May the Road Rise Up to Meet You: A Novel

by Peter Troy

  Marcella could only surmise that Papa was treading so lightly now because these men were new associates, none of them the familiar faces she had seen at the dinner table over the years, and appearances were, as always, everything to him. I have made him squirm, she thought, smiling furtively. Here in this very room where he has so long ruled! And it emboldened her to pour a snifter of brandy for herself, then lift it high in the air, clearing her throat before she spoke.

  “To Lincoln! To cotton! To money!” she exclaimed, and was the only one, other than Bartolomé, to drink to her toast.

  “Marcella, you should go with your Mama and sister in the other room,” Papa said, only slightly more assertively.

  “Oh no, I want to sit with the Masters of the World and discuss the great issues of the day,” she insisted, then took a cigar from the case on the decanter table and flopped down in the seat next to it. She held the cigar up to her lips, and Bartolomé laughed instinctively before catching himself beneath Papa’s icy glare.

  “Marcella you embarrass yourself,” Papa said, staring at her icily for a moment before looking around at the other men. “Gentlemen, I am sorry my daughter is so much a high-spirit she forget sometimes how we raise her to be a lady.”

  And there were fewer comments than before, but still some general recognition of the difficulties of bearing daughters.

  “Ahhhh Papa,” she interrupted. “I know it must have been difficult to be burdened with my presence all these years. But you will not have to fret any longer, as I am moving out! This evening. Right at this very moment!”

  The men laughed a little, then stopped once they realized her sincerity.

  “Marcella,” Papa said, “enough of this now! Leave us to our business.”

  He said it in the way that once had frightened her, squinting his eyes and tensing his mouth as if she had shattered a fine vase. But she did not know such fear anymore.

  “Oh, I will leave you to your business, Papa,” she said, standing up and dropping the cigar on the table. “I only wanted to toast your triumph and to tell you that, from this moment on, you can reach me at Mrs. Carlisle’s house on Twenty-Third and Broadway.”

  She lifted her glass slightly, then drank down the rest of its contents.

  “Farewell, gentlemen,” she said, and walked out of the room, leaving them in stunned silence.

  She would have walked straight out the front door and returned to Mrs. Carlisle’s at that very moment, except for the few items she could not risk leaving behind. Papa could hold on to all the dresses and whatever jewelry she had, every stick of furniture, and even the sheet music and books that had made life here more endurable over the years. But then there was the brush and the brooch and the notebooks from Abuela, and those she would not let fall into his hands to be held ransom until she moved back home. And in the time it took for her to gather these in a small case, Mama and Pilar were bursting into her room, Pilar in tears and Mama with a look that surprised Marcella, neither angry nor sad, but as if she had long been resigned to such an eventuality.

  “Marcie … no … you are not leaving,” was all Pilar said, sitting on the edge of her bed and pulling Marcella’s arm until she sat beside her.

  She could not explain to them everything, of course, since Pilar didn’t seem to know the possibility of another way and her mother, if she ever had, had long ago yielded her entire identity to Papa. So she left it as a matter of simple politics, telling them that she had decided to join the abolitionist cause and could no longer live in the same house with Papa. It was an act of mercy to Pilar at least, her Mama sensing far more of the truth and thus hardly assuaged by such consolation.

  In the end though, her mother insisted that she take the trunks with her, even helping her pack them, while Pilar sat on the bed and plotted ways in which she would come to visit Marcella every day, announcing that she would become an abolitionist too if that’s what it would take. But even with all the promises made of letters and secret visits and the like, the goodbyes she offered them seemed final. Mama had two of the servants carry down the trunks, using the back stairs of course, and placing them in their harnessed carriage waiting for her. But Marcella would not skulk her way out the servants’ entrance and insisted on using the front stairs, and the front door, more than willing to confront Papa and her brothers and their guests another time. Instead it was just her Papa standing alone by the front door, his hands planted against his hips and a scowl on his face. She could hear Miguel and Bartolomé talking in the parlor, but the men were all gone by now.

  “Marcella, if you leave this house you will have no more money from me,” Papa said.

