah think he’s let the place go some. Not ’cause he’s lazy.”

  Ginger shook her head and decided to wait on the blood pressure. She grabbed the mountaineer’s wrist to take his pulse.

  “Anyways. Ah was a-comin’ down Old Moss Road, slow and the lahke, and ah came ’round the corner and there the calf was before ah even seen it. Hit it straight on. Kilt it.”

  “I see. What is your name, please?”

  “Joshua. Joshua Wheldon.”

  “And what’s your date of birth?”

  “March 9, 1952.”

  Ginger typed the information into the computer and, as was typical, Mr. Wheldon’s medical history popped on the screen. Seemed everybody hereabouts had visited the ER at some point and been entered into its computer system. As expected, he had no insurance. ERs in rural areas were pretty much used for general medicine by the surrounding communities. Payments were usually made in cash or over time or never, depending. She entered Mr. Wheldon’s vitals and complaint into the screen and printed it. Then she had him sign the permission for treatment and payment forms.

  “Ah might could’ve been kilt.”