May the Road Rise Up to Meet You: A Novel

by Peter Troy

  You just couldn’t resist, could you, she says.

  And he knows he’s got to tell her then.

  I passed the Stimsons’ store on my way back, he confesses, and Olivia was by the door talking with a few other people—and she called me over.

  And she insisted you buy a copy of The Freeman’s Journal! Marcella jokes, but her smile doesn’t linger once she sees the more serious look on Ethan’s face.

  Gettysburg … it was more terrible than Fredericksburg … than Antietam even. The Rebs’ve gone back south, it looks, but it was bad.

  Oh God, Henry Stimson came by not half an hour ago with a telegram for us, she says. I didn’t read it—I didn’t think it was … it’s on the mantel over there.

  She’s up from the bench and at the mantel, then carrying the small folded paper reluctantly back to him. And as soon as she says it’s from Seanny, Ethan knows what it says.

  You read it, he says with a nod.

  She opens the fold, and soon as her eyes take in the words on the paper, her hand goes involuntarily to cover her mouth. Dropping the hand with the telegram in it down to her side as if wanting to get it away from her sight, she turns her head slightly with saddened eyes reaching out to him.

  Ethan, she whispers. Harry’s dead … Gettysburg … the second day.

  And as the news hits him, his thoughts seem strangely transported back to Fredericksburg, to the hospital on Stafford Heights, where they fell in love amidst such violently shifting emotions, a tiny oasis of tenderness draped in the misery of every day. Only now it was the reverse, these past six weeks of glorious refuge pierced by the mournful news from far off, the two experiences like photographic negatives, light as dark and dark as light. But it’s not a description worth explaining when there is his wife’s tender embrace for consolation.

  It was Mrs. Carlisle who was primarily responsible for these past glorious weeks, since it was her home they were in after all, and she’d insisted that they’d be doing her a great favor by getting some use of the place for the first time in years. Marcella had taken to it straightaway, delighted by the scenery and the solitude. When they wanted for company, there was Mrs. Carlisle’s cousin Olivia Stimson, and her husband, Henry, and stories of the Underground Railroad days. And Ethan enjoyed the place for all these reasons, too.

  But it had become something more to him than it was even for Marcella. There were far too many trees, and the afternoons grew far too warm for it to remind him very much of the days back on the Lane. And yet he found these to be most welcome additions. Henry Stimson told him to use the rowboat whenever he pleased, and Ethan would fish sometimes on Lake Otsego for as long as he could stand to be away from Marcella, sometimes for two or three hours even. But mostly they’d take it out midday, drifting with whatever tiny current the wind wanted to create, and he’d sometimes read to her, or she to him. And such moments had stripped away so much of the previous months, allowing them to know each other without the march of history pressing at their backs. For him, it was the refuge of feeling that he could somehow protect her, ensure her happiness, like he’d never been able to do with Aislinn and Mam and Aunt Em.

  And when Marcella wrote to Mrs. Carlisle how much they loved the place and how grateful they were for the use of it, Mrs. Carlisle replied with a lengthy letter telling Marcella that it was hers now. It turned out that she had planned to leave it to Marcella all along and leave the New York house to Catherine—her only children, as Mrs. Carlisle described it. And Marcella, much to Ethan’s surprise, seemed rather easily convinced that she should not bother to protest the matter.

  Then came word of Gettysburg, and a Fourth of July that was spent with nowhere to escape the discussion of the worst carnage the war had yet produced. That evening he brought Aislinn’s old Shakespeare book out on the lake with them, but they mostly just drifted and tried not to think of what so many of their friends were going through down in Pennsylvania right then. Until, as if attempting to rally themselves from any manner of gloom, Marcella picked up the book and insisted that they act out a scene. She picked Romeo and Juliet, and gushed out the words of the balcony scene with every ounce of juvenile fawning she could muster before passing the book to him for his line. By the end they had turned it into Shakespeare’s grandest comedy of all and in the space of those few minutes had restored much of the luster of this place.

