Here and Again (12 page)

“The farm will not pass to you?”

Ginger shook her head. “I think Osbee’s selling it. I’m not a farmer and my family is . . . far from here.”

Far from here. Not Seattle. Ginger didn’t want to send Samuel in her father’s direction. What if she just touched his knee? Just to check.

“So you will take your husband’s children away from their father’s land and his dream for them?”

Ginger shot her eyes back to Samuel’s face. “Osbee’s selling the land. Not me.”

“She wants to sell the land?”

Her mouth opened but nothing came out. Osbee had been saying it was time to sell—that she couldn’t farm, that Ginger needed to go back home.

“She does not want to sell the land,” Samuel stated.

“I—I don’t know. She says she’s too old to farm it.”

“Virginia, why cannot you farm it?” he pressed.

“I told you. I don’t know how. And I work all the time.”

“I do not understand. You work on the farm. What do you mean, you cannot farm?”

Beau gazed over his shoulder at her as if posing the question also.

“I’m a nurse, not a farmer. I go to work in a hospital and I’m gone most of the time. I need to work just to pay the taxes on this farm, which I do to keep my kids on it because it’s what their father wanted. My children are growing up without me because I’m trying to hold on to this land—to his dream. But there is no one actually farming it and Osbee is too old and it’s about time to plant.”

“You do it.”

Ginger stared at Samuel, who sat in the winter light, which had brightened as it poured in the window.

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“I have to work.” Ginger wondered if he was listening to anything she was saying.

“You say you are a nurse. What use is nursing when planting needs to happen? Why help in a hospital if there is no food? Stay home. Plant.”

“By myself?”

“You have children.”

“They are ten and eight and five.”

“So?”

“They can’t work.”

“Why?”

“They have to go to school.”

“Why?”

“Samuel, all children go to school.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“I was schooled at home until I went to VMI. My father had a farm. I worked as soon as I stood up.”

Ginger dropped her hands to her lap and gazed at the man sitting in front of her in a soiled cotton shirt, fraying woolen pants, and tattered shoes. Home school. And who would school? She had to work. Plant. With what?

“The tractor’s broken.”

“Tractor?” Samuel asked, his eyes unblinking. “It plows?”

Ginger cocked her head. Wasn’t that obvious? “Yes,” she replied.

Samuel sat still, staring at his feet, thinking. “You have a barn. You have horses?” Samuel finally asked.

“Two,” Ginger replied. “But they’re just for play.”

“No, Virginia. Horses can pull a plow.”

Ginger scoffed. “They are not for plowing.”

“What are they for?”

“For—for the kids to ride. Not for working.” Ginger buried her head in her hands. They smelled like dog and this entire conversation was insane.

“Why do you look away from me, Virginia Moon?”

Wasn’t that obvious, too? Pulling her fingers just off her eyes, Ginger glared in his direction. Samuel’s soft brown gaze was as intense as the white light of the winter day outside.

“I cannot stay. I have to get home.”

“Okay,” she said, breathing a silent sigh of relief.

“Before I go, listen to me tell you what you are saying. Just so I understand. You have a farm but you cannot work it because you leave it to work. You have to work all the time to keep the farm and in doing so you leave it and your children, unable to see any of them grow. Your children go away from home to school, presumably to learn and grow. They cannot work the farm and grow. And you have what are obviously workhorses that do not work for things to grow. No one is home, growing. No one is working on home and everyone is everywhere but here, home—working but not working. Except the horses, which are here but not working. Is that correct?”

Ginger thought for a moment, completely perplexed. Was that right?

“Do I have it correct?” he repeated.

“I—I’m not sure. I think so.”

“I can see why Osbee is selling the farm,” he replied, standing up.

“It does sound—crazy, doesn’t it?”

“Well,” he replied, with a small shrug.

“I’m not a farmer, Samuel.”

“Yes, you have said that. It seems to me that your husband is gone and, with him, any kind of anchor. Everyone is floating down the river, Virginia Moon, and someone has to grab ground before you all drown. Someone needs to hold on.”

“It hurts to be here,” Ginger whispered.

“Someone needs to hold on,” Samuel repeated. “I suppose when a seed opens to put down a root, it must hurt. Growing hurts sometimes.”

Ginger remembered Henry and his aching legs. She always
knew when he was about to sprout taller because he always complained his legs hurt before he did so. Thinking on it, she hadn’t heard Henry tell her his legs hurt in over a year. Surely he was growing. Perhaps she wasn’t around to hear him.

