The Best American Short Stories 2019

by Anthony Doerr

  At his bedtime he and I had such a cry Asa asked how he was supposed to sleep. I now sit before my candle fretful and worn out. I feel less and less able to bear each difficulty that comes our way. I know it’s wrong when we have so much to be thankful for, and I wish I could control this wayward disposition. I accommodate my low spirits like communion with a congenial friend. I wonder if I’m capable of a single hour of perfect contentment, one hour in which my soul is not yearning for something it cannot have. My specialty is despairing over disappointments that are entirely unavoidable. I have to remind myself to let trivial matters pass away, as I impart little cheer to my loved ones when I’m cast down. I suppose that is your gift. And I suppose that’s why since you’ve been gone we have had so very few callers except relatives. When people resume their visits once you return I will know who they are coming to see.

  I feel as though I could not sympathize with anyone tonight. And yet as I sit dry and sheltered in my house I think of he who has secured those comforts for me, and imagine him open to the elements and his enemies. O my poor lonely soldier boy, I would give a good lot to see you. I remind myself now and always that I have found the one who loves me, as I love him.

  A house in town containing the bodies of smallpox victims was burned. Asa has still not gotten his duck. And while writing, my old disease (getting sleepy) is coming on, so I bid you good night and take my warm brick and go to bed alone—

  Your loving wife,

  Hattie

  Boone, NC

  Fri. November 25

  Dear William,

  No birthday greeting from you. Nellie baked a cake for me out of sorghum molasses and honey, and it was very nice too when done. I was awakened at five by her shouting, “Birthday gift!” into my ear after she had stolen into my room. For my birthday dinner Mr. Webb came, looking as usual satisfied with himself and the world in general, along with Miss Boyd and Doctor Turner. Her sister’s baby is not well, and it worries us all a good deal. Around the table we each contributed a ghost story, and some of our party were more affected by the tales than they were willing to admit. Miss Boyd remarked when we were clearing in the kitchen that it is too bad you can’t be here at home when we both wish you here so much. I retained custody of my expression and answered that there must be many who would be delighted to have you reappear, and she returned only a queer look in response. Afterward I felt so spiritless that even Doctor Turner’s singing was no remedy. During the rest of the visit Father and Nellie did the talking and I listened. Just as supper was over two soldiers came who wanted bread and milk, so it was late before we had the dining room cleaned up. Then, after we saw all our visitors off, they seemed to leave the house behind them very lonely.

  Today I had a sore finger and could not sew. All morning was chill and disagreeable without, and I had a suspicion of the neuralgia. I hope a good night’s rest tonight will restore my strength. I feel neither well enough to be up nor sick enough to be in bed. Nellie has recommended some gentle exercise in the open air, and says she also feels a good deal out of tune. Father claims all is well with me with the exception of a sore finger. My teeth ache.

  Out of Nellie’s earshot he asked if it could really be the case that both his daughters are having difficulties with beaux. He noted that when Alvin Blakemore visited last week to bring Nellie a few periodicals the young man had behaved very strangely, sitting with her only some 10 minutes and then suddenly rising and bowing himself out of the room. She has been fretting ever since that he was injured by some remark she made, and then last night during my birthday dinner he rode through the yard and did not call. What a cold, strange boy he is to be sure.

  Three privates are currently sleeping soundly on our porch in their muddy blankets like a trio of resigned and happy pigs. They arrived midday and the poor souls are almost starved and soon we’ll have nothing to give them. Nellie dressed the wounds of one and did so bravely, while I turned faint and sick while only holding the basin. The boy bade her to not let any Yankee officer carry her off, and she answered that she depended on boys like him to prevent such a possibility.

  So I am not much of a nurse. Sometimes I feel poorly suited to any vocation but books. I am not as young as I once was, but I have no desire to go back and live my errors over. Should we reconsider the pledges we made during our goodbyes? Are there other pledges you made of which I remain unaware? I feel the way, after one has had a limb tightly bound and the ligature removed, he cannot for a long time accept his freedom from restraint.

