Here and Again (23 page)

“Whatever, Bubba,” Ginger said, smiling.

Oliver kicked a little, hitting the goat’s horn.

“Neeaahhh,”
it said.

“Whatever,” Ginger said with a little laugh.

Oliver smiled as Bubba butted his mother again. “Whatever, Bubba,” Oliver said.

“Bubba is a goat. We don’t want to be mean to him but we don’t want to be afraid, either. His pointy horns and weird eyes made me scared. But when he hit me, I realized there’s nothing to him. He’s just doing goaty things and it’s me being afraid—afraid of what I thought he was and what he can do. And he seems to like making me afraid but right now he’s learning I’m not moving.”

“He’s bigger than me,” Oliver whined.

“Yep, and he’ll use that. But he can’t really hurt you. He’s a goat. If he pushes, push back. Okay?”

Oliver wasn’t sure. The frown on his face told the story.

“You need to get down and face him, Oliver.”

“I don’t want to.” He clung tighter, burying his face in her neck.

“I might be out in the field or in the barn and he might hit me and knock me over, but he can’t hurt me. You see? Because I’m not afraid anymore.”

Ginger rubbed Oliver’s back, rocking him gently in her arms.
He smelled like hers. He was her baby. He was Jesse’s baby. He was their last baby and when that thought crossed her mind she held him tighter, hanging on to the little boy who would one day be too big to hold this way.

Oliver squirmed in the tightness of her embrace and, slowly, crawled down her body to the ground. He held her leg, looking sideways at Bubba.

“All the eggs are broken,” Ginger said.

“Not all,” Oliver replied. “I didn’t get them all.”

“Too many to carry?”

“No. Rooster chased me.”

“Really?” Ginger said, and at that moment Bubba charged, aiming for Oliver.

“Mama!” Oliver yelled, trying to climb back up.

Ginger left him on the ground, petting his head in reassurance, and when the goat hit him, his eyes popped open in surprise.

“That feels like Henry or Bea pushing me.”

“That’s all it is.”

Oliver let go of her leg and looked at Bubba. “Whatever, Bubba!” he yelled.

“Why don’t you get the basket and we’ll go get the rest of the eggs.”

Oliver stood up and walked to the door.

“Oliver! Look out!” Henry yelled.

“Whatever, Henry,” Oliver said and faced the oncoming goat. It hit him and the impact caused him to stumble backward into the door. “Go away!” Oliver yelled and pushed Bubba hard. The goat backed up and blinked in its goaty way.

When he picked up his basket, egg ooze dripped from its bottom.

“Osbee, you got another basket?” Ginger asked.

The old woman nodded and walked away from the door.

“What are you doing in there?” she asked Henry.

“We’re straining the milk and cleaning our buckets.”

“Ah.”

“Then we’re gonna clean the stove in here.”

“I’m gonna help with that,” Oliver added.

Osbee handed her the basket and a long stick, saying, “You’ll need this.”

“Why?”

“Turkeys have beaks, feet, and feathers that are all pointy.”

Ginger took the stick and handed it to Oliver. She gazed over to the sunroom and found Bea, Beau, and Samuel standing on the steps. She eyed the dog.

“Where were you when I was being attacked by your new friend?”

The dog yawned.

“Come, Beau. Let’s go talk to Rooster.”

Taking Oliver’s hand, she turned around and headed toward the orchard. She didn’t need to look; she knew not only Beau but everyone else was following. As they walked down the hill, there were a couple of shrieks as Bubba surprised somebody in the group, but eventually Ginger would hear “
Whatever, Bubba”
and then nothing. She supposed Bubba had grown weary and had slithered away, waiting to come upon them unawares at a later time.

When they came to the trees, they found the chickens up and pecking the ground. Rooster stood large in their center, casting his beady eye in Ginger’s direction. Her spine tingled.

“I just can’t see how this is a coop,” she said. “It’s supposed to be my orchard.”

