Speaker 1: Seventeen. The worst of it had lasted for four almost
unbearable days, and then he awoke in the morning of
the fifth one with a shirt damp from sweat. The
blanket of fur felt good wrapped around him, but he
was not cold like he had been now. It was
merely comfortable to be wrapped tightly beside the fire. And
often he had fed the fire, and he must have
lest it would have died, but he did not recall
doing it. His pants were dry, so he must have
risen and relieved himself during those days, but he did
not remember getting up. It took ten more days of
steady improvement before he felt more or less back to normal.
But he ate regularly, whether he was particularly hungry or not,
and he rested often, and then soon enough he felt
his strength returning to him. After watering his neglected potatoes,
he stretched out in the bright mid morning sunlight and
lay his face to the sun. A lightly resting forearm
covered his eyes. He turned his head and glanced over
his left shoulder, and just down the ridge a little
ways lay a pool that was fed by the small
creek in spring. He gave thought to going down there
later and getting in it. Was comfortably cool now, but
it would be warm by the middle of the afternoon,
and the pool, though deepened and widened in recent summers,
was still shallow enough that the water warmed quickly with
its surroundings. He could use a bath, and, aside from
rinsing his face off a couple of times, Reuben had
not bathed since before the sickness befell him. But that
wasn't why he was thinking about the pool. He was
lying in the sun and was comfortable, but he was
also bored. He was wondering about retrieving some more mud
and to sift through for gold. He didn't need anymore.
He just wanted something to do. He had thought about
building another chair to replace the one he had burned,
but his heart wasn't into the project. Living as he
had for as long as he had and being accountable
to only himself, had taught him many things. Maybe chief
among those was that if he wasn't totally committed to
a thing, then he generally did a fairly poor job
of it. The last thing he wanted was to be
sitting comfortably by the fire one evening, and the damn
thing suddenly decided to fly apart and sprawl him into
the dirt. It would be against the odds. But what
if in the fall he somehow managed to break a hip.
Stranger things have happened. That was something he could ill
afford to have happened. The peeling of a bell reached
his ears, and all that had been running through his
mind suddenly disappeared. It was faint, but the sad was definite.
He had heard it and then heard it again. Slow
and rhythmic, it repeated over and over. Occasionally the timing
changed and an extra tolling could be heard, but then
went back to the same methodic pattern. He stood up
too quickly and placed his hands against a tree to
steady himself. The wave of dizziness was short lived, and
he knew it to be an after effect of the
recent illness. He was not yet as strong as he
would like to have believed himself to be, not running,
but without question walking a decidedly quicker pace than his usual.
He went back to the coal shaft and retrieved his rifle,
after swallowing several deep pools of water from his canteen.
The water always seemed to help when the dizzy spells came.
He listened with earnest after he had re emerged. It
took a moment, but the sound was still on the breeze.
He was cautious as he walked. It wasn't something he
did because of the sound that he had heard. It
was just his way. But he traveled faster than was
his norm on this day. The sound he had heard,
he had struggled often to hear it, so he knew
it was not nearby. He would travel with alertness, but
he could travel, and he thought with safety as well
as rapidity. His condition of boredom was now gone, and
quite long forgotten. He drew closer to where he had
thought the sounds to be coming from, but judging by
the volume when he was able to hear it, it
didn't seem to him that he was gaining any ground.
And then the thought occurred to him that he might
be in pursuit of a moving target. The road that
he had refused to return to, or at least a
portion of where he had allowed William Sanders and his
horse to die an awful and slow death, was where
the sound seemed to be guiding him. He stopped and listened.
The ridge was a great deal quieter when he wasn't moving.
