With no class to teach until the next day, Margaret was free to read the final volume of letters, but she was unable to concentrate. An uncomfortable mixture of feelings, from rage at the foolish Mag to anguish for Ashton, filled her thoughts. In a daze, she stumbled over to the dining room table, her legs wobbly from being tucked under her for so long. What she was about to do was ridiculous, but she was compelled to follow through on her instincts. She would never be able to get through the day unless she completed this one task.
Grabbing her notebook and pen, she returned to the sofa, still warm from where she had sat all night. She flipped to a clean page, free of indentations from writing on the previous page. Not allowing herself time to think it through, she began writing.
Magnolia University
August 28th
Dear Ash,
It seems impossible to me that I am writing you from so far away. I've read your letters, the wonderful, warm letters to "Mag." Forgive me, but she was not worthy of your affection to have thrown it away so carelessly. She was a dimwit.
Perhaps I write from loneliness, for I am lonely, or through some mad corner of my mind. But I feel I know you, and I want to reach out to you from my place, from my safe and distant refuge.
I am frightened, Ashton. I am away from home, I have no familiar face to turn toward. For the first time in years I miss my family so much it hurts. Not a single person here knows what happened, and I can't bear to tell them. The thought of their pity keeps me silent.
How I wish we could talk. But that, of course, is impossible. Here at your home, Rebel's Retreat, I feel your presence. It's everywhere, in the furniture, seeped into the walls, and throughout the very floors upon which you paced. I treasure the absurd notion that perhaps, if life were fair, if there were a compassionate being in heaven, we could communicate.
Strange as it may seem to you, there is a comfort in knowing that, at one time, you did exist.
Love, Margaret
Feeling very foolish, Margaret reread the letter. Yet she did not throw it in the trash can in the kitchen or crumple it into a ball. Instead, she placed it inside of the final volume of letters, the ones she would read tonight. And without a backward glance, Margaret indulged in a luxurious stretch and lumbered to the bathroom for a refreshing shower.
She had a delicious inkling that it was going to be a glorious day.
****
Twelve hours later, trudging up the front lawn of Rebel's Retreat in the pouring rain, limping on a broken sandal, her glorious day' had turned into one prolonged disaster.
After her brisk morning shower she walked to campus to check her mailbox, where she found a large envelope. It was a wedding invitation from Andy McGuire, her last serious boyfriend. Although she hadn't seen Andy in over two years, she still thought about him on occasion, wondering how he was faring in Alaska, where he had been sent to do research on Arctic wildlife. There had always been a comforting feeling in the knowledge that if she ever really, really wanted him back, she could hop on a plane and head straight to Anchorage. He had declared undying, if uninspired, love to her. If worse came to worse, she needn't be alone.
But old faithful Andy had somehow gotten himself engaged. She checked the date of the wedding and realized he was already married—the invitation was for the middle of July. Whoever sent Margaret the engraved invitation was clearly trying to let her know that Andy was no longer available.
Then Margaret ran into Brad Skinner, who told her, in clipped tones and no uncertain terms, that the Johnson letters would eventually be published with the name Brad Skinner as editor. She was an interloper, with no right to even handle the letters; and as soon as Chet realized the truth, the work and the tenured position would go straight to Brad.
Something Margaret ate at the faculty dining hall didn't agree with her, and she began to feel ill just as she was informed by Emily that there was a required ceremony to officially open the university. Margaret was forced to sit motionless while the dean and the chancellor made welcoming statements to the new students, returning students, and faculty members.
That's when the rain began, a downpour unlike any Margaret had ever experienced. Then she learned the rest of her luggage had arrived and was waiting for her on the muddy, wet lawn of Rebel's Retreat.
The heel snapping off her sandal wouldn't have been a problem, except that the only other shoes she brought with her were sneakers and a spiffy pair of Payless vinyl pumps. They were a dark shade of purple, which was fine, since they matched the chiffon bridesmaid's dress she had been forced to wear at her classmate's wedding.
The rain had caused the luggage on the front lawn to dissolve, which wasn't surprising considering that the luggage was composed of flimsy cardboard boxes from a Manhattan liquor store. The entire time she had been at the opening ceremony, there had been five large cartons on her lawn stamped clearly with brand names such as "George Dickie" and "Captain Morgan's Rum." No wonder she had been on the receiving end of some curious stares on her way back to the cottage.
She was able to drag the boxes inside, cursing softly as the corners pulled off in her hands. By the time they were all safely, if soggily, inside, she didn't care. Yanking some of the clothing out, she hung the dampest items in the kitchen and bathroom, the rest she draped on the banister. The interior of Rebel's Retreat could now pass for a Hong Kong junk.
Margaret folded herself into a soft terry cloth robe, hanging her dripping clothes alongside the rest of her newly arrived wardrobe, and went downstairs to make herself a cup of hot tea. Her mind traveled unwillingly to Brad Skinner and his ambition to get his greedy little hands on Ashton's letters.
"They're mine," she whispered, surprised by the intensity in her voice. She was not ready to give them up. Not yet.
