by Erin Bartels
“Just some old shirts.”
William looked disappointed.
They brought the quilt down to the parlor, moved the furniture to the edges of the large space, and laid it out on the floor.
“Wow,” Nora said. “That’s amazing.”
William had kept his opinion to himself then. The find had made Nora so happy she had barely noticed he was still in the room.
Now as she carefully laid it out on the floor once more to look over her repairs, Nora breathed a little prayer of thanks that it had survived long enough for her to find it. The mantel clock struck the hour and she went into the kitchen to make dinner. After each step in the recipe, as things simmered and sizzled and baked, she wandered back to the front room to stare at the quilt. Where should she put it?
As she pulled the pan out of the oven, she decided to lay the quilt over the bed in the north bedroom, where there was only a plain wool blanket at the moment. She wouldn’t see it unless she purposefully went in there, but at least William wouldn’t have to look at it.
“Dinner’s ready!” she shouted down the cellar stairs.
“Up in a couple!” came the muffled reply.
Nora put the plates on the table and salted William’s vegetables.
“What do you think of these?” he asked as he breezed into the room a moment later. He laid four 5x7 photographs out on the table.
Nora came around to examine them. “They’re nice.”
“Nice?”
“Yes,” she said, looking up at him. “They’re nice.”
He furrowed his brow and frowned at the photos.
“They’re beautiful photographs, William.”
He shook his head. “No, they’re just nice. You were right the first time.” He sighed.
She picked up a photograph of a pale leaf upon a large, dark stone. “This one is very good. I like the contrast.”
He was still shaking his head. “I don’t know what the problem is. I don’t like anything I’ve done since we moved out here. This place is hell on photos.”
Nora looked over the four photographs again. “There are no people.”
“No people,” he echoed.
“Those were always your best photos. Portraits, pictures of all different kinds of people.”
William looked thoughtful. He began to nod, slowly at first, then with increasing intensity.
“Let’s sit down and eat,” Nora suggested.
William sat, but he did not eat. “Here’s the problem. There are no people here. Didn’t I say exactly that when you first brought this place up?”
“That’s one of the things I love about it.”
William speared a green bean. “Nothing happens at this house. I doubt anything ever happened here worth photographing. Maybe I should take a day trip somewhere.”
“How about Flint?”
He narrowed his eyes. “Why Flint?”
“It’s close, it’s urban, lots of people. Seems like the right sort of place. Why not?”
“Are you going to get on me again about getting a job on the line?”
Nora played innocent. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yeah, right,” he said with a half smile.
“Though if you took a notion to it, you could fill out some applications while you were there.”
He shook his head. “See? I knew it.”
“Why don’t you want to get a job at GM? That’s good money.”
“What do we need it for? We’re making ends meet.”
“Barely. We’re not getting ahead.”
“Ahead of what? If you have enough to live, what do you need more for?”
“Don’t you want a bit more? We could get another car. We could go on a vacation.”
“But if I don’t work thirty miles away, we don’t need a second car, and if I don’t work fifty hours a week on the line, I don’t need a vacation.”
“What about retirement?”
“Retirement from what? What do I have to retire from?”
Nora let out a frustrated sigh.
“Look, baby, I want time for my photography. That’s where my heart is. And now that I’m not contributing to my mama’s rent, I got a little freedom. I want to take some good photos—meaningful photos—and sell some, maybe put them in a gallery. Make a book someday. If we still lived someplace where anything happened, I guess I’d be taking more pictures for newspapers, like those photos from the march. You’ve got your sewing, I’ve got my camera, we’ve got this house. What more do we need now?”
They ate in silence for several minutes.
“Nora,” William continued finally, “I just don’t want to go back to a life where I’m treated different. Any black man can get a job on the assembly line, sure. But he’s still a black man while he’s there. Still taking orders from self-important white men in suits. Still don’t feel like a man.”
She was quiet a moment. Then she buried her face in her hands.
William was out of his chair in an instant. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s just—I’m pregnant.”
“What?”
“And there’ll be hospital bills and clothes to buy and a crib and all sorts of things and we’re not going to be able to afford it so the baby will have to sleep in a—”
He tipped her face to look at his. “Nora, are you serious? Are you really going to have a baby? Our baby?”
She tried to get control of herself. “Yes.”
Tears started to form in William’s eyes.
“I’m sorry.” She sniffed, wiping at her eyes with her sleeve. “I don’t know what’s come over me.”
William laughed lightly and pulled her close to his chest. “It’s okay, baby. It’s okay.” He held her for a long time, swaying back and forth. Finally he said, “Okay. I’ll look for a job in Flint.”
“Really?”
“Really. I’ll start looking tomorrow.”
Nora blew her nose in her napkin, and William settled back down into his chair.
The rest of the meal was consumed with talk of what sex the baby might be, which room would be best for a nursery, what color the walls should be, and what names they each liked.