“Growing hurts sometimes,” she repeated.

Samuel nodded. “And besides, what would Virginia be without its moon?” he asked with a half smile.

“Dark,” she replied with a nervous laugh.

“I should think so. Now I am off to Laurel Creek again. Maybe we are finished here.”

“Maybe you’re not supposed to return to Laurel Creek,” Ginger offered as she stood.

“And where should I go if not there? I have been trying to get there for many, many years.”

“Maybe it is the light you—”

Samuel held up his hand to stop her. “If I cannot get across Laurel Creek, I am going to find your father and help him step into the light.”

Ginger chuckled as Samuel headed for the door.

“Good day to you. Remember, a man is not dead if his dream yet lives. If his love lives. Think on that.”

As was proper manners, Ginger followed him. She reached for the knob.

“And think of your dream, Virginia Moon, and the dreams of your children.”

Before she could turn the knob, Samuel stepped through the door and was gone. Ginger gasped and then gasped again and the bright winter light beyond the front door windowpanes went gray as she slumped to the floor. Then there was blackness.

The Violet Hour

A
nudge on her right hip brought Ginger back from the warm dream of floating on an inner tube down the drifting slumber of summer’s Shenandoah, a slow, green, spiraling journey shifting between dappled shade and a pale blue heaven. Walking on the right bank, Jesse followed her progress.

“Have I found your dream?” she asked.

“My dream is Ginger Moon.”

“That’s in Seattle.”

“No. She’s right here floating down a river.”

“It’s warm.”

“Need to grab the bank before you end up at Harpers Ferry.”

“I love Harpers Ferry.”

“Yes, you always did. But you won’t like those rapids in that inner tube. You need to take hold now.”

“I’ll be right over.”

“No. Not my side. Take hold on your side.”

“My side is your side,” Ginger whispered.

She willed herself back to sleep—back to the river, back to the ebbing life of a Jesse dream. But Beau nudged at her hip again with a loud yawn, and when Ginger opened her eyes, she found Regard’s furry spine curled up on the crook of her neck with the afternoon light pouring down upon them from the staircase window above. Beau shifted his weight once more, gently shaking her at the hip. Ginger reached down, scratching his ear as she pondered how it was she had come to be lying on the entryway floor with the animals sleeping around her. Then it came back, bursting through her peaceful Jesse dream. When it did, she jolted up. Regard, startled, jumped away, hissing as he gazed around looking for what had interrupted his warm slumber.

Ginger stared at the front door, which was still locked.

“Shit.” She placed her hand on her forehead. What to do? What to say? What to think? “Shit,” she said again.

There was nothing now except the vision of Samuel passing through the door. Her very scientific, practical mind—the mind that saw what was there, that searched for connections between various unrelated events and could culminate all into a diagnosis, that could always identify a course of action—failed. Nothing allowed her to ignore this event. Nothing enabled her to make it something other than what it was. A ghost had been in her house, had spoken with her, had left through an unopened door. Samuel was a ghost.

“Holy crap,” she whispered.

There were tires coming up the drive now, the crunching of their progress growing louder and louder until Beau could no longer ignore them. He stood, gazing over at Ginger as if to indicate that she should do the same. She obeyed, grabbing the banister for support. Regard, unhappy that Ginger was finished napping,
hissed grumpily, then headed upstairs to find a pillow upon which to curl. As he skipped up the stairs, an engine disengaged. There were murmured voices. Wagging his tail at the closed door, Beau peered over to Ginger, who stood as still as the banister on which her left hand rested. He barked softly, mumbling, reminding her that she should unlock the door. As commanded, Ginger reached out with her right hand and turned the knob. She opened the door, blinking in the pale gray light.

“Ginger,” Osbee declared with a bright smile. “You look like you just woke up.”

The light and her voice were both very loud in the shifting reality that was scouring her mind.

“I did,” she replied quietly.

“Hey, you all right?” Eloise asked as she came through the door with two grocery bags. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Bea, who had been on Eloise’s heels, stopped abruptly, causing a two-boy pileup behind her.

“Hey, Bea!” Oliver snapped. “Move!”

Bea stared up at her mother, her eyes seeking an answer to the question Ginger knew was still on her daughter’s mind.

“No ghost. Just woke up,” she replied with a forced smile.

Oliver and Henry pushed past Bea, who was yet frozen at the door.

Samuel?
Bea mouthed.

Ginger shook her head.

Bea frowned, nodding. “Samuel,” she whispered.

