Of Ashes and Dust

by Marc Graham

  “Yes, madam.”

  The man didn’t bother disguising his contempt as he looked up and down Dave and me, then to the growing puddle on the floor. He grimaced as we shrugged out of our soaked coats and more water dribbled from our hats.

  “And please bring my father to join us in the parlor,” Gina added.

  “Yes, madam,” he said, then disappeared through an adjacent doorway.

  “Chatty fella,” Dave observed.

  We set down our bags and followed Gina through a set of sliding doors into a brightly lit salon whose fireplace glowed with a welcome blaze. An older woman sat by the fire, white hair covered with a black shawl that matched a plain black dress. For a moment, I thought it must be Gina’s grandmother. When the woman looked up at us, I recognized Missus Barnes, aged twenty years in the four since I’d last seen her.

  “Mother,” Gina said, “look who’s come. It’s Jim.”

  The older woman raised a trembling hand to her mouth. Wide eyes shifted from Gina to me and Dave and back again.

  “My land,” she finally managed to say, then rose shakily to her feet and stepped toward us, her face twisted with emotion. “Come here, child.”

  She opened her arms to me with more warmth than I could ever remember from her. I limped forward and wrapped my free arm gently about her.

  “My land,” she said again. She held me firmly for a moment before patting the damp back of my shirt and releasing me. “But where are my manners? You must be bone-weary. Here, do sit down.”

  “Yes, ma’am, thank you,” I said as she steered me to a chair beside the fire. I fell into the thick cushions, stretched out my stiffening knee and rubbed my hands over the fire. “Please forgive me—this is my friend Dave Perkins.”

  “Pleased to know you, Mister Perkins.”

  “Likewise. Thank you for having us in. It’s a mite nasty out,” he observed as he shook the woman’s hand, then took a seat on the other side of the fireplace.

  An ornate divan lay next to my chair, and Missus Barnes sat at the end nearest me. Gina sat quietly on the other side of her mother and alternately wadded then smoothed the fabric of her dress.

  “I must say, it’s quite a surprise to see you,” Missus Barnes allowed, “but a pleasant one, indeed.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” I said. “I’m sorry for not sending word ahead. I wanted to surprise you, but I hope it’s not an inconvenience.”

  “Don’t be silly. After all, you’re practically family—you were always like a brother to Angelina and Matty.”

  Her eyes took on a pained look as she said the name. Her son had been lost for more than three years, but the wound to her heart seemed still fresh.

  I shot a questioning glance at Gina on being equated as a brother to her. Her eyes were fixed on her hands, now white-knuckled as she bunched up the material of her skirts. The hiss and pop of the fire was the only sound as a queer silence fell across the conversation, until the doors rumbled open and Avery appeared with Mister Barnes.

  My heart sank. I struggled to my feet as Avery wheeled Mister Barnes into the room. The butler placed the rolling chair next to Gina, who tucked a blanket snugly about her father’s legs and smoothed his hair.

  Barnes was only a shadow of the man I remembered. The farmer’s powerful, meaty hands—hands that had worked his own fields and provided for his family—now rested limply atop the blanket, his right hand bent and gnarled. The familiar shock of reddish-brown hair was replaced by a sparse patch of white atop a head that lolled to one side. His formerly penetrating eyes were now dull and unfocused. A narrow rivulet of white crust stretched from one corner of his mouth to his chin. Gina moistened a handkerchief and daubed gently to clean his face.

  “Daddy,” she said softly, and Barnes’s eyes wandered in her direction. “Daddy, look who’s here. It’s Jim.”

  The man’s eyebrows twitched at that. His head bobbed in short jerks as he scanned the room with lazy eyes. I stepped around the coffee table and knelt in front of him to ease his search. His right eye refused to hold steady, but his left eye locked onto mine and glistened in recognition. His lips parted as though he were trying to speak, but all that came out was a wheezing moan accompanied by a trickle of saliva, which Gina dabbed away.

  “Mister Barnes, sir,” I said, and tentatively laid my hands on his. “It’s good to see you.”