The fifteen chickens and Rooster chattered behind a metal grid fence that formed a large square around a quarter of her orchard. Inside was a rather large henhouse on wheels with a rather large ramp leading up to a rather large door. The size was to accommodate Rooster, who had walked toward Ginger and Oliver and was even now puffing up his feathers.

“We move it, Mama. It’ll be here for ten days; then we’ll move it to another section of the orchard. It’ll feed the chickens and fertilize the ground.”

Henry, who was doing the talking, had obviously spent quality time with Ed Rogers the day before.

“What need is there for this?” Samuel exclaimed.

“You didn’t do this on your farm?” Ginger asked.

“No. We let the chickens run about.” He waved his arms around the yard. “They’d roost in the henhouse at night.”

“We can’t do that,” Henry replied.

“Why not?” Samuel inquired.

“Sarah and Emma from VMI said that the chickens will make a mess with their poop everywhere and ruin the farm equipment by nesting and such. There’s also foxes and raccoons and stuff that’ll eat them.”

“Not with that monster among them,” Samuel said, pointing to Rooster.

“I suppose, Samuel,” Ginger said, “things have changed a bit since you were . . . around.”

“I cannot see how farming could change. It is growing things.”

“Maybe it hasn’t changed in purpose,” Osbee replied. “Just method. We had chickens when I was a girl and they ran around the yard between the front and the back and the barn. Pooped all over the porch. Went missing. I think this is wonderful! More . . . hygienic.”

“Hygienic,” Samuel repeated.

“Clean,” Ginger said.

“Thank you for defining the word, Virginia,” Samuel said.

She smiled and added, “I suppose you know the word. But I don’t suppose you washed your hands all the time like we do today, either.”

“We washed our hands.”

“At every meal?”

Samuel tilted his head. “There wasn’t water at every meal. Especially while marching.”

“Bingo!” Ginger replied. “Things have changed for the better.”

“Let me have the basket, please, Mama,” Oliver interrupted, stick in hand.

“You ready?” Ginger asked with surprise.

He nodded and, taking the offered basket, loosened the wire fence from the post. Slowly he climbed in, squaring his shoulders as he stood opposite Rooster. Not a breath was taken in the entire group until, unexpectedly, Samuel entered the arena.

“I—I’m not scared, Samuel,” Oliver whispered.

“I know,” the ghost replied, walking up behind the little boy. “Sometimes, though, it is better to not face a danger alone when what an opponent can do is not fully understood.”

Oliver nodded. The turkey scratched a little at the ground, straightened its neck, and with a loud gobble rushed at Oliver.

“Oliver!” Bea cried.

“Drop the basket and move forward,” Samuel said with a steady voice.

As Ginger leaned over the fence to grab her boy, Oliver dropped the basket, lunged forward holding the stick like a bat, and whacked the turkey across its breast. In the dawn sun,
feathers and dust flew. Rooster let out a wail and rolled over to Oliver’s left.

“Now,” Samuel said. “Time to take measure.”

The turkey shook itself as if clearing its head from the wallop and straightened its neck as if it was going to try again. Ginger leaned away from the fence, smiling proudly at her very small boy.

“What’s he gonna do?” Oliver whispered, not taking his eyes off the bird.

“Not sure yet. Stand your ground.”

Rooster looked at Oliver. Oliver looked right back at Rooster. Having thought about it, the turkey backed away.

“Pick up your basket and go about your business,” Samuel instructed.

The little boy bent down and lifted his basket from the dirt. Crossing the chicken paddock, he moved his stool next to the hen coop, lifted the lid on the roosting boxes, and removed seven eggs. The chickens chattered and clucked around his stool, and when he stepped down, they followed him back to the fence where he had entered.

“Goats come in different shapes and sizes,” he said to Samuel as he climbed through the fence.

Samuel nodded, smiling at Ginger, who was just elated.

“They do?” Henry asked, attaching the wire fence back to the post and looking at his little brother in awe.

“Rooster’s just another goat,” Oliver said.

