Touching Stars (38 page)

“We’re lucky you have such a good memory.”

“More than a few folks around Toms Brook wish I’d forget a thing or two.”

Gayle bet that was true. “How’s Reese doing today?”

“Played in the wading pool Cissy set up for her this morning like nothing ever happened. Course Cissy dumped out the water the minute Reese put one foot on the ground. She’s been following her around all day like they were stitched at the hip.”

“I’m glad you don’t live right on the river. Cissy probably wouldn’t sleep again until Reese gets married.”

“The girl’s got a good head. She’ll move on.”

Helen gave directions, and Travis wound his way along back roads. The Highlander was roomy and comfortable, a family car. She compared it to the sporty Mustang that Eric had rented for his stay. Of course Jared and Noah had been thoroughly delighted with their father’s choice. Both of them had enjoyed a turn behind the wheel. But it was crowded when they were all together.

“Okay, there it is.” Helen pointed up ahead. “Used to be a church there, an old one-room Methodist church with a tin roof and rickety bell tower. The congregation more or less died off. People who needed a fancier church moved on. The pastor got old but refused to retire. By the time he passed away, weren’t hardly anybody left to find a new one. Now there’s nothing here but the graveyard.”

“Somebody will come along and build here,” Travis said. “Maybe another church, maybe a housing development.”

“Well, they’d have to leave the graves or move them, and Virginia don’t make that easy.”

Travis parked and went around the front to help Helen. Gayle could see where the church must once have been, but the site was now overgrown with trees and brambles. The cemetery wasn’t even visible from the road. Only when they got closer could she see the outlines of headstones.

“This is a shame,” she said. “Nobody’s keeping up with it.”

“Some of the families come out now and then and clear their own areas.” Helen took her time picking her way across the ground, even though she was leaning on Travis’s arm. “A neighbor of mine has family buried here.”

“Maybe we could get the teenagers at our church to make it a project. I’ll ask Sam if he thinks it’s a good idea.”

“A right smart idea. Teach them respect for those who’ve passed on.”

Gayle figured that if Helen liked it, the idea was definitely a winner.

They walked in silence the rest of the distance until they reached a rusty wrought-iron gate, hanging from one hinge. It swung open with an awful squeal, and they stepped inside. What grass there was waved in a light breeze. Weeds crowded between headstones, along with the occasional wildflower. It was sad, but picturesque at the same time, a forgotten piece of history.

“The Duncan plot’s over this way, best I can recall.” Helen pointed to her left.

“I’ve been in close touch with the family, but nobody told me about this,” Travis said.

“I reckon they’re a bit embarrassed they haven’t kept it up better.”

They took their time picking their way between stones. Small white butterflies rose in a cloud at their approach. Golden black-eyed Susans nodded between long stalks of rye grass, and wild roses stretched toward the sun.

Helen stopped to get her bearings. “Okay, this is where I remember it.”

This area had been tended better than some. Gayle guessed someone had been here in the past two or three months to pull weeds and trim the grass. But even so, it looked neglected and lonely.

“Here’s the one belongs to Miranda and Lewis Duncan.” Helen held out her hand.

Travis stooped and began to clear away the weeds in front of a large, irregularly shaped stone. Gayle could see it had eroded over time.

“When a stone is erected for somebody who’s not buried there, it’s called a cenotaph.” Ever the teacher, Travis finished pulling the weeds, then took out a handkerchief and wiped the stone clean.

“Can you make out the letters?” Gayle joined him, stooping beside him for a closer look.

“‘In memory of Lewis Duncan, who died at Gettysburg, PA July 2, 1863.’”

“Carin’s version of the story was right, then. Miranda did put up a stone for her husband.”

“Miranda Duncan, beloved wife. December 8, 1833. July 9, 1928.”

Gayle felt her throat tighten. “I wouldn’t have expected Robby to add beloved wife after she died. Not if the play is accurate.”

“Well, of course she
was
beloved to Duncan. We know he loved her.”

“More likely it was just standard,” Helen said. “The last nice thing you could say about somebody’s marriage before it was forgotten.”

