by Seneca Fox
Chapter IX
5:00 pm
Leaving the sutler’s village, I turned to walk farther into the valley away from the mountains that surrounded the reenactment area. Cars were lined along the road and parked in every available space between the trees. Continuing on, I entered a canopy of hardwoods hanging over the road. The leaves had grown to a mature size, unlike those seen at the higher elevations. Eventually, I walked into a clearing where I saw the roof of an older home sitting back against the mountains. I wanted to continue but felt awkward standing there dressed in the strange combination of a Union uniform and modern hiking boots, so I turned around and headed back to the reenactment site.
As I was passing through the trees again, a large tractor-trailer approached, and I was forced to duck between two cars. As the trailer passed I stepped blindly back out into the road and immediately heard the screech of tires on the asphalt. A blue four-wheel drive pick-up came to a stop, and I instinctively jumped back between the cars. The truck looked like the one that Max and I rode in when we hitched a ride down from the Parkway. Looking through the window at the back glass I didn’t see any stickers, so I assumed it was a different truck. Then I looked at the driver and saw a woman with long dark hair staring at me. I mouthed the word “sorry” and hoped that she would drive away. She didn’t. Instead, she slowly rolled the truck forward. She stared; I felt like she was taunting me. She pulled beside me and stopped as I stood there ordering myself to be apologetic, hoping to avoid a scene. The window slowly disappeared into the body of the door and although the part in the middle of her locks of black hair was the first thing I saw, the first feature of her face that came into focus was her eyes. Much to my relief the eyes were not angry; instead, they seemed to be smiling and strangely familiar. Almost instantly, her nose, then her smile came into view. My mouth fell open for a moment before I could say, “Anna?”
I stood there wondering if she would recognize me; she had never seen me with a beard before. Almost instantly she replied, “You silly boy, at least let me kiss you before you throw yourself in front of my truck.”
Before I realized what I was saying, I said, “Look at you, Anna, you’re as beautiful as ever.”
“Ian Ward Hamilton,” she said with mock indignity, “you’re so forward.” We laughed and cut evasive glances at each other. Someone honked a horn. “Imagine,” she said, “can’t stop and talk to an old friend on a lonely country road without causing a traffic jam. Let me find a place to park.”
“Okay,” I said without trying to hide my smile.
I’d loved Anna for as long as I had known her, but I had given up on our relationship. Best friends for most of our lives, we courted seriously in high school and as adults, but our relationship had recently cooled. Within the last year we had stopped corresponding altogether.
We first met in the fourth grade, the same year I moved to Virginia. We quickly became friends. We begged teachers to let us sit next to each other in class, always ate lunch together and teamed up when we could, to work on class projects. In middle school we signed up for the same classes and often planned our social schedules together. I did not become interested in dances and parties until about the eighth grade. Anna and I had our first date that year when we attended a school dance. That was in the late 70’s when everyone wore bell-bottoms and double-knit wide-lapel shirts; when it was fashionable for males to wear shoes with high heels. But even with one-and-a-half-inch heels I was a good inch shorter than Anna. What I remember most about that dance was that she never said anything about me resting my head on her shoulder and slobbering on her dress the first time we slow-danced together. She was very understanding that way.
By the time we entered high school we had developed a deep but unspoken respect for each other. Throughout high school we dated off and on, but Anna always insisted that we should be “free to date other people.” Sometimes I would date other girls for months, but I always came back to Anna. I constantly compared the others to her and none quite measured up. When we did date for any length of time, we never swapped class rings nor did we do anything suggesting that she was my possession or I was hers. We had grown comfortable with our feelings for each other.
In our last year of high school I grew anxious about the future of our relationship. I knew that we would both go to college but, since her family was considerably more affluent than mine, I feared that we would go to different schools, and that our lives would change in ways that would make us less compatible. I was right, at least about going to different schools.
Anna went to Amherst College on an academic scholarship. She studied anthropology and astronomy. She also performed for a small ballet company in Boston and trained as a concert pianist. She first told me about her seemingly eclectic mixture of coursework during the summer after our freshman year. I asked her, “So what will you do, excavate ancient alien cities and villages? Atlantis might be a good place to start.”
