Hid Wounded Reb

by J. L. Salter

  “Remember, there were two Butler families by old William.”

  “True, but the first family was mostly out of the Possum Knoll area long before the war.”

  “So, his second family. Okay, I’m following you now. This quote — family secret or not — would have been understood by the people still alive in the late 1800s, but the following generations possibly repeated it without knowing what it meant. Just that it’s supposedly a family secret. Nora Lee used it two days ago to answer my question about the murder at the church.”

  “Okay, let’s break it down for your topic.” Kelly scribbled several words on her tablet. “William Junior was the only brother in the second family. What role was played by the Butler brother? Not the victim, who was unknown. Maybe the killer? But what was sufficient motive for brother William to kill the stranger? For one thing, he would’ve only been about sixteen at that point.”

  “There’s another possibility.” Mitch closed his eyes momentarily. “Maybe William Junior simply recognized the stranger.”

  Kelly seemed puzzled.

  “Maybe little brother pointed out the stranger. It was brother Butler at the church in sixty-seven. Meaning, William Junior ID’d the stranger.”

  “But to whom?”

  Simultaneously, the light came on for each of them and both said in unison, “The killer!”

  “Little brother was the finger.” Mitch exhaled loudly.

  Kelly and Mitch each looked slightly stunned, as though someone had sneaked in and smacked them both on the head.

  “Little brother ID’s the stranger to the person who, moments later, kills him dead.” Kelly sounded it out like she was trying to make it rhyme. “So who was the killer?”

  “Even if you name the killer, you still have a dead stranger. William Junior was the one — possibly the only one, or the only one present — who recognized the traveler. The solvable question is, who was the mystery guy? Had to be somebody way out of the ordinary. Name the traveler and maybe we’ll find his killer.”

  Neither Kelly nor Mitch had a name, for either the victim or his killer.

  “Let’s go outside for a bit. I need some air to clear my head.” Kelly rose from the couch.

  Mitch stretched and joined her outside, but didn’t sit. He walked the length of his rented porch, paused at the far railing, and then returned slowly. “You know, I recently remembered from years ago, a poem by William Alexander Percy — Safe Secrets.”

  “How does it go?”

  “Don’t recall the words now. I tracked it down again on a poetry archive website recently. All this Belva stuff got me thinking about the poem. It’s inside somewhere, but the sense of it was some secrets are better to die with you.”

  “Better for whom? The person with the secret? Or the ones who don’t know the secret?”

  “Either. Both. Don’t really know. Probably depends on who stands to be hurt by the secret.” Mitch sighed and shrugged at the same time.

  “Most secrets aren’t safe.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Thursday, May 24

  Kelly’s theorizing with Mitch had continued fairly late the previous evening and she was perplexed by the recent development. The new information from Mrs. James, if reliable, was either a potent connecting link in Mitch’s mysterious murder near the church or it was an unintentional red herring left by a nutty old lady who faded in and out.

  Like the snippet about two horses tied in the thicket. It was part of Kelly’s story — Nora Lee’s detailed account of the wounded soldiers at the Butler cabin. How could two horses in thickets have anything to do with Mitch’s church yard murder? Surely Nora Lee just lost her train of thought while talking with Mitch and mistakenly tossed in a detail from another anecdote. She’d told Kelly she spent generations telling stories about Civil War times, and possibly beyond, to any family who would listen. Poor old thing must have gotten some of the details scrambled.

  But Nora Lee evidently got the song nailed down tight.

  At the library, Kelly was fortunate to find a vacant terminal. She paid some electronic bills and then checked e-mail. A few junk mails, a statement available from her paltry retirement account, and an e-mail from the U.K. music expert. The brief note said he’d found an 1862 melody by Henry Tucker, part of which reasonably matched the old woman’s recorded voice humming a tune. Charles Sawyer — spelled with an e — wrote the lyrics, which were not yet known to Kelly… or, evidently, any of the Butler descendents.

  Kelly didn’t want to play it over earphones in the library, so she closed the e-mail and logged off. Leaving, she phoned Diane. “Have you got broadband internet at the farm house?”

