by Mysti Parker
Eyes squeezed tight against the memory, he spoke over his shoulder to Portia. “Take Jonny back to the house. I’ll take care of the horses.”
Jonny ran in and hugged Jack’s neck. He buried his head in the pony’s mane and bawled, shoulders jumping with each sob.
Beau stepped out of the stall and gestured for Portia to follow. They walked just outside the barn. Wind whipped some loose strands of hair over her face. She brushed it back but never took her eyes off his.
“You’ve got to take him back inside,” he said.
“He knows what you’re going to do. Comfort him, Beau. Explain it to him.”
“I can’t,” he said through clenched teeth. “I can’t let him watch me... just take him to the house.”
“Stop underestimating him. He understands life and death, but what he doesn’t understand is why his father won’t talk to him, why you won’t tell him you love him, and that you’re proud of him.”
Beau closed his eyes and scrubbed a hand over his face. “What do you want me to say, Po? That every time I look at him, I think about the day I came home, and it tears me up inside? That I’m marrying his mama’s spoiled cousin because I’m too damned broke to do anything else?”
“Yes,” she said, her voice rising and fists clenched at her sides. “Yes, all that, and tell him you won’t send him away.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Jonny heard Lydia and her mother talking about sending him to military school.”
“He told you this?”
“Yes, he’s been talking to me for some time now.”
Deep down he knew all along, but the truth hurt more than he thought it would. His son was talking to a woman he’d only known a short while but not to his own father, who’d held him seconds after he was born.
“I suppose I should be grateful to you, then, but that’s ridiculous. He’s not going to military school. It’s not part of the deal,” Beau said.
“Really? What better way to ensure she’s got you all to herself?” Her voice broke, though her chest heaved in an effort to stay calm. “I’ll leave willingly, right now if you want me to, but promise me you won’t let them send him away. He needs you, Beau, now more than ever. Please promise me that.”
The gunshot startled them both. Beau ran into the barn and to the open stall, Portia on his heels. Jonny stood over Jack’s body, which lay still and quiet on the hay. He cried so hard the gun quaked in his arms.
Beau reached out carefully, snatched the gun, and tossed it into the corner. He engulfed Jonny in his arms. He held his little boy, the only thing he had left of Claire, and cried with him for the first time since she died.
He cradled Jonny’s head against his chest. The dam of emotions separating them crumbled, and all the things he’d wanted to tell him for so long came spilling out. “You’re not going anywhere, you hear me? This is where you belong, right here with me. I love you, son. I love you more than anything in this world.”
Jonny whispered through his tears, “I love you, too, Pa. I’m sorry I shot Jack.”
Beau took Jonny’s arms and held him out far enough so he could see his face. He spoke to me. Jonny finally spoke to me. His voice was the most precious music Beau had ever heard.
Smiling through his tears, Beau hugged Jonny close once more. “You did what had to be done. I’m so proud of you, and I’m sorry for ever leaving you in the first place. I’m sorry I haven’t been the daddy you deserve. Will you forgive me?”
Jonny nodded against his chest. “I forgive you, and I’m proud of you, too.”
Beau dried both their tears with his shirt sleeve and helped Jonny to his feet. He looked up, but Portia was gone, hopefully not for good. He thanked God for letting her walk into their lives, if only for a little while. He prayed that somehow he could find a way to let her stay before it was too late.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Portia opened the front door, sorrowful that her day with Jonny had to end so soon, but at least she had witnessed a reuniting of father and son. She could leave right now with her broken heart and feel good about that one thing.
She stepped inside to see a bearded man rising from where he sat at the bottom of the stairs. His clothes were baggy, cheeks sunken in, like those poor soldiers who once sought her help. Startled, she backed toward the door, but he smiled… and he looked just like Mama.
Just like Mama!
Portia clapped a hand over her mouth and cautiously approached him. She reached out with one hand to touch those loose brown curls she used to caress to get him to sleep at night during thunderstorms.
