May the Road Rise Up to Meet You: A Novel

by Peter Troy

  This hospital’s far more pristine than the ones he remembers, even the ones in Washington, where he’d had a regular sort of bed and meals three times a day and nurses to change the bandages and such. In the weeks after he’d been wounded, between all the mosquitoes and the moans of the men hit real bad, he’d never got even just a half-night’s sleep straight through—’til Seanny showed up with his man Cormac and they’d practically discharged him from the army themselves right there, then took him home. And as near as all these memories are to the present day, he begins to feel most uncomfortable as he makes his way past the beds of the men still recovering from Antietam and skirmishes before and since. No moans or fever-tossed restlessness in these lads—these were the ones well enough to make it through the train ride north to ease the overcrowded hospitals down where the war was hot.

  Then he sees her, tending to the elevated and thoroughly wrapped leg of a man who looks to be almost forty years old, a man who’d gone and volunteered for such a thing at such an age. And there’s the terrible conflict of his thoughts contained right there in the few seconds before and after she sees him, with him feeling the assurance of his decision knowing there were things he could still do in this cause—but then seeing her face light up just for him, smiling amidst the crowd all around her—and telling her he’d accepted Mr. Prendergast’s offer seems almost worse than surgery right now. But the fates are conspiring again, as he discovers when she walks over to him.

  I’m so sorry, she says with a pained expression. Agnes has come down with a fever, and there’s only one nurse on the overnight shift, and I told them I’d stay … sorry. And she exaggerates a playful frown in the way she’s become more and more prone to, letting her emotions reach the surface of her face the way they didn’t when they’d first met, the way even she’d acknowledged when she told him that meeting you has been the death of my poker game. Now he’s the one with the expressionless face, knowing there will be no bluffing his way through the news he has to deliver.

  They slip outside the main room to a dimly lit edge of hallway, and she kisses him before he’s able to even introduce the subject of Mr. Prendergast’s offer, the moistness of her lips and the warm caress of her breath conspiring right along with the fates somehow, telling him to reconsider what he’d decided with what he thought was finality. But there’s no talk between them here, with the entire evening’s kisses having to be fit into this tiny hidden-away space and the reprieve of a moment’s pause from her duties. And this minute or two seem to be mere seconds before there’s the call from a doctor inside the recovery room, Nurse … Nurse! piercing the stillness, with time for just one more kiss before she’s off again. This time he pulls her closer, kissing her like it will be the last one for some time, before separating enough to take in the glisten of her eye and the curve of her cheek and the smile, once more.

  I’ll see you tomorrow after tea, she says. Violet’s coming tomorrow.

  And she reaches a hand up and brushes it against his cheek, then turns away back to the main room, Nurse, I need some clean bandages here, hardly seeming like an urgent enough order to have ruined the chance to tell her.

  The trip back to Brooklyn is a cavalcade of arguments on each side of the notion, piecing together ferries and horsecars for almost two hours and thinking of how remarkable she was to have done this a few times a week for more than a year now. But then there are the regiments preparing to go off and pick up the fight where he’d left off, several of them at Fort Schuyler drilling and marching left-right, left-right, and another at the Brooklyn Navy Yards ready to embark for points south. And it’s that last reminder that clinches the decision once and for all, knowing he’s got something more to lend to the cause, the way Mr. Prendergast put it, and how could he sit home and take portraits for the duration instead?

  That night there’s the packing of the camera and all the supplies, and civilian clothes this time around. And then the letter to write, wondering how he’ll ever do it justice and not risk losing her altogether. Aunt Emily was the one who’d been the first to ask him about her, suspicious when he suddenly took a turn for the better right after the gallery opening and in the days following when she’d catch him whistling or kissing her and Mam for no reason at all every time he left the house. Yer about as in love as an Irishman’s ever let on t’bein’, she’d said a week earlier, and he wasn’t able to camouflage his expression enough to hide it from her. Now she’s the one to ask him the what for in the quiet of a late-night hour when all the others have gone to sleep.

