Billy Boy (32 page)

Elijah had never seen a sight more beautiful, and he tried to imagine the green forest ablaze with color. He listened to the sound of water rushing below.

“You'll pick up the Saco River near the bottom of the Notch. Follow her like your best friend,” Carleton had cautioned. “She gets her water from the mountains and flows nice and easy to the sea. Reckon it's about a three-day walk from here. Once you see that blue Atlantic, you'll find the railroad
nearby—follow the tracks south. Berwick's not but a day's walk from where the Saco River ends her run.”

The cool forests offered Elijah comfort against the late summer warmth, and the old man, who seemed to enjoy fussing over him, had packed his knapsack full of dried meat and carrots and tomatoes fresh picked from his garden. Elijah drank from the clear mountain-fed river and rested under the shade of the birches leaning delicately over its banks. Slowly the White Mountains faded behind him, and he watched with fascination the river cutting through tall and flowering grasslands, flattening at last into an expanse of sand and marsh rolling into the sea. It was his first look at the ocean. He wanted to stay and study it longer, but he didn't want to delay. Maybe Billy would take him back here to see it some more. He found the railway tracks easily, and hurried off on the last leg of his journey. Children playing on the tracks told him he was in Berwick. Giggling and staring, the children gave him directions to Cranberry Meadow Road.

The road climbed a long hill. Stone walls edged the roadside, and leafy maple trees cooled the way from the heat of the summer sun. When he reached the crest, Elijah stopped to catch his breath and, wiping the sweat from his brow, scanned the forested valley below. He saw the Little River; Billy had described it well. A small lane, almost hidden by the pines, branched off the main road just before the bridge. Elijah's heart thumped rapidly, his legs pulsed as he raced down the hill. The lane cut a path to a white clapboard farmhouse.

Before he reached the house, Elijah brushed the dust from his trousers and tucked his shirt into his waist. He heard a door slam shut, then footsteps racing down the porch steps. Above a
hedge of rosebushes, Elijah glimpsed a sandy brown head moving his way.

“Billy, suh!” he shouted. “Elijah here!”

A blue-eyed child peeked slowly around the bush and then took a cautious step forward, one hand clutching a wooden toy.

Elijah gasped at the child's striking resemblance to Billy. “You must be Jamie, suh?”

With a frightened look, the boy drew back. He said nothing.

Elijah glanced at the toy clutched in the boy's hands. A fish. With a spear in its belly.

“Billy, suh, go and whittle that fish you got in your hand?”

Blue eyes flashed back at him. The child grimaced; looking down at the carving, he hastily whisked it behind his back.

Across the farmyard a door opened and slammed. Jamie turned and ran.

Elijah looked away. A sense of unease welled inside him. He stared out across the fields. Finally, Elijah got up his nerve to walk to the porch. Standing in a patch of sunlight, Elijah stood at the foot of the steps.

From the porch railing, John Laird stared down at him, his eyes hard and piercing.

“Mistah Laird?”

“Who are you?”

“Elijah, Mistah Laird.”

“Elijah? Billy's—I'll be damned!” Calling out to his wife, John Laird nearly stumbled as he hurried down the steps.

“Never thought—Elijah—well, I'm mighty glad to see you,” John said, extending his hand. “You come all this way—from Canada?”

“Yes, suh. Elijah keep his promise to Billy, suh.”

The smile vanished from John's face.

Nothing was as Elijah expected. And where was Billy?

Then the missus came down the steps and smiled. “I'm Billy's ma. It's good to finally meet you, Elijah,” she said. “Come, sit with us.” Elijah turned to Billy's pa, relieved to see him nod and motion him up the steps. But Jamie darted past him and out of sight, disappearing behind a pile of wood stacked on the porch.

“Don't pay no mind to Jamie—he ain't doing so good right now,” John Laird said as he reached for a matchbox from his shirt pocket. With a trembling hand he lit the match against the heel of his boot. “Thing is, we're all having a hard time right now. Elijah, have a seat.”

Elijah sat down on a rocker and stirred nervously while Billy's pa took a long draw on his pipe.

“Billy's gone from us,” said John Laird, his voice cracking.

“Gone, Mistah Laird?”

“Army shot him—near a month ago.”