Even though he moved in near silence, the tolling of
the bell or whatever that noise was could now be
heard better and more distinctly. It was almost a sure
thing that it was coming from near to where Sanders
had perished. He walked until he could see the road
from where he stood. Not fifty yards below him was
where he had turned his back and walked away, leaving
the old man and the horse to die. He didn't
want to go back to that place. It didn't want
to look at the ground and remember how the man
had looked as he had pleaded for help. Didn't want
to recall vividly how the horse had looked as it
screamed while it slowly suffocated under the weight of its
own body. He could see those images well enough whenever
he remembered, but he was of the mind that being
down there would be worse. But nothing that caused the
sounds was there. Still, the sounds grew louder. He stood
there and tried to see everything, and the sound was
definitely louder. He crept down another twenty yards and melted
into a laurel thicket so he could watch. It wasn't
a bell pealing. He knew what the sound was, he
had heard it before. He was sure that he was
not mistaken about that. He just couldn't identify, and it
kept growing louder, and soon he thought, very soon, I
will know the cause of all of it. Along with
the tolling bell that was not a bell, came other
sounds as well, the clumping of hoofs on a sun
dried hard clay road, the whistling of an ill remembered tune,
old boards creaking in the frame as the wagon wheels
turned slowly, and pots and pans clinging together to make
the sound of a bell being rung. As the wagon progressed,
children singing a song different than the one that was
being whistled, and Reuben watched as a family and all
of their possessions passed below where he hid, leaving something behind,
maybe best forgotten, and on their way towards something new
that was full of promise. That was what Reuben believed
himself to be seeing, and he envied them. The wagon
passed by, and he sat until he could no longer
hear the sounds that it carried. Alone, once again surrounded
by the quiet, he started back for his hole in
the ground he started back for home. He sat with
his back against an oak and watched the trees that
had been little more than saplings when he had come
to this place, were now well on their way to
becoming mighty. He had watched them do this thing, not
like a father watches with pride as children grow. He
had simply watched and occasionally took notice. It was all,
aside from existing that he had accomplished in all these years.
A younger man, he had never once thought himself destined
for greatness. But surely there should be more, even in
this place, doing as he had, there should be more.
He was now an old man, even though the calendar
would say differently. The family that had passed by had
been his life, happening all around him, but not including him. They,
just like life, would sleep tonight, anxiously awaiting tomorrow and
the promise that it held, while he sat watching the
trees grow, promises held by tomorrow's That was for others,
the people who were not like him. For him, there
were no tomorrows, only yesterday's that had not happened yet.
When each day is the same as the one that
preceded it, and the same as the one that had
preceded that one tomorrow, and any promise it may hole
becomes an illusion that is better left unimagined, to realize,
no change, no difference, no promise, was to find yourself
again in that place that is terrible, that place which
is dark and hopeless, that place that is so easy
to go but so very hard to leave, the place
that is always dark because the sun only shines its
light when the next tomorrow is born, and there are
no tomorrows in that place, the same as there aren't
any in his actual world. It isn't so simple as
making the best out of every situation, as his father
had always suggested that he do. If his father were
here right now, he would see for himself what folly
it had been to say such a thing and believe
that a life could be better daily by thinking that way.
Sometimes it simply can't be bettered, And when that realization
finally comes, it is horrendous. But what is worse is
existing in the knowledge of that for so long that
you forget it, and then something comes along like a
wagon did, and reminds you all over again, and then
you have to live through the realization again. Reuben had
lost count of how many times he had been made
aware of this truth by the fates, or the universe,
or by whatever is responsible for unveiling them from time
to time, simply because of one decision that he had
made half a lifetime ago, he was forced to know
periodically that this was all there was ever going to be.
It might get worse, but it would never get better.
He thought about the wagon and the family that was
writing in it, not about where it was going, but
about where it had been. What could have been so
bad that running away had seen the best choice. He
better than anyone, understood that position. But what had they
been faced with? He hoped for their sake that they
had found a better tomorrow somewhere down the road that
they were traveling. He knew what lay in the direction
they had been traveling, at least for a few miles,
he did, but he wondered about the opposite direction. The
old man that had died under the wheel had mentioned
that he had recently been in a town just a
few miles away, a town that Reuben could not recall
the name of. It might pass by morning, but just
now there was a desire to be in the town
and see what there was to see. The urge to
go might be gone by the time he awoke, But
tonight he would sleep as those in the wagon would sleep,
with a promise within tomorrow to look forward to that
hadn't happened in a long, long time. Eighteen he awoke
as usual, and as usual, he performed his necessaries. Then,
on the way to the pool to rense his face
and teeth, he remembered the plan that he had made
the night before. With water dripping from his beard, he
sat back and thought about it some more. The folks
in that passing wagon had sent him headlong into a
dark place, the place he didn't like going to, the
place that is often hard to return from. Maybe it
had just been a dark place that was telling him
that he should go to the town. The dark place
did that sometimes. It put thoughts and notions into his
mind that he had no business giving. The time of
day two, it made him think of doing things that
his normal, sensible self would never entertain. The thought of
the dark place held up the truest needs and desires
of his heart made him stare at them with wide open,
unblinking eyes. He hated those things being brought to his attention.
