Here and Again (13 page)

“There it is!” Oliver smiled brightly. His face was all life and light, contrasting his father’s dark eyes as they gazed over to Ginger.

“It is the violet hour,” he said, wearing an apologetic smile.

“Can we stay?” Bea asked excitedly. “A Smoot can see the spirits in the violet hour. That’s what Grandpa Henry always said.”

“Well, spirits need rest and we need to eat,” Ginger replied, shaking her head. “Smoot or no Smoot, the violet hour is best passed indoors and with food.”

Bea slumped and she turned from the bridge, skulking back in the direction of the car.

Henry let go of his mother’s hand, trotted after his sister, and cried out, “‘In the world’s broad field of battle, in the great barnyard of life.’”

He nudged Bea as he passed her and she quickly gave chase, yelling, “‘Be not like those lazy cattle; be the rooster through the strife.’”

They laughed as they raced up the hill.

“Who’s that they’re reciting?” Ginger asked.

“Oliver Wendell Holmes, the senior,” Jesse replied.

“That’s my name!” Oliver declared, riding upon his father’s shoulders toward her.

“You hear my bird, Mama?”

“I did.” She forced a smile as she tiptoed up to Jesse, kissed his cheek, and then took his hand.

“Shall we tell a story from Beatrix Potter tonight?” she asked her son.

“Yeah, yeah. The tale of Jeremy Fisher?” Oliver offered.

“The life of a frog does have a lot to teach,” she agreed. “And is a far lighter tale than that of battlefields.”

“Sorry,” Jesse whispered. “Frog it is.” He pulled her to him and kissed her and arm in arm they followed Henry and Bea through the growing darkness.

•••

T
he heavens had turned a fluorescent purple; the entire farmyard looked like a snow globe made of amethyst waiting to be tilted into motion.

“The violet hour,” Ginger whispered.

“That it is,” Osbee agreed as she wrapped her right arm around the younger woman’s waist. “The hour for ghosts to walk free.”

Ginger turned and looked into Osbee’s face. The purple light poured in the window, softening the old woman’s wrinkles. She was a beauty in her day, Ginger had no doubt.

“I hope not,” Ginger replied.

February 19, 1862

Winchester

My love, Juliette,

We have returned to Winchester, from where we left in January. It was strangely springtime weather the day we left; the day after it turned with a winter storm, blowing in, and has seemingly ne’er a thought of retreating since. We marched as one body through the weather to Bath. Again, we engaged the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad. We have good reason to disturb that line as it replenishes our enemies, but many of us have sat around fires in quiet laughter. We are not in battle with men; we fight fire and metal.

With several skirmishes behind us, we came to the Potomac River on the Virginia side, where we found the town of Hancock, Maryland, garrisoned. We shot artillery into the town for two days without much effect but did, yet again, win against the railroad. We destroyed a part of the line. Having victory over boxcars, we, with low humor, cheered our success and withdrew, as we could not find a way over the river.

Next, we headed to Romney. There was a small defeat of some of our forward lines at Hanging Rock Pass, but we entered Romney nonetheless on the 10th. Winter had set up camp with us and there were many in our company who had never experienced such. I had great sympathy for them. As we had no ability to move forward into Maryland as planned, hindered as we were by snow, Jackson left part of our company in Romney and we followed him back down to Winchester.

We arrived on the 24th, at which point we heard that the commander of the regiment we left in Romney complained to Richmond. I am unclear what exactly transpired, but that division was removed from the Valley District under Jackson, leaving us with only our 4,000 men. Hence, we are left securing the lower Shenandoah with half the strength. There is now movement north of here and I feel we might be obliged to leave the poor townsfolk of Winchester yet again. How they continue I cannot say. First they are under Confederate control. Then Union. Then Confederate. Winchester seems to be the fulcrum around which this tedious affair is balancing.

We skirt Maryland, my Juliette, and if I may—is there anywhere else you can stay? I cannot say where the war will move but I am afraid for you in Sharpsburg. Please, if possible, take your aging father from there. What we shall find on the other side of winter is anyone’s guess. Please, dearest.

I shall say my humor has returned as Avery falls back in my mind as memory. I know, though, there will be more fighting to come. I purposefully think of this day, this moment, as all there is. I try not to think too much of what is to come. But night returns and now and then I hear that bird and I think of you. Is it you, my love? Do you whistle to me from a far, distant place, calling me to you? What was last fall a dark portending call is now this spring a song of hope. Please keep yourself safe.

