May the Road Rise Up to Meet You: A Novel

by Peter Troy

  But there’s something different on this New Year’s Day, and it’s only in the late afternoon, while walking with Ethan along the rise beside the river, that they understand the magnitude of it. Every January 1 for the last eight or so, she had welcomed the New Year at Mrs. Carlisle’s, where they would toast to the coming year, and may it bring an end to this abomination called slavery, Mrs. Carlisle would say. And now, with Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation actually taking effect, the hopes of such a toast seemed real. Still, all along the river was the evidence of what a hollow document it was, freeing the slaves in the states of what seemed more and more like a foreign power—“like Ol’ Bobby Lee across the river isn’t going to have something to say about that,” Ethan says more candidly than usual. And when he doesn’t try to offer her a more optimistic outlook on the chances of Union victory, their walk turns silent but for the sound of scattered regiments preparing for the inevitable retreat back to Washington. She can tell that his thoughts return to the death of his friend Finny and so many more, and seeing the army ready to skulk away after yet another defeat is perhaps the worst sort of medicine of all.

  “Let’s go back to the hospital,” she says. “It’s getting colder, I think.”

  And he looks at her for a moment with the same frustration she saw the night she first met him at the gallery, a distant sort of gaze that doesn’t end at her eyes but drifts on through into the illimitable distance.

  “It’s just difficult to see all the loss,” he begins, as if she had said something else entirely just seconds before. “All the loss with nothing to show for it—like there ought t’be some sort of reckoning, like Finny said—some sort of balancing it all out.”

  She doesn’t have the words of comfort for him, just an arm to slip inside his, as they begin to walk back along a slightly different path, farther away from the river this time.

  “It did bring us together,” she finally says after a while.

  And he turns to her with the signs of a smile he struggles to hold back, becoming mischievous in the twist of that single moment.

  “So I suppose I’ll have to speak to Mrs. Carlisle when we return to New York,” he says.

  “About what?”

  “Well, from all you’ve told me, I don’t imagine your father would be the one to offer permission.”

  And now she knows precisely where he is headed, though true to form for the two of them, she will not swoon the way her sister might or most women would.

  “Permission for what?”

  “Well, to marry you … that is, if the dowry is acceptable,” he says.

  “I am the only one who can grant permission for that,” she says, pulling her arm from his and jokingly bracing her fists along her hips.

  What follows is a negotiation of sorts, her telling him that she is sure she will be a terrible cook and housekeeper, but will not employ servants in her house all the same, and whichever man she chooses to marry will just have to accept that. He replies that he will still fish as much as once or twice a week and whichever woman he marries must limit her complaints about the smell to the time between his return from such excursions and his ensuing bath. And there is plenty of Oh, is that so? and Well, I will … thrown about amidst the building laughter, until they have seemed to whittle down their future lifetime together—with these as-yet-to-be-determined spouses—to such essential details as his future wife accompanying him to one baseball game for every time he took her to the ballet or the opera … or her future husband accepting the fact that she now intended to turn her attentions to the cause of women’s suffrage and how there would be meetings every week in the parlor—and so on. Until, just as a deal seems somehow imminent and can be sealed with a kiss, once one of them actually proposes, she makes one more demand, framing it with such sincerity that there is no counterpoint being offered.

  “I want to get married here and not in New York,” she says. “I don’t think my family would come to the wedding, and quite honestly, I don’t wish to give them the opportunity to decline … I …”

  “I think Father Corby would do it,” he interjects, mentioning one of the Chaplains of the Irish Brigade, and bringing the smile back to her face. “I think my Mam and Aunt Em’d keel over on the spot if it wasn’t a Father that married us … myself and the future wife, that is.”

  She smiles and has to agree with him.

  “I think my mother might, too,” she says, and the negotiations seemingly draw to a close. “Now, if only there was such a man …”

  “You know … I believe I’d be willing to give it a go.”

  She steps back from him and looks him up and down, then curls one side of her mouth slightly and shrugs her shoulders a little before responding.

