Here and Again Read online

Ginger had never really thought about that. She just loved them singing if she had slept well and wished they would shut up if she hadn’t. Why do birds sing the sun up?

  “Maybe—maybe they’re calling to each other making sure they all survived the night.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe one starts and it’s the only time they can really hear their song in the chaos of a noisy day.”

  “Hmm. They like the sound of their own voices? I can say that about many a man.” Samuel chuckled quietly.

  “That’s not what I mean.” Ginger sat up and looked at him, a standing shadow in the corner. “A morning chorus. A choir is only as good as its members listening to the voices of the others around them.”

  “The morning chorus.” She couldn’t see it, but she knew he was smiling.

  “We lit the house without electricity last night.”

  “I know. I was here.”

  “You were?”

  “Yes.” His voice was just a shadow.

  “Why didn’t you say something?”

  “I was . . . thinking.”

  “About what?” Ginger tossed off the covers and sat on the edge of the bed. Regard lay as if nothing had happened—a lump underneath a mound of blankets.

  “About being here. About a picture I once held in my hand. About a bird’s call in the cannon roar. About a friend long gone.”

  Ginger had no reply. She had no idea what any of that meant and to ask would be to know something of Samuel’s past. This conversation she felt sure would be better held in the light of day when only his eyes went to shadow.

  “About you,” he finished.

  “What about me?” Ginger whispered.

  Samuel said nothing, nor did he move. He was a frozen shadow growing longer as the sky brightened outside the window. Suddenly, she felt a great wash of sadness pour over her. She wasn’t ready for this. He was in her plan just like Jacob.

  “Are—are you leaving me?”

  Samuel let out an audible breath. “No.”

  For herself, Ginger brightened, but at the same moment she felt Samuel’s weight. Carrying the dead. Her husband. Samuel. But he wasn’t really hers to carry. She looked at the floor.

  “If what you needed to do is done,” she heard herself say, “then you should go . . . home. The kids and I will be fine.” She was lying. Well, not exactly a lie. But not a truth, either. She had no idea what she was doing with this farm and to say it would all be fine was ridiculous.

  “This is home, Virginia Moon. We have to make it so.”

  She nodded, relieved, but not so relieved, either. The same unsteady sense of the world that had come to her on the road when she first realized Samuel was spirit crept from her toes, which rested on the cold wood floor, up her legs, into her stomach, over her shoulders, into her mind.

  “I’m unsettled,” she said softly.

  “I know. I, too, feel without ease. There is something here, Virginia Moon. Something has been flowing as a wash of water for over one hundred and fifty years and I feel it creeping closer than ever I have.”

  “What is it?”

  Samuel shook his head. “I do not know. I see only pieces of it but no clear connection between any of them.”

  “Pieces of it? Like you being here. A picture you once held in your hand. A bird’s call in the cannon roar. A friend long gone?” Ginger asked.

  Samuel nodded and in the first ray of light his shadow was illuminated. First she saw his tattered shoes, then his woolen pants, then his disheveled shirt. The light stopped on his lips and there Ginger could see him mouth, You. She swallowed hard.

  “I saw you yesterday, Samuel. In Woodstock.”

  “Yes. I, too, saw you.”

  “Why didn’t you answer me when I called your name?”

  “Because you called me from here, Virginia. Now. I only saw you—heard my name called there—then.”

  Ginger thought for a moment “Then. You mean back then? In the war?”

  Samuel nodded.

  Closing her eyes, Ginger listened to the morning chorus, trying to steady herself in the shifting of reality.

  “I saw you in Manassas,” she said without opening her eyes.

  “I did not see you. But I moved my head to find your voice in the cannon smoke, and in that moment a minié ball missed me and hit Avery.”

  “Is—is that the friend you are thinking of? The one long gone?”

  Samuel shook his head and replied, “No. His name was Jeb. We both deserted after the battle at Cedar Creek—”

  “Ah! That’s just up the road here!” Ginger declared.

  “It seemed far from here back then.”

  There was a quiet rap on the door.

