Swan's Way

by Weyrich, Becky Lee

  Ginna wasn’t hungry in the least, but she had vowed to make herself eat. She heated a can of chicken noodle soup and toasted two slices of raisin bread. She thought about turning the television on, then decided she preferred the soothing crackle of the fire to the latest bad news from around the world. Quiet time was what she needed most—to think, to savor all that had happened to her today. Settled on the sofa in front of the fireplace, a red-and-green afghan tucked snuggly around her, she ate her supper slowly, watching the flames dance and thinking of Neal.

  She wasn’t ready to admit to herself that meeting him had been a case of love at first sight. Who would ever believe in such nonsense? She was certainly too level-headed to put that label on her feelings. Still, there was something about him…

  She closed her eyes in thought and, moments later, she was fast asleep.

  An unfamiliar sound woke her. A girl was crying, not loudly, but as if her heart would break. Ginna tried to open her eyes, but it seemed an impossible task. Soon, she realized that the tears were her own, as were the soft wails of pain.

  “Don’t cry, Virginia. It will be all right,” a boy said, in an uncertain, adolescent tone. “The male swan has probably only gone to look for food. He’ll come back.”

  “But what if he doesn’t, Chan? What if he’s gone for good, and his poor mate has to spend the rest of her life alone?”

  “That old cob would never stay away by choice.”

  “That’s just it, Channing. What if some hunter shot him?” Now her sobs intensified.

  She felt his hand settle gently on her trembling arm. “You shouldn’t worry about that, Virginia. Everyone hereabouts knows the swans of Swan’s Quarter. No one would dare harm that old cob. Your daddy’d have their hide.”

  The afternoon was fading. The woods beyond the swan pond were already in shadow. Virginia, beautiful even in tears, searched the skies, watching for Leda’s mate.

  “It’s getting late, Virginia. I’ll have to head home soon, or Mama will worry.” Realizing that he sounded like a child, when he was trying very hard to be a man for the girl he adored, Channing added, “You know how she is.”

  The thought of his leaving, even to go home for supper, suddenly panicked Virginia. She leaned close and rested her head against his shoulder. “Don’t leave me, Chan,” she pleaded in a whisper. “Then I’ll feel just like Leda. See how sad she looks?”

  Made bold by his sweetheart’s nearness, he slipped one arm around her waist. “You know I’d never leave you for good. We’ve always been together. We always will be, darlin’.”

  At fifteen, it seemed to Virginia Swan that she was on the very brink of everything wonderful and terrible that could happen in a girl’s life. Channing’s arm felt warm and right, holding her close. If she turned just so, he would probably kiss her. But the timing was all wrong. She was sad this afternoon, and she wanted their first kiss to be perfect. She wanted nothing to mar the happiness of that moment. She didn’t turn. She simply let her head rest on Channing’s shoulder and tried to fathom the eruption of emotions she felt deep down inside.

  “You will leave me!” she said after a time. “When you and Rodney go off to the Military Academy together.”

  “That’ll be different. You’ll be sad, but you’ll be proud too. And I’ll keep reminding you in my letters that you have to be a cadet’s sweetheart before you can be a soldier’s wife. Besides, I won’t be leaving for six long months, yet.”

  She smiled through her tears, thinking of all the years of togetherness stretching out before them. “And in your letters what else will you tell me, Chan?”

  “That I miss you. That I remember every single thing about you.” He brushed the tip of her nose with one finger. “The way your funny little nose tilts up.” He traced the delicate line of her cheek. “They way you blush all rosy when I touch you.” He rubbed his finger over her full bottom lip. “And I hope by then I’ll be able to tell you how soft and sweet your lips are when we kiss.”

  Channing shifted until he could look down into her face. “One more thing,” he said very quietly. “I’ll tell you that I love you—over and over again.”

  Virginia was breathless. “In every letter?”

  “In every single one.”

  The missing swan was forgotten suddenly. In fact, the rest of the world vanished in that moment. There were just the two of them, so close that only a breath hovered between them. Virginia was mesmerized by the dark intensity of Channing’s eyes, by the touch of his hand, by the promise of their first kiss.