That made Gayle even sadder.

Travis was rubbing the letters at the bottom. Then he looked up at Helen. “You were right about the quote being from Shakespeare.”

Gayle was reading it as he spoke.

“What’s it say?” Helen asked. “I don’t remember the words.”

Travis read them out loud. “‘How many ages hence shall this our lofty scene be acted over in states unborn and accents yet unknown?’”

He got to his feet and looked down at it. “I think it’s a quote from
Julius Caesar,
but Carin will know for certain.”

“Was she talking about the war, do you think?” Helen asked.

“I guess we’ll never know.”

Gayle thought she could probably make an educated guess, and she knew she would be thinking of this when it came time for the campfire that evening. Miranda Duncan had been part of a vast stream of women throughout history whose lives had been altered by the decisions of men. And yet, Gayle thought, there was more carved into this stone than a comment on a heartbreaking war.

If Carin’s play was in any way Miranda’s real story, she had been a woman caught up in a curious and poignant love triangle. A husband and heroic soldier who, by Robby’s account, she had never grown to love. A charismatic stranger who might well have been one of history’s most notorious assassins. And Miranda herself, educated, beautiful, and yearning for something more than poverty and despair.

Hadn’t women, throughout history, chosen to love men who did not deserve them?

And hadn’t they refused far too often to love the ones who did?

1865

I
slept little that night. I ached from the unaccustomed hour on horseback, but that seemed trivial. After dark I had retrieved the newspaper, and it was folded under my pillow, waiting for me to read again at first light.

Unfortunately, I was afraid that reading the story of John Wilkes Booth a second time wasn’t going to solve my problem. The similarities I’d already noted were enough that a court might demand to know why we had closed our eyes to them.

More kept me awake. Even when I tried to put aside the possible results of not reporting Blackjack, I was faced with other problems. Whoever he really was, whatever had brought him here, Blackjack was a Confederate sympathizer, and my father had laid down his life for the Confederacy. Something had brought Blackjack to us, and something had lengthened his stay. In this time of unrest and upheaval, even an honorable man could end up enduring years of prison or swinging from a rope.

The coin had another side. Lincoln had sons, one nearly the same age I had been when my father died. As well as anybody, I knew what those boys must feel now that their father was gone. But more than that, having seen the result of the war, I wasn’t certain killing was ever wise. Not because we had lost, but because of
everything
we had both lost, North and South, in the pursuit of an end that would better have been decided around a table by men with wise heads and willing hearts.

The man who had ruthlessly murdered the United States President had possessed neither.

But was it up to me to make certain that man was brought to justice? Blackjack Brewer might be many things, but he had never hurt us. The ride that afternoon had been solely for my benefit. He had done what work he could, paid generously for his care, and entertained us. How much of my concern centered on his effect on my mother? Had fear that she would be cruelly hurt spurred me to see what wasn’t there?

Or, worse, how much was simply that I was jealous of the attention she showed him?

When dawn lit my room I bathed quickly at the washstand, slipped on my clothes and took the newspaper to the window. As I had feared, a quick glance through the rest of the pages showed there was nothing else to be learned.

I had never missed my father more. I tried to imagine what he would tell me, but he had been gone for so long that his voice no longer sounded in my head.

I needed someone I could talk to. I considered confiding in my mother, but if I was too involved in the situation to see it clearly, she would be even more so. I considered Aunt Cora, but although she was wise in her own ways, I didn’t think she would understand all she needed to. Ralph lived entirely in the moment and liked to say that whatever wasn’t biting him wasn’t worth swatting.

That left Uncle Eb, who lacked education but not logic. If I was going to convince him, however, I needed more evidence. In the night it had occurred to me that if I could see what was left of Blackjack’s tattoo, I might have what I needed. I suspected there had been no accident on the road, that he had scraped away what damning evidence he could, a painful and, as it turned out, fateful decision. The festering wound had brought him to us.

