Oldest Living Confederate Widow Tells All (35 page)

“There really is something, like I said before, I’ve got to say out to you, ladies. It’s something hard.” He spoke too loud but at least he’d started. This room sure did seem—maybe owing to Will’s not eating for some days—to be drawing very far away and yet closing slow around his ankles like a set of shackles would. He recalled his mother trying to tie him safe in Falls.

“Fine, please tell,” the Widow Utt smiled. “The second everybody gets here,” and she twisted toward a knock at the door, she touched her neck’s bun. “Fine—it’s
op
-en.”

Neighbors started arriving. Soon in came two dozen more parishioners, the present minister, a whole children’s bell-ringing group from the sisters’ Academy, plus many brass bells in pine crates. Fully forty-five people filed in. More and more kept pushing toward young Marsden, eager to get introduced. Since he’d wadded pastry in his right hand, he used his left and saw people wonder if this might be due to war wounds. Folks stared at Willie—like looking for traces of Simon on him—seeking some family resemblance.

Babies were held up for Will to kiss and they looked like normal babies, like present-day Rubble ones but fatter here. They’d won. Their folks had. Shy at being fussed over, Will kissed each child quick. His manners—while
right good for a boy from a large farm outside Falls, North Carolina, pop. 1,100—had undergone some rough sea change during war. Now his own manners didn’t seem (to him, anyhow) quite wide or fine or deep enough for this event. For this, you’d need to be a statesman or, at least, a leading candidate for mayor.

Will answered direct questions simply, trying to make his accent lessen as much as he could without feeling like a fake. Grinning till his jaws ached, Will begun finding first reasons not to tell.

Soon every hallway, the whole cottage staircase, jostled with talking Yankee people, their tones all right angles and hurtful sharp turns. A little choir of girls stepped forward, showing more white gloves than there seemed sets of legal hands among them. Gloves shook brass bells, doing two popular songs of the South. It upset the North Carolina murderer among them. The sound of ringing metal recalled a watch’s fine hymn, it was like parade-ground marches or country church bells struck by miniés. Children played music that, four years back, would’ve got a Yank arrested. All this helped Will see how rough a public confession would now be.

Oh, but even with this houseful, he longed to fess up to murdering the neighborhood favorite. These folks were eager for the war to feel ended. They liked welcoming a onetime Rubble come North on this awkward mission. Willie knew: In downtown Falls just now, a confessed Yankee soldier would be snubbed at best, stoned at worst. These folks seemed to consider his visit civilizing, a rite they’d waited on.

The preacher who’d replaced Rev. Utt now rose and in a voice less rich than it seemed to plan to be, announced he’d quote a recent poem from
The Atlantic Monthly
. Rev. said it expressed the feelings of all persons present and, he was glad to say, it’d been penned by his second cousin, a Mr. Finch. The pastor cleared his throat to urge baby bell ringers to keep gloves off those clanky bells for now.

Will noticed that many around the room were upset. Even men, backed against the walls, looked near tears and Willie understood, jolted: they’d been soldiers too. They stood watching him. They could’ve killed him then and they tried but couldn’t. They might squash this Rubble yet. He’d come this deep into enemy territory, unarmed. Marsden fought back such fears
in a roomful of girl bell ringers. Elbows pressed hard to ribs (he needed to half hurt hisself to keep concentrating proper). He waited only for the chance to leave. By now, a body’s spilling facts seemed nigh on to impossible.

Others spoke of Simon. They smiled as Will sat picturing his dead friend. By now, however undeserved, he considered Simon a friend, a friend in passing. He listened to tales of Simon’s rowdy kindness, he imagined Simon’s chapped mouth moving, sounding something out for Will alone. Lips went, “These people here have suffered enough. Let them
like
you, buddy. Is that really so hard? They need to like somebody living and not just miss me dead.” Seemed to make sense.

“I guess you all heard the one about why the ocean stays so cross and all?” There was a hush. Will understood he’d broke into the Widow Utt telling Simon stories. “Sorry.” Will turned, but she smiled.

“No, please, tell, why?—Why does the ocean stay … angry, was it? Why?” Smiling, she glanced around, proving to others how pleased she was that their guest of honor—clumsy though he be with his fistful of dough—was trying to “enter in.”

“Why? ’cause the ocean’s been …” Then, ashamed, Will mumbled.

