May the Road Rise Up to Meet You: A Novel (45 page)

I gotta old shirt a’his right in th’room there
.

Tom laughs.

That thing’s almost two years old. How ya ’spect the dogs t’pick up a scent from that?

All right, all right
.

You know how he hates to look like a fool. But there’s no punching his way outta this one. Not with Tom.

But I tell ya, Tom, you boys won’ regret takin’ me in wicha for partner. I know’m, an’ I tell ya he’s comin’ this way up th’Blue Ridge. He’s ’bout as smart a nigga as I ever know’d. He’s goin’ up th’Blue Ridge all th’way t’them Yankees up in Pennsylvania
.

You smile a little now, and it’s a strange feeling. He does know you after all. You come out of the haze for a minute. Can feel the cold for the first time. Look around the place where you spent seven years of your life. But looking around only makes you madder. Thinking now about the time that’s been taken from you. The haze returning now. And it seems forever before Albert arrives with the dogs.

They’re barking like crazy, pulling him in your direction. You get the pistol out of the holster, keep the ax in your left hand for the dogs. But he stuffs them in the stable. Tells them to shut up. Then it’s the three of them together again, drinking from the jug, smoking cigars. Talking about how they’re gonna hunt you down tomorrow morning.
How the thousand dollars gold is just a bonus. How they’d do it just to put a few more stripes across your uppity shoulders. And you smile. A thousand dollars gold. Making for that same strange kinda pride you felt gettin’ sold in the first place. But there’s a different kinda reward these fellas got coming. One perfect thing. In all this mess.

Tom’s the first to step outside. Gotta do his business, the whole thing, so he can’t just lean off the end of the porch. Walks back to the outhouse with cigar in hand. And it’s easy enough to be there waiting for him when he comes out. Your knife does the job of keeping him quiet right off. Slash across the throat, then finish the job with the ax. Stuff him back inside the outhouse. Stand alongside it, your heart settling again now. Waitin’ to see who’ll come looking for him.

Twenty minutes later it’s his brother calling out from the back door. Starts walking over to the outhouse and stops. Maybe thinks about getting the dogs, from the look on his face. Then shakes his head like he can’t be bothered. Cusses his brother and stomps his way straight toward you. Doesn’t seem to notice the puddle of red you tried to cover up with fresh snow. Just goes right on and opens the door. It’s not as clean now, the way he yells before you can make him quiet. Two, maybe three good shouts before the job is finished. Dogs start barkin’ a storm now.

And then it’s the reason you came here in the first place. He’s out the back door with the shotgun in his hands, stumbling and loading it as he goes. Calling for Albert and Tom. Who won’t be answering him back anytime soon. You got the pistol to take care of things now. Let go with two shots straight off. And he’s on the ground, rolling over to his side, shotgun knocked from his hands. ’Til all that’s left is to stand over him and watch his face. That strange half-smile you can’t hold back now. Him with that look on his face. Trying to figure out how you got the best of him after all.

You a dead nigga now … shot a white man
. He says.

For his last words in this life.

And you just keep smiling. Watch him struggle to say something more. But he can’t summon the breath for it, the life draining fast from his body. You could make it faster with another shot, but this seems about right.

And the haze starts lifting again. You can hear the dogs howling. Decide it’s their time, too, with how many folks like you they hunted down. Three shots take care of them. And it’s quiet again. Across the way, you can see a light on in the front room. Hinkley’s up. Probably pissing himself, figuring his neighbor and his friends are shooting at fence posts again. Wouldn’t dare come outside, you figure.

So then it’s just the matter of dragging all the bodies into the outhouse. Covering the blood best as you can. Taking what food’s there in the house. The frying pan, too. And the shotgun with two dozen rounds.

Albert Embry’s horse looks the best of the three. So you pack your things onto him and set off. Pull the other two horses behind you. Not racing now, like on the Home Guardsman’s horse. But easy. Like nothing matters much. Deep into the woods you let the other two horses go. And then it’s on to the Blue Ridge. Only now it’s you making your own way. No something or someone else doing the riding. No haze, no fog. Only memories.