  “Mama?”

  Ginger stared at Samuel’s lips, waiting for the light to reach his eyes.

  “Yes, Bea.”

  “Time to get up. We have work to do.”

  Her eyes sought Samuel’s, which remained in shadow as if the sun had stopped its motion.

  “Yes, we do.”

  Bea opened the door a crack and looked in. “We need to get up earlier, Mama. I should be finishing breakfast and heading to the fields.”

  “Really?” Ginger gazed over at her daughter. The sun was cool gray upon Bea’s face.

  “Daddy and I were always out in the barn when the birds started to sing.”

  “Okay, Bea,” Ginger said. “Then we should set our clocks tomorrow. I don’t smell coffee.”

  “Grandma went out with Henry and Oliver,” Bea replied. “She says you have kitchen duty.”

  “I see.” Ginger chuckled, searching the floor for her slippers.

  “Oliver will bring in eggs. Ah! Samuel! Good morning!” Bea shone like the sun.

  “Good morning, Bea.”

  The little girl yawned and, leaving the door open, headed for the stairs.

  “She’s not used to fieldwork like me,” Bea said.

  “You are used to it?” Samuel inquired as he left the shadow of the corner and walked out the bedroom door.

  Ginger followed both down the stairs, thinking of the chorus and the shadow that was Samuel. He had deserted his regiment. Maybe he couldn’t cross over because he was being punished for something.

  “My daddy and I used to work the fields from when I was just a baby in a carrier on his chest.”

  “What does that mean? ‘A carrier on his chest.’”

  Ginger reached for the light switch at the bottom of the stairs and stopped herself just in time.

  “Like a backpack, only it goes on the front and holds babies.”

  Walking into the kitchen, Ginger turned the knob on the side of the kerosene lamp and lifted the plunger. She pumped it several times to pressurize the fuel in its base, spun the plunger back in place, and turned the lever. A gentle hiss whispered to the mantles and she struck a match, setting the lamp aglow. She blew out the match and lifted the lantern to its hook above the table. The day before, an electric light held that spot. But today was like when Osbee was a child. The same old lantern now hung on its same old hook, happy to be serving again in light from the buried darkness of the attic.

  “You went out on your father’s chest into the fields? Virginia Moon, you agreed to that?”

  “I wasn’t here often,” Ginger replied, scanning the counter for the coffeemaker. It was not in its proper spot next to the sink.

  “Where were you?”

  “Working. Look, the way Jesse saw it, babies go out in the fields on the backs of their parents everywhere else in the world. What’s the difference? Where’s the coffeepot?” Ginger opened the cupboard below the counter whereon used to sit the coffeemaker.

  “Jesse,” Samuel said softly.

  “Where’s the coffeepot?”

  “On the stove,” Samuel
replied. “Jesse is your husband’s name?”

  On the stove was a steel pot. On the counter next to it was an old hand-operated coffee grinder, a glass jar of coffee beans, and a piece of paper.

  “Yes,” Ginger answered, lifting the paper and reading. “Holy cow! I’m supposed to make coffee in this?”

  “You cannot make a pot of coffee?” Samuel asked.

  “Well.” Ginger looked over at him. “Not this way. I just use the coffeemaker that plugs into the wall. But you are here and electricity makes you itch, so . . . percolated coffee on the gas stove. And kerosene lamps.” Ginger pointed to the kitchen light above the table. “Changing out of deference to you.”

  “Here. Let me show you,” Samuel said.

  “And farming with horses like you used to do,” she added.

  “It is easier to teach what you know,” he replied, motioning for her to fill the coffeepot with water. “I know nothing of tractors.”

  “But you know farming. So we’ll learn what you know.”

  As Ginger put the pot under the faucet and was about to turn on the water, a shrill scream filled the kitchen and without another breath Ginger was out the kitchen door, through the sunroom, and onto the stairs in the cold March morning. There she saw Oliver running toward the summer kitchen with his small basket of eggs held tightly to his chest. His eyes were white and wide as a full moon and when he reached the door he banged it madly with his right fist.