Anna had a quick and confident response for my aspiring sophomoric humor. “Astronomy was important to ancient cultures,” she explained. “Consider the Druids, the Mayans and even the supposed ‘wise men’ who traveled to Bethlehem. They are just a few examples of ancient cultures or people that relied on the heavens.” That was typical Anna, always prepared to defend her decisions.
My college years were less inspiring. I started out with two years of junior college in the mountains of North Carolina and then transferred to a state school with a reputation that was easily lost on a gray wall of middle-class mediocrity. Anna studied the great philosophers, musicians, artists and historians. My education was more vocationally oriented and practical – I learned to live by the seat of my pants. I learned to survive in the world as it is; she learned to change it. But I did not envy her. In fact, our college experiences had turned out the way I expected.
Hurrying along the road, I remembered I was wearing a Union uniform and hiking boots. “This should be fun to explain,” I said to myself.
Anna found a spot and parked her truck. I was still walking when she jumped out and ran toward me. When she was a few steps away, she held out her arms; then I held out mine and we embraced.
“I can’t believe it’s you, Ian,” she said. “Where have you been hiding? You didn’t answer my letter.”
“Letter?”
“Yes, I sent it weeks ago.”
Anna didn’t wait for my response. Instead, she wrapped her arms around me and buried her head in my shoulder. “Oh, I’m so glad to see you,” she said. The sudden public display of emotion, the sudden submission, was unusual for Anna, and I wondered if something was wrong. The momentary concern passed as I enjoyed our embrace and hoped that the emotional letdown of the last year had been premature.
Anna released me and backed up a few feet. “Let me look at you.” She first looked into my eyes then tilted her head down in stages. “Okay, you look fit, but the beard’s too long and I think you’d better explain the outfit. The boots definitely do not pass the authenticity test.” She rolled her eyes as though she didn’t care much about “authenticity”.
“Well,” I started, “Max and I were up on the Appalachian Trail when we heard….”
She grabbed my arm, “Wait – you and Max – hiking the A.T.?”
“Yes.”
“Thank God,” she said. She motioned toward the battlefield, “I was afraid you were a reenactor.”
“Me?”
Ignoring my response, Anna asked, “So, Max is here too?”
“Yes, we met a man who is here with his son. Max is there right now – in his RV.”
“Okay, go on,” she said.
“We hitched a ride down here, just to see what all the fuss was about.”
“That explains the shoes. Now where did you get that uniform?”
“These are loaners. Max is washing our clothes – in Mr. Squires’s RV.”
She smiled and said, “Wow,” as she held on to my arms. “Here you are, alive and well, st
anding right in front of me. I can’t believe it.”
“So, what about you? What are you doing out here in,” I paused, realizing that I only had a vague notion of where I was. “Here in Clear Creek, Virginia.”
“Clear Creek,” said Anna, “that’s the name of the Civil War battle that took place here. Clear Creek runs along the base of the mountain behind the Union Camp. This is Little Valley.”
“Ok then, what are you doing here in Little Valley?”
“This is my new home.”
“New home?”
“Yes, Daddy inherited a farm. We still have our other house, but we plan to spend most of our time here.”
“So this farm, it’s close by?”
Anna pointed toward the reenactment site, “That’s a big part of it over there.”
“The battlefield?”
“Unfortunately.” Anna looked distracted for a moment before she asked, “How long are you going to be here?”
“We’re leaving in the morning, but when did you get this farm?”
“You mean, when did Daddy inherit it. It happened about a year ago.” She looked at me and said emphatically, “Ian, you must stay for a couple of days. We’d love to have you. I’d invite you to stay tonight, but we already have a house full of guests. Tomorrow maybe?”
“That would be nice, but we have to get back on the trail in the morning. We’re already a week behind.”
Anna looked at me and frowned. “Well,” she said, “let’s go see Max. I’m supposed to go out with Mom and Dad this evening, but I can be late.” Anna and I turned and walked briskly toward the spectators’ camping area. On the way I asked, “So, how are your parents?”
“Wonderful – finally. Daddy’s like a new man.”
“That’s good,” I said. Anna continued to talk about her father until we came to the RV. I climbed the step and knocked.
Owen opened the door. “Max?” he said in an inquisitive tone.
“Yeah?”
“Is your brother in the habit of picking up beautiful women?”
Max replied, “Never,” as he leaned to look out the door. “My God! Anna.”
“Hi, Max.”
