Stone Field

by Christy Lenzi

  “Mr. Dickinson.” She’s holding a small box. “Remember the instrument I told you about—the one that would help me hear your heart beat better?”

  “The stetho-whatnot?”

  “Yes, the stethoscope. It’s here!” She opens the box and lifts out a small case. Coiled inside is a short hose with a flat wooden disc on one end and a wooden cone on the other. “May I?”

  Papa nods, and Effie presses the flat part of the stethoscope against his chest and raises the other end to her ear. She holds still, listening, then gives us her big smile. “I can hear it perfectly!” She turns quiet again for several moments, as if Papa’s heart is whispering a secret message to her that she’s trying to make out.

  “Oh,” she whispers. Her eyebrows tighten up, slow, and her smile slips away.

  “What’s wrong, Miss Effie?” Papa asks. “What do you hear?”

  “I’m not sure, but I—”

  “Well broom me out!” Dora pops her head into the room. “I didn’t know you all were having a little shindig in here. I think it’s time we let our two invalids rest, don’t you, Effie?”

  Lord.

  * * *

  Over the days, my throat heals and my voice returns, but no one knows it—I don’t want to say something that will make them doubt I’m fixed. I nod at Dora’s fool chatter, my ears alert for mention of Stonefield. I know he’ll come back to me. Why is he staying away so long? Sometimes when I’m alone, I whisper his name to my empty room over and over, imagining the words hanging in the air, filling up the space surrounding me. I write his name on the wet windowpane to see the tears drip from it.

  When days pass and he still doesn’t come, I carve his name into the skin of my arm with my angry fingernail until I bleed. I write it in the dust under the table, dragging my fingernail over the wooden floorboard, letting the splinters prick me. I pluck threads from the mattress to spell him into the bed beneath me and press myself into it, suffocating his name. But no one ever mentions him.

  I’ve lost track of how long I’ve been away from him. Three weeks? It must be only a month or so since I was first in Stonefield’s arms and let him deep inside me, and now I’ve missed my cycle, something that never happens.

  Dora, too, thinks she might have a child growing inside her. At least, she hopes so. She hints and giggles, never saying it plain and true—that wouldn’t be proper.

  I don’t hint. I retch in a pan. I only eat dried toast. I’ve never needed rags in all the weeks I was in bed, still, no one suspects my secret. Not even Effie the doctor. I want to tell Stonefield. I need to know where he is. He should be here. Why isn’t he here? Henry knows where he went.

  Reverend Preston’s always around. He hasn’t even asked me to marry him yet, but everyone acts like I’ve already said yes. Won’t they all be surprised one day when I run off to be with Stonefield. Our souls are already married.

  Sometimes I head toward the door, to run away and find him, and then I remember how Reverend Preston caught me last time I ran away and pressed me to the bed while his eyes searched for the demon inside me. I stay where I am for now. When I run, it will be when Reverend Preston’s not around to catch me and drag me back.

  The preacher’s finished reading The Pilgrim’s Progress to me and lately he’s taken to walking me from room to room, his arm bent so I can hold on at the crook of his elbow. As we walk through the house, passing our reflection in the windows, it looks like Reverend Preston has a pale ghost girl on his arm.

  I am a ghost girl. Not using my voice is making me fade away into nothing. The shock of it hits me and shakes loose the tamped-down anger. It starts rising to the surface with each infuriating look of tenderness he gives me.

  “Catrina.” His blue eyes think they see me now, and his gaze has a cloying sweetness to it that overpowers even the scent of his lavender. “Shall we take our little evening walk?”

  “No!” I can’t be silent any longer.

  But his eyes brighten. “Your voice! Praise the Lord—He’s given it back to you.”

  “Reverend Preston—”

  “Please, call me Samuel.”

  “Reverend Preston, my strength has returned. I need fresh air.” I force my voice to sound calm and pleasant, but I’m set on getting as far away from him as possible. “When you see Effie and Mr. Lenox, ask them to take me with them on their trip to Rolla tomorrow.” Once a week, the Lenox family drives to Rolla on the day the train arrives with shipments for the Lenox General Store.