  “Help!” he screamed.

  The goat rounded the corner at full speed. Grabbing the broom that hung on the sunroom wall, Ginger leapt from the stairs and stormed toward Bubba. Just then, the door of the kitchen opened. However, the summer kitchen had a farmer’s wife door and Henry had only opened the top.

  “What’s wrong?” Henry asked.

  Without so much as an inhale to answer, Oliver dropped the basket and, as any great Olympic gymnast might do, flew over the door as if it were a vault, tucking his short legs beneath him. He then disappeared in a tackle with his brother into the kitchen. At that moment, the goat hit the bottom part of the door at full speed, setting it to shudder with the impact.

  “Neaaaahhh,” it said as Ginger, stalking silently like Regard, stepped closer. Bubba didn’t have a chance, for by the time it turned its wicked caprine gaze in her direction, the broom came down on the top of its head. The goat didn’t even wince but did jump a little in surprise, at which point Ginger swung and batted its rear legs out from under it. The force of her swing sent Bubba flying to the left, rolling backward, its feet flailing in the air as it tried to right itself.

  “What’s it like, Bubba?” Ginger hissed as she came on. “Minding your own business and out of nowhere something nasty comes at you, scaring you to death.”

  The goat pulled its feet under its body and stood, lowering its head for a run. Before it could start, Ginger whacked it on the left shoulder and the goat stumbled to the right, skidding in the dust to a stop. It hunkered down and leapt forward, coming straight at her. Before she could make another swing, it hit and the force of the impact did—nothing. Dazed, Ginger stood still for a moment, waiting to hurt or fall down or something. Nothing. Then she tossed her broom down.

  “Come on, you little shit!” she yelled, and as commanded Bubba turned and came back at her, hitting her thigh.

  “Is that all you can do?” she asked. Hands on hips, she turned to the summer kitchen and found Henry, Osbee, and the wide eyes of little Oliver peeping over the door at her.

  “Oliver,” Ginger said as she turned her back to Bubba. “Come here.” The goat butted her in the rear end. She didn’t even flinch. “Whatever, Bubba. Oliver?” Ginger reached the door and held out her hands.

  “No!” Oliver screamed.

  “Look at him, Oliver! He can’t even bruise me. Come here!” Grabbing Oliver’s hand, she pulled him from the kitchen.

  “No!” His voice was high and terrified. He writhed in her arms.

  “Mama!” Bea called.

  “Oliver!” Ginger commanded. “Look at me!”

  Whimpering, Oliver looked with red, tearful eyes at his mother.

  “I would never put you in danger—do you know that?”

  Oliver nodded a little.

  “Do you know that I will never put you in danger?”

  “Yes,” he whispered.

  “Look down.”

  Reticently, Oliver looked down and the goat, at that moment, rammed Ginger’s hip.

  “Whatever, Bubba,” Ginger said, smiling.

  Oliver kicked a little, hitting the goat’s horn.

  “Neeaahhh,” it said.

  “Whatever,” Ginger said with a little laugh.

  Oliver smiled as Bubba butted his mother again. “Whatever, Bubba,” Oliver said.

  “Bubba is a goat. We don’t want to be mean to him but we don’t want to be afraid, either. His pointy horns and weird eyes made me scared. But when he hit me, I realized there’s nothing to him. He’s just doing goaty things and it’s me being afraid—afraid of what I thought he was and what he can do. And he seems to like making me afraid but right now he’s learning I’m not moving.”

  “He’s bigger than me,” Oliver whined.

  “Yep, and he’ll use that. But he can’t really hurt you. He’s a goat. If he pushes, push back. Okay?”

  Oliver wasn’t sure. The frown on his face told the story.

  “You need to get down and face him, Oliver.”

  “I don’t want to.” He clung tighter, burying his face in her neck.

  “I might be out in the field or in the barn and he might hit me and knock me over, but he can’t hurt me. You see? Because I’m not afraid anymore.”