Others wanted to laugh but had to ask, “Because what?”

“It’s mad because it’s been crossed so many times.—See, ‘crossed.’”

Then chuckles. Eyes cut toward each other, proving they liked Will’s trying, even if he did mess up right bad.

“Good one,” the preacher said. “We’ll have to see that one enjoys an afterlife in some future sermon.”

His wife remarked, “He always says that.” Everybody laughed. You could tell the pastor didn’t like to be corrected, which made it funnier. Will started feeling like these really were real people here.

Mrs. Utt continued her tale. “Out from dawn to dusk and year round too. We had one dreadful hurricane that got this far, remember, was it ’59? Yes, ’59, and our boy tied himself to the top of the oak tree, the huge one, past the church’s east gate, so he might see it all better. Julia somehow knew he was up there, didn’t you, dear? I got a ladder. Already boughs were snapping. Once we got him in this house and once I’d whipped him savagely, I’m not ashamed to admit, I asked our Simon how he’d even expected to live through a storm that size. You know what he said, remember?”

Sisters on either side of Will—his honor guard—nodded, knowing Simon stories like catechism.

“He said, ‘Oh, Momma, I could have gotten used to it!’—Can you fancy? Oh, we’ve had many a smile over that.
‘Used
to it!’”

Willie, who’d shot him, sat here, swallowing. “Hardly a saint, our Simon,” one sister smiled. But her saying this made Willie feel his friend, a preacher’s son, was
more
a saint. Mrs. Utt confessed that Simon had got most, if not all the family beauty for maybe three generations. Sisters nodded, smiling, plain faces pleased to remember their brother’s slightly finer
looks. “Our only silverhead,” one said. A man mentioned Simon’s gift for whittling and handstands. Neighbors mentioned his volunteering to babysit and such.

Marsden felt these comments to be aimed at him. He nodded in a few places. Big raw faces all around praised Simon. A baby crawling near Will’s shoes untied one lace. When the mother corrected her child, Will grinned. He’d started shaking from nerves and hunger but still felt unworthy of fine food. His wool suit grew soaked clear through (was it hot in here or was it just him?). Slow droplets trickled down his spine, over ribs and out starched cuff, sliding toward a fist of dough gone solid now. If only they would let me speak, Will decided as a buxom lovely lady schoolteacher rose to describe “the firecracker incident.” Others laughed. Grinning, Willie practically panted. More neighbors came packing in, standing on tiptoe to see the Living Reb. The teacher was saying Simon loved sledding “to a fault. It seems our Simon skipped class one day after a lovely snow, that eager to slide down our steepest hill, a sheet of veritable ice it was by then. It also happened, as things would have it, that Boston’s truant officer, the
head
one, had stopped for a hot toddy at Gerson’s Inn. His sleigh was out front waiting, tied at the slope’s very bottom, you see, when young Simon, the rogue, comes lickedy-split down the ice, never guessing that the sleigh square in his way belonged to …”

“I killed him.”

A creak and stiffening. Faces, still smiling, guessing the likely outcome of this story, turn, slow, towards the honored guest, turn your way. They keep grinning, not believing this they’ve heard. Silence starts off half cordial. Yanks believe you—socially ill at ease in this fine setting—have maybe leapt onto another subject. Yeah, you were speaking of another whole person. A war so often confused its survivors, right?

Mrs. Utt, yet smiling, clears her throat, a sign that you should either relax or hush or explain further, please. The teacher, yet standing, blinks, waits to finish her dull tale. The Widow Utt—a good hostess—slides forward on her chintz side chair, hands clasped in lap, mouth pursed—not unkind—and she just nods. Like going, “You now have the floor.” The front of your white shirt (folks are definitely noticing) has got so soaked that people can see the pink of your chest, air bubbles, a nipple maybe. Pull your jacket shut. After swallowing a few times, sit here studying your hands, preparing what to say. But the hands (that did it) look so huge, haired, veiny things new-grown and stuck out in the air for strangers to see. Hide the hands. For two whole minutes there comes just the sounds of a hallway clock, of the shrine’s candles guttering, four babies chattering over nothing much, a daintier clicking from the unsheathed German watch across the room. “Let them
like
you,” the watch still says to you alone. It’s not too late to call this all a blunder, to change subjects and save everything.

