Ella Wood Novellas: Boxed Set

by Michelle Isenhoff

“We don’t know for sure. He’s suffering a case of amnesia, as well.”

  “Oh. Bum luck.” Michael endured a momentary awkwardness but recovered quickly. “Come on. I’ll show you to the superintendent’s office.”

  Jovie followed him awkwardly on his crutches while the nurse brought up the rear, lugging Jovie’s knapsack. Fortunately, the office wasn’t far. “Mr. Hastings, this is George,” Michael called through the open door.

  A skinny man with a receding hairline and round spectacles rose to meet them. “Ah, George Avery, is it? Nice to meet you.”

  Jovie shook his hand, and the exchange about his lack of hearing and memory was repeated. It didn’t stop Mr. Hastings from speaking to him directly, just as the doctors and nurses had. “We’ve had more difficult situations to deal with. The important thing is, we’re going to get you settled in and teach you how to resume a normal life. Hopefully, the memory will follow.”

  Within half an hour, Jovie had received a tour of the building, been introduced to several more Yankee residents, and was installed in a room on the ground floor. He would have remained shut away till his beard covered his toes, but meals weren’t delivered, and a requirement of his residency was that he participate in therapy sessions. The first one was scheduled for nine o’clock the next morning.

  Mrs. Bailey, the head nurse, took charge of his case. She was in her fifties, with the long face and sturdy build of a warhorse and a no-nonsense approach to life. And she pretended not to understand that he was deaf. But she made enough gestures when she talked for him to continue pretending that he was.

  “Mr. Avery,” she snapped when he shuffled into the backyard at 9:05, bleary-eyed and sullen. “I expect you to be on time for every session and ready to learn. I am not doing this for my health, you understand. I feel it is my duty in this war to help our boys get back on their feet, but I expect you to be prepared to help yourself. Am I understood?”

  Jovie’s scowl only deepened, but she didn’t seem to expect a response.

  “All right then, today you will practice walking with your crutches over the uneven surfaces of the yard. Daily use will strengthen your body. You may feel weak as a noodle now, but you will soon learn to compensate for your missing limb. Let me see you begin.”

  Jovie started what would become ten intense weeks of recovery and rehabilitation. Other than living in a nest of Yankees, he had very little to complain about. The facility was clean, the food was decent, and as gruff as she was, Mrs. Bailey proved quite helpful. As his leg continued to mend and the strength returned to his limbs, Jovie learned to navigate the world on crutches—up and down stairs, in and out of chairs, through confined spaces, even in and out of vehicles. His balance improved. The tender skin of his armpits toughened. And the muscles of his chest, arms, and remaining leg began to compensate for the missing limb. But the positives weren’t weighty enough to counterbalance the anger he’d carried away from the hospital.

  “You’re doing fine, George,” Mr. Hastings reassured him after a particularly grueling session four weeks in. Mrs. Bailey almost always directed his sessions. On occasion, one of the younger nurses would have a go. But today the superintendent himself had spent the last hour teaching Jovie ways to carry heavy objects while navigating on crutches. “I’ve no doubt you’ll be ready for the outside world when we’re finished with you, but I’ve been getting some complaints about your temper. You frightened Mrs. Bailey quite badly with your tantrum yesterday.”

  Mr. Hastings wrote out the gist of his words in a sloppy script that he held up for Jovie to read. Jovie knew the episode. He’d never been one to blow up before the injury, but now the slightest frustration cracked open a reservoir of poison. After catching a lip of the sidewalk and toppling to the ground, he’d tossed his crutches as far as he could throw them. Which wasn’t far. They had smacked against the side of the business next door and been retrieved by a sympathetic pedestrian who had seen the whole thing. But the animal roar of fury that had ripped out of his throat had brought a yelp of fright from the matronly nurse. The pedestrian, a patient older gentleman, had helped him to his feet and ushered him back inside. Mrs. Bailey hadn’t approached Jovie since.

  Jovie wrote out an apology.

  “Yes, well, you’d best tell it to Mrs. Bailey. Don’t forget, it is a privilege for you to be here.” Mr. Hastings furiously wrote down his words. “George, I think it would help you considerably if you would warm up to the other men. Get to know them. Socialize a little. You’re all in the same boat, so to speak. You can help each other.”

