Saturday, 29 April 1865 / Columbus, Ohio
“I don’t see it,” Gretchen said. She spun on her heel to join a waving Tante Klegg. Their grouping was the next to enter the statehouse.
Karl jogged to catch up. “Don’t see what? That’s my name. You can’t say you don’t see it; it just is.”
Gretchen’s mouth was a thin line.
Tante Klegg snatched Gretchen and Karl by their shoulders, whipping them around. She would hear nothing about Karl’s newfound memories. She refused to hear his name or how he took a photo with that stranger’s equipment but almost knocked it over. She pushed them forward so they would not lose their place.
“Aren’t you the least bit interested?” Gretchen said.
Tante Klegg glared at her. “We are not here to play detective, liebchen—”
“Stop calling me that.”
“We are here to pay our respects to our president,” Tante Klegg said. “Have you no shame?”
Tante Klegg was right. Gretchen needed to focus on mourning the president. She had left little time for mourning while trying to determine Karl’s identity. And here Karl had discovered his identity without her help. Gretchen huffed. Some detective nursemaid she was.
Karl was silent as they approached the statehouse’s west gate. An arch loomed overhead, inscribed with the words, “Ohio Mourns.” Above the black striped columns hung a banner with a quote from Mr. Lincoln’s last inaugural address: “With malice to no one. With charity for all.”
It was a misquote. Mr. Lincoln’s second inaugural speech had said, “With malice to none.” None. Gretchen closed her eyes and inhaled.
So many thoughts jumbled around. Karl fought to make heads or tails of them. Some memories felt so clear, like seeing that boy’s body, or watching his employer fall over dead. Others were hazy. He remembered the feel more than the look his mother gave him when he announced his intentions to become a war photographer. He would not fight for states that had never fought for them.
He was a Confederate photographer, but he was no more Confederate than Gretchen. With each step, he felt memories shuffle into place. His family had been farmers in Tennessee, but they were poor. They did not have slaves. They did not have money. His brother went to war to show that a poor farmer could shoot as well as a rich one.
A lot of good that did, since the Confederacy had lost. Those graybacks were not any good now.
“I don’t understand why you’re not more excited about Karl knowing he’s one of those picture men,” Gretchen said.
“Do you never stop and think, child?” Tante Klegg said from between clamped lips. “This is not the time or place to discuss Confederate sympathies.”
Karl frowned. “Ain’t no Confederate sympathies here. I took photos for my boss, that’s all.”
Gretchen gestured at him, glad he proved her point.
Tante Klegg ignored him. “He did not kill the president, but he could have killed others to avoid dying. Does he remember his family? Does he remember a girl?” Tante Klegg shook her head. “Headstrong, foolish, enthusiastic for no reason…”
Gretchen was ready to fight back, but the door opened. Black curtains covered every window of the statehouse so they could not peek inside. Above the door sat an inscription carved into wood: “God moves in a Mysterious Way.”
Soldiers ushered them inside.
Mourners shuffled with tiny steps. Hoop skirts ballooned against each other. Men struggled not to trip over the voluminous fabrics. Gretchen craned her neck again, trying to see the president’s casket. She could see the bier covered with piles and piles of lilacs. The casket crushed them; their sweet smell overpowered the room.
“Smart,” Tante Klegg said.
Karl and Gretchen looked at her, aghast. What could be smart about viewing a dead body?
“The lilacs,” she whispered, gesturing ahead of them. “They hide the smell of the president. They tried a new method, which they call ‘embalming,’ but it cannot be good yet. It is too new. He decays before our eyes.”
Gretchen put her hand over her mouth. This was not what she had imagined. She wanted to see a serene president, not a decaying one. It would be better to not smell anything than to smell lilacs and know they hid putridity. She began to shrink back, no longer sure she wanted to pay her last respects.
“I didn’t like him,” a woman whispered to her companion nearby, “but he didn’t deserve to go out like that.”
“What a blessing that the rains broke as the president arrived at the statehouse,” a woman replied. “It is sure to be ordained that this man has reached the heavenly gates.”
