Time After Time (192 page)

I dream about the muscles of your chest and the iron bands of your arms, which shelter me from the vagaries of the world. I dream about your mouth, which gives me life. I dream about your mind, Theo, about your laugh, about the comfort and love, which radiates from you and centers me. During our years apart, I was unmoored in the stream of life. I thought I was more stable, but I mistook the constant, predictable rolling for something good. But it was just sameness. Empty, roiling sameness.

You fill me up in every sense. Make me whole. Give me back to myself. The endless, cold, hollow nights that stretch before me until you return, Theo, should serve as enough reminder for a lifetime that I cannot be without you and will not do so again.

I love you,

Margaret

Chapter XVII

April 6, 1863

My Very Dearest Margaret,

With each missive, I try to decide what is the best time to write to the woman who enjoys my whole heart. Is it night, when I should be in her arms, showering sweet kisses on every inch of her skin? Is it the morning, when the same sun that warms my brow shines down on her? Is it afternoon, when the tasks of the day are half-finished and longing for home begins to set in? I cannot decide, and so I write during them all.

Then, Margaret, sometimes I feel you are very cruel to have left me so bereft. To have taken such possession of me that I cannot relish anything that is not you. I never anticipated, not in my wildest fever dreams of love, that it would be possible to be as consumed by thoughts of another as I am of you. The absorption I feel for you, the oneness that connects us even over the course of miles, is beyond all rationality. I feel pleasure only when I am reading your letters, but it is a pleasure only you yourself could surpass.

Yet it is not enough, is it? Not nearly enough — if it were true oneness, then I would not feel the keening emptiness. I would not need to imagine your hands sliding over my skin, substituting my rude hand for your absent one. I would not feel half a man, incomplete because I am not able to tell you about my day or ask your advice or feel your laugh.

I think I could only have to come to feel for you as much as I do in an environment such as this. The mortality of man has become for me a very real thing. It is a knowledge for which I am grateful, but which I could never wish for anyone — you least of all. It enhances all of my life’s sweetness and makes poignant all my joys.

I close with yet another profession of my hunger for you. When I return, never again to be parted from you, I will demand payment for the desires you have created in me. If you work a lifetime, perhaps we will achieve parity.

I love you, Margaret mine, beyond my ability to convey so with my poor pen.

Yours,

Theo

• • •

April 18, 1863

My darling,

As the months grow warmer, I find myself burning for you. Is not that strange? I would think that cold loneliness might be pleasant on the now hot nights. But I find the opposite is true.

Every inch of my body yearns for your touch, and despite my frequent recitation of the reasons why you are away, my skin does not understand. It is like an unruly child that will not accept any explanation. I wake, searching the bed for you. I prepare coffee for you at breakfast, and am surprised when you are not there. I float through my day, aware only that the brush of my chemise against my stomach is not your hands, that the press of the chair against my legs is not your lap, that my brush moving through my hair at night is not your fingers.

I hope someday to remember that I am without you temporarily. At the same time, I fear becoming accustomed to this state of being. For years, we kept apart from one another, subverting the natural order. Now I cannot continue the charade any longer.

You spoke in your most recent letter about a ghost Margaret whose hands acted on my behalf. I am sorry to inform you I am haunted by a horde of ghost Theo. Your hands, your tongue, your member — all have been very busy in my dreams. I know now you will demand that I show you once you return — but I am afraid my program for you will be too rigorous. I have need of every part of you and plan to keep you most busy.

But to turn to things outside the bedroom, I follow the movements of your regiment as best I can, given your hints and the reporting in The Constitution. As the fighting intensifies again, we fear for you. Please do not cease to write, even briefly, for any gap in letters causes worry.

I close now after searching for your scent in the armoire. It is nearly faded now, although one scarf does retain that blend of salt and soap and sweat that recalls you. Return to me soon, my dearest heart.