  Do “coming events cast their shadows before”? I wonder. Ever since I was a child I have worked as I work now to resist the millstone of my timidity. Write with whatever reassurance you can. It is lonely waiting for the last sands to drop from the glass.

  Doctor Turner reports that all seems to be quiet with the Army of Northern Virginia. They’ve lacked the excitement of even the occasional skirmish. Lately there have been a large number of wagons coming from the west. It’s said that deserters from both sides armed to the teeth have taken asylum in the hills, from whence they descend upon unprotected homes. I have commenced reading the life of Patrick Henry aloud to Father.

  I hope this letter finds you in good health and good fortune—

  Your expectant

  Lucy

  Camp near Columbia, TN

  Mon. November 28, 1864

  Dear Lucy,

  We have relieved Forrest’s cavalry, which was sent to scout for crossings along the Duck River. The Yankees have evacuated the town & burned the bridges, & the plan seems to be to attack them if not in Nashville then in Franklin.

  Artillery caissons have moved up & dug in behind us. All night long the company has been agitated, as if mistrusting our own intentions. Bitter cold. Almost starved out. If anyone had told me before the war of what we could bear month after month I would have dismissed it as all talk. Georgie & C.W. are huddled around our fire, nodding & almost asleep, the ground too unforgiving for them to lie back on. Our chaplain was perfectly motionless for a day & a half before he died. Even after beating the feed corn between stones, chewing it leaves the gums too sore to touch. Our packhorses are so famished they’re gnawing their bridle reins. 5 of our company deserted in the night, & some of the frozen dead have been stood up for sentries. A lot of fellows are drooping about trying to look sick.

  Cheatham’s & Stewart’s corps have arrived as well. Our attacking forces are becoming so extensive as to resemble a migration. C.W. reported after foraging that we have filled every road leading north over the breadth of this entire area, with supply trains behind, & behind them the stragglers: the sick, the exhausted, the new recruits, the convalescents, & the shirkers. You can tell how many think they’re up against it by the extent to which the roads are littered with discarded playing cards & dice. Most of the men would rather be a private in this regiment than a Captain in another, so the order to consolidate with other decimated units has been detested.

  My hands are so numb I must stop & warm them before continuing. I write with a tinplate for a desk. Occasionally I have to study to comprehend my own words. I hope this note makes some sense since as I sit here there is commotion on every side. I hope you know how much you are missed. A chaplain from Cheatham’s corps is headed to the rear loaded down with letters, & so I will run this to him—

  Will

  Front Royal, VA

  Mon. November 28th 1864

  Oh CW, CW, CW,

  We can only hope that the God who shows us how little we know of what’s good for us will help resign us to His will. It was very cloudy with snow falling this morning, and then it cleared off. I hate to imagine what trials this weather has brought upon you. I know worrying will not ease me, and I remind myself that letters get so easily miscarried and tell myself throughout the day that it will all come right by and by. I set my washing out by noon, while your mother was carding and spinning.

  The Yankees are back. A wagon rolled up to our barn, and the accompanying soldie
rs loaded it with hay. Different regiments have been passing since early afternoon. A Captain approached our porch and announced his brigade would quarter in the meadow in front of the house, and then came the wagon trains with the horses and all the wheels cutting up the fields terribly. We hid the bacon in a packing box under Asa’s bed and they crawled underneath and found it but left it there. The search was supervised by the Captain and a young, mortified boy whose only apparent task was to keep track of our expressions. Addie Burnham says they searched her house for guns and took from there one ham and an old rooster they pursued for a half hour straight. She thinks she came off pretty well all things considered. The Yankee Captain remarked to us that everywhere he goes he encounters people eating with their hands, and that he assumes the farther south he proceeds the less learning he will find. Father said after they left that the majority of the Federals have been recruited from the lowbred immigrant classes and induced to fight by sign language. He sees the breach between us and them as so wide that by the War’s end the South can only be all Yankees or no Yankees at all. I saw in one detachment a mulatto in uniform, but I don’t blame him near as much as his instigators.