Your devoted,

Samuel

The Calf Has Insurance

G
inger trotted to her truck, hot coffee in hand and the kitchen light flowing from the open door where Osbee stood. It was cold and still and the night sky was so clear, Ginger could see the Milky Way churning slowly above her. She climbed into her wretched truck, the smell of vomit hiding just under the veil of cold air, waiting to be found by the warmth of the heater—
olly, olly oxen free.
Ginger really had no wish to seek the vomit but it came free without asking, so as she turned onto 81 she dug through her bag and found her perfume. She sprayed it around liberally.

There was no new snow and the roads were clear. As she approached Oak Flat, she held her breath, tiptoeing past Samuel and Jacob Esch and any further weirdness that might pop out of the dark trees on this winding road in West Virginia. Grace had it that she pulled into the empty parking lot of Franklin District Community Hospital with no unexpected passengers, so she
parked her car in the employee parking lot and hiked over the snow to the emergency room.

Reality still had not found its anchor and Ginger’s mind was still sloshing around like sloosh in a hot pan, but somehow the familiar face of Margery T., RN, unlocking the glass door was settling. There was work to be done, people to help and heal, and nothing can keep one in the reality of the moment greater than an emergency. To Ginger’s disappointment, though, the ER was empty. The acute care was empty and as Margery T., RN, shuffled out the glass door on her trek to her vehicle, Ginger looked longingly at the silent ambulance resting in the driveway across the street.

“Work, work,” she mumbled to herself and headed to the medicine cabinet to take inventory. Margery had already finished that. She walked into the kitchen; Margery had restocked the cupboards and had obviously scrubbed the counters. If she had actually scrubbed the kitchen counters, then it followed that everything else was complete. Kitchen counters usually were cleaned in rural hospitals even after wiping down the waiting room. Good thing there was no cleaning staff at night, for they would have found themselves with nothing do except keep Ginger company at the triage station. So odd. It was Friday. Something always happened on Fridays.

There Ginger sat, arranging and rearranging the thermometers, the sphygmomanometer, the files in the drawers. Leaning forward, she put her head on the desk, gazing at the clock, which read three thirty-two a.m.

•••

“
G
inger?”

She looked around, the mist hanging heavy before her. It was soft purple and at her feet the river lapped the edge of its muddy bed. The water was inky and thick—liquid obsidian.

“Ginger, can you hear me?” It was Jesse. His voice called through the mist over the water.

“I hear you. Where are we?”

“It’s the violet hour.”

“I can’t see you, Jesse.”

“I’m here, across the river.”

“In Elysium?”

“I am home.” He laughed deeply. She loved that laugh. It was earthy and always came easily to him when he was up to something. Usually what he was up to was something mischievous—something for her to discover.

“What are you up to?” She folded her arms over her chest.

He laughed again as if she’d caught him in his mischief and, in his laugh, the mist cleared a little. She found him resting his back on his ash tree, a twig fishing rod in hand with the line bobbing in the black water. He was dressed in a soiled shirt and butternut wool pants and his tattered shoes sat next to his thigh. His legs were long in front of him, his right one lying on top of his left. A small smile grew on his face when he saw her and, in response, a small smile grew on hers.

Ginger gazed around, looking up the steep hill of the state park behind her and down the river’s edge. Surely she must have crossed in the boat, but she could not find it anywhere.

“How can I get across?” she asked.

“You have work to do over there to come over here.”

“But that’s home,” Ginger said.

“Is it?”

His smile faded and he looked at her with shadow eyes—with eyes like Samuel’s. She caught her breath. “Is—is this the river Lethe?” she whispered.

He rolled his shadowed eyes. “This is the Shenandoah, Ginger. How many years have you lived here?”

“It doesn’t exactly look like the Shenandoah. The water is black.”

“That’s because you’re on that side.”

Her throat grew thick as her chest tightened. “I want to be by your side,” she said.

“I am always at your side.”

Ginger began to weep, her tears reflecting the violet sky above as they fell into the inky water of the Shenandoah below. “This is a dream,” she whispered.

“It is. It is your dream and I am yet in it. See? Now you must build the bridge to your home, Ginger, my love. There shall I always be.”

