She hadn’t heard that sound since they’d last been at a battlefield as a family. Oliver whistled his birdsong only then. It had been missing, and as it sounded in front of her, a little spot was filled in the great chasm of loss that was her husband.
“Oliver.” She breathed as he trotted farther away. “Oliver, wait.”
Then Ginger felt the ground tremble beneath her feet and she gazed down at the grass there. It turned a purple color as if the sun were just rising or just setting—as if she were standing in the violet hour. Oliver’s bird sounded in the distance and when she gazed up to call her son once more, she saw men—thousands of them swarming around her and to the horizon. They raced the edge of the field, the hill with mountain trees behind them aflame in the red-gold and orange leaves of autumn. Smoke and dust and pops of fire broke through the violet light. The ground shuddered again as man and horse, wide-eyed and openmouthed in the exploding earth, spun around her from southeast to northwest in a great torrent of blue and butternut and blood.
She covered her mouth, horrified, as an eruption of ground not one hundred yards away caught a large group of men by surprise. Bedrolls, caps, muskets, belts, heads, hands, feet, and unidentifiable body parts burst in all directions. She shook as the ground shook, wanting to run, to turn her gaze away, to close her eyes.
“Oliver,” she called, and when she flipped her head in the direction of the bird, she found she stood in the center of the spinning whirlwind of war. If she moved ten feet in any direction, it would drag her away. Standing with her, in the eye of this storm, were two men. One was a black man with skin so dark his blue uniform looked light. His cap was at his feet and his musket at his eye. It was his eye that drew Ginger in, for it was hazel, but not any hazel she had ever seen. It was mutable, changing as she watched from gold to green to gold. He pulled the musket from his eye, which grew wide; his brow furrowed in great pain. Following his gaze, she found another man, younger, who was white with sandy blond hair in a Confederate officer’s uniform. His gun was drawn down to the ground and from his very hazel green eyes tears fell.
Trembling beneath Ginger’s feet caused her to totter, and as she steadied herself she found three Union rifles pointed directly at her held by one Union officer and two privates. The officer had the same look in his wide brown eyes as the black man had in his. Ginger took a step back, spinning to the right, opposite the direction of the turbulence around her. Then into her right ear the bird whistled softly and when she came around she froze, her eyes growing wide and in as painful a wonder as everyone else in the center of that battle.
For there before her, not nine inches from her nose, was Samuel. He looked right at her and she at him. He passed his right hand across her left cheek to brush her hair away, following her chin as if to circle the single curl at her neck within his fingers.
“Samuel?” she whispered, reaching for the light brown hair, which blew softly across his forehead by some wind she could not feel.
A small smile grew on his face as she watched his mouth say, Ginger Moon.
She nodded, touching his ethereal lips. When she peered back to his eyes, she found no shadow. Instead they looked so familiar to her. He gazed at her, making her more than she could ever be—stronger, kinder, steadier, more beautiful. This was Jesse’s gaze in Samuel’s eyes. It was love.
His eyes grew moist just as tears fell from hers and he mouthed, I see you.
“And I, you,” she said.
Something moved over his right shoulder, drawing her attention. A Union cavalry rider was flying past in the great whirlwind around them and his rifle was pointed directly at Samuel’s back.
“Samuel!” Ginger yelled, pointing. But as she did so, he moved his hand back to her face, drawing her gaze back to him.
I’m ready, he mouthed. In her peripheral vision, she caught the flare and smoke of the rifle fire behind him.
“No!” she screamed.
A great cloud of dirt and smoke rose suddenly around her and she couldn’t see anymore.
“Samuel!” she yelled. “Samuel!”
Suddenly, a small hand slid into hers. She grabbed it.
“Mama?”
Blinking in the early spring sun, Ginger shook her head, looking at the little hill and the mountain, bare yet of leaves. She felt her pant legs heavy with morning dew and a whippoorwill sang as it flew overhead, a singular sound in the silence of the country.