  Wellie fell from the toeboard of the wagon, and his knee is considerably swollen. I heard him tell Asa while they were in the barn turning the straw-cutter that he’ll be glad when spring is here. I gave him some vinegar and salt for his cough, and he’s taken to carrying a bag of pennyroyal leaves as a remedy against fleas.

  Kattie Wetherell brought over a letter from her husband so he’s not dead after all, and we’re very glad. She gave me a mournful look when I told her I’d heard nothing from you.

  Are we to be pitied? We had those nine years with each other. How many can claim that? I wish you could see our children and all the fruits of our labors. I need you to fill that place beside me in which only you fit. I write to you from my own ocean of consideration and love. Please send word even if it’s only the shortest of notes—

  Your privileged

  Hattie

  Boone, NC

  Mon. November 28

  Dear William,

  There was some cannonading again in the night. I was up half a dozen times looking out the windows and finally dropped into a doze broken by Father coming in with a candle to fetch something for Nellie. I did not sleep until sunrise, and then was very early astir. Nellie has a sore foot.

  This afternoon we all went to the mill to be weighed. I counted the same as the former occasion: 116 pounds. A cavalry company picketed in the depot lot and then rode away. Some stragglers came by for milk, and we gave them some. I went to my bed and lay down and heard the hail and was so tired I didn’t know what to do so I didn’t do anything. I read aloud to Father and made Nellie a tiara of winter jasmine and calendula so oversize that when she tried it on in the mirror she claimed to resemble a calf peering through a rosebush. Later I heard her stop playing the piano in the middle of her piece, and when I looked in she had lowered her head to the soundboard.

  Yesterday we went to church for the first time in 11 weeks, and I was sad to think of the many changes that have taken place since. After the service Father invited Alvin Blakemore to lunch, which proved a calamity. Nellie, when she heard, announced that all luncheon parties were stupid and that this was no exception. We ate almost nothing so that there might be more for Father and Alvin, and the poor boy sat there like the Spartan whose fox was gnawing his vitals beneath his cloak. He was uncommunicative about the length of his furlough and seems to have an implacable conviction about his own inability to win affection, which Father and I discussed after he’d left, and it transpired that Nellie was listening in the hall, and in so doing realized the truth of the old adage that eavesdroppers never hear any good about themselves.

  I feel I should end every letter with FOR GOD’S SAKE WRITE. Father reminds me that a peevish and fault-finding woman is utterly unfit for company in this or the next world, but I learned early in life to depend upon my own efforts, and I wish to renew my belief in what we possessed and our endless variety of ardent declarations. It may be that this national separation that wreaks its passion in slaughter is proof that what was once the best of all human governments was but an experiment and a failure, but I refuse to concede that your heart and mine are not as linked as they have ever been. I imagine all those left helpless and deprived and in need of a lover’s care, and even in the face of what may be your eloquent silence I still desire only to smooth your pillow and tender your rest.

  Father says he noticed a great commotion and lights at Doctor Turner’s when he passed by, and we’re afraid something has happened there. I tell myself I will receive your letter tomorrow, and with that I put out my light.

  Your loving and furious

  Lucy

  Front Royal, VA

  Wed. November 30th 1864

  My silent CW,

  It has been a cold morning after a heavy shower in the night. While still in bed I was gratified by a sensation of you and woke to your touch all along my arms. You were warning me that our hens were finding the strawberries as fast as they turned red. I heard the boys already at their chores but felt too worn with care and anxiety to stir. I have to be mindful of scanning old scenes of our pleasures. That temptation for me is like rowing near a waterfall: if I get too near I will be swept over the edge.

