The Totally Made-up Civil War Diary of Amanda MacLeish

by Claudia Mills

  “Have fun looking,” Ben said with another smile. This time the smile seemed to be directed especially at Steffi.

  The first cage they examined had three kittens in it, adorable little ginger-colored furballs. One was asleep, but the other two were tumbling about in play. Amanda yearned to pick up all three and cuddle them.

  “No kittens,” their mother reminded them.

  The cat in the second cage was ten years old, according to the information card hanging from the cage.

  “Too old,” Steffi said.

  Another cat’s card said he had been brought to the shelter because of problems using the litter box.

  “That would be a no,” Steffi said.

  Amanda felt her chest tighten. What if nobody wanted an older cat, or a cat who couldn’t use the litter box correctly, and those cats had to spend the rest of their lives in a little wire cage? Or be put to sleep—killed—because nobody wanted them? She wished she could take them all to Polly’s farm. Even if Polly’s mother wouldn’t let them live in the house, they could sleep in the barn, fatten themselves on field mice, and curl up in the alfalfa warmed by the afternoon sun.

  “Maybe we could teach him to use the litter box,” Amanda suggested.

  Her mother shook her head.

  Steffi began to look a little more interested. “We could ask Ben for tips on how to do it,” she suggested. But their mother had already started down the second row of cages.

  Then they found her: a mostly orange cat with some tan stripes, one year old, brought to the shelter yesterday because her owner was moving to a no-pets apartment. “Sweet and affectionate,” her information card said.

  Steffi left to get Ben, and the two returned to the cat room together. Ben was tall, a whole head taller than Steffi, but he didn’t look that much older—maybe fifteen.

  Ben took the cat out of her cage, showing his obvious skill in handling animals. His manner with the cat was confident yet gentle.

  In the family meeting room, Amanda and their mother claimed the couch, leaving another chair for Steffi. Steffi chose to remain standing next to Ben.

  “I’ll leave you alone with her to get acquainted,” Ben said. He set the cat down on the floor and left, shutting the door behind him. Amanda could sense Steffi’s disappointment.

  At first the cat wandered around the room, in and out of the chair legs, brushing up against their ankles. Then she looked at Amanda and gave a plaintive meow. Amanda patted her lap, and the cat sprang onto it with one graceful leap, settled herself there, and began purring. Steffi perched on the arm of the couch and reached over to pet her. The cat kept on purring.

  “So much for just looking today,” Amanda’s mother said ruefully. “What should we name her?”

  Steffi stroked the tip of the cat’s nose. “Velvet?”

  “Velvet is usually black,” Amanda pointed out. She tried to think of a Civil War name, but most Civil War names were better for a boy cat: Lincoln, Grant, Gettysburg. Maybe Goober, for Goober Peas?

  “How about Peanut?”

  “She’s sort of peanut-colored,” their mother said.

  “Peanuts are hard, not soft,” Steffi objected.

  “Peanut butter is soft,” Amanda said. “That could be her full name, Peanut Butter, Peanut for short.”

  Steffi ran to tell the good news to Ben, and he returned to carry Peanut Butter back to her cage, where she would have to wait a few minutes longer. Their mother paid Peanut Butter’s adoption fees and filled out the paperwork while Amanda and Steffi chose a litter box, bag of kitty litter, food bowl and water bowl, sack of dry food and cans of wet food, brush, feather-tipped cat tease, and catnip-filled mouse.

  “Are you all set?” Ben asked as they piled their purchases on his desk.

  “Is there anything else you think she needs?” Steffi asked.

  “Nope. The main thing is a lot of love, and I know you’ll give her that. Call me here at the shelter if you have any questions or concerns once you get her home. I’m Ben,” he told them again.

  “Thanks for all your help, Ben,” their mother said.

  “Thanks,” Steffi echoed. “I’m Steffi,” she added.

  “Steffi,” he repeated, as if to make sure to remember her name.

  Amanda knew Steffi was trying to think of something else to say, but their mother was already maneuvering Peanut’s carrier out the door. So with one last wave to Ben, Steffi turned and followed.

