Uniformly Dead

by Greta McKennan

  Jim flashed me a brilliant smile, obviously delighted by my willingness to get into the spirit of the game. “I hail from Tift County, down in Georgia,” he drawled in a southern accent worthy of Clark Gable. “I’m a wheelwright, by trade. When this war is over, I hope to take up that useful pursuit once more.”

  I nodded slowly, chewing the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. “A wheelwright? So what’s that? You make wagon wheels or something?”

  “Or something.” Jim glanced down to see if I was really interested. “I work with wood, constructing the hub, spokes, and rim of the wheel, which is then reinforced with iron by the village blacksmith. Henry Fleisher and I work as a team, back home in Tifton.”

  “And the loved ones, back home in Tifton? Is there a Mrs. Merrick waiting at home for you?” I didn’t usually ask such personal questions right off the bat, but the game seemed to allow it.

  “Indeed yes,” he replied. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a worn leather wallet. He fished through it to extract a tiny daguerreotype of a young woman, which he held out to me. “My dear Susannah, that is, Mrs. James Merrick.”

  I bent over the little picture, admiring the striking features under the modest ruffled bonnet. With her high cheekbones and dark, arching eyebrows, Mrs. James Merrick was a beautiful woman. A fitting partner for the attractive sergeant by my side. I caught myself feeling an absurd sense of disappointment, as if it mattered to me whether or not Jim Merrick had a gorgeous wife at home. I shook myself mentally. “She’s very lovely.”

  He tucked the picture back into his wallet. “Yes, she is.” He extended his arm to me again with a half bow. “Shall we continue our tour?”

  Jim steered me away from a smoky campfire on our way back to the officers’ tents. I noticed a small tent off by itself under some trees. I didn’t see a campfire near it, like with all the others.

  “What’s that tent over there?”

  “Hmm? Oh, that? It’s the isolation tent.” He gave me that apologetic smile again. “You need discipline in any army, you know.”

  “You’re kidding. What, it’s like the box in movies, where you lock up the guy for . . .” My words faltered. I could tell by the look on his face that that’s exactly what it was. “Wow,” I said. “So is it pretend, or are you really disciplining guys in there?”

  Jim gave just the hint of a small, mysterious smile.

  We returned to Colonel Windstrom’s tent, and Jim murmured to Private Rawlings, who nodded curtly.

  “The Colonel will see you now,” Jim said. He removed my hand from his arm and held it for a moment, his deep brown eyes fixed on mine. Then he bowed over my hand and once again kissed it ever so lightly.

  My heart pounded. I dropped a little curtsy, wishing I had worn a ball gown, or at least a pretty sundress, instead of my faded blue jeans. Maybe another day . . .

  Jim turned and walked away, leaving me to enter the colonel’s tent alone.

  It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dim light within. Colonel Windstrom’s tent was crowded with a cot and chipped washstand in one corner, a trunk and traveling chest of drawers in another, and a large folding table surrounded by several camp chairs crammed into the middle. The stuffy smell of warm canvas intensified the claustrophobic feeling of the enclosed space.

  Colonel Windstrom was in a foul mood. He stood in the center of the tent breathing heavily, his face a deep, unhealthy red.

  “Ms. Dembrowski,” he barked.

  “Hello, Colonel Windstrom,” I replied. “I, uh, I realized that I neglected to take your neck-to-waist measurement. If you’ll permit me?” I pulled out my tape measure and squeezed behind him. “If you’ll just stand up straight and hold your arms at your sides?” Of course, that was the way a military man would stand. I hastened to take the measurement and jot it down in the notepad I always carried in my sewing bag.

  “Thanks. Sorry to bother you.”

  “How is the uniform coming?” Colonel Windstrom asked, a frown darkening his face. I wouldn’t want to be disciplined by him, that was for sure.

  “Great,” I said with a big smile. He didn’t need to know that I had yet to cut it out. “It’ll be ready for your final fitting on Tuesday. I’ll bring it here, if you like.”

  Private Rawlings poked his head into the tent. His face was white. “Excuse me, sir, there’s been another disturbance.”