Tears gathered in Gretchen’s eyes. This was too much and not enough. Coming to Columbus and seeing the president in person was her life’s adventure. And now that Gretchen was steps away from Mr. Lincoln’s casket, she realized she did not want to do this at all. She wanted to go home, but she did not have a home. She wanted to hold her papa’s hand, but she did not have a papa. She wanted to breathe, but the flowers were choking her. Or her corset was choking her. Gretchen’s hair was pulled back and up high. She looked like a young woman rather than the girl she had been last week.
She could not breathe. She could not move.
Karl grabbed her hand and squeezed, hard. Gretchen made a strangled little noise that grabbed the attention of those around them.
Tante Klegg moved past them as if she had no idea who they were.
“Don’t know if it helps, but you can lean on me,” Karl whispered, not daring to look at her with his hand holding hers.
Gretchen nodded, grateful that he had distracted her panic.
Karl pulled her hand through his arm and patted it in place as he stepped forward. Gretchen hesitated, but feeling Karl’s gentle pull allowed her feet to fall in step with his. She could see the end of the bier where “LINCOLN” was written in large white letters.
White bunting draped the sides of the bier. A large rug buffered the echoing of everyone’s muddied boots across the rotunda’s marble floor. They could see the foot of the casket. A large floral arrangement sat above Mr. Lincoln’s stomach.
“We’re almost through,” Karl whispered.
Gretchen nodded, her mouth dry. They approached the head of the casket. She dreaded seeing Mr. Lincoln’s face. They shuffled forward to find the casket was not open at all. A large white cross lay on top of the casket in stark relief.
Tante Klegg waited for them outside the doors on the other side of the rotunda. “Satisfied?” she asked.
Now that she was away from the cloying lilacs, Gretchen released Karl’s arm. She squared her shoulders. “Not yet. We haven’t found Papa.”
Tante Klegg’s eyes narrowed. “Gregory Miller is not your father, my Alric was. It is the errand of a fool errand to search for him.”
“What’s the harm?” Karl asked. “We take a look at the lists, he’s either on them or he isn’t, and we go back to Werner’s farm.”
Gretchen stomped away from them. “It isn’t Werner’s farm, and I’m going to find my father.”
When Gretchen was out of earshot, Tante Klegg pushed Karl. “This is your opportunity.”
Karl watched Gretchen’s receding back and swaying skirts.
“Leave now or never leave her side. You must decide now,” Tante Klegg said.
Karl shrugged and loped after Gretchen.
“Interesting,” Tante Klegg mused.
Twenty-Eight
Saturday, 29 April 1865 / Columbus, Ohio
They did not speak as they returned to the farm. Gretchen was glad. What could they say? That viewing the president’s casket was anticlimactic? That seeing Gregory Miller on the killed-in-action list should have been a surprise? That they should have figured something in Columbus would trigger Karl’s memory?
Gretchen had a terrible ache in her side that would not fade. The corset had dug into her when she dashed back to the wagon after seeing her father’s name. She refused to let anyone see her tears. Without a
word, Karl had helped her into the wagon before Tante Klegg could admonish her for making a scene.
Gretchen did not know why Karl persisted in pretending to care about her. They did not need to pretend their engagement was real in as large a city as Columbus. No one knew them there, and Alina had made it clear she did not want to see them before her wedding photo. Gretchen was Karl’s nurse and a bad one at that, nothing more.
Gretchen alternated between clutching her pinched side and rubbing her forehead. She ignored the worried frown Karl kept throwing her way as Tante Klegg urged the horse home. She struggled to dampen the warm feeling of his hand holding hers in the statehouse rotunda. She hated that he had looked so gallant ripping up their copy of the killed-in-action list. She scowled.
It was annoying that Karl chose to return to the farm. If there were a time for him to escape Werner, Columbus had been it.
Karl was wasting his time worrying about Gretchen. He had his memories. He was not the president’s murderer. No one had tried to arrest him in Columbus. Gretchen was sure he knew he could go as he pleased. Yet he sat beside her. Every time the wagon bounced, their arms brushed. Gretchen’s cheeks felt hotter and hotter until she was sure she looked redder than a beet.
