A Quilt for Christmas (26 page)

“You can't milk with one hand,” Daniel said, rising. “I'll do it.”

“Don't need help from a Reb.” Davy clomped out. Snow had begun to fall, and cold air rushed into the room before Davy could slam the door.

Eliza slumped in her chair, while Luzena rose and began clearing dishes.

“I'll speak to him in the morning after he settles down. He's got no right to talk to you like that,” Daniel said.

“No, he's my son. I'll speak to him. He's come this far toward you, Daniel. Perhaps he won't be so hard tomorrow.”

“And if he is?” Daniel asked.

Eliza shrugged. “We'll see.”

*   *   *

Davy did not soften. In the days ahead, he refused to speak to Daniel, refused to let Daniel help with his chores, and Eliza worried that Davy would reinjure his arm as he struggled to assert himself. She talked to him. She had the right to marry, she said. Davy nodded in agreement, then told her he wouldn't oppose her marrying a Union man. Daniel had saved Davy's arm and maybe his life, she argued. Then the two men were even, Davy insisted, because she had saved Daniel's life with the quilt. The war was over. It was best to move ahead. But when Eliza told Davy that, he remained firm. How could they move ahead with a Johnnie in the house? His presence would remind them every day that the Confederates had killed Will. “I will never change my mind, Mama. Marry him, and I will leave the next day. I hate him, just as Papa hated the Rebels.”

A little more than a week later, Daniel followed Eliza into the barn and said they must talk. She seated herself in the undertaker's sleigh and looked up at him in the dim light. The day was dark, and snow had begun to fall.

“We can't go on forever like this. It tears at me, and you, too, I think. I do not believe Davy will change toward me,” Daniel said.

“No.”

“Then you have a choice to make.”

“Davy's my son.”

“And nearly a grown man. He may leave you one day whether you marry or not.”

Eliza ran her hand over the words
EMBALMERS OF THE DEAD
written on the side of the sleigh. She had never gotten around to painting them out. “This is the only home he's ever known. How can I make him leave?”

“Then you've made your choice.”

“Have I?” Eliza looked up at Daniel. “I don't want to choose.”

“Then I will. I love you, Eliza, but a marriage between us would have no chance if your son is opposed to it. I think we could have had a good life together, but that seems impossible now. It's best I leave.”

“Leave?” Eliza stood and brushed straw off her apron. “When?”

“Now. Tomorrow, today even.”

“So soon?” Eliza felt tears in her eyes. “Couldn't you wait? You could be here until spring. If Davy hasn't changed his mind by then…”

“And leave my heart out there to be stepped on? No. If it's not to be, then I'll go now.” He reached into the sleigh, took her hands in his and pulled her toward him, then kissed her. “I have loved you,” he said.

“And I you.”

Daniel looked at her a long time. Then without another word, he left the sleigh and went out into the snow, the barn door swinging shut behind him. Eliza stared at it a long time, stared at the light that came through the cracks between the boards. Then she wrapped her tattered shawl around herself and went out into the storm. She felt the snowflakes sting her face as the wind swirled the snow around her. Maybe the storm would keep Daniel there one more day, she thought as she went inside the house to help Luzena prepare the evening meal.

Supper was as strained as it had been on Daniel's first days on the farm. Luzena chattered, but Davy refused to speak, while Daniel and Eliza tried without much luck to keep a conversation going. The meal was conducted in silence, punctuated only by the wind blowing against the house.

“The snow should stop by morning,” Luzena said.

Daniel and Eliza looked at each other, but were silent, and Luzena, not understanding, ceased talking. As soon as supper was finished, Daniel rose, saying he had things to do before going to bed. “I'll check the chickens and the animals,” he told Davy.

“Suit yourself,” Davy replied.

Daniel did not look at Eliza as he rose, but when he opened the door, he turned to her and she saw a look of longing on his face. Was that same look on hers?

After the door closed, Davy looked up and said, “Riddance.”

“Be still,” Eliza told him.