  Miserable meows came from Peanut’s cardboard carrier all the way home. When they opened the box in the living room, she jumped out and darted under the sofa to hide.

  “Cats do that,” their mother said. “It takes them a while to get used to new surroundings. When she comes out from under there, she’ll be so dirty we’ll have to give her a new name. Dust Bunny. Or Blaclue.”

  “Can Tanya come over to see her?”

  “Let her get used to us first for a day or two. This is a big adjustment for a little cat. And then, of course, Tanya and Beth can come. Amanda, I haven’t seen Beth for ages—it must be weeks now. Is she still so busy with her Irish dancing?”

  Amanda nodded. Even busier, now that Beth and Meghan were working together on their jig for the Civil War concert auditions.

  “Tell Beth I miss her.”

  “Okay,” Amanda said, even though she knew she wouldn’t.

  Peanut didn’t come out from under the couch all afternoon. Amanda began to wonder if she would ever come out. Every hour or so, Amanda would crouch down on the floor and peer under the couch to make sure Peanut was still there and still breathing, and she’d see Peanut’s green eyes staring.

  “Peanut,” Amanda called softly. “Come out, Peanut Butter, we’re not going to hurt you.”

  “Do you think we should call Ben?” Steffi asked. “He said to call him if we had any problems.”

  “Maybe.” It was odd that a cat who had been so friendly at the shelter would turn so shy and standoffish.

  Steffi made the call from her cell phone, upstairs, so Amanda couldn’t hear the conversation. When Steffi came back downstairs, she was beaming.

  “He’s a sophomore at Mount Vincent High. He already plays on the varsity soccer team. He doesn’t get paid to work at the Humane Society; he does it as a volunteer. He’s been doing it for two years now.”

  “What did he say about Peanut?”

  “Oh, he said just to be patient.”

  And by eight o’clock, when Amanda’s dad was due to make his evening phone call, Peanut had emerged from hiding, had eaten and drunk from her new bowls, had used the litter box for the first time, and was back in Amanda’s lap, purring as contentedly as before.

  The phone rang promptly at eight. Amanda’s dad was late for lots of things, but never for the phone call, even when he was off in Atlanta. Amanda answered the phone.

  “Hi, Mandy, what’s up?”

  Should she tell him? She couldn’t not tell him something so important and exciting, but he had to know what it meant, that the family that could never get a cat because of the father’s allergies had a cat now.

  “We got a cat.”

  There was a silence.

  Amanda filled it. “We’re calling her Peanut. For Peanut Butter. She’s not a special breed or anything. Just a regular cat. She’s one year old.”

  Her dad still hadn’t spoken.

  “She’s on my lap now. Maybe if I hold the phone by her head, you can hear her purring.”

  Amanda held the phone down so that Peanut could purr into it. It was better than listening to the sound of her dad saying nothing. “Did you hear her?”

  “That’s fine, Mandy,” he finally said. “I know you girls have wanted a cat for a long time. Is your mother around? I’d like to talk to her.”

  “I’ll go get her.”

  Reluctantly, Amanda tipped Peanut out of her lap and called down the stairs to her mother’s office. “Dad’s on the phone! He wants to talk to you.”

  She listened into the receiver until
she heard her mother pick up. Then, even though she knew it was wrong, she didn’t hang up the phone, but stood there listening.

  “Amanda tells me you got a cat.”

  “And?”

  “I thought you wanted to try to work things out.”

  Her mother laughed, a hard, bitter, mirthless chuckle. “It takes two people to work things out, you know.”

  “So now if I move back, you’ll have to get rid of the cat, and break the girls’ hearts, and it will be all my fault, just like everything else?”

  “You said it, not me.”

  “It takes two to work things out; it also takes two to get them broken in the first place.”

  “I can’t believe you have the nerve to say that to me. After what you—”

  “I told you, nothing happened until you got all upset for no reason at all.”

  “But it didn’t turn out to be for no reason at all, did it?”

  “Listen. I called to talk to the girls. Put Steffi on, will you?”

  Amanda clicked off the phone. Her mother came upstairs, her face rigid with suppressed anger. “Amanda, go tell Steffi that Dad’s on the phone.”

