Soul of a Crow (32 page)

Boyd sat with his forearms surrounding his plate; I knew he was every bit as fatigued as I, shadows dark beneath his eyes, but Rebecca's table was a proper place, and I caught his gaze with a small motion, frowning unobtrusively; he took my meaning and eased back, politely removing his elbows from the table. Boyd's dark hair was flattened from his hat, his shirt dirty, though he'd washed his arms to the elbow, outside at the pump. He was a good-looking man, solid as an ox and with strong features, black brows above expressive eyes in which the given mood was rarely a mystery. Unable to prevent drawing upon past experience, I considered how the girls in any whorehouse would fight each other for his attention—he and Sawyer, both, and very nearly had, the first night I'd met the two of them.

Though Rebecca sat to his right and within arm's reach, she seemed to be now avoiding looking his way, but he addressed her, saying courteously, “Ma'am, I apologize for my lack of manners. There ain't no excuse. My dear mama would have plenty to say about me appearing in such a state at a proper dinner table.”

“On my birthday, too!” Malcolm said, before Rebecca could reply, his brown eyes twinkling, and I was heartened to hear his usual good-humored tone. “Mama wouldn't let you hear the end of it. You look like you ain't combed your hair in days, Boyd!”

“You have ridden far, and hard, this day, Mr. Carter,” Rebecca said, politely ignoring the giggles that emerged from her boys at Malcolm's teasing. “Please, do not apologize. You are my guest.
Our
guest,” she corrected hastily, and she was flustered, I was not imagining this. Boyd's face remained solemn; I sensed that she caused him unexpected agitation, and he did not know exactly what to make of this.

Boyd said, “Well, I appreciate your hospitality all the same. Makin' a cake for the boy was downright sweet of you.”

Rebecca's cheeks were broiling now; I peeked at her from the corner of my left eye, mildly astonished, observing the way she deliberately buried her face behind a sip of water. Boyd continued eating as though he had no notion of her slight discomposure, and perhaps he did not—but then his gaze was drawn again, resting upon her for the space of a breath, before he continued eating.

“Oh, I surely am thankful,” Malcolm said. “I ain't had me a birthday cake in
ages
. Not since Mama was alive. I'm most grateful, Mrs. Rebecca.”

She smiled warmly at him and said, “And you are most welcome. I have grown quite fond of your company, dear Malcolm. The boys have as well, haven't you, boys?”

“Young Malcolm knows how to entertain the ladies, same as myself,” said Tilson, using his fork and knife with a proper air, as of a well-bred gentleman. His hair was parted unevenly, ragged at the ends and tucked behind his ears. I found myself wondering if Tilson had noticed the undercurrent flowing between Boyd and Rebecca; of course it would be unseemly of me to ask him, even if I could catch him for a moment alone. He caught me studying him and offered an affable wink, then regarded his great-nephews, one on either side of Malcolm, advising, “Pay attention, young fellas.”

“Maybe we can have a fire this night, Uncle Edward?” asked Cort.

“I suspect we could,” Tilson said. “After all, it ain't every Friday that a boy celebrates the day of his birth.”

Tilson built a fire in the stone-ringed pit in the side yard, and we sat long into the evening; I collected Sawyer's jacket from the wagon, wrapping into its ample warmth, which blessedly retained the scent of him. Snuggling into it, I thought his name. And moments later he acknowledged softly,
Lorie
.

Rebecca served cake on small tin plates; Malcolm was allowed two pieces, topped with thick, sugar-laced whipped cream. After eating his dessert, and despite now being a boy of thirteen years, Malcolm hooked an elbow over my lap and there lay his head, and I stroked his soft hair.

“Boyd, might you play a spell?” I asked, and he obliged.

For the span of an hour, while Boyd made the fiddle sing, bowing out melodies sweet and haunting, I felt removed from time, suspended between moments; perhaps simple physical exhaustion was at fault, as Boyd and I had traveled dozens of miles on horseback this day. And still the level of emotional strain we had withstood was incomparable to the physical, far more taxing. I leaned against a split log meant for a seat, propping my elbow, and the firelight shimmered as my eyelids grew heavier. My fingers sank into Malcolm's hair, and I let myself drift to sleep.