September 23, 1862

Winchester

My dear Juliette,

I thank you for your letter and your prayers and the prayers of your pastor. I know he meant well by instructing you to burn the photograph, but I thank you for not so doing. I feel as do you. It would be turning me to ashes. The bird sings, the muskets pop, and somehow night descends with me yet standing. I am sure it is your prayers that keep me safe and I sit here next to a stream to converse across the autumn wind with you.

We waged war again on metal and steam, coming to Bristoe August 26th. Our humor grows black and deep and we did have quite a time in this battle. The trains would come down and we, having barricaded a bridge, watched them fly from the tracks, one after the other. A great hail of triumph rose from us as each one tumbled into the ravine. Alas, all good things come to an end and the last train stopped short of our trap. It backed up and disappointed us entirely. Our only consolation was that a Northern Senator came to us within the train before and he lay near a fire, regaining his composure from the fall. I stood just beyond the fire and watched him come around. Upon discovering he was the guest of our leader, Jackson, and with eyes full of absolute awe, he asked to be lifted to see this great man that had so discombobulated the Union army. So he was lifted and eyes of awe turned to a look of utter disappointment. His look matched our mood what with the lack of trains to
route. He saw, of course, Jackson, who stood as familiar to us as any. We have stopped noticing him really. But the eyes of the Senator forced us to see anew a dirty, bearded man in a disheveled, tattered butternut uniform, wearing a private’s cap drawn forward on his head so his eyes are barely visible, sucking on a lemon. He simply looked like one of us. This filthy example of manhood was taking down the great blue wave? “Oh, my God!” the Senator declared. “Lay me down.”

So we move on and when Jackson passes not a few call out, “Oh, my God! Lay me down.” Jackson hears this without remark. We are sure he has no idea to what the men refer. We chuckle at his passing, especially if the remark is made in response to one of Jackson’s nearly impossible requests for action by us men.

August 29th we came again to Manassas, and as if that place hadn’t seen enough, we fought once more. Of course, we were after the metal beasts again, but the men in blue came on and we, together with Longstreet’s division, fought. As is always with Jackson, we won the battle, sending the Union’s Pope and what was left of his troops falling back toward Washington.

We marched and fought and then we, with great trepidation, crossed the Potomac into Maryland, as ordered by General Lee, to invade Northern lands. Juliette, such peace I had, knowing you had gone south. With the breath of autumn, we came to Sharpsburg upon the quarter moon, and as it waned crescent, the bird sounded across the great rolling fields near Antietam Creek. The farmers scurried to town, leaving the fields ripe and ready for harvest. We came for harvest, too, but not to draw corn or wheat. We came for man.

I cannot tell you how surely I knew this to be my end. I, in the quickening of battle, entered the little church there. White and square, its pews set to encompass the edges of the walls, surrounding the empty space in which the minister would stand and measure out the beats of a song sung in praise. I stood in the empty center, thinking to sing, but the bird sounded next to me. I spun around, seeking for it. It was there and then it left the church. I followed it outside and as I walked out the church door, I spotted a little boy upon his father’s shoulders. A child he held by his left hand and a woman in his right. Upon her right trotted a third. I whistled to the bird,
and when I did, the woman stopped and looked back. And it was she—in the photograph, Juliette. She holds children and a man. She looked into my eyes, a spirit set against the growing wave of blue on the far horizon.

Who is she, my love? I waved to her but she turned. And as she walked away, she seemed as you, walking away from me. I watched her, seeing your arms. Your hair. Your hips moving the fabric of your dress. And I burned. I am yet here, surviving even our loss at Sharpsburg, standing tall though the harvest lay beaten and bloody in the fields near Antietam and I burn for you.

Your devoted,

Samuel

Acoustic Shadow

T
he interstate was busy, even in the rural Shenandoah at eight thirty in the morning. It was as if winter, having retreated so entirely from the valley in the last few days, had set the cars and semis free of ice, rushing like a swollen river about to overflow its banks. Not once since she entered the freeway in Woodstock did Ginger feel she had control of the truck. She seemed to be endlessly pushed toward every exit by the sheer volume of vehicles flying north on their spring run.

