by Joy Callaway
I forced myself to drink the wine, mostly to prove to my family that I was all right. I barely tasted it, swallowing the vinegary liquid down before it had a chance to sink into my taste buds.
“I’m so glad that you’re home, Frank,” Alevia said. She tilted her glass back, set it on the table, and licked her lips. Yawning, she turned, cracked her knuckles, and left for bed, followed shortly thereafter by Bessie, then Mae. Relieved that the room had been reduced to Mother, Franklin, and the popping fire, I sat down in the wingback chair across from them. The life I’d always envisioned had been reduced from structure and promise to ash.
My eyes drifted to the tabletop in front of me, to the photograph we’d taken this summer while picnicking on Randall’s Island. It was a small photo, and of poor quality, but it had been free—an excuse for my aunt Cassie to try her new daylight Kodak.
Mother and Mae bookended the group, both perched like tiny chickadees on the craggy rocks next to Bess’s hourglass figure outfitted in eyelet and lace, and Alevia hiding beneath the brim of her straw hat. Frank and I were in the middle. I was leaning into his arm trying my best to keep my lips together, my wide-set hazel eyes—identical to Frank’s—squinted in laughter at something Aunt Cassie had just said, pert nose unbecomingly crinkled. In black and white, we all looked relatively related, the pigment evening out the discrepancy of our colorings, from Frank’s and my light brown hair to Mother and Alevia’s ebony, from Bess’s olive skin to Mae’s porcelain. My father was noticeably absent, his place behind Mother’s right shoulder an appropriate blotch of bright sunlight.
“It’s October third,” Franklin said, interrupting my study of the photo. I smiled at his random revelation, not sure why it mattered. “Grandpa James’s birthday,” he reminded, then shrugged, eyes fixed to the flames.
“Someone has to tell the story,” I said, remembering at last. I’d forgotten in the chaos of the evening. Growing up, Father always told the tale of his father, the fearless Civil War hero. Even though we were required to listen back then, I was captivated. I could still see my father’s face, round brown eyes dancing as he sat in front of the fireplace talking about the fierce man who raised him. My sisters had never really cared about our history, but Franklin and I always had, begging our parents to tell us more.
“All right,” Mother said, and grinned at me, likely relieved to find that I seemed livened by the distraction.
Rubbing her eyes, she straightened up against the longue, patted Franklin’s leg, and reached for my hand. “It all began in ’49 . . . when your grandparents, who’d been living in a large brick home on five acres in the city, decided they wanted to sell it. At the time, the city had just started construction on a big park right in front of their home and they’d grown tired of the noise and commotion, so your grandfather sold the house and land for three thousand dollars and moved the family to the Bronx. Back then, this was country. You could hear wild geese calling and crickets in the summertime, and your grandfather knew that he’d build a home here . . . a country retreat, he called it.” Franklin made a noise of amused disagreement. Today, the quiet call of geese overhead had been replaced by the whir of the trolley flying by every hour, the distant clanging from the iron factory, and the commotion of a thousand commuters hustling to the train station or to the ferry dock along the canal. “So, all was quiet and lovely, and everyone was happy . . . until Lincoln’s call to arms.” Franklin elbowed my mother and she smiled, nodding for him to continue. He crossed the room, plucked an armchair from the corner, and set it down in front of the blue and white Wedgwood tiles lining the hearth, in the exact spot where Father used to sit.
“He was a brave man. A man of another era,” Franklin started, echoing Father’s words. He paused for a moment and then proceeded. “He went to war honored to serve and came back from Gettysburg without a scratch . . . carrying that blasted creeper vine.” Franklin gestured toward the front of the house. “Sometimes I wonder what possessed him . . . why he’d take the effort to dig up a vine from the battlefield and bring it all the way back home.” I laughed, imagining the grandfather I’d never known digging while bullets flew around his head.
“Likely because it reminded him of himself—strong and nearly impossible to kill,” I said, and Mother grinned.
“I imagine he wanted to remember what he’d seen sacrificed.”
