Authors: Brave in Heart
Emma Barry (11 page)
• • •
November 10, 1861
Dear Theo,
Indeed, it is autumn here. Fully and almost nearly done at once. We have finally finished setting up the last of the season’s bounty. I have never in my life seen so many jars of apple butter, but Mrs. Ruskin insists they are all necessary, and she is the commander of the operation. I feel like one of my students struggling with a subject I do not understand. There are thirty ways of doing each thing. Depending on circumstance, one must choose the appropriate one. I, without fail, select incorrectly and this is, I’m told, a faux pas of significance. You would laugh endlessly if you were here.
Always are those words before us — if Theo were here. To say your absence is keenly felt is to lie by omission. You are the key ingredient of the house. It is you that we all wish to please. It is for you that our routine is structured. Praying for Theo. Writing to Theo. Going to the post office to check for letters from Theo. Supporting the Ladies’ Aid Society projects so they might aid someone like Theo. Reading the papers for any news that might be related to Theo’s situation. Sarah, Mrs. Ruskin, and I feel the void in our lives every moment.
But I tell you what you doubtless already know.
An incident occurred yesterday of great amusement to everyone in Middletown who was privy to it. Mrs. Dix was accosting Rev. Patterson on Main Street about his failure to announce a Ladies’ Aid Society meeting from the pulpit — an error more grievous than my omission of cinnamon from the cake the previous night — when a piglet that had escaped from goodness knows where began accosting Mrs. Dix in turn. Nothing could dissuade the piglet from following the poor woman about and bleating with much ferocity. She was forced to return home, and he followed her even unto there. Rev. Patterson doubtless feels much vindicated.
Josiah Trinkett told this story with much relish over dinner last night and swears to its veracity. He also sends his regards, which you will likely hear of from me, your mother, and Josiah himself who, trusting us not, will write you directly, despite his insistence that he hasn’t the time to do so.
I will close now, Theo, with prayers for your health and safety. May God hasten the days that remain until you return to us.
Yours,
Margaret
• • •
August 31, 1862
Dear Margaret,
The past few months — becoming so familiar with the heated pitch of battle — have changed me, and I know not how to explain myself, as I am now, to you or even to myself.
I always felt adrift in my former life. Middletown was a sea, and I was isolated. Connected to Mother, of course, but otherwise an island. Now, I see the power one man can have when he joins with others. As a member of a regiment, a unit, an army, I am infinitely more than I was as merely Theodore Ward, Esquire.
If I wrote you fifty letters a day and meditated constantly on these ideas, I might only then find the words to express the truth of my life and what I have learned here. As it is, I cannot come close. I worry that if somehow I did tell you the things I have seen and done, what is between us would end. What I think of the gap between war in the books and my experience, I know not whether to laugh or to cry …
Theo looked at the unfinished letter, crumpled it, and fed the page to the fire. He sent neither it nor any like it.
• • •
September 5, 1862
My dear Theo,
I dreamt of you last night, in the most wonderful and ordinary way. We ate dinner, we sat in the parlor with Sarah and Josiah, I played, and we retired. It was stunning in its normalcy. A night such as we have had … well, at least four or five times.
When I awoke craving your touch, I searched the bed for you, semiconscious and made stupid by sleep. You were, of course, absent. The fact of my aloneness hit me slowly, unfurling in pieces. Then I cried. I haven’t for weeks, Theo. I had given it up. But in the cruel, lonely, and cold night, I took up my favorite hobby again.
It helped less than I had hoped, as always. It made me long for you even more. For the warmth of your arms. For the broad, comforting expanse of your chest. For the scent of you. For the rumble of your voice. For your lips. For every part and aspect of your person and character.
In your long absence, you have shifted in my mind, becoming neither the impetuous lover of ’59 nor the impetuous husband of last summer. To me, now, you are the dream partner, melting away from me, retreating around the corner. I reach for you, desiring to wrap my fingers around your wrist and not let go. Just when I obtain you, daybreak tears you from me.