*   *   *

The next day, Daniel was gone. He left no note. In fact, there was no trace of him at all in the soddy. Eliza wasn't sure when he had left, but she knew it was after the snow stopped, because she could see his tracks, which went from the soddy to the barn and then down the lane.

“Most likely he took the mule,” Davy said, when Eliza told him that Daniel had moved on.

“He was only checking the animals a last time. He is an honorable man—just like your father,” Eliza told him. She said she would do the milking and went out to the barn herself, thinking Daniel might have left some word of farewell for her there. The mule and the cow and the horse had been fed. Daniel had forked fresh straw into the stalls. The tools hung from the wall in rows where he had left them. Eliza glanced around and took in the work Daniel had done. He had repaired the buggy top, replaced the seat on the wagon, rebuilt the manger. This was Will's barn, but Daniel had left his mark on it. She placed the stool behind the cow and began milking, watching the warm liquid stream into the pail, thinking that only the night before Daniel had sat on that stool, milking the cow.

In a little while, Davy came into the barn and said, “I can do the milking now, Mama.”

“You'll hurt your arm. I'll do it until you're mended.”

“We don't need that old Secesh. You'll see. We can manage just fine. I'm glad he's gone. Think of Papa. Remember how he hated the Rebs.”

Eliza did not respond. She had a great desire to be alone, to lie down in the hay and cover herself with it. But in time, she picked up the pail and went out into the gray of morning.

*   *   *

When she returned to the house, Eliza took out her piecing. Sewing had always soothed her, so she removed the square that Clara had left and laid it on the table. She had been holding it when she first saw Daniel, and she had not picked it up since. She had thought then to use it as the center of a quilt and surround it with squares and triangles. Now, Eliza took scraps out of her bag and laid them around the quilt to see which colors went best with the square. But she could not concentrate, and the house oppressed her, so despite the cold, Eliza went back outside. She fed the chickens and broke the ice in the water trough. She went into the barn, climbed the ladder to the hayloft, and pushed hay down onto the barn floor. Then she stood at the haymow door, looking out across the white fields, looking in the direction Daniel had taken. But he had left hours earlier, and there was no sign of him. She stood there while her hands and feet grew cold, and her face was red from the wind and the blowing snow.

In a little while, Davy came out of the house, and Eliza watched him as he looked around, at the fields, the chicken coop, then hurried toward the barn. He did not see Eliza standing in the open doorway in the loft until he was halfway there, and then he held up a paper and shouted something, but his words were lost in the wind. Perhaps Daniel had left a note after all, maybe in the soddy, but what did it matter? He was gone.

Eliza did not leave her place. She stayed in the doorway, still staring out at the white fields, while Davy climbed the ladder, then came up next to her. “Look, Mama,” he said. She glanced down at the paper in his hand, a letter. Daniel had indeed written something to her, but she did not care.

“The letter,” Davy said.

“Yes,” Eliza replied, but did not take it. Instead, she reached for a piece of hay and shredded it. What could Daniel write that they hadn't already said to each other?

“It's Papa's letter.”

“What?” Eliza's head jerked up, and she felt tears come into her eyes.

“His last letter, the one Papa wrote just before he died.”

Eliza looked at the letter that Davy had unfolded. “You read it? You read your father's last letter? How dare you, Davy! It was mine. I never intended to open it. I could not bear to read his words, knowing he died only hours, maybe even minutes after he wrote them. How could he have known he'd die that day?”

“But he did,” Davy said. “He knew. Read it, Mama.”

Eliza snatched the letter from her son and clutched it to her breast. “No, I couldn't.”

“Please, Mama.”

Eliza closed her eyes and shook her head.

“You have to.”

Eliza looked down at the writing. In the gloom of the barn she could not make out the words. She turned toward the light, and holding on to the door frame, she held up the paper. But there were tears in her eyes, and the words were blurry. “Read it to me then if you must,” she said.

Eliza thought she saw Davy's eyes glisten, too, but the light was dim, and perhaps she was wrong. Davy took the letter and cleared his throat.

