Spinning the Moon

by Karen White

  I sat down at the piano, my fingers poised over the keys but unable to play. I brought my fists down on the keyboard, my raw nerves impervious to the sound. Robbie was dying, and my daughter was as gone from me now as if she, too, were being taken away from me for the second time.

  “Julia has asked me to solicit your help in filling the children’s stockings.”

  Jerking around on the piano bench, I found Stuart, a grim smile on his lips. I had forgotten it was Christmas Eve. I remembered Julia telling Sarah and Willie that although Santa would try his best to run the blockade, he might not be able to bring them very much this year. I pushed my somber thoughts aside and stood to join Stuart. I would not ask him about Sarah, not now. I needed a respite from my thoughts, and preparing Christmas for the children was all I wanted to think about.

  He hammered three nails into the mantel, and then we got down to the business of playing Santa.

  Zeke had carved a wooden doll with jointed limbs for Sarah. Julia and I had made two little dresses for it, and I was quite proud of my handiwork. Stuart had made a stick horse for Willie with a rare piece of tanned leather for a bridle. Robbie’s stocking held only a stick of plaited molasses, and I tried to think of him enjoying it once he got better. I stepped back and smiled at our efforts, knowing how delighted the children would be. But my smile could not warm my heart.

  We both turned as we heard a noise from the doorway. Julia stood in the threshold, holding Robbie and looking at me with hollow eyes.

  “Is he better?” My breath stuck in my throat.

  Slowly, she shook her head. “No.” Her gaze circled the room, then focused on me again.

  The string of popcorn I had been holding fell to the ground, scattering the white puffs to roll soundlessly on the floor. I walked over to Julia and looked down at Robbie. I imagined I heard the beating of wings and a soft brush of feathers on my cheek, and I knew he was gone.

  I stroked his still-warm cheek and bent to kiss his forehead. “He looks like he’s sleeping,” I whispered, my voice sounding loud in the hushed room.

  “He is, Laura.” Julia’s voice was deceptively strong, until it broke on the last word. “Would you like to say goodbye?”

  I nodded, touched that she would release him to me. She kissed the smooth forehead and then handed the bundle to me. I took it, holding it gingerly at first, and then clutched it tightly to my chest.

  I turned and walked out of the house to the front porch, not expecting Julia to follow. I had given him life as much as she had, an understanding between mothers.

  I sat in the rocker and rocked, staring up at the unforgiving moon. The inert form in my arms felt lighter than the child I had known, as if his little life force had held all his weight and with it gone, only bones and flesh remained. The chair slid back and bumped into the house. I stood hastily, covering Robbie’s head with the blanket, and then let it slide off again, realizing the foolishness of keeping the cold air off the small head. The door opened and shut behind me.

  Stuart stood beside me and touched my arm. I flinched and moved away.

  “Don’t. Please don’t touch me.”

  He stayed close but didn’t make another move to touch me. “Julia told me about Sarah and how she came to live with us. I promise you, Laura, I did not know—not before tonight.” He laid a hand on the baby’s head, caressing the delicate skin. “It seems we are both capable of believing the worst about each other.”

  I walked away toward the railing, my footsteps hollow on the wooden floorboards. “I was thinking that maybe it would have been better if I had let Robbie die when he was born. Then you and Julia and the rest would have been saddened, but not as much as now. Now, after we’ve known him for so long. Now that there’s something to miss.”

  Naked branches swayed in the December wind, and I summoned their shadows for a place to hide my heavy heart.

  “But then I thought if it would have been better to have never known Annie than to stand her loss, and I realized that I would never give up one precious minute of knowing her. No matter what happens, we will always have our memories of Robbie and Annie, and no one can ever take those away from us.”

  He came to stand behind me, and I felt his lips on the back of my head. “Promise me one thing, Stuart. Promise me that if I go away and Sarah is still here, that you will make sure she is taken to Valdosta. Then I’ll know she’ll be safe.”