  “Not again!” Colonel Windstrom exploded. He snatched up his kepi and shoved it on his head, whirling for the tent opening. His eye fell on me. “Are we done?” he snapped.

  “Yes, sir. I’ll see you Tuesday at two.”

  And he was gone.

  I folded up my measuring tape and ducked out of the tent. I was ready to get out of there. As I walked away, I could hear the colonel launching into Jim Merrick, berating him for a lack of leadership and failing to properly control the men. I covered my ears and walked faster. I didn’t want to hear another word.

  * * *

  The next morning, as I laid out the gray wool fabric on the floor to cut, a gentle breeze stirred the muslin curtains in my workroom. I did my cutting and sewing in a vacant bedroom on the second floor of the three-story house that was all I had left from the wreck of my last relationship. I loved the place, originally built in the mid-nineteenth-century as a two-story Federal-style home. Over the decades, various owners had added a third floor with whimsical dormer windows and a deep front porch. The lacy Victorian gingerbread molding along the roofline clashed with the austere brick façade, but I didn’t care. I loved poking around, looking for hidden passageways in nooks and crannies. My biggest find was a trapdoor in the basement leading to a cramped chamber below. Local lore held that it had been used as a station on the Underground Railroad.

  I spent three happy years in the house, as my wedding shop flourished downtown and I started to reap the rewards of entrepreneurship. Then I met a charismatic law student and fell head over heels in love. I encouraged him to move in with me to save on the high cost of law school, and worked hard to support us while he passed the bar and began his legal career as a junior partner in his father’s law firm. I envisioned marriage and a lifetime of happiness. What I didn’t realize was that he was interested in me not as a fiancée, but as a means to finance his law school education.

  When he cleaned out our joint bank account, left for New York on a weeklong business trip and never returned, I was left with a mountain of debt. I had to close the wedding shop and sell off my entire inventory to pay the bills. All I had left was my beautiful, quirky house and a lot of bitter memories.

  Under the circumstances, I was happy to have a roof over my head, even though I had to share it with an impossible renter. Still, the lead guitarist in a metal band was a sight better than a domineering boyfriend best known for his disappearing acts. But I didn’t want to think about loss and betrayal on this beautiful sunny morning. I pushed the dismal thoughts aside and surveyed my serene workroom.

  A varnished wooden door stacked on two chests of drawers served as a desk to hold my new Bernina sewing machine. Grandma’s antique Singer treadle machine occupied the place of honor between the two tall windows. My orange-striped cat, Mohair, lay curled on my worn easy chair, watching my every move. Everything seemed so normal and ordinary that it was hard to believe that I hadn’t imagined the Civil War camp with its shouting and tension.

  A loud knock on the front door interrupted my thoughts.

  I hurried down the stairs yelling, “Just a sec!” Could it be Marsha? Her fitting wasn’t until tomorrow morning. I’d heard of nervous brides, but that would be ridiculous!

  I checked my hair in the mirror over the fireplace in the front hall, smoothing a few stray wisps into the bobby pins pulling my hair back from my face. I always wore my thick brown hair in a severe bun when I was working. It was hardly flattering, but how could I cut out a Civil War uniform with my hair falling into my eyes?

  I peeked through the leaded
glass of the front door. If it was Marsha, I would have to confess that I hadn’t touched her wedding gown since her last fitting. With any luck, she wouldn’t lose confidence in me.

  Instead, standing on my doorstep, large as life, was my older brother Pete. I threw open the door.

  “Daria!” Pete grabbed me into a big bear hug.

  I pushed him away. He looked awful. He’d lost a lot of weight since I’d last seen him. His face was drawn and pale, with something weird about it that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. He wore a plaid flannel shirt unbuttoned over a T-shirt, worn jeans, and an old Phillies cap.

  “What are you doing back home?” I said. “I thought you and your movie camera were set up for life in Hollywood.”

  “Nice place you’ve got here.” Pete eyed the rosy wallpaper and the sturdy hardwood floor. “Can I come in?”

  I held the door open wide. “You can come up and chat, but I have to work. Want some tea? Something to eat?”

