Read The Road Home Online

Authors: Michael Thomas Ford

Tags: #General Fiction

The Road Home (7 page)

BOOK: The Road Home
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CHAPTER 7
W
hen he woke up, it was dark. For a moment he couldn't remember where he was. He had been dreaming about the first day of high school. He couldn't find his locker, then couldn't remember the combination when he
did
find it. When the bell rang, rebuking him for being late to his first class, he'd woken up.
Slowly the room came into view and the anxious feeling dissipated. He hated that dream. It was one he had fairly regularly, usually when he was stressed out about a project. Sometimes it took another form and he was—for reasons that were unclear—back in high school after having already graduated from college. He was looking for the student affairs office so that he could prove that he didn't belong there, but it was always around another corner or down another hallway, just out of reach.
It's because you're in your old room,
he told himself as he sat up and turned on the light on his bedside table. It illuminated a plate with a sandwich on it. A note lay beside the plate.
Don't want to wake you.
Dinner was grilled lake trout. Don't think it would be good cold, so here's a sandwich.
Dad
Burke picked up the sandwich and lifted the top piece of bread. It was peanut butter and jelly. Strawberry, by the smell of it. He took a bite and chewed, only to discover that the peanut butter was of the crunchy variety. He forced himself to swallow what was in his mouth, but the rest of the sandwich was returned to the plate.
“Who uses crunchy peanut butter?” he asked the room. “You might as well eat squirrel shit.”
His father should have known he didn't like crunchy peanut butter. On the rare occasions when Burke's mother had gone away without them, it had been up to his father to feed them. Usually Burke's mother had made and frozen enough meals to last the duration of her absence, but occasionally Burke's father had found defrosting and reheating one of her dishes too taxing, and had resorted to sandwiches. Burke had always requested peanut butter, and it had always been smooth.
“Of course, he probably never even looked at the jar,” Burke mused.
He wasn't hungry, anyway. But he was awake. He looked at the clock. It was 2:26. The air was heavy and still, as if the whole world was holding its breath. He knew he wouldn't be able to fall asleep, so he reached for
Watership Down.
He'd always liked reading late at night, anyway. It made the experience feel more like an adventure somehow.
Then he remembered Jerry's book. Someone—most likely his father—had removed it from the bed and placed it on the bedside table. The sandwich plate was atop it. Burke lifted the plate and slid the book from underneath it. Opening it to where he'd left off, he continued to read.
The majority of the information we have on the private lives of the men who fought in the Civil War comes from the letters they wrote to loved ones back home. Although it seems unlikely given the chaotic nature of life during wartime, the delivery of mail to and from troops on the move was carried out with surprising efficiency. And as recipients on both ends of the exchange more often than not kept the letters they received, there exists a rich store of firsthand accounts of the events of that period.
Equally important, these letters provide a very personal glimpse into lives turned upside down by the division between the states. Often filled with sorrow and joy in equal parts, they were generally written either to bolster the spirits of sons, husbands, and brothers serving the cause far from home or to reassure loved ones anxiously awaiting a soldier's return that a reunion was surely not far off.
Perhaps most poignant are the letters sent between husbands and wives or between affianced couples. These are often unusually intimate in tone, almost assuredly because the senders never knew if the letter might be the last words spoken to a loved one. Although inarguably romantic in tone, the majority of the letters of this type are remarkably without the sentimentality that characterizes most love letters, as if the ever-present threat of death made it possible to speak plainly what was contained in the heart of the author.
The following pages contained photographs of letters sent and received by soldiers in the Vermont militia. Most were unreadable, the spidery handwriting difficult to decipher. Fortunately, next to each letter appeared a transcription of the contents. Burke read through some of them.
He found himself drawn particularly to a letter identified as being written by one Amos Hague, a soldier in the 3rd Vermont Infantry, to his fiancée, Tess Beattie, back home in Sandberg. For one thing, he could actually read it. For another, it included a sketch—remarkably well done—of a sweet flag plant. Curious to see what the sketch had to do with the letter, Burke began to read.
My beloved T:
How long has it been since I last saw you? It seems an eternity, though I know it is less than three months' time. Much has transpired since I last wrote, but I will not waste words or time on descriptions of war, except to report that last night my good friend William Holburne succumbed to fever brought on by an infected wound. I have spoken of William to you before. He was a young man of only eighteen years, gentle and full of spirit. I considered him my brother and sought to look after him as much as I could. I feared this day would come, as the very young seem always to draw the eyes of the Fates upon them, but now that it has, I find myself unable to grieve the loss of him. It is but one more thing this war has taken from us, the soothing power of tears. Or perhaps I am simply afraid that should I allow myself to mourn, I shall never stop.
I comfort myself with thoughts of you. Our last kiss lingers still on my lips, and the taste of you relieves both thirst and hunger. Two days ago, while marching to our current encampment, we passed through a marshland where I plucked sweet flag and tucked it into my haversack. At night, in the darkness of my tent, I crush it ‘tween my fingers and hold them to my face. The scent remains for an hour or more, during which I recall afternoons lying with you in the grass. I hear your laughter and feel your sun-warmed skin beneath my hands. Whispering your name, I fall asleep and dream.