  His hands gripped my shoulders, then relaxed. “I will keep her safe, Laura. I promise you.”

  Turning, I buried my face in his chest, cradling the baby between us and feeling the rough wool of his coat against my cheek. His hand stroked my hair, soothing me as if I were a child. Eventually, he took the baby from me and I laid a hand on his cheek. “Thank you.” I again looked at the serene white face, luminous in the light from the window, his pale lashes closed in restful sleep. I shivered, remembering Michael’s face in his coffin the moment before the lid was closed.

  “Did the real Sarah die?”

  Stuart nodded. “Yes. Sarah had never been strong—she was born too soon and never seemed to gain any strength. Julia took her to the mountains, to a healing spring there, but she died. Shortly afterward, before Julia sent word of Sarah’s death, Pamela discovered a child about the same age as Sarah on Moon Mountain, and she bore a striking resemblance to Julia’s daughter. Pamela brought the child to Julia, and Julia took her in. She knew if she told the townspeople she had found an abandoned child, people might not be kind to her—perhaps speculate that she was illegitimate or unwanted.” He sighed softly in the cold air, his breath gently rising in the night. “So she buried Sarah quietly and raised your Annie as her own.”

  He held me for a while, his body warming mine. Letting me go, he said, “It’s time to go inside.” Pulling out a handkerchief, he wiped my face, then led me back into the house.

  I lay awake for most of the night, listening to Willie cough and straining to hear a baby’s crying. But the house remained still and hushed, while the insistent ticking of the hall clock continued to mark the time minute by minute and hour by hour.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The present is the ever moving shadow that divides yesterday from tomorrow. In that lies hope.

  —FRANK LLOYD WRIGHT

  The black-clad figures huddled under umbrellas, the hems of skirts and cloaks liberally splashed with red clay mud. With the war now in its third year, there was no lack of black mourning clothes in Roswell.

  Despite the heavy downpour, most of the townspeople gathered around the small pine coffin at Founders’ Cemetery. Willie, not yet fully recovered, was the only member of the household not present. I stood back from the immediate family, uncomfortable with my place and not quite sure where I should stand. Even the dog Charlie was there, unusually subdued, and sticking close by Sarah. Zeke stood separated from the crowd and as far away from Pamela as he could get. Pamela stayed with Julia, her back rigid, her eyes dry.

  Julia turned around, her eyes searching the sea of faces until they alighted on me. Walking past the other mourners, she pulled me over to stand next to her, never releasing my hand. The wind blew hard droplets of rain against our faces, and we snuggled deeply into our hooded cloaks, but Julia kept her face level, her expression set like ice, listening to Reverend Pratt’s short eulogy. I would have thought she was calm except for the tight grasping of my hand and the slight trembling of her arm.

  Stuart and Charles lowered the tiny casket into the dark, muddy hole, the rain thudding against the lid. Sarah wept openly as they began to shovel the rain-drenched clay over the box. I reached for her, but she buried her face in her mother’s skirts, her tears mixing with the torrential rain as she shivered with the cold.

  As everyone began to file out of the cemetery, I remained behind in the shelter of an oak tree, needing to be alone and gather my thoughts. The pungent aroma of wet leaves and moist earth seep
ed out of the ground. I sat on a cold stone bench under the tree, heedless of the wind whipping my cloak away from my body, welcoming the frigid splash of rain on my face.

  If I had been sent to this place to find Annie, I had accomplished my goal. But could I, should I, bring her back home if I ever figured out how to accomplish it? She had a new family now and shared memories. The brief time she had spent with me was all but forgotten. I might do her more harm than good by bringing her with me and forcing her to leave all that she knew and held dear.

  The rain stopped and only the occasional drips from the oak leaves overhead interrupted my thoughts. I heard a footfall behind me and turned to see Stuart taking off his cloak and throwing it over my shoulders. He sat down next to me, making sure our bodies did not touch.