  Ginger rubbed Oliver’s back, rocking him gently in her arms. He smelled like hers. He was her baby. He was Jesse’s baby. He was their last baby and when that thought crossed her mind she held him tighter, hanging on to the little boy who would one day be too big to hold this way.

  Oliver squirmed in the tightness of her embrace and, slowly, crawled down her body to the ground. He held her leg, looking sideways at Bubba.

  “All the eggs are broken,” Ginger said.

  “Not all,” Oliver replied. “I didn’t get them all.”

  “Too many to carry?”

  “No. Rooster chased me.”

  “Really?” Ginger said, and at that moment Bubba charged, aiming for Oliver.

  “Mama!” Oliver yelled, trying to climb back up.

  Ginger left him on the ground, petting his head in reassurance, and when the goat hit him, his eyes popped open in surprise.

  “That feels like Henry or Bea pushing me.”

  “That’s all it is.”

  Oliver let go of her leg and looked at Bubba. “Whatever, Bubba!” he yelled.

  “Why don’t you get the basket and we’ll go get the rest of the eggs.”

  Oliver stood up and walked to the door.

  “Oliver! Look out!” Henry yelled.

  “Whatever, Henry,” Oliver said and faced the oncoming goat. It hit him and the impact caused him to stumble backward into the door. “Go away!” Oliver yelled and pushed Bubba hard. The goat backed up and blinked in its goaty way.

  When he picked up his basket, egg ooze dripped from its bottom.

  “Osbee, you got another basket?” Ginger asked.

  The old woman nodded and walked away from the door.

  “What are you doing in there?” she asked Henry.

  “We’re straining the milk and cleaning our buckets.”

  “Ah.”

  “Then we’re gonna clean the stove in here.”

  “I’m gonna help with that,” Oliver added.

  Osbee handed her the basket and a long stick, saying, “You’ll need this.”

  “Why?”

  “Turkeys have beaks,
feet, and feathers that are all pointy.”

  Ginger took the stick and handed it to Oliver. She gazed over to the sunroom and found Bea, Beau, and Samuel standing on the steps. She eyed the dog.

  “Where were you when I was being attacked by your new friend?”

  The dog yawned.

  “Come, Beau. Let’s go talk to Rooster.”

  Taking Oliver’s hand, she turned around and headed toward the orchard. She didn’t need to look; she knew not only Beau but everyone else was following. As they walked down the hill, there were a couple of shrieks as Bubba surprised somebody in the group, but eventually Ginger would hear “Whatever, Bubba” and then nothing. She supposed Bubba had grown weary and had slithered away, waiting to come upon them unawares at a later time.

  When they came to the trees, they found the chickens up and pecking the ground. Rooster stood large in their center, casting his beady eye in Ginger’s direction. Her spine tingled.

  “I just can’t see how this is a coop,” she said. “It’s supposed to be my orchard.”

  The fifteen chickens and Rooster chattered behind a metal grid fence that formed a large square around a quarter of her orchard. Inside was a rather large henhouse on wheels with a rather large ramp leading up to a rather large door. The size was to accommodate Rooster, who had walked toward Ginger and Oliver and was even now puffing up his feathers.

  “We move it, Mama. It’ll be here for ten days; then we’ll move it to another section of the orchard. It’ll feed the chickens and fertilize the ground.”

  Henry, who was doing the talking, had obviously spent quality time with Ed Rogers the day before.

  “What need is there for this?” Samuel exclaimed.

  “You didn’t do this on your farm?” Ginger asked.

  “No. We let the chickens run about.” He waved his arms around the yard. “They’d roost in the henhouse at night.”

  “We can’t do that,” Henry replied.

  “Why not?” Samuel inquired.

  “Sarah and Emma from VMI said that the chickens will make a mess with their poop everywhere and ruin the farm equipment by nesting and such. There’s also foxes and raccoons and stuff that’ll eat them.”

  “Not with that monster among them,” Samuel said, pointing to Rooster.

  “I suppose, Samuel,” Ginger said, “things have changed a bit since you were . . . around.”