Healing Grace (26 page)

Several days, and a good thirty miles had been marched before Etienne realized Rose and her children were following. They’d finagled a spare tent from one of the men, and Rose was offering services to the troops—laundry, boot cleaning, anything they needed. The day Etienne came upon her she was shaving one of the men.

Because Rose was petite and pretty, Etienne worried his troops would be tempted to take more than she offered—some of them were rough sorts. Not only that, but the children needed shelter with heat, so he moved Rose and her youngsters to his tent.

Their marriage took place two weeks later, as soon as they reached Fort Berthold. It was there that the regiment planned to weather out the worst of the winter, and it was there, two months later, that Rose’s husband showed up.

The trapper found Etienne and Rose in bed together—
sleeping
, Etienne added for clarity—and was so incensed he brandished his dissecting tool, which conveniently happened to be hanging from his belt. Fortunately Etienne awoke in time. In the struggles that ensued, he was able to prevent a more deadly impaling. Still he was in pain and bleeding badly, so it wasn’t long before the trapper had him subdued.

To this day, Etienne still didn’t understand why the trapper didn’t finish what he’d started. Instead he went after Rose. Despite his condition, Etienne managed to get up. He tried to intervene, to protect Rose. She, however, didn’t want his protection. She told the trapper she despised Etienne, that he’d forced her to marry him, and she raised the musket—his musket.

The shoulder wound sent him sprawling. He was still on the ground when the second ball struck. All he could do was watch as Rose grabbed the satchel—the one with all his money in it—and took off, the trapper on her heels.

The gunfire had alerted the troops, but the officers’ quarters where Etienne was, were a distance. By the time the men barged in, Rose and her trapper husband were long gone. They’d left their children behind.

The next thing Etienne remembered was being in the fort infirmary. Once the ball was removed from his shoulder—the one in his side had gone clean through—those wounds healed well enough, but the gash from the hook became infected. For weeks he was bedbound, able to do little more than lift his head, and even that miniscule movement was painful.

This was where Etienne stopped, and he did so purposely, because this was where Julien entered the picture. He didn’t know what would be better… to tell Constance what Julien had done, or say nothing of Julien’s involvement. His stalling, however, gave an opportunity for Constance to comment.

“I can only imagine how devastated you must have been,” she said, sounding not just sympathetic, but also angry. “What Rose did to you was unbelievable. Did you go after her when you were well again? Did she and her husband go to prison for what they did? Do you think she planned it all along?”

“Funny you should ask,” he said. “Yes, I believe she had me duped from the beginning, but I didn’t want anything more to do with her. It was bad enough I was still married to her.”

“But she shouldn’t have gotten away with it. That’s not fair,” Constance said. “And what do you mean you were still married to her? Since she was already married, your marriage to her wouldn’t have been legitimate. It wouldn’t have been legal.”

“Thanks to Julien, she didn’t get away with it. Neither of them did,” Etienne murmured, and then he went on…

At the time Etienne didn’t know how Julien had found out about his injuries. All he knew was one day he woke and his brother was there, sitting by the bed, praying. It was Julien who encouraged Etienne to get well again. It was Julien, along with the posse he put together, who went after Rose and the trapper. After catching and arresting them, it was Julien who discovered Rose and the trapper had never officially been married. That meant her marriage to Etienne was her only marriage, which made it legal and binding. Julien contacted their brother, Adrien. Adrien, a practicing attorney in Washington, arranged for Etienne’s divorce.

Rose and the trapper did go to prison. By now, however, they’d been released. Etienne didn’t know where they were, or what had happened to them. His guess was they’d headed west.

Constance asked quietly, “What about the children?”

“Adrien and Julien took care of them, too. Adrien found a couple—nice folks—who couldn’t have children of their own. They took the young ones in and raised them. Adrien has kept tabs on them all these years. Julien ensured they had funds for their educations. They’re grown now, with families of their own. Because of Adrien and Julien, they’ve had good lives.”

Etienne watched Constance’s ever-changing expressions—the sorrow, the shock, the empathy—and he wasn’t sure what more to say except, “My brothers are honorable men—better men than me.”