  “We were wondering where you were.”

  “I needed time alone to think.”

  “About Sarah?”

  “About everything. About whether I will ever find my way home, and how I could possibly leave my daughter behind, knowing now where she is.”

  He regarded me calmly, his dark blue eyes still and unreadable. “Why leave, Laura? Why not stay here?”

  I recalled the pictures and stories of the devastation and starvation of Reconstruction, and knew then that at the very least I had to save my daughter from that. I would take them all if I could, but I knew that wasn’t possible. Besides, by virtue of the time they were born, they were made of stronger stuff than I. They would survive.

  “Because I don’t belong here. This was never meant to be permanent.”

  He stiffened next to me. “The way you pillage and burn, Laura, you must be a Yankee. You have come into our lives, our home—our hearts. And yet you would leave us without a thought.”

  His words were so far from the truth that I couldn’t think of an answer. Instead I took his hand and brought the palm to my lips and kissed it. “I will leave with more regret than you could ever know.”

  He brought my hands to his own lips and kissed the tops, his fingers resting on the gold wedding band I wore on my left hand.

  “Memories are not flesh and blood, Laura.”

  I bent toward him, seeking out his warmth in the blustery day. “No. But they’re safe. They can’t hurt me.”

  Stuart bent and plucked a sodden oak leaf from the ground and began examining the delicate veins. He tore the leaf into small pieces and then let the wind pick them off his hand, scattering them across the cemetery. “All love does not lead to loss.” He picked up another leaf and held it in his open palm.

  “It’s certainly been my experience. I think I’ll cut my losses and retire.” I tried to smile but failed miserably.

  He leaned over and kissed me lightly on my forehead, his breath warming my cheeks. “What has not killed you has certainly made you stronger. It has made you a lot more resilient than you would like to believe. Sooner or later you will realize that what you had with your husband and Annie is gone, never to return, no matter how much you wish it, and it is time to move on with your life.”

  I shook my head gently. “Even if I do, I still can’t stay. I’m not meant to be here.”

  His face was close enough that I could see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes. “How do you know? What is it that pulls you from us?”

  “There are things I cannot explain, even to myself.” I looked up, as if the answers were written in the sky. “I’m still not completely convinced that this isn’t just a dream.”

  His fingers tightened on his thighs, then relaxed. We sat in silence for a while until I reached out my hand and touched his arm, no longer able to hold in my doubts and not entirely sure I was strong enough to hear the answer.

  “How could you have not known about Sarah? Surely you or her father noticed it wasn’t the same child.”

  He raked his fingers through his hair, the rain plastering it to his head. “I was away at university, and William . . .” He shook his head. “William never looked more than twice at his daughter. Even without the uncanny resemblance, he would never have noticed.”

  He let go of the leaf and we watched it drift to the ground, its tender edges buffeted about by the strong breeze. “But I promise you I never knew the truth until yesterday. And I had no reason to doubt Julia. Please do not think ill of her. She thought the child abandoned and unloved. She has never loved her any less than she did her own children.”

  We continued to sit and listen to the rain drip off the trees and onto the ground covering of leaves. Finally, Stuart spoke. “I have to go away again for a few days. But when I return, I am moving everyone down to Valdosta.”

  I reached for his hand and squeezed. “Why are you trusting me on this?”

  He cupped my jaw with one hand, his fingers tight on my jawbone. Troubled blue eyes searched my face, his brows knitted together as if deciding between answers. Finally, he said, “Because of Sarah. You would keep her family safe.”

  I moved his hands away. “Is that the only reason?”

  A shadow fell over his face, closing his gaze off from me. “It’s enough of a reason.”

  He stood, grabbing my hand and pulling me up. His cloak fluttered about me like a big gray bird flapping its wings. His voice was quiet, the wind pulling the words toward me. “Stay with us, Laura. Make this your home.”