  Reverend Preston covers my hand with his. “Of course. I’ll drive you and Miss Effie to Rolla myself. I bought my own horse and buggy and named the horse Faithful—she’s a beauty.”

  Damn it all to Hell.

  21

  The next morning, as we get ready to leave, Effie seems antsy. “Catrina, I’m relieved to see you looking so well.” Her voice is different from normal—almost bubbly. “I’m looking forward to picking up my new shipment from Father’s store. There’s some soothing medicine for your father in it, too. It’s so nice of your Reverend Preston to offer to drive us into town.”

  My Reverend Preston? Hell. She’s as bad as the rest of them.

  Effie smiles her middling smile at me. “But the buggy seat will be too crowded. I’ll ride in the wagon with Lu and my father and meet you there.”

  “No!” I grab Effie’s arm so she can’t escape.

  “Catrina, three’s a crowd.”

  “I don’t want to ride with him. Let Lu ride with him, and we can ride in the back of your father’s wagon.”

  “Lu would talk Reverend Preston’s ear off. Besides, you’re the reason he offered his buggy.”

  At that moment, the preacher walks in. His face is red from the effort of hitching up his horse. The color in his cheeks makes me think of the color of the columbines Henry once picked for Effie years ago. She pressed them in a book about blood’s journey through the body. Right now she’s so excited that if her skin was pale, Effie’s cheeks would be that color, too.

  Reverend Preston takes my coat and holds it up for me. I want to yank it away from him and throw it across the room, but I want to get out into the fresh air even more, so I slip my arms into the sleeves. As we leave, he starts to rest his hand on my back, to guide me out the door, but I pull away to walk my own stride.

  When the preacher drives into Rolla and pulls the buggy up to the storefront, something isn’t right. The townspeople are scurrying around like ants whose tiny hill has been stepped on. Dark blue uniforms dot the road and walkways, and a swarm of them congregates at the train depot under a brand-new stars-and-stripes flag that slaps and furls in the breeze.

  As soon as we come to a stop, I hop out of the buggy without waiting for Reverend Preston to help me, because I don’t wear fool skirts like Effie and Lu, who have to step down slow from the wagon with help from their father.

  Mr. Lenox says, “You gals go on in with Reverend Preston. I’m going to see what the hubbub is about.”

  Effie frowns at the crowd, but obeys her father. Lu, Reverend Preston, and I follow her into the Lenox General Store. Her face lights up when the clerk recognizes her and pulls out a crate of new medicines, books, and tonics. Effie lifts a book out of the crate. She traces her fingers over the title, slow, like she’s a blind person reading the words in Braille. On the Origin of Species by Means of Natural Selection by Charles Darwin. I never saw a person as hungry for knowledge as Effie.

  “Will it help you with my father’s illness?”

  Effie stares at the cover for a minute. “No, it’s Mr. Darwin’s theory on how the world works. I’ve wanted to read it ever since it was published in January, but I’ve been too afraid.”

  “What’s there to be afraid of?” I peer at the cover. It looks like a normal book.

  “Mr. Darwin’s ideas are new and strange. New ways of thinking can be powerful—stronger than guns or armies.”

  I think of the Union and Confederate armies, conscripting soldiers and growing larger every
day.

  Reverend Preston reaches for the book. “Miss Effie, nothing should make a Christian afraid.” He turns it over in his hands lightly, as if it’s just a toy or a trifle. “One need only read the Bible to have a firm foundation in this world.”

  Effie takes the book from him careful. “Truth has a way of pulling the foundation right out from under our feet. If our foundation is solid, then you’re right—our fears are needless—but if it is faulty, then we had better be brave enough to find out.”

  Reverend Preston tilts his head to one side like Papa’s dog Napoleon does when something puzzles him. “Miss Effie, I thought you said you’re afraid to read this book.”

  Effie nods. “I am.” She tucks the book into her satchel. “But I’ll do it anyway.”

  The preacher shakes his head as if he doesn’t understand. “Well, at least your courage will serve you well when you venture to new lands this spring.”

  That doesn’t make any sense. “What new lands? Effie’s not going anywhere.”

  Effie takes my arm. “I meant to tell you in private, but I’ve only just learned for certain.”