  And she was amazed at the limit of his response, as if he finally understood that appeals to her duty, her place as a woman, even the shame she would bring upon the family, no longer held dominion over her any more than he did. He goes directly to the money, she thought, but held her laughter back to only a smile and short exhale, understanding the defeat she could now administer to him. Not Abuela, not the Minister of Finance, not Mama or Miguel or Bartolomé or Pilar, none of them, she thought. Only I have gotten the better of him.

  “That’s fine, Papa,” she replied, calmly, coldly. “I’ve got all the money I need.”

  “You will not be my daughter anymore,” he added, though with what seemed like some trepidation that his final stand would not be enough to scare her into staying.

  “I understand, Papa,” she said.

  And then, as if sealing her triumph, she kissed him on the cheek and walked out the door, stopping only long enough to see Pilar on the landing at the top of the stairs, tears covering her cheeks, and Mama’s arm wrapped around her for comfort. Marcella smiled and raised her eyebrows slightly, wanting to tell her that it could be no other way. But the time for words had passed, and so, with one final glance at her confused father, she closed the door behind her, her life, at long last, now entirely her own.

  That night, in the comfort of her new room at Mrs. Carlisle’s, she couldn’t help but think of the finality of the evening’s events. Papa was not the sort of man whose resolve and anger grew weaker with time. And despite her mother’s assistance and Pilar’s desperation to remain close, she knew that neither of them would be able to stand up to Papa in any real way. So she went to the only recourse she had at that very moment, taking out the most recent of her notebooks to Abuela, and writing the shortest entry she had ever written, unable to transcribe the events of the day into more words than these:

  Abuela,

  Today I am an orphan.

  MICAH

  CHARLOTTESVILLE, VIRGINIA

  MARCH 23, 1861

  By the time Micah was eighteen or so he’d grown into his shoulders. And he was long done being anything like an apprentice. Dunmore had taught him everything he knew about carpentry. Took all of a few months. And still it wasn’t but a fraction of what his Daddy had taught him back on Les Roseraies. That was ’cause Dunmore was a shit carpenter right from the start. The kinda man who had a reason for every time a job didn’t get done right. Spent more time explaining than it woulda took to do the thing right the first time.

  But when Micah looked old enough to do a man’s job by himself, Dunmore started hiring him out to work alone, sometimes. Micah tossed out all the shortcuts and patch-ups straight off. All the ways Dunmore’d taught him about how to make a job look done. And that’s when shopkeepers and farmers took real notice of Micah. Started asking Dunmore just to send the boy over. Told Dunmore they’d only pay for Micah to do the job. And Dunmore didn’t need any persuading to become a man of leisure. So by the summer of Fifty-Seven, when Micah was a man of twenty, Dunmore was as retired as a lazy country squire. The boy had turned out to be gold. But then there came a chance to really cash in on his investment. Once and for all.

  For Micah the days had long run together into one indistinguishable mess. Except for Sundays. He worked just as hard, but did all his workin’ on Dunmore’s shit house that wasn’t such shit a
nymore. He knew the approach of winter and summer only once the extreme of temperatures told him to put on or remove his coat. Nothing. Not even spring. Not even the autumn colors along the Blue Ridge, could make him take notice for more than a few tortured moments. Not when the rest of his days were lived in the darkness. And by the time he was a full-grown man. Twenty twenty-two twenty-four, even. Escape was not even a thought in the deepest part of his soul. Figuring that it wasn’t worth the whipping just so he could be a mule somewhere else.

  And just like any other day, Micah woke up before the sun. Made Dunmore’s breakfast. Woke up Dunmore. Made his own breakfast with the leftover bacon drippings. Dunmore drove him to the job site, the livery on the west end of town. Then it was off to the Blue Spruce for Dunmore, to drink all day with the Embrys, who were in town. No runaways for them to hunt down this week.

  Micah’d made great progress on the job the first day. Too much it turned out. Got Dunmore thinking he could finish it on the second day instead of the three they both figured it would take. ’Course Dunmore charged the livery owner ten dollars for the job straight out. After lumber. Told him it’d take a week at least. Told him he was gettin’ a bargain. Which he was. But Dunmore had plans on making a real killing this week. And Micah knew there’d be trouble soon as he heard the squeak of Dunmore’s cart pulling up to the livery doors.