  I looked down at our feet, his worn boots half-hidden by leaves. “I can’t. You don’t understand.”

  His voice changed, his words pressing, insistent. “Then make me understand. Tell me what you are afraid to tell me. You have asked me to trust you. And I am asking you for the same.”

  I forced myself to look at him again, seeing his gray uniform and remembering what it stood for, understood his loyalty to a lost cause. I could see how easily he could convince me to play with history and tip the scales. By saving Robbie’s life, I had already played that game and had lost. I cared too much about Stuart, about the Elliotts, to tempt fate again. “It is bigger than you think; bigger than both of us. Please, Stuart. Please don’t ask me again.”

  He moved away abruptly, taking the warmth of his body with him. “Damn you, Laura. Damn you.” Turning on his heel, he walked away, his footsteps swallowed by the soaked earth.

  The wind began to blow again, bringing thick blobs of rain with it, and I shivered, feeling more cold and desolate than I ever had in my life. I turned my face to the rain, impervious to the cold wetness on my skin, and began to walk home, imagining Stuart’s cloak was his arms wrapped around me.

  * * *

  With little food in the house and Willie still sick, the mourners had not lingered. The last buggy was pulling away as I walked up the front drive. A form rocked on the front porch, a dark smear against the white paint of the house. As I approached, I recognized Julia. She raised her head and smiled. I sat in another chair and rocked in silence, ignoring the weather, the floorboards creaking in rhythm.

  She surprised me by reaching for my hand. “Thank you for my Robbie, Laura. You saved him when he was born, remember? You gave us six wonderful months with him.”

  I studied her face, so calm and serene, and felt only deep shame. Shame at all the times I had cursed my fate, hated having had a child so I could know what I missed.

  I couldn’t speak and looked at our hands clenched together, her capable fingers rubbed red and raw from the constant cleaning of the sickroom.

  “Will you be taking Sarah home with you?”

  Dropping her hand, I stood and walked toward the railing. “I don’t know. It’s all so mixed up, isn’t it?” Facing her, I said, “I’m not going anywhere for the time being, so we both have time to think. To figure what’s best for Sarah.”

  According to the astronomy books, September 1, 1864, was the next date for a comet and a lunar eclipse. That gave us nearly nine months to figure out the impossible.

  “That’s fair.” She kept her h
ead down, staring at her hands. “What I wouldn’t give now for some cream for my skin. My grandmother would be mortified to see my hands. . . .” Her voice trailed away.

  “Should we tell her?” I asked.

  She stood and I saw how straight her back was, how calm her hands. But she could not hide the grief from her face. “I think we should wait. Robbie has just died, and I think it would be too much.”

  She tilted her head. “When Robbie and Willie were so sick, you said that Sarah couldn’t get sick, too. How did you know?”

  I almost told her then, how in 150 years children would be protected from diphtheria and smallpox and polio. But I stopped, my burning secret left to smolder on my tongue. “She had it before. When she was a baby.”

  She nodded and I watched her walk inside, the cold breeze drying my tears on my cheeks.

  After a while I followed her, remembering the Christmas gift I had made for Stuart. I wanted to give it to him before he left. I raced up the stairs but paused before going into my bedroom at the sound of gagging coming from Willie’s room. I rushed in to find Sukie pounding Willie on the back, a breakfast tray on its side in the middle of the bed.

  “What’s happening?”

  “He tried to swallow some johnnycake and he started choking.”

  “Stop pounding him—that will only make it worse.” I rushed to the side of the bed and put two arms around his middle, preparing to deliver the Heimlich maneuver. But before I could, Willie gave one last cough and a white, thick membrane shot out of his mouth, landing on the edge of the tray.

  Sukie swallowed, probably to keep herself from throwing up, and I did the same. Picking up the cloth napkin, I wrapped the offending tissue in it. “Willie, I think this means you are firmly on the road to recovery. And I doubt you will ever be able to face a johnnycake again.”