“Where did you come from?”
“Not very far away,” she replied, “I live here.”
“No kidding?” asked Max.
“No kidding.”
Owen interrupted. “Hi, I’m Owen Squires. Won’t you come in?”
“Thank you, Mr. Squires.”
Owen held the door open. When I passed, he raised his eyebrows twice, in quick succession. Immediately, I noticed that his face was flushed. At first I thought the redness represented some momentary infatuation with Anna, but when I saw his watery eyes and turned to avoid his bourbon-scented breath I knew otherwise.
Anna hugged Max and then sat on the couch next to me. Owen sat in the recliner. Max sat with his legs straddled and arms folded across the back of a chair.
“So how are you, Anna?” asked Max.
“I’m doing well.”
“Your mom and dad,” added Max, “I assume they are well too?”
“They’re fine,” she said.
“Ian told me that they had been ill.”
Anna glanced at me and then looked at Max. “Yes, they were ill for a long time, but they are both much better. Mom still enjoys gardening, and Daddy, well, he’s into everything.”
Between the letters – Anna did not like to correspond with me through e-mail; “I want to fill your top dresser drawer with letters. Letters are a lost art,” she always said – phone calls and occasional visits I pieced together the sequence of events that Anna’s parents had endured over a long stretch of years. Her mother was diagnosed with breast cancer years ago. She underwent a successful single mastectomy and chemotherapy, only to have a second malignancy appear in the other breast less than two years later. Before she fully recovered from the first round of treatments she endured yet another surgery and more chemotherapy. Her second recovery was drawn out. Soon afterward, Anna’s father was diagnosed with heart disease during a routine check-up. The Colonel, as I referred to him in Anna’s presence, underwent angioplasty. But within a year he was back in the hospital for bypass surgery.
Anna was an only child; and, she was determined to see her parents through their difficult times. I patiently waited, admiring Anna’s loyalty; but as time passed, we grew increasingly detached. The weekly letters became monthly letters and, finally, quarterly letters. The monthly phone calls eventually ceased altogether, and the last time I saw her I truly believed our relationship had come to an end.
“Now Max,” Anna said, “I understand that you and this high-energy brother of yours are hiking the Appalachian Trail.”
Max laughed and replied, “We’re making a go of it.”
“So, what inspired that ambitious undertaking?” she asked.
Max glanced at me before he fixed his gaze on Anna. “It’s a long story,” he said, “but you can look at me and figure out the better part of it.”
I interrupted. “It wasn’t easy to get him to commit.”
“It’s not easy for anyone.” Anna added. “Committing might be the easiest thing about it.”
Max pointed to me and said, “Let’s just say that for a long time, knucklehead over there thought I’d been spending too much time feeling sorry for myself. So, the do-gooder shows up at my house one day and asks, ‘How much you got tied up in all this electronic junk?’”
“Electronic media,” I said.
“Of course,” Max continued, “I have no idea what’s on his mind. So I ask, ‘What are you talking about?’ ‘You know,’ he says, ‘the television, DVD, game box, computer.’ At first I think he’s being nosey, so I ask, ‘What’s it to you?’ Anyway, he tells me he wants to buy it from me, at a premium. Of course, I think he’s lost his mind. Well, he made me an offer, which sounded pretty good, until he laid out the details. He tells me that if he buys all my electronic media…”
Max emphasized “electronic media” as if he thought it was an expression that only a snobby sophisticate would use.
“…I can’t replace it for at least six months. Well I didn’t think about it long. I didn’t really want to give up television or the Internet, but I agreed to his offer.”
“Don’t forget Max, I made you promise to pay me back if you backed out.”
“That’s right,” he continued. “Anyhow, I’m standing there and Ian pulls out a wad of hundred-dollar bills. He starts counting out the agreed amount, and I’m standing there thinking I’ve just made a great deal. But when I see he’s got at least a couple thousand dollars left, I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d sold myself a little short.”
“Y-e-a-h, right,” I protested.
Owen looked at me and said, “You need any more televisions, computers, VCRs?” Everyone laughed.
“So that’s it,” said Anna. “Ian got you off the couch and back on your feet, and here you are.”
“No, not exactly,” I replied.
“There’s more?” asked Anna.