There was a rapping above and when she gazed up she saw a crow tapping the branch above her head. She looked across the river and found the fog falling again.

Jesse smiled a small smile at her as he disappeared behind the violet veil of mist.

“Wait!” she yelled.

•••

G
inger started, blinking in the light of the emergency room, watching the clock on the desk roll from three thirty-three a.m. to three thirty-four a.m. She lifted her hand to her face and found her cheeks damp with tears.

A gentle rap at the glass door brought her fully to her feet. Quickly coming around the triage desk, she found a disheveled man standing at the door. He had a long, graying brown beard and held a knit hat in his hands. His red-and-black-checkered wool coat hung loosely over his thin frame and his jeans were tucked into his untied leather work boots. He smiled, his hazel eyes bright. Ginger walked to the door, thinking he looked exactly like any picture of an Appalachian mountaineer that had ever been taken or drawn.

“Sorry,” he said, his words muffled by the glass door.

“This is what we’re here for,” Ginger said to reassure him as she turned the lock. She swung the door open and his face grimaced as he walked in.

“Ah din’t come in earlier,” he explained, “because ah din’t feel lahke anything happened. But as ah was laying in bed, mah lower back just began pitchin’ a fit.”

Ginger took the man by the elbow and led him to triage. “You’re here for your back, then,” Ginger said, as she began to take his vitals.

“Ah had a car accidint this morning.”

“Oh?”

“Ah hit a calf.”

Ginger stopped squeezing the sphygmomanometer and pulled the stethoscope from her ears.

“Beg pardon?”

“Ah hit Jack Wolfe’s calf.”

“Jack Wolfe.” Ginger smiled, remembering the old man who had wanted a candy bar.

“Yuh.” The mountaineer grinned. “Ah see you know ’im.”

“I met him once,” she said. “So you hit his calf.”

“Jack’s not all he once was, yah know, and ah think he’s let the place go some. Not ’cause he’s lazy.”

Ginger shook her head and decided to wait on the blood pressure. She grabbed the mountaineer’s wrist to take his pulse.

“Anyways. Ah was a-comin’ down Old Moss Road, slow and the lahke, and ah came ’round the corner and there the calf was before ah even seen it. Hit it straight on. Kilt it.”

“I see. What is your name, please?”

“Joshua. Joshua Wheldon.”

“And what’s your date of birth?”

“March 9, 1952.”

Ginger typed the information into the computer and, as was
typical, Mr. Wheldon’s medical history popped on the screen. Seemed everybody hereabouts had visited the ER at some point and been entered into its computer system. As expected, he had no insurance. ERs in rural areas were pretty much used for general medicine by the surrounding communities. Payments were usually made in cash or over time or never, depending. She entered Mr. Wheldon’s vitals and complaint into the screen and printed it. Then she had him sign the permission for treatment and payment forms.

“Ah might could’ve been kilt.”

“Calves are big creatures.” Ginger stood and took Mr. Wheldon by his arm, helping him toward a bed.

“Jack was so upset. But he said for me not to worry about the car or anythin’ ’cause the calf had insurance.”

“What’s that?” Ginger asked, stopping their progress toward the bed.

“Jack said the calf had insurance so y’all be paid and sich.”

“The calf had insurance,” Ginger repeated, nodding as she helped Mr. Wheldon to the bed.

“Yup.”

“Well, Mr. Wheldon, why don’t you take off your coat and let me get the doctor.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Ginger stepped back into triage, grinning at the irony. The calf had insurance. What kind of world was it when livestock had insurance and people went bankrupt paying for their medical care? As she picked up the phone, there was a rap at the glass door again. Coming around the triage desk, she found the doctor already standing out in the snow. It was not Anna Maria D., MD. It was a very clean-cut young man with dark hair and dark eyes. When Ginger opened the door, he hurried in.

“Damn, it’s cold out there,” he said, his accent clearly Northern. His name tag read, “Ernest P., MD.”

“Doctor?” Ginger prompted as they walked to triage.

“Patterson. Dr. Patterson. The patient’s car backfired so loud, I thought it was a gun going off.”

“You’re not from around here, are you?”

“No. Albuquerque. What do we have?”

“A car accident.”

“Ah, a FIRT—Failed Impact Resistance Test. He’s driving a GTO, so I’ll guess he hit a . . . 1972 Ford pickup.”