Children playing on the floor slowly notice stillness and their own sounds stop. The baby at your shoes, watchful, keeps hold of your laces.

“I tried and be kind to him. But first I shot him. I could say, We had to then. I might say that both our sides made us. But, fact is, I did it.—See, then we ended up in this one ditch together, soon we talked and all. I don’t guess Simon even knew it was me got him. And I never told. He had enough weighing on him right then. He gave me his watch to send up here to you-all. Then the war ended not a minute too soon. And once I could afford to and it seemed safe, I hand-brought it to you. Now you’ve got it over there. I did what I said. I never stop thinking of what happened. Feels now like it didn’t really have to. But at the time, it’s different. It wouldn’t happen now. But, look, it did. I wasn’t expecting to travel here and tell all this and then have you people forgive me right away. That’d be asking too much and I know it. See, I only made the trip so I could say it to you ladies face to face. I didn’t know others would be here, and I appreciate that, but it sure makes things harder. Simon’s watch is delivered. He did love that watch. So, yes, ma’ams, I helped Simon but only afterwards. You should know. You do now. Still, I figure if Simon hadn’t been such a nice fellow, I probably wouldn’t have walked and ridden up all this far. I’ve never been this far up before—North, I mean. That’s because of Simon, who he was, not just because of what I did to him. So. That’s about it. And, look, ladies—the other people here—I don’t mind saying—telling you all this, it’s maybe even harder than doing that other at the time, almost. Now you’ll hate me. I would too. Saying I’m sorry—that’s not the half of it. Well …”

Speak no other sound. Folks in this here parlor seem locked stiff. They stare only directly ahead. You can hear one person’s molars grinding. Babies who acted pleased when your talking broke the hush just now, wait for reasonable gabble to recommence. When doesn’t nothing happen, some children start sniffling, looking around for parents. The baby near your shoe gets scooped up, toted out right quick, the mother glad for some excuse to leave here, leave you.

Neighbor ladies, helping in the kitchen, are the lasts to hear. You know the very moment when whispered news reaches them. The whole house is now so pained and silent that the street’s horse traffic, a few jays squabbling in a back garden, sound extra colorful and noisy, right attractive. To be outdoors, to fly off!

Standing neighbors back nearer the walls, just like you expected. This sudden moat has opened all around the couch where you wait. Simon’s sisters are on your left and right. The left-hand girl now rises, excuses herself, hurries to the back yard. She’s out there making piping shrieks into her handkerchief. She does it alone, not wanting to embarrass you or anybody.

Two children in gloves knock two bells over and then right them. A great deal of time seems to pass, only real, real slow. Dear Lord, let us die or get on with things, one. Mrs. Utt, saying nothing, finally struggles to her feet. She looks unsteady and two neighbor ladies reach to help but she
signals, No, she’s fine. The widow, appearing both royal and tipsy, wobbles to her own front door.

“I’m sorry,” she says, loud, to the air of her hallway.

That preacher rises. “‘Love and tears for the Blue, tears and love for the Gray,’ Widow Utt?”

“Shut up,” says Mrs. Utt, sounding patient and very tired. “This is my house. I do things here. Mr. Marsden, for delivering our watch, we thank you. Goodbye, Mr. Marsden.”

The two seated daughters stand and form a row beside the open door. Mrs. Utt’s emotion registers by making her face look neutral, almost bored with you. She holds the door open to its widest. Light seems brassbound, gaudy, full of welcome. Rude as you. You try and rise now. Can you? You really should’ve eaten. It’s a long way home, you. First lean across the tray that still holds cookies. Empty a crumbly wad of stuff from your right hand, brush it with the left. Next, stand—straight-backed, try—dazed, now move past parishioners. They turn their heads aside without meaning to or noticing. It’s like they need to keep from breathing any air your nose and mouth have tainted. They loved Simon. You killed Simon. Makes sense.

Hardest yet: Approach three waiting women. Nod once. Not to touch them or they’ll scream. Best use the porch rail, slow, ease down stairs, then drag along the brick path, unfastening the garden gate. Finally, how grateful for the street. To pull on your big black hat, leveling its brim. You can only move with a great solemn slowness now. Admitting the truth—instead of lightening a person like you’d hoped—has flat quadrupled the pull of Northern gravity, enemy. Every step requires a decision, means a chore, a treaty. How many shoe movements are now between you and the desired sane southerly direction?