“Mama, Samuel’s at home,” Oliver said.
She looked down at her son and nodded, unsteady and weary. “I think we should head home now,” she whispered hoarsely.
“Did you hear my bird?” Oliver asked.
“I heard you whistling,” she said, leading him back to the truck.
“I heard a reply,” he said.
Ginger tried to smile, to endeavor not to feel the great pain of war that freshly wounded her mind, her heart. It was Samuel there, but Jesse, too, dying in war and the silent screaming and terror of the men she had just seen was no less than that of her husband and his troops in a land far away. She could imagine him so, courageous always but also utterly frightened.
When they reached the truck, she secured Oliver in his booster seat. Shutting the door, she came around the bed of the truck. She stopped to gaze once more over the grassy field of Cedar Creek, which moved so peacefully as if it had no memory of the bloody scars that once tore through its soil.
Chapter 22
A Place at the Table
They turned left, making their way down the small Virginia highway that led to their little road at the end of which was Smoot’s farm. Mother and son said nothing on the short drive home from Cedar Creek and it was a short drive—shorter than Ginger had remembered. Now realizing how close it was, she wished for it to be a little longer, as she hadn’t yet regained reality. Jesse’s gaze in Samuel’s eyes as the bullet fired ran through her mind over and over and small, short, uncontrollable whimpers escaped her lips as she drove. Oliver had even taken her hand without a word on the last outcry and had not let go.
She turned left onto their road. Mr. Schaaf was out on his tractor and he waved as they passed. Ginger didn’t because one hand was held by Oliver and the other was on the steering wheel. Oliver waved and said, “Grandma and Grandpa are here.”
His voice carried a slight sadness to it, which caused Ginger to slow down. Her head began to pound.
The Martins of Richmond—indeed they were here. The black Mercedes was pulled right up to the top of the drive as if taking over, and Ginger, weary and hurting, wanted to simply stop, reverse, and go somewhere else. She even contemplated doing so, but what would she tell Oliver? She braked a little more, trying to come up with some story for Oliver when Samuel appeared on the porch and motioned earnestly for her to come. Drained as she was, she parked at the bottom of the hill so as not to obstruct the Mercedes from leaving. She hoped it would do so soon and take its occupants with it.
Hand in hand, mother and son climbed the drive. Samuel was gone as they came to the front porch and so they headed to the back, looking to see who was about. Henry opened the door to the summer kitchen.
“Who’s with Bea?” Ginger inquired.
“Samuel. Grandma and Grandpa are here again with that man.”
Ginger nodded, putting her left hand to her left temple. “Come help me with the stove, Oliver.”
“Mama’s hurt,” he said.
Henry looked up at Ginger.
“I’m all right. I have a headache, that’s all.”
“I’m hungry,” Oliver said.
“I’ve milk in here but we’re gonna need to wait for lunch,” Henry replied, opening the bottom door to the kitchen. “Grandma and Grandpa wanted to talk to Grandma Osbee alone.”
“With Mr. Glenmore,” Ginger added.
Henry nodded solemnly as Oliver stepped into the summer kitchen. A squeak on t
he right brought Ginger’s attention there, and standing in the sunroom door was Ester Martin. Ginger managed a tight smile. Ester wasn’t smiling.
“Hi, Mrs. Martin. It’s good to see you again so soon.”
“What do you mean, Virginia, by selling Henry’s Child?”
“I didn’t sell it,” Ginger replied, confused by her mother-in-law’s lack of civility. She was always civil.
“Where is it?”
“Ed Rogers traded it for all the farm equipment and the hay and the new bar—”
“Legally, that’s selling it.” She stepped out of the door and stood at the top of the steps. Her navy woolen pants and red silk blouse looked cold and wintery as she stood in the fresh spring sun.
“Oh. Well, then legally Bea sold it. She made the agreement.”
“Blaming a child, Virginia? She’s eight years old. You are legally responsible for her actions.”