Franklin cleared his throat, and straightened in his seat. “Nevertheless, he came back, but just for a two-week furlough. And then he went off to Georgia, where he died valiantly during the battle of Peach Tree Creek. Captain Bundy’s report said that he’d been shot nine times, three through the heart.” Franklin brought his hand to his chest as he said it, palm resting on the corduroy vest. “He died in true Loftin family fashion . . . stubbornly. His strength was his heart, his determination. It took three bullets to kill him.” Frank looked down at his hands, then up at me, eyes boring into mine. “We have to remember that we, too, are Loftins, and though our hearts may fracture, they will not falter. No one will stamp us out.” Franklin leaned toward me, looping his arm around my shoulders. I lifted my hand to take his. Our parents told us he’d reached for me like this only moments after we were born and that my hand had lifted to rest on his. It made sense. Everything else disappeared when we embraced this way and all we saw were each other. Frank’s forehead met mine. “No one,” he whispered. “Do you understand me, Gin? We will always, always rise stronger.”
Chapter Three
The Loftin House
BRONX, NEW YORK
Charlie came by my house the following day, and the day after that, and the day after that. Every day for two weeks and two days. He came at different times, but always looked the same—fingers tangled in his brown curls, eyes darting across the upstairs windows. I wanted so badly to go to him, to hear him say that he’d made a mistake and wanted me, but there was no guarantee of that dream and I wouldn’t subject my shattered heart to a conversation to the contrary. Instead, I’d watch him come up the walk every day, flattening myself on the cushion of the window seat when he got close enough to see me. Alevia had fabricated an excuse the first time—that I was ill and resting. The rest of my family had thankfully followed suit.
I’d barely moved since waking the morning after the party. But it wasn’t only sadness that paralyzed me; it was also inspiration. I wanted, needed, to write. From sunup to sundown, words poured from my mind. I wrote until my fingers could barely move from their clutch on the pencil and my brain began to confuse sentences. I wrote twelve columns for the Bronx Review, I wrote about my family, and when I couldn’t put it off any longer, I began to write about Charlie. It started because I knew someday I’d forget what it felt like to be in love, to have him in my life—the comfort that came with his friendship. I could already feel his absence, and unable to bear it, I wrote down every daydream, all the things I’d always hoped for our future. By the time I was done, I’d written a book—about imagined adventures overseas, a pleasant domestic life surrounded by family and art, and finally, a parting at death that made me ache.
I stared at the words “The End” as if they were an inscription on a gravestone—an irreversible statement that at last forced me into the real world to face the truth of his betrayal. I ached for the words I’d written to come alive, to transform this bleak reality, but they never would. Charlie, my perfect match, had deserted me. Without him my dreams of love and marriage and children and art could never be. No one else had the same mix of passions and I wouldn’t resign myself to someone lesser for the sake of companionship.
I set my notebook down and thumbed through the latest Scribner’s Magazine. My fingers paused on a story from Octave Thanet—otherwise known as Alice French—titled Stories of a Western Town. She was criticized in some circles for hiding her identity, for choosing to remain a spinster, but she’d always been an inspiration to me, a woman who’d successfully broken through the iron gates of masculinity to grace the pages of the country’s finest literar
y magazines. Charlie had known of my admiration, and after my fifth rejection from the Bronx Review—the day after the Review hired him for his drawings—he dragged me down to the library. Though I’d always been resilient, this time I’d thought to give up writing. It seemed impossible that someone could see past my gender. Charlie had made me sit at reception while he disappeared into the bowels of the library, returning with copies of Thanet’s stories, The Bishop’s Vagabond, Knitters in the Sun, and We All. He’d forced me to read them, sitting silently beside me until my defeat began to crumble.
I stood from the window seat and closed the magazine. There was no use in recalling our memories, the occasions I’d mistaken for love. My legs wobbled with disuse and I ran a hand through my greasy hair. I had no idea what day it was, only that today was ending. The sun was setting through the naked chestnut branches. I yawned, glanced down at the walk, and flung myself onto the floor. Charlie. He’d seen me this time, I was fairly sure of it, and I crawled to the foot of my bed knowing the only way I could avoid him was to hide. Mae had come up yesterday to say she was tired of covering for me. Franklin had said the same, practically begging. “Gin, he needs to talk to you. He looks awful,” he’d said. At the time, my brain had been churning with words I needed to write, so I’d barely heard him. “Did he change his mind about Miss Kent?” I’d turned to look at my brother who’d stared back at me saying nothing, but whose eyes said no. “Then I don’t care.”