“No,” Ginger said, hiding her frown.

“A pole?”

“No,” she said, her hidden frown deepening. She didn’t want to tell him. He sounded condescending and she liked Mr. Wheldon.

“What, then, Nurse, ah—” He read her name badge. “Virginia.” He chuckled.

“A calf.”

“What say?”

“He hit a calf.”

The doctor’s eyes brightened enormously and he smiled quite broadly. Was he going to laugh?

“It’s very quiet tonight, Doctor,” Ginger said with a chill to match the night outside. She led Dr. Patterson to Joshua’s room. Entering, the doctor’s demeanor changed to a very professional one, so Ginger saw that at least he had clearly been trained. He took the chart Ginger offered to him.

“Good evening, Mr. Wheldon. Seems you’ve had a car accident.”

“Yessir. Ah have. Mah back is just a-achin’.”

“Hmm. Let’s take off those shoes and your shirt and have a look.”

Ernest P., MD, walked to the sink and washed his hands. With a snap, he put on latex gloves. As Ginger washed her hands, she caught, out of the corner of her eye, Joshua Wheldon pulling a large hunting knife out of his boot. Ernest P., MD, backed up toward the wall, his eyes wide on the knife and his hand reaching for the telephone.

“Uh, Mr. Wheldon,” Ginger said calmly. “Go ahead and just drop the knife on your coat.”

“Ah-rahght,” he said and, as directed, he dropped the knife.

Ginger chuckled inwardly to herself. Such things used to surprise her, too, but out here in the rural areas, whether Washington, Virginia, West Virginia, or anywhere else, people generally carried hunting knives or guns on their person. It was not for show. It was for survival—literally. She smiled kindly at the doctor and nodded reassuringly.

Composing himself once again, Ernest P., MD, began his assessment. It took about half an hour, after which time he indicated to Mr. Wheldon that he thought the man had pulled muscles in his lumbar region. He prescribed muscle relaxers and painkillers and instructed the patient to return if he wasn’t feeling better in a week. Then Ernest P., MD, left the patient with Ginger.

To avoid Mr. Wheldon bending, Ginger helped him on with his boots.

“Ma’am?” he said.

“Yes, Mr. Wheldon?”

“Did ah do somethin’ wrong?”

She stood and looked into the man’s hazel eyes. “What do you mean?”

“Well, mah knife.”

“Oh. No, Mr. Wheldon. Dr. Patterson isn’t from around here.”

“Ah kinda noticed. You’re not, neither.”

She smiled. “No. I’m not, and you’re fine. Now, here is your prescription to fill and a couple of pills to take when you get home. See you through the night.” She helped the man to his feet. “You understand the instructions?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Ginger motioned him to the door. “If you see Jack Wolfe,” she said, “tell him to keep the chocolate bars down to one a day.”

Joshua Wheldon turned around, grinning ear to ear. “You do know Jack!” he declared.

“Oh, yes. I do. And only after one meeting.” They laughed together.

“Ya know anyone what needs a cow?” Mr. Wheldon asked.

Ginger shook her head, confused.

“The calf a-dyin’ just made ole Jack realize he cain’t keep his farm goin’. Cain’t keep the fences up and sich. He’s kinda afraid for his cow. If yah meet anyone that needs a good milker, let me know. I’ll tell Jack.”

Ginger nodded, and as they turned to the glass door, they watched a thin shadow of a person slip and slide across the parking lot.

“He don’t look lahk he’s a-walkin’ too good.”

Ginger squinted into the darkness as she turned the lock on the door. The thin shadow stopped and threw up.

“Ya need help with ’im?”

The shadowy figure stepped closer to the light and then sat down in the snow.

“No, thank you, Mr. Wheldon. That’s very kind.”

“He’s mighty sick,” the mountaineer said.

“He’s mighty drunk,” Ginger corrected and, securing the door open, she walked out into the clear, cold night to retrieve Jacob Esch.

“You be careful, Mr. Wheldon, crossing the parking lot,” she said as she approached the boy.

“Ah will. Good night, ma’am.”

“Jacob Esch?” she said, bending down. He smelled of whiskey.

“My side hurts,” he gurgled, holding his right abdomen.

“How much alcohol have you had?” she asked, helping him up. Even in this light, she could see his face was pale and pressed in pain.