He brought her hand to his lips, and kissed her palm. “Po, my God, you’re a woman now!”
“Samuel, is it really you?”
“In the flesh.” He’d picked up a lazy sort of accent that was difficult to interpret.
“How did you find me?”
“I came back home, and you weren’t there. Wasn’t nobody there. I saw the graves and I feared something had happened to you. I hurried to Frank and Ellen’s place and they told me what happened and where you were.”
“Is that right?” She yanked her hand away and slapped him with it.
Eyes wide, he took a step back. “What was that for?”
“For making me think you were dead all these years. No letters, no visits, nothing. Mama and Daddy…”
“I know,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry, Po. I did write that one letter.”
She raised her hand to slap him again.
He captured her hands in his before she could give him the beating he deserved. “The woman I wrote about in the letter — the Creole woman. Her name was Vivienne, and I married her. When the war started, I joined up with Pemberton’s forces in Louisiana and fought at Vicksburg. The Yanks captured me, and I sat in prison for months.”
He wasn’t lying. He had never looked her in the eye when he lied, like he did now, brown eyes as serious and sad as they had been when the two of them used to hide from Daddy in the cornfields.
“And your… Vivienne?” It was hard to imagine her little brother with a wife.
“Dead. Buried. Long before I could return to her. So, I started back home. I had to work along the way to keep myself fed, else I’d have been back sooner. I’m sorry, Po. Can you find it in your heart to forgive me?”
She stood there looking at him for a moment, at that manly, hairy face. Her little prodigal brother, the only blood kin she had left in this world, had returned.
Throwing her arms around him, she cried happy tears for a change. “I’ve missed you so much! Don’t you ever leave me again.”
Laughing, he lifted her off the floor and spun her around. “Just you try to get rid of me, sis. I’ll be like a wart on your toe.”
Dinner time felt surreal, like a bizarre dream. There was Beau at the head of the table — the man she loved dearly but couldn’t have. To his right sat his father Ezra, a man who’d been a better father to her in the short time she’d been here than her own daddy had ever been. To Beau’s left was Jonny, whom she loved like her own child. He had scooted his chair as close to his pa as he could, and the two of them whispered and conspired with one another like she imagined they had done before the war. Harry, a man who made her feel uneasy and guilty at the same time, sat across the table from her.
And there was Samuel, whom she thought had been dead all these years, sitting beside her, solid and real, and very much alive.
Samuel’s appearance fascinated everyone, even Beau, who set his usual scowl on him. Ezra asked about the battle of Vicksburg, and Samuel went into great detail about it — the destruction, the siege, and near starvation. Portia took her brother’s hand as he spoke, moved to tears by his account. She’d always be his big sister, would always want to comfort him, even if she couldn’t take away his pain.
Harry held a piece of cornbread, crumbling it into little pieces. His half-angry, half-wounded gaze fell on Portia, but he addressed her brother. “So, Samuel, what’
s New Orleans like?”
“I think I can answer that…” Samuel finished up his third piece of chicken, licked his fingers, and peeked under the table. “Bet you a nickel I can tell you where you got them shoes you’re wearin’.” He slid a nickel — which mysteriously appeared in his hand — across the table toward Harry.
Harry glanced down at his feet, looking confused at first, but then he dug inside his vest pocket. Slapping a nickel on the table, he said, “I’m in.”
“On your feet,” Samuel declared with a victorious grin. “You got ‘em on your feet, that’s where.” He snatched up both nickels and laughed. “That’s what New Orleans is like, my friend. You gotta be clever if you want to get a leg up down there.”
“I think I’m gonna like you,” Harry said and stuffed what was left of his cornbread in his mouth.
After dinner, Portia and Samuel walked arm-in-arm down the wagon path that wound along the back fields. The setting sun painted a lovely orange and red sky on the horizon. Fireflies woke up, greeting each other with green twinkling lights as they rose from the tender new blades of hay and corn.