They should stay buried, just as his former life was
buried and forgotten about, just as Reuben Miller the former
had been. Everyone thinking all these years that he was
dead had been a kindness gifted to them. Why couldn't
he be gifted in equal kindness? Wasn't having everything that
he had been and everything he should have been taken
from him punishment enough for what he had done? Must
he also be reminded of it all so harshly and
so often. The sun would be up soon, he silently
told himself. As he looked around and he saw the
wraith like forms of fog weaving in and out of
the trees. He thought about the notion he'd had the
night before, the one that had allowed him to go
to sleep with the possibility of a better tomorrow ahead.
What if it hadn't been the dark inward place? Putting
thoughts into his mind again, he thought, what if it
had been an awakening of sorts? What if it really
was permissible to go to the town and be once
more among the living for a brief period of time?
If the war was still then it was raging somewhere
besides here, He thought, I would have heard it if
it were near, he told himself, I would have noticed
men moving. Reuben had no doubts that the war machine
could be still killing men, as it had been when
he had fled from it, but he didn't believe it
to be doing so anywhere nearby. If the war was
still bloodying the ground, then perhaps those that hunted deserters
were near it also. Couldn't that be true? And wouldn't
that be true? He asked himself. He raised up on
his knees and leaned over to look at his own
image in the water. The sun was providing light enough
now for that he had known what to expect, more
or less, but the image still caught him by surprise,
and not in a good way. Tired and ravage, looking
just up from a full night sleep. And still he
looked worn and played out. His gray hair and beard
and circled his face was cut back and forth with
the creases that should only be on a face twice
the age of his How many times had someone said,
when he had been a younger man that he had
the bearing of his father, who had been regarded as
a man pleasant to look upon. How many times hads
story gently caressed each side of his face with the
tender palms of her hands, and told him of how
she longed to wake each morning just to see his
face near to hers each new day. He would never
hear those words again. He was no longer pleasing to
look on. Now women would use their hands to cover
their eyes at the sight of him, instead of softly
touching his cheek. He was monstrous and ancient looking, though
by the last count of the limbs in his crate
only a few days earlier, he knew himself to be
no more than thirty eight years of age. This worry
worn face that he must now wear forevermore was part
of the punishment handed down to men who had done
as he had done. Exile was not enough. There had
to be more. Apparently, it had to be so that
he asked for the exile rather than just accepted it.
He had to want to be isolated in order to
escape the looks and whispers that were sure to come
when he was seen. But the face that he no
longer knew was the salvation as well. Those that might
still be searching for him would not recognize him either.
They would be looking for Reuben Miller, the nineteen year
old man who had mysteriously disappeared some eighteen years ago
after a particularly horrendous day of carnage. They would not
be looking for the skeletal vagabond that they were repulsed
by when they cast their eyes upon him. Feeling his
spirit lift somewhat by knowing his deplorable condition now made
it possible, with extreme caution, to once again to enter
the world of men. Was not a feeling that anyone
should ever have, he thought to him. So off, but
it is the best I've had in many years, and
as good as I am likely to have, he muttered
to himself as he walked back to his hole. It
dawned on him as he walked that even after eighteen years,
he knew very little about his surroundings, not about the
town a few miles away or the road that led
to it. What he was thinking about was all of it.
With each step, trees and ledges and ditches were new
to him, he realized that everything about these forests should
be known to him, but they weren't. He had never
felt the need to know what lay over the ridge
or down the way. The hole where he lived was safe.
He knew where to get water and meat, and he
knew where three farmsteads sat for when he needed seedlings
for plantings, or pants to steal from a drying line.
There had been no need to know more than that,
and now he was frightened, even as he continued to
move forward along the ridge, but always with the road
within sight. He didn't like unfamiliar things. It was dangerous.
He wanted his rifle in his hands, but someone that
looked like he did and was carrying a rifle that
fine was sure to arouse curiosity, so it had been
left in the hole when he had walked out. He
was being cautious, he told himself. He wasn't covering ground
as quickly as he knew he should be, so he
blamed it on caution. But he was dawdling. He knew
that too. Asking Storry to take that first walk with
him had been like this. It had been something he
had very much desired to do, but was so scared
of asking her that he had dragged his feet leading
up to his walking up to her. This was like
that had been only much much worse. She could have
said no or laughed when he had asked her, and
he would never have been able to look her in
the eyes again, But this could get him killed. No
one would be disappointed if he turned around and went
back to his hole. Why would they be, since they
didn't expect him or even know that he existed. There
would be a certain measure of shame to live with
if he did that, shame for being afraid to do
a thing. But the past eighteen years had taught him
that he could live with the shame. It was simply
a matter of adding it to the list of things
that he would regret as he closed his eyes for
the final time. That might be the thing that he
was always aware of but never talked about with himself.