You have teased us for months with the possibility of coming home on leave. Please do, dearest friend, for I feel as if I were going mad, unable anymore to sort out what is real from what is conjured. Return and remind me.
Yours,
Margaret
• • •
September 20, 1862
Dear Margaret,
The summer’s work seems mainly to be finished, and I hope to return home for a week. Perhaps two.
I am well, as are most of the boys who left from Middletown with me a year past. It seems an age. Each day in wartime is like a week at home. I am Rip Van Winkle sprung to life and know not what I will find when I return home.
The post is leaving soon, so I end this missive, as ever,
Yours,
Theo
October 6, 1862
Theo stepped off the train and surveyed the Middletown station. How different was this scene than that of fourteen months prior? Then, there had been crowds and a band, patriotic bunting and cheers.
Now, Theo attracted some nods and salutes, but nothing abnormal. Indeed, as he walked home, he noted that Middletown looked surprisingly ordinary. There was more, not less, bustle in the street. Doubtless the war was keeping the factories busy.
The lack of pomp was a relief. When he thought back on the farewell scenes he had played here, they seemed as strange, gauzy dreams. Knowing war now as he did, he couldn’t connect the words and songs and rhetoric to the things he had seen and done. Anonymity and averageness were easier.
He had not yet decided what, if anything, he could tell his family about the war. There was nothing he could say of his life that would please them. He could not describe the battle on the Bull Run field that had occurred a few weeks prior. The fighting amid blanched bones of men one year dead. The awful rush and the stench of it. The heat and the smoke. The groans of the wounded and dying men that persisted for days. He could not tell them of holding Johnny Wythe in his lap as the life leached out of the boy. The empty platitudes that had emerged from his lips, unbidden, while his own will to live had crumbled. What cheer or triumph was there in this?
In the most visceral and awful way, he understood how abstract his notion of war had been. Public debate had been essentialized and reduced until people like himself could pretend words had no consequences. His life had been nibbling at the edges of truth. Fighting over the crumbs, as it were. But now that he had feasted and seen the fragility of life and the terrible stillness of death, could he unsee? What was there beyond the brutal hardness he had witnessed and done?
Life was a giddy, worthless thing. This might make it more precious, even, than he had known before. But the terrible, easy dispatch with which it could be ended — his soul shrank knowing it. How much more destruction would be necessary to settle the question that gripped the nation … no, Theo could not and would not explain these truths to Margaret or to Mother.
He had reached the door to his office, but he paused, unable to proceed. He had been here ten thousand times before, and yet
he
had not been here. That was the old Theo. He stepped inside to the jingle of the bell and found himself in an unfamiliar, empty space. Marcus and Anson had long since departed for the front. In their absence, the office was like a tomb. A fire flickered, dying, in the grate. No lamps were lit.
“Be there in a minute,” Josiah called from the back.
Theo walked to his own desk and found it empty. He brushed a finger through the thin coating of dust. He no longer understood the man who had whiled away a decade and a half in it.
“You see, I have this quarrel,” Theo called over his shoulder, “involving my and my neighbor’s Berkshires — ”
His ruse was cut off by a crushing hug.
“Welcome home,” Josiah said a bit more gruffly that usual. He cleared his throat to prevent an ungentlemanly spilling of emotion.
“This is but a brief sojourn, I warn you.”
Josiah straightened and said with a smile, “The ladies don’t know of your arrival?”
Theo shrugged. “I wasn’t sure I could get away until yesterday. I plan to surprise them.”
“This I must see,” said Josiah, his eyes shimmering.
“You’ll just close the office?”
“To witness Sarah’s face? To say nothing of Margaret’s? Of course.”
“How is the practice?” Theo asked as they walked down Main Street.
“I take on what I can handle and defer the rest. Margaret’s been helping, acting as a scrivener for me in the evenings. She’s a shell, Ward. She’s taken her luminosity inside, saving it for you.”