“Penny for your thoughts,” Karl said, nudging her.
“Won’t take less than a dollar,” Gretchen said.
Tante Klegg snorted. “Nothing in your head is worth such extravagance.”
“Can’t you be nice for once?” Karl said.
“Why?” Tante Klegg said. Her shoulders hunched, and she slapped the reins. The horse lurched forward with an alarmed whinny. “Her problem is that the world is not what she imagined it to be, and she is not the person she thought she was. We must all learn that. Why treat her as though that is special?”
Karl leaned back. “What if it is special for some of us? What’s wrong with that?”
Gretchen glared at him from beneath her bonnet brim. She did not need him to fight her battles. He winked at her. And blast it, she might have grinned.
Tante Klegg snorted again. “Yes, and you know because your memories returned. You know everything now. You have life experience and wisdom and friends and family again. Is there a special girl waiting for you? Have you remembered her?”
Karl rubbed the back of his neck. “Don’t think I have a home or a girl to go back to.”
Gretchen glanced at him, suspicious about his neutral tone.
“Pretty sure my parents gave me up to the soldiers so they could afford meat for my brother.”
“What?” Gretchen said, horrified.
Tante Klegg’s shoulders hunched higher.
“He, my brother, that is, got wounded. I never did find out the battle, wasn’t even in the house long enough to hug my ma. But she had sent word I had to come home. It was worrisome since both my parents had disowned me when I refused to fight. But family is family, ain’t that right, Ms. Klegg? And if they called me home it had to be for good reason, I thought.” His voice trailed, and he stared at the trees in the distance.
Gretchen bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself from demanding to know more. If he did not tell her the rest, she was going to push him out of the wagon and make him walk the rest of the way home.
“Anyway,” Karl sighed, rousing, “all I remember is the blue coats were in the door before I took my hat off. They said I was a spy. I wasn’t, but that didn’t stop no one.”
“So you won’t be leaving, then,” Gretchen said.
He grinned. “Reckon not. Unless they want to sell me to some other army.”
“Sell you?” Gretchen said, recoiling. “Like a slave?”
“You can be this flippant about never returning to your home?” Tante Klegg said.
“Not all departures are bad,” Karl said. “I hated being in that prison, but at least I knew where I stood with my family.”
Tante Klegg’s nostrils flared. “And what will you do now? Will you return to Southern slaveholding ways?”
Karl shuddered. “We didn’t own slaves; too poor. Anyway, been on the receiving end of having no control over my life for too long. Don’t know why I’d want control over someone’s life like that.”
“Because it gives you power,” Tante Klegg said.
Karl shook his head. “Not the type any sane person wants. Sooner or later, all slaves, all prisoners, revolt. All beings can sense they’re meant for something more than working and dying.”
Gretchen listened, unsure what to make of this. She knew all Confederates owned slaves because the papers said so. She knew all Confederates wanted to destroy the Union, and Booth came close to succeeding.
Yet, here sat Karl, gaining pieces of his memory every minute, saying he was never a slave owner. And he was never a soldier, but a war photographer. And he was not sent to prison for a war crime, but because his heartless family gave him up for the favorite sibling.
Gretchen could relate to that. “I can’t believe Pa’s dead,” she whispered. “Only, he was never my pa.”
Karl held open his hand in the small space between his leg and Gretchen’s skirts out of sight from Tante Klegg. Gretchen laid her hand in his after a small hesitation.
“I never had a father, I guess,” Gretchen said.
Tante Klegg’s posture hunched further, her expression turned thunderous.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Karl said. “He left you the revolver and taught you how to shoot and to protect the farm. Sounds like he took an interest. More than mine, anyhow. My pa always thought me weak and sickly, so he poured attention at my brother.” He frowned, concentrating. “Must have crushed Pa when… when… my brother returned without his legs.”