It seemed only seconds later that I woke to the scent of tobacco and the absence of music; the fire had burned to embers, though still radiated heat. I was curled in Sawyer's jacket and leaning against the split log, while Malcolm snored. My lap prickled with needles and pins from the weight of him, my left arm sore from its position against the raw wood, but I felt oddly rested, as though my body claimed at least a part of what it required. Tilson and Boyd spoke in low, hushed tones; Clemens was no longer present at the fire, surely having ridden for town, and Rebecca's boys had settled with their heads upon her skirt, also asleep. Boyd's fiddle case rested near his right thigh, and he and Tilson were both smoking.

“We've all a need to leave behind the darkness,” Tilson said in a quiet murmur, drawing on a pipe. “I keep the dear memories tucked close, but I ain't got use for the others. Drives a man mad, after a time.”

“I wish it was that easy,” Boyd said in response, low and soft.

“You's a young man,” Tilson said, his eyes in the fire. “You'll outlive the worst of them memories, even if it don't seem that way, at present.”

“I still can't hardly figure that many men dead in one fell swoop,” Boyd said, in his fashion of thinking aloud. “An' the horses. All them broken bodies, lying there under the sun an' rotting away. Like as I would to believe that they'll leave me at peace, I feel them sights'll be with me 'til I leave this earth.”

Rebecca was silently studying him, her body angled just slightly in my direction, while Boyd and Tilson sat opposite, beside one another.

“Ma'am, I apologize,” Boyd said, interrupting himself, his dark eyes lighting upon Rebecca and holding fast. He said, “It's the late hour, I s'pose, that's loosening my tongue. I ain't fond of the idea of you bein' forced to think of such terrible things.”

Rebecca only shook her head, gently dismissing his concerns. Her eyes were steady on Boyd's; no more than a few feet separated them and yet it somehow seemed an impassable distance. Boyd swallowed as their gaze remained intertwined and unbroken; something far more complex than any words passed between them. And then a log snapped with an explosion of little sparks, and broke the stillness. Rebecca blinked and looked discreetly away from him.

“Maybe it ain't even right to forget, much as we want to,” Boyd murmured, and passed a hand over his face as if swiping at unwelcome memories. He explained, “If we forget, I start to feel as though my kin died for nothing. My brothers, my cousins, my folks, all gone. Once I coulda spoke of the Cause, justified it to my last breath. An' now, I can't remember a goddamn thing about the
why
of it. My kin died for no reason a'tall but to satisfy the needs of those in power, them that would let others die in their place. Once there was more Carters in the holler than you could count in a day, an' now there ain't but the boy an' me left to bear our name.”

“We like to blame the devil for the evil in the world,” Tilson said, and sighed, exhaling smoke. Tilson possessed what Deirdre would have called a solid ‘poker face,' in that his expression was carefully neutral, and therefore difficult to read. He elaborated, “It's easier that way, see? The way I see it, the true evil ain't the work of any old devil. It comes from the capacity of one man to hate another man. A man he ain't ever met, ain't ever spoke to, but that he's made to hate right to his very guts. A man he'd just as soon shoot as look at. The speed with which a man can be galled into taking sides, an' overlooking all else, that's evil.”

“I do not disagree,” Boyd said.

“I cared not for causes, or politics. I begged Elijah not to go,” Rebecca said, with quiet bitterness, and I looked her way at these unexpected words. She was to my left, wrapped in a shawl and with her palms resting upon her boys; her gaze was deep in the embers, snagged there, though it was clear she was not seeing the pile of glowing coals. The fire danced over her fine features. I knew well the blade of loss. It had cut into all of us—robbing us of fathers, brothers, husbands, sons; inescapable, it struck without mercy and sliced indiscriminately, caring not for any of our foolish hopes. The War had made widows and orphans of an entire generation; I heard this sentiment expressed many times while employed at Ginny's.

“Now, honey,” Tilson began, drawing the pipe from between his lips.

“Elijah never crossed me a day in our marriage, and yet he would not be persuaded in this matter. I pleaded with him to stay home. I wanted my
husband,
not a soldier. I may not have been to battle, but memories plague me,” Rebecca said. “There are days I wish I had none. They could hurt me no more if I held both hands in the fire.”