“That’s just the beginning,” said Max as he turned toward me and chuckled. “Anna, no sooner had I taken the money when he walked over and took my wide-screen television off the stand, walked out the back door and threw it in the pool.”
“Ian!”
“Oh, he was just getting warmed up. I had two other televisions in the house. He took both of them outside in the front yard, got my shotgun and went outside and blasted them to pieces. Then he gets my ladder out of the garage, hauls my computer and nineteen-inch monitor up on the roof and throws it down onto the asphalt driveway. By this time he’s got an audience. There’re neighbors all over the yard wondering what this crazy brother of mine is doing. Of course, I’m telling them he paid for it all so they don’t think I’m crazy.”
Max took a deep breath. “To make a long story short, he rummages through my house looking for anything and everything that might be considered electronic media. He�
��s taking hand-held electronic games, video games, you name it; he cleaned me out. Then, as if destroying all my fun and entertainment wasn’t good enough, he tells me that he’s got to go somewhere, but that he’ll be right back. Well, I’m left there cleaning up the mess he made. Finally, I’m finishing things up and here he comes with this big box in the back of his truck. At first I think he’s going to replace my television, but I quickly dismissed that hopeful thought. I’m standing there as he pulls in the yard trying to read what’s on the box. When he stops, I walk over to the truck and see the word ‘treadmill’ stamped on the side. He opens the door, flashes a cheesy smile and says, ‘You’ve got six months’. ‘Six months for what?’ I asked. ‘Six months to get ready to hike the Appalachian Trail.’ Well, you can imagine the kind of expletives that came out of my mouth. At that moment, I swore up and down that I would never hike the Appalachian Trail.”
Everyone laughed for a few seconds before Anna said, “And here you are.”
“Yeah, here I am. Me and my proverbial ‘I hate to admit it, but it’s the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time.’”
“So you’re what,” said Anna, “about one-third of the way there?”
“About that,” I said.
We continued to talk about our thru-hike attempt until I asked, “So, Anna, how is it that these reenactors are using your farm?”
“Daddy does well renting this land,” she replied. Sounding apologetic she added, “It was part of a long-term contract that existed when he inherited the farm, but he knows I…” Anna stopped short and glanced at Owen. She was obviously uncomfortable expressing her thoughts in his presence, but I knew her well enough to know that she might have misgivings about reenactments.
Evidently, Owen perceived Anna’s discomfort. He sat up on the edge of his chair and cheerfully said, “You know Anna, sometimes I’m not sure why I come to these things. The battles are interesting to watch, but it concerns me.”
Wondering how much our host had had to drink, I looked at Max and subtly gestured toward Owen. Max understood my meaning and like a baseball catcher giving a signal he moved his hand between his legs and flashed three fingers. I hoped that three was the total and not the number Owen had consumed since we had eaten.
No one said anything; and, Owen took a deep breath. He looked at Max and then me and said, “You fellas know, my son Junior’s out there. And I meant it when I said that most of the people involved are good people. I don’t claim to know why everyone’s out there, but I do know that many of them have a great-great grandfather or uncle or some ancestor who fought in the Civil War. Others, I think, just want to learn more about it. They’re a well-meaning bunch.”
I was thankful that Owen was speaking clearly. But I wondered if he could avoid getting emotional, the way he had when he started talking about his wife earlier in the day.
Anna sat up straight. “So, do you think that’s the way it is for all reenactors?”
Owen looked down and shook his head. “No,” he said.
We all sat silently for a moment, waiting for Owen to continue. Before he could speak, however, Anna interjected, “Oh, why don’t we talk about something else?”
Owen reacted, “You’re very thoughtful, young lady, but I don’t mind talking about it…”
At that moment I hoped Owen would stop talking or that someone would interrupt him and change the subject. I sensed that he was beginning say things that would make us all uncomfortable; it was like one of those moments when you want to whisper in your friend’s ear and tell him that he has said enough. But Owen didn’t pause.
“In fact,” he said, “I used to live next door to a fella that was, well, the kind of person that makes me wonder what these reenactments are really about.” Owen lifted his glass and took a sip of his drink. “I lived next door to him for about four years. Nice enough in most ways. He’s, or at least he was, the service manager at a car dealership. Talkative kind of guy, and real smart, you know. Seemed to be well respected at work and everyone in the neighborhood really liked him too. He regularly took my cars and truck in for inspections and service work. He’d bring them home with the bill. I’d write him a check and thank him. Made it simple for me, you know. In return, I’d pitch in and help out around his house from time to time. We helped each other out that way, the way neighbors are supposed to.”
