Shades of Gray (4 page)

“Stop! Stop it!” cried Meg, clapping her hands over her ears. “I don't want to hear any more about the war!”

Will stopped and stared at her. She stood in the middle of the road, dust-covered feet showing beneath a faded skirt and the basket that hung on her raised arm sticking out at an odd angle. Her blue eyes were dark with anger.

“Well, you started it,” he muttered, looking away.

“You were the one who asked what it was like in Ohio,” Meg reminded him. They walked for a while in stony silence. Then Meg said, “I wouldn't want to go to Ohio, anyway. Virginia's our home, and Pa says now that the war's over it'll be a good place to live again.”

“I guess when he can replace the livestock and plant all his fields again, your life won't be much different than it was before the war,” Will said. Then, remembering Beth, he added, “Your little sister could have died even if the army hadn't got your cow.”

“Your sisters could have died of typhoid in peacetime, too, you know.”

Will looked away. “The epidemic started in the army camp,” he said stiffly. “They wouldn't have died if it hadn't been for the war. And neither would Papa and Charlie and Mama. I'd still be living with my family in Winchester if it hadn't been for the war—if it hadn't been for the Yankees.”

“Your pa chose to fight in the war,” said Meg, “so you—”

“Papa had no choice! He was a man of honor, and when his country needed him, he had no choice but to go to war!”

“My pa's a man of honor, too, and he says a person always has a choice!” Meg said firmly. “He says you have to look at a situation and measure the good against the bad and then do what you think is right, no matter what other people do. And he didn't think it was right for him to go and kill other men over something that didn't matter one way or the other to him.” Then she added quickly, “Now I'm not saying your pa was wrong to fight in the war, 'cause I know it made a difference to him how things turned out. All I'm saying is—”

“Of course it wasn't wrong! He was fighting for a cause he believed in! Can't you understand that?”

“I can understand that, all right. The question is, why can't you understand that my pa
didn't
fight for a cause he
didn't
believe in?”

Will didn't know how to answer that. They walked on in silence again, the buzzing of the insects on the blackberry blossoms and the soft scuffing of their bare feet on the dusty road the only sounds. But Meg couldn't be quiet for long.

“There's something I can't figure out,” she said. “Your brother Charlie was the same age as Sam and Enos, and you said he was killed two years ago. That would have made him only fourteen. How could he be in the army so young? Was he a drummer boy?”

The question came almost as a physical shock to Will. Surely Doc Martin had told Aunt Ella what had happened. Hadn't she told Meg? “I never said he was in the army,” he said, walking faster.

Meg's mouth fell open. “But—but you told me he was—was killed by the Yankees!”

“He was shot by a Yankee sentry,” Will said reluctantly.

Meg's jaw dropped again. “They shot a plain, ordinary boy? Why did they do that?”

Will turned to her, his dark eyes blazing. “I don't want to talk about it!” he shouted. “I just don't want to talk about it!”

Meg fell back, and he walked on ahead, trying to ignore the throbbing in his temples. He picked up a stone and chucked it into a puddle in the road. Why did Meg have to ask? Wouldn't he ever be allowed to forget the horror of his brother's death?

By the time he saw a roadside spring ahead, Will had regained control, and when Meg caught up, he offered her the filled dipper. “Want some?” he asked.

She nodded. “The mill's just around the curve,” she said, replacing the dipper.

Will drew a deep breath, relieved that Meg wasn't the kind of person who sulked and held things against you. As they drew near the mill, he saw three older boys fishing in the pond near the motionless wheel.

“Let's sit under that tree,” said Meg, pointing to a large sycamore on the far side of the pond.

Will baited his hook and tossed in his line. The grasshopper floated on the surface for a minute or two, moving just enough to make a circle of ripples on the still water. Then it slowly began to sink. Will was just about to sit down on the bank when he saw the boys who had been fishing near the mill wheel making their way around the pond.

“We should have gone to the river,” Meg said.

As the boys drew nearer, Will felt apprehensive. Their swaggering
walk signaled that they weren't coming over just to say hello.