  “Avery, fetch another chair, if you would,” Gina said as I winced with the pain of kneeling.

  The man stepped wordlessly from the room and returned a few moments later with a hard, straight-backed chair that he placed next to Mister Barnes.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  Avery ignored me and turned to Gina.

  “I’ll bring the tea along shortly, madam.”

  “When did this happen?” I asked after Avery closed the doors again.

  “Just after you boys left for the war,” Missus Barnes answered with a sigh that registered more resignation than sadness. “About a month after you were gone, the raiders came again. They burned the fields and what was left of the barns. Only the house was spared. I’m afraid the loss was more than Benjamin could bear.”

  “Doc Aubry said there was nothing he could do for Daddy in Britton.” Gina took up the telling. “So we moved up here.” She glanced quickly to her mother, and the two women shared a moment of silent understanding.

  “So that’s when Matt joined the Missouri boys?” I said. “I never did see much of him after that, not till Elkhorn Tavern. And when you never wrote,” I added to Gina, “I thought—well, I’m not sure what I thought.”

  A pained look crossed her face, while Missus Barnes went suddenly guarded. Mister Barnes just looked slackly at me, his good eye glinting with reflected firelight.

  “I wrote,” Gina finally managed to say. “Hundreds of letters. You never got them.”

  “No,” I answered, unsure whether there’d been a question.

  “Army probably wanted to make sure you weren’t passing secrets to the enemy,” Dave chimed in helpfully.

  “That must be it,” Missus Barnes agreed while Gina resumed the gloomy study of her knuckles.

  It suddenly felt like there was some great secret hidden in the room and I was the only one kept out of it. An awkward silence again fell over us, broken only by the fire sounds, Mister Barnes’s labored breathing and the grim ticking of the mantel clock.

  “Jim,” Dave said after several moments, “what’s the time?”

  The clock was right over his head, and it took me a bit to fathom his meaning.

  “Oh, right,” I finally said.

  I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out a gleaming, gold pocket watch. Both women gasped as the watch spun on the end of its chain, reflecting firelight in a rippling pattern on the papered walls of the salon. Mister Barnes’s eye twitched and fixed on the heirloom and his crippled right hand jerked slightly as he tried to reach for the watch.

  “When it wasn’t with Matty’s effects, we thought it was lost,” Gina said as she reached out a trembling hand.

  I lowered the watch into her hand, coiling the golden links atop the closed lid. As I placed the fob in her hand, Gina closed her hand lightly and caught my fingers in her grip. I was electrified by her touch and sat motionless, unable and unwilling to break even that slight connection. Missus Barnes broke the spell by clearing her throat, and Gina pulled back her hand, then gave the watch to her father.

  “Matt made me promise to bring it home to you myself,” I explained.

  “You saw him?” Missus Barnes asked, her eyes shimmering in the firelight.

  “Yes, ma’am. I was with him when he—when he passed over.” I explained about the flanking Union troops, Champion’s charge and the sharpshooter’s aim. “He didn’t suffer,” I lied. “I held him, and talked to him until he fell asleep.”

  “Did he say anything?” Missus Barnes asked, her handkerchief held to her mouth with a trembling hand.

  “Just that he was sorry,” I recall
ed. “That, and to bring the watch home.” I didn’t mention the part about following my dream, who was sitting right across from me.

  “And he nearly botched that job,” Dave interjected as Missus Barnes retreated behind her handkerchief and sobbed softly.

  “True enough,” I allowed, glad for the change of topic. “I’d have probably lost it if Dave hadn’t been around to keep an eye out for me.”

  “Oh?” Gina said.

  “Well,” Dave said, “I don’t suppose it was all that much.”

  “Oh, come on now,” I needled him, “there’s no need for modesty here.”

  He shot me a wry glare, then took a deep breath and embarked on an engrossing—if not entirely accurate—account of our meeting. Avery’s arrival with tea and cookies gave me a chance to interrupt and correct some of the fabrications. The ladies seemed to prefer the unedited version, particularly when the story benefited at the expense of my dignity. Even Mister Barnes’s eyes seemed to sparkle with amusement.