  “Well—I suppose I would grant you permission …”

  And finally the kiss to seal it—that which has seemed inevitable since the day they found each other again. The cold seems less of a foe than before, and they change their path now, walking to the edge of the fields perhaps a mile behind the hospital, strolling slowly, silently, with her arm draped inside his and her hand slipped inside his coat pocket. She knows it won’t always be like this. How could it possibly? But she had never imagined it could come so easily, or that she would surrender so readily.

  No, surrender’s not the word for this, she thinks, this is more like an admission. Perhaps the most mature thing I have ever done. Nothing little girlish about this, no tantrum against the world—no blame, no refusal to fall, to be vulnerable. What joy just to consent to these gifts.

  And she looks up at him again with sentimental eyes that must seem foreign to Ethan, and wordlessly wonders for the first time how she has merited such a fate—until her thoughts are interrupted by the far-off strains of song from the edge of the field. They walk toward them as if by instinct and soon can make out the words, sung with the collective mournful voice that seems the perfect accompaniment to this place, to this day, singing of all that has been lost and gained too:

  We’ve come a long way, Lord, a mighty long way

  We’ve borne our burdens in the heat of the day

  But we know the Lord has made the way

  We’ve come a long way, Lord, a mighty long way

  There, perhaps thirty yards away from them now, is a small encampment of what must be slaves from Fredericksburg itself, former slaves now that it is the first day of a New Year of hope and now that they have crossed over the river to stake their claim to freedom. And Marcella cannot help but cry at the sight as she and Ethan stand in silence, watching and listening.

  “Oh, if only Mrs. Carlisle and Catherine could be here to see this,” she says. And seeing the smile on Ethan’s face, she pulls his arm tighter and places her free hand against it.

  “How’s that for something to show for it all?” she says.

  And he allows himself an even broader smile.

  “I believe that will do.”

  That night, as she watches over the dimly lit recovery room while everyone but sentries and sinners are asleep for miles around, she finds time to write for the first time in all these harrowing weeks.

  Abuela,

  I will always recall the morning you told me that the happiest years of your life were the ones near the end, when you could live only for yourself—no Abuelo, no Papa or any little ones to worry about. And it has been my intent to live my life in just that way, as much and as long as it was possible. But that is done now. I cannot undo the last two months with Ethan—nor would I want to. I have fallen as I never imagined possible—yet I am made all the better for it, stronger, more hopeful, thankful for the smallest of treasures.

  I find contentment in knowing that there is nothing of the juvenile in what I feel for him (and what he expresses to me). It is not a matter of people once incomplete now becoming completed. Perhaps this is where you and Abuelo went wrong, where Mama and Papa went wrong—seeking completeness when we can only ever make each other better, more joyful, more grateful—but never
complete. I intend to go right on bothering him as much as he bothers me, each of us disturbing the laissez-faire right out of the other so long as there is breath to form the words and heart enough between us to carry on. And I will love him too, with all the heart that such a man merits. And we will so disturb each other and love each other, and work for what justice may yet be possible in this world, for all the years it will have us.

  Oh dearest Abuela, at last I allow myself to hope for such a great gift as this—to never again be forced to live only for myself.

  MICAH

  BLUE RIDGE MOUNTAINS

  WINTER 1863

  The night was the hardest time. He was haunted every day by the faces of the four men he’d killed. But when he closed his eyes at night it was Mary’s face he saw. As if she’d seen everything he’d done since he left. Like she’d just changed her mind about running off, but he’d changed his mind about what kind of man he was altogether. The sorrow in her expression, every night he saw her, told him how far away he was from her. More than just miles could ever accomplish. Like he’d betrayed her.

  The morning after leaving Dunmore’s house began an endless stream of days. Blended together in anonymity. Up before first light, like he always was. Riding Albert Embry’s horse now. Still riding the horse of a man he’d killed, with guilt his constant companion.