  You sure you wanta go an’ do this, Ethan? she asks. Yer leg’s still not right, and now you’ve got this girl who sounds lovely enough, though you’ve never brought her ’round here … outta shame fer us I suppose—

  Aunt Em, that’s not—

  I know, I know … sure I was only kiddin’ with ya. And then she gets more serious again. Are you sure, love?

  And Ethan nods his head, his mouth pulled slightly to one side as if declaring that the matter’s been considered enough.

  I have to, he says.

  MARCELLA

  NEW YORK

  NOVEMBER 21, 1862

  She had never felt this way about a man. How could she, with the parade of Wall Street buffoons her father had exposed her to from her seventeenth to twenty-first birthdays like cattle barons at auction? Living with Mrs. Carlisle had liberated her from that, since the Ladies Abolition Society teas and Sunday afternoon recitals were hardly overflowing with men of any sort. But that had never been of any importance to her. She had reviled Pilar’s drooling over Papa’s parade of eligible bachelors, and even expressed disappointment in Catherine’s lament for never having married. But now she was just as silly as any of them, counting the hours between chances to see him as if she were a giggly debutante.

  After the sleepless shift from the night before, Mrs. Carlisle had sent her carriage to come get her that morning. She’d spent the rest of the day sleeping as much as she could to get caught up again, but this was to be Violet Smythe’s first Friday tea with the Ladies Abolition Society and as her sponsoring member, Marcella had to be present for it, of course. She’d had the idea to invite Violet to join almost from the moment she had met her at Ethan’s gallery opening. Violet was witty and unafraid to express her mind. And since all of the ladies were at least ten years older than Marcella in age—and often considerably more than that in demeanor—the fact that Violet was separated from her by only two months was a most ringing endorsement indeed.

  The usual civilities were tortuously slow as Violet arrived at the same time as Mrs. Wentworth and Mrs. Bianci, and they all had to discuss the weather and each other’s new hats or other such triviality. It wasn’t until those ladies were settled with their tea that Marcella could sit down next to Violet. A few more ladies arrived, and the conversation shifted to that side of the room, and Marcella finally turned to her new friend and smiled.

  “I have a note from Ethan,” Violet said before Marcella could even speak, reaching inside her dress sleeve and handing it to her.

  They had shared two luncheons since the gallery opening, and whenever the subject of Ethan came up, Violet always bore a sort of knowing grin that made Marcella naturally defensive. She was well aware of the silliness that had overtaken her amidst her affection for Ethan, but she wasn’t ready to relent so completely with anyone but him—not Catherine, not Violet, not even Abuela. So she did her best to contain her surprise at Violet’s statement, accepting the envelope with as much nonchalance as she could muster.

  “Perhaps you might like to read it outside the room,” Violet suggested, nothing of a knowing grin anywhere to be found on her face now.

  Oh, that’s quite unnecessary, but if you insist, Marcella thought, hoping it would find its way to her expression despite the concerns that now filled her. She calmly walked past the recently arrived ladies engaged in their pleasantries at the doorway, turning back to signal to Violet to follow her into the library. But Mrs. Carlisle
intercepted Violet before she could slip past the ladies, and the introductions and pleasantries to follow would surely take longer than Marcella could stand. So she opened the envelope, unfolded the notepaper, and read:

  Dearest Marcella,

  I can only begin with apologies … for telling you this way, for telling you this at all after the joyous interlude these three weeks have been. But spending this time with you has helped restore me after I’d come to believe I’d never again be the man I was before the war. You did that, more than any other, more than myself even. And now, restored, I must do what I see as my duty in this cause.

  This morning I am embarking on the train for Washington along with several members of the Press Corps. Mr. Prendergast, an editor at the Eagle, contacted me with a job offer just two days ago after having seen my pictures at the gallery. He talked about the fight upcoming with the Army of the Potomac on the move again, and of how he had two extra correspondents traveling south to see the struggle first hand. My role, he said, would be to take pictures of the men as well as any runaways that might cling to the Army the way they did on the Peninsula. He spoke of what I might do to further support for the war, “to make the plight of soldier and slave alike come to life for people back here.” It was an exaggeration, of course, but I do know that any little bit I can do to support my brothers in arms, or to publish the brutality of slavery to those who would turn a blind eye—well, I must do what I can.