  She closed her eyes, hardly daring to breathe. When she felt the soft pressure of his mouth on hers, she slipped her arms around his neck. The kiss was short and sweet, but the firestorm it kindled seemed to rage through Virginia from her head to her toes. And then it was over. They sat staring at each other in awe and wonder, as if they had just opened a secret passageway to a magical world beyond their wildest dreams.

  Virginia was the first to speak, but only a whisper escaped. “It was not like I thought it would be.”

  “You’re disappointed.” A scowl darkened his handsome features.

  Her own face lit with a brilliant smile. “No, Chan! I mean it was perfect! I’d thought it might be only half as good.”

  Now Channing’s scowl was feigned. “Too bad, really. If we hadn’t got it right, we would have to try again. Practice makes perfect, you know.”

  Virginia laughed and hugged him. “Well, maybe I was wrong. Maybe it wasn’t quite perfect.”

  They sat beside the swan pond at the edge of the woods, practicing, until the sun had sunk nearly behind the trees. The sound of wings brought them out of their happy haze. They parted and looked up to see the old cob coming in for a landing. His mate welcomed him with a joyful flapping of wings. Moments later, Virginia and Channing watched, as the pair arched their elegant necks and leaned their heads close to form a heart, their mute tribute to their everlasting love for each other.

  “There!” Channing said. “Now all’s right with the world.”

  Ginna smiled in her sleep. But soon the pair of swans and the pair of lovers faded from her dreams to be replaced by the sound of rifle fire and the moans and screams of dying men. Ginna awoke with a jolt.

  “Channing!” she cried. “Where are you?”

  She looked around, feeling confused and utterly foolish. She must have slept a long time. The fire had burned low. A glance at her watch told her that in another hour, it would be time to get ready for work. She stretched out on the sofa, deciding it was too late to bother with bed.

  As she drifted off again, her thoughts returned to Neal Frazier. He almost seemed a part of her dream. But how could that be? The two people in her subconscious had been total strangers—a pretty teenage girl and her handsome beau. Suddenly, she recalled what Neal had said about the swans, as he was walking with her. Maybe the dream had been spawned by his words. Or maybe the dream came from some deeper, more distant memory. Whatever the source of her romantic illusion, it only made her more eager for Monday to come around again, so she could see Neal. She longed to get to know him better. Much better!

  Before then, however, she had to get through six long days at the Rebel Yell Cafe and another six long, lonely nights, with only her dreams for company.

  When Ginna arrived at work Tuesday morning, she wondered if—as distracted as she felt—she had come through the wrong door. Or maybe she was dreaming again. A dark-haired, middle-aged woman was wearing blond, bouncy Cindy’s uniform and nametag.

  “Ginna, meet Noreen.” Lucille continued pounding dough for her famous biscuits with sausage gravy, as she introduced the two women.

  Ginna greeted Noreen warmly, then sidled up to Lucille and whispered, “What about Cindy?”

  “She was a no-show yesterday, never even called.”

  Guilt-ridden, Ginna said, “I should have stayed. I’m sorry, Lu.”

  “No, way! You were dead on your feet Besides, thos
e folks at the nursing home were counting on you. I know how important your Mondays are to you and to them. Noreen’ll do fine. She’s got plenty of experience, even comes with references. I may hire another waitress, too, to take some of the load off the rest of us.”

  Now Ginna really felt guilty. She knew she hadn’t been pulling her share of the load lately. She tried, but ever since she had started losing weight, she was so tired all the time. Listless and lightheaded.

  “There’s no need to hire another girl, Lucille. I’ll come earlier and stay later, if you need me.”

  Lucille stopped pounding her dough and turned to look Ginna right in the eye. “No, you won’t!” she said adamantly. “You’ve just about worked yourself sick these past few weeks since Marge left and I hired that shiftless Cindy. Bad move! You’re the best waitress I’ve ever had, but you won’t do me one speck of good if you wind up in the hospital. In fact, I’m thinking you need a whole day off, maybe Tuesdays. Then you’d have a day and a half to yourself. What do you think of that?”

