The Road Home (12 page)
“Fuck you,” Will spat. “I don't owe you anything. And you haven't answered my question.”
“What did my parents say?” Burke was suddenly embarrassed. “They didn't say anything. I never told them.”
“They don't know?” said Will. “Your dad doesn't know?”
“Of course he knows,” Burke answered. “My mother knew, too. We just never talked about it. I kind of let them figure it out on their own.”
“And you're telling me how I should live
my
life?” said Will.
my
life?” said Will.
“Things were different then!” Burke argued.
“Oh yeah?” Will countered. “How? It wasn't 1956.”
Burke started to snap back but stopped. To his surprise, he laughed. “You're right,” he said. “You're right. I don't really have an excuse for that. I guess I was just scared.”
“Then don't expect more from anyone else,” said Will. “It's not fair.”
“Maybe not,” Burke agreed. “But is it fair to Donna to let her think you're someone else? More important, is it fair to you?”
Will didn't answer. He was looking at the floor, his hands folded in his lap as his thumbs tapped against each other anxiously. Seeing this, Burke felt bad for pushing him so hard.
What he needs is someone who doesn't judge him,
he thought.
What he needs is a friend.
What he needs is someone who doesn't judge him,
he thought.
What he needs is a friend.
“I'm sorry,” he said quickly.
After a moment Will nodded. “Me too,” he said.
Burke picked up the laptop and opened it. “Let's look at some pictures,” he said.
CHAPTER 12
“H
ere's everything,” Lucy said, setting a cardboard box on the kitchen table. “Took me a while to find it. I'd stuck it in with the boxes of china in the cellar. I don't know why.”
ere's everything,” Lucy said, setting a cardboard box on the kitchen table. “Took me a while to find it. I'd stuck it in with the boxes of china in the cellar. I don't know why.”
“When are you just going to move in here?” Burke asked as he opened the box. “You're here all the time, anyway.”
“You really do sound like your father,” said Lucy. “âWhy don't we get married?' âWhy don't you move in?' You Crenshaw men really are a pushy bunch.”
“Sorry,” Burke said. “But it does seem like the logical thing to do.”
“Life isn't always logical,” said Lucy. “I like having my own house. I like knowing it's there.”
“You mean you like having an escape route,” Burke teased.
“Yes,” Lucy admitted. “I do. I spent most of my life with one man. I may spend the rest of it with one man. But you never know.”
“Good for you,” Burke said. He lifted a smaller box out of the larger one. “Here we are,” he said, removing the lid and finding a stack of photographs.
Intrigued by the pictures in Jerry's book, he'd asked Lucy if she still had the originals. To his delight, she did. Now she'd brought him all of Jerry's original materials. He flipped through the photos, amazed at how clear most of them were. At the time of the Civil War, photography was still in its infancy, yet some of the images were strikingly vivid.
“Where did he get these?” Burke asked Lucy.
“Oh, all kinds of places,” Lucy answered. “The Library of Congress, the Center for Civil War Photography, the Henry Sheldon Museum in Middlebury. Some he got directly from people whose family members were in the army. The source should be written on the back of each photo. Jerry was very good about that kind of thing.”
Burke flipped over the photograph he was currently looking at, a battlefield scene depicting the aftermath of a confrontation. “The Civil War Photography Project,” he read. “Photograph by Alexander Gardner.”
“I wanted to use all the photos in the book, but it would have been too expensive,” Lucy said. “I had to choose the ones that would reproduce the best. It's too bad, because there are some wonderful personal ones in there.”
Burke looked through some more pictures. Many he'd seen in Jerry's book, but many more were new to him. Mostly they were battlefield scenes, but there were also photographs of individual soldiers. These were most interesting to him. The expressions on the faces of the men fascinated him. Some looked into the camera with tired eyes, as if submitting to an ordeal, while others faced the lens defiantly, their faces proud and determined.
Then he came to a photo that was different from anything else he'd seen. It was a picture of two men and a woman. The woman was standing in the middle. Her dress was plain, and her hair was pulled into a bun. The man to her left was dressed in the familiar uniform of a Northern soldier. He had a short beard, strong features, and eyes that looked straight ahead. His arm was around the woman's waist. On the woman's right was the other man. Younger than the first, and without a beard, he was dressed in dark pants and a checked shirt, open at the neck. But instead of looking at the camera, his head was turned so that he was looking at the woman beside him.
No,
Burke thought as he examined the photograph more closely.