He was fearful of acknowledging his greatest regrets. To fear
them and how profound they might be, was one thing,
but to openly admit them and then explore them, to
know exactly how deeply they went was another. He had
yet to reach the level of inner strength where he
had thought he could stand knowing that he had been
walking while he had been thinking of these things and
had not even realized it. When Reuben looked through the
small opening in the trees, he could see the roofs
of buildings, the contents of his stomach spewed up through
his throat. Now on to the ground. He saw more
people in the first five minutes than he had seen
altogether in eighteen years, and he had not made it
yet to the town proper. No one had seen him yet,
and he hadn't meant for them too. He was crouched
among the bushes near the side of the road that
bisected the town. He was close enough so that he
could hear the men talking. There were so many, and
everyone seemed to be talking at one time. He couldn't
isolate conversations. He wanted to eavesdrop and hear the biggest
issues of the day, and on the edge of this
small town, he wanted to hear all the important things
of the world. He wanted to hear all that he
had missed out on over the last day eighteen years.
He wanted to know all that everyone was already aware of,
and he wanted to know it from his place of
concealment in the bushes with its leaves covering in dust
from the nearby road. But he supposed that that was
too much to ask. He watched. They weren't dressed so
differently from him, thanks to the clothes that he had
stolen not so terribly long ago, but theirs were considerably cleaner.
They all wore hats. He had not worn one since
he had lost his Running from the battlefield. There were
guns nestled, didn't rifle scabbards, or propped up against the
wagon seats, but no man was carrying a firearm that
he could see. But the thing that surprised him the
most was the absence of uniforms. None neither grain nor blue,
were anywhere to be seen. Even if the war was
still being contested one thousand miles away. He would have
thought there would be a presence from one side or
the other in the town. Once the town had been
conquered and claimed, it had been a practice of both
sides to leave a force of some number. But he
saw none. He supposed that in a place as small
as this, it had been deemed unnecessary. He started to
rise and make his way closer, perhaps go ahead and
even enter the town, but what he saw made him
sit back down in wonderment. He didn't know what business
the shopper store did, he couldn't tell from where he sat,
but all three of them were going to go inside.
There was a black man in a very white shirt
and bib overalls, reaching the door at the same time
that a white man and presumably his wife had. The
black man took off his hat and smiled at both
of them, and the white man opened the door and
held it open for the black man to enter first.
Reuben had never known but a handful of black men
before going to fight, and he had liked all of
them very much. He liked them much more than some
of the white men that he had known. His deciding
to fight had nothing to do with a man being
one color or another. He had liked all the black
man he had ever known and counted them as friends,
but not all had thought as he had. In fact,
most that he had grown up around had not thought
as he had. So to see a white man hold
the door open for a black man was something that
he would never have imagined seeing, but he was glad
that he had. He tried to look determined as he walked.
He wanted to give the impression that he had something
important to attend to. It was his hope that people
would be less likely to bother with him if he
seemed to be in a hurry to get somewhere, so
that an errand could be taken care of. It seemed
as he walked through the small town of Hamilton that
no one was paying any attention to him, no matter
how he carried himself. But just because he couldn't feel
anyone noticing him, it did not cause him to feel
any safer about his situation. With each step, he was
sure that his bows would loosen and spill onto the street.
He wanted to satisfy himself that he had seen all
that there was to see, and then beat a hasty
retreat back to his hole. But never had he wanted
to shut away from people so badly as he wanted
that now. A man carrying a large and heavy looking
burlapped sack on his shoulder came out of the door first,
and he was followed by a small boy that seemed
to be heartily enjoying a stick of striped candy. The
man went back and closed the door, after falling the
sack from his shoulder into the bed of the wagon
and then planting the boy upon the wagon's seat. As
the father and son drove away, Reuben stared at the
door that opened into the Hamilton General as scared as
he had ever been. He stepped from the street onto
the boardwalk and extended had a hand to grip the
door Ltch nineteen. Reuben wasn't entirely sure of just what
he had been expecting, but for some reason people milling
around inside of the store. Wasn't it There weren't many folks,
only two or three aside from the lady behind the counter,
But considering where he had been for the past eighteen years,
the store still looked crowded to him. They had all
turned and faced the door when he had opened it
and made the small brass bell above it began to jingle.