  I wrench my arm away. “Learned what? Where are you going?”

  But Effie doesn’t even look upset. She seems happy about wherever it is she’s being made to go.

  “Africa, Catrina!” Her eyes light up.

  Africa? Lord, she might as well go to the moon.

  Effie’s hands are clasped together as though if she didn’t hold on to herself, she’d float away. “I’ll finally be able to serve as a doctor to my mother’s village in the Congo like I’ve always wanted. I’ll be traveling there with Father’s missionary friends in the spring.”

  I don’t want her to go. Her wide smile makes me want to be able to smile, too, but I’m afraid that if I move my mouth even a little bit, then angry, cruel words will slip out and hurt her. So I pinch my lips up tight together and lock them shut.

  Before Effie can say anything more, the noises from the crowd outside turn louder, and shouts rise up above the other voices. Reverend Preston takes Effie’s crate and walks toward the door.

  “You ladies wait here inside; I’ll put this in the wagon and see what’s happening out there.”

  But we don’t stay inside. We follow him out the door and watch the crowd gathered under the flag. While Union soldiers pour from the train and fill the depot platform, the townspeople buzz around a man in the center of the group. It’s Frank Louis.

  Mr. Lenox breaks away from the group and joins Reverend Preston. When Frank spots the reverend, he yells out, “You—Preacher Preston! What do you think of this?” He gestures toward the soldiers. “These here government boys have took over the train line. No Southern newspapers will make it through. Ain’t no cargo going in nor out but what they see fit!”

  Reverend Preston doesn’t seem to hear Frank, because he’s looking beyond him, at something in the distance that makes his face turn serious. I don’t see anything. Maybe he’s listening to the Lord, who wants to give him some wisdom to share with Frank.

  When Reverend Preston doesn’t say anything, Frank’s handsome face turns red and splotchy.

  Mr. Lenox calls out, “Let’s stay calm now, Frank. You know the Rolla depot’s the last stop on the line. With just a stretch of hilly wilderness between here and the Confederate troops, it’s no wonder the Union Army decided to pay Rolla a little visit.”

  But Frank just frowns and spits tobacco in Mr. Lenox’s direction as if he’s not worth answering. He waves his arm toward the soldiers and shouts to the crowd, “I told y’all it would come to this with President Lincoln sticking his nose where it don’t belong.”

  Reverend Preston sizes up the throng of soldiers watching Frank Louis. He leans toward Mr. Lenox and they say things too low for me to hear.

  Frank has sweat patches under his arms. He wipes his forehead with his sleeve. “Ain’t you heard they’re a-marching through the county, conscripting people’s horses and their sons?” He huffs and sputters. “These here boys are soldiers conscripted from up north who come down here to do the same to us. The government’s got no right to come here and steal our property for their own use.”

  A tight-faced soldier in a spotless blue uniform and cap steps up to Frank. “Sir,” he says in a deep voice, “say it plain, here and now—are you for the Union or against it?”

  Frank looks like a kettle fit to blow steam. “’Twas them fool government men that split the Union in the first place—drawing a line straight through the middle of it, thinkin’ to shut everybody up with their Missouri Compromise. But it’s just a line drawn in the dirt. And today you Union boys are crossin’ it.”

  Several people in the crowd nod and murmur, but when they glance up at the soldiers, they get quiet.

  “Ain’t no Union if it’s only run by the folks in the top half! I’m for my own self and don’t want neither side telling me what to do.” He shakes his head and calls out to Reverend Preston again. “You—Preacher! You have plenty to say on a Sunday—what do you have to say here and now?”

  Reverend Preston doesn’t look around or shuffle his feet. He steps right up onto the platform. With his shoulders back and his head lifted, he’s almost taller than Frank. His strong, lilting voice carries easy over the crowd.

  “I will not waste these people’s time by speaking my own opinions, like some, but I will share with you the words of the Holy Spirit. The Lord’s Spirit says to me that the terror of this coming war is God’s judgment on His people for their sins. But take heart, Beloved. One day this cycle of war will be broken. The Bible says, ‘For out of Zion shall go forth the law, and the word of the Lord from Jerusalem. And he shall judge among the nations, and shall rebuke many people: and they shall beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruninghooks: nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more.’”