  Amanda did. She heard Steffi’s side of the conversation.

  “Yeah, a really cute cat … Yeah … Well, Amanda picked out the name … Okay … Talk to you tomorrow. Bye, Dad.”

  She hadn’t told him anything about meeting Ben. Maybe that wasn’t the kind of thing Steffi would tell anyone but Tanya.

  Amanda went into her room and lay down on her bed. Her mother had said that it took two people to work things out, but Amanda knew that the whole point of getting Peanut was to let their father know that things were never going to work out. Her father had sounded as if he might move back someday, and her mother had as much as said it was never going to happen.

  Peanut jumped up on the bed beside her. It was amazing how high a little cat could leap in one bound.

  “Go away,” Amanda said. But even as she spoke, she drew Peanut closer and pressed her cheek against her cat’s soft fur.

  July 30,1861

  Dear Diary,

  Mr. Porter and I camped last night by the side of the road. He slept in his bedroll under a tree, and I slept in the alfalfa in the wagon. He gave me a roll and some cheese for breakfast. Then we drove into Washington. The country road turned into a paved city street. There were people and horses everywhere. Mr. Porter pulled up in front of a large brick building.

  Inside we met a nurse. “Hello,” the nurse said. “My name is Clara Barton.”

  “Hello,” I said. “My name is Paul Mason. I’m looking for my brother, Jeb Mason.”

  The next moment was the terrible one. What if Clara Barton told me that my brother was dead? I hadn’t checked the newspapers since I ran away from home. Maybe Jeb was dead by now.

  “Jeb Mason,” Clara Barton said. “The name sounds familiar.”

  “He had—he has—red hair and freckles. He’s only fifteen, even though he tries to act older.”

  “Yes, he was here,” Clara Barton said. “But I’m sure he said he had a younger sister, not a younger brother. He kept talking about her. ‘Tell Polly I’m all right,’ he kept saying.”

  I started to cry then. I couldn’t stop myself. I pulled off my cap. “I’m Polly, ma’am.”

  Clara Barton hugged me. “You brave girl, to come all this way to find your brother. When this war is over, many people will remember the bravery of the women.”

  I thought Clara Barton was brave, too, to nurse sick and dying men so far from home.

  But I still didn’t know what I had come to find out.

  “Where is jeb now? How badly was he wounded? Is he going to be okay?”

  Clara Barton looked sad. “He lost his arm. But the doctors thought he would recover. He was moved to another hospital.”

  She told Mr. Porter where it was. I couldn’t listen. I felt like throwing up at the thought of Jeb without an arm, his arm not broken, soon to be mended, healing in a sling, but gone forever. Jeb with an empty sleeve to his jacket for the rest of his life.

  But at least he is alive, dear Diary. At least my one-armed brother is alive.

  12

  During diary-sharing time on Thursday, Mr. Abrams asked Ricky to take a turn reading what he had written. Amanda hadn’t heard any of Ricky’s entries yet. Lance waved his hand every time to share more about his slave boy, Jonah, but Ricky never volunteered.

  “I’m Abraham Lincoln,” Ricky said.

  Everybody laughed. It was hard to think of anyone less presidential than Ricky.

  “Go ahead, Mr. President,” Mr. Abrams said. “I know this terrible Civil War must be much on your mind these days.”

  Ricky scowled down at his crumpled piece of paper. “‘Dear Diary. Today was a big battle between two ships. One ship was the Monitor. One ship was the Merrimack. They were both made of iron. I’m surprised they didn’t sink. How can an iron boat float? The battle was long. Neither side won. It was boring. I hate being President. The end.’”

  “Okay,” Mr. Abrams said with his usual kindly grin. “Comments for Ricky?”

  “I think he needs to explain more why the battle was so important,” James said. “I mean, this was the most famous naval battle of the Civil War. I can’t believe anyone could think it was a boring battle. Especially the President, the commander in chief. If the Monitor had won, it would have meant certain defeat for the Union.”

  “What do you think, Ricky?” Mr. Abrams asked. “Do you want to add a little more about why this particular battle was so significant?”

  “No.”