“That’s not true,” she said firmly. “I haven’t met Adrien of course, and I’m sure you’re right. He’s an honorable man, just as Julien is, but so are you, Etienne. You tried to do the right thing by marrying Rose. You did it to protect her and her children. If money was her motivation, didn’t she realize as the wife of a colonel, she would have been much better off financially than she could ever be with a trapper? With you, she could have lived a life of luxury.”

Etienne smirked. “I wasn’t a colonel then. At that time, I was still a captain. Because I was integrated Southern military, it took a while for the Yankees to get comfortable enough to promote me. Since then though, they’ve been generous.”

“Oh,” she murmured. “May I ask, did you love Rose?”

“I thought I did,” Etienne admitted. “But that was before Julien met Jessica.”

“I don’t understand.” Constance’s brow furrowed curiously.

“Neither did I, back then,” Etienne told her. “I didn’t love Rose the way I should have, not the way a man is supposed to love his wife, but I didn’t realize it. I didn’t understand what was meant by two people destined to be together until I saw it unfold with Jessie and my brother.”

Etienne shrugged because he really didn’t know how to explain it. Instead he said, “I know I’ve been filling your head for hours, but if you’ll permit me, I’d like to share one more story. Then I promise to shut up and give you a turn to talk.”

Constance laughed lightly. “Of course I don’t mind, and I definitely want to hear more about your other brother, Adrien, the attorney.” More solemnly, she added, “I like listening to you, Etienne. I’m glad you shared what you did, and I thank you for trusting me.”

Etienne had to blink and blink again, but this time it wasn’t to get himself out from under agonizing memories. It was because of Constance’s heartfelt sincerity—sincerity that couldn’t possibly be faked, though he knew it was. She just seemed so genuine, so real.

He had to clear his throat. Then he said, “Sam calls my recurring visions an affliction. He thinks I’m borderline insane. And I think sometimes maybe he’s right, because I have another one that haunts me as often as the others. In it, I see a man’s hand over a woman’s and their fingers are entwined like this…” To demonstrate, he took Constance’s hand and curled his fingers tightly through hers. Then he continued, “The odd part is that my memory—this vision—isn’t accurate. What I see in my head didn’t actually happen. It couldn’t have.”

“What do you mean?” she said.

“Let me tell you this story. It’s about Julien and Jessie. It’s about the day Julien died…”

“Sustenance”

Soft and sweet, precious beings, I follow, they lead,

By their playful strike I scratch and bleed.

New rows of sun-drenched life, colors abound,

But this familiar labor wearies and I fall to the ground.

I cleave to these, meant to sustain,

but all that occurs is unintentional pain.

Comrades in white, offering friendship I desire,

Yet I’m mortified by their brutal, ugly fire.

Almighty guidance, you answer with relief,

I am ashamed, but still can’t find belief.

I have sought after these, meant to sustain,

but all I gain is condemning pain.

Like a cat, she coddles, she struggles, in despair,

While her ordeal rests in peace, I am beyond repair.

Like a snake, he coils and strikes with destructive bite,

While he crouches in wait, too feeble am I for flight.

Eternally honored, meant to sustain,

but all I hold is culpable pain.

Carried with me far and wide, this treasure is my only prize,

This trusted image aches inside, my affliction to realize,

I wilt, out of reach, there is no choice but penance,

And I learn, from now on, pain shall be my sustenance.

It was the largest Klan rally the boy had ever attended. More than five hundred men was his guess, all adorned in white robes and hoods. Most of them were standing around in small groups, talking amongst themselves. He’d been with his friends for a while, but he told them he needed to relieve himself so he could get away. The spot he picked was on a rise of ground under a tree. From there, even though dusk had fallen, he could see everything.

He wasn’t a boy anymore. He was a man, and a member of the Klan. In the Klan he’d found comradery. He was popular and funny. His friends liked his jokes. For the first time in his life no one ridiculed him. Instead he was sought out, and more often than not, had the upper hand. This was especially true when it came to one of the Klan’s many missions—scaring darkies. For these ventures, he was quick to volunteer. Having that kind of power was highly appealing. His life was better now than it had ever been. Oh yes, he liked the Klan a great deal.