  There were eighteen other soldiers living in the Home. Most of them also had disfigurements or disabilities. Had they been Confederate, Jovie would have taken great comfort in their shared suffering, but he’d been shot at for far too long. His disfigurement was too new. These men were his enemies. His safety—his very life—could depend on maintaining his distance. Jovie nodded in agreement as he read Mr. Hastings’ words, but he had no intention of following his advice.

  Daylight hours in the Home proved tolerable enough. The physical nature of Jovie’s rehabilitation gave him something to focus on. But after the lights went out, when he was alone, night released the blackness in his soul. Figures from his past came right into his room—Emily, his parents and siblings, Jack, and so many other friends who had died on the battlefield. They took up lodging in his head, bringing with them the futile memory of what was, indifference toward what lay ahead, and horrible, unbearable guilt. Jovie should have died like Jack. He should have perished with the rest, one more skeleton beneath a thin film of dirt. The war had already killed him, already stripped him of everything good. All that was left was a fifty-year march to the grave.

  His melancholy only worsened as September passed.

  On the twenty-eighth of the month, Jovie could no longer endure his own bleak thoughts. He let himself out of the darkened house and went for a walk. He was hardly strong enough yet for such extended exercise, but the Home had a rule against alcohol on the premises. And Jovie badly wanted alcohol. He dragged himself to the first tavern he could find, sat down, and drank until the liquor deadened all memory.

  Hours later, he still sat slouched at the counter.

  “Hey, it’s two o’clock,” the barkeep told him.

  Jovie heard but had just enough wits left to give no sign of it.

  “You hear me? I’m closing up shop.”

  Jovie kept his eyes fixed on his glass.

  The man jabbed him sharply in the shoulder. “Hey, I’m talking to you.”

  Jovie looked up in feigned surprise.

  A second man was sweeping the floor. “I don’t think he can hear, Isaiah. He hasn’t acknowledged anyone all night.”

  “That true?” Isaiah asked, pointing to his ear. “You deaf?”

  Jovie shrugged.

  “Well, that explains it. Look, it’s time to go home.” He pointed to the empty room and then to the door.

  Jovie nodded his understanding. He stood up, the room tilted, and he promptly fell to the floor.

  Isaiah chuckled. “Guess I shouldn’t have given him that last shot, eh, Archie?”

  Archie set aside his broom and helped Jovie up. “Can’t you see his crutches? He’s missing a leg.”

  Isaiah grunted. “Suppose it’d be poor form to throw a one-legged man into the street.”

  “A boy, more like,” Archie replied. “I probably would have drunk myself stupid if I’d lost a leg at his age, too. Where do you live, son?” He pointed to Jovie, then to the door, and spread his hands.

  Jovie made a writing motion.

  “Give him some paper.”

  Isaiah set a tattered scrap on the bar. Jovie spelled out Baltimore Soldiers’ Home as legibly as possible, though the pencil didn’t want to follow his bidding.

  “Why, that’s just down the street,” Archie said. “Tell you what, Isaiah. You finish cleaning up and I’ll see him home.”

  Isaiah nodded his grudging agreement.

  T
he details of his homecoming were fuzzy when Jovie awoke the next morning, but he did know it involved some loud knocking and Mr. Hastings’ irritated, disapproving frown. And he seemed to remember Archie wishing him good luck.

  The morning light pierced his eyeballs with a thousand sharp splinters. He groaned, raising a hand to his forehead as they worked their points into his brain. Then he scrambled to locate the chamber pot before the alcohol made a reappearance. It tasted far worse coming up.

  Jovie wiped his mouth and sprawled face-first onto the mattress. When he and Jack attended college in Charleston, Jack would head to the tavern nearly every weekend. Jovie didn’t know how he’d endured it.

  And the evening hadn’t altered a single thing.

  Mr. Hastings’ expected visit came mid-morning. His lip curled in amused disdain when he entered the room and spotted Jovie still lying prone on the bed, his legs twisted carelessly in the sheet. “So, you’re regretting your decision, are you, Mr. Avery?”

