by Ron Rash
Rebecca did as he said, placing the children before her. The flames thickened and Hannah and Ezra ceased to shiver. Rebecca took a quilt from the bed and laid it before the fire.
“Lay down there,” she told them.
“Their real ages?” Allen asked.
“Seven and ten.”
“Yes,” he said, looking at them. “I guessed about that. Had my son and daughter lived, they would have soon been their sizes.”
Rebecca hesitated, then spoke.
“I know,” she said, “about their dying, I mean. It’s said you blame people here for it.”
“They are to blame. They came at night like cowards and terrorized my wife and sick children. Do you deny that?”
“No,” Rebecca said.
The sergeant knocked and opened the door.
“Your orders have been carried out.”
Colonel Allen nodded and the door closed.
“The commendation from General Buckner,” he said, nodding at the fireboard. “It speaks well of your Aaron as a soldier, and the letters speak equally well of him as husband and father. I regret that I had to peruse them, but it was necessary. I ask your forgiveness for that and for what has occurred today. I, we, will attempt recompense. We have sugar, and if you need more wood cut…”
“No,” Rebecca said. “I want nothing from you but what you and your men came here to do.”
“Your anger at our ill treatment I understand, Mrs. Penland, but had you simply told us what we now know.”
“And after you’re gone, what do you think will happen if you and your men leave this farm as if you’d never come?”
Colonel Allen’s mouth tightened into a grimace. The only sound was the fire’s hiss and crackle. Rebecca looked down and saw that Hannah’s eyes were already closed. Ezra’s too were beginning to droop, though his mouth remained in a defiant pout.
“What would you have us do then?”
“What you came here to do,” Rebecca answered, “that and you and your men don’t tell anyone about the letters.”
He nodded and stepped to the doorway.
“Corporal, go get the ham.”
“But, sir, you said…”
“I know what I said. Get the men to catch three chickens, no more. You can kill them. We’ll eat them when we’re out of this godforsaken valley.”
“That won’t be enough,” Rebecca said.
Allen turned.
“Yes, it will.”
“No,” Rebecca said. “It won’t be.”
“What more then would you have me do? You have no well to foul.”
“The barn, you must burn it.”
“I will not do that, Mrs. Penland. Your husband died for our cause. The ham and chickens will be enough. Tell your neighbors we were here only minutes. Say we set the barn afire but did not stay to ensure if it fully caught. But those letters, they should be burned. If one of your neighbors were to come upon them…”
Colonel Allen stepped out of the door and gave orders to mount.
* * *
—
The clatter of the men and horses leaving did not wake the children. Rebecca went outside, looked down the valley, and saw that smoke yet hovered above the two farms. A skein of smoke, nothing like the billowing plumes that rose a year ago at Brice and Anna’s place, last June at Ira’s. Everyone in Shelton Laurel would soon know the soldiers had come. They would hear or see them passing on the pike that led back to Marshall. Some of the men might have time to fire a few shots. Then they would come and see if Rebecca and the children were safe.
But they would not arrive for a little while, so Rebecca went inside the cabin. Not wanting to waste a match, she pulled a half-burned piece of kindling from the hearth and walked to the barn. Nine years, Rebecca thought, remembering how Ezra was already kicking in her belly when she and Aaron had arrived from Buncombe County. The cabin had been here, but not the barn. Ira had come first to help, then others bringing axes and oxen. In a week the barn had been built. She remembered Aaron’s warning the night before he left for Asheville—Always say Unionist.
A thick matting of straw lay in an empty stall. Rebecca dropped the kindling and soon flames spilled into the adjoining stalls before laddering up gate posts and beams. Only when flame blossomed in the loft did Rebecca leave the barn. Frost still limned the ground, and that was a blessing. It would keep the fire from spreading.
When she’d returned to the cabin, Rebecca opened the crock and saw Colonel Allen had not put the button back. Not even his button, not even that, she thought, as she took out the letters and held them above the flames. Foolish not to have done it before, Rebecca knew, and told herself to open her hand and let them go.