  Micah! Job done … time a go.

  Dunmore still hadn’t figured out not to yell inside the livery. Horses started kicking, whinnying, livery boy came running. ’Course, the livery boy was every bit as scared of Dunmore as Micah used to be so he didn’t go to settlin’ the horses down. He ran inside to get his Massa the owner. Owner came out just as Micah was coming down the bottom ladder to tell Dunmore he wasn’t done. To tell him he needed another half day.

  Dunmore, what the hell’re you doin’? Livery owner was angry as a mule.

  Wha? Oh … I’m callin’ m’nigga boy t’come down ’ere. Job finiss now.

  Only it wasn’t finished. Micah got to explaining what he still had to do. Livery owner said he was happy with what he’d done already. Another day maybe to finish it.

  Now ten dollars for three days work is a nice deal for you, Dunmore.

  Didn’t matter that the livery owner said that. Dunmore still hauled off and whacked Micah soon as he got in range. Micah felt his right cheek on fire. Could taste the blood beginning to trickle from inside his mouth. But it wasn’t as bad as it might’ve been. Micah knew by now to stand far enough off Dunmore’s right shoulder so all he could do was hit him with a backhanded right. It was too far to reach to get his real power hand, his left, to the target. Not after a full day at the Blue Spruce. Not after the Embrys were there to do their share of the buyin’.

  So then it was Dunmore and the livery owner arguing back and forth. While Micah loaded the tools in the wagon. The livery boy calmed the horses down in time to help Micah put the last tools on the cart.

  Man, you in a bad spot. The boy said. Like Micah needed informing. Just looked at him, didn’t say a thing. Angry at the boy for being so afraid. Thought of tellin’ him it was easy enough once you let yourself become a mule. Gave up on ideas of anything better. But still, just looked at him. Didn’t say a thing. Climbed up into the cart. Then it was the ride home with Dunmore. Micah sitting in the cart while Dunmore did the driving up front.

  Back home there was the broken-down horse to unhitch and water. Cook the chops Dunmore’d bought at the butcher. Cook the panbread in the grease, bring it all to Dunmore, who was on the porch with the jug. Surveying his land like the country squire he was. Not the shit carpenter anymore. Then it was feed the horse and water him some more. Cook some more panbread for himself in the grease left over from the chops. Eat it without sittin’ down. Check on Dunmore.

  He was passed out by now. His plate fallen off his lap and the last of the three chops lay on the porch floor, mostly untouched. Just one bite out of it, and then the dirt from the floor. So Micah stuffed it in his pocket, woke Dunmore up, none the wiser about the chop. Put him to bed. Then out to the well for more water for the broken-down horse. He poured some of it over the chop and ate it down with as little chewing as possible.

  And then, the evening sky got to lookin’ quite nice out over the Blue Ridge. He poured a bucket of water over himself, took his shirt off and did it again. Pulled another bucket out of the well, took off his pants, dipped them and the shirt into it. Swished ’em around some. Squeezed ’em some and laid them over the side of the well. Took another bucket and poured it over himself again. Then stood there in just his bottom underbritches, looking out over the Blue Ridge. Seeing the sea of green reaching up to the edge of the sky. And a breeze came across the field, cool against his wet skin. Making him think of far-off places for just a moment. ’Til he couldn’t do that to himself no more. ’Til it was time to go inside and hope sleep came all in a rush. So there wouldn’t be any more thinking of far-off places.

  Next day started as it always did. Making the breakfast and so on. Dunmore dropped him off, gave him a good whack with an open left hand. The kinda whack that said worse’d be coming if he didn’t finish by midday. Like he needed reminding.

  And then it was back to work as always. Cutting the last of the upper hayloft support joists. Then the braces. Then hauling everything up both ladders. The first joist fit so well it looked like part of the original construction and not a patch job. Still, he took a minute to look over his work. Not admiring it so much as deciding if there was anything that wasn’t just like it should be. Then he moved on to the second one.