Gretchen shivered. Bad enough to lose an arm, but to lose a leg, or both? A farmer needed his legs. Might as well have stayed on the battlefield to die. “What is his name?”
Karl turned. “What do you mean?”
“You keep calling him ‘your brother.’ He had a name, you have a name.” Gretchen shrugged, tilting her head up to peer at him from under her bonnet. “What is his name?”
“Well, I’m… Elias…” Karl said. His expression slipped into a panic as he began to stutter. “H-h-h-his… his n-n-n—n-n-n…” He clapped his hand over his mouth.
“I’m sorry. You don’t have to answer,” Gretchen said, eyes wide.
Karl shook his head. He closed his eyes and inhaled. “His name was A-a-a-ambrose.” His voice trailed off as Tante Klegg pulled into the farmyard.
“Ambrose and Elias. Those are fine names,” Gretchen said.
Karl’s smile was wan. “Looks like Alina and Werner are back,” he said. The pastor’s buggy was waiting outside the house. He hopped from the wagon and helped Tante Klegg down. She set to removing the horse tack, otherwise ignoring Karl.
Gretchen moved to hop from the wagon like Karl, but stopped short when the corset bit her side.
Karl held out his hands.
Rolling her eyes, Gretchen allowed him to take her waist and lift her off the wagon. She pulled away as soon as her toes touched the ground, but not before realizing how easy it would be to tip her chin up and kiss his cheek.
“Don’t get any stupid ideas,” she said, warning herself as much as Karl. “I’m dressed like a lady, but I can still shoot an apple off your head.”
“Stupid’s my middle name,” Karl said, shoving his hands in his pockets as he followed Gretchen.
Gretchen shook her head. “How you can joke at a time like this…”
“Time like what? I ain’t killed anyone. Even in the war I wasn’t a soldier. I’m not your enemy. Never was. And since you nursed me back to health, gave me the opportunity to know myself, don’t see how I ever will be.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Gretchen said. “Everyone else has taken their turn.”
Twenty-Nine
Saturday, 29 April 1865 / Columbus, Ohio
Werner sat at the table, allowing Alina to feed him dinner as if he were a child. He held the revolver i
n his lap and watched them suspiciously. Before the war, Gretchen would have taunted him for being paranoid. Before the war, Werner would not have pointed a weapon at her. Before the war, he had both of his hands. Before the war, they had a father.
Werner wore a uniform given by one of the families in town who had lost their son. Gretchen saw dark circles under Alina and Adelaide’s eyes. They must have spent the night polishing the brass buttons and brushing the navy wool.
Gretchen stared at her cousin. She saw the cocky boy who had left and the disfigured man who had returned without a kind word for anyone.
Tante Klegg lifted the still steaming coffee pot from the table. She handed it to Gretchen, who poured three deep saucers for herself, Tante Klegg, and Karl. It was a family tradition to pour their coffee into saucers so the liquid cooled by the time they brought it to their lips. Gretchen wondered if this would be her last time enjoying coffee with her family.
“Why, Gretchen,” Alina exclaimed. She dropped her fork. “You look so…adult!”
“Well, I guess I should, since I am one,” Gretchen said. She lifted her saucer and blew across it.
Karl followed her lead before gulping the coffee down. They had not eaten since morning, and it was past sunset. He eyed the loaf of bread at the table, but did not move when Werner shifted the aim of the revolver in his direction.
“That is an odd thing to say,” Alina said, looking around the room. “What does she mean?”
“Not only am I not Werner’s sister,” Gretchen said. She crossed her arms over her stomach. “I’m older than him, and Tante—er, Mama Klegg—decided I should dress my true age.”
Alina stared at Gretchen, dumbstruck.
“Are you planning on using that?” Gretchen said, gesturing at the revolver in Werner’s hand.
“Maybe,” Werner said, not taking his eyes from Karl. “I don’t like the look of this one.”
Gretchen held her saucer with both hands and sipped. “Has anyone told you what a terrible host you are?”
Tante Klegg glared at Gretchen. “How was your portrait session? Did you have time to see the president?” she asked Alina.
The Last April Page 15
