Here and Again Read online

  How? No sound came out. Just movement.

  “I am a farmer.”

  The trickle became a steady stream and the sound of the flood rushing down the dry and cracking riverbanks of her nervous system shook her body. She began literally to shake with the oncoming wash.

  “Mama?” Oliver whispered, touching her knee.

  Great fields of grass grow from a flood. Thousands of seedlings get a chance when the wash subsides, and without flood or fire or volcanic eruption, the earth withers. Destruction, from which is born creation, isn’t Providence causing tragedy. Providence uses tragedy for good. It isn’t always clear how and in the middle of the loss it isn’t clear anything good will ever come. But it does. Always. What is shed in death feeds life. That is the nature of things. Life rises from disasters.

  “We rise,” Ginger announced and she leapt from the car. She grabbed Oliver’s hand and headed for the porch.

  “Mama?” Bea called.

  “Henry, shut the door and grab your sister,” she said over her shoulder. Her eyes were fixed upon the front doorknob.

  “What are we doing, Mama?” Henry asked.

  “Cuttin’ a shine,” his mother replied, reaching for the doorknob slowly as if it would run away if she made any sudden moves. She held on to it as she heard Bea and Henry come up the stairs behind her. Then she turned it and opened the door as if it were any other day she was coming home. She stepped inside with her children as if it were any other day they were walking into their house. Hand in hand, Ginger and her children stood next to the staircase in front of the open door.

  “Ginger,” Ester declared, smiling politely as she rose from her seat at the dining room table.

  There Osbee sat with a pen poised over a stack of papers; a man with salt-and-pepper hair leaned over her. Hugh sat in the chair next to Osbee. All four pairs of eyes stared in the direction of Ginger and the open door.

  “That’s Mr. Glenmore. He’s a lawyer,” Bea whispered so quietly Ginger almost missed the statement in the flood of nervous noise in her ears. Gazing at Osbee, she spotted the tattered red ribbon at the end of the old woman’s braid. Ginger smiled brightly.

  “Upstairs,” she commanded.

  “Ginger?” Osbee inquired.

  A great bustling and banging of feet up the stairs drowned out any further calls from the dining room table—and there were others.

  “Henry, go into your room and find any shirt for you and Oliver with red on it. Hurry.”

  Grabbing Bea’s hand, Ginger headed into the bathroom and flipped on the light.

  “What are we doing?” Bea asked as her mother faced her toward the mirror.

  “Remembering the lessons of history. Brush your hair, please, Little Bea.”

  Rooting around in the cabinet, Ginger pulled out two small red plastic barrettes. One was shaped like strawberries and the other cherries.

  “Those are from when I was a baby.”

  “We need the color, Bea. No argument.”

  Bea nodded solemnly as her mother clipped them into place. Then she hissed as she rummaged under the sink looking for one other red hair accessory.

  “This good?” Henry asked.

  Ginger popped her head from beneath the cabinet and looked at her boys. One had a Spider-Man T-shirt on and the other a Dale Earnhardt “No. 18” sweatshirt.

  “Perfect. Comb your hair, please.”

  As Ginger bent her head to go under the sink again, she found Bea’s hand held out, offering a red plastic hair clip with two of the five teeth broken off.

  “Red like Grandma Osbee,” Bea said, smiling triumphantly as if she had figured out a perplexing puzzle.

  “Exactly. And the first thing I do when we go to the store next time is buy new hair ties,” Ginger said, returning the smile. “All red. Remind me.”

  Taking the hair clip, Ginger stood, and as her two boys finished combing their hair, she swirled her brown curls up into a bun on the back of her head and secured it with the hair clip. Her strawberry blond roots had grown out just enough to encircle her face, giving her, in the light of the bathroom vanity, a halo effect.

  “Ain’t no saint,” she said to her reflection.

  She then gazed at her children, who were looking up at her for instructions. They were truly their father’s offspring. They were children as all other children, arguing and poking at one another. But in moments like this, they were a unit. They worked together as a unit. She looked from one to the next. Each different, but altogether they were a whole and they were hers and she loved them. She also realized how much she had missed them over the last year.