  “And, James,” Mr. Abrams added, “remember we always want to start by offering some positive comment about everybody’s writing.”

  He paused expectantly to give James the chance to say something nice about Ricky’s entry.

  “Well, I guess it’s interesting that he made Lincoln say he doesn’t like being President. But he doesn’t tell us why.”

  “Any other comments for Ricky?”

  “I liked it,” Lance said, glaring at James. “Why didn’t those ships sink? Isn’t iron heavier than water?”

  “That’s a good question. Does anyone know the answer?”

  James was the only one to raise his hand. “They were ironclad ships, not solid iron. And look at the shape of a ship. A ship is a hollow shell with lots of air in it.”

  “Thank you, James. Who else hasn’t read?” Mr. Abrams asked. “Meghan, we haven’t heard from you for a while.”

  In Meghan’s diary entry, her Northern girl, Martha, was helping to hide a slave family who had arrived covered by a load of hay on the back of a farmer’s wagon. Amanda had to admit that Meghan’s entries were good. She made sure to be the first to offer a compliment after Meghan finished reading.

  “I liked how you ended in an exciting place, so we don’t know if the slaves got captured or not.”

  “Thanks,” Meghan said.

  Amanda didn’t add that Meghan’s girl shouldn’t have been dancing an Irish jig on her way to the barn to check on the slaves there. She would have crept along silently, not stomping away on her hard wooden clogs.

  “We have time for one more,” Mr. Abrams said.

  “Amanda’s,” Beth urged. “Let’s hear Amanda’s.”

  Was Beth trying to pretend that nothing had changed and that they were still best friends? Or did she just want to avoid being called on herself, or made to listen to Lance’s pathetic Jonah?

  “By popular demand,” Mr. Abrams said, smiling at Amanda.

  She read her cat entry. The others clapped when she was done.

  “You must be a cat person, Amanda. Do you have a cat?” Mr. Abrams asked.

  “No,” Beth answered for her. “She can’t get a cat because her father’s allergic.”

  “That’s part of the joy of writing, then,” Mr. Abrams said. “Our characters can have the experiences we would like to have, but can’t, for one reason or another.”

  “Actu
ally,” Amanda blurted out, “we just got a cat. Last weekend. From the Humane Society.”

  “What’s its name?” Meghan asked.

  “What does it look like?” Lance asked.

  “Peanut. She’s orange and tan, sort of peanut-colored.”

  Amanda didn’t let herself meet Beth’s eyes.

  “Your father can get a prescription to help him with his allergies,” Mr. Abrams said. “And your vet can give you something to put in Peanut’s food, too.”

  Or her father could move away and solve the problem altogether.

  “All right, class, line up for music. Don’t you have your concert auditions today? Good luck, everybody.”

  Amanda held back until Beth and Meghan were safely in line ahead of her. She would have told Beth about Peanut sooner, if Beth weren’t spending every minute with Meghan these days. And if Beth weren’t so happy all the time with her perfect parents and perfect house and perfect math homework and perfect farmers’ market cheese and cider. Beth didn’t want to know anything about Amanda’s life anymore. Either Beth couldn’t see how much pain Amanda was in, or she didn’t care.

  “My woman’s soldier husband finally died,” she heard Beth say to Meghan. “She’s taking it really hard. ‘No! No! My John dead? No! No!’”

  Beth recited it as if it were funny, delivering the lines with exaggerated emotion, holding the back of her hand to her forehead. It wasn’t funny to Amanda. What was a devastated widow supposed to say?

  What was a heartbroken friend supposed to say?

  Mrs. Angelino’s smile was even wider and more enthusiastic than usual as she welcomed Amanda’s class into the music room. “Boys and girls, I can’t wait to see the wonderful talents you’re ready to share at our Civil War program!”

  The students sat themselves on the risers; Mrs. Angelino didn’t separate Lance and Ricky this time. Maybe she thought they’d be too caught up in the excitement of the auditions to misbehave.

  “All right. Who has an act to audition?”

  About half the class raised their hands, including Amanda. She had written a Civil War poem to read. She wished she didn’t have to recite it for the first time in front of the whole class. Sharing a poem was scarier than reading Polly entries.