She wakes up in a shiver, her heart racing and her hands wrapped one around another, gripping a piece of the blanket that’s been gathered in a bunch like the handle of a saw. Her eyes try to take in what light can be offered in this predawn waking moment, but it’s nothing more than the trickle of moonlight through the window and the flicker of the oil lamp in the hallway glowing faintly around the seams of the door. So she lies silently in her cot until there is enough light from outside to suggest that dawn will soon be here. And comforted by it somewhat, she pushes herself up, taking her shoes and her coat, then navigates the maze of cots, most all of them occupied, until finally she is at the door. It’s then just a matter of pulling it open deftly enough to minimize the creak of the hinges, and she is safely out into the hallway, where the lamp offers a comfort of light and warmth far beyond what its tiny flame would otherwise seem to yield. And she lingers beneath it, leaning up against the wall, even after she has put on her shoes and coat, even after those too-familiar images of not long ago can be placed firmly in the past, and the realm of dreams.

Ethan is always up early, with first light most days. He says it’s from being in the army, and being a fisherman before that, and even back to working in the stables of the … 
What was the name of that aristocratic family back in Ireland?
she thinks,
back in th’Old Country?
And then she
smiles to think of the way he says it, like it’s a long-lost love he’d left behind … aahhh the Old Country.
Why don’t I ever think of España that way?
she thinks.
Only Abuela would I ever think of in that way, and I spent as much time in España as he spent in Ireland … maybe because we never suffered from The Hunger
. And she laughs to herself a little now to think of the funny way he has of calling things—The Hunger, the Father, the Old Country, the Penance, and of course, Mam and Da and Aunt Em and me brudder Seanny, and dear Aislinn rest her soul … And she starts to amuse herself now by forming sentences from the words and phrases that have warmed her own heart in these past few weeks, imagining him saying
Back in th’Old Country, before The Hunger, when it was just me and Da and Mam and Aunt Em and me brudder Seanny and dear Aislinn rest her soul, I once told a lie and had to go to the Father for the Penance, and sure didn’t he tell me t’say two Hail Marys and t’ree Ahhr Fahthers …

And now she laughs loud enough to be aware that she could be heard if there were anyone else in the hallway. But there’s no one, of course. It’s still well before five, and aside from the few nurses standing night shift in the wards, and the guards outside, there will be no one stirring for another hour at least. She walks to the end of the hallway, admiring as always the elaborate design of the woodwork, thinking about what a nice place this must have been before it was turned into a hospital.
Before it became haunted
, she thinks. Ethan said he’d heard a rumor that this was the place where General Lee once courted his wife.
Well, they’re welcome to have it back
.

She could go and find Ethan in the orderlies’ room, where he’s packed in every bit as tight as the nurses are in theirs, only with plenty more snoring and far worse smells, from what she’s heard. But even if he is awake, lying there in the cot right beside the door, the one the men insist he take because he’s always up before them, she’d rather let him at least rest his leg for a while longer. And she’ll see him soon enough besides, at the morning service—the one to celebrate the momentousness of this day.

What will Mrs. Carlisle and Catherine be doing today?
she thinks.
The Ladies Abolition Society will be in all its glory
. But still, she’d rather be here. For now.

She walks into one of the wards, the beautiful dining room that
must have held some grand parties in the days before the war, and there is Kerry, fighting to keep herself awake so late in her shift.

“Good morning, Kerry,” Marcella whispers. But it’s loud enough to wake her from a half slumber in a start.

“Good mahrnin! … aahh fer Chroistsakes, Mahrcella—I t’ought you were Nurse Av’ry,” Kerry says, and the lilt of her brogue is enough to make Marcella more comfortable in an instant. “What’re ya doin’ here—it’s still an hour before I’m t’be relieved. And not by you, as I recahll.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Marcella replies, and sits in the chair beside Kerry, who was once a greenhorn, not four weeks ago, but has the sort of confidence of a woman who’s done plenty of nursing without the formality of being called a nurse.

“Care for some company?” Marcella asks, knowing better than to volunteer to take the rest of her watch, something that would be most frowned upon by the Nurse Averys of the world.

“Aahhh, Mahrcella, sure yer an angel—and how’s yer man Ethan?”