I slid out to the edge of the couch, anticipating that Owen had more to say about his neighbor. He sipped his bourbon again. “One day, after I’d been living next door to him for a couple of years, the house across the street was put up for sale. My neighbor and I were standing in the yard when a real estate agent drove up with a black couple. When they got out of the car, I could see my neighbor’s face turning red. He got pretty steamed all of a sudden. I looked at him and asked, ‘What’s wrong?’ although I was pretty sure I knew what was bothering him. ‘Can’t you see?’ he said, motioning toward the people across the street. ‘See what?’ I asked. He whispered, ‘Niggers.’ So I asked him, ‘Are you prejudiced?’ What he said next confounds me to this day.”
“What’s that?” Anna asked quietly.
“He said, ‘I ain’t prejudice, I just don’t like niggers.’”
“What?” Anna reacted.
Max and I glanced uncomfortably at each other.
“Exactly what I thought.” Owen shook his head. “I had to go in the house and look up prejudice to see if I really knew what it meant. But that’s beside the point. You see; that man’s a reenactor. And while I hope there aren’t many of his kind out there, I know there’s at least a few like him.” Owen took another sip of his bourbon and said, “I did eventually get a word in.”
We stared at Owen, waiting for him to continue. “A few days later we were talking again. He mentioned that he was afraid that colored folks might buy the house. So I asked him what he was afraid of. He said that if they did, our property values would go down. I told him that prices would only go down because people like him wouldn’t pay the same price to live in a neighborhood where colored folks lived. He looked at me kind of funny, but I think he got the point.”
“Is he still your neighbor?”
“No.” Owen lifted his glass and drained the rest of his whiskey. We sat silently as he got up and walked into the kitchen. He set his glass on the counter and said to no one in particular, “You know, I used to be hopeful that people would one day learn to get along a little better.” I sat, waiting for him to say more – expecting words like, “I just don’t know anymore.” But he didn’t say anything. He just stared across the room.
Anna stood up and walked over to Owen. She placed her hand on his shoulder and said, “I’m still hopeful, Mr. Squires.” She smiled a warm smile that set us all at ease. Then she looked at her watch and said with the right touch of urgency, “Oh my, I hate to break up the party, but I’ve got to get home. Mom and Dad will think that I stood them up.”
“Oh, stay a little longer,” Max said.
“I wish I could, but my aunt, uncle and their friends stopped by for a few days on their way to Florida. My parents went with them to Lynchburg. I’m supposed to meet them for dinner.”
“I’ll walk you back to your truck,” I said.
Anna reached out to shake Owen’s hand. He took her hand and said, “Very nice to meet you, Anna.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Squires. If you need anything while you’re here, don’t hesitate to stop by. I live in the first house on the right as you’re leaving the valley.”
“The two-story brick house that sits back off the road?” Owen asked. “The one with the tall evergreens hanging over the drive?”
Anna replied, “Yes, that’s the one.”
“I love that place,” he said.
“Well then, you must come by for a visit.”
“Perhaps I will. Perhaps I will,” repeated Owen.
“I look forward to it, Mr. Squires. Do you have a pen and a piece of paper? I’ll write down our number for you.”
“Certainly,” said Owen and he walked away muttering.
Anna turned to my brother. “So Max, when are you coming to visit?”
“Might be sooner than you think. It seems that every minute that goes by, Ian wants to stay a little longer. Now that he’s found you – well.”
Anna stretched her arms around him and said, “It was truly good to see you, Max. Perhaps I can stop by in the morning to send you on your way.” Anna stepped back abruptly and smiled. “Hey, why don’t I drive you two back up the mountain tomorrow?”
Max and I looked at each other. Max replied, “We’d like that.”
“What time do you want to leave?”
“We’re in no hurry. Whatever suits you,” I responded.
“How about nine o’clock?”
“That’s perfect,” I said.
“Then it’s settled. I’ll see you two at nine o’clock tomorrow morning.”
Owen handed Anna a pen and a piece of paper. She wrote down her phone number and said, “Call me if you need anything, Mr. Squires.”