Compassion lifted Tilson's brows and yet there was an edge of caution about his demeanor, as if he knew from experience that his words could yield anger. He said quietly, “Elijah believed he was doing his part for his country.”

Rebecca's chin jerked to the side, as if she wished to hide tears, but her voice emerged steadily as she whispered, “What of his part for his family? What of that?”

“He believed he was serving his family the only way he could,” Tilson murmured, pausing to relight his pipe, shifting his focus and thereby allowing her a moment in which to compose herself.

Boyd sat wordlessly, a tobacco roll caught between his teeth, and his eyes remained fixed upon Rebecca as she stirred with restless energy. I tried to gauge his current thoughts, and was unable. He was as stone-faced as I had ever seen him.

“I
begged
him not to go,” Rebecca repeated, imploring Tilson, as though it had been his duty to prevent her husband from taking up arms and marching to fight. Her eyes shone wet with tear-shine. She choked, “He was killed before he ever saw Nathaniel. I haven't even my husband's body, nor so much as a grave to visit. I have
nothing left
but memories and promises unfulfilled.”

“You have two fine sons,” Tilson reminded her.

Rebecca closed her eyes and bent her head; the pale smoothness of the back of her neck resembled the delicate stalk of a flower in the faint light. Her nostrils flared as she released a breath and used her knuckles to scrape away her tears, but when she lifted her face, she had regained control. “You are right, of course, Uncle Edward.” She looked to me and whispered, “Forgive me for behaving this way, and before company. I am overcome.”

I was just far enough from her that I could not reach and offer a comforting touch; I wanted to gather her close. Not simply so that I could pretend she was Deirdre, at long last acknowledging the fervency with which I'd begged absolution for her death since the night it happened, but because I truly cared for Rebecca. I understood her words, and the intensity behind them, as well as anyone could.

I said, “There is not one thing to forgive.”

Rebecca managed a ghost of a smile before whispering, “Thank you, Lorie. Uncle Edward, shall you help me with the boys?”

“Of course I will, honey,” said Tilson, but Boyd rose first, stepping around the fire and to her side, gathering Cort into his arms with capable strength.

“Show me where this little fella belongs,” he said to Rebecca.

Malcolm stirred and sat up as Boyd followed Rebecca to the house, each of them toting a sleeping boy. Malcolm rubbed both eyes and then bent his arms about his knees, catching one wrist in the opposite hand; I had to smile at his posture, as Sawyer always positioned himself in the same fashion at the fire.

“If it ain't the birthday boy,” Tilson said, winking at Malcolm.

“I don't feel older,” Malcolm said. “I feel like I oughta
feel
older.”

“What is today's date?” I asked. “I just realized I have no idea.”

“The seventeenth of July,” Tilson said obligingly.

“We very nearly share a birthday,” I told Malcolm, pleased at this revelation. “Mine was only yesterday, though it has passed without my noticing.”

“Lorie-Lorie!” Malcolm reprimanded. “You shoulda had another piece of cake,” and his dark eyes shone in the ember glow. He said, “We's nearly twins, then.”

“Nearly,” I agreed, scooting closer so that I could rest my cheek upon him. I held close Sawyer's jacket and Malcolm wrapped one wiry arm around me, letting me snuggle to him this time, as Boyd rejoined us, ruffling Malcolm's hair as he sat.

“Many happy returns, boy,” he murmured to his little brother.

“That was kind of you to help Becky,” Tilson commented.

“Ain't nothin',” Boyd insisted politely. “We's all tuckered.”

“Today is Becky and Elijah's wedding anniversary,” Tilson explained, low and soft, and Boyd's hands fell still; he had been in the process of relighting his smoke. Tilson continued, “I weren't present for their wedding, but Becky's mama, my dear little sister, wrote of the account an' mailed it to us back home.”

A beat of quietude surrounded us as we absorbed this knowledge.

“How long was they wed?” Boyd asked at last, and there was a husky quality to his voice that was not entirely from the smoke.

“Well, they were joined in 'fifty-eight, an' Elijah was killed in action the summer of 'sixty-three,” Tilson said. “So, a good five years. I cannot claim to have known Elijah, but my niece loved him dearly. Becky was carrying Nathaniel, you see, when his daddy was killed.”