“Oh, no, suh!” Elijah leaped from the rocker, stumbled across the porch, and ran down the steps. Instinct told him to run, but fear and shock overcame him, and he found himself unable to move. Bile churned in his stomach. He didn't know how long he stood there, his mind blurring with images of Billy. Finally he pressed his fingertips hard against his temples.

Elijah felt an arm across his back, and he knew it was Billy's ma. He felt her softness as she pulled him close. He stiffened but did not pull away.

“Billy talked about you often, Elijah. Said you would come here someday.” Martha Laird patted him gently on his back before she released her hold and stared into his face. “Come, let me show you something.”

Unsure of what to do or say, yet warmed by her softness, Elijah followed Billy's ma across the barnyard. Stopping at the
fence, she pointed to the sweeping meadow beyond. Elijah stared at the field sprinkled with patches of clover. What was it she wanted him to see?

“On clear nights Billy would lie down on his back, even on the snow, and stare up at those stars—near an hour sometimes. Said that was his way of talking to you.”

Elijah swallowed hard and stared at the empty meadow. He turned his head and looked at Billy's ma. Grief was etched in deep lines across her otherwise pretty face.

“When night come, Elijah go into the fields, missus. Just like Billy, suh. Elijah talk to him just the same.”

She offered a wan smile, and he thought he saw a sparkle in the paleness of her blue eyes. Billy's eyes. “He my friend, missus.”

“I'm not sure Billy could have made it home if he hadn't met up with you. Billy thought you was mighty special.”

“He first white folk ever nice to Elijah.”

The sun dipped behind a bank of clouds and painted the meadowland black, mirroring the darkness Elijah felt in his soul as he stepped back onto the porch and sat on the edge of the rocking chair. He glanced up at Billy's pa as he started telling Elijah what had happened to Billy.

“We wrote to President Lincoln while Billy was in jail, asking for a pardon—well, what with Billy's learning problems …,” said Martha Laird.

“Oh, Billy, suh, he act more like a chile sometime, yes, missus. Elijah have to tell him what to do after a while.”

Billy's ma nodded. “His friend Harry also wrote a letter to Mr. Lincoln,” she said, clutching her chest. “We hear that Mr. Lincoln granted Billy a pardon, only word didn't arrive in time to save him.”

“Why that, missus?”

“We understand the Irish rioted in New York against the draft—seized all the telegraph lines. Nothing got through,” said John Laird as he leaned over in his rocker and tapped his pipe against the railing. “Riots only lasted three days, but they cost my son his life.”

Elijah leaned his elbows on his knees, rested his head in his hands, and let out a huge sigh. “Mistah Still, he say Billy wear the badge of honor—from the colored folks. And now he dead.”

“Whatever do you mean?” asked Martha Laird with a puzzled look.

“Elijah running from the slave catchers a long time. Then Elijah can't run no mo'. God almost take Elijah home. But Billy, suh, he come along. Elijah think he a slave catcher and fall in the creek. But Billy, suh, he save me, and then he go and build a fire and keep Elijah warm. Elijah wake and find Billy, suh's, jacket over him.”

Billy's pa leaned forward in his chair. “He did tell us he took care of you.” Elijah nodded. “Billy, suh, he take care of me good.” He heard a low cry from behind the woodpile and turned as Jamie crept into sight.

Martha Laird buried her face in her hands.

“Well, now, Elijah,” said John Laird as he stared vacantly into the sky. “I guess you just made us mighty proud today.” Leaning over in his chair, he glanced at Jamie. “Son, did you hear what your big brother done?”

With a quick nod, Jamie stole a glance at Elijah before he plopped to the floor, turned his head, and began rocking back and forth.

“Elijah,” said Billy's ma, “would you like to see where he's buried?”

“Yes, missus. Elijah want to see where Billy, suh, sleep now.” Rising from the chair he walked slowly toward Jamie and, bending down, hands on his knees, spoke in a near whisper.

“Jamie, suh, want to go with Elijah?”

For an instant Jamie stilled, this time studying Elijah's face with curious innocence. Elijah could almost hear the questions rising in the child's throat and, feeling encouraged, waited for a response. But none came.

“Mebbe Elijah come and talk later.”

