Time After Time (188 page)

At last, after dinner, Josiah Trinkett arrived. His face was always lined, but the mirth that usually haunted the corners of his eyes had been driven out by deeper shadows. His broad mouth, so quick to smile, turned down. Graying hair hung over his forehead, raked out of place by restless hands.

“Well, Ward, it seems that there’s still a war for you to fight after all,” he said as he slid into a chair and Sarah prepared coffee for him. His visage was ashen.

“The battle?” Theo asked. Margaret was certain they all knew what Josiah meant, but with a question of such import, it was worth clarifying.

“It was a first-class muddle,” the older man said with a grim nod. “The Rebels are claiming victory.”

“Losses?” Theo’s voice was steady. Margaret could scarcely breathe.

Josiah sipped and then set his cup back into the saucer with a mighty rattle. The clank of the china resounded in the room. Did he always make so much noise?

Hands back in his lap, he answered, “Heavy on both sides.”

Margaret rose from the sofa and walked to the window, all prickles and pins. She had to
move
.

Theo leaned back into his chair and said, “Early, easy victory was always a dream, Josiah, they had to know that. I’ve taken the Southern papers for years. The degree of misunderstanding and resentment is enormous. Depending on the blockade … ”

The conversation in the background continued at a hum. Inside her head there was a ringing that Margaret couldn’t shake off. She had forced her body into the accepted posture: back straight, shoulders back, feet together. Every speck of her burned in rebellion. She wanted to keen and thrash about. How could they all be so calm?

Minutes later, she felt Theo’s hand on her back. The pressure was searing, and only the dumb weight of her tongue kept her from shrieking.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

Despite her inner turmoil, her voice emerged. “Aye, I am watching the moon rise.” Shaky, but ’twould do. There was a long silence and finally Margaret added, “It will be full tomorrow.”

Theo nodded and asked, “Will you play for us?”

“I fear that my hands are not steady enough tonight.” She smiled at him as best she could, knowing it was sad and half-done.

“Will you retire with me, then?”

“Yes.”

Theo bade his mother and Josiah goodnight. The older people winked good-naturedly as Theo led Margaret up to their room.

There was no need for words. He let down her hair and brushed it out. They undressed one another slowly, moving with deliberateness until at last they were unclothed and draped across the bed.

Theo seemed be moving in slow motion. There was no urgency to the way he kissed every part of her body, held her against his length, and finally entered her almost surreptitiously. It was rhythmic, inevitable, and overpowering. He prolonged the moment, abandoning any touch or stroke that appeared to be too productive. After a lifetime, it seemed, they found shuddering release together.

He cradled her face in his hands. “I love you, Margaret. I love you. I will return to you.”

She could not respond, so she nestled against his chest and pressed her lips to the base of his throat, feeling his heartbeat in her mouth.

Chapter XI

It had been three long months since Theo’s departure. Margaret could remember their final walk together to the station clearly. Flags adorned every post and hung from many windows. A band and a choir farewelled the men of Company H of Connecticut’s Fifth Regiment as they had boarded their special train to Hartford. Theo had shaken hands in a warm, manly way with Josiah and Reverend Patterson, kissed Mrs. Ruskin on the cheek, and wrestled Sarah in a long, warm embrace. Finally, he had turned to her.

Margaret had been willing herself not to cry since rising. She had found herself babbling, attempting to fill the space with words in place of tears. “Remember to wear two pairs of socks at night, and if you get sick … ”

He had stopped her mouth with his. Right there in the station. In front of his mother and Reverend Patterson and all his men. He had kissed her like he meant it. He had broken off for a moment to murmur, “Thank you” before pressing her to him once more.

When at last he let off, she had whispered, dazed, “For what?”

“For the night in the stable,” he said in a low voice in her ear. “And every night since. Particularly those to come. Now, tell me you love me.”

She had crimsoned and shaken her head, settling instead for kissing him again, trying to put all her affection and sadness into her lips.

Finally, the train’s whistle had sounded and Theo had broken from her. He sighed, perhaps with disappointment, before saying, “I love you, my girl. Don’t forget it.”

The words echoed even now in the parlor, where Margaret sat ripping seams of old clothing that was to be turned into bandages by the Ladies’ Aid Society. Why couldn’t she have lied? She might never see him again. Why couldn’t she say,
Yes, Theo, I love you?
Why were those words so hard?

She had said it before, when they had been engaged prior, but as it was as if they had been preserved in amber. Those words belonged to another time. Her feelings now were so much more durable and concrete than they had been. Surely Theo knew it. This was a more mature caring. It wasn’t ephemeral or changeable. They needed no flowers and roses and poetry. Love was a weak foundation upon which to build a life. What they had was better. Couldn’t he see that?

Sarah and Mrs. Ruskin burst through the front door. Their market baskets thumped into the walls, their skirts stirred up the air, and their conversation buzzed.

Sarah said, leaning into the parlor with a sly smile, “As you might expect, there were letters from Theodore at the post office.” She extended an envelope to Margaret, who excused herself to the garden to read in solitude.

The trees had lost most of their foliage. Just a few golden leaves remained, scarcely enough to produce a dry, rustling symphony about her head. Margaret stared at the letter, running her finger over the address where his hand had brushed. He wrote steadily, and each missive was prized.

October 28, 1861

My dearest Margaret,

Rest assured that I am well. We are now in the western part of Virginia, in a spot of surpassing loveliness. The hills nestle our camp. White ash and beech trees shade us. As I watch the autumn settle in, I think of you. I sometimes turn to point out some small beauty or wonder and grieve that you are not here to wonder at the season’s change with me. I think often of the home I know so well. Has it snowed yet? Does the frost touch your cheek in the yard? I want to hear every quotidian detail, Margaret.

The camp itself seems to be a meditation on Plato’s Republic. What sort of society should man create? What is ideal? What is necessary? We drill every morning, but even we cannot fill a day entirely with marching. As we will likely be in our present location a while, a regimental church and library have been established. The men are getting together some sort of lyceum, and I have been asked to speak on several subjects. As is to be expected, the most popular tent is the camp post office. I treasure every word from you and feel like a beggar asking for more, more, more, knowing that no production of pen and ink could ever be enough to satisfy me.

The food is as well as can be expected. The cakes you and Mother sent were much appreciated by James, Henry, and me. As the nights grow colder, the socks and gloves you knitted enclose my feet and fingers. As to the rest of me, dearest Margaret, thoughts of you warm me.

I think often of our conversation at Ferree’s, when you suggested that I might arrive at the war and feel ineffectual, and I stringently denied the possibility. Neither of us was entirely right. At that time, I had not understood what my life would become before I would depart for the front. Now, crouching in the mud in western Virginia, I regret leaving you. But I feel too that this is the great crisis of our time. I could not in good conscience turn from the struggle for freedom — for ourselves — that grips the nation. I am torn between my devotion to my country and to you. I hope only you will forgive me this absence when I am again in your arms.

I must make this quick or risk missing the post. I will only say in closing, Margaret mine, that I hope this note eases your sleep this night. Until I return to your side, I remain as ever,

Yours,

Theo

• • •

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.