Crossing (16 page)

Hetty brought in scrambled eggs, grits, and bacon, and then fresh bread and marmalade. She sighed. “I know Major Jackson is only going to eat one thing. Wonder what it’ll be today? All the biscuits, or all the bacon, or all the eggs?”

Hetty also served as the Jacksons’ cook, but sometimes Anna Jackson cooked, too. She enjoyed it, although ladies such as those in the Morrison family rarely did any cooking. But this morning she had done the scrambled eggs all by herself, and it lent a rosy hue to her normally pale cheeks.

“I’ll tell him I cooked everything,” Anna said with a touch of amusement. “Maybe then I can make him feel guilty enough to eat a little of everything.”

“You can try it, Miss Anna,” Hetty said resignedly. “But he’ll likely outfox you.” She huffed back into the kitchen.

Anna poured two cups of hot coffee, then put sugar in one and set that one in Jackson’s place. Then she went down the hall to her husband’s study. Politely she knocked—she would never burst in on him uninvited—and called, “Thomas, Thomas, time for breakfast.” She returned to the dining room.

In a few moments he appeared at the door, buttoning up his uniform tunic.

She smiled at him. Just then Anna wanted to tell him how happy she was just to see him in the morning, but somehow she could never form that in feeling or proper words.
How do I tell this man that when he isn’t here I’m lonely and have a great emptiness? How do I tell him the minute I see him coming I feel safe and secure?

For so long Anna Jackson had buried her feelings for Thomas Jackson, as she had when he had married Eleanor Junkin. Then, she could never admit to herself that she was in love with a man who was betrothed to another woman; and she could never, would never, entertain the thought that it was through that woman’s death that she had married Thomas Jackson. In a way it held her back from expressing her deepest, most secret feelings. But Thomas Jackson was such an affectionate, loving husband that she thought he probably wouldn’t profit from her confessions anyway. He knew she loved him.

When he came into the dining room, he put his arms out and she went to him. He held her tightly for a moment, neither of them speaking. He kissed her cheek. “You’re better than any breakfast.”

Anna said, “I know you, Thomas Jackson. You have eating on your mind, no matter how pretty your words. Let’s sit down and eat this food before it gets cold.”

They sat down and bowed their heads, and Jackson prayed a simple prayer of thanksgiving. Anna knew that he prayed about everything. Once he told her that he prayed over a glass of water when someone gave him one. Anna knew when he was offered any kind of help he always thanked God for it.

“Now, that bad habit you have of only eating one thing off the table won’t work today,” Anna said firmly. “I made everything this morning, and I want you to eat some of all of it.”

“Why, I could fill up on these good biscuits you made. Look, you made eight of them. I can eat seven and you can eat one. Then you can fill up on all the eggs and grits.”

Anna smiled and reached out and took two of the biscuits off the platter, put them on Jackson’s plate, then said, “Eat those with your eggs.”

She watched as he scraped some eggs on his plate then gave her the rest. He flatly refused the grits, insisting his plate was full, much more than he could eat. They ate in silence for a few moments, and in spite of Anna’s best intentions, Jackson ate his two biscuits, got two more, and ignored his eggs. Anna gave up.

Then she said, “Thomas, the news about the North and their antislavery program threatening our cotton states has gotten so heated. What will we do if the South secedes?”

Jackson said quietly, “God hasn’t told me, esposa. But He doesn’t need to tell me until the problem comes. “Take therefore no thought for the morrow,” the scripture says. “Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.”

“I can’t help thinking about it. All these riots all over the country! It frightens me. I would like to know I have the courage to face a war.”

Jackson reached over and took her hand. “I was talking to young Mr. Murphy just last week. After Sunday school he came up to me and said he’d like to talk to me for a few moments, so I took him aside into the church office. ‘Major Jackson, I have a problem.’ Of course I asked what it was. He said, ‘I hear of people who die so easily it is like going from one room to another. If we go to war, I don’t think I can face death like that. I just don’t have dying grace.’”

Anna asked, “What did you tell him, Thomas?”