  “We rise,” she said.

  Bea looked at Oliver, who looked at Henry.

  “We rise?” Henry repeated.

  “We rise,” Oliver and Bea said. Oliver shrugged at his mother.

  She kissed each of their heads and, taking Oliver’s hand, she led them to the staircase, where she stopped abruptly. Beyond the staircase window, Ginger spotted Samuel standing on the front grass, his back toward her with his hands clasped behind him. The wet asphalt road below the rise of the Smoots’ farm ran straight off into the distance, glistening like a river of water in the afternoon sun.

  “We rise together,” she whispered.

  He turned halfway and looked directly at her through the glass. He smiled. She smiled in return and, taking a deep breath, descended the stairs.

  They plunged together down to the first floor, and when they all stood by the open front door again, Ginger pulled her children in front of her, bringing up the rear. She turned and found Osbee still seated, but now Hugh and Ester were standing in front of the dining room table between Ginger and the old woman.

  “H-how are you, Ginger?” Ester asked, still holding that polite smile. Ginger looked at Ester’s smile. It was a smile, all right, but it was also a baring of teeth.

  Ginger held her breath, forcing a tight lifting of her lips in return, and then looked over to Osbee. The old woman hadn’t moved an inch and gazed at Ginger quizzically. Ginger turned her head slightly, motioning to her red hair clip. Then she rested her arms on Henry and Oliver’s shoulders and, bending down, kissed Bea on one of her red barrettes.

  “Ginger?” Hugh inquired, taking a step in her direction.

  Ginger didn’t look at him. She didn’t answer. Her ribs ached with the strain of holding her breath as she waited for Osbee. The old woman looked away, her focus now on the papers in front of her. A lump formed in Ginger’s throat. Her heart pounded in her ears.

  “We rise together,” Oliver said softly.

  Osbee spun her head and stared deeply at him. Then she smiled like the spring day outside, her eyes swimming as she looked from Oliver to Bea to Henry. She put the pen down and rose.

  “Mother?” Ester said, turning toward Osbee.

  “Coffee?” The force of Ginger’s held breath was uncontrollable and the word came out like a shout of victory more than a spoken courtesy. Ginger cringed as it echoed through the quiet of the house.

  “This isn’t your land, Ginger,” Ester said.

  Ginger closed the open door.

  “I think I’ll wait a while, Mr. Glenmore,” Osbee said.

  Ginger turned back toward the dining room. She stepped amid her children and found Bea taking her hand. Henry and Oliver followed and, as they advanced, Hugh and Ester retreated toward the table.

  “This farm belongs to my family,” Ester said as Ginger passed by.

  “Are there any cookies left?” Ginger asked, grinning at Osbee, who was still smiling, her eyes moist.

  “Cookies!” Oliver yelled and, pushing by Mr. Glenmore, scrambled toward the kitchen.

  “This is my inheritance, Ginger. The land belongs to my family.”

  Ginger stopped, touching Osbee’s braid, thinking how beautifully Jesse’s grandmother
wore her age.

  “Mrs. Martin? I’m not sure why you are saying that to me. The land is Osbee’s,” Ginger said, pushing Bea and Henry toward the kitchen. As directed, they followed Oliver.

  “Mother was signing papers before you arrived,” Hugh said. “You obviously have counseled her on something other than selling.”

  “I haven’t said a word to Osbee,” Ginger pointed out.

  “Hugh,” Osbee said. “I’m old but not befuddled. I can think for myself.”

  “You were ready to sign,” Mr. Glenmore said.

  “I do beg your pardon, Mr. Glenmore, but this is not your business,” Osbee replied.

  Mr. Glenmore stepped back, narrowing his eyes. He turned smartly on his heel and headed to the front door.

  “Mother! That was rude.”