  “Yeah, Kelly, come on over.”

  It took only a few minutes for Kelly to get there and for Diane to set everything up.

  Kelly had goose bumps as her fingers hovered over Diane’s keyboard, gaining access to her own e-mail provider and entering her address and password.

  “Did he say the name of the song?”

  “Weeping, Sad and Lonely was the main title, but evidently it was better known by the subtitle, When This Cruel War is Over. He said it was the equivalent of a super platinum record of our era. Its sheet music sold nearly a million copies after its publication in the north in 1863. With modification of only a few words — where the original mentioned a blue uniform, the Southern version referred obviously to gray — it was also published in several editions in the South. He attached a link to the melody and a document with the lyrics.”

  “Which one are you going to open first?” Diane acted like she would burst with eagerness.

  “The melody, I think — what Aunt Belva hummed all those years. So much so, in later years the family referred to it as Aunt Belva’s song. The children of those following generations also heard the melody as a bedtime lullaby.” Kelly took a deep breath. “So, melody first. Ready?”

  Diane nodded and perched on a wooden stool she’d pulled up close behind the desk chair occupied by Kelly.

  Kelly positioned the cursor over the link and paused, then clicked. A site opened and she quickly located Weeping, Sad and Lonely. The instrument sounded like a harpsichord, though it had the flavor of computer-generated music. It opened with an overture, evidently, which had a familiar feel to it, but wasn’t quite the same tune as Nora Lee had hummed.

  “Not it. Maybe the next section.” Kelly suppressed the urge to cross her fingers.

  The main verse melody followed. It also seemed familiar, but wasn’t the exact tune. Then came the chorus.

  “That’s it! Aunt Belva’s song!” Kelly nearly jumped from the chair. “Listen!”

  “It’s so sad.”

  “But it’s lovely. I can definitely see it as a lullaby, especially the chorus.” Kelly played it three times all the way through, before she could bring herself to open the document.

  “Does it have the lyrics?”

  Kelly nodded. “Can we open two windows? Leave up the music link in one and see the words in the other?”

  “Sure.” Diane leaned in closely. “Like this.” She minimized one screen and dragged another to one side. “All set.”

  Kelly took a breath and clicked on the text link showing the main title with melody credited to Tucker and the words credited to Sawyer.

  .

  Dearest love do you remember,

  when we first did meet,

  how you told me that you loved me,

  kneeling at my feet?

  Oh! How proud you stood before me,

  in your suit of grey,

  when you vowed from me and country

  never to go astray.

  .

  Chorus:

  Weeping, sad and lonely,

  hopes and fears, how vain,

  when this cruel war is over,

  Praying! That we meet again.

  .

  Kelly realized she had read it out loud, even though Diane could see the screen over her shoulder. “There are two more verses in this ve
rsion, though Don’s friend said some of the publishers added a fourth verse. This is one of the versions printed in the South, since his uniform was grey. Notice it’s written from the woman’s perspective, not the soldier’s. But the chorus really tears your heart out, in both melody and lyrics.”

  Diane began singing the chorus, able to remember the melody she’d heard three times, just minutes before. She finished with tears in her eyes. “The poor girl.” Softly, she repeated, “Poor girl.”

  “I can picture young Belva humming this tune while she waited, through two more years of terrible wartime, for her Confederate corporal to return. But when he never came back, she remained unmarried, and this tune stayed in her mind probably every day until she died, uh, fifty-six years later.” When this cruel war is over. “In many ways, the war was never over for Belva. For reasons we don’t know, she and Corporal H.H. were never reunited. Her one true love, the father of her baby… and her baby miscarried.” Tears filled Kelly’s eyes. She stood and moved away to the side. “Play the melody again.” She touched Diane’s shoulder softly.

  Diane sat in the desk chair and clicked the appropriate link. The computerized harpsichord tinkled out the 144-year-old melody… and two modern women cried without apology.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Friday, May 25

  While Kelly was occupied in her kitchen boiling eggs, Ginny and Perra remained close to the cabin in the back yard, not visible from Macon Circle. The big cat was on a chair cushion at the dining table — curled up, on his back mostly, with four feet leaning over like lazy, furry garden stakes. He probably wanted his tummy stroked.