Since no one in the store knew him, most everyone
returned to their shopping straight away. One woman did not
try to hide her disgust at the way he looked,
but she turned aside soon enough, as if not seeing
him meant that he wasn't there so many things. Of course,
he had frequented stores in an earlier life, but he
had forgotten what it was like for so many different
things to be available to just pick up and have
if you had the money to buy them with. The
lady behind the counter was busy at something, but told
him to have a look around and give a shout
if he needed help finding something in particular. Reuben didn't answer.
He did nod, though, in acknowledgment, but she didn't see
him do that. He stood still and nearly wept as
he smelled the air around the wood stove. He had
forgotten just how pleasing the aroma of brewing coffee was.
He and his father used to drink a pot between
them each morning before starting their labors. His mother would
sit and smile as she watched those that she called
her men eating breakfast and drinking coffee while she sipped
at her tea. And he had thought often over the
eighteen years about how good a cup of coffee would taste,
But he had never imagined the strength of memories just
the smell of it would invoke. You are welcome to
sniff the air all you like, that what you want
to do, but you can also pour yourself a cup
if you'd like. I put a pot on a couple
of times a day for anyone who might fancy some,
the lady behind the counter said. Reuben looked around the
store just in time to see the last customer besides
himself walking out the door. You'd be offering that cup
to me, miss he asked, I'm offering you two cups
if you'd like it. Of this time of day, people
stop taking in coffee now. I don't know why I
keep making two pots when I always throw most of
the second one out each day. So go on and
help yourself. I'd rather see one man drink it all
than have to pour it out, she said. Reuben was
embarrassed for a moment as he looked at his dirty
fingernails and beating up hands, but the temptation proved to
be too great, and he grabbed a tin cup and
he filled it. Miss do you mind if I drink
this while I walk around and look at your wares?
I swear I won't drop on anything or on your
nice floor, Ruben said. She looked up from her work
and tried to recall if she had ever heard such
a genuine manners coming from such an unlikely source before.
You just make yourself at home and look all you want.
You can't bite if you don't see it, can you,
she asked. Reuben smiled and began to meander down the aisle.
She watched him and taxed her brain to remember if
she had ever seen him before. Generally, she had a
fair memory for faces, especially the usual ones, and his
was definitely one of those. But she just couldn't place him. Still,
there was something about him that kept poking at her,
as if he were somehow familiar to her. Never wanted
to shy from a conversation, she laid her pencil aside
and rose from the stool that she was sitting on.
He was studying a small box that he had taken
from the shelf. He had a confused look on his
face as he read the writing on the box. Now
those are therapeutic papers, and therefore you to take to
the outhouse instead of the cobs, she said. But he
dropped the box when he heard what he was holding,
but she caught it before it landed on the floor.
I didn't mean to embarrass you. You just look confused
as to what was inside the box, she said. Oh,
I never heard of such my own ey, what people
will spend their money on? He said? She giggled and
placed the box back onto the shelf. She was fair
certain that he would not be purchasing those. Miss I
saw something in a carton over there, and I'd like
to ask if it truly is what I believe it
to be. If I may, he asked. My name is
Maggie Neil, so from now on you call me Maggie
instead of miss, and if you will lead the way,
I will tell you exactly what it is that you
were wondering about, because I was probably the one that
ordered it, Maggie said. He smiled and started walking the
route to them, past the woodstove where he refilled his
cup with coffee. No matter where the item in question
had been located, he would have found a way to
walk near that pot again. And it was her time
to smile as she watched him close his eyes and
enjoy another long, slow sip. I never felt as if
anyone ever thought much of my coffee, Maggie said, Well,
let them go without a cup for as long as
I have, and they will think differently, I assure you.
He said, Now, where are you from? If you don't
mind me asking. I can't remember ever seeing you in
here before. Maggie said, never been in here before. I
live out east to hear a fair peace and just
felt like taking a walk. I happened up on this
place and I decided to stick my head and then
the rest of me inside your door, he said. She
nodded and seemed to be taking him at his word.
Reuben was glad of that. Seeing as his hole was
nearly six miles west from where they were standing, he
didn't think it would come up, but if it did
and men were ever sent out to look for him,
at least they would start off in the wrong direction. Well,
wherever you're from, I'm glad to have you in the
store today. Now show me what it is that you're
curious about, and i'll see if I can help you,
Maggie said. They arrived in front of the shelf, and
he pointed to the box that lay on the bottom one.
It wasn't overly wide, and it wasn't very thick, but
it was three or more feet long. Now that cannot
be what it says it is, can it? He said,
it truly is. She said, I'll order two of them,
thinking I would get rich off of them, But one
is still here and the other is in my front room.
