I came inside, leaned my rifle against the wall, and took off my hat. She shut the door behind me and then walked across the room to the fireplace. She stood facing the fire with her arms crossed and head down.
I looked around the room. There wasn’t much, but it was well kept. Pots and other kitchen things were by the fireplace. A table and chairs sat in the middle of the room. A tall cabinet for clothes stood in a corner next to a back door. A set of shelves on one wall held odds and ends, and a few books. My brother’s harmonica sat at the end of one shelf. I wanted to pick it up, but thought better of it. In a corner of the room was the bed. For a moment, I pictured Maggie and my brother, lying there together, naked. It was hard to imagine me in his place.
Not knowing what else to do, I went and stood at the fire with her, a good yard of space between us. I looked into the fire and waited, saying nothing, fumbling nervously with my hat, my heart beating fast. The fire was small and didn’t begin to warm the room. I wasn’t surprised by that. From what I had seen as I walked up, she didn’t have much firewood to spare.
“You’ll want to see your brother’s grave.” She didn’t wait for me to answer, but just turned and headed for the back door. She opened the cabinet and pulled out a big coat, which I recognized as my brother’s. She put on the coat and went out, leaving the door open for me.
We walked slowly across a field without speaking. Still hard from the first frost of the season, the ground crunched beneath our boots.
I felt strange. I was going to my brother’s grave. His death had never been real to me. I had only gotten word of it long after they had put him in the ground. I was going to that grave with his widow, the woman I was supposed to marry, a woman who didn’t appear to have much use for me.
And I felt frightened without my rifle.
My brother was buried in the woods beyond the field. It was a nice place, a small clearing a little higher than the surrounding ground. I could see the cabin through the bare branches of the trees and bushes. My parents had told me as he was dying he had asked to be buried there. It would’ve been easier on Maggie, on me, on everybody if was at the church or on our land. But that’s what he had wanted.
His name had been carved into the marker, a heavy piece of plank stuck into the ground. A bed of stones lay atop the grave to keep animals from digging him up. But I knew there was nothing but bones down there now.
I took off my hat and stared at the marker. My brother’s face, how he had looked when he smiled and laughed, flickered and jumped in my mind like a candle in a drafty place. I tried to hold the image. Then it was gone. My eyes felt a little wet and I wiped them with the sleeve of my coat.
When I looked up, I saw Maggie was looking right at me, not down at the marker or the stones. Her eyes were dry, clear. Honest.
“Do you want this?” she said.
“Well . . . I don’t know,” I said. “Do you?”
“If you don’t want to try, I’d best head home before winter. And I don’t want that.”
“Why not?”
She glanced at the marker as if considering whether she would say what was on her mind in its presence. In his presence. She let out a breath and looked at me.
“I don’t take much to pity, and that’s what waiting for me there. Besides, my folks didn’t want me marrying your brother. They didn’t think he was . . . steady. And they’ll think his dying somehow proves them right. I just don’t care to be around that.”
“You and my brother chose one another.”
She looked back at the marker. “We did.”
I didn’t bother to ask why. They were both the kind most folks are drawn to, full of life and handsome enough to turn heads. I knew because I wasn’t like that at all.
She kept looking at the marker. “He made me laugh. O Lord, how I laughed with him. And you know how he loved music and dancing. That’s what I’d thought it would be, laughter and music and dancing. That, and getting in bed and making babies.”
When she said this last thing, she looked up at me. Maybe she was trying to see how I would take that kind of talk. Maybe she was just being honest. I felt myself flush, something in me stirring, but still uneasy about feeling that way.
She turned back to the marker. “But it wasn’t. Laughter and music don’t chop wood, patch the roof, or get a new privy dug. And what’s done in bed, well, that don’t amount to much if there’s no baby.”
I didn’t say anything.
“I do miss him,” she continued. “But every day, I miss him a little less because it was a mistake. If he’d lived, we both would’ve seen that soon enough.”
She turned back to me. “Everyone tells me you’re the serious one. The steady one.”
“And what if I am? Is that enough? Enough to make you forget?”
“No. There’s no forgetting. Not for me. Not for you. But we could try to find something. Something of our own.”
“I’ll only be here a few weeks.”
“I know.”
“And when I leave, I might never be back.”
She nodded, gave the marker one last glance, and began to walk back to the cabin. I walked by her side. Boots crunching the cold clods.
“You’re low on firewood,” I said, “If you got an ax, I could chop some.”
“I’ve got one,” she said, smiling. “And it’s sharp.”
I smiled back.
After my chores at home, I would go to Maggie’s place and chop wood or do other heavy work until it was near dark. All our talk was practical, about little things, and not like our talk at my brother’s grave. On Sunday, we would sit together in church. That was strange because everyone watched us, curious about how we were getting along.
So that’s how we began, edging toward one another. Slow and careful. We had stopped being strangers, but we didn’t have a word for what we were becoming. Of course, hanging over everything was my leaving. And God only knew what would happen then.
Two days before I was planning to leave, Maggie cooked me a real sit-down dinner. I was so nervous that I could barely taste the food, even though I kept saying it was real good.