  “I don’t know,” Ginna answered lamely, not sure if she should be overjoyed at the thought of more time off or offended that Lucille was saying she could get along fine without her.

  Changing the subject abruptly, Lucille asked, “How was your afternoon with the old folks?”

  “It was different.” Ginna went to work, filling the giant coffee urn as they talked.

  “Oh? How so?”

  “There’s a new man at Swan’s Quarter.” She felt her face warm at the mere thought of Neal Frazier.

  “Oh, yeah? What’s he in for—just old and ornery, so his kids dumped him?”

  “He doesn’t have any kids. He’s young.”

  “A boy in an old folks’ home?”

  “No, no. Not that young. In his thirties. Nice looking, too.”

  Wiping her hand across her cheek and leaving a smear of flour, Lucille grinned at Ginna. “So that’s what’s going on.”

  Ginna was immediately sorry she had mentioned Neal. “Nothing’s going on,” she answered, defensively. “He’s just a nice man, a sad case.”

  “And you plan to bring a little light into his life?”

  “Someone needs to.” Ginna finished with the coffee and turned. “Lucille, have you ever met someone for the first time and felt like you’ve known them somewhere before?”

  “Yeah, it’s called déjà vu—just a trick the mind plays. It doesn’t mean anything.”

  Ginna shook her head. “No,” she whispered. “I mean, like you really knew them before. Like you were real close sometime, but you can’t remember where or when.”

  “Hey, if we’re talking carnal knowledge here, I promise you, I’d remember. You do need some time off, hon. Or maybe you’re just so taken with this guy that you wish you knew him that well. I’ve had that happen too.” She laughed and her gray eyes twinkled. “When you fall in love, you feel real jealous of all the people who knew your fellow back before you met him, even as far back as when he was a kid. I know that feeling. That’s the way it was when I met my Joe, God rest him.”

  Ginna thought about that for a moment. “No. That’s not what I mean either. I don’t know. It’s real strange. It’s like I’ve known him forever, but I can’t quite place him.” She paused and laughed. “I sound crazy as a bedbug. Don’t mind me.”

  “What you sound like to me is somebody falling in love.”

  “Oh, sure, right! Like a few minutes one afternoon with Neal Frazier and suddenly—boom!—I’m a changed woman—not even Ginna Jones, any longer.”

  “Hey, don’t laugh! Stranger things have happened. And it wouldn’t hurt you a bit to have a little romance in your life, Ginna.”

  Six bikers sauntered in, the first of the breakfast crowd, and the women stopped talking to get to work. It was practically nonstop all day. By the time Ginna’s shift was over at five, she was dead on her feet The rest of the week wasn’t much different. Maybe Lucille was right. Maybe they did need more help at the Rebel Yell.

  By Sunday, Ginna was really dragging. She overslept, then hauled herself out of bed and managed to get to work only twenty minutes late. Lucille didn’t say a word about her tardiness. She only looked at Ginna with concern, when she came through the door.

  “You feeling all right, hon? You look kind of peaked.”

  “I’m fine. Just a restless night. Several, in fact. I’ve been having these weird dreams.”

  Lucille gave her a wink. “Dreaming about that Neal Frazier fellow, I’ll bet.”

  “No.” Ginna frowned. “I was dreaming about the Civil War again, but it was so real it didn’t seem like a dream at all. I swear to you, Lucille, I think my house must have been built on a battle site or something. I believe the place is haunted. Why else would I dream about the war all the time?”

  “Could be,” Lucille answered. “There were plenty of battles fought around here. Why, according to the history books, Winchester changed hands seventy-two times during the war. Then, too, you’re right there next to that old cemetery.” Lucille gave an exaggerated shudder. “It would give me the willies to live that close to all those dead guys.”

  Things got busy, and the women had little time to chat. Ginna felt more tired and distracted as the day progressed. Her legs got weak and her arms ached. She mixed up a couple of orders, something she had never done before. About mid-morning, during a big rush, she dumped a full tray, then started crying hysterically as she tried to clean up the mess.