Your
loving
wife,

Margaret

• • •

Theo read Margaret’s words again. The creases of the letter, received only a few days before, were already worn from opening and refolding. This was a letter to cling to for a lifetime — a relic of the woman he had finally, after so many wasted years, won. He tucked it into an interior pocket over his breast, where it joined
carte-de-visites
of Margaret and Mother and a book of Psalms. He slid the buttons of his coat closed, checked his watch, and turned to the men behind him. Some were digging, while others were placing the branches they had cut into the breastwork.

Five days prior, they had crossed the Rappahannock River and marched toward Fredericksburg, Virginia. The day before, there had been a skirmish with Lee’s army. Now they were inexplicably waiting. They’d spent the day putting up fortifications in hopes that Lee would attack and they would be able to make a decisive victory. Theo was less confident, but at least his men had a task before dinner.

Theo looked up at the sky, which was the beautiful blue that only appears in early evening. The sunlight had just begun tending toward gold. He smiled at several birds that lofted overhead and turned back to the field before them.

That was when he noticed it: rabbits and foxes dashing out of the woods. One or two, that he could rationalize. But there were dozens, all running toward the line. His eyes swept back and forth. Yes. He was right. Before he could make sense of it, he heard a scream that chilled through his body. His breath caught in his throat. His heart paused. Everything stilled for an instant and then that noise that horrible noise, rocketed through the wool that had gathered in his ears. The Rebel Yell.

He scooped his rifle up and shouted orders. There was a rush of activity around him. Men jumping to their feet, scrambling for their guns, and whispering hurried prayers. Then before them, thousands of the enemy poured from of the woods. They seemed to have materialized from the trees themselves. Theo didn’t understand, wouldn’t have believed, if the proof wasn’t before his eyes. Somehow, they had been flanked.

He raised his rifle and shouted, “Charge!”

His feet moved under him by instinct. All sound had disappeared. All he knew was the rush of air against his cheeks, the burning in his limbs, and the throbbing in his fingertips. Somehow he had raised his weapon and was sprinting toward the enemy.

The report of a weapon shattered his cocoon, and Theo was conscious of a sharp pain through his thigh. He folded like a trap and everything was still. Somewhere in the farthest cabinet of his mind, a memory unwrapped itself: Margaret reclining before him on a bed of straw with moonlight in her hair.

Theo closed his eyes, and everything faded to black.

Chapter XVIII

Margaret sat by the window looking out over the garden. Her embroidery had fallen into her lap, and her hands were clasped over one knee. It was late afternoon on one of those spring days when anything seemed possible: the overripe buds on the dogwood trees bobbed in the breeze, the scents of herbs and flowers mingled into a potent blend, and the various greens of the shoots in the back bed spoke of regeneration. Margaret believed them. Theo would be home soon. She knew it.

She heard the door open followed by muffled whispering in the entry. A male voice, probably Josiah, who came to supper several times a week, along with the more recognizable timbres of Sarah and Mrs. Ruskin.

Margaret packed her sewing in her workbasket and went to see what precisely was causing the commotion. Perhaps there were new letters.

She rounded the corner smiling but felt her expression harden into a mask. Sarah was ashen and frozen, looking ten years older than she had at tea. Mrs. Ruskin was looking at the floor, shaking her head. Josiah was unmoving and silent. Margaret found she could not process the changes in them. Her mind simply would not ask why.

“Whatever is the matter, Sarah?” she found herself saying, amazed her tongue could form words.

Josiah, who clasped one of Sarah’s elbows, spoke at last. “There was a great battle in northern Virginia two days ago. East of Fredericksburg.”

“That’s near where we think Theo is, is it not?”

At this, Mrs. Ruskin sobbed. Margaret felt her chest tighten.

Josiah continued. “Yes. In today’s
Constitution
… ” He extended the paper to her, but Margaret didn’t take it. Her eyes suddenly wouldn’t focus.

“Tell me. Quickly.”

He swallowed and nodded. “Missing. Feared captured.”