  “And that,” Dave offered in conclusion—

  “Is how he single-handedly put down the rebellion and saved the Union,” I finished for him, raising my teacup in salute.

  “Something like that,” he said with a grin, and took a sip of his tea.

  “Well, thank you for that riveting tale, Mister Perkins,” Missus Barnes said, and wiped at the tears of laughter that mingled with the earlier ones of sorrow.

  “Yes, thank you,” Gina added. “For that, and for bringing our Jim safe home to us.” She raised her cup and took a slow sip, fixing me with a look of unsettling mixed emotion.

  The parlor door slid open and I looked up over my shoulder, expecting to see Avery’s scowl. The doorway was empty, though—or appeared to be until I lowered my eyes to where a sandy-haired angel stood shivering in her nightdress. She rubbed at sleepy eyes with one tiny fist while the other clutched a bright-colored rag doll.

  Gina glanced at me with a pained expression, then hurried to the door.

  “What are you doing up?” she asked as she scooped the girl up and brought her to the divan.

  “I heard Grandmama laughing,” the child said in a little voice, then eyed the coffee table. “And I smelled Avery’s cookies.”

  “You may have half an oatmeal, then it’s back to bed with you.” Gina broke one of the soft, brown cookies in half and handed it to the child, who eagerly accepted the treat. “Ginny, can you say hello to our guests? This is Mister Perkins,” she indicated Dave, and the girl looked shyly at Dave under long eyelashes.

  “Pleased to meet you, miss,” Dave replied with friendly formality, and Ginny hid her eyes behind the half cookie.

  “And this is your—” Gina’s hand trembled as she indicated me. Her eyes took on a tortured expression. “This is your mommy’s good friend, Mister Robbins.”

  The girl took a bite of cookie and stared at me through wide, hazel eyes.

  “Are you hurt?” she asked me between chews.

  I nodded even before I realized she was pointing at my crutch, for the hurt was now centered a few feet above my wrecked knee.

  “In the war?” she said.

  She couldn’t have seen four years yet, and it seemed tragic that this innocent should know anything of war. I nodded again and managed a hoarse, “Yes.”

  “My Uncle Matty was hurt in the war, too,” she added. “He’s in heaven now.”

  “Yes, he is,” I agreed.

  I stared into the flames that did nothing to thaw the ice that formed about my heart. When I found the strength to move, it was to grab my crutch and pull myself to my feet.

  “It was good to see you all,” I said as Dave rose and moved to my side. “I’m glad Matt’s watch is where it belongs, and I—”

  I scanned the eyes in the room, but Gina’s and her mother’s were turned away, with only Mister Barnes’s good eye and Ginny’s wide pair meeting mine.

  “Good night.” I swallowed hard and turned for the door.

  Avery was waiting in the foyer with our coats. I was too eager to escape to mind his scornful, victorious glare, or to mind that the coat was as cold and wet as I’d left it.

  “Jim,” I heard Gina say behind me, but I couldn’t turn to face her. “Jim, please, I—”

  “Thank you for the tea,” I said, summoning all my strength to keep my voice even.

  I pulled the wet coat around me. The ice in my heart flowed through my veins to chill and settle my emotions. I stooped to pick up my bag and turned.

  “Good night, Missus . . . ?”

  Gina shook her head slowly, painfully, and said, “Jim, please, don’t.”

  I cocked my head and repeated, “Missus . . . ?”

  Gina took a shuddering breath and hugged her arms around herself. A pleading gaze held my eyes for a moment, then turned down, away from my cold stare.

  “Braddock,” she finally admitted.

  I snorted in grim understanding as I recalled the pompous captain from Fort Smith.

  “Good night, then, Missus Braddock,” I said, and stepped into the frigid night’s welcoming rain.

  The following weeks and months passed sluggishly, as though Time itself were caught in the same frozen grip as my heart. Dave and I took rooms at the Lindell Hotel, and I found a clerking job in the county recorder’s office while Dave was hired on at a meat-packing plant. The jobs were anything but interesting, but kept us sheltered and clothed and fed. For me, life had boiled down to just that, only the essentials.