  “Ester, that was a fact,” Osbee said. “I was ready to sign because I was thinking only of myself. Oliver reminded me that there are others here to think about.”

  “The land doesn’t belong to—” Ester began.

  “The land belongs to whomever I say it does. Right now, it is mine to do with as I please.”

  “You can’t farm it.”

  “We can,” Henry said from the kitchen door, cookie in hand. Startled by his tone, Ginger stared at her ten-year-old.

  “Henry, leave this to the adults, son,” Hugh said. “Why don’t you go get some milk.”

  “I’m the man of this house now,” he said, stepping into the dining room.

  Osbee gazed from Henry over to Ginger. She raised her eyebrows in question. Ginger shrugged and shook her head.

  “Son,” Hugh said.

  “I am not your son,” Henry said.

  “Henry!” Ester declared.

  “My daddy is dead. He’s not coming back. This is Grandma Osbee’s land, where my daddy wanted us to live. This is our home. We’re gonna do what my daddy wanted us to do. We’re gonna live here. We’re gonna plant. And we’re all going to VMI.”

  Ginger stood as dumbfounded as the rest of the adults in the room. This was entirely unexpected and entirely out of character for Henry.

  “You are a very strong young man, Henry,” Hugh said earnestly. “Your daddy would be proud. So, man to man. Your mama and grandma can’t manage this farm alone.”

  “We can manage,” Ginger said.

  “We’re not alone,” Henry added.

  Ginger’s heart stopped. She shook her head at her son as he stepped toward Hugh. Bea and Oliver peered around the kitchen door.

  “I mean, you and your brother and sister, too, of course. You’ll help, but that isn’t enough to farm.”

  “It’s not just us,” Henry said.

  Ginger slid behind Osbee, hoping to reach Henry before he said anything else.

  “No? Then who? The other farmers? They’ve been helping for two years now. Hard to—”

  “Not them,” Henry replied.

  “Uh, Henry,” Ginger said.

  “Then who?”

  Ginger breathed in. Henry stared squarely at his grandfather. There was a pause, a moment. It was the space between the notes of a song. It was the emptiness between the spokes of a wheel. There was a purpose to this pause; Ginger knew it as surely as she was standing there, but it was beyond her grasp. Instead, she felt the need to help her child. She needed to fill the space. She struggled to find something—anything—to say to break the silence, but nothing came to her mind.

  Finally, Henry offered, “Help always comes when you need it. Have to sit still for it to find you.”

  He was quoting his father. Ginger held still in wonder. Eight years old when the man died, but Henry could quote him to the word.

  “Well, that is true. But it’s time to plant now.”

  “If you go and it comes, it won’t find you.”

  Ginger’s mouth dropped open. That’s what Jesse had said that day at Manassas, when Ginger was pregnant with Bea—exactly what he had said, exactly how he had said it. Yet Henry had been but a baby then. How could he remember?

  “What does that mean?” Hugh asked, looking toward Ginger for help.

  “We’ve been sitting still since Daddy died and help has finally come.”

  Henry nodded to Osbee, then brushed past his mother and headed for the front door. As he opened it, Bea and Oliver rushed from the kitchen to follow. Oliver dropped one of his many cookies as he shut the door behind them.

  The house was still. No one moved. They just stared at the front door.

  “I’ll get coffee,” Osbee finally said.

  “I’ll help,” Ginger breathed.

  “Help always comes when you need it,” Osbee added and then chuckled.

  March 24, 1862

  Somewhere other than Kernstown

  My love, Juliette,

  Your star has shone upon me all winter as the cold gnawed my bones. Your eye fixed in my direction, watching me walk the long miles I have walked. I sought it each night, willing the sky to be clear. Many nights heaven was thickly covered, warm in her clouds as she snowed and rained down upon us. We—the thinly covered. We—the frozen-footed, unfed sorry souls of the South.