“What about Bernice?” William said.
“Bernice? What? No.”
“Why not?”
“Bernice?”
“Yeah.”
“No.”
“Okay then,” he said with a roll of his eyes. “How about Beverly?”
“Maybe.”
William sat back, satisfied.
“But if it’s a boy,” Nora said, “I want to name him Matthew.”
thirty-three
Lapeer County, April 1865
Bridget fastened the last button on Mary’s bodice and handed her a black wrap. The two women descended the same staircase George had run up only days before with the jubilant news of the war’s end. It had been the first unguarded moment Mary and George had shared in months. He had not responded to her impulsive and passionate letter, and with every day that had passed since she’d written it, it was harder to be in the same room with him. Now Mary grasped her black skirts to keep from treading upon them as she went down to eat the evening meal in a room full of silent, grief-stricken friends, with George at the head of the table.
She imagined they must all be thinking the same things she was. How could it happen? Just when victory had been secured? The gross injustice and tragedy of it was more than she could bear. But as mistress of the house, Mary knew she had to set the example of strength and fortitude despite grief. They could not give way to despair. The war, after all, was still won.
“Little George didn’t vomit on me once this morning, Mrs. Balsam,” Angelica announced as she handed the wriggling baby boy to his mother.
“That was very sweet of him.” Mary laughed in spite of herself. She liked the nickname her baby had been given by the household to differentiate him from his namesake. It made it much easier to understand who someo
ne was talking about. Not that Mary might suppose that Big George made a habit of throwing up on Angelica. But still, the word little seemed apt. He was her little angel child, her solace.
After Loretta’s revelation about Nathaniel’s indiscretions, Mary had announced to everyone living in the house that the baby’s name would be George. He was baptized the next week, Mary and Bridget attending the service with Big George but none of the other residents of the house. Reverend and Mrs. Whittaker had frowned at the name, but she would not be swayed.
When everyone was seated, George prayed over the meal. While their eyes were all closed and George thanked the Lord for his provision, little Simon toddled into the room and yanked at the tablecloth, nearly pulling an entire place setting onto his head. His hand was caught at the last moment, and everyone in the room seemed to let out the collective breath they had been holding.
“Thank God for children during dark days,” John Dixon said as he shooed Simon away.
“Yes, indeed,” Mary agreed. “I pray these little ones will never suffer the horrors our nation has undergone these past four years.”
There were solemn nods of affirmation all around the table.
“Any word yet from Mr. Balsam when he be comin’ home?” Jacob asked.
Mary shook her head. “I imagine it may be some time yet. And now with President Lincoln’s murder, I fear it may take even longer. I’m sure he will send word when he can.”
She still had not heard from Nathaniel since before Little George was born. She checked the lists of names every week to see if he had been killed, injured, or captured. His name never appeared and so she tried not to worry. As angry as she was, she didn’t wish him ill. It would be better for him to return home safely, even if she could hardly think of him without lapsing into bitterness.
Soon breakfast was consumed and plates were in the kitchen being washed. The men went out to their various tasks at far-flung corners of the Balsam farm. Bridget and Angelica took the small children out to the front porch for some fresh spring air. Mary was pushing in the last chair when George came back into the room for his hat. It was the first time in months she could remember being alone with him.
“Where have you been lately, George? I feel as though I’ve hardly seen you.”
“We’ve both been busy, I suspect.”
“It’s obvious what has occupied my time—a baby is a lot of work—but what about yours? What have you been doing in the barn until all hours?”
He looked at her in surprise.
“Little George has me up all night,” she said. “If I look out the kitchen window I often see the lantern light seeping through the crack in the barn door. What has you so occupied?”
George appeared to be considering his response. “I’ve been carving.”
“Carving? Goodness, carving what? You could have carved Noah’s ark by now.”
A smile crept across his face. “It’s nothing like that. It’s almost done, though. Would you like to see it?”
She felt a warm sensation in the pit of her stomach. The months of no letters vanished, and Mary felt as though she were reconnecting with a friend. “I’d like that very much.”
“Come down to the barn when I’m working on it tonight and I’ll show you.” He tipped his hat to her and walked out of the room.
The rest of the day, Mary was the picture of distraction. She didn’t notice people speaking to her. She misplaced her letter opener and spilled a pot of ink. What could he have been carving in secret? Why should it be something he must show to her under cover of darkness? Was this an invitation to something more? Could this be his answer to her letter?
When night came, Mary tossed while little George snoozed in his cradle and Bridget snored on her cot. She did eventually fall asleep, and when Little George woke her with his crying, she found it difficult to return fully from unconsciousness. It wasn’t until she was putting his sleeping body back into the cradle that she remembered her evening errand. She looked over herself in the glass, fixed her hair, then put on her best dressing gown and slippers. She tiptoed down the stairs and out the back.