I devised a plan, and although it was weak, I was hopeful. I would wait until that evening, then I would offer to fill another bath. I would stay to help him in and out, since his leg was still in the splint and maneuvering was difficult. I thought he would remove the bandage so that the hand could be bathed, as well. Then, when I was helping, I would take a closer look, as if I were interested in how well it had healed. If I could arrange it, the plan was simple enough. I just hoped I could see what I needed to.

I hid the newspaper once more, then went downstairs. Ma was already working in the kitchen. Not so Dandy simmered on the stove, and I could smell johnny cake baking in the oven. Ma turned when I came in.

“Robby, we’ve gone long enough without meat, and it rained again last night. It’s still too wet to plow. I’d like you to go down to the river and see if you can catch some fish. Go right after breakfast. I’ll pack you something for your dinner.”

I wondered if she just wanted me out of the house so that she and Blackjack could be alone together. But she quashed that notion. “If he will, Mr. Brewer can go with you. Two poles catch more than one.”

Before the war, I had never been fond of fish, but now the thought made my mouth water. I knew a promising spot within easy walking distance where Blackjack and I could throw our lines from the bank. Stationed in one place and anchored by his injured leg, we wouldn’t fill a creel, but with luck there might be enough for our supper.

By the time he arrived for breakfast I had gathered equipment, dug for worms in the chicken yard and planned our morning. My mother greeted him formally and served us both, treating us to eggs with the johnny cake. I explained the plan to Blackjack, who seemed receptive.

“We’ll have a way to walk, but we’ll go slow,” I told him, my gaze flicking to his hand. Unfortunately, his shirt fell below his wrist, as it always did, and farther below, a strip of cloth wove between his thumb and the side of his hand. I had no view of the tattoo.

“It would be good to remove the bandage on your hand and let the air and sunshine do their work,” my mother told him. “I’ll do it after breakfast, and we’ll see how you’ve fared.”

I tried not to let my excitement show. If his hand had healed enough, my mother might leave it uncovered. That would save me drawing him a bath.

I wanted to stay for the unveiling, but Ma sent me out with scraps for the chickens. When I returned for him, I found Blackjack waiting. Both hands were covered by cotton gloves.

Once the path to the river had been much trampled, my father and I often riding down to fish, with Eb and Ralph doing the same. But now it had grown up, and we moved slowly. I carried our equipment, and Blackjack carried his cane and pole. I worried as we went, wondering if I would ever get a look at his hand, and if it would help me make the biggest decision of my life.

At last we stopped where my father and I had often started. I could leave Blackjack there, moving down the riverbank on my own, although that was not what I intended. Most days I would have looked for a place in the shade, but this morning I chose the sunniest spot and set down my bucket of worms, the dinner basket and my pole.

“Have you done much fishing in these parts?” I asked. “Is it different up near Winchester?”

He winked. “There’s water and fish in both places. Some days you can lure them to take the bait, and some you can’t.”

A rock outcropping hung over the river in a clearing not far away, and I suggested he settle himself there. I turned to get supplies, and when I turned back I was disappointed to see that he had already baited his hook and dangled his pole in the water. If he had removed his gloves to do so, he had slipped them on again.

I often waded as I fished, but this morning the water was too chilly and the sun not high enough. Besides, I wanted to stay close by in case Blackjack rolled back his sleeves and removed his gloves. I climbed down a few feet until the river was lapping at my toes, baited my hook and flung my line into the water.

We fished in silence for a long time. Out of the corner of my eye I watched to see if he showed any signs of having fished before. He seemed perfectly comfortable with the process, if not eager to be there. I caught a small sunfish and tossed it back. He hooked a floating branch.

The sun was rising above the trees and would soon beat down mercilessly on Blackjack’s rock. Yesterday had been cool, but last night’s rain was already turning to steam, and the day was going to be unseasonably warm. I dipped my toes in the water, then rolled up my pants legs and waded in almost to my knees. The water nearly froze my flesh, but I got used to it quickly.

As the sun rose higher, I kept an eye on Blackjack. After a while he took off his vest and set his slouch-brimmed hat lower on his forehead to shade his eyes. I edged closer.

“Do you usually have better luck in the morning?” he asked.

This time
I
winked. “There’s water and fish all times of day. Some mornings you can lure them to take the bait, and some mornings you can’t.”