How on earth did someone manage to get a rocking
chair inside of that box? He asked. It hasn't been constructed,
or as they say on the label, it needs assembling,
and it's very easy to do, now, know, because I
put the one that I have together all by myself.
There's a sheet of paper inside the box that tells
you each step that you are to make, and it
even comes with a jar of glue. I put mine together,
and once I knew that I had it done correctly,
I took it back apart and include everything as I went,
but sits nicely as any rocker maid in Vermont. She said, well,
I'll be dipped. I never heard the likes before. He said,
if you're interested in it, I'll sell it to you
for what it costs me, just to make some room
on the shelf for things that folks around here might
actually want. Now, and then Maggie said, well, can I
study on it for a minute or two? Would you
permit me that? He asked you take all the time
that you need. I'll just be over there if you
decide on it. She said this before she walked away
with more optimism at getting rid of the thing that
her father always referred to as a folly. Reuben was
already thinking about how nice it would be to sit
in a proper rocking chair by his fire ing each night.
Did you make up your mind? She asked as he
approached the counter. What depends on how you want to
trade on it, I expect, he said, Well, twelve dollars
is what I paid for it, and that's what I
would take for it. She said, well, I like that chair.
I think I would like it once it's been all
put together. I don't have any folding money, though, he said,
I'd sure like for you to have it, but I
can't give things away for free, except for the coffee,
of course. Maggie said, Well, I wasn't asking for it
to be given to me. I don't have any folding money,
but I have gold. If that will do anything for you,
he said, you have gold, I do, probably enough to
buy that chair. He said, you have gold on you now.
I don't deal in gold, but Waightcliff down at the bank.
Does you can go down there and trade it in
for folding money or for silver coins if you prefer,
Maggie said. Reuben was shaking his head back and forth
before he started speaking. Well, I have no desire nor
plans to go to any bank, he said. He pulled
a few inches out before a small patch made from
the height of a rabbit followed it from inside his pants.
He dropped it onto the counter. And then pointed at it.
It had made a heavy, dull thud when it landed
on the wood. Now, I don't know how much is there,
but I'm thinking it's heavier than a pound. Do you
have scales near to hand, he asked. Maggie didn't say
anything as she lifted the pouch and walked over to
where she weighed out flour and sugar and coffee for customers.
She handed it back to him and told him that
since it was his, maybe he ought to be the
one to open the pouch and pour the contents on
the scale. Well. He shrugged his shoulders and began to
untie the pouch. She watched it glitter and flicker as
it landed in the pan, and he poured until there
was more than a pound and a half lying there.
Where did you get all this? She asked? Would you
take what is there for that chair? There might be
more inside that purse if you was to turn it
inside out and look real hard. He said, I couldn't
take all of this for a twelve dollars chair. I
don't know how much gold is worth, but what you
have here is worth more than twelve dollars. I know
that much Maggie said, would you take it if I
said that whatever might be left over after the cost
of the chair has been taken away, was for the
two cups of coffee and the nicest conversation I've had
and quite some time. He asked, Now this is too much.
I wouldn't feel right about making a trade like this.
Maggie said, well, I'd wager that you can find a
better use for that gold than I can. I need
to be goin and i'd like to be takin the
chair with me when I go. Have we struck a
bargain or not? He asked, well, yes, lord, yes, if
you're happy with the trade, that I am as well.
Maggie said, well that's good, he said, as he smiled.
I'll be collecting my chair now, and I'll get out
from under your feet. He said. You follow me over
to the counter and I'll write you up a sales
ticket for the purchase, and I'm going to give you
a couple of paint brushes. Also, they'll help you to
put that glue on. Maggie said, I have no need
of any ticket, but I would thank you for the brushes.
He leaned the box against the counter while she rummaged
through a cart and for two four inch painting brushes.
That was the size that she used on her own chair,
and it had worked quite well for her. He was
rereading all the words on the outside of the chair's
box as she was dropping the brushes into a narrow
brown paper bag. I cannot wait to write today's experience
down in a letter to send to my friend. She's
going to be amazed as I have been, Maggie said.