December 19, 1864

Beloved Wife

They say we will do battle tomorrow & I cannot sleep. No, I do not fear the fight. At first, I worried that I would not be up to the mark & would turn coward. But I believe I have proved myself in the past weeks.

Davy looked up at Eliza, who said, “I had no such doubt. He was always a brave man.”

I have got so I can sleep pretty well anyplace, but tonight is different. Sometimes the soldiers have a premonition that they will die, so spend the night before the fighting writing their last letters. I myself have not felt that way before, but tonight is different & so I sit by the campfire writing to you.

Eliza, if I die, they will tell you it was for a noble cause, that I was happy to make the sacrifice. Do not believe them. I do not want to die for any reason & I no longer believe in this cause. In the beginning, I thought that ours was a God-ordained undertaking, one that was worth my life, if it came to that. I believed there were things worth more than life & peace. But now that I have seen war & the suffering it brings, I am not so sure of myself. Those of us fighting are just men who want to go home & I believe now that the Johnnies are no different from us & perhaps more honorable, because they are fighting for their homes. One thing I know is that war is not noble. When I joined up, I hated all Southerners, hated them for a long time & wished you & Davy & Luzena to hate them, too. But now I know that hate is wrong. It is not God's way. It is forgiveness we need. I want the Johnnies to forgive me for invading their land, as I forgive them for fighting against the Union.

Davy stopped and looked up at his mother, but Eliza was staring out at the snow.

Two days ago, after we camped, I went into the woods, believing I had spotted a black walnut tree & thinking the nuts would be a treat, for I remember your candy made with the nutmeats. I took my gun with me, because I knew the enemy was about. So when I heard a noise, I raised my gun & turned & there was a Rebel, holding his gun on me.

“Hello, Billy Yank,” he said & I replied, “Hello, Johnnie Reb.”

“Well, I guess I have got you,” he told me & I told him back, “And I have got you.”

We stood like that for a time, our guns pointed at each other, until the Reb said, “I propose we call a truce & have us a confab.” Before I could answer, he put down his gun & grinned at me.

Eliza blinked back tears. “I can just picture him,” she said.

Now, Eliza, I could have laid him aside right there, shot him through the heart & some would say it was my duty to do it, but I am not made that way. It would not have been right. So I set aside my gun & we squatted down & talked.

“This is better land for a farm than a battle,” he told me.

“Any place is better for farming than fighting,” I said.

“You got that right, Yank.”

Why, we sat there & talked for a good half hour. He was just an uneducated sandlapper & I doubt he could read or write, but he was a good fellow & he took out an apple, shined it on his pants & we shared it. He showed me his wife's picture & I showed him yours. After a while, we shook hands & wished each other good luck. I suppose I should have held my gun on him & backed away for fear he would use me up, but I trusted him. It bothers at me now that I might face him on the battlefield tomorrow & have to kill him. I do not want to ever kill a man again. Now, you will say I have soldier's heart & perhaps I do. But I want to be done with killing as I am with hating & I want you to be done with hating, too.

If I fall in the battle tomorrow, I do not want you to live out your days with abomination in your heart. Don't, don't be sad, Eliza. Remember me as a husband who loved you as much as my life, but do not live the rest of yours like a bird without a mate.

It is nearly dawn & there are other campfires now & soon there will be furious drumming, so I must end. I hope you never see this letter, for if you do, it will mean that I am no longer with you. But if you receive it—when you receive it—know that I love you deeply & that I count our time together as blessed. I am sorry only that we will not live out our years together. And that I never bought you a gold ring with a ruby in it.

Davy's voice was ragged, and tears streamed down his face—and Eliza's—now. “Is that all?” she asked when he did not continue.

“Only a little more.”

Davy is nearly a man now. Keep him from this war. I do not want him to know the hardness that comes of it. Raise up our children to be worthy of you & I would like to think worthy of me, too. My final wish if I do not return is that you put aside grief & find happiness.