  But I am sick at the thought of you reading these words rather than hearing them from my own guilty lips. There simply was not the time, so I have employed Violet as emissary to carry this letter to you—the first letter of many, I promise.

  I am left to leave you with nothing but promises, I’m afraid … the promise that I will write, the promise that your kiss will be the final dream of each night and the first wish of each new morning, the promise that …

  I am,

  Unmovably Yours,

  Ethan

  The look on Violet’s face was the most difficult element of the moments that followed, as if conveying an empathetic sense of loss, perhaps even feeling a measure of sisterhood with Marcella after having gone through the experience of seeing Smitty off on two separate occasions. And Marcella could tell immediately that Ethan must have shared some of his feelings with Smitty, or perhaps Violet even. There would be abundant tears when the fullness of these words hit her, when she’d had the chance to read them again. But for now she put on the bravest of fronts, immediately seizing upon the opportunity to introduce Violet to all the ladies present and bury her wounded heart in the busy chatter of a Friday tea.

  It was hard to tell exactly when sorrow gave way to anger, but it most certainly did not take long after dispensing with the formalities of initiating Violet to the Ladies Abolition Society. For Marcella, the meeting was more frustrating than any in recent memory, and she became particularly vexed at the passive nature of the women present and of women in general. Writing letters, holding fund-raisers, knitting quilts, even changing bandages at the hospital—it seemed the women were always left to such trivialities while the men went off to make their real mark upon the world and advance the great causes of the day. And it was only the respect she had for Mrs. Carlisle and Catherine, and the desire to not scare off Violet after a single afternoon, that kept Marcella from expressing her opinions aloud while all the ladies were still present.

  But that evening, several hours and several readings of Ethan’s note later, the softness returned to her ailing heart, and she took out her notebook to do some writing of her own:

  Abuela,

  Perhaps I should have known that once the drawbridge has been lowered and the intruder is allowed in, there is no returning to the way things were. Raising the drawbridge again only locks him inside, and forcing him out seems an impossible task. The damage has been done and there is no undoing it. But when I allow myself to be governed by better aspects than my anger or my sadness, I must confess that I have rather enjoyed the fresh air of these last few weeks. And the view of the countryside looks most inviting indeed.

  MICAH

  RICHMOND

  DECEMBER 10, 1862

  His runnin’-off plan is as tight and solid as everything he builds. He’s decided on Christmas Eve, the one day of the year when neither one of them will be missed right off. The other slaves and the white folks, even the Home Guardsmen, will all be asleep or too drunk to notice by the time they are gone. And he knows just how easy it’ll be for them to slip away without a living soul gettin’ wise of it ’til they’re long gone. And no place anyone ’round here will ever think of lookin’.

  Christmas Eve jubilatin’ at Longleys’ will be the same as last year no doubt, even with the war carrying on like this. Won’t be the same trimmin’s as last year, but there’ll be plenty to go around. Micah knows something about what kind of money Mista Longley’s made offa just him alone since the war started. And he’s figured out some of the things that Mista Longley does to keep his other slaves happy to stay just where, and who, they are. Decent cabins are a start. And seein’ how it’s a lumber mill he runs, it’s not hard to make it so. And clothes too. All Mista Longley’s slaves get a new set of’m every five six months. Get to use the old ones for rags or for patchin’ up the new ones or for whatever they want t’do with them, it seems. But then, most important of all in Mista Longley keepin’ all the slaves he’s got happy as any colored man or woman’s ever been, is the jubilatin’.

  Three times a year, it comes. And it’s almost perfect how it gets fixed up about four months apart all the time. There’s the jubilatin’ for when Jesus got born on Christmas. Then there’s the one where Jesus got raised up from the dead on Easter. And then there’s the most jubilatin’est day of all—every year on August the twenty-third. Which is the day Mista Longley himself got born, Glory Hallelujah!