What he didn’t like was being at home, but he went there every day to work the fields because it was the only way he could earn money. On the rare nights he didn’t find a spare bed, or a couch at a friend’s house, he slept in the barn loft, along with his small stash of belongings, and the cats.

Once a week his father left his earnings on the shelf in the barn. This was a good arrangement because he didn’t have to see the man at all. He didn’t see his mother either, but he heard her. He heard them both. The thumps and crashes that came from inside the house were accompanied by booming roars and shrill screams. When he heard them, the boy just went farther out into the fields. He didn’t owe his mother anything. For years, she’d ignored his cries.

The money his father gave him wasn’t much, but it was enough to pay for girls. He knew who the loose girls in town were. There were two he saw regularly. Neither of them were particularly attractive, but he didn’t care about that. He didn’t really look at them anyway. The only thing he cared about was fucking. His life wasn’t perfect, but all things considered, he was pretty darn happy.

A rootless, mossy spot under the tree beckoned him to sit, lean back and close his eyes. He wasn’t there long though, when the sound of voices awakened him. Three Klansmen were coming toward him. The man in the middle had his arms draped around the shoulders of the other two, and it looked like they were dragging him.

The boy wasn’t as naïve as he used to be. The middle man’s hooded head was bobbing like he wasn’t capable of holding it up on his own. That meant he was wounded, ill or drunk, and the first option, considering the company, was unlikely. As the three drew near, the middle man’s ailment became obvious. His companions were making fun of him.

One of them said to the boy, “Would you mind keeping an eye on our buddy here? We’ll come back for him later, when he’s sobered up.”

They didn’t give the boy a chance to reply. They let go of the man, and he dropped, landing, arms splayed wide, near the boy’s feet.

As he watched the two others saunter away, the boy’s nostrils flared. The stench coming off the drunk was overwhelming. The boy didn’t want to move, but he couldn’t stand that cloying whiskey smell. Besides, even though this was a fellow Klansman, the boy didn’t know him personally. He had no obligation. He started to get up, to leave the drunk and find a new spot to rest, but then he saw the man grab at his hood and yank.

“I… can’t… breathe,” he mumbled.

The Klansman’s attempt to remove the covering failed miserably. All he managed to do was twist the garment so the eye holes were no longer over his eyes. His nose was sticking through one of them and the other revealed part of his forehead. The boy smirked.

The drunk groaned and repeated, “I can’t breathe.”

The boy wanted to ignore him. He even started to walk away, but a dash of conscience made him turn back. Hunkered down beside the drunk, he reached for the man’s hood. “Here, fool. Like this. Lift your head up.”

The drunk’s face appeared before him and the boy dropped the face flap like it seared his fingers. In an instant he was on his feet, backing away. He knew that face very well—a face he never expected to see again—the colonel.

“Am I dreaming?” As if suddenly sober, the colonel sat up and shoved the entire hood off his head. “Is that you? Tell me it’s you.”

The boy swallowed. His own hood was still on, so the colonel couldn’t see him. He’d recognized the boy solely by the sound of his voice.

“I don’t know who you think I am,” the boy said, “but you’re mistaken.”

“I knew you would forget me,” the colonel said. “I told you so. Do you remember? Let me see your face. Please, just let me see you.”

The boy didn’t want to comply, but he did. He pulled his hood off and let it fall to the ground. He had to remind himself that the colonel wasn’t a colonel any longer. He was just a farmer, and apparently a member of the Klan, but that was no surprise. There weren’t many men in Tennessee who weren’t.

The colonel’s hand shot out and the boy recoiled. “Don’t!” he said, but he was too late. The colonel’s fingers curled into the hem of his robe.

He had only ever seen the colonel cry that one time, five years ago, but he thought, by the way the colonel’s features skewed, he was going to cry right then.

“I thought you didn’t like whiskey,” the boy said.

In an instant, the upset in the colonel’s expression changed to one of blank boredom. When he spoke his voice was a slurred drawl. “Now I do. I drink every day. As soon as I get up, and all day long until I go to bed again. Whiskey is my best friend.”