The garden was still lush with late summer flowers sprouting among the dry stalks of earlier blooms, their pods withered and empty of seeds. Elijah watched the missus pick only a single red-and-white flower. As if reading his mind, she turned to him and smiled. “Sweet William. Billy always liked this flower.”

“Elijah thinkin' he gone an' upset Jamie, suh,” he said finally, out of sight of the child.

“No, Elijah,” responded Billy's pa. “Jamie ain't been right since Billy died. Ain't said but a dozen words this past month. Doc says we got to be patient. Says he'll come around when he's ready.”

“Jamie loved his big brother,” said Martha Laird, twirling the Sweet William in her hand. “They had so much fun together. Like you said, Billy was more like a child at times. Then, when I hear you tell about what happened at the creek, I know there was a grown man inside him, too.”

At the crest of the hill, they walked into a grove of birch trees that arched like a green-and-white canopy bed over a mound of earth. Billy's grave was marked with a wooden cross.

Raising the hem of her skirt and bending down to her knees, Billy's ma gently placed the sprig of Sweet William on the grave. Twigs scattered by the wind littered the site, and leaning over,
John Laird gathered them and tossed them aside. Then he turned back, straightened the cross, and patted the earth.

“Elijah, son, you stay here long as you please,” he said. “I'm needing to take a walk now, along the riverbank, before we head on back to the farm.”

He fidgeted at his pocket for his pipe. “Mrs. Laird will be fixing a good supper before long. We'd both be right pleased if you'd stay on at the farm for a while. It's what Billy would have wanted.” Looping a hand through his wife's arm, John Laird helped her to her feet. “You think on it, Elijah.”

Elijah nodded and offered a slight smile before he sat down on the ground beside the grave. Under the birches, finally, he cried.
Oh, Billy, suh. Here we be by a river again. Elijah don't know what to do, Billy, suh. Elijah wanted to stay with you for a time, and maybe Elijah think you come to Canada with him. Now what Elijah do?
Through the long winter and spring of his new life, Elijah had longed for summer, so he could go to Maine and find Billy, and maybe, just maybe, become part of a family. Never had he wanted anything more. Now he was all alone again.

He sat unmoving by the grave through the rest of the afternoon, watching the fields turn pink and yellow as the sun lowered. Perhaps he would stay for supper. Finally, he raised himself from the ground and stretched. He stared at the grave one last time. His head bowed, he uttered a simple prayer and whispered good-bye. He decided to walk to the river.

Maidenhair ferns flanked the riverbank. Picking up a stone, he tossed it into the middle, lost in his memories.

“What'd you do that for?” A child's voice called out behind him.

Elijah froze, wondered if he should turn around, afraid that the skittish child might retreat from him. He hesitated, then
leaned over, and without glancing over his shoulder, picked up another stone and fingered it in his hands.

“See how far it go,” he finally answered.

Moments passed in awkward silence.

“I can throw one far as I want.”

Elijah stood still and from the corner of his eye, noticed the child's arms held behind his back, hiding something. He hesitated, then rolled back his arm and hurled the stone, listening to the hollow thump as it landed on a log floating in the middle of the river.

“Ain't so far,” Jamie said. “I can throw one clear across.”

“That so?”

“Yeah.”

Elijah offered a slight glance and a nod of his head. “Mebbe you show Elijah how far you throw.” He reached for a stone on the forest floor, turned, and held it out to him.

“Ain't wantin' to right now.”

Elijah nodded, all the while rolling the stone in his palm.

“Billy could throw it clear across the river and then some,” said Jamie. “I seen him do it. Threw it so far it went right through them trees and clear past that stone wall.”

“Yes, suh, that be far, all right.” Elijah let the stone fall through his fingers and drop to the ground, and then he placed his hands in his pockets. He stepped closer to the riverbank and hesitated. “Billy, suh, he talk a lot about you. He say Jamie, suh, right smart.”

He heard the child take a step forward. A twig snapped beneath his feet.

“Billy said that?”

Jamie came up beside him and, placing a hand firmly on his trouser leg, squeezed the cloth. “What else did my brother say?”

“Billy, suh, he tell Elijah lots of things, like you playin' checkers. He say one time you go and turn all the hay for him when he run off to town. He say Jamie, suh, do his chores from time to time so he don't get no whuppin'.”