But she couldn’t, so Rebecca put them in the container and placed it back in the cubbyhole. She went outside and saw that the barn had crumpled except for the locust beams. The thick smoke that clouded the sky minutes before was now no more, signaling to neighbors that the Confederates were gone.
By the time Ira and Brice arrived, the fire would be no more than a smolder. The two men would kick the ashes, hoping to find a locust beam with only its surface charred. They’d douse the beam with water from the spring and drag it from the rubble. The Ledford and Hampton men would arrive next, and soon after whole families. The Lunsfords and Smiths, then the Moores and the Sheltons. The women would bring food enough to get Rebecca and the children through the winter. Men would bring axes and the surrounding woods would sound like gunshots as the honed metal struck in the November air. All day the women would cook and tend fires. Children would gather kindling, then scuff among ashes for the iron nails that had secured the shingles. Everyone would work until dusk, then return the next day to help more. Ira Wilkey might or might not say We will get through this together, but that was understood. They were neighbors.
When All the Stars Fall
There had been no shade as they built the dock, and though they wore sunscreen, the skin between shirt and ball cap had been burned to the color of brick. Brent and his father rubbed calamine lotion on their necks each night, but the skin remained tender to the touch as if branded. But now it was after five on Friday afternoon and the dock was nearly done, would have been done, Brent knew, if someone other than his father had taken the job. They’d have already packed up their saws and drills, gone up to Mr. Hewitt’s house to get their check, and be sipping a beer at Mac’s Bar and Grill.
Instead, the old man had checked everything up top and now waded into the water to confirm that every post was meticulously secured. Only then would he and Brent walk the shore to ensure no wood chips or screws littered the ground. Even if they never notice, it has to be done right, his father always said. Which was why, despite Brent’s protestations, the old man would hand a client a piece of notebook paper with an itemized cost of materials and labor. If the price was agreed on, his father asked for nothing more than a handshake. Several times the job, once begun, took more materials and labor than anticipated. When that happened, he explained the situation but left it up to the owner to decide on additional compensation. Having worked ten years with his father, Brent was no longer surprised at how often those with the most money balked at paying extra. Such customers also searched intently for some flaw on a completed deck or dock. If they were insistent enough, his father dropped the price a few dollars. Not as much as they’d like, but enough to stop their complaining and write the check.
Brent’s father waded out of the shallows, the black Maglite held overhead like a torch. He’d rolled his pants above the knees, and in the day’s declining light his legs glowed in their paleness. Unlike his muscular arms and shoulders, his legs were thin, each footstep tentative as he waded ashore. Even after a second surgery, the right knee gave way at times, part of the price for countless hours kneeling on wood and concrete.
“Looks good,” his father
said, so they checked the shoreline and packed the last of their tools into the pickup.
They were glad this job was done. Mr. Hewitt had a reputation as being hard to work for. “A royal pain in the ass,” a brick mason had told Brent and his father. Jerry Funderburke, who worked at Lowe’s, swore he’d quit the store before going to Hewitt’s house again. So Brent and his father had been warned, but since the recession, carpentry work was scarce. Too many days they’d waited at home for the phone to ring, Brent even working part-time at Hardee’s to make extra money. He and Leslie had been talking about having a child, yet how could they when the two of them together barely made each month’s rent and car loan. But it was Friday, Brent reminded himself. The job was done and they had work for next week already lined up. In a few minutes they would stop at Mac’s for a beer before Brent’s father dropped him off. If they weren’t too tired, maybe he and Leslie could drive to Sylva to rent a movie.
* * *
—
Hewitt was on the lake house’s back deck, which was no surprise, because he’d been there often during the week. He’d come down to the dock every day. “I’m just wanting to see how far you got,” Mr. Hewitt would say, but his eyes always searched for something more. “You’re certain those are the right board length?” he’d ask, or “Will those screws hold securely?” They were questions tinged with accusation. Brent’s father answered, “Yes, sir,” but after Hewitt left he’d muttered, “That man knows as much about dock building as a cross-eyed cat.”