Charlie banged on the door below my window, shaking the walls. I could hear Mae’s footsteps, quick and light, coming from the study on the opposite side of the house where she’d been writing her thesis and preparing lessons to teach the orphans at Saint Joseph’s Asylum, as she did every Friday afternoon before attending her evening courses. I knew this week at the orphanage was especially important as Mae’s benefactor and frequent volunteer, Mrs. Greenwood, would be in from her country home in Millerton. Mrs. Greenwood had noticed Mae’s passion for teaching two years ago, and insisting that New York needed educators like Mae, had offered to pay for Mae to attend college.
I sniffed at my skin, revolted by the oniony musk radiating from it. I couldn’t figure how I’d been sweating. We’d gone through the last of our coal and wood days ago. The house was frigid.
“Mae. Please. I know she’s here. I saw her this time. Let me in.” Charlie’s voice was soft and desperate. I pressed my palms to my ears to drown him out. I could so easily give in to his distress.
“Charlie, you know we all love you, but I can’t.” I could hear Mae’s high-pitched voice through my hands, and let them fall to my lap. “She . . . she doesn’t want to see you.” I knew it pained her, but relieved that she was going to turn him away after all, I took a deep breath. Avoiding him was torture, but I didn’t want to face him—maybe ever. Mae yelled Charlie’s name, and I heard something crash to the floor and shatter.
“Sorry! I’m sorry,” he said. He must’ve pushed past her. I threw myself under the bed. His footsteps pounded up the stairs and I curled into a ball hoping he wouldn’t look for me.
“No,” Franklin said abruptly. His voice was close, probably coming from the landing, and I squeezed my eyes shut, thankful for my brother’s presence. “You can’t.”
“Let me go, Frank,” Charlie growled. I could hear them struggling against each other, the banister screeching as Charlie tried to shove past him.
“Leave . . . her . . . alone,” Franklin breathed. “You’ve chosen.” The commotion suddenly stopped and Charlie groaned.
“Ginny! You have to talk to me. Please,” Charlie yelled. “You can’t discard me so quickly.” His footsteps retreated slowly down the steps and I crawled out from under the safety of the bed like a hunted deer emerging from the brush.
I stood before the mirror, staring at the startling vein-snaked eyes and pale skin that hadn’t seen sun in weeks. Charlie and I argued constantly, but the last time we’d fought to the point of jeopardizing our friendship I’d been seven, standing in this exact spot. His younger brother, George, had just died and Charlie had been a wreck for weeks upon weeks, blaming himself for George’s death because he’d been there to see it. I’d been there, too—walking home from sledding in Bathgate Woods Park with Charlie when George, who’d decided to sled down a small hill half a mile ahead of us, plunged into the street in front of a fast-moving sleigh. There was no way he could’ve saved him, but Charlie kept blaming himself until he was so gripped with grief that he couldn’t move, just sitting in his room, barely blinking and staring at the empty bed next to his own. Each day, when his mother finally made him get up, he’d come over to sit on the edge of my bed and cry—until the night I told him that George had always been easily bored and unless Charlie stopped weeping, George would grow tired of watching over him and would move on to someone else. I’d meant to make Charlie laugh, mostly because I’d watched him weep for weeks and couldn’t take his grief any longer. But the moment the words came from my mouth, I knew it had been the wrong thing to say. He’d yelled at me and threw my dressing chair across the room, shattering my window.
I couldn’t help but smile thinking of that fight now, though it had been one of the darkest moments we’d ever shared. I stepped closer to the mirror, inspecting my face and soul for any trace of the little girl I’d once been. I could barely remember her, though if I concentrated I could feel the unbridled freedom of chasing Charlie and Franklin around the house while performing a play I’d penned about Buffalo Bill, or running into the Harlem River with my siblings, Charlie close on my heels. In those days, I didn’t worry about my life, or what I’d make of myself. No, in those days my only thoughts were how long it would take for my body to warm to the cool water or if I was fast enough to catch the boys. I turned to the window, toward my notebook full of memories, determined to go back in time. My bones ached from sitting, but I sat down anyway and opened the cover.