“Who's your feller, Meg?” taunted the tallest of the three, stopping a few feet away.

“Oh, he's not my feller,” Meg said, looking innocently at her questioner. “He's my cousin, Will Page. His father was killed in the war and his mother's dead, so he's come to live with us.” Then she turned to Will and said formally, “Will, I'd like you to meet Hank, Patrick, and Amos.”

Just then Will's cork dipped beneath the surface and he felt a tug on his line. He jerked the pole, swung it to the right, and after a brief struggle landed a good-sized bass. The boys backed up a few steps to keep from being splashed.

Will knelt and grasped the flopping fish, skillfully removed the hook, and threaded a string through its gills. Tying the other end of the string to the branch of a small box alder growing at the water's edge, he tossed the fish back into the pond to keep cool. Then, wiping his hands on his pants legs, he turned to the three boys. Stepping toward them he said, “Pleased to meet you. Which one of you is Hank?”

“I am,” said the tall, lanky boy who had spoken earlier. He looked about fourteen. Gesturing reluctantly toward a heavyset boy a little younger, he said, “That's Amos, and this here's Pat.” Patrick had red hair and freckles.

Hank turned to Meg again, but before he could speak, Will asked, “How many fish have you all caught today?”

The boys looked at one another. “Oh, we caught some little ones and threw them back,” Hank said unconvincingly.

“You know,” Amos chimed in, “little ones about this long,”
and he used his hands to show the length of Will's fish.

“Those little ones are the most tasty,” Will said, turning around and dropping to one knee to shake another grasshopper out of the jar. The skin on the back of his neck crawled with anxiety. He didn't like to turn his back on the boys.

His worst fears were realized when a menacing voice close behind him said, “How'd you like to go for a little swim?”

Without looking around, Will said, “I'd like that just fine, Hank. Is there a swimming hole around here? We could race.”

“Race?” Hank sounded uncertain now. “I don't think our swimming hole's big enough for racing. And it's too far away.”

“Come on, Hank. It's getting kind of crowded around here,” Patrick said. “Let's go somewhere else.”

“Yeah, somewhere that doesn't smell so fishy,” said Amos.

Will baited his hook and tossed in his line. He watched the widening circles, waiting until the last one reached the shore and the grasshopper had sunk out of sight before he turned his head. The boys were gone! With a sigh of relief, he sat down on the grassy bank.

“You were wonderful!” cried Meg, plopping down beside him.

Will didn't know what to say, so he brought his index finger to his pursed lips and stared intently at the water. Meg covered her mouth with her hands.

“I'm sorry, Will,” she whispered.

They sat in companionable silence, enjoying the occasional breeze that blew across the pond and watching the blue-backed swallows' skittery flight as they skimmed insects off the water's surface. Too soon, it was time to start for home.

“ ‘Those little ones are the most tasty,' ” Meg said as Will retrieved his fish.

He grinned, hoping that his success at the pond would make Meg forget his lack of gardening skill and stamina.

After her enforced silence, Meg chatted gaily as they walked toward home. But as they rounded the curve and saw three familiar figures lounging at the spring, her words died away.

Will's heart began to pound against his ribs. “Don't slow down, Meg,” he said. “And don't act like you're afraid.”

She nodded and began chatting with great animation. Nearing the spring, she lifted her hand in a casual wave but kept right on talking to Will until Hank got up and sauntered into the road.

“Hand over that fish, Will-yum,” he said roughly.

Will could feel the thump-thumping of his heart, but his voice was steady. “This fish?” he said, looking at it in feigned amazement. “You don't want this little fish!”

Hank glared at Amos, and Will said, “Come on, Meg, we don't want this fishy smell to bother our friends any longer.” Will led Meg around Hank, and she began to chatter again. Will held his breath, listening for the scuff of running footsteps behind them, but there was nothing. Finally he allowed himself a quick look over his shoulder and saw that the road behind them was empty. He gave a sigh of relief.

Meg grinned at him. “You did it again! You really showed that Hank!”

Will didn't answer. He knew he hadn't seen the last of Hank and his friends.