He's looking at the other man.
All three were standing in front of a large tree. In the distance behind them was a small house.
Burke thought as he examined the photograph more closely.
He's looking at the other man.
All three were standing in front of a large tree. In the distance behind them was a small house.
At first he thought the younger man might be the couple's son, but he was clearly not much younger than they were. He turned the photo over to see if the subjects were identified. Unlike the other pictures, which were neatly labeled, this one had only a note scrawled in pencil: “A. Hague and T. Beattie.”
“Amos Hague,” Burke said. “The fellow who wrote the letter.” Lucy turned from the sink, where she was washing strawberries. “Isn't that a lovely photo?” she said. “It's a pity I couldn't use it.”
“Why didn't you?” Burke asked.
“I don't know where it came from,” Lucy replied. “And I'm not certain the identification is correct.”
“But it says it's Amos Hague and Tess Beattie,” said Burke.
“Look more closely,” Lucy said. “There's a question mark after their names.”
“Is this Jerry's handwriting?”
“Could be,” said Lucy. “It's similar, anyway. The other problem is that second fellow. There's nothing about him.”
“And you don't know where the photo came from?”
Lucy shook her head. “It's a bit of a mystery,” she said.
Burke turned the picture over again and looked at the man who might or might not be Amos Hague. He tried to imagine him writing the things in the letter. Then he tried to imagine the young womanâpresumably Tessâreading them. Despite the intimacy of their pose, Burke had a difficult time imagining them exchanging such romantic words. Amos Hague the soldier didn't look like a man who would crush sweet flag between his fingers because the smell reminded him of his woman at home.
Then again, they all looked like that in photos back then, he reminded himself. The overly formal style was ubiquitous, as though the subjects were all afraid of revealing their true selves. Only the younger man in the photograph seemed to be at ease, and he was looking away from the camera.
“Do you think he's going off to or coming back from war?” Lucy asked.
“Amos?” Burke said. “It's hard to tell, isn't it? I'd say going off to. They all look very stoic about the whole thing.”
“I can't decide,” said Lucy. “Not that it matters. It's still a striking image.”
“In the book it says Tess is from Sandberg,” Burke said. “Do you know if Amos was as well?”
“I don't,” Lucy answered. “I meant to find out what became of them, but there were so many other things to do, and I just never did. That letter is the only other thing connected to Amos Hague, so I didn't have much to go on.”
“And where did that come from?” asked Burke.
“The Sheldon Museum, if I remember correctly,” Lucy said. “They have quite a collection of correspondence there. Anyway, the source should be noted in the book.”
She finished rinsing the berries and wiped her hands on a dishcloth. “Here,” she said, bringing Burke a strawberry. “Right out of our own patch.”
Burke bit into the fruit. “Sweet,” he said. “Usually the homegrown ones are kind of bitter.”
“It's all the manure,” said Lucy. “It makes them tastier.”
Burke grimaced. “Thanks,” he said. “Now I can never eat another strawberry as long as I live.”
“Nonsense,” said Lucy. “Manure's natural. It's better than all those chemicals they spray on them. Besides, it's Old Jack's manure, and he's family.”
“You're something else,” Burke told her. “You know that?”
Lucy bit into a strawberry. “I've been told,” she said.
“Did Jerry serve in any of the wars?” asked Burke.
“Korea,” Lucy told him. “He was a communications specialist. We met not long before he joined the army. I was still in high school when he left.”
“It must have been difficult,” said Burke.
“Not as difficult as explaining to my parents how I got pregnant,” said Lucy.
Burke looked up, surprised. “Pregnant?” he said. “Butâ”
“I lost the baby,” Lucy interrupted. “There were complications. It was a long time ago.”
“I'm sorry,” said Burke, not knowing what else to say.
“I remember telling my father that I
had
to sleep with Jerry because he might be killed over in Korea,” Lucy said. “I think that actually made sense to him, because he wasn't nearly as upset as I thought he would be. Although he did write to Jerry, telling him we would be getting married the instant he came home. Unfortunately, that was the first Jerry had heard about there being a baby, too. It took a couple of letters back and forth to get it all sorted out. And my mother went out and bought me a wedding ring at Woolworth's and made me tell everyone that Jerry and I had eloped.”
had
to sleep with Jerry because he might be killed over in Korea,” Lucy said. “I think that actually made sense to him, because he wasn't nearly as upset as I thought he would be. Although he did write to Jerry, telling him we would be getting married the instant he came home. Unfortunately, that was the first Jerry had heard about there being a baby, too. It took a couple of letters back and forth to get it all sorted out. And my mother went out and bought me a wedding ring at Woolworth's and made me tell everyone that Jerry and I had eloped.”