The hot tea bathed her face in moist steam, and she held the mug still while she closed her eyes to the mist. She walked into the dining room, remembering the silly letter she had written that morning, akin to a grown woman sending a wish list to Santa Claus. Margaret, who was known for her clear-headed, unimaginative pragmatism, had written what amounted to a love letter to a long-dead Confederate. Smiling, Margaret picked up the third volume of letters, where she had placed her note, and turned to the first page. There was nothing but the old letters in Ashton Johnson's now familiar hand.
"I must have put it in one of the other books," she murmured, slightly rattled. She clearly remembered putting the letter in the last volume. She was sure of it.
The letter was not in the other volumes, the ones she had read through last night. The canvas tote bag held nothing but the library books, and it wasn't stuck between the pages, or back in the lined notepad where she had plucked the paper to write the letter. On her hands and knees, she searched the ground floor of Rebel's Retreat, throwing open drawers, rustling through old magazines and bookshelves.
It was gone.
Margaret choked back a gnawing desire to cry. The thought of Brad Skinner finding the letter flashed through her mind, a triumphant Brad, the campus version of Eddie Haskell, holding the letter in front of Chet, proclaiming Margaret's mental instability to the entire English department.
Too stunned to think clearly, Margaret slumped into a chair in the dining room. In front of her was the third volume of letters, and she opened the cover slowly, hoping to see her own white sheet written in ballpoint pen. Instead it was a letter from Ashton.
It was another letter to Mag.
Momentarily forgetting her own search, Margaret was overwhelmed by curiosity. It was like an addictive soap opera plot. What could have caused him to write to Mag after his last and, she presumed, final letter to Mag?
The Oaks, Petersburg September 12, 1863
Dear Mag,
What in the blazes are you doing at Magnolia? There is neither student nor faculty remaining; all have been called to arms. I just received your letter and immediately sent a note to my housekeeper there, Mrs. Thaw. She is instructed to open the house and to make my hom
e as comfortable as possible for you.
To say your letter was a surprise is to undervalue its impact. There is much for me to tell you.
I am presently at home recovering from a wound I received during the July battle at Gettysburg. On the second day I received a note from your brother Tom, and it is enclosed here for you to keep. He was with my old friend Lawrence Chamberlain— you remember me speaking of him—he was my equivalent at Bowdoin College in Brunswick, Maine. Our parallel lives continue. He is now a colonel with the Union Army, the 20th Maine, and has proved to be one of their most gallant leaders. I cannot think of firing upon the likes of Tom and Lawrence, as I will lose all heart.
Your brother survived Little Round Top, Mag, but that is all I know.
Your words confuse me. What do you ask? You wish to see me, yet when last we met you offered nothing but scorn and anger. You discarded me. You beg friendship, but you laughed when last I offered my love.
I remain unchanged, Mag. Unlike you, my tenderness cannot be altered. If you are true in what you say, I can only rejoice at the change in you.
I know how difficult it is for you to speak of your family and what happened so many years ago. But I firmly maintain that if you speak of the events, you will eventually be free of the anguish that has crippled you for so long. Tell me about it. Write me of your emotions and confusion. I am here for you. Always.
Soon I return to my men, so address me thusly— any fetter will be immediately forwarded.
Also let me know how I am to address you. You signed your letter Margaret, a name you profess to have disliked from the beginning. Does the new name mean a new Mag?
I am, as always, your obedient,
Ash
P.S. The name you gave my cottage, Rebel's Retreat, is ideal, although I trust you mean "retreat" as in "refuge," not in reference to the late events at Gettysburg.
Margaret stared at the letter, afraid to move. Was it possible? Did this morning's impulsive note find its way through the years to Ashton?
Her hands trembled as she retied her bathrobe. This was crazy, nothing more than a strange, one in a million coincidence. She felt dizzy, light-headed, and more than a little spooked.
"I'm going nuts," she stated, but her voice was clear and unwavering. She reread the letter, slowly this time, with careful attention to details that might betray the truth. But upon the second reading, the tone seemed even clearer, more definite. Ashton was speaking to her.
She scanned the page but could not find the note from Mag's Union brother Tom. What had it said? Whatever the message had been, it was now lost.
Opening her spiral notebook, Margaret turned to a clean page and grasped her pen. This would prove it, she thought. This letter would be impossible to answer.
Magnolia University
Rebel's Retreat
Dear Ash,
I was alarmed to hear you were wounded at Gettysburg, but trust you have by now recovered. Could you tell me what happened? What the battle was like?
I hope you can forgive me for my behavior. But you are right—the events of my past have haunted me for so long, I no longer feel like the same person. There are mornings I awake and expect to see my mother and father, to hear the laughter of my brother and sister downstairs. Then I remember what happened and long to return to my dreams, where everyone I love is alive and well. Have I gone mad?
Magnolia is a quiet comfort now, except for the treacherous Brad Skinner. His one goal in life is to make my life miserable, and he is quite good at it.
How tall are you? What is your favorite dinner? Please excuse my questions, but I would appreciate an answer.