  Lucille took her aside. “Listen, Ginna, I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but as of this minute you’re off duty. Go home and get some rest.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t!” She was still fighting tears.

  “Oh, but you can and you will! Noreen and I can handle things. I don’t want to see you back here until Wednesday morning. You take all of tomorrow off and Tuesday, like I mentioned earlier. I’ve got a new girl coming in.”

  Ginna’s heart pounded, and another rush of tears scalded her eyes. “You mean I’m fired?”

  Lucille put her arm around Ginna’s thin shoulders and gave her a firm hug. “No way! You just need a couple of days off. Now, go on. Get out of here!”

  Gratefully, Ginna did as Lucille ordered. She couldn’t figure out what her problem was, but it certainly was messing her up. Try as she would, she couldn’t get her mind off Neal and the feeling that she knew him from somewhere. That thought preyed on her mind night and day, except when she was having those exhausting dreams about the Civil War. In them, she always seemed to be searching for someone, but she could never find him. She would wake up with her mouth dry and her throat sore from calling his name in vain.

  As she was walking home—dead-tired from her restless night and her legs aching from having been on the job since just after six that morning—she passed a flea market. Ginna had no vices to speak of, but the one thing she could never resist was the attraction of other people’s old junk—“treasures from the past,” as she thought of it. As weary as she felt, she still could not pass up the urge to browse.

  For nearly an hour, she wandered among the bright umbrellas and canopies, gazing raptly at expensive Victorian glass, lovely old dolls, battered kitchenware, and mountains of patchwork quilts and chenille bedspreads. At the far back corner of the lot, she spied a display that drew her like a magnet.

  A white-bearded gentleman, with a derby cocked at a rakish angle, beckoned to her with his twinkling blue eyes. Before him on the tables lay the most fascinating display of old daguerreotypes in gutta percha cases, ambrotypes, tintypes, cartes de visite, and the early cameras and equipment that had been used to produce the haunting images from out of the past.

  “Afternoon, ma’am,” the elderly vendor said. “If you’re interested in photography or history—either one—you’ve come to the right place.”

  Almost immediately, Ginna’s gaze fastened on an intriguing view of a Civil War battlefield, taken while the fight was in progress. The sepia-
toned print made the figures in uniform seem alive. The smoke from rifles and cannon actually appeared to drift before her eyes. And she could make out the distinct figures of soldiers, both Union and Confederate. She knew she had to have this old photo.

  “Ah, you have excellent taste,” the man said. “That’s a Mathew Brady photograph taken near Petersburg in 1864. One of his best. Of course, he didn’t take it himself. See?” He pointed to a figure standing behind the line of fire with his hands plunged into the pockets of his canvas coat, obviously posing for the camera, as he observed the battle raging. “That’s Brady right there in the shot. Probably Timothy O’Sullivan or Alexander Gardner—one or the other of his top two assistants—was behind the camera. Most of the views marked ‘Photo by Brady’ were actually shot by some member of his staff. Brady had poor eyesight, you see.”

  An image flashed through Ginna’s mind of a dark-haired man wearing rectangular, blue-tinted spectacles in wire frames. Along with that came a fleeting whiff of a scent, which to her knowledge was totally unfamiliar. Somehow she knew, though, that it was Atwood’s cologne.

  “This is one of Brady’s cameras,” the man continued, not noticing the frown that had come over his customer’s face.

  Blue glasses? Atwood’s cologne? Ginna mused, thoroughly puzzled. How could she know any of this? She knew who Mathew Brady was, of course, but not much about him. Only that he was a Civil War photographer and had posed President Lincoln and many other famous people. He had done ordinary citizens as well—working men and women. Engagement portraits.

  As she glanced over the array of old photos, her gaze fixed on one of a couple, the woman standing behind the seated man. On a marble-topped table beside his Gothic Revival chair sat a clock, the hands frozen in time at ten minutes to twelve. She picked up the photo and turned it over, looking for a name or date.