  He took out his paper and scrawled his lecture as he spoke. It included all the points Jovie might have expected about the futility of drink and the waste of one’s life. Then he implored Jovie to find his strength in God, in his comrades, and in the honor of his service to the Union. After hearing it the first time, Jovie then had to read it.

  “We cannot tolerate this kind of behavior, Mr. Avery,” Mr. Hastings concluded. “A repeat and we’ll have to terminate your residence.”

  When the superintendent left, Jovie curled up in a miserable ball and pulled a pillow over his head. Mr. Hastings might have gone easier on him if he’d known the real reason for his behavior. But it would have blown Jovie’s amnesia cover to mention that yesterday had been the anniversary of Jack’s death.

  That was Jovie’s only slipup. After Mr. Hastings’ reprimand and the utter futility of his binge, Jovie’s attitude underwent a slight alteration. For whatever reason, God had decided he was going to live. And out of respect for Jack, perhaps in apology to Jack, Jovie determined to live the life Jack could not. Graduating from the rehabilitation program and entering the workforce became a matter of personal honor. He focused all his energy on strengthening his body and overcoming his weak emotions. By the beginning of November, Mr. Hastings had secured him a room in a boardinghouse as well as employment driving a delivery wagon for a shopkeeper on the east side of the city.

  Mr. Fairday was a tight-lipped man, brusque even, and a staunch supporter of the Union who wasn’t bothered by Jovie’s loss of hearing. Jovie would arrive at seven each morning and wait for Mr. Fairday’s son to load the wagon and hitch up the team. Then he followed Mr. Fairday’s written instructions. It was easy enough, a job he could manage, and Fairday seemed satisfied with his work. The weeks began to roll into each other, tolerable if somewhat mundane.

  And solitary.

  He’d eschewed friendships within the Home, but he didn’t realize what a psychological lift came with being part of a community—even a community of Yankees—until suddenly he had no one. He especially missed his regiment, the men with whom he had eaten, slept, and fought for two years. The abrupt removal of their camaraderie had been like tearing off another limb. After nearly a month on his own, Jovie began to consider giving up his secret identity. Maryland had settled into a grudging support of the Union, but Baltimore certainly contained a mix of loyalties. He could never replace his regiment, but he could find a crowd in which he might be himself without peril.

  Of course, there was the danger of the Union army finding out his duplicity. He’d have to break all ties with the Soldiers’ Home and find another job, but he thought he could do it without too much risk. Baltimore was a big place. In fact, he didn’t even have to stay in Baltimore if he didn’t want to. He could go south and find someplace more like home. Or if crossing the front proved too daunting, he could go to any town in the North and start over. Nothing tied him to Baltimore.

  And yet something did. As much as he pondered the idea, he couldn’t force himself to leave. And he suspected he knew why.

  Sometimes, after a particularly lonely night, Jovie would drive a block or two out of his way to pass the Maryland Institute. It was a grand structure right in the middle of downtown. If he hoped for a glimpse of a familiar figure, he didn’t admit it to himself. He insisted he did it for the sake of old memories, as anemic as they might be. And only once did he seek out the boardinghouse where Emily had stayed.

  He never saw her.

  November rolled to a close. As Jovie walked to the mercantile to begin work the first week of December, a frigid breeze gusted in off the Chesapeake, sending a newspaper flapping down Eastern and setting a pinwheel to whirling in a frost-blackened flower garden. Jovie paused before the garden to tug his hat more firmly in place and wrap his muffler more closely about his neck. What a striking resemblance his life bore to that pinwheel—solitary, spinning crazily in the wind, and accomplishing nothing. Independence had given him no satisfaction, and employment lacked the purpose he had hoped for during his long weeks of convalescence. All his striving had been in vain.

  “Sorry, Jack,” he mumbled to himself. “I’ve made a muddle of it already.” With a shiver, he resumed his awkward, swinging gait.

  He arrived before Mr. Fairday’s son finished loading the wagon and used his few spare minutes to warm himself in front of the woodstove at the back of the shop. It would be a miserable day for deliveries. Hopefully the rain would hold off.