  But now, amidst the news of Harry, it’s as if they both know there’ll be no restoration to be found in a mere play. It’s later that afternoon, after a visit to the Stimsons’ to find out the latest news, that they walk down to the lake, and he silently begins to say goodbye to this place. Marcella is the first to broach the subject of returning home, asking Ethan if he’d like to visit Harry’s mother. And he only nods, conceding the inevitable.

  We made a good go at it, he says.

  And the water’s in her eyes as she squeezes his hand more tightly.

  You made a wonderful go at it, she says.

  And he’s confused for a second, before realizing that she meant the lads in the Brigade.

  I meant you and me, he says. We made a good go at it, you and me, up here, I mean. It was nice … it was better than nice …

  And suddenly he’s overtaken by a wave of ineloquence, ’til she laughs and sniffles a little, placing her head inside his shoulder, donning her ever-improving brogue for a reply.

  Sure, we’ve only just stahrted t’make a goh’ve it up here, Mr. McOwen. Or don’t you recahll marryin’ a woman of property?

  He recovers his humor amidst the echo of her words and replies, That’s why I married her of course.

  Well then, Squire, she says, knowing how Seanny teased him with that very title, I’ll go back t’Brooklyn wit’ ya, but only for two weeks. There’s plentya work t’be done if we’re t’live in this house all th’year ’round.

  And he realizes then that this is maybe the greatest thing they do for each other, not the humor or the way they can playfully tease in even tender moments, but the fact that their love always seems to act as a gravitational force, pulling each other back from the edge of great sorrow.

  Well then, Misses McOwen, he says, ’tis quite th’hard-drivin’ business woman y’are. Two weeks it shall be.

  MICAH

  SUMMER 1863

  When the mountains turned into hills somewhere in Pennsylvania, he worried at first. There was no more cover from the small towns along the way as he headed north. Gettysburg, Fairfield, Mechanicsburg. But in each place he saw something that he’d only ever seen once at the rail depot in Charleston. Free colored men. Men who didn’t seem worried that the whole Confederate Army wasn’t too far away. And even though he kept on goin’ north, each of those places made him feel something more like what must have been free.

  He even ventured into the grand city of Harrisburg. Got some work there building storehouses alongside the rail station. Kept to himself mostly, but did make one friend. First white man he’d ever think to call that. And only ’cause this man Ezekiel called him friend first, the way Quakers did it. First time a white man ever invited him into his house. Asked him to supper at his table. Let him stay in the spare room, for all those few weeks. And his Misses, Sarah, even knitted him a blanket with the verse from the Bible. From the Book of Micah itself:

  They shall beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruning hooks; nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war anymore.

  And he took that with him as a treasure when the job was up in May. And Micah headed north again. Following the Susquehanna River, which Ezekiel told him would take all manner of turns and twists. But it’d take him all the way to New York. And without Mary. With the blood of four men still staining his memory. He wasn’t in such a rush to get anywhere in particular. Long as it was north.

  So that was the path he followed. Up the Susquehanna. Free. Not running from anything or anyone. No haze, no fear, no coldness deep in his bones, like the last time he traveled the l
ong, lonely road. And he reminded himself of all that, every time he could feel those memories trying to overtake him. He fished on occasion, hunted some, traveled some, rested some. Free as any man ever was.

  ’Til the river began to slither to the east and then the west and back north. Then side to side again. And south once, even, for the better part of two full days. ’Til there was no outrunning those memories then. ’Til moving forward began to feel like he was doing a penance for the man he’d been. The man who killed four other men. Not thinking any more about how three of them deserved it for sure. Not thinking how the first most likely did, too, Home Guard that he was. Thinking just about how he’d taken four men out like that. Like it was up to him to do God’s work. And worst of everything he thought about, on this long lonely road, was how he’d walked up to the top of Stony Man Mountain like he was gonna take on God. Make him accountable for what he done. For what HE done. Like God gotta explain anything. Like Micah wasn’t raised by the Momma and Daddy he was, that’d taught him better.