When breakfast was over the next morning, Uncle Jed looked across the table at Will and said, “So, you don't think you can find your way up the mountain to the trap line.”

Will clenched his teeth. Was his uncle trying to embarrass him in front of Aunt Ella and Meg? “Not yet,” he said. “I still need to follow you one more time.” He hoped one more time would be enough.

Uncle Jed gave a brief nod. “Come along, then.”

The grasshoppers that jumped out of the pasture grass reminded Will of his experience at the millpond the day before. Because of Charlie, older boys had never dared to bully him at home. Life had been so much easier back in Winchester—before the war.

They crossed the fence and entered the woods. Soon Uncle Jed made a right-angle turn and began to climb. “Veer left by rotting log,” Will muttered to himself. “Bear right past tall pine, and go steeply uphill,” he whispered at the next turn. Then, “Make a left by stump with Virginia creeper growing on it, and go straight uphill to the ridge.” When they started down into the hollow, Will could hear the creek. They were almost at the first trap!

Out of breath again, Will dropped to his knees by the creek, thinking resentfully that he didn't need anybody telling him how much he should drink. He heard his uncle say, as if to himself, “I wonder if the trap two hundred paces upstream is as empty as this one.” Will scrambled to his feet and began
to count silently: 1, 2, 3 . . . 198, 199, 200! He stopped and looked around but saw nothing. And his uncle was standing some distance ahead of him, a lifeless rabbit dangling from his hand.

After his initial bewilderment, Will continued his count. When he reached 260, there in front of him was the second trap. All he had to do was count 260 of his own steps, and he'd be able to find every one of them.

He called after his uncle. “I think I can find the rest of the traps now!”

There was no response. He tried again. “Wait for me! I'll lead the way!”

His uncle paid no attention. Panting, Will reached the third trap in time to watch his uncle reset it. Another rabbit lay on the ground at his feet.

“Didn't you hear me holler?” asked Will, his chest heaving.

His uncle looked up at him. “Oh, were you hollerin' for me?” he asked. “How was I to know?”

Will just stared at him. Who else would he be hollering for in the middle of the woods? And then he understood. His uncle wanted to be called by name. Well, he wouldn't do it, and he hoped the man knew why he wouldn't! Turning away, he started upstream, counting silently.

The rest of the traps were empty.

As he hoed the endless rows of carrots and turnips later that morning, Will thought noon would never come. He straightened up to rest his aching back for a moment and flexed his fingers, looking ruefully at the blisters forming on his palms. His stomach rumbled, and he glanced toward the kitchen. A
wisp of smoke rose from its stone chimney. Good, he thought. Aunt Ella was starting dinner. Maybe by the time he'd finished another row it would be noon.

But he had done nearly three more rows before he saw Aunt Ella carrying a steaming platter from the summer kitchen. He took his hoe to the toolshed before he went to wash up, his face tingling at the memory of Uncle Jed's words when they'd returned from the trap line that morning: “You'll find your hoe in the toolshed, Will. I put it away for you yesterday.” He wouldn't make that mistake again!

Aunt Ella had boiled the rabbits and made a thick gravy for them. Will passed his plate for seconds and didn't complain when Uncle Jed also gave him another helping of tiny beets cooked with their greens. At the end of the meal he sighed with satisfaction. He couldn't remember the last time his stomach had actually felt full.

“I'm going to start repairing the fence around the pasture,” Uncle Jed announced. “A lot of the posts are rotting. I'll need your help, Will.”

“How long do you think it'll take?”

“Maybe a month, maybe longer.”

Will's heart sank. He'd be working side by side with his uncle for at least a month!

In the shed, Uncle Jed gathered up his woodworking tools. Then he turned to Will. “Bring a spade and that mattock,” he said, gesturing toward a picklike implement. “You can dig us a pit to char the posts in.” When he saw Will's puzzled expression, he explained. “If you char the end that goes in the ground, the wood won't rot so fast.”

Will followed him outside, carrying the spade and the heavy
mattock. “Where do you want me to dig the pit?”