I still wish I could see you and speak to you. Perhaps one day we'll meet.
Until the next letter . . .
Love,
Margaret
P S you may call me whatever you wish (as I'm, you already have), but I do prefer Margaret now- I believe she's a kinder person than Mag.
With calm deliberation, Margaret placed the letter in the third volume on the second page. Before class the next morning she would check the volume and see what the letter said. She knew not to check until the morning for one simple reason
The letter from Ashton wasn't ready yet.
CHAPTER 5
Her eyes were playing tricks on her.
That was the only explanation she could come up with, the only reason for the odd sights dancing before her eyes. For the next morning, after sleeping through her alarm and bumping into a quilt rack in the bedroom, she could have sworn she saw a blue-and-white pitcher and bowl on the dresser. Margaret blinked, and it was gone—there was absolutely nothing on the dresser other than her plastic hairbrush and a tube of lip balm.
When she bent down to retrieve a pair of sneakers from under the bed, there was a brief flash of white on the wall. But when she stood up, the wall was covered with the same yellow flowered wallpaper she had always seen, tiny blossoms with small green stems. For a moment, when she was on all fours, it looked as if the wall had been whitewashed.
The whole time she stumbled through the motions of getting dressed, her mind was on the volume downstairs, wondering what she would find. By the time she was brushing her teeth, she had convinced herself that all the strange events were the product of an exhausted, overactive imagination. The letter she read yesterday, the one that seemed to speak directly to her, was simply a coincidence.
Margaret even managed to smile at herself, wondering how such a pragmatic individual could lose touch with reality. Luckily no harm had been done; she didn't tell anyone she had heard voices or become pen pals with a dead man. She had managed to go temporarily insane in the comfort and privacy of her own rented cottage.
"I'm simply overwrought," she said as she plucked some of her now dry clothes from the shower curtain rod and placed them in the bottom drawer of the dresser. Before she shut the drawer, she saw the blue-and-white pitcher again, fleetingly, just within her peripheral line of vision. This time she even saw a small chip along the edge of the bowl. And again, it was gone before she straightened—vanished, and replaced by the hairbrush and lip balm.
"I am simply overwrought," she repeated emphatically, squaring her shoulders and trying to think of the class she would be teaching in another half hour.
"I will now have a cup of coffee," she mumbled, walking down the stairs to the kitchen, anticipating the weak state of the instant coffee she bought the day before. She made a calculated effort to turn her back on the dining room while she filled the kettle with water, placed it on the burner, and slowly pulled down a mug and the small jar of instant coffee. Behind her were the letters.
There was an odd sense of anticipation pulsing through her, like a child waiting for permission to open Christmas gifts. Had anything happened during the night?
With a suddeness that caught her by surprise, Margaret spun around and walked toward the letters. She had to know. Although she had tried to convince herself that she had simply imagined everything, there was an overwhelming compulsion to find out for herself. Now.
She placed her hand on the volume, then opened it.
Her letter was gone.
A whooshing sound swirled around her, a pounding in her ears as she read the second entry from Ashton Johnson.
Near Fredricksburg October 5th, 1863 Monday evening
My dear Margaret,
Your last letter has rendered me speechless; and for that favor, my aide-de-camp, Sam Walker, wishes to thank you. I have addressed you as "Margaret" for you are no longer Mag to me. There is a warmth to you now, either I was blind ere this, or you have changed.
You have asked my details of battle, specifics of how I was wounded. Yet you have told me, in person and pen, on countless occasions, how vile and abhorrent you find such matters. So I will tell Margaret. And if Mag interlopes, she may give way to her distaste and ban my further company, for I no longer speak to Mag but to Margaret. ,
Words fail me at describing in a coherent fashion the events
of July. I recall those three days as a series of detached scenes, as in a nightmare, of screams and wails, the buzzing of minie balls, the stench of death and acrid, choking clouds of dirt and gunpowder and sulphur and heat. My voice, hoarse and unfamiliar to my own ears, rang out commands, but was inaudible in the chaotic hell. I don't know when I was wounded, for I continued upon my horse, riding the lines, trying to show our men a confidence in our position that I had not felt since the first day of battle.
I remember issuing a command to push forward, and the world began to tilt for me, and at once I could not distinguish sky from earth. I am told I slid off my mount, and I do recall a raspy voice in my ear, crazed and desperate. "The South will whip! The South will whip!" Another voice called "The general's been hit!" and I tried to ask, which general? Lee? Pickett? Longstreet? But no sound issued from my throat. A surgeon was called—and this I was told, for I do not remember—and it was ascertained a ball had passed through my right leg, about five inches below the back of my knee. By sheer luck, and the thick leather of my boots, the ball missed both bone and artery, but bled profusely nonetheless. The surgeon wanted to amputate my leg—this I do remember—but I managed to talk him out of it and said a tightly bound bandage would serve me better. He was slightly disappointed, but I knew the wound wasn't serious. Even after a considerable loss of blood, I also knew I outranked him.
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