And why would she be amazed that you sold a chair,
he asked. It's been nearly fifteen years since that war ended,
and times are still hard for most people. She knows
that most of the sales this store does is done
on credit. People just can't seem to find a way
a dig out from their hardships. And then one day
a man comes in with all this gold and gives
it to me for a rocking chair. Now that story
will make her smile, and I don't think many things
do that these days. We write each other on a
regular basis, and I try to tell her something that
will make her smile if I can. Maggie said, The
news that the war had been over for so long
had set him back on his heels, but he worked
hard to keeping his face calm and expressionless. There would
be plenty of time to think about all this. As
he walked back to his hole and then later sat
in it, he knew that many evenings would be spent
considering what he had just heard. Your friend, is she
feeling poorly? Is that why she no longer smiles? He asked,
in as normal a tone of voice as he could manage. No,
she isn't ill, not so far as I know. Her
husband passed not so long ago, and she and her
daughter went back to live with her family. There were
some real special moments there that she was looking forward
to being near again, memories that were very dear to her.
But from what she has written, those memories aren't enough.
I think being around them saddened her more than they
brought her the joy that she was hoping they would,
Maggie said as she handed him the bag. Memories can
be treasures, but they can also be cruel and edgy.
They are kind to you when you go to find them,
but when they come up on you all on their own,
they can sting and bite in a painful way. You
cannot run from them because they are attached to you,
and they are always there, and they assault you when
you least expect them to. He said, Will you speak
as if you were an authority on memories both good
and bad? Maggie said, Write your friend what you will,
and hope that your words cause her to smile. There
are too few smiles in this world for you to
be withholding one. If you have it to give, he said, Oh,
I will write her, but I will do more than that.
I'm making plans so that just as soon as I
am able to get away, I'm going to travel to Marion,
Virginia and give my friends story the biggest hug you
ever saw. I'm going to forbid her to do anything
other than smile for the duration of my visit, Maggie said.
Reuben wavered, but acted as if he had gotten his
feet tangled up with the box that was leaned against
the counter. There was no point in wondering if the
shopkeeper was referring to someone that he didn't know. There
was only one story in Marian his story, his story
who had been married but no longer was his story,
who had a child to raise but no one to
help her do it. His mind was reeling too quickly
for him to keep up with the new thoughts that
were coming in from every direction. Besides, I've never met
her daughter, Ruby, and I very much would like to
do so. She was named after one of those memories
that my friend went back to visit. Now I want
to meet someone that was named for such a special remembrance,
Maggie said. Ruben needed to leave. He needed to be
away from this place. He needed to be in his
hole where he could think about all that he had heard.
He lifted the box to one shoulder and shoved the
bag of brushes into his pants pocket. I hope that
you will come back and visit the store again, Maggie said,
as he grasped the door lights. Reuben didn't trust himself
to speak. He nodded and walked outside into the bright sunlight.
Twenty He had wanted to run from the store as
soon as he had heard what Maggie said. He wanted
to run all the way back to his hole, but
he had forced himself to walk steadily and without having
the look of singular intent written across his face. As
far as he knew, he had emerged from his hole,
had engaged with people for the first time, in eighteen
years save the old man under the wagon wheel, and
was leaving again, with none being the wiser as to
who or what he was to have torn out running
The moment he hit the street would have called far
too much attention. Attention was something that he never wanted,
but now, of all times, was when he could afford
it the least. But when he was safely back among
the trees and atop the ridges, he did not tarry.
He ran as fast as he could for as long
as he could. It wasn't like it had been, and
when he had been a young man, age of toad
that never healed quite properly, A cart and full of
rocking chair balanced on his shoulder all made the deciding difference. Still,
he ate up ground and began to recognize trees and
outcroppings no more than two hours after he had been
talking to that girl Maggie. Once he arrived, he slid
the box down the hole ahead of himself, and then
kicked it underneath his bed. He drank all the water
that remained in his canteen, and then laid down on
his bed. There had been other things in that store
that he had wanted and could have used badly, but
at the time he didn't know how he could carry
everything to his place. As it turned out, he was
exceedingly glad that he had decided to leave it where
it lay on the shop shelves. The handles of the
painting brushes were gouging at him. He pulled the bag
in brushes from his front pant pocket and tossed them
on the floor halfway across the room. Starting his rocker
was the very last thing on his mind. Now. Just
the mere mention of her name had been enough. Just
hearing the words story had stirred and created havoc inside
of him that he might have thought impossible. Not that
his feelings for her or his memories of her had
faded over time, because they hadn't. It was just that
he didn't think simply hearing her name would bring everything
flooding back with such force. What was he to do now,
he wondered as he lay on his bed of twigs
and furs, while looking up at the ceiling of the
coal shaft. Now that he knew her situation, which he
had been wondering about for all these eighteen years, Now
that he knew that she had not waited forever like
she had said that she would, and that he had
secretly been hoping that she still was, now that he
knew that she was alone, except that she had a
daughter beside her. Was he to go running back all
the way to Virginia to sweep her up into his arms.