  As he shifted the ladder, he could see a man in a blue suit standing by the livery doors. Watching him like Dunmore never did. Like the livery owner never did. Like no man who knew what kinda work he did ever had to. And he stayed there as Micah put in a second joist and then a third. Then he was gone, only to come back with the livery owner and stand there some more. Pointing up to the work he was doing. Nodding his head some. The livery owner pointing over to the work Micah’d done on the other side of the loft the day before. Even pointed up at the roof Micah’d patched the year before. And the man in the suit looked puzzled. Like he couldn’t tell where there’d ever been a hole to begin with. And the liveryman nodding, smiling, like that was the whole idea.

  Dunmore came back around midday. All kindsa pissed at havin’ to leave the Blue Spruce while the Embrys was just getting started buying rounds. And the man in the suit was following behind him, the livery owner alongside. Then the men got to talking. Only Dunmore mostly shouted.

  Yep, learnt from me … don’t come cheap … two dollars a day …

  The man in the suit did some talking now.

  Sell off my meal ticket?

  Then some more talking.

  Gonna take more’n that!

  Some more talking. Only Dunmore was ’bout as happy now as Micah’d ever seen him.

  Turned out the man named Mr. Longley was from Richmond. Saw what work Micah’d done and paid twenny-two hunnerd dollars for him. Twice what yer broken-down Daddy gone fer. Dunmore was thrilled about the deal he’d made. Thrilled enough to buy three bottles of whiskey with labels on ’em. Thrilled enough to have the Embry boys come over that afternoon. Then the real fun started.

  They spent the first few hours knocking off the whiskey without any trouble. Sat on that tiny front porch that barely fit the three of them. Started firing their guns at a tree out front. Then the fence post on Hinkley’s place across the dirt road. Hinkley just about wet himself any time he saw Dunmore, let alone with the Embry brothers alongside him. Wasn’t likely he’d do any complaining about getting his fence post shot up. Shot at, was more like it, drunk as they were. Never hit the damn thing once. They were well into the jug by the time it was dark. Micah’d cooked up the steaks Dunmore bought. Panbread and the trimmings too. They about licked the plates clean, then passed the jug around again. Micah came out to get the plates, ask if there was anything else Dunmore needed.

 
Got a lil goin’ away presen’ fo’ ya. Tom Embry said.

  And Albert Embry walked up to Micah and ripped his shirt off him. Dunmore only laughed. Then Albert wrapped his rope around Micah’s wrists and pulled him to the post a few feet from where Dunmore sat. Tom walked to his horse and took the whip from his saddle. Snapped it in midair, once, twice, three times.

  Get’m hitched nice’n tight. Tom said to Albert.

  Then Albert laughed and stepped aside, and Tom wound up the whip, cracking it a few more times while Dunmore laughed harder.

  Here we go! Tom Embry said. And Micah braced for the pain. Heard the whip winding up and then only a thud against his back. Not the harsh tearing of the leather strands against his flesh. But the blunt weight of the handle instead. Then the three of them, the Embrys and Dunmore, laughed more than they had all night.

  Good’n Tom. Dunmore said between belly laughs. He’s ’spectin th’real thing, pissin’ his trousers.

  I still wouldn’ min’ addin’ a few more stripes to this’n here. Tom said. Never did like this’n.

  Uh-uh, twenny two hunnerd dollars I got comin’ tomorra. Dunmore answered. Can’t put no more stripes on’m than he already got.

  And once he was done laughing Albert Embry untied the rope around Micah’s wrists. Looked him square in the eye from just a few inches away. Meaner and colder than even his brother or Dunmore could be. Then walked back to his seat on the porch. Leaving Micah to pick up the soiled plates and bring them inside. Cleaning them in the half-bucket of water left over.

  How you figger that slicker pay you so much? Albert Embry said, loud enough so Micah could hear it.

  Gotta be th’war. Tom answered. Bet he’s figurin’ on makin’ five, maybe ten dollars a day wit’ all that new construction they got goin’ on now ’at Richmond gonna be the capital of th’whole damn Confederacy.

  Don’t care ’bout none of that. Dunmore said. All I know is I’m gonna be a rich man come tomorra.