  After the timer blared, Kelly rinsed the eggs vigorously in cold tap water until their heat dissipated. She always boiled four at a time… one to eat right away with a muffin, and the others for the next three mornings.

  But her mind was on Mitch and how strained things had become during the five days since Ginny took refuge in the cabin. There was a lot more in that worrisome tension than Kelly had yet discerned. Mitch meant a lot to her — in many ways — and it wasn’t right for their relationship to be jeopardized by Ginny’s presence if, indeed, it was the sole issue.

  With men, sometimes you can’t tell. The trigger point might have little to do with what was in Mitch’s head. Maybe he was stewing about their most recent “no sex yet” discussion, or maybe he’d lapsed into another jealous funk after seeing the satellite guy somewhere in traffic. With a man, it could be anything… or maybe all of those. Possibly something else entirely.

  Of course, it might actually be just what Mitch had said it was — he was worried Ginny’s presence meant a lot more trouble than just providing some meals and a place to rest.

  The egg in Kelly’s hand practically slipped from its cracked shell just as smooth and clean as a baby leaving its warm bath. But some of the eggs Kelly boiled came out with a stubborn, halting resistance, requiring her to carefully pick off the shell pieces and painstakingly roll away the clingy membrane beneath.

  So why did this particular egg practically volunteer its own shell and skin, while those others fight you like partisan guerillas?

  Kelly didn’t know but handling the easy egg gave her a flash of inspiration. Mitch was a pretty easy egg; he’d just shuck off what was in the way and they could get to the business of things. He’d been that way since she first met him — honest, direct, and open, sometimes to a fault.

  But Ginny was the other kind — her shell had to be chipped off, and she’d cling to every scrap still attached. Her membrane didn’t slide off with the shell, it had to be grasped and rolled and picked. Once stripped, Ginny wasn’t shiny and smooth — she was rough and raw and scared. Ginny had secrets, and she clung to them as if her life depended on it.

  Maybe it did.

  Kelly needed to rethink her open welcome. If she was to provide temporary room and board for the mystery girl, Kelly needed to know what else was involved. Why was it so difficult to get through Ginny’s shell?

  Kelly rinsed the inspirational egg with tap water, dusted it lightly with salt and held it up like she was appraising a large gem. Well, Mitch, you’re a lot like this egg. She consumed it in three delicious bites.

  After finishing her breakfast, Kelly took another coffee to the front porch. She liked all of her porch mornings except stormy ones, but sometimes it seemed Fridays were her favorites. After she drained the cup, she called Mitch on her cell phone.

  “Hi, Kelly.”

  “I’ve been thinking more about the Ginny business. If you’re not tied up with interviews right now, I’d like to talk.”

  “My slate’s clear ‘til after lunch. My place or yours?”

  Kelly thought for a second. Ginny was on the back steps sunning her pale, thin legs. Diane could keep a remote lookout for her. “Yours. Cook up some java and I’ll be there in ten minutes or so.”

  When Kelly opened the back door, it inadvertently startled Ginny. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours. I’m locking the front door. Diane’s just down the hill.” She didn’t linger to explain. When Perra hustled inside, Kelly checked on the dog’s water bowl, locked the door, and hopped into her Jeep. On the way along Macon Circle, she called Diane to get her to check on Ginny.

  After breaking west off Highway 27, her destination was about six miles along Highway 80, then north a bit. On her ten-minute drive, Kelly resisted the temptation to rehearse what she wanted to say. Rehearsals didn’t help much with Mitch anyway, since he had a disarming way of getting her off track.

  Arriving, Kelly exited her Wrangler and took Mitch’s porch steps in two strides.

  ****

  Mitch hugged her tightly. Couldn’t help it. He wanted to touch her every time he was near, and wanted to be near almost all the time. Their distance, geographically, was at her insistence. He realized her economical cabin didn’t have enough room, but Kelly’s reasoning was more about needing solitude. Mitch didn’t require nearly as much isolation — he’d had plenty of aloneness in those nearly three years before he met Kelly.