  Pete shook his head and followed me up the stairs. “You always have to work. You’re the workingest woman I know. What is it this time, a pregnant bride and her whole entourage?”

  I gave him a sharp look. Did he know Marsha?

  “So why aren’t you in Hollywood?” I countered. “Did you finish filming, what was it, Raiders of the Lost Park?”

  Pete laughed. “Park Raiders. It folded, and we all got fired. The producer decided he was bored with the whole thing, and the director was crazy. He was convinced we were all out to get him.” He took off his hat and ran his hands through his wild brown hair. He needed a haircut, or maybe some of my bobby pins. “I’m so glad to be out of it. It’s such a drag to work for a boss who’s paranoid. But you know, Hollywood’s not the only place to work in the movies. There’s so much going on in Pennsylvania right now. I’ve got a union card that opens all kinds of doors. I just walked into an epic film on the Civil War.”

  His eyes flicked from the library books strewn on my desk to the gray fabric on the floor, and his face lit up. “Is that what you’re working on—costumes for God and Glory?”

  “I wish.” When I had first heard the movie would be filmed in Laurel Springs, I thought it would be the perfect way to break into the historical sewing business. But the film came with its own union shop, and unlike Pete, I lacked that all-important union card. I was left with the Civil War reenactors and their tailoring needs.

  Kneeling on the floor, I finished pinning on my makeshift pattern and held my breath as I made the first cut. So much of sewing was ripping out and starting over, but it was really hard to change what had already been cut.

  “God and Glory,” I said. “Where do they come up with these titles?”

  Pete straddled an old wooden chair that I’d picked up at a garage sale. Dark shadows smudged below his eyes. A memory shot through me, of Pete lying on the couch in the tenth grade, wiped out by mono. He didn’t look much better now.

  “When did your movie fold?” I demanded.

  “Oh, it was the day after Halloween. Trick or treat!”

  “But it’s June fifth,” I cried.

  Pete cut me off. “Don’t fuss, Daria. I’ve been out of work for seven months, okay? There’s a recession on, in case you hadn’t noticed. But I’ve landed on my feet here in Laurel Springs. Camera operator on God and Glory is good enough for me.” He took a deep breath. “But there is one small detail.” He grinned his crazy, pleading grin at me. “I need a place to stay. You’ve got this huge old house—got a spare room for your big brother?”

  “Hmm.” I pretended to consider him. “Can you provide any references?” It wasn’t necessarily a stupid question. I hadn’t seen him since he left to follow his Hollywood dream six years ago. We’d talked on birthdays and Christmas, but not much more. A lot could change in six years.

  He dropped to his knees and clasped his hands in mock supplication. All of a sudden, I knew what was different about his face. His nose was crooked, bent along the bridge up between his eyes. He must have broken his nose in Hollywood—unless someone had broken it for him. It gave him a slightly desperate look that was intensified by the sharpness of his cheekbones. He looked like a panhandler down at Centennial Park.

  As if he’d read my mind, he stretched out his arms. “Come on, Daria, give a guy a break. I don’t want to have to stay with Dad.”

  That did it. “Okay, okay. You can have the third floor bedroom. But be forewarned, you’ll have to deal with the renter from hell.” A thump and a muffled groan came from the room next door. I looked up from my cutting and rolled my eyes. “There she is now.”

  Pete sat cross-legged on the floor. “What’s the big deal?”

  I bent over my fabric again. “Aileen’s the lead singer in a metal band, the Twisted Armpits. They practice in the basement. Loudly.” Slamming noises emanated from the next room. “She’s recovering from a gig at the Hourglass Tavern last night. The band played till two a.m., evidently. She’s just now getting up. Drives me crazy.”

  “So why put up with her?”

  I heaved an overly dramatic sigh, and waved my naked left hand in his face. “Maybe you didn’t notice, but there isn’t anyone else lining up to share the house with me. I’ve got to make ends meet somehow, in the midst of this recession that you so kindly reminded me of.”

  Pete contemplated the fading tan lines on my ring finger. “What happened to what’s-his-name, that lawyer guy you were with?”