“And how old were you?” Burke asked.
“Sixteen,” said Lucy. “Almost seventeen. I know it sounds awful, but secretly I was terribly pleased about it. I loved Jerry, and I wanted to have his baby.” She laughed. “This was before women started looking at their vaginas in hand mirrors and Gloria Steinem told us we could be more than just mothers,” she said. “When I lost the baby, I was devastated. I thought I'd failed Jerry somehow.”
“I can't even imagine,” Burke said.
“I remember my mother telling me that God had a reason for taking my baby,” said Lucy. “Some nonsense about needing more cherubim or something like that. I hated her so much at that moment. She couldn't just say, âThis is a horrible thing that's happened to you, and I wish I could make it better, but I can't.' She had to pretend it was all for the best. And, of course, we never talked about it again.”
“Family secrets,” Burke said.
“How did we start talking about this?” Lucy asked. “Oh, yes, the photograph.” She picked it up and stared at it for a moment. “I think he's leaving,” she said. “For one thing, his uniform is too clean. For another, the girl looks as if she's expecting the worst. In my day she would have been grinning from ear to ear, pretending everything was just fine.” She set the photo down. “No wonder so many of us became alcoholics,” she said thoughtfully.
“Who's an alcoholic?” Burke's father asked as he came through the screen door.
“All women my age,” Lucy answered. “And it's because men your age drove us to it.”
Burke's father turned on the water and began washing his hands. “Well, I apologize for that,” he said.
“It's all right,” said Lucy. “You didn't do it on purpose.”
Burke's father turned around, drying his hands on a dish towel. “More photos?” he asked.
“These are from the Civil War,” Burke explained. “We were just looking at them.” He handed his father the picture he and Lucy had been discussing. “What do you think is going on in this one?”
His father looked at the photo, peering over the top of his glasses. “I think that young man on the right is very happy that the one on the left is going off to war, because it means he'll have that pretty young lady all to himself.”
Burke and Lucy exchanged glances. “That never occurred to me,” Lucy said.
Burke's father chuckled. “That's because you're not a man,” he said.
But I am,
Burke thought,
and it didn't occur to me, either.
“You think he's jealous of Amos?”
Burke thought,
and it didn't occur to me, either.
“You think he's jealous of Amos?”
“Who's Amos?” his father asked. “The soldier? Yes, I think he is. I think both gentlemen have an interest in that young lady. What's her name?”
“Tess,” Burke told him.
“I think both gentlemen have an interest in Tess. As Amos has his arm around her, my guess is he's the one with a claim on her. The other fellow . . . What's his name?”
“We don't know,” said Lucy.
“Let's call him George,” said Burke's father. “George there is hoping that Amos will go away and get himself killed. I don't know what Tess is hoping. You never can tell with women.”
“An interesting theory,” Burke said. “Maybe you're right.”
“Doesn't much matter, does it?” his father said. “They're all dead.”
Lucy looked at him, shaking her head. “You're an incurable romantic, you know that?” she said.
“I do my best,” said Burke's father. He looked over at Burke. “I spoke to Will this morning. He's going to drive you to your appointment in Montpelier tomorrow.”
“Will?” said Burke. “Why?”
“Says he has to go there, anyway, to pick up something for his father. It saves me a trip, and I didn't think you'd mind.”
“No,” Burke said. “It's fine. I just don't want to put anybody out.”
Which, apparently, I am,
he thought.
I'm only too happy to save you a trip.
Which, apparently, I am,
he thought.
I'm only too happy to save you a trip.
“He'll be by around eight,” his father said. “That should give you plenty of time.”
It certainly should,
thought Burke. Despite the fact that his anger at Will had diminished, he still didn't relish the idea of spending a couple of hours with him in such close quarters. But apparently Will felt otherwise, as he'd volunteered for the job. Burke hoped everything would be okay.
You're the grown-up,
he reminded himself.
It's up to you.
thought Burke. Despite the fact that his anger at Will had diminished, he still didn't relish the idea of spending a couple of hours with him in such close quarters. But apparently Will felt otherwise, as he'd volunteered for the job. Burke hoped everything would be okay.
You're the grown-up,
he reminded himself.
It's up to you.
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