  A couple people call out “Amen!” but others grumble and spit in the dirt. Frank looks like he’s about to explode. “That’s damned fool talk! There’s a war going on, Mister Preacher, and no amount of Bible words is going to change that. Y’all think these here Union soldiers won’t force us to go against our will?”

  He glares at the preacher and turns away, toward the rest of the crowd. “Some of y’all think the Confederates were wrong for swearing in a few savage Creek Indians and putting them under their protection.”

  I want to throw rocks at Frank like I did back when he saw me in the creek. I want to shout, “Stonefield’s not a savage!”

  Frank keeps going. “But them Indians who joined the Southern army did it freely, I heard. Looks like we ain’t so lucky as to have a choice with these here Union soldiers. These Yankees claim to fight for freedom, but looks to me like they’re aimin’ to take ours.”

  Right then, while the men keep shouting, a pebble hits my boot and makes me jump. I look up and search for the person who threw it. That’s when I see him. Stonefield. He’s about twenty paces from the crowd, watching from the back of a wagon full of supplies. Frank’s wagon. Stonefield’s sitting on some bags of corn and sugar, his eyes on me. When he sees I’ve spotted him, he motions for me to come join him. I glance around—no one’s looking at us; everyone’s paying attention to Frank and the soldiers.

  I run over to the wagon as Stonefield hops down. He takes me around the wagon bed and pulls me to the ground so that we’re sitting behind the wheel.

  “Stonefield!” I squeeze his hand.

  “Did anyone see you?”

  “No, no. They’re all watching Frank.”

  He nods, but his eyes are full of anxious things. They’re glassy like that first day. He looks like an animal being hunted. He reaches out gentle and touches the scar on my forehead, running his finger over it. “I tried to stop them from hurting you and taking you away—”

  I stiffen. “But then you left.” I touch a bruise on his cheek. “Why did you go, Stonefield?” The anger inside me makes me press down hard on his brui
se.

  He winces from the pain, but doesn’t move away from me.

  “Cat.” He wraps his fingers around my hand and moves it to his lips. “I couldn’t stay there with Henry. I’m at Frank’s place.” He kisses my fingertips. The feel of his soft lips eases away a little of my darkness that’s seeped in. “Henry thinks that he can tell me who I am, who I can’t love, who I can’t be with, but he’s wrong.”

  He leans in and his lips are hot against mine. His kiss is so hard, it pushes everything else in the world to the side, against the wall of my brain. His kiss is all I know.

  We’re both breathing fast as we pull away. Stonefield digs his fingers into my hair and holds on tight. “From now on, I’m the only one who can tell myself those things.”

  “Stonefield, what are you going to do? Why are you staying with Frank?”

  “He’s hired me on. I’m saving for traveling expenses and to buy a horse. I’ll have enough soon, if these soldiers don’t mess everything up.” He glances under the wagon at the crowd.

  I knew it. He’s planning to run away with me. My heart beats out a dancing rhythm. We’ll go to a place where we’ll be free to be together and Henry will never find us. Warmth fills my body. I take his hand from my hair and slide my fingers between his so they’re laced together.

  He steals another look from under the wagon. “Even if they do mess things up, I’ll find a way. No one can stop me from getting to Oklahoma Territory.”

  Oklahoma Territory? “But, Stonefield, there are better places—closer places—to hide, like the woods in Hudgens Hollow. Henry’s enlisting this week—he’ll be gone.”

  “I’m not planning on hiding. And I’m not afraid of Henry. I’m going to join the Muscogee Creek Indians in Oklahoma Territory.”

  His words hit me like rocks falling from the sky.

  Stonefield keeps talking. “Henry thinks the Creeks are all just toys of the Confederates, but that’s not true. There’s a group that wants to be neither Confederate nor Union—they just want to be left alone. The papers say that President Lincoln received a letter from their chief, seeking asylum from joining the army because they want no part in this damned war. If he says yes, they’ll travel to Fort Row in Kansas. If they do, I want to go with them. I belong with them.” He ducks his head and glances under the wagon again at Frank and the crowd and the soldiers. “These aren’t my people. This isn’t my war.”