Mr. Hewitt came down the deck steps with a checkbook in his hand.
“I want to look it over first,” he said, and they followed him onto the dock, the boards firm beneath their feet. Farther up the lake, a red sun balanced on the hydro dam. A cool breeze swayed the cattails and Brent thought how nice it would be to sit out here with an ice chest of beer as the last Jet Skis or boats went in. All you’d hear was water sloshing softly against the posts.
“It’s a pretty view,” his father said, looking out at the lake as well.
“Maybe so,” Mr. Hewitt said, “but this railing’s too high for the dock to be safe for a child.”
“You didn’t say you wanted it lower,” his father answered. “You didn’t say a word about children.”
“A professional would consider something like that and consult the client, don’t you think?”
His father’s face burned as if he’d been slapped, except Brent knew a slap would sting less.
“You were out here yesterday when we began putting it up,” Brent said. “You should have said something then.”
“I wasn’t looking that carefully,” Mr. Hewitt answered. “I assumed you knew what you were doing. I’ll pay you half of what we agreed on.”
The breeze that had bent the cattails ceased. The water stilled as if the lake itself now listened. Brent looked at Mr. Hewitt. What did he know about this man, besides that he was wealthy and from some place where you could make enough money to own a vacation home worth half a million dollars.
“It’ll take another day,” his father finally said, “but we can lower the railing where you want it.”
“And listen to more of the racket your saws and drills have made all week?” Mr. Hewitt answered. “I bought this place for the peace and quiet. No, I’ll have it redone sometime when I’m away.”
“It’s not right,” Brent’s father said. “We’ve done good honest work for you.”
Mr. Hewitt set the checkbook on the railing, took a pen from his shirt pocket, and wrote out the check. He held it out to Brent’s father, who stared at the check as if it was smeared with dog shit.
“This is what I’m paying you,” Hewitt said.
“You owe us the full amount,” Brent said, “and you’re going to pay it.”
“Look, if you’ve got a problem, we can take this to court. But you’d better take the check and be on your way, because if my lawyer gets involved you will end up with nothing.”
His father took the check.
“We’ll call us a lawyer first thing in the morning,” Brent’s father said when they got in the truck. “There’s got to be some that work on Saturday.”
“It won’t be worth it, Dad,” Brent replied, looking out at the lake. “A lawyer will cost more than what Hewitt owes us, even if we won. Like I’ve been telling you for months, this is exactly why we need to make out real contracts, to protect ourselves.”
“There’s lawyers that take a case for a percentage,” his father said. “You see them on TV all the time.”
“Not for this small an amount.”
“There might be one around who’d do it that way,” his father said, “just for the principle of the thing.”
“It doesn’t work that way,” Brent said, trying not to sound exasperated. “Why don’t we skip Mac’s this evening? We’ll do it next Friday.”
“I don’t feel much like stopping myself,” his father agreed, then as much to himself as to Brent, “I don’t understand how anyone can act that way and still sleep at night.”
They didn’t speak again until the pickup pulled into the driveway. Brent got out and took his lunch container and circular saw from the back, then walked over to the driver’s-side door.
“I’ll see you Monday, Dad.”
“Why don’t you and Leslie come to church Sunday?” his father said. “Folks there have been asking about you all. Afterward you could come to the house for lunch. That would tickle your mom. Besides, I’ve been craving banana pudding and she makes it only for you.”
“We’ll see,” Brent said.
Leslie was already home, but he didn’t go straight inside. Instead, Brent put the saw and lunch box beside the shed and sat in a swing the previous renters had put up. He’d quit smoking two years ago, but he wanted one bad right now. How can anyone act that way? his father had asked.