As she tried to maneuver herself into the middle lane, she gazed up into the rearview mirror, wishing upon hopeless wish to see Samuel there. After Oliver conquered Rooster, or at least gained the turkey’s respect (maybe), Samuel, without a word, walked away toward the bridge. Bea had run after him before they went in for breakfast to ask if he’d come to the field, but she returned, reporting upon entry to the sunroom, that he was gone.

They’d cooked and eaten breakfast, which consisted of fresh
eggs and fresh milk and toast and coffee brewed in the percolator. Ginger had to admit that the entire event, the food and the company and the expectation of the day, made her feel as if things were actually changing for the better. With a lighter spirit, she climbed the stairs to change from her pajamas and, having dressed, pulled her hair back into the red headband given to her at the salon the day before. She even smiled at the pretty young woman who gazed back at her from the mirror.

“Eggs taste better when chickens eat bugs,” Oliver said as he stretched his neck and body to peer over the dashboard. Even in the booster seat, he barely could see.

“They eat bugs?” Ginger asked, finally able to slide to the left and settle into the rushing middle lane.

“Chickens eat grasses and bugs and stuff. That’s why we have to move them around. They’ll pick an area clean in less than a day.”

“Why do all the egg cartons in the best stores say ‘Hundred Percent Vegetarian Diet’ then?” Ginger mused.

“Henry asked that same thing. Jacob says it’s to make you feel better. He says animals have their own ways and we try to make them people.”

“Ah. Beau and Regard are people, though, aren’t they?” Ginger inquired. Oliver always had said they were, anyway.

“They’re mooore like us,” Oliver replied, rolling his eyes. “That’s because they live with us. But Jacob says they’re animals with their ways, too.”

“I see.”

“Is Jacob coming back?”

“Not sure. I guess he has his own ways,” Ginger replied, grinning over at Oliver.

He rolled his eyes and flopped back in the seat, returning once again to the video game in his hands.

Though breakfast had created a lightness of spirit, Ginger had been weighed down by the knowledge that she had to go to the school and withdraw her kids. It was on her mind when she, with the rest of her brood, headed for the barn after breakfast to harness the horses and mules. There was no procrastinating anymore. She couldn’t call them out again. She couldn’t lie. She didn’t want anyone’s sympathy for a feeling of loss she wasn’t having this day. So, once Bea was in the fields, escorted by Osbee and Henry, Ginger headed for her truck with Oliver following on her heels. She thought she should leave him and then the next thought was that it was better he come. He’d be backup. As they drove away, the sun had just peeped over the mountain on the other side of the river and in her rearview mirror she saw Samuel standing on the edge of her drive, casting no shadow in the morning light. There was comfort seeing him, for she knew he’d watch over things while she was gone.

So she headed to the school and it really had not gone well at all. She grimaced just thinking about it. Mrs. Castro, the principal, had taken Ginger into her office, leaving Oliver with Mrs. Perry, the school secretary. Mr. Taylor, the school counselor,
happened
to walk in and it was two against one. They both were so certain that things should stay as they were with Henry, Bea, and Oliver. School should continue. It was a safe and stable environment, with extra support for them in this difficult time. Truly, Ginger couldn’t argue, because she believed everything they were saying was right.

But she also knew that there was no choice to stay in school. To stay in school was now impossible because, stable, safe, and the same though school was, things had changed. Her children wanted to change. Bea had said it best: her father wasn’t returning and to deny the fact was simply to make pretend. It wasn’t real. Her kids wanted real.

“Sometimes it’s harder to fight what’s happening,” Mr. Taylor said, leaning forward and looking sincerely into Ginger’s eyes. “Sometimes we just have to go with the flow.”

“Exactly,” she replied, and with an apologetic smile, she stood. It was too hard to continue as they were, so why fight? Ginger was going with the flow and, difficult as it was, she opened the door, flowed out into the office, signed her children out of school, took the homeschooling information from Mrs. Perry, and after a tortuous round of hugs, she left with Oliver in tow.