  After the first night in Saint Louis, I’d avoided any contact with Gina. I ignored the invitations to dinner—much to Dave’s annoyance—and by the time summer rolled around, the offers had all but stopped coming.

  “Are you planning to avoid her forever?” Dave asked at one point, as we sat in Missouri Park and I stared blankly at the falling autumn leaves.

  “I don’t know,” I admitted with a sigh. And I didn’t.

  The answer came, though, on a warm January afternoon, the first thaw of winter. I returned from the map room to my cubbyhole of an office and was surprised to find a visitor seated at my desk.

  “Take me to lunch?” Gina asked innocently.

  The diffuse light from the single, small window lit her features and melted my heart like the snow that dripped from the ledge outside.

  “Sure,” I stammered.

  I fumbled to set the maps on the crowded desk before reaching for my coat and cap and cane.

  “You need a new hat,” she observed as I flipped the worn, red kepi on my head.

  “It serves well enough.”

  I wrapped my hand tightly about the cane and stuffed the other in my coat pocket as I led the way up the flight of stairs to the main level and out the heavy doors of the courthouse. I flinched as we started down the wide marble steps and Gina wrapped her arm through mine, pulling herself close to me as we walked.

  I gave an ironic snort and shook my head.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “You don’t get off that easily.”

  “We’ve never been out in public together before,” I said. “Somehow I didn’t imagine our first time out to be with you as someone else’s wife. Hell, I never thought you’d be someone else’s wife, period.”

  She let go of my arm. Her eyes lost their sparkle, and she kept silent for the rest of the walk. I led her a few blocks up Fourth Street, to a little café where I often had lunch.

  “It’s probably not up to your standards,” I said as I pulled the door open, “but the food’s warm and filling.”

  “I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Gina said.

  We’d beaten the lunch crowd and had our choice of seats. Rather than my usual place at the counter, I steered Gina to a little table in the corner, away from the draft of the door. We sat in awkward silence until the waitress came for our order. Once those simple words were spoken, the rest came more easily.

  “We missed you for Christmas,” Gina began.

  “I know. I me
ant to thank you for the invitation, but I was—”

  “Busy, I know,” she finished the lie. “Just like you were busy at Thanksgiving and Independence Day and every other time. May I ask with what, exactly?”

  I’d practiced a dozen excuses, but these evaporated in that instant, leaving me with only silence or the truth for an answer. Truth won.

  “Trying to breathe,” I said. “Trying to keep my heart beating.”

  A moist sheen came over her eyes at the blunt honesty, and she looked at the checkered linen tablecloth, where she traced a random pattern across the red and white squares.

  “I never meant to hurt you, Jim,” she said. “And I didn’t mean for you to find out the way you did.”

  “The best laid schemes . . .”

  “That’s not funny,” she rasped, and shot an icy glare across the table.

  “Neither is finding the woman I love married to another man, and with his child.” I struggled to keep my voice under control so as not to disturb the few other diners. “Did you wait at all, or did you go to him as soon as I left your bed?”

  “It’s not how you think,” she whispered, and a tear rolled down her cheek.

  “Well, that’s my mistake then,” I said. “I thought you’d simply thrown away our six years together, forgotten all our promises and passed over your poor surveyor because you were really in love with some rich cockerel. Clearly I must be wrong.”

  “I never said I was in love with him,” she retorted, her eyes ablaze with pain and anger.

  I sat open-mouthed, unable to form a response. The waitress returned and set our food on the table before making a hasty retreat.

  “Then why?” I absently picked up my spoon and stirred my soup until I realized I had no appetite.

  “What else could I do?” she asked plaintively. “I was alone and Daddy was sick. We needed someone to take care of us.”

  “I would have done that,” I said.

  “You left,” she said, and the simple accusation slashed through my heart.

  “I left to protect our home,” I said. “To protect you.”

  “The best laid schemes . . .”

  Gina threw the words back in my face, and it was my turn to study the tablecloth. She reached across the table and laid a soft hand on mine, and I looked up into sparkling eyes.