He laughed at his own words twisted and tossed back to him. “I fished often as a boy. With my brothers and sisters. I was never the best of the lot. I was easily bored.”

Brothers and sisters. I longed to know more about the Booth family, although how would I know if anything Blackjack said was true?

“Are you bored now?” I asked.

“Uncommonly. And you?”

“Not bored. Growing hotter, though. It must be even hotter up there on the rock. At least the river cools my feet.”

“I like being outside for a change. The sun feels good.”

I was sorry it did.

I moved downstream and out a bit, casting my line once more. This time I was successful. After a few minutes I pulled out a bullhead nearly the length of my forearm.

“We catch a few more of these, Ma won’t be too disappointed.” I strung the fish on a line, baited my hook and cast again.

“I doubt your mother is often disappointed in you,” Blackjack said.

“I do my best.” I hoped it was true.

“What plans do you have for your life, Robby?”

“To do whatever I have to.”

“To bring this farm back into production?”

“To take care of Ma. To keep the land safe. To honor my father’s memory.”

“All important goals.”

I glanced at him. He was swiping at his forehead with a sleeve. Hope blossomed inside me.

We grew silent again. I caught another bullhead, smaller but still large enough to eat. It joined the first. I stretched and watched Blackjack, as if cheering him on.

“More worms?” I asked, hoping he would remove his gloves to bait his hook.

“I haven’t had your luck. It’s possible I may only need this one for the day.”

I walked out on the rock to join him. “I’ll take your line if you’d like to get up and move around a bit. It’ll cool you off.”

He handed me the pole; then, as if he had somehow heard my wish, or at the least had begun to believe it was as hot as I said, he stripped off his gloves.

As I’d guessed, the wound on his hand was no longer bandaged. A thick scab covered the middle of it, where the wound was the deepest, but the remainder was red, the skin puckered. Whoever had painstakingly adorned his hand with India ink had done their job well. I could make out the
J
that Blackjack claimed was the remnant of a
D
for Daisy to the left of the scab. But just to the right, I clearly saw the remains of another letter.

A
W
.

“Not a pretty picture, is it?” Blackjack asked, getting to his feet as I’d suggested.

I’d been caught. I looked up and hoped I was at least something of an actor. “It looks like it’s healing well,” I said, struggling to sound collected.

“Thanks to your mother’s excellent nursing skills.”

“There are still traces of the tattoo.”

“I’m afraid so.”

“More than just a
D,
” I said.

“
D
and
B,
he agreed, casually tracing the latter with his fingertip, although it was hard to see. “Daisy and Blackjack, connected by two hearts. See, here’s what left of them.” He traced what I’d taken as a
W,
moving his finger as if to trace the supposed remainders of two connected hearts that were invisible to me.

“Faint hearts, I suppose,” he said. “Well, I can only be glad
I
was too faint of heart to have our entire names spelled out and entwined with vines and love birds.”

“You would have needed your whole arm for that,” I agreed. But I’d seen what I’d hoped to. Now I was almost sure there had never been a
D
on Blackjack’s hand. There was a
J
and apparently a faint
B.
And in between, no longer quite hidden, the remains of a
W.

I had everything I needed to go to Uncle Eb.

Unconcerned, Blackjack stretched his arms over his head. “Let this be a lesson. If you ever fall in love—and you will, I’m afraid—don’t convince yourself she’s the only woman you’ll ever want. Don’t ink her name or initials on your hand so that every woman who sees it from that day forward will know.”

I thought of the man killed in Port Royal, a man who had died carrying
five
photographs of beautiful women.

I looked at the sky above me. The sun was moving slowly. We had at least another hour before it was overhead. Then we would eat, perhaps fish a little more. The only way we could go back to the house earlier would be if we quickly caught enough to satisfy Ma.

I got to my feet and pulled in his line. Blackjack’s worm had slipped off. “I’ll put a new worm on for you. We shouldn’t stop now, not when they’re finally biting.”

He looked surprised at my sudden burst of enthusiasm. I took his pole with me to bait his hook.