Her eyes flicked to a rose on the carpet at her feet. It was dark maroon, the color of day-old blood. The mossy foliage was shadowed, fading into nothingness.

Theo was
not
coming home, might not ever be coming home. He was dead, or dying. Alone.

She blinked. The petals at her feet were half open. The rose hadn’t reached the fullness of its beauty and potential before it had been caught here, forever, in cloth. The flower seemed to grow larger, threatening to consume her as she swooned.

• • •

With a start, Margaret jerked to a sitting position. Someone had carried her to the settee in the parlor. Mrs. Ruskin crossed the room and handed her a cloth soaked in
eau-de-cologne
.

“Thank you,” she murmured, unused to kindness from that corner. Whatever disorientation lingered in her head melted away like a late winter thaw when she turned to Sarah and Josiah sitting across from her. “We have no news, then?” she asked.

“Nothing beyond what’s in the paper. We’ve started letters to everyone we know at the front, but Samuel Dix … ” Josiah trailed off.

“Fallen?” Margaret half whispered.

Josiah nodded.

She turned to Sarah, unsure of what to say. In the long years of fighting, she had often visited the mothers, sisters, and wives of the dead. So many faces, stained with tears, exhausted with the work of mourning. In her mother-in-law, she saw the familiar, stony rejection of the news. The confusion, the inability to give in to grief that terrified and thrilled her.

“Sarah, I — ”

“No!” the older woman snapped. “Don’t say it. Don’t say anything! We know nothing. I will not hear it, Margaret Ward.” She swept up from her chair and began stalking up and down the length of the room like a tigress.

For a time, they watched her, heads nodding back and forth, lulled by the movement, ignoring their emotions.

Sarah finally began speaking again. “I will not grieve. Not until we know more. The Greenes, they held a funeral. They buried an empty box! And the next spring, who should come home but George? Until I have the body of my dear boy, until we have a report from someone who saw him, I won’t do it. And neither will any of you.”

Each word was crisp, as if it had been cut from paper, and sharp as if it posed a risk to the listener. None of them would dare cross her in this mood.

Margaret cleared her throat. “Sarah, I — ”

“And
you
!” Sarah whirled around now, her skirts darting around her body. “Of all the people in this room, you have the least standing. I hold you responsible. Theodore never would have gone if it hadn’t been for you. You badgered him into it. He was happy. Here. With me. You made him dissatisfied with his life. You drove him to it.”

Josiah shuffled and adjusted in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable. “Sarah, you’re upset, there’s no need.”

Sarah balled her fists in her skirt, and her eyes flashed. “No need? There’s
every
need. She needs to know what she’s done.”

Josiah looked at Margaret and shook his head. She raised a hand to stop him and spoke. “No, she’s right. This … this is entirely my fault. But Sarah, don’t make the mistake of thinking he was happy. Content is not happy. Inert is not happy.”

Sarah gasped. “Why, you … ”

“Yes, me.” Margaret choked back a sob and forced her face into an expression of composure. She would not give in to anger or tears. Not yet. “If Theo is dead” — Sarah gasped again — “I will never forgive myself. I … I love your son. More than you or he will ever know. But for whatever I have undertaken in search of my happiness, or whatever I did to encourage Theo to pursue his, for that I will never be sorry.”

She struggled to her feet, surprised when she managed to support herself. “If you will excuse me, I am going to retire.”

Her fingers bit into the railing as she stumbled up the stairs and along the hall to her room. To the room she had shared with Theo. Precious few nights had she spent here in the arms of her husband and now, perhaps, she would never again. The rest of her life stretched before her, a series of cold nights in narrow, empty beds. That had been her fate, once, but then Theo had filled her future with fire and heat. Now, knowing his love, she wasn’t sure she could go back. But perhaps she had to.

Margaret lowered herself deliberately, each movement slowed by her heavy limbs. She did not fling herself down, just as she did not abandon herself to grief. In at least one thing, Sarah was correct: they did not
know
.