A soft and steady light spilled through the crack under the barn door. Heart pounding in her ears, she hurried across the wet lawn and stepped out of the dark night into the warm glow of a lantern. She heard wood being sanded but could see no one.
“Hello?” she whispered.
The sanding stopped.
“Mrs. Balsam?” came George’s soft voice.
“Where are you?”
“In the loft.”
Mary looked up and saw George looking down at her. She pulled herself up the ladder and crept through scattered bits of hay to the place where George knelt by a large wooden structure.
“This,” he said, “is what I have been making.”
Mary examined the object. It appeared to be made of undulating branches, some light, some dark, sanded to a smooth polish and locked in a sensuous embrace.
“This isn’t all of it,” he said. “There are a few more finished pieces that go with it. But I have those stored out of the way.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a bed. This is the foot. I’ve done the headboard already and the two sides. I’ll put them together on a frame once it’s in the room, and then I’ll put the ropes through for the feather tick. When I got done with the cots, I couldn’t stop. Thought I’d make something real special.”
Mary inched closer and ran her hand along the smooth surface of one branch. Only this close she could see that it was not a branch. The entire piece appeared to be carved from two separate but intertwined pieces of wood, one light, one dark. Mary followed one with a finger, but she could not see how George had managed to get the two together.
“There must be a trick to it,” she said in wonder.
“There is, but I won’t tell you what it is.”
“It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen. I had no idea you were an artist.”
He laughed. “You and me both.”
“Amazing.”
“I’m glad you like it. I made it for you.”
Her eyes grew wide and her lips parted. “Oh, George,” she started, then faltered. “I . . . I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t need to say anything. I would have rather just gotten it set up in your room without you knowing, but you never leave the house. Anyway, this is better. Now I know you like it.”
“George, I . . . I do like it. Only . . .”
This felt wrong. Very wrong. How could the man she loved make a bed in which she would conceive children with another, one she felt she hardly knew anymore?
“Oh, George. How can you give me this?”
His face fell. “I thought you’d be pleased.”
“I would, but—oh, it feels so evil to say it, but I cannot deny that there is a part of me that is not looking forward to Nathaniel coming home. I have known you twice as long as I knew him before he enlisted. You have been here with me all this time, in my very darkest moments. Nathaniel has not. How can I know we will ever really love each other the way you and I—” She snapped her mouth shut.
“You know this cannot be anything more than it is,” George said softly. “I can never be more than a friend to you.”
He spoke the truth. Even if Nathaniel had died in the war, she could not have married George. She’d heard rumors of the races intermingling in the bonds of marriage in Boston and New York. But this was not Boston or New York.
Tears welled up in her eyes. “Why did you make this for me? Why did you ask me to come out here in the dark of night?”
“I didn’t think—”
“No, you didn’t,” she said fiercely. “First I pour my heart out to you in a letter I never should have written, then you all but ignore it—ignore me—for months. What am I to think, then, when you present me with a bed?” She made a move to go.
“Mary, wait.”
Tears spilled down her cheeks. “Why? Why should you call me Mary no
w?”
George pulled her toward him. She held tight to him for a moment and then pushed away.
With a gentle hand on her chin, he turned her face up toward his. He wiped away the wetness on her cheeks with the back of his finger. “I never got such a letter. If I had, of course you know I would have written back.”
“But . . . I know I wrote it.” Mary tried to recall that terrible day when she had learned of Nathaniel’s betrayal of their marriage vows. She remembered putting the letter into an envelope. She remembered writing My Love instead of George on the envelope. She remembered seeing Bridget as through a fog the next morning after being up all night with Little George. They had spoken, but Mary couldn’t recall what was said. She couldn’t determine what had been reality and what might have been a dream.
George’s hand on her cheek brought her back to the moment. “It used to be that there was nothing in life I wanted more than my freedom,” he said, “and for a very long time that was the one thing I could not have. Now I have it, and there is nothing in life I want more than you, and yet you are the one thing I cannot have.”
Mary knew at that moment that if he asked her to, she would give herself over to him, no matter the consequences.
As if he could see her desperate desire, George dropped his hand and backed up. “I think it’s time for you to go back to the house, Mrs. Balsam.”
Somehow Mary made it down the ladder and out of the barn. She rushed across the wet grass to the house, tore up the stairs, and flung herself on her bed. She buried her face in her pillow and poured her sorrows into its downy softness. It was not long before she felt a hand on her shoulder.
“Ma’am, are you okay?”
Mary snapped her head around. “Bridget, did you send a letter for me?”
“A letter?”
Mary gripped Bridget’s hand. “Months ago. The envelope said My Love.”
“Oh, yes, that was some time ago. I did send it to the last address we had for Mr. Balsam, but you never can tell if letters will make it to soldiers. Don’t fret, ma’am. I’m sure that Mr. Balsam is safe and will be home soon.”