  Sometimes he thought of Mary. Many times he thought of Mary. Hours every day, at least. But it wasn’t the sort of pained yearning it had been along the Blue Ridge. This was the sort of thinking that made him wonder how he could change the man he had become. The man who had killed four men. The man who had challenged God. The man who had gotten so far away from what he always thought himself to be that he wondered if there was enough walking to do on this earth to make up for it.

  When the Susquehanna took to getting all twisted around after that. West, then east, then south again, for hours instead of days, this time. He didn’t question it. Like it was a test from God. Like all these twists and turns were meant to see if he could accept the challenges he’d been given. And overcome them. He wasn’t even following the Drinking Gourd anymore. ’Cause this wasn’t a slave thing anymore. This wasn’t a running-off thing anymore. This wasn’t a Mary thing, or a Momma and Daddy and Isabelle thing. This was about Micah gettin’ right with Micah. Gettin’ right with God. And he’d follow that river for as long as it would take him. Long as God wanted him to. Long as it took for him to turn them swords into plowshares.

  He became a decent fisherman and an even better hunter. Grew a beard long past his chin. Fancied himself a pioneer, on better days. And then, just when he felt like he was getting in good with things, he began to run out of Susquehanna. About midway through the summer by then, best as he could tell. The river just kept shrinking as he walked on and on. ’Til it ran into Otsego Lake. At a place called Cooperstown. And that was it. No more Susquehanna for him to follow.

  He came upon the town first, thinking maybe it would be just another stopping-off point. But then what was left of the river trickled into as large a lake as he’d seen in some time. And he knew that this was all for now. Still with something left over in the way of being angry with God for not finishing the job. For not making this Susquehanna flow all the way to Canada where he was meant to go. To irrefutable freedom. And the Northern Lights.

  And he stayed by the lake through much of the morning. Watching all manner of white men come and go and not bother him at all. Not ask for traveling papers. Most of ’em not even suspicious of him. ’Til one came up in a small fishing boat and pulled it onto the shore. Stepped out of it and took a fishing rod from it and three big ones hooked on a line. Proud. Like he’d done a man’s work this mornin’ and brought back the supper for a day or two to come besides this one.

  And he held them up to Micah, maybe thirty yards away, and smiled like a man would at such a moment. So Micah smiled back at him, nodded his head two three times. Then turned back to the lake, lookin’ at what God had done to his byway. But it wasn’t more than a few seconds before he could feel the man with the fish staring at him, closing the distance in meaningful steps.

  Hello. He said. I see your fishin’ pole there … didya have any luck?

  Nosuh. Just got here, act’ally, Suh. Micah said, making sure to be safe.

  And the man seemed uncomfortable with Micah’s response.

  Ethan. He said. And extended his hand.

  MICAH

  COOPERSTOWN, NEW YORK

  SUMMER–FALL 1863

  Their friendship began over a discussion on fishing. Just like two men would do. With nothing like slavery or war or even Yessuh, Nosuh, to stand in the way. Each of them just a man, straight up. And Micah ate at their house that very first night. Ate the fish Ethan had caught, overcooked something awful by his wife. But still, he told them some of his story about runnin’ off. The safe parts.

  Mrs. McOwen—Marcella, like she kept insisting—talked for one solid hour about everything she wanted to do to that house. Making it ready for winter first. Fixin’ windows and such. Patching that roof some. And such. But then the thing that brought a real smile to her face was talkin’ about the porch she wanted built. And Ethan laughed some at first, then a little bit more as it went on. Not in a mean kind of way but like he was wonderin’ how old he’d be before he got the half of it done.

  I can do that. Micah said, matter-of-factly.

  Marcella looked at Ethan, then the two of them back at him. And it didn’t take Micah much explaining to them how to build such a porch, before that was that. Room and board plus twelve dollars a week and the set of tools to keep when it was done, Ethan offered. More than Micah ever would’ve even thought to ask for. More than Longley or Dunmore could get on their best days hiring him out. They just offered it like that, straight up. A place to stay and be settled for a while. Cash to walk around with, like a free man should have. And a chance not to be alone for a while. All that from one overcooked fish supper.