“You stink,” the boy said.

“You can’t stand that smell,” the colonel said. “I remember.”

“Does your wife mind that you drink so much?”

“She hates me. The children hate me. They all hate me, but I don’t care. I don’t care about anything anymore.” The colonel closed his eyes and his body swayed.

This was enough for the boy. His heart was thumping. The sweat on his palms was making them itch. The only thing he wanted to do was run. He kicked out to dislodge the colonel’s hold, but it didn’t work. The colonel’s fingers just fisted tighter into the boy’s robe.

“Don’t go. Please, please don’t go,” the colonel begged.

“I have no interest in hearing about how pathetic your life has become. I don’t give a shit,” the boy said.

“I thought… I thought…” The colonel looked like he was going to cry again. “All these years, I thought… oh god… you look so good. Sit down. Please. Stay here with me. Tell me about your life. Tell me how you are. You never wrote to tell me where you went. Where did you go? Where do you live?”

The boy wanted to go. He wanted to get as far away as possible, but he couldn’t, not with the colonel’s fist bunched in his hem. “I went home,” he said.

“What? Why? Why did you go back there?”

“I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

“Why did you leave the money I gave you behind? You would have been okay if…” the colonel’s words trailed off. Hesitantly he asked, “Has he hurt you? Are you alright?”

“He doesn’t pay attention to me anymore.”

“Oh, thank God.”

The boy kicked again, harder this time, but again he couldn’t get away. “What do you care?” he spat. “You don’t care about anything anymore, except your whiskey.”

“I didn’t know where you were.” The colonel’s tone was wretched. “I searched for you for so long, but couldn’t find you. I thought I could handle it, but I couldn’t. I missed you so much. I still do.”

“Go home to your wife. Go home to your family,” the boy said. “You chose
them
.”

“I made a mistake!” The colonel reached over and grabbed the boy’s robe with his other hand so that both his fists were clinging.

“Let go!” the boy bellowed.

“I still have your notebook,” the colonel said. “I read it every day, all the way through, from cover to cover. I know every poem you wrote by heart.”

“You’re pathetic! Let go.”

“Please, love, please…” The colonel did let go, but he didn’t move away. Instead he moved closer, wrapping his arms around the boy’s legs.

“Get off me!” The boy kicked wildly, this time with enough force to not just release the colonel’s hold, but to send him sprawling. Standing over him, with his fists clenched at his sides, the boy railed, “I’m not a fucking queer!”

The colonel flinched. “I know you’re not. But I am. I am.”

The boy spit. The wad of spittle hit the colonel in the face, on his cheek, just below his left eye. “That’s your problem, not mine,” the boy said.

He walked away, and he wasn’t going to look back. He wasn’t going to watch the colonel swipe the spit off his face. He wasn’t going to remember. He wasn’t going to think about the colonel at all.

“Don’t you want to know about Toby Two?” the colonel called out.

The boy stopped, but didn’t turn.

“He lives on my farm. My daughter takes care of him. She loves him,” the colonel said.

The boy started walking again.

“Write to me. Please write to me,” the colonel called after him. “If you need anything, anything at all, write to me and I’ll come to you. I’ll help you, no matter what. I have money. I can—”

The boy was a good ten yards away, but this time he turned around. “What help could you possibly be? You’re nothing but an old, drunk faggot. Stay away from me!”

The boy didn’t go back to the rally. He went deeper into the woods. He walked and walked. And the more he walked, the worse the thickness in his throat became. He wanted to look back, but forced himself not to. Instead he cursed the colonel for making him feel this way. He cursed him and cursed him, and still his eyes watered. He didn’t stop until the thicket became so dense he couldn’t see well enough to go any farther.

He was far away and darkness was falling, but when he turned around, through the plethora of branches he could make out the white, unmoving form on the ground. As he did every day—many times each day—the boy reached into the front pocket of his britches. Automatically his fingers and thumb ran back and forth, back and forth, over the small square piece of parchment hidden there. The same small square piece of parchment he’d taken off the colonel’s dresser four years, four months and nine days before.

Three months later, the Ku Klux Klan was disbanded.