  And even though Micah’s only been here long enough to see a little more than a year’s worth of those jubilatin’ days, he knows just how important they are. So come time for the next one to get under way. The day before Christmas, or so. He knows Mista Longley’ll come through with the necessaries for some fine jubilatin’, war or not. Sure there won’t be a half side of beef like there was last year. But there’ll be two pigs at least to make up for it. Maybe no ginger beer neither, but plenty of potato-mash whiskey. And that’s not countin’ what folks’ve been brewin’ for themselves these last few weeks. There won’t be any sugar, but enough molasses to make the cornbread and sweet tater pie. And anywhere else there might be something missin’, Mista Longley’ll have something to make up for it. So the jubilatin’ll go on late into the night Christmas Eve and all the next day. Same as always.

  They’ll save at least one of the pigs for Christmas Day, but the first’ll never make that long. And the potato mash’ll get sampled somethin’ fierce that first night. Enough to take the chill off, at first, then to wash down some of that fine meat straight off the spit. Then the fiddle playing’ll start, and there’ll be dancin’ ’round the bonfire. And more potato mash to cool down from the fire and all the dancing. ’Til then comes the toasting.

  Someone’ll get up and toast the Baby Jesus and talk about seeing the Bet-lee-hem star this year or that. Then someone else’ll jump up and say they remember that year, too. And the lyin’ll grow so deep that even the one that started it will believe it in the end. Then someone else’ll get up and offer a toast to Massa Longley. Another one’ll jump up and do the same. Only louder, hoping that the Massa’s listnin’. There’ll be six, eight, ten toasts to the Massa. More than there was to the Baby Jesus even, and each one louder’n the one before it. ’Til the Massa steps out onto the porch of the Main House, long across the sawmill field from the slave quarters. And he’ll shout Happy Christmas. And send them all into a frenzy tryin’ to figure out which toast it was that brought the Massa out. There’ll be some more fiddle playin’ and dancin’. And some more potato mash to cool off again. ’Til someone’ll say they gotta save so
me of it for tomorrow. Then they’ll eat most of the cornbread to keep their stomachs from turnin’ sour during the night.

  The next morning they’ll step outside their cabins, and Mista Longley’ll have the Reverend Lattimore come and preach to them. The Reverend only preaches to coloreds, even though he’s a white man. Some say he got in trouble with a few lady members of his congregations over the years, back when he still preached to white folks, but he’s Mista Longley’s brother-in-law. So that’s how he got set up with this kinda preachin’ work, here and at a couple of other places, too. Preaching to the slaves. Sayin’ the same thing most every time. No matter what he’s readin’, always comin’ around to the same message—’bout how they should be happy in their station in life. That’s what he calls it—station. Like the Lord done stopped a train somewhere and said, All right, all you colored folks get out now, this is your station—you gonna be slaves … but be happy about it!

  The Reverend’ll talk about how they got it so good to have a Massa like Massa Longley. What with the pigs and the potato mash and the cornbread sweetened with molasses. When plenny of white folks is practic’ly starvin’ this Christmas, ’cause of the war. And all of them slaves, prisoners in their minds much as their bodies, far as Micah can tell. They’ll just sit there and shake their heads and agree with the Reverend ’bout how lucky they is—blessed even. Then when he’s through, they’ll damn near knock each other over to be the first to wish him a Happy Christmas. Sayin’ God Bless ya, Rev’run. Like the Rev’run ain’t been blessed a hundred times over already.

  The fire’ll be set again, and the second pig’ll get roasted, alongside a soup and some greens flavored with what’s left of the pig from the night before. And they’ll start in on what’s left of the potato mash—the stuff the Massa let them brew for the last month all leading up to this day. Of course, with all the samplin’ and the coolin’ off and the toastin’ they done the night before, it’ll run out before all the cookin’ gets done. But there’ll be folks slipping into their cabins for a little something extra they brewed on their own, but shhhhh don’t tell no one. And there’ll be six eight ten folks that got a little spare jug of their own. Only it won’t be just them six eight ten folks that got it, and it won’t be just a little bit they got. So the party’ll keep on into the night with more fiddlin’ and dancin’ and toastin’.