“Tell me just this one thing,” Portia said. “Why did you leave us?”
“I often ask myself that same question. At the time, I thought maybe Daddy would calm down if I wasn’t there. Every time he drank, I was the first one to feel his belt across my back. I thought maybe if I was gone, you and Mama would be better off.”
“You were wrong.”
He stopped walking and asked quietly, “How bad was it, Po?”
Portia couldn’t look at him. A tight knot lodged itself in her throat. “It was bad, Sam. He…” She couldn’t finish.
Samuel drew her against his chest and held her tight. “I’m sorry. I was still a boy back then and didn’t have the mind to think things through. But I shouldn’t have left, not without you. What about Mama? Did he hurt her bad, too?”
Portia pulled away and resumed their walk, brushing the tears off her cheeks. The memories were hard to put to words, but he needed to know what they’d lived through. “Mama took the most of it. I got strong enough to fight back and busted a whiskey bottle across his face one night. He didn’t dare touch me after that. I stayed to protect her, though. She begged me to marry Jake and get out of there, not that she had to beg, mind you. I’d loved him my whole life.”
“I miss that boy. He could shoot a squirrel dead in the eye every time we hunted.” His voice grew somber. “Tell me about Abigail.”
“She reminded me of you, with those curls and her independent spirit.” It felt strange to smile while she talked about Abby. She never thought the day would come. “She was always climbing, dancing, being as silly as she could to get a laugh out of us. I wish you could have seen her.”
“I wish I could have, too. The last letter I got from you was about the fire.”
“Jake and I hadn’t been married very long. I’ll never know for sure, but I think Mama did it. She waited until I got out of the house so she could end it once and for all.”
“I shoulda come back. I shoulda been here. For you.”
“All that matters now is that you’re home and safe.”
“I’ll look after you from now on, Po, like a brother should.”
She rested her head on his arm, and he wept as they walked, not bothering to wipe the tears away. They turned around after a little while, and he pulled a French harp from his pocket. The melancholy notes of Au Claire de la Lune followed them until they reached their temporary home.
~~~~
Beau couldn’t sleep, not that he’d planned on it. He sat on the edge of his bed, thinking about Portia. She occupied most of his thoughts these days, no matter how hard he tried to redirect his mind. Her brother’s miraculous return troubled him — not that he wasn’t happy for her, but it made her imminent departure more real. Samuel would probably take her back to Brentwood and take care of her until she found someone else to marry.
Someone else.
Damp-smelling wind whistled through the trees and his window, bringing with it the promise of rain and sending a hot shiver down his spine. The mere thought of Po with another man and how that man would know her as intimately as Beau longed to know her… it tore at him, complicated things more than ever. He got to his feet, strode to his window, and slammed it shut. Standing there with his hands on the sill, he looked over his shoulder when his door creaked open.
“Pa?” Jonny poked his head inside. “I can’t sleep.”
Beau turned to him and couldn’t help a smile. “You either, huh? Want me to read to you?”
“Can I… sleep in here with you?” He held his pillow under one arm, ducking his head as though embarrassed to ask such a thing.
“Sure.”
Beau turned down the covers, and Jonny climbed in, settling down on what once was Claire’s side of the bed. Beau lay down beside him, covered them both, and kissed Jonny’s forehead.
“Goodnight, son.”
“Pa?”
“Yes?”
“Would you think I was a baby if we slept back to back? Mama and me used to sleep like that sometimes.”
“You’re not a baby, and I don’t mind.”
Beau flipped to his left side and scooted to the middle of the bed, while Jonny did the same on the other side until their backs settled against one another.
“Thanks, Pa.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Pa?”
“Yes?”
“Do you think Jack’s in Heaven?”
“I don’t know, son, but if God lets animals in, I think Jack would be there.”
“Do you think Mama’s in Heaven?”