  Ethan worked with him most of the time. He wasn’t much of carpenter. Said something about how back in Ireland the English had long since cut down most of the trees and brought them back to England. So there wasn’t much wood to work with. Then Marcella laughed and said to Micah. Typical Irishman, he’d blame the rain on the English, if he could. And Micah smiled at it, though he didn’t know much about the English or the Irish. They’d always just been white folks to him. Turned out some of them weren’t much better to their own kind than they were to colored folks. And that took some time gettin’ used to.

  Some days Ethan took pictures of the rich folks over at the hotels along the lake. And sometimes at the Stimsons’ general store too, where he was hopin’ to start a business. They even used some of his pictures in the newspaper in town. And then there were some days, usually when Marcella was in town, when they both cut out early from everything. Went fishing out on the lake in Henry Stimson’s boat. Talked some, fished some. Read some too, since Ethan’d been reading on boats since he was a boy. Only instead of the Bible, which was the only book Micah had ever read, they’d read all manner of other things. Books from men named Shakespeare and Homer and others. But Micah’s favorites were Emerson and Thoreau. Men who didn’t go for any of this be happy with your station in life business he’d got used to hearing from white men. These were men who spoke of being Self-Reliant, above all.

  Then there were the Stimsons, Olivia and Henry as they insisted upon, too. And Micah couldn’t have ever imagined calling so many white people by their Christian names. Or having them for friends. But that’s what happened. Dinner parties at the Stimsons’ house were always full of stories from the Underground Railroad. And Olivia loved to have Micah tell every person who hadn’t heard yet. ’Bout how he came all the way up from Virginia. With two armies standin’ in the way.

  But the quieter dinners at Ethan and Marcella’s were better. Even if the food was never quite all the way right. Something always a little short of cooked through, or just a little burnt maybe. But not having to tell his story for folks he’d just met. Just talkin’ about whatever things came to mind. And laughter, too. Plenty of that.

  It was the start of October when things were close to done on that porch. And Micah had to think of what was next for him. Cold as the last winter’d been traveling up the Blue Ridge, h
e wasn’t thinking ’bout wandering north some more. And besides that, for the first time since Mary, he felt a sense of hope. Like maybe he belonged somewhere.

  So he told Ethan and Marcella over dinner one night. They told him to stay with them, of course. And he felt good that they would make the offer. Like they were his real friends and not just employers. But he had his mind set on a nice room at the boardinghouse in town. Getting as much carpentering work as he could. And Marcella said he should put a small advertisement in The Freeman’s Journal. So folks would know what he could do. Only one hitch to that.

  All the advertisers have a surname too. She said. Knowing that they’d talked about the very thing some weeks before. And her telling him that it was a thing to take pride in, the chance to decide for himself what he’d be called. Not something to be ashamed of, certainly. Said she’d had her Daddy’s name, then got her husband’s name. Without anybody ever asking her how she felt about it. And he’d often thought about it since then, taking some pride in the chance to choose for himself. Figured that the name he chose would be something from the man he was. And represent the man he was still workin’ on becoming, too.

  And so he smiled at Marcella and Ethan to let them know he’d figured it out.

  Well, I was figurin’ on doin’ that very thing, puttin’ a notice in the newspaper, he said.

  Is that right? Marcella asked. And did you choose a surname?

  Mmm-hmm. He said. Waited a second for effect. I like the sound of Micah Plowshare.

  And from the looks on their faces he could see that his friends did too.

  In the weeks that followed, Micah Plowshare would stop by most days to help out with little patching-up jobs around their house. After he was done with whatever chicken coop or hayloft or stable door he’d worked on someplace else. He’d finish those jobs as fast as he could. Always with the usual quality though. And then he’d pass by their house, just outside the main part of town. Maybe say that he’d noticed last time he was there that the back-door steps needed some mending. Or the stable stalls, even though there weren’t any horses inside them. And he’d fix it with Ethan, talking about the books Ethan had given him to read.