  Now, after three quarters of a year, he hungered for her even more. But Kelly kept a buffer between them… always had. Mitch had the tendency to blurt out his thoughts and feelings, but she chose words carefully. Mitch wanted to touch and embrace her nearly all the time, but Kelly tended to be more selective about contact. When they spoke of those disparities, it sometimes lapsed into a tiresome tape loop about sex and commitment, and other things they couldn’t agree upon. So it was easier to avoid those topics.

  Mitch had more or less resigned himself to enjoying as much of Kelly as she made available and hoping someday she’d avail him of more. Even as he mused about their settlement, he realized it made him seem a bit wimpy, compared to Neanderthals with clubs dragging women into their caves. But Mitch didn’t need her as an unconscious prisoner; he wanted Kelly as partner, lover, helper, and friend.

  He wanted all of her, but would settle for what he could get. Mitch felt more alive with Kelly than he could remember feeling ever… not just the horrible period during his wife’s illness and lingering death. Mitch actually thought Kelly infused more life into him than he’d ever experienced before — man or boy.

  But their current, very recent, distance was less about geography than about Ginny’s presence in the cabin and in Kelly’s life. Mitch was perturbed Kelly could let Ginny invade her guarded solitude and space while blocking him from the same privilege. But in Mitch’s mind, Ginny also represented something else. He couldn’t really say it was danger per se, but it was definitely something bad, a situation Kelly didn’t need, and circumstances Mitch didn’t want to happen.

  ****

  Kelly lightly kissed Mitch’s lips, then disengaged from his long arms and started to head inside.

  Mitch pointed to the chairs on his small porch. “Just have a seat. I’ll bring the coffee out here.”

  Angling the chair where the sun would be on the back of her neck, she propped her feet on the bottom span of the
porch railing. When Mitch reappeared with two cups and handed her one, she sipped his very good coffee and gazed out toward the lowered water below the steep slope. “Can’t even see the lake now.”

  “You could during winter, even at the 680-foot mark, but the trees are too full now.” Mitch certainly wanted to know what Kelly had come to discuss but apparently didn’t wish to rush her. He seemed so comfortable in her company, he probably wouldn’t mind if they drank coffee all morning and never talked about anything at all.

  “I’ve been rethinking this stuff with Ginny. Your concerns, and my acceptance, and whatever.” Kelly stared into the dark, hot liquid for a moment. She considered telling him about her earlier epiphany with the boiled egg but decided it would be a confusing detour. “Could you tell me again what you’ve been thinking about Ginny? About why she’s probably here and what’s really going on?”

  Mitch had settled into his chair, arranged so he could observe Kelly, regardless of the sun. He’d proven many times he could watch her for a long while. He crossed one leg, then winced, likely because of his hip. He tried the other one, which must have been slightly better. “Well, I’ve been analyzing it like we did last fall, when we wondered why Ginny had disappeared so suddenly and even thought maybe she’d been killed.” He took a quiet sip. “That girl’s in a lot of trouble… we don’t know what kind. But Ginny was scared to death when she lived in the farm house the year before, and she’s been gone for not quite two years now. Then she suddenly pops up, still terrified.” He swirled his coffee and took another long slurp. “I think it’s commendable of you to help her, but I’m worried taking her in also involves you in something bad. Some situation has her terrified and is likely quite dangerous. If it’s been unsafe to her for two years or more, that makes it risky to you now.”

  Kelly valued the way his mind worked and that he was usually able to explain things so clearly. The problem was, she preferred a different interpretation. Plus, she had reasons for her willingness to take some risk. “Well, I’ve considered many of those aspects, but when we talked before it was too much of a rush to get her settled. You make a good case for her fear and the danger and all, but isn’t it also possible Ginny’s just running… period? I mean not necessarily running from danger, but possibly running to something different, maybe to a situation she thinks would be better. Better for her well-being, or whatever.”