  Addie Burnham brought over a letter from her brother, who is now near you under Cheatham. She had just fetched it from town and Wellie’s face when he spied it was terrible. We are never ready for bad news, though we know tragedy can lurk within any unopened envelope. After she read it Asa said it sounded like Hood was ready to give the Yankee Army of the Ohio a most complete dressing, and Wellie took himself to the barn. He has been saving a bottle of honey for your return, but when he checked it it had candied. I told him that I’m sure you don’t feel hard toward him for not writing, and that maybe tonight we could put together a crate of food to send you.

  I am so weak lately that a pail of water seems heavy and anything I do beyond the usual uses me up. I think I have never been more reconciled to my lot. But when I stand by the fire, or sit for our meals, or note Wellie’s shoulders, I think of you. You created this version of me and now you are gone and I must manage my resentment and dismay. Asa never got his duck but promises he will once you’re home. Billie is improved from hock to muzzle. Little Henry Rhodes, only just in the service, has been killed. His poor mother is almost crazy.

  Your devoted

  Hattie

  Franklin & Columbia Turnpike

  Wed. November 30, 1864

  Lucy!

  It’s warmer today & we are all grateful for the sun. We moved up in the night, marching with a good road & a bright moon. The road was strewn with luxuries thrown away. I picked up a pocket inkstand & then discarded it myself a mile or so on. They say the water is healthy. It does not appear so.

  I can’t write much as it seems we are looking for a fight every minute. I am well with the exception of one ear, which has been deaf & roaring for some time. In the late afternoon yesterday, after listening to shelling since first light, we were sent forward on the double-quick to support Forrest’s cavalry at a little town called Spring Hill. We charged into the Yankees’ fire, & many of the boys advancing looked bewildered, as if they wondered what they were expected to do. I loaded & shot until I had blisters as big as 10-cent pieces & my gun was so hot I could not touch the barrel. My cap box was shot off my belt & my rifle shot through the stock & split. The Federal sharpshooters throw a good ball & at long range too. The boy beside me had his brains scattered all over us. I have been like a foundered horse ever since.

  Georgie has wept at every rest & interval. We kill scores of Federals but they seem to have no objections, for they know they will use us up in time & replace what we cannot. Meanwhile the practice here is to drag men along while they are of any use, & then once they are not to turn them out to die.

  We have had our first view of the Federal ent
renchments surrounding the village of Franklin. It is said that all Hood’s subordinates including Forrest are arguing against a direct assault, & C.W. notes that we don’t require a spyglass to realize the peril. The ground is level with no cover, & the breastworks astride the Nashville road are fearsome, & Yankee artillery positions to the NW & E will subject any attacking columns to enfilade fire. Their gunners have been double-charging their cannons with canister, & they will cover that ground like a fine-tooth comb. Georgie says a chicken could not live on that field once they open up on it, & C.W. answered that it was not so hard to get there as it looked but the trouble was to stay once arrived. Shielding half their line is also a thick hedge the branches of which have been sharpened into abatis. It’s said that Hood hazarded $1000 on one card in a faro game & won. It’s also said that with his lost leg & new fiancée he has much to prove.

  Our boys are loading down the chaplains with watches & letters & photographs, but I still have a bit of time to write. Everywhere before us the Yankee regimental flags are dotting the slopes. Our forces are arrayed in all directions. When we step off, flurries of startled rabbits & quail will lead our advance. I thought when you finally saw me next you would see a boy who did not want to quarrel, & who wanted to work in concert with you to bring about good feeling. I thought until then of proposing we read together a Bible chapter each night so that we might share what we were thinking before retiring. But now I must close, as we are being ordered up to our positions. The air is hazy. Our bands are playing. I regret having provided you only stray glimpses into my interior, with its changeful exaltations & deprivations, & its clues as to the secrets of my heart already vanishing. I recognize it’s all our task to argue not against Heaven’s hand but to bear up & steer onward. & I see that Hope calculates its schemes for a long & durable life, & presses us forward to imaginary points of bliss, & grasps at impossibilities, & so ensnares us all.