It is just past dawn. We will be moving on shortly, to where, I do not know. I know only that it takes me another step, another mile away from you. I pray that soon the day will come when I turn my face homeward. Then I will not walk but run to you as swiftly as these feet will carry me.
Your devoted companion,
A
Burke ran his fingertips over the drawing of the sweet flag. It was detailed enough that he could almost feel the hundreds of tiny bumps on the spadix that rose up from between the leaves of the plant. It seemed such an odd thing for a soldier to focus on. Then he reminded himself that the soldiers had been other things first, farmers and teachers and shop owners, who had been called up to fight for the North. He wondered what Amos Hague had been before he'd put on the uniform of a Yankee soldier, and what he'd gone back to following the end of the war.
He searched the book for more letters written by Amos Hague but found none. Nor was there any information on the man, apart from the fact that he had been part of the 3rd Vermont Infantry. From other chapters in the book, Burke learned that the unit was instrumental in several key battles of the war, including encounters at Gettysburg, Antietam, and Fredericksburg. Amos's role in these skirmishes, however, went undocumented.
Burke read until his eyes grew heavy. As the first lines of dawn cracked the dark face of the night, he fell asleep again. He found himself standing in a field. The grass, green and high, was stained with blood. Around him lay fallen soldiers, some dead, some near death. A few were merely wounded.
Burke himself was unscathed, as if he had just that moment materialized out of thin air. A man, his leg shredded below the knee and the life quickly draining from him, lifted a bloodied hand and pointed at Burke with trembling fingers. His mouth opened, but no sound came out.
Then Burke heard his name called. He turned, searching for the voice, and saw a young man lying not far off. The front of the soldier's uniform was stained with blood, and he was pressing his hand to his chest. Once more he called Burke's name, his voice faltering.
Burke tried to run to the boy but found that his feet refused to move. He wanted to take the soldier in his arms and comfort him in his last moments, but could only stand and watch in horror and despair as the stain on the young man's uniform grew larger and the light in his eyes flickered out.
He awoke with a gasp. For a long, terrifying moment he thought he was unable to breathe. Then his lungs drew in air, and the terrible weight was lifted from his chest.
“Good morning,” his father said. He was standing at the foot of the bed, regarding his son with a bemused expression. “Sleeping in today, are you?”
Burke looked around. “What time is it?” he asked.
“Half past seven,” his father answered.
Burke groaned. “That's sleeping in?” he said.
“How's the leg?”
“Still broken,” said Burke.
His father nodded. “I can see that,” he said.
“It
hurts,
” said Burke. He was tired and irritated, and it felt as if his father was teasing him.
“Means it's healing,” his father said. “We need to get you up soon, get the muscles working again.”
“Swell,” said Burke. He noticed the cup of coffee in his father's hand. “I don't suppose there's any more of that?” he asked.
“Whole pot of it,” his father told him. “Want to come down and have a cup?” He chuckled at his joke. “I'll bring you up some with breakfast. You should be hungry. I see you didn't eat your supper.”
Burke glanced at the forgotten peanut butter sandwich. It looked none the fresher, despite a night of rest. “I should have told you, I apparently developed some kind of an allergy to peanuts,” he lied. For some reason he wanted to spare his father's feelings, although he had no reason to think he would be offended.
“Good thing you had only a bite, then,” said his father. “Figured it out before it was too late.”
“Yeah,” Burke said. “I guess I wasn't paying much attention when I picked it up.”
“I assume you've got no allergy to pancakes?” his father asked as he picked up the plate.
“No,” Burke replied. “Pancakes are fine.”
His father walked to the door. “I'll be back in a bit,” he said. “I've got to meet Mars out at the barn first.”
“Mars is here this early?” Burke asked.
His father chuckled. “A country vet never sleeps,” he said. “I guess you've forgotten what it's like out here after all those years in the city.”
“I'm not sure Boston's
the
city, but it's certainly a pretty nice one,” Burke said, unable to contain his irritation.
“Mars has made a nice life for himself here,” his father said. “His son seems likely to stick around, too.” He paused. “Anyhow, I'll be back shortly. Lucy's gone off to run some errands, so it's just us fellows this morning.”
Errands?
Burke thought.
At seven thirty in the morning? What's wrong with these people?
His father retreated downstairs, leaving him to stare out the window. Now that he was more awake, Burke noticed Mars's pickup parked outside. A minute later he saw his father walk across the yard as Mars emerged from the barn. The two men shook hands. Burke's father said something, and Mars turned his head and looked up at the window of Burke's room. For a moment his eyes seemed to look right into Burke's. Then he laughed. So did Burke's father.
Anger rushed in. Burke was clearly the subject of their amusement. Probably his father was telling Mars how his lay a bed, city-boy son had slept the day away, while they had already tilled the field, milked the cows, and raised a barn.
Then there was his father's comment about how great Mars's life was.
Compared to mine is what he meant,
Burke thought. And what was that about Will staying in Vermont? He knew his father thought that he'd made some bad choices in his life, but did he really resent so much that Burke had left Wellston? Had he really expected his son to stay and become—what—a farmer? A schoolteacher? A country vet?
Apparently so,
he concluded. And did he really think it was fair to compare his life to Mars's? Burke bristled at the idea. But was it really so unexpected? After all, he and Mars had both been raised there. Why had one of them left and one of them stayed?
Burke knew the answer to that question. He'd
had
to leave, not only because he wanted to see what else the world had to offer, but also because staying in Wellston would have meant forever hiding who he was. Mars could stay because he was one of them. He fit in. He was everything Burke wasn't.
BOOK: The Road Home
12.57Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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