“Bea, drop your bag and come help me get the laundry from upstairs,” Ginger said.

The little girl shed her backpack and they both headed up the staircase.

“I saw him, Mama,” Bea whispered as they climbed. “I saw
him from the bus this morning. He was standing behind you as we drove away.”

“Wait,” Ginger said, shuddering as she followed her daughter into her bedroom. Bea bent down and picked the phone up from the floor as Ginger shut the door.

“You see him, Mama?” Bea asked, gazing up to her mother for reassurance.

For several minutes, Ginger stared into her daughter’s eyes, unsure how to answer. Did her daughter need to know that she had spoken with Samuel? Would that scare her even more? Or maybe she should say she hadn’t seen the ghost, helping her daughter to forget he had been wandering around the farm. He was gone now anyway.

With a deep sigh, Ginger sat on the bed, holding her hand out for the phone. Honesty was always best. Children could tell when adults were being less than truthful, and for her children as with most, that caused a certain level of distrust. They didn’t know precisely what was being withheld, but were quite clear when something was. Best to either openly discuss the issue or to affirm that something was not going to be talked about because they were children.

Ginger sighed again as her daughter placed the phone into her hand. “Yes, I saw him, too.”

A little furrow appeared on Bea’s forehead. “He didn’t go away like you said?” she asked.

“He has now, Bea. As far as I can tell.”

“How do you know?”

“’Cause I talked with Grandma and Grandpa and they told me what to say to him.”

“Oh. What’d they say to say?” Bea’s eyebrows perked up. Ginger paused before answering, wondering why what her
parents had to say on the subject would be of interest. They were strangers who came bearing gifts a couple of times a year.

“To tell Samuel to step into the light,” she replied.

Bea’s lip curled. Ginger’s smile widened. Samuel had had the same reaction.

“What light?”

“Not sure. I think Grandpa means heaven. I told Samuel and then he left. He thinks he can find his way across the—” Ginger stopped. The gaping mouth of the bridge in her orchard even now was breathing through the window on her back. Her smile disappeared.

“The what?”

“To heaven.”

“What does he have to cross?” Bea pressed.

“You know, Bea, I’m not sure. He says he’s trying to cross a . . . creek.”

“River,” Bea corrected.

“Uh, he said a creek.”

“He said Laurel Creek. We found it in my atlas. But he needs to cross the river Lethe.”

“What’s that?” Ginger glanced sideways, the hollow wind passing through the bridge causing a shiver to roll down her spine.

“Dad used to say it’s the river of forgetfulness. Samuel needs to cross it to get to Elysium.”

“Elysium?” Ginger asked, sitting up straight. “Wh-when did Dad say this?”

“Dad was telling it to Henry and me while we were bivouacking last summer by the bridge.” Bea turned her head and looked out the window. Ginger didn’t. “Not last summer,” Bea corrected. “The summer before that. Uh, before that.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“You were at work. Oliver fell asleep and Dad began to recite
Hamlet
’cause Henry wanted a ghost story.”

A ghost story. Leave it to Jesse to recite
Hamlet
and make sloosh when all his kids wanted was a simple ghost story and s’mores.

“Dad says the dead cross this river to forget the suffering of their life.”

“Oh.” Ginger had nothing else to say. She was off in her mind beneath a summer moon she had missed because she was working. She could just see Jesse act out
Hamlet
amidst the lightning bugs.

“He’ll be back,” Bea said.

Shaking her head free of fireflies, Ginger gazed down at her daughter. “Wh-who?”

“Samuel. Grandpa told him to go to the light, but that’s not what he’s looking for. He’s looking for a way across the river Lethe. He’ll be back, I think.”

Bea stood up from the bed and looked down at the phone in her mother’s hand.

“Where’s the batteries?”

Ginger pointed to the floor beneath. Lowering to her knees, Bea moved her hand under the dresser as Ginger turned her head to the window. The light was fading as the sun crawled through the white mist of winter toward the west.

“I was afraid,” Bea said with a grunt.

Ginger looked down and found her daughter splayed out on the floor, her left shoulder and arm missing beneath the dresser.

“You’re not anymore?”

“Nope.” Bea giggled as she drew her knees beneath her. With a triumphant smile, she held her hand up and offered the batteries to her mother.

Ginger took them and snapped them back into place. “Why not?” Ginger was. She hoped Bea was wrong.

“Because Samuel wants to get across the river. He doesn’t want to stay here.” The little girl turned and headed to her own room.