“Sorry,” she mumbled to the memory. The hugs were meant sincerely and had great care in them. She just was unable to accept them with a grateful heart this day.

“Sorry about what?”

“Just talking to myself.”

“You ever hear of acoustic shadow, Mama?”

“No.”

“Sometimes, people really close to the war couldn’t hear the guns and stuff but people farther away could. The people close in who heard nothin’ were in acoustic shadow.”

“Where’d you learn that?”

“Samuel told us about it when he got us up this morning. He says he’s in the acoustic shadow. What does that mean, Mama?”

Ginger gazed toward the river on her right and replied, “I don’t know.”

She didn’t know. Samuel had said he was yet in the world but not of it. There were senses he could still feel and others he couldn’t. Was that a ghost? To neither be the beginning of something nor to feel the end but to float aimlessly within the emptiness between the two? Ginger had known this as well. She had waited in the silence; she sensed it as the space between notes. Without that silence, there was no rhythm, but a note must follow
for a song to live. She, too, had been surviving in acoustic shadow, waiting for more than a year with no end and no beginning—just existence day to day. Perhaps she was a ghost. Or had been until the day Samuel arrived.

“Where we going?” Oliver asked, stretching forward. He put his video game down and picked up one of the papers from the school that sat on the seat between them.

“It’s a surprise,” Ginger replied, her stomach rolling over as she thought of her destination.

A large red fire truck passed. Its lights were off and its siren silent and Oliver leaned against the window watching it creep by. Had it been sounding the alarm, he would have been crunched up in his seat with his hands covering his ears.

Traffic slowed and slowed and finally Ginger crept back into the right lane and was pushed off the next exit by the volume of vehicles. Ahead was Route 11 and she took a left onto the old Valley Turnpike.

The wonderful thing about Virginia was that there were beautiful country roads that went anywhere you needed to go as an alternate to the highways. The state was old. Paths were many. Even the Native American trails were still around. So north they went on the turnpike through little towns and farms as the sun pulled clean away from Massanutten Mountain. The road was green and clear with a gentle layer of mist floating to the right, hovering over the Shenandoah, which snaked in and out as if following toes at the mountain’s foot.

They didn’t talk; instead they rolled down their windows and turned the heater on. Ginger didn’t know what was in Oliver’s mind, but what she cogitated on was the turnpike’s age coupled with the perpetual thought that anywhere along here Samuel may have roamed back then. Oliver popped up straight in his seat and
turned his head from the left to the right, scanning the area as if looking for something.

“You okay there, Oliver?” Ginger asked.

“Are we near Cedar Creek?”

“Yes,” Ginger replied. Cedar Creek was the battlefield their family visited most often. Ginger never really understood why, but then she realized she had never asked Jesse. Time with him was all there was back then. What they did was not relevant; it was that they were together. “Why” never came into consideration and thus, like so much else about him these days, it would remain a mystery.

“Are we going to Cedar Creek?”

Ginger gazed over at her son. Since Jesse died, they had not gone to any battlefield as a family.

“Yes.”

“Henry and Bea aren’t here,” he said.

“I know.” Technically, she wasn’t going to bring Oliver, either, but she’d needed backup at the school.

Oliver looked down at his feet and then back up to the road.

“Will they be sad?” Her little boy looked as if he was going to cry.

“Maybe. But maybe I can bring them back another day—one at a time. Just to feel Daddy again.”

Her son nodded, his face turning down. He was a bright person, Oliver. His sadness was always worn so clearly.

“We don’t have to go,” she offered, holding her own disappointment inside in case he decided he wanted to return home.

Oliver looked over to her. In his hazel eyes reflected the morning sun. Henry and Bea were all their father’s—dark with gray eyes. But Oliver was all hers—strawberry blond hair, freckles, and hazel eyes. Who would the next Thee-Me have looked like? She would never know.

“You want to go to Belle Grove Mansion?” she asked.

“Nah. The drive toward the creek.”