  The horse would graze on whatever it could find, and Micah would hunt some. Come back with mostly nothing. Then it was riding all day, dismounting for long stretches to lead the horse through the most difficult parts along the jagged spine of the Blue Ridge. Some days they might cover eight ten twelve miles. Others it might be just two. And every afternoon, long before the sun disappeared over the western ridge of the mountains, he’d search for a cave. Some indentation in the mountains where he could build a small fire, not be worried it’d be seen for miles around.

  Most nights he was forced to scrape out a place to sleep in a bed of snow covered over with pine branches. Some nights he was warmed by a fire. Every night he was haunted by memories. And he gauged his bearings by remembering the words to a song the slaves used to sing in the rice fields when he was a boy. Follow the Drinking Gourd, they sang. A coded name for what his Daddy said was the Big Dipper. Its end star was the North Star. Pointing the way to freedom. He could remember the first lines of it, and would repeat them over in his head from time to time. When the sun come back, When the firs’ quail call, then the time is come, Follow the Drinking Gourd …

  And in the aching solitude he felt at night, he’d often find a clearing and look up into the sky. Try to hear those childhood voices again. And the hopeful strains from the rice paddies of Carolina. ’Til all was inevitably silent, and he’d pick up a tree branch and bury one end of it in the snow. Angle the upper end toward his guide. Like the mountains themselves weren’t pointing the way.

  It wasn’t long before he had to kill Albert Embry’s horse. It wasn’t about any hatred he still had inside for the man. Or even because he was near starving himself. But the horse was dying a little each day. Even though he’d stopped riding him altogether days ago. Even though he carried all the tools and his blanket on his own back. And left the saddle buried in the snow-covered brush miles back. He tried pulling him along for a whole day, trying to get him to keep up. But he was starving even more than Micah was. So he had to kill him. So he didn’t have to suffer anymore. The horse.

  Then, in a late afternoon a few days after the kill, he came upon what looked like the tallest peak in the whole world. He was stronger now, thanks to the horsemeat. So he decided to climb the peak. There was a wooden sign set near the top, Stony Man Mountain, approx. 4000 ft. And he figured it was as good a place as any to have it out with God. Once and for all. ’Cause God’s gotta answer for putting Mary in this world. Making something that precious in the first place. Then leaving her locked up in fear ’cause of all the mess he’d made in the world to go right alongside everything precious.

  Micah figured that he killed four men. Bastards every one of ’em. At least the last three for sure. And sure he’s got to answer for that. Fair enough. But God’s got to answer for Mary, he figured. So it was time to have it out. Time to settle the accounts, the way Dunmore used to say when he was of a mind of collecting a debt.

  It took more to get to the top than he figured. He was out of breath like he hadn’t been since he was hauling Albert Embry’s horse behind him. Still, when he got to the top, it was a magnificent scene. To the west was the setting sun, slipping down behind the hills. The way it used to each night back at Dunmore’s. Taunting him. And now, for the first time, he could look to the east and see far off into the distance. Imagine Washington, the Yankee capital, out beyond his view. And freedom, whatever that might mean. There he was atop the whole world, as far as he could tell. Wondering what any of it, freedom, killing horses and men, getting killed even, mattered. After all.

  He took a piece of paper from the hidden pocket inside his coat. The one he was fixing to give Mary somewhere along these mountains. Sometime when she got tired of the walk. Sometime when she figured it wasn’t worth it anymore, maybe. He’d stolen a real pencil from Longley’s parlor and wrote the note on something like a real piece of paper. The kind a man uses to write such a thing to a woman. And then it was just him to read it, instead of her. Him to be taunted by his own words then. Reading still, all the same …

  Through these mountains there’s home for you and me, and your smile brings strength inside me to carry you every step of the way. But I’ll never have to. Cause God don’t let flowers die before the Spring. Cause you’re like the prettiest rose, that somehow blossomed on the stem of an oak tree. Cause we’re gonna carry each other home.

  It practically suffocated him to read it now. Alone as he was, but sad enough that he was looking for more sadness instead of steppin’ outside it. That’s what made him reach back inside his secret pocket again and pull out the note she gave him. A week before they were supposed to run off.