Frozen on the bed, Ginger watched Bea pass the door with an armful of dirty clothes. She stood up and moved toward the bathroom. Though she knew she was walking, she felt as if she were floating. She was disconnected—in motion, sliding around in her head like a deckhand on a heaving ship caught in a maelstrom. Her arms grabbed the bathroom laundry basket; her legs carried her downstairs. Her lips smiled weakly at Osbee, who glanced questioningly over at her as she came through the kitchen door.

Laundry folded on the table gave way to homework, which then was cleared for dinner—pinto beans, collards, and corn bread. This was a standard dinner in the Smoot-Martin household. Not only was it nutritious and cheap, but it was Jesse’s favorite and was served at least three times a week.

On her way out to check the horses, Bea asked if anyone wanted to come with her. Osbee gazed over to Ginger with raised eyebrows. Ginger shrugged, hearing herself offer to go, but Oliver jumped at the chance. With a grin, Bea took Oliver’s hand and shut the door behind them.

Stepping over to the sink, Ginger poured herself a cup of coffee and took a sip. She watched Bea and Oliver cross the yard to the barn. Oliver had not complained about beans and collards. The more she thought on this, the more she realized he never complained about beans and collards. She had never been aware of his notable good humor at that meal. But then, maybe that was just another thing she missed, occupied as she was with her work.

“Henry?” Her voice was distant as she set her cup down.
Rolling up her sleeves, Ginger dipped her hands into the soapy water of the sink.

“Yeah?” He didn’t look up from his book.

“Your legs hurt anymore when you grow?”

“Yes. I take Motrin like you said.”

“Oh.” At least he was taking care of it. Yet a small churn of guilt rolled over in her stomach. She hadn’t known and wasn’t there to care for him.

He stood. “I’m going out to check the horses with Oliver and Bea,” he said, shutting his book with finality.

He stood and slid into his coat. The door banged shut and there was silence in the house. As Ginger washed the plate, she noticed the white sky was now dimmed and the snow was lit purple. Henry ran to the barn, his dark body but a racing shadow.

•••

H
enry stood by his mother as they gazed down upon the infamous bridge over Antietam Creek. He took her hand in the silence that followed their father’s dissertation on Burnside’s efforts to cross it with the Confederate cannon raging iron and fury at them from the other side. In that quiet, Oliver, who was just three and situated upon his father’s shoulders, continued to whistle the strange birdcall he had been whistling ever since they crossed the cornfield where Jackson had fought near the Dunker Church.

“Why is it sometimes called Antietam and sometimes Sharpsburg?” eight-year-old Henry asked his father.

“The North often called the battles the names of the rivers nearby, whereas the South called them by their towns. So Manassas to the South is the Battle of Bull Run to the North, as Bull Run Creek flowed through the field of combat. Antietam—North. Sharpsburg—South.”

“Yeah, but why?” Henry pressed.

“I’m not really sure,” Jesse replied, staring down at the bridge. His
eyes were unfocused, gazing away to a far and distant place where he soon was to be deployed. Ginger wished they had not come here. It was too close to his leaving and he was always dark at these times. Battlefields were dark places—not good when one’s mood was dark.

Oliver stopped whistling and sat up straight, jerking his head around in his mother’s direction.

“I heard it again!” he said excitedly. “The bird answered!”

“Shh, so we can hear,” Ginger said with a shiver, and they all stood still waiting for the bird. It had answered eerily in the Dunker Church. The chapel was small and white and the interior was almost a perfect square. Around its periphery, two rows of wooden pews encircled the center where the preacher would stand, relaying God’s message or marking the time for the hymns. There was no organ, no piano. There would have been just voices singing in multiple and complex harmonies as a sacred harp.

But there was no singing this day, just the bird whistling a question over and over. Oliver answered as Ginger and her family searched the pews and the cast-iron stove for the bird that surely must have been caught somewhere inside. But they didn’t find it, and as they moved on, walking together hand in hand or upon shoulders, the bird whistled after them. Ginger fought the urge to look back, feeling greatly like the outcome of doing so would be the same sentence passed on to Lot’s wife but uncontrollably she gazed over her shoulder. A thin shimmering dust cloud wavered in the apricot-colored light and then the bird went silent. Since that moment, there had been no birdsong, though Oliver whistled and whistled.

Now dusk hung around them in a purplish hue, the air misty from a gentle spring thunderstorm that had passed over as they pulled into the battlefield parking lot. The bird called in reply far afield.