  So many miles we have marched as if seeking no other object than spring. Surely if we kept walking we’d run into her eventually. But she was always just over the next rise, rolling through Winchester and out again. Finally, we found her, green buds peeking out from the end of limbs. Leaves unfurling from their long sleep—yawning, stretching, waving happily as if it was she who had sought us those long, dark months. And we could almost see the days becoming longer. We could almost feel the wind becoming warmer. We could almost hope home was just over the next day, found at the end of the next week.

  One month of spring—one month of hope. Then, yesterday’s loss at Kernstown. Even Jackson couldn’t stop the men running away, grabbing the poor drummer boy and forcing him to beat the rally. We beat, all right—but not to rally.

  The only work I do now which seems to be of any use at all is the short stops I make on the march to help a farmer’s wife turn a horse or release a plow or child from the mud. Others have begun to follow me in these brief moments, each of us living the memory or perhaps the dream of home. The click of a hoof as the horse moves through the field. The smell of weeds and dirt as the furrow is rolled. The bell ringing to call all home for a supper of beans and collards. I hadn’t truly noticed the absence of that bell until yesterday. It sounded across a rolling field and it seemed the entire column stopped, hearkening to the call. I held my breath, thinking we were all going to make a break for it. I imagined her response as the entire army rose out of that woman’s field, cap in hand, seeking a place at her table. I laughed out loud as we started to march once more. The imagined surprise on her face is all that has lifted my spirits since.

  I am bitter at our loss and with the cold, my love. Apologies. But often I imagine you are somewhere close to the road as I walk. I was relieved to hear you moved with your father from Sharpsburg to your cousin’s in Strasburg. I hope to find you in a field or beneath a tree or by a river. I shall meet you again at last, cap in hand, and there I hope to find a place at your table.

  Your devoted,

  Samuel

  Chapter 13

  Moonshine

  The house had been full of words and shuffling feet as Ginger tried to serve coffee to the Martins. They, however, would not settle; instead they followed Osbee from one room to another, trying to beat sense into her with argument and tenacious pursuit. But everyone was talking and no one was listening any longer, so the words just floated about the kitchen, dining room, and family room like a bunch of notes played absently by a small child on a piano. None of it made sense and it wasn’t a pretty tune, to be sure. Eventually, the long drone of discord found its way to the door, down the steps of the porch, and was silenced by the slamming of the Mercedes’s
doors. At the exact moment the car rolled onto the asphalt, Beau came slinking out of the barn. Coward.

  Ginger kissed Osbee on the cheek and, without any words, they made dinner. All was quiet as they ate, after which there was just a soft murmuring as baths were taken. Osbee mentioned something about exhaustion when she passed by the door to the bathroom. Ginger was towel-drying Oliver when a mumbled “Good night” was followed by the gentle closing of Osbee’s bedroom door. That was soon followed by Bea’s door shutting and Oliver climbing into bed next to his brother.

  By nine p.m., silence fell through the house and Ginger slowly walked around it, room to room, turning off the lights, locking the doors. As she did so, for the first time she pondered how many people had done these things in the 144 years the Smoots’ farm had stood. Then she wondered why she hadn’t thought about it before this night. When Samuel and ghosts rolled across her mind, she shivered and went upstairs quickly to bed.

  There she lay down, covers tucked beneath her chin, listening to the wind and watching herself kneel in the snow near Jesse’s tree. She had asked for anything and so here she was, in an old house, on ancient land, waiting for a ghost to help her—farm.

  “Be careful what you ask for,” she whispered, breathing in the scent of coffee that was now brewing in the kitchen. She hadn’t slept a wink, and when her cell phone alarm sounded at eleven thirty p.m., she turned it off. It was time to get up—time to go to work. As she rolled out of her covers, a large shadow moved in the far corner of the room. An electric zap of terror seized her spine and instantly she reached for the lamp next to her bed.

  “Don’t!” Samuel said, but it was too late. It was reflex; she turned the knob. “Ahhh!” he yelled. In the flash of light, in the second the bulb came to life, Ginger saw Samuel in the corner of the room with both of his arms flung across his face as if recoiling from a large flame. Then he was gone.