  As he held his hands out to the blaze, a young woman entered the shop. She was pretty, with auburn curls spilling out from beneath the woolen muffler wrapped about her head. Unseen, Jovie watched her approach the counter.

  “Good morning,” she said, beaming at the shopkeeper as she unwound the scarf. “I’ve got a list I need filled, if you please.”

  Mr. Fairday glanced at it. “Give me a few minutes and I’ll have it ready, miss.”

  She nodded and strolled a few paces, browsing absently as she waited. Her footsteps carried her down one aisle and up another—directly toward the stove.

  “Oh, hello!” she gave a bright little laugh. “I’m sorry, you startled me.”

  Mr. Fairday glanced up. “That’s George Avery. He can’t hear a word you say. Lost his hearing in the Union army.”

  Pity washed over the young woman’s face. “How terrible.”

  The woman stayed within the stove’s circle of warmth as Mr. Fairday disappeared into the back room. Jovie took the opportunity to study her more closely. She was older than him, in her mid-twenties perhaps, with snapping blue eyes and a touch of recklessness in that wild mane of hair. Her cheeks were rouged with cold.

  She caught him watching her and gave him a bold smile. “You’re a good-looker, George,” she said offhandedly. This time her words came in a soft drawl. “Too bad you’re a Yank.”

  Her words intrigued him, as did her accent. It was distinctly Southern, different than the sharp twang she had just used with Mr. Fairday. Why the change when she thought he couldn’t hear? Was she hiding something, as well?

  He was tempted to ask. It had been ages since he’d communicated directly with another human being. He longed for that connection, even if it was just a few brief words. And she was extremely pretty. But speaking would reveal his secret.

  After a brief internal skirmish, loneliness won out.

  “I’m not.”

  She startled visibly. “Not what?”

  He smiled. “Deaf. Or a Yank.”

  She froze, unmistakable panic flashing in her eyes. She was hiding something.

  “I won’t give away your secret,” he promised. “I spent over two years in the Army of Northern Virginia. I’ve got no love for Yankees.”

  “Then why are you in the North?” she asked, raising her hands to the blaze. They were tiny, just as she was. Jovie wasn’t exceptionally tall, but she hardly reached his shoulder.

  He shrugged. “Nothing to go home to.”

  She looked him over thoughtfully, taking in his pinne
d-up pant leg and staring deeply into his eyes. He wondered if guilt and alienation left a visible manifestation there. After a long moment of consideration, she seemed to reach some conclusion. She snapped open her reticule and handed him a card. “If you’d like to serve your country again, Mr. Avery, you can contact me here.”

  Jovie took it with curiosity. Moments later, Mr. Fairday reentered the room. The woman gave Jovie one more significant glance then turned to fetch her groceries.

  3

  Jovie lay on his bed later that night, flicking the card in the light of a single oil lamp. He didn’t have to look at it to know what it said. He’d pulled it out and mulled the mystery of its message a thousand times that day. It contained just three simple words:

  Johanna

  Richmond Inn

  Who was she? Why had she given it to him? And what had she meant?

  His first thought was that she was simply a prostitute. But a mercantile was hardly the place to drum up business. And the context of their meeting had been too politically charged for a solicitation. There was an air of intrigue about the whole thing, something clandestine. Hadn’t they both been hiding Confederate affiliations? There could be only one explanation that made sense.

  Johanna was a spy.

  Jovie set the card down with a heavy intake of breath. What exactly did she think he could accomplish, a cripple, bound to crutches, a simple delivery boy? He was no one and with limited mobility. He knew nobody of importance. What could she possibly expect from him?

  Yet, as he considered it, the answer became obvious. He’d been living in Baltimore for months as someone else. He had a built-in cover story—a Union soldier who lost his hearing in the line of duty. There were those in the hospital and Soldiers’ Home who would vouch for what he was. Jovie was above suspicion. The delivery wagon offered him mobility, and his deafness meant that anyone who knew him would be unguarded with their words, just as Johanna had been. He was the perfect information gatherer.

  But spying came with an even greater risk than the one he already lived under. Rather than being an impassive imposter avoiding a prisoner of war camp, he would be actively undermining the Federal government. Such activity, if he were caught, came with a death sentence.