I don’t think she was as nervous as me, but she didn’t say much either. Mostly, she watched me. Maybe she was waiting to see if I was ready for something.
She was standing, cleaning off the plates when she said, “Tell me what happened to you in the militia.”
I was so surprised I almost dropped my cup.
“Tell me,” she said.
Everything I tried not to think about came up inside me like a rush of vomit. I didn’t dare say a word. I would let it all out. And if I did, she would never want me. No one would.
Maggie waited, motionless, still holding a plate.
Looking away, I shook my head. It was all I could manage.
She sat down at the table, laying the plate aside. “You don’t have to tell me. Ever. But I want you to know that you can. It’s up to you.”
“Thank you,” I said. And I meant it. I was grateful. But it wasn’t because she was willing to listen. That would come later. I was grateful for not having to say anything.
“But there’s something else,” she said.
“What?”
“Tell me about this girl, Jane Darcy.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Folks say God works through her. That true?”
There it was. The question I had never been able to answer.
“Sometimes I thought she was,” I said. “Other times I had to wonder about her. Or about God.”
Maggie looked surprised. So I told her about Waynesville.
“If God wanted that,” I said, “we should wonder about Him.”
I could tell Maggie didn’t want to go questioning God. Most folks with any sense didn’t. Everything could unravel if you start doing that. And what good could come from it? I didn’t want to doubt God either, but Jane had driven me there.
“Folks say if it weren’t for her, the Government would�
�ve beaten us by now,” Maggie said. “They say she’s more important than Charles Winslow will ever be. You think that’s true?”
“Yeah, I do. We owe her more . . .” I struggled to hold back tears.
Maggie was looking at me. Not with contempt or even concern. She watched me the way you watch game through the sights of your rifle. Waiting for the right moment.
“You in love with her?” she said.
I surprised myself by being able to look right at her as I said, “No. I thought so once. But that was just foolishness.”
Just as easy, I could’ve said, “Yes. I still am. But that is just foolishness.”
I had decided to tell a half-lie rather than a half-truth. The whole truth was I didn’t know if I loved Jane, or even what love was. But I did know it was foolish to think about Jane that way.
Maggie was still. Watching. I guess she was making up her mind about me, and figuring what to do from here on. It was an effort to keep looking right at her, and that went on for a long time. Then she stood up and asked me if I would like some pie. I said I would.
A little while later, I thanked her for dinner, and we said our goodbyes. I wanted to touch her. Maybe she felt the same way, but there was still a wall between us. So I didn’t. I just put on my hat and went out into the night, making sure I closed the door behind me.
Outside, it was getting colder, and a good wind had come up. The first snow couldn’t be far away. I started walking, pulled down my hat, and turned up the collar of my coat. After a few steps, I stopped and turned. A light still shone in the window of Maggie’s cabin. I still didn’t believe that I would ever live in that cabin with Maggie, or raise children there. I didn’t believe it would happen. But I would accept it as good fortune, a blessing, if it came. If I lived through the war. If the war ever ended. If.
Then I remembered talking with Jane’s uncle. He told me not to be worrying on the future. “The only future you got is right now,” he had said. And that was true. Gospel truth.
The light in the cabin went out. Maggie had gone to bed. I wished I were there with her. Not to be doing anything. No, I just wished to be warm, to drift into sleep unafraid and unalone. To dream good things.
But I was alone, in the dark, and getting colder. I turned and headed home. In two days, I would take my rifle and my bedroll and go back to the war. That was the only future I had.
CHAPTER 22
And then the war was over. At least, that’s what we thought.
The day before I was going to head back, my father and I had breakfast and went out to get some chores done. When we came back at midday, we found my mother in the kitchen, sitting in a chair, crying. Worried that something bad had happened, we rushed over to her and asked what was wrong. She started laughing and said the war was over.
She told us one of the Jameson boys came by on horseback with the news.
“How’d he know?” I said.
“His father heard it down at the trading store. War’s over.”
“Who did Mr. Jameson hear it from?” I said.
My mother didn’t know. She hadn’t asked. The Jameson boy had brought news she had been praying for. Folks are slow to question what they want to hear.
“This might not be true,” I said, dropping into a chair.
My mother looked at me like I had slapped her. She needed to believe.
My father put a hand on her shoulder and said, “He’s right. We have to find out.”
She nodded. You could see her shoulder the burden again.
“I’m going to the Jameson place,” I said. I was running out the door before they could say a word.
Mr. Jameson had heard the news from somebody else who had heard it from somebody else. He was so sure it was true that he had opened a bottle of whiskey to celebrate, even though the sun was still high in the sky. Full of good cheer, he offered me some. It was bad manners, but I said no thanks, and hurried home.
My parents and I sat at the kitchen table and talked. They wanted me to wait. Maybe more news would come along. But I needed to know.
Of course, I wanted to go right then, but that was foolishness. The sun was near down. Better to go in the morning.
“What about Maggie?” my mother said.
“You tell her for me,” I said. Maggie and I had said what we had to say for now.
My mother looked disappointed, but she didn’t argue.
I lay awake every minute of that night thinking in circles, waiting for the first sign of dawn.