“I told him that he didn’t need dying grace, and he asked me why that was. I said, ‘Because you’re not dying. When it comes your time to die or my time to die, that’s when God will give us dying grace. Until that time comes, don’t worry about it.’ So, my dear, don’t worry about it.”

Anna always marveled at how her husband could simplify theological problems. He loved nothing better than talking about the deep, profound, and often mysterious things of the Bible.

Basically he saw things in a very simplistic manner that she envied. To him the scripture was very clear and very personal.

“I had a dream last night of having a baby,” Anna said dreamily. “But then I worried that it might be too hard to bring a child into this world when it seems there is such trouble ahead.”

“Why, Anna, don’t you know that Adam might have said something like that to Eve when they were driven out of the garden of Eden? ‘Eve, let’s not have any children, for it might be too difficult.’ “ He took a bite of the last biscuit and chewed it thoughtfully. “There never was a time free of trouble. People are afraid of what might happen, but we must trust the Lord, and we must be wise.” He smiled. “If God wants to send us another child, He will do so.” He rose then and said, “It is time to go to church. Let’s go hear what the Lord will teach us this morning.”

Yancy rode up to the farmhouse and dismounted. With satisfaction he petted Midnight. He was three years old this month. Grandmother, muttering about “showy, proud horses,” had given Yancy the foal after he had been at the farm for only a month. Yancy had trained him for two years now, and it had been difficult, for Midnight was a high-spirited, proud horse. But when Yancy had been a young boy, the Cheyenne had taught him to train shaggy wild mustangs, and he had developed a special knack for turning them into superb saddle horses. And so he had done with Midnight. But he would tolerate no rider except Yancy.

Before he went in he wanted to savor the cool October afternoon, the dry fall scent of the grass and fields, and the high pale sun set in a light blue sky. Hank, coming from the shade of the oak trees in the back of the house and alerted to his presence, bayed once, then loped up in welcome, ears flopping and tongue lolling. Yancy bent to pet him, scratching his ears and murmuring, “Dumb ol’ dog. How are you doing, dumb ol’ dog? Huh?”

Now he stood for a moment, absolutely still, remembering the richness of the farm. He was alive to the world that was about him, whether well-known or strange. He was sixteen years old now and one inch over six feet, and weighed one hundred and eighty pounds. He was one inch taller than his father, and this amazed him each time he thought of it.

Yancy hadn’t worn his VMI uniform home, though it had been the proudest thing he had ever done to have worn it for a year. It wouldn’t have been suitable to the Amish, however, for they seemed to freeze every time they saw any man in uniform. So every time he visited home, he wore his old work clothes, this time a pair of heavy wool brown pants and a dark blue wool shirt. He had the sleeves rolled up, and it showed his forearms, which were now strong and thickly corded with muscle. He had given up his silvertrimmed VMI forage cap for his old wide-brimmed slouch hat. In deference to the Amish he had even taken off the bead-trimmed band his mother had made.

Hearing Hank’s welcome bark, Becky came out onto the veranda. Holding out her arms, she cried, “Yancy! Yancy, come in! We’ve missed you so much!”

He went into the parlor, where Becky and Zemira had their quilting rack down.

Zemira looked up to him, her bright dark eyes glowing with pleasure. “You’ve come back again! I suppose you got hungry.”

“I’m always hungry for your cooking, Grandmother.” He went to her, bent over, and kissed her smooth cheek. “You’re getting prettier every time I see you,” he teased.

“Go away from here with that nonsense!” She waved him away with a little laugh.

“Becky, are you all right? You look big as a house.”

Becky laughed. “Yes, I’m well. But you have an odd way of framing a compliment, Yancy.”

“But that’s the way mothers-to-be are supposed to look, aren’t they? And you’re glowing, you look so pretty. So, Grandmother, are you going to feed me or what? I’m starved!”

“You can have some leftovers, but save an appetite,” Zemira said sternly. “For supper I’m going to cook a meal that will make your hair curly.”