They entered the battleground and at Water Plant Road Ginger took a left, following the street to Bowman’s Mill Road, which wound through the southern part of the battlefield.

“Can we stop here?” Oliver asked.

Ginger stopped. “We’re not at the creek,” she said.

“Can we get out and walk?”

Pulling over, Ginger turned the car off and they climbed out. Taking his mother’s hand, Oliver headed out into the field. Ginger didn’t need to say anything, for Oliver was leading this expedition, and without a word they walked in the damp morning grass. The birds chirped and crows cawed as they made their way south and east. Small hills of woods rose in front of them, behind which rose Massanutten Mountain. It was quiet as only the country can be quiet and Oliver let go of Ginger’s hand, trotting ahead. He whistled and Ginger came to a sudden halt.

She hadn’t heard that sound since they’d last been at a battlefield as a family. Oliver whistled his birdsong only then. It had been missing, and as it sounded in front of her, a little spot was filled in the great chasm of loss that was her husband.

“Oliver.” She breathed as he trotted farther away. “Oliver, wait.”

Then Ginger felt the ground tremble beneath her feet and she gazed down at the grass there. It turned a purple color as if the sun were just rising or just setting—as if she were standing in the violet hour. Oliver’s bird sounded in the distance and when she gazed up to call her son once more, she saw men—thousands of them swarming around her and to the horizon. They raced the edge of the field, the hill with mountain trees behind them aflame in the red-gold and orange leaves of autumn. Smoke and dust and pops
of fire broke through the violet light. The ground shuddered again as man and horse, wide-eyed and openmouthed in the exploding earth, spun around her from southeast to northwest in a great torrent of blue and butternut and blood.

She covered her mouth, horrified, as an eruption of ground not one hundred yards away caught a large group of men by surprise. Bedrolls, caps, muskets, belts, heads, hands, feet, and unidentifiable body parts burst in all directions. She shook as the ground shook, wanting to run, to turn her gaze away, to close her eyes.

“Oliver,” she called, and when she flipped her head in the direction of the bird, she found she stood in the center of the spinning whirlwind of war. If she moved ten feet in any direction, it would drag her away. Standing with her, in the eye of this storm, were two men. One was a black man with skin so dark his blue uniform looked light. His cap was at his feet and his musket at his eye. It was his eye that drew Ginger in, for it was hazel, but not any hazel she had ever seen. It was mutable, changing as she watched from gold to green to gold. He pulled the musket from his eye, which grew wide; his brow furrowed in great pain. Following his gaze, she found another man, younger, who was white with sandy blond hair in a Confederate officer’s uniform. His gun was drawn down to the ground and from his very hazel green eyes tears fell.

Trembling beneath Ginger’s feet caused her to totter, and as she steadied herself she found three Union rifles pointed directly at her held by one Union officer and two privates. The officer had the same look in his wide brown eyes as the black man had in his. Ginger took a step back, spinning to the right, opposite the direction of the turbulence around her. Then into her right ear the bird whistled softly and when she came around she froze, her eyes
growing wide and in as painful a wonder as everyone else in the center of that battle.

For there before her, not nine inches from her nose, was Samuel. He looked right at her and she at him. He passed his right hand across her left cheek to brush her hair away, following her chin as if to circle the single curl at her neck within his fingers.

“Samuel?” she whispered, reaching for the light brown hair, which blew softly across his forehead by some wind she could not feel.

A small smile grew on his face as she watched his mouth say,
Ginger Moon.

She nodded, touching his ethereal lips. When she peered back to his eyes, she found no shadow. Instead they looked so familiar to her. He gazed at her, making her more than she could ever be—stronger, kinder, steadier, more beautiful. This was Jesse’s gaze in Samuel’s eyes. It was love.

His eyes grew moist just as tears fell from hers and he mouthed,
I see you
.

“And I, you,” she said.

Something moved over his right shoulder, drawing her attention. A Union cavalry rider was flying past in the great whirlwind around them and his rifle was pointed directly at Samuel’s back.