Beau lay silent for a moment, fearing the knot in his throat would betray his voice. He needed to be strong for Jonny, had to be strong for him. His son had been too long without him being there, really there like a pa should be.
Finally, he answered, “I have no doubt she’s there. Your mama was the kindest, most loving woman in the world.”
“Do you love Lydia?”
Jonny’s questions were harder to face than being on the front lines of a cavalry. But he had to try. His son deserved to know these things. “No.”
“Then why are you marrying her?”
“Because I made a promise so Tipp, Lucy, and your friend Sallie Mae can be free.”
“What about Po? Will she have to go away?”
Damn, this is hard. Heaviness settled in his chest, squeezing the air from his lungs, and dampening his eyes. “I don’t know yet, but yes, she probably will.”
“I wish you could marry Po instead.”
“So do I, son. So do I.”
Beau didn’t know if it was a good idea to admit that much. But there in the darkness of his room, just father and son, it felt good to express some of what he felt for the little woman with nothing to her name who’d walked into their lives and brought him and Jonny back together.
Jonny yawned, wriggled around a bit, and fell asleep. It didn’t take Beau long to follow, with his son’s small, warm body nestled against him. His thoughts painted pictures of him, Portia, and Jonny, all together, relaxing on the banks of Barton Creek. They rode through the tall, majestic cedars before gazing in awe at a small bundle of joy wrapped in a warm blanket.
He smiled as he drifted into the best sleep he’d had in a long time.
Chapter Twenty-Six
May 16,1866
Dear Ellen,
Wedding preparations are causing a ruckus in the household. Miss Clemons and her mother have been coming every day for one thing or another. First, to discuss new décor that ‘signifies our new beginning’ she said. Yesterday, they arrived with a seamstress to be fitted for her wedding gown. Of course, they had all the measurements done right there in the entry hall for everyone to see. They’ve set the date for June 2. The children and I have taken refuge outside for our studies. Thankfully, the weather is pleasant enough.
Sallie Mae is still coming for lessons. Isaa
c fetches her each morning. I wish she and Lucy hadn’t returned to Mr. Clemons so soon, but he insisted. Bessie told me Mr. Stanford is going there every night to make certain Lucy has no new bruises. I hope for her sake that Mr. Clemons will be merciful. I admire Beau for caring so much about her wellbeing.
Samuel (and oh, I am so glad he is here!) joined the men in cutting down trees from a wooded portion of the property. He has befriended the owner of the local sawmill and has negotiated use of the mill to process the lumber for Mr. Stanford. He says he is ‘happy as a clam at high tide’ to be working in exchange for his food and board. He also says he will ask about more work so he can get a little money saved. Then he and I can return to Brentwood and start over. Last night, however, he was out late with Harry and didn’t come home until after I had retired. He whispered, “Night, Po,” through my door, and he sounded as if he had been drinking. I hope he will not make this a habit…
The very same day, a letter arrived from Ellen. She’d had her baby. By now he would be a week old. Portia’s eyes welled with bittersweet tears as she read.
We named him Jake. I hope you don’t mind. His head is covered in red-blond fuzz, the same color as his uncle’s hair. He’s a hungry little thing and eats round the clock, but he’s got rosy cheeks and is getting plumper every day. I’m thankful Mama’s here to help. Even Louise is doing what she can, though she can barely handle a broom. She’s getting good at changing diapers. I hope you will come visit soon, Po. We miss you something awful…
Nothing could dampen Portia’s joy over the news. She would plan a visit soon, her and Samuel. For the first time since she’d arrived in Lebanon, she wanted to go back home, just to see those familiar faces and hear their voices, to kiss the sweet little one that bore her husband’s name.
On Thursday morning, during breakfast, Beau tossed his napkin on his plate. He stood up, brushed his hands together, and announced, “Jonny, get the fishing poles. I feel like trout for dinner!”
“Sure, Pa, I’ll go right now!” Jonny smiled from ear to ear and tripped over his own two feet. He couldn’t get out the door fast enough.