My parents saw me off. My father gave me a firm handshake and my mother a hug. No tears. I went out the door and forced myself not to look back.
It all turned out to be unnecessary.
I had been walking for no more than a couple hours when I heard someone coming toward me. I got behind a tree and watched him come on. When he got a little closer, I recognized him. Stepping out where he could see me, my hands up and empty, I called his name, “Hey Weber!”
For a moment, he looked startled. Then he recognized me. “Hey!” he called and began laughing.
We shook hands and slapped one another on the back. I noticed he smelled of whiskey, but didn’t appear drunk.
“Is it true?” I said.
“What?”
“The war. What else?”
“Hadn’t you heard by now?”
“I heard. But didn’t know for a fact. So it’s really over?”
“Yeah. They told us Winslow made some kind of deal with the Government.”
“Deal? What kind of deal?”
He shrugged. “Don’t know, but the goddamn shooting stopped, and they said men with three years service was done and out.”
“For good?”
“For as long as it lasts. All I know about is right now. And I’m going home!” We both grinned and slapped one another on the back again.
Then he frowned. “If you didn’t know it was over, what you doing here?”
I explained how Campbell had sent me home a month ago. But I didn’t explain why, and Weber didn’t ask. He likely figured it was because I had gotten too nervous to be any damn good in a fight. It happened to a lot of us, but nobody talked about it.
“So you was headed back?” he said.
“Yeah. It was lucky running into you.”
“Running into to me is always lucky.”
We both laughed.
I wanted to head home right then, and invited Weber along, but he was real hungry and wondered if I had any food. I had some biscuits and bacon my mother had made. We made a little fire and started eating and talking.
He asked about Riley.
“Good,” I said. “Last time I saw him anyways.”
“What about that Jane Darcy? I heard you and Riley was with her for a while.”
“Yeah.” I shrugged, hoping he would take the hint.
“Is it true what everybody says about her?” Weber said. “Does God really tell her things?”
I shrugged again.
Weber still didn’t take the hint and said, “I heard she--”
I cut him off. “What about the old squad? Harris? Stokes? Price?”
Weber didn’t say anything for a long moment, and I could tell it was going to be bad. “All dead,” he said.
I wanted to know more, but I said nothing. I left it up to him to say what he wanted.
“Just a few days after it all began. We got caught in some of that damn artillery. There was a big flash not ten yards from me. Price, Stokes, a couple others, just gone.”
“Damn,” I said in a whisper.
“Harris and me was together ‘til a few weeks ago. An ambush went bad. He got all shot up.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Hung on for hours. Always was a stubborn sumbitch.”
I was sorry I asked. It would’ve been better to talk about Jane than make Weber remember.
“Sorry,” I said.
He shrugged. “Don’t matter none.”
Riley had said the same thing w
hen I left. It mattered. Nothing could matter more.
We sat there for a long moment. Then I stood up, kicked out the fire, and said, “Come on. Let’s go.”
Weber stayed overnight, sleeping in my brother’s old bed. In the morning, he wanted to be off for home. He didn’t say how he felt, but I was a little sick and shaky from the whiskey the night before. My father had never been a drinking man, yet he counted my return with Weber as an occasion worthy of what he called “the snakebite medicine.” We drank until midnight.
When we were full of the whiskey, Weber and I talked some about visiting or going hunting together sometime. But even as we were saying it, I knew it would never happen.
After some breakfast, I walked with Weber to where he would pick up a trail toward his home. We didn’t say much. All our talking had been done the night before. We just shook hands, and he walked into the woods. I stood and watched him go. Just as he got to the top of a little rise, the sun came out from behind some clouds. He stopped, took off his hat, and tilted his head back to enjoy the feel of its warmth on his face. Then he turned toward me, gave me a wave with his hat, and went over the rise. The moment he disappeared, I had a strange feeling.
It was relief. Glad he was gone.
Now, you need to know I liked Weber. He was a good man and a good friend. If he asked my help, I would do whatever I could. But I knew him from the militia. He had seen me wake up from dreaming of the blue-eyed man. With Weber gone, I thought the militia and war belonged to the past, I could begin my life, my new life. I had a future again.
At least, that’s what I thought.
CHAPTER 23
Remembering those months at home always gives me a special feeling. I really don’t know how to explain it, or even what to call it. When you put a name to something, it’s like putting a nail through it. The nail holds it in place so you can find it again, but it takes the breathing life out of it too. The feeling I had was like seeing the first trickles of spring snowmelt coming through an ice-choked streambed. You see that trickle and know the world will soon be green and warm, full of life. Let’s just say I was happy.
If you had been around, you wouldn’t have seen much worth the seeing. I was 19 going on 20. I lived in the only home, and slept in the only bed, I had ever had. At dawn, I would be up and working, doing my chores, often until dark. If I could, I would visit Maggie and chop some wood. On a Friday or Saturday night, there might be a dance in one of the larger houses about. On Sunday, I would sit with my parents and Maggie in church. And when I wasn’t too tired in the evenings, I would sit close to the fire and read a book. And maybe you wouldn’t have noticed, but I had stopped carrying my rifle everywhere.
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