  Knowing you are in the world is knowing that I belong here,

  that God did not drop me to the earth as a single tear.

  I loves you.

  It was the first note she wrote like it was a poem. Like the ones she read in Miss Justinia’s books. The kind of words she said he wrote without thinking of making them poetry. Like that’s what he was just by nature, a poet. And he read her poem over and over again, there on top of Stony Man Mountain, approx. 4000 ft. Remembering back, months before, when she first told him she loved him. The afternoon she referred to in the poem. Back behind the dress shop in the early morning, when he was still building the new storeroom, just a few weeks before they decided to run off together. And how she walked across the field between the house and the store. Looked all around like she always did, seeing if there was anyone watching. Then she walked right up to him. Him setting up his tools beside the lumber pile like always. She stood right in front of him, silent. A smile all over her face like she knew something he didn’t. And then she kissed him. Strong enough to let him know it was her idea. Soft enough to remind him there was magic in the world. And she went up the steps to the store before stopping. Turned toward him, playfully. I loves you, she said. Then kicked back one foot just a little. Dancing in the half-seconds of stolen moments. And walked inside the shop. With him left to stand there, out in the yard with his tools all about him. And his jaw hung low. Wondering how he’d breathe an all-together breath again. Hard as it seemed to imagine just then, knowing such moments were in this world. And such a woman. Who loved him. Loved him.

  So he sat atop that rock on Stony Man Mountain, approx. 4000 ft. And waited until the sky turned through every color until it was just black all around. Waited for an answer. Waited for God to tell him it all meant something, the suffering. Waited for him to tell him that he’d see her again. Or tell him just enough to understand a little, just enough to keep going. He waited. Raised his open arms toward the blackened sky, hoping to summon a thing greater tha
n him. A reason to go on.

  But still, he felt only the cold, tearing at him now like it hadn’t done before. Ever. Mighta been six seven eight at night. Mighta been midnight or later. Didn’t matter. Wasn’t an answer coming. So he went back down from the peak. No dying horse to even give him the lick of company he needed so much just then. Instead, just him. No Mary. No answers. Alone.

  Not even God.

  BY THE TIME HE REACHED the Potomac River, he’d been gone eight nine ten weeks. Couldn’t tell for sure. Never bothered counting days at the start, in the lingering haze. Certainly couldn’t figure them out counting backward. Until, not that far in, it didn’t matter anyway. As the peaks began dwindling north of Stony Man Mountain. Strong from the horse meat, he’d walk all day long. Partly from the strength, partly not to have so much time to think only of Mary. He’d build a fire at night and eat some more horse meat. Then, exhausted sleep. Get up the next day, and eat some more, and walk all day. Like he was a nag, a mule with blinders on. Again.

  Not having seen more than a few people in all that time, and those only at a great distance, the contingent at Harper’s Ferry seemed like the whole Yankee Army. He dumped the Home Guard’s pistol. Strapped the shotgun to his back and took his chances. Walked right up to the sentries up the road from the main bridge across the river. Like he hadn’t done a thing wrong. Certainly hadn’t killed four white men.

  Jesus Mickey, it’s a nigger! The first sentry said as soon as he saw him.

  In the weeks since he’d left Richmond, there was one thing he’d been happiest to leave behind. It wasn’t the work. Climbing the mountains was harder than building chicken coops and fixing barn roofs. It wasn’t Longley or any of the other slaves. All of them could be tolerated at least. No. What he’d been happiest to leave behind was the subjugation. Of himself. The need to present himself as less than a man. He’d learned, like every colored man had to learn, how to be nonthreatening to the white folks. Everything was Nosuh, Yessuh, Yes’m, No’m. Ignorant. Broken. Tamed. Like a dog lowering its head and tail to a more dominant one. Only it wasn’t enough to do it that once, upon meeting, like the dogs did, then go about business. Like the fact had been acknowledged, and that was that.