“Mrs. Martin, I’m not blaming anyone. I’m simply saying if that tractor was anyone’s, it was Bea’s and—”
“It was mine, as is this land.”
Ginger continued. “And as she was ready to let it go and we needed to plant, it was better to trade it. Legally or no, Bea made that decision and I had to support it.”
“We’re taking the land,” Ester said, smiling a little.
Ginger squinted with a small shake of her head.
“Mom is signing papers as we speak.”
“Signing papers?” Why would Osbee do that?
“Yes.”
As she took a step forward, Ester crossed her arms in front of her and set her feet, in their shiny spectator shoes, apart. She was placed solidly across the backdoor stairs. Samuel’s presence moved in behind Ginger.
“Is Osbee signing papers?” she asked, gazing down at the ground.
“I told you she was,” Ester said. “Why would I lie?”
“She hasn’t yet, but she is afraid,” Samuel replied.
“About what?” Ginger asked.
“About anything,” Ester said. “Do you really think I’d lie? You owe us money, Virginia, and quite a pretty penny at that. Henry’s Child is worth more than what it was traded for.”
“They are suggesting that in her age she has lost her wits and is being taken advantage of by you,” Samuel explained. “That they will sue you for the cost of Henry’s Child and anything else they can come up with, putting the money left to you by your husband for the children at risk. Osbee cannot have you take that risk.”
“Lost her wits?” Ginger blurted out.
“I beg your pardon?” Ester quipped.
Ginger looked up and found a deepening frown on her mother-in-law’s face. Her in-laws were suggesting Osbee had lost her wits? How would they prove the old woman was crazy? Perhaps Osbee had been talking to Samuel in front of the Martins. That would indeed look crazy.
“Has Osbee talked to you while this was going on?” Ginger asked of Samuel.
“Of course,” Ester replied, her hands now on her hips.
“No,” Samuel said. “That surely would have given them reason. But I felt obliged to stay with her while you were away. I have been most occupied since you left, going between the house and Bea.”
Ginger chuckled and gazed up to the sunny Virginia sky.
“I cannot see that there is anything funny about any of this,” Ester said.
“Well, Mrs. Martin, I can.” Smiling happily through her pounding skull, Ginger was in motion, veering right, heading back down the gravel drive and around front. “You go take care of Bea. I’ve got this,” Ginger said to Samuel.
“Virginia!” Ester trotted down the stairs, her shiny spectator shoes sounding like tiny hooves as she did so.
“I’d go back through the house if I were you, Ester,” Ginger called over her shoulder.
“I think I should like to see this,” Samuel said.
“Well, go check on Bea and come back,” she replied. As Ginger rounded the front of the house, Samuel disappeared. She made her way to the front porch steps, and before she could land a foot upon them Osbee burst out the door, her face stricken as Hugh held her back by the arm.
“Hugh, let go of her,” Ginger said, her face, she was sure, now reflecting the drumming pain in her head.
“Gi-Ginger, daughter. I thi—”
“You sign those papers?”
Osbee shook her head, her eyes round and watery.
“We’ll sue,” Ester said as she rounded the corner of the house.
“Let go of her, Hugh,” Ginger repeated.
“We have legal grounds,” Mr. Glenmore said, stepping from behind Hugh.
“You’ve got nothing.” Ginger guffawed. “You’re trying to scare Osbee with the threat of having her declared incompetent and I am telling you, as a nurse, she’s not. Now let her go.”
Hugh and Mr. Glenmore stared with slack jaws at Ginger.
“We have not said anything of the sort,” Hugh objected.
“Have her tested. It won’t show a damn thing.”
“Anyone in their late eighties shows something,” Mr. Glenmore offered. “Not that we’re going to do anything.”