The door flung open, smacking against the wall, and I turned to see Franklin glaring at me, lips pressed in irritation. I stared at him, blinking desperately in an attempt to clear the haze of the last few weeks. “You look terrible,” he said. One of his hands snatched the pale pink sleeve at my wrist as the other yanked the leather-bound notebook from my fingers. I lunged for it and he pushed me away. “Honestly, Gin. I’ve never known you to wallow in misery, and I’ve had enough. So has Mae. If Mother hadn’t been in the city for Alevia’s audition for the last week, she would’ve dragged you out of your room days ago, so I’m going to do it for her.”
My brows rose. “Is that so? I’m quite heavy.” I was amazed at how strong my voice sounded after days of neglect. “I’m fine, Frank. Truly. I’ve just been writing. And well, I might add.” I picked at my nails, noticing the dead circles of dry skin on my index finger. The blisters had popped up about the fourth day, but I’d simply gripped the pencil with my fingertips and continued.
“I don’t care. I’ll not have you wither away in seclusion like that Dickinson woman.” I laughed and he looked at me sharply. “It’s not funny, Gin. I’ve never in my life seen you so affected by anything. You’re a strong person. Talk to him and move past this. For my sake if not for anyone else’s. I’m tired of fending him off.” Franklin sighed and lifted his hand to rub his eyes. His fingers from nails to knuckles were streaked with black and blue paint.
“Who’ve you been painting?” I asked, walking over to my armoire. Though Franklin couldn’t afford to devote all of his time to painting, his portraits were incredible, somehow capturing not only a person’s likeness, but the character as well. He stretched his hands out in front of him and grinned.
“Oh. Just Mae. She’s the only one home save you. Bess has been in the city most days, measuring the society ladies for winter hats.” He yawned. “It’s been so tiresome watching Mae study all weekend. I don’t think I’ll ever understand why she’s so enthusiastic about teaching.”
“How can you not? It’s the same as you with your painting, me with my writing, Alevia with her
playing, Bess with her—”
“Yes, I see.” Franklin cut me off, eyeing the robe draped over my arm. “Thank god you’re taking a bath. You smell terrible.” I rolled my eyes and started down the hallway.
“So do you,” I called out. “Though in your case I don’t think you can help—”
“Virginia.” Charlie materialized from nowhere, grabbed my hand, yanked me into my mother’s room, and shut the door. The last word of my retort to Franklin caught in the back of my throat, choking me. I swallowed it away.
“How’d you get in here?” I asked evenly. Wedged in the narrow doorway, I could feel the heat of his body inches from mine and smell his light piney sweat beneath his jacket.
“Funny, Gin,” Franklin yelled, having no idea I’d been detained on my way to the bathroom. Charlie didn’t respond and I pushed past him, lunging for the door, but he seized my shoulders and pulled me back into the room, hands digging into my skin. I hadn’t looked at him yet, beyond a glance when he’d startled me, and didn’t now as I shoved against his chest, trying to free myself.
“I waited until Mae went back to the study and Frank went into your room,” he grunted, struggling against me.
“What do you want? Fra—” I started to scream for my brother, but Charlie’s hand clamped across my mouth and forced my face to his. I closed my eyes.
“Ginny, please,” he whispered. “Can’t you just look at me?” I swallowed hard, let the tension drop from my shoulders, and opened my eyes. His eyes were rimmed with black circles so dark they made the green seem luminous. The hair on his face was long, save a patch on the right side of his chin where he’d never been able to grow it. I must’ve winced, because he loosened his grip on my shoulders. He looked almost as awful as I knew I did. “That bad?” he said, and laughed under his breath. His fingers peeled back from my mouth, sliding slowly over my lips. I closed my eyes, letting my head drop onto his chest. His heart thumped wildly against my ear—a complete contrast to the hands slowly tangling in my hair and drifting up and down my back. I felt drowsy, as though I could fall asleep against him, but he shifted suddenly, smoothed my hair back, and kissed my forehead. As if his lips had broken some sort of spell, I jerked away from him. I couldn’t believe I’d let him touch me, that I’d forgotten his abandonment so quickly. I crossed the room to the rippled glass window, past the photo of my father as a young man wearing my grandfather’s Union army jacket on the dresser, knowing that if my father had been here he would’ve been furious with Charlie and demanded I stand my ground.