  “Good ol’ what’s-his-name. His name was Randall. It was Randall for the past four years.” I took a breath, concentrating on the pattern pieces. It wasn’t Pete’s fault that he couldn’t remember Randall’s name. He’d never even met the guy. With any luck, I’d forget his name too. “But he’s gone.” I didn’t feel like going into specifics at the moment. I didn’t want to admit to Pete that Randall had conned me from start to finish. The hurt was still too raw, too new.

  Pete didn’t press for details. “So you never got to wear that white dress down the aisle, huh?”

  The dress was gorgeous—rich white satin with an off-the-shoulder neckline and tight bodice flowing down to a flaring A-line skirt. I’d spent every evening for two whole months sewing lace and seed pearls on by hand. The dress was tucked away in a garment bag at the back of my closet. “Did you get an invitation? Or did you think I just skipped that part?”

  “Obviously I didn’t think much about it at all,” Pete confessed with a grin. “I figured you’d get married someday, and I’d have to make a speech or something, after spending the night out on the town with your boyfriend.” A teasing note crept into his voice. “At least it won’t be old what’s-his-name. He sounded like a loser—definitely not the guy for my little sister.”

  “I’ll tell you about it sometime. You know all those lawyer jokes? They were thinking of Randall when they made them up.”

  Pete’s laugh was drowned out by Aileen’s dramatic entrance. Her door flew open with a crash that rattled the house, shaking my “Home, Sweet Home” cross-stitch right off the wall. She stomped out of her room and stopped in my doorway, glaring at Pete. He stared right back, his mouth dropping open.

  Aileen always had this effect on people. Nearly six feet tall, with spiky black hair streaked with pink and black makeup that never really washed off, she was used to causing a stir. She thrived on attention, soaking it up like a dry plant drinks in water. If people didn’t stare, she’d probably shrivel up and turn into an ordinary person like the rest of us. This morning she wore a black T-shirt with obscenities splashed across the front and a pair of lacy black panties.

  Pete gulped and gave it his best try. “You must be the rock star,” he said.

  “You must be the moron,” Aileen shot back. “I thought the men were going to stay downstairs,” she said to me.

  I pasted on a smile. “Aileen, this is my big brother, Pete. He’s going to move into the third-floor bedroom.”

  “Like hell he is,” Aileen snapped. “I’
m gonna get some breakfast.” She stomped off toward the stairs.

  “Charming girl,” Pete said lightly. “Has a real way with people, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Oh, stop. She pays her rent. Like I said, I can’t afford to live here by myself.” I scrambled to my feet and faced my brother. “If you can cover her share, six fifty a month, I’d gladly kick her out.”

  Pete picked up my pincushion and fiddled with the pins and needles. “Uh, yeah, I’m sure we’ll get along great, once she gets to know me.”

  “That’s what I thought.” I crossed my arms and glared at him. “You will chip in for groceries, or you won’t be staying here.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ll clean the bathroom and take out the trash, and I make a killer lasagna.” He stood up and folded his hands meekly in front of him like a good little boy. “You just say the word.”

  I laughed in spite of myself. “Come on, let’s give it another try. Maybe some food will have mellowed her a bit.”

  We walked into my high-ceilinged kitchen. Aileen sat at the table, eating powdered sugar donuts straight from the bag.

  I sat down across from her. Pete hovered in the doorway.

  “How was the gig?” I asked.

  “It was awesome,” she mumbled through her mouthful of donut. “Three guys got into it and smashed a couple chairs and dumped a pitcher of beer on the waitress.” Puffs of powdered sugar punctuated each sentence. “You like music?” she shot at Pete.

  “Yeah, sure. I’m a big Springsteen fan.”

  Aileen snorted and stuffed another donut into her mouth.

  “Pete’s just moved back home.” I ran my fingers along the vine pattern stenciled into the table edge. “He’s been in Hollywood for almost six years.”

  She humphed and wiped her sugary hands on her shirt. “Big Hollywood dude, huh? What’d you come back to the boonies for?”

  Pete shrugged. “Guess I didn’t make it in Hollywood. Pennsylvania’s the place to be in the movies right now.”