Was he to cast pouches of gold at her feet
so that she would know that she never need worry
about providing for her daughter ever again? Was he to
stand before her and expect her to welcome him back
after being gone so long? What was he to say
when she asked where he had been for the better
part of two decades and she would ask, if not
demand that answer. Was he to have faith that she
would hear the thoughts that he'd had in the time
of war and understand his decision. Would she see him
as he who was once dear to her and was
now returned to her? Or would she see him for
the coward in disgrace that had huddled in a hole
away from the world for half of his life. What
if she did accept him back into her loving embrace.
Would she have given thought to her daughter's future before
doing so, just because story my welcome him back into
her life? That did not mean that everyone would. What
would those who didn't so readily forgive him say to
her daughter as she grew about the man that her
mother had taken up with. Would starry uproot their lives
and move in the hopes that no one ever found
out what a disgrace he really was? Would she be
trying and struggling to accept him back even as she
was saying defiantly that she had. Would she still be
harboring enough feelings for he that she had married and
buried that there was no room left for him now?
Would she ever believe that the reason that he had
been gone for so long that he really hadn't known
that the damn war was finally over? Would anyone ever
believe such a thing, even though it was the truth.
What would his returning do to his own family? It
had only been eighteen years, so there was no reason
to assume that one or both of his parents might
not be still living. What would his return do to them?
Would it matter how much gold he gave them as
a way of making up for his actions. Was there
any way in the world that his actions could be
atoned for? How many times was he to ask for forgiveness?
While reminding them that he had been a young and
very frightened young man when he had done what he
had done, and could he ever apologize enough, and could
his father ever explain enough to his friends and neighbors
so that they would finally just be happy that their
friend's long dead son had returned from the grave, instead
of focusing from now on about how I had been
hiding in that grave all this time. He needed something
to eat, but he felt no desire to eat. Too
much had happened that day, and it was wearing on him.
He wanted to close his eyes and shut it all
away for a time, and he needed to begin again
to think about all of this. But when he had
a clearer mind, there were too many thoughts, and they
were all stomping their feet for attention. Inside his mind,
the confusion was equal to, if not greater, than, that
which he had run from on the battlefield. He did
not think that he could run from his own thoughts.
Many were the times that he had wished that and
found no success in trying. The sleep did come. It
had not been of his doing, It simply came. And
when the body is exhausted, sleep comes to be restorative
as it also comes when the mind needs rest. Somewhere
in the midst of all those thoughts, the mind began
to waver, and sleep took him over. If he dreamed,
he did not remember doing so. Neither were there any
sudden enjuring awakenings during the night, so that he could
return to his thoughts, and they lay quietly by the
side until the morning. Morning came and brought a clarity
of mind. All the thoughts were still there to be
gone through, but they were more organized now. The night
before had been a jumble to sort out, but now
he could see them all and had the ability to
pick and choose which ones he wanted to study in detail.
He chose none of them. He had awakened knowing that
the decision had been made somehow during the night, to
see his father and mother again, to see his home again,
the whole story in his arms, and breathing the scent
of her skin again. Eighteen years in this place had
taught him many things, and chief among those was that
he would have given almost anything to see those that
were so dear to him again. But with the clarity
that the night had brought also came the knowledge that
he no longer deserved that which he wanted the very most,
and more importantly, those that he treasured so did not
deserve the pain that his return would bring, The weight
that he would attach around their necks by simply coming
home was not something he could do to them. It
would be wrong, and hadn't he done enough wrong to
them already. After washing his face at the pool, he
returned to the hole, and at some point he would
need to repair his snares that had been left unattended.
But now he had another chore waiting. He dragged the
box out from under his bed and began to open it.
He needed to get the chair assembled. He was going
to be here for a long time. It appeared he
might just as well spend the time in relative comfort.
In that chair, he could think at length about what
might have been twenty one. She sat on the same
log that she had always sat on. For some reason,
it never seemed to be trying to ride away. She
watched as Ruby toss pieces of stale bread to the ducks.
They were content out in the pond, and they're paying
Ruby's insistence as they come to eat. No mind at
all was infuriating the little girl. She read the latest
letter from Maggie, and she did smile, as Maggie had
hoped that she would. Story hope that if she ever
made it back to her friend's store, the odd man
with the nice manners would happen in while she was there.
She would pleasure in meeting him, she thought,