“I always wanted curly hair.” Yancy drew up a chair and sat down. He was soon eating heartily of lunch—cold ham, fresh white bread, jacket potatoes, pickles, and cabbage slaw. “This is wonderful!” Yancy said. “I don’t get anything like this at VMI.”

“Of course you don’t. You’re not supposed to get home cooking anywhere but at home,” Zemira said. “Now, tell us everything you have been doing.”

“It would bore you to death.” Yancy smiled. “I get up in the morning, and I have to make sure my bed is made and everything is put away. I have to be sure that all the younger cadets get their rooms clean and their beds made. We then all go out to eat breakfast. Then we have classes, and then lunch. Then we go back to classes, and then supper. Nothing good like this, though.”

Becky asked earnestly, “And how are your classes going, Yancy?”

He chewed thoughtfully. “It’s hard. They’re hard. Stuff I don’t know, and stuff I have to work on real hard to catch up. But Major Jackson has helped me. He said he was like me when he went to West Point. He was behind and he had to study extra all the time. He doesn’t favor me in class—it would be against his sense of honor to do that—but he helps me figure out how to study. He even talked Peyton Stevens into being my tutor, and he helps me a lot.”

“Who’s Peyton Stevens?” Zemira asked curiously. “I think I’ve heard that name before.”

“Maybe so,” Yancy said. “His father is Virginia Senator Peyton Stevens, Sr. Peyton is Jr. But he’s not pompous or anything. He’s real smart. He’s just kinda lazy, I guess. But Major Jackson talked him into helping me with my studies, and he’s helped me with everything, from English literature, to mathematics, to European history ….”

They heard a soft call from upstairs, and Zemira stood up. “That’s Callie Jo waking up from her nap. I’ll go get her.”

“I’ll get her,” Becky offered.

“No ma’am, I’m not too old to climb those stairs and get my granddaughter,” Zemira said over her shoulder as she left the room.

“You’ll never be old, Grandmother,” Yancy called after her. He told Becky, “I’ve never known anyone like her. She’s sure not what I expected when we came here. I was afraid she was going to be this mean old Amish woman that never smiled.”

“Nice surprise for you. She’s very fond of you, Yancy. I think it’s been good for her—and me, too—that you are here.”

“You sure?” he asked gravely. “Even though you’re supposed to be shunning me, and all of you are not exactly in the good graces of Bishop Lambright?”

Becky smiled warmly at him. “Well, you know, Yancy, shunning is not necessarily absolutely ignoring a person. Of course no one expects you to attend church or the sing, but neither are they angry with you or are they going to openly shame you. I don’t think anyone in the community would refuse to speak to you, and certainly no one thinks that we shouldn’t still be your family.”

Callie Jo came toddling through the door, pulling Zemira by the apron. “Nance! Nance!” she cried, holding up her arms and running to Yancy.

He stood up, hoisted her high over his head, and turned around in circles. She squealed with delight. Then he sat back down with her on his lap.

“Hi, Nance,” she lisped.

Yancy looked up at Zemira and Becky. “No one here had better ever tell my nickname to anyone at VMI,” he said darkly. “Ever.”

“Okay, Nance,” Becky said. “It’ll be our secret.”

Yancy kissed Callie Jo’s flushed cheeks. She was two years old now, with thick strawberry blond hair and light blue eyes like Daniel. “Hello, Jo-Jo. Did you know that I brought you a present?”

“Present?” she said, her eyes lighting up.

“Yep. It’s out in my saddlebag. Wanna come with me to get it?”

“Yep.”

He picked her up and went outside, where Midnight was still hitched to the post in the front yard. He snorted and danced a little when he came out.

“Minnite,” Callie Jo said and pointed.

“That’s right. You’re a very smart little girl.”

He pulled a book out of the saddlebag. “See here? This is for you.”

“Book!” she announced. “My book! Read me!”

It was a picture book of Bible stories. Yancy sat with Becky and Zemira in the parlor and went through the entire book with her.

Then she said, “Froo with book. Go ride Minnite?”