* * *
—
Brent had known Ricky Lunsford since first grade. A pale, pudgy boy who carried around an inhaler for his asthma, Ricky had been the kid in elementary school who never got chosen when teams were decided. There had been some teasing, a few times he’d been shoved or tripped, but Ricky never asked a teacher to intervene, and earned a bit of respect for that. He’d retreat to the playground’s far corner at recess. In high school Ricky sat alone at lunch. Just ignore me, he made clear. Do that and I’ll ask no more of you.
But one day in the eleventh grade, Brent paused at the table where Ricky sat. You don’t need this, Brent said, and took the piece of pizza off Ricky’s plate before walking on to where his friends were. Brent did that for two weeks, taking something—pizza, a hamburger, a carton of milk—never a whole plate. Just one thing. Ricky never tried to stop it. He never said a word, just let it happen. By the second week Brent didn’t bother to put what he took on his plate. He carried the pilfered food to the nearest trash can and dropped it in.
If a teacher hadn’t seen what was happening, how long would he have done it? Not much longer, Brent wanted to believe, but he’d never know for certain, because one afternoon the principal called Brent’s parents. That evening he and his father went to visit the Lunsfords. Brent had never seen where Ricky lived. It was a trailer with rust bleeding down the dented tin, concrete blocks rising irregularly to the front door. Inside, it was clean enough, but the furnishings spoke of yard sales and cast-offs. Brent felt remorse, but it was his father who apologized to Ricky and his parents first.
“For my son to have done this, I’ve failed as a parent,” Brent’s father told the Lunsfords. “Anything I can do to set it right I will. The least we can do is pay two weeks’ worth of Ricky’s lunches.”
His father had taken out his billfold and offered a twenty-dollar bill. Mr. Lunsford refused the money, but he and his wife accepted the apology. Mrs. Lunsford even made light of it, saying it was just boys being boys. Ricky and Brent shook
hands. There had been no other punishment, but on the ride home Brent’s father had said he wouldn’t have believed Brent capable of such a thing, words left hanging in the dense silence. Brent still saw Ricky around town, but they kept their eyes down if they happened to pass each other.
* * *
—
Maybe if he had not been drunk, Brent wouldn’t have set the fire. It had happened on the following Tuesday night, the day after his father had given up on any kind of litigation. They were building a deck for a retired dentist from Charlotte. They’d done jobs for the man before and he paid without wrangling over the price, as his father reminded Brent when he insisted they not take another job without a contract that a lawyer had double-checked.
“At least a contract for people we don’t know,” Brent argued, but his father hadn’t replied and Brent knew there was nothing left to say.
That night he and Leslie watched a movie, but afterward, when Leslie went to bed, Brent didn’t follow. He’d drunk three beers, his usual limit, but he got three more from the refrigerator and went outside to sit in the swing. In a few minutes the bedroom light went off, but the porch and living room lights still shone. Moths swirled around the porch’s bare bulb, but the rackety air conditioner displaced the night’s sounds. Six months back, Cam Beecham had offered to sell them this house and two-acre lot, but Beecham was asking a thousand more than the county appraisal. Brent and Leslie had believed he would lower his asking price, but there’d been no new offer.
Brent finished the fifth beer, crumpled the can, and tossed it to the ground. He tightened his hands around the bright steel chains, swayed back and forth a few moments. When he and Leslie had moved in, Brent had noticed that the grass wasn’t worn beneath the swing seat, put up and left as if a taunt. His mind went to the dock and stayed there. When Brent was growing up, his father would point out how a plumber in Sylva had done shoddy work but then gone out of business, or how a county clerk embezzled money for three years but ended up in prison. It catches up with you, son, he’d say. But plenty did get away with it, Brent knew. All you had to do was look at the recession, which almost caused him and his father to lose everything. The silk-tied crooks who’d done it weren’t arrested and no one pretended they ever would be. People like that got away with anything. Get caught robbing folks, all you had to do was pay back part of what you stole. Turn a million people into drug addicts, you didn’t spend a day in jail.