Theo didn’t know how to respond, so he bowed slightly in acknowledgement. The closer he got to his wife geographically, the more confused he became regarding her.
Thankfully, Josiah filled any void with words. “We all of us pore over the papers and stare at maps of obscure Virginia valleys and argue with the generals and defeat the Rebs as easily as we play chess.”
“So, then, you occupy your time just as we do at the front,” Theo said with a laugh.
“Whatever distracts us from the worries and the prayers.”
Then at once they had arrived. Theo found that he lacked the courage to go the final thirty feet.
“I almost convinced myself that this place couldn’t exist anymore. If the men could do such things … ” He trailed off and looked at his partner, whose grim-set mouth doubtless matched his own. “Well, in a world with such horrors, how could this place endure?”
“The horrors are to protect this place and its values. You taught me that,” the old man said. Theo envied his certainty as they climbed the steps together.
Josiah elbowed him aside and blocked Mrs. Ruskin’s view of him. When she finally answered the door he boomed out in his usual manner, “Tell Sarah there’ll be two more for dinner.”
“Mr. Trinkett,” Mrs. Ruskin began, the exasperation evident in her face. That is, until she saw Theo and sunlight broke through the clouds. “Heaven be praised,” she breathed.
Theo slipped inside, dropped his bag, and scooped her up.
“Where are Mother and Margaret?” he asked in a whisper after he had set the trembling woman down. She gestured into the parlor.
“Mrs. Ruskin, did I hear Josiah?” Mother called.
Theo tiptoed into the room before replying, “Among others.”
Mother was upon him before the words had finished dropping from his lips.
He hugged his mother tightly, trying to appreciate the maternal embrace, which he’d heard so many dying men wish for and which he’d wondered if he would ever enjoy again. As her arms locked about his shoulders began to loosen, he looked for his wife.
In the far corner, he spied her. As usual, dark hair was threatening to escape its pins. Her face was far paler than he ever remembered seeing it and her eyes were unblinking, as if they feared he might disappear if they ceased standing sentinel.
Theo released Mother and crossed the room to kneel before Margaret. At this, tears spilled down her cheeks.
He pulled her down to the floor and held her against him, her head on his shoulder, his arms braced around her waist. It was as if a Margaret-shaped hole had been carved in his body. In that instant, the world began to move at a normal pace again. The breath he hadn’t known he was holding returned to his chest.
“Hush,” he whispered, his lips caressing her temple. “I told you I would return. You should have had more faith.”
For a long time, there was only sniffling in the parlor. After a minute, Theo laughed at the absurdity of it all. Josiah joined in and then Mrs. Ruskin. Mother even managed a forced guffaw or two. Margaret merely looked up at him, wet and dazed and, he hoped, happy.
“How long is your leave?” she whispered, her first words to him, her fingers brushing his cheek.
“Ten days,” he responded, moving a few strands of Margaret’s hair back into place and pulling her to her feet.
“In that case, we should have tea,” Mother said, waving to Mrs. Ruskin and attempting to marshal the situation back to something with which she was comfortable.
Theo kept his hand on his wife’s elbow and steered her upstairs. “I’m going to wash. We’ll be down in a moment.”
Once the door to their bedroom had closed, he pinned Margaret against it and brushed his lips over every inch of her face. He catalogued every part with his mouth and found it all as before.
“I’m sorry I am so overcome, Theo,” she whispered. “Every day we looked for you, and you did not come — ”
“Now that I’m here?”
“I cannot comprehend it. I’m still frozen in the moment when you appeared in the parlor doorway.”
He’d moved onto her neck, to the throbbing core of her, and murmured, “I am like one in a trance. I see myself but feel apart from the scene.”
“So which of you is kissing me now?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea.”
After a minute, he released her and crossed to the basin. Margaret went the mirror and began repairing the damage his fingers had wrought in her hair. An odd silence settled between them. Had he said too much or too little?