Ginger’s eyes popped open. “Not that you’re doing anything,” she repeated. “Threatening like this can be considered blackmail, you know. That’s illegal, too. Go ahead. Call any doctor or psychiatrist or whoever. For any one you call, I know ten who’ll come and honestly check her out and will find that there is nothing incompetent about her. And if I wasn’t certain she had her wits, I’d be afraid. But I’m not afraid and neither should you be, Osbee. Now, Hugh, you let her go or I’m going to call the police right now. You’re not from around here but we are and the police won’t take kindly to you laying a hand on Osbee.”
Reluctantly, Hugh released Osbee, who shakily walked toward Ginger. When she reached the stairs, she missed the first step and Ginger lunged forward to catch her.
“We need that root of yours, Osbee,” Ginger whispered in her ear, pulling the old woman into her arms. “It can shake but don’t you let them pull you up.”
Together they descended the last couple of stairs, and once Osbee had her footing on the firm ground, Ginger let go.
“Hugh!” Ester screamed.
Ginger jumped at the desperate sound of the voice and looked over to the edge of the porch. Her mother-in-law launched into a sprint, her shiny spectator shoes gleaming in the late-morning sun with Bubba right behind her.
“Oh, my God!” Osbee exclaimed and Ginger, without another thought, leapt toward the Mercedes.
“Bubba!” she yelled. “Stop!”
As she cleared the corner of the house, she found Henry, Bea, and Oliver racing toward her.
“Ester!” Hugh cried from behind.
“Get the broom!” Ginger shouted to Henry.
“Open the car!” Ester shrieked, coming around the back of the Mercedes at a run. Ginger could make out only the tips of Bubba’s horns on the other side of the vehicle as he chased her, his speed increasing as he passed the trunk. The goat must have seen her father-in-law, for Bubba stopped short and changed direction, now racing toward Hugh.
The man skidded to a halt and turned on his heel, his red tie flying around on his white shirt like a ribbon on a May pole as he took off toward the orchard.
“Bubba!” Ginger yelled. “You little shit! Stop!” She ran after Hugh and the goat, her feet pounding the dirt in time with the pounding in her head. She cleared the little ravine between her yard and her orchard.
“Stop running and face him, Hugh!” Ginger shouted.
Hugh was nearly to the trees.
“Turn around and stop!”
Hugh turned around but didn’t stop. He backed right into the chicken paddock, losing his balance as he hit it. The thin fence crumpled under the man’s weight and he went down
hard on the ground. Bubba cleared the fence with a little jump, coming up short, then hovered over Ginger’s father-in-law. Highly agitated by the ruckus, Rooster puffed up his feathers and veered left, flanking the goat and Hugh to attack from the side.
“Rooster!” Ginger screamed, as if that were going to do any good at all. Out of the corner of her left eye, she saw a flash of a small body. Oliver raced by her with his stick. He hurled himself over the fence and the flock of chickens, squawking in terror, flapped madly through the broken gate, and headed toward the cemetery. Rooster fixed one beady eye on the stick and skidded to the right. Oliver adjusted his trajectory to match, and the turkey, with a screeching gobble, raced after the chickens.
When Ginger landed from her own leap over the fence, she grabbed Bubba by the right horn and tossed him toward the chicken coop.
“Hugh!” she said. “Hugh, are you all right?”
The man rolled over in the chicken dirt and with help from Ginger and Oliver got to his feet. Henry arrived with the broom just in time to whack Bubba’s horns with it as the goat turned for a counterattack.
“Whatever, Bubba,” Henry said.
“You okay?” Ginger asked, brushing Hugh’s dirty white shirt. “You went down pretty hard. Let me look at your arm.”
He brushed her away.
“No need,” he said, holding his left arm with his right hand. Stumbling a bit as he walked over the broken fence, Hugh, with all the dignity he could muster, made his way back to the car, gazing reticently now and then over his shoulder. Ginger followed him.
“I think I should look at the arm,” she repeated.
“I’m sure it’s fine,” he said.
“I’m not.”
When they came to the ravine, Ginger trotted forward and moved to support his weight by wrapping her arm around his waist.
“I do not need your help, Virginia.”
Here and Again Page 26
