Speaker 1: Seven. Reuben stared at the holes in the knees of
his pants, mind absent, His fingers traced the edges of
the tear to the shirts fabric around his elbow. He
knew that with Carrie he could get a few more
months wear out of each, but he didn't want to
keep wearing them. He might be living like an animal,
but it was the rags that he covered his body
with that made him feel like one. It had been
two years since he had ventured down there. It had
been hard then, and this time would be harder. Shuffling
to the pool for his water and to collect the
meat from his snares was bad enough, especially on those cold,
wet days. The toe he had set never had healed properly,
and it pained him to walk, particularly on uneven ground
that seemed to make up everything around there. To go
down there, where there were farm steads, would take two,
if not three, days of walking to go and get back.
Each step would be painful, and he had to decide
if all of it was worth it just to steal
a shirt or two and a pair of breeches one
day so long ago. Now it seemed the cabin fever
had really taken a hold and he just had to
get out and look around. It had been more than
three years since he had begun living in the coal shaft,
and it was beginning to feel as if the walls
were closing in on him. Where he wanted to go,
Reuben hadn't known. He just wanted to see something, anything new.
He walked with the lamp until he spotted the road.
He kept to the top of the ridge so that
he was near undetectable behind all the laurels and headlocks,
but could still see the road even after all this time.
He had no idea where the road went, but it
went somewhere, and that was all that mattered at the moment.
He had a little basket that he had woven from
oak splits that was full of roasted rabbit and muskrat,
and a canteen full of water, so he felt comfortable
with being gone Awhile, he had made sure to cover
the entrance to the coal shaft convincingly, just in case
someone happened to stumble into it as he had. The
only thing scarier to him than venturing out was returning
to find that he no longer had a place to
live because it had been discovered. The crowing of a
rooster was a sound that, growing up, he had been
used to, but when it happened to start crowing as
he slipped around through the tree line that ring the
small farm, it was all he could do not to
turn and run. Sounds associated with domesticated living were now
so foreign to him that they had become frightening to Reuben.
He steeled himself and made himself remember that the sounds
that were scaring him were the same sounds that everyone
living there were used to, and quite comfortable with. His
intent once he had spotted the farmstead was to find
a place where he could sit in near invisibility and
simply watch. The need to just see people had begun
to overwhelm him. Once he had actually found a place
where people lived, he had no desire to talk to them.
In fact, he had a strong desire not to, but
he did want to watch them go about their daily lives.
He had felt for a while that he was losing
his connection with humanity, and it was his hope that
this might restore a little of it. So he tucked
himself into the growth of underbrush that had sprouted on
some high ground, and he twisted and squirmed until he
was comfortable, and then he waited. The man came out
of the house first. He had a bucket in his hand.
The sun was near to setting, and for the past
while Reuben had listened to the lone cow bellowing in
the small barn. She was signaling that she needed milking.
Anyone whose choice had been to do the milking knew
that from moamiliar bellow himself included. His mouth began to
water as he remembered how good a cool glass of
buttermilk had always tasted. When the man walked across the
span between the house and the small barn, and he
was smoking a pipe, and it reminded Ruben of his father.
The woman followed soon after with a mixing bowl wedged
between the crook of her elbow and her ribs, and
Ruben knew what she was about to do. Before she started,
his mother had done the same thing in the same
way every day. The woman began scattering bits and bobs
from her kitchen cooking and from the scraping of supper
plates around the yard, and the chickens, who were more
hers than they were her husbands, all came running to
eat what she had thrown out for them. They gathered
around her ankles and began pecking at the ground for
biscuit crumbs or specks of tomatoes. These people were doing
well as far as he could tell. That was an ambition,
just thought to place confidence in, seeing as he had
only sat watching them for a little more than an hour.
But Reuben knew what life on a family farmstead was like,
and what he was seeing was better than what his
family had managed with. There were no displays of opulence
or showy signs of abundant wealth, but neither were their
scars of the war having ravaged them. These people looked
to be well fed and were wearing clean clothes that
bore no patches that he could see. And some would
have noticed these things and would have decided that the
rewards for their hard work and good fortune should be shared.
Ruben did not believe such, but the clean clothes on
the drying line pulled at him. It came down to
the fact that they had and he had not. Life
for these two people would go on tomorrow, much like
all their lives had gone on, even if a pair
of breeches and a shirt or two turned up missing
in the morning. I think more than mere rags might
make quite a bit of difference to Reuben. He waited
until they had grown quiet on the front porch where
they had watched the setting sun. And he waited until
the manage stretched to strong arms and yawned. He waited
while he watched their silhouettes move from the front room
into one of the ones farther back in the house.
And he waited until the last light in the home
had been put out. And then he waited some more.
And as he chewed on a piece of cold muskrat,
he told himself that he was just being curious. What
he would not debate with himself was the struggle he
was having with stealing from these people. In all likelihood,
if he were to go up on the porch and
wrap on their doorpost, they would probably gift him with
clothes to wear, and perhaps even some food to carry
with him as he went on his way. But that
was an option available to other beggars and vagabonds, and
it was not an option that he had had. These
folks might be clever with their inquiries, and he had
been so long put away from people he had no
confidence in his ability to answer. Just as cleverly and
quiet like a mist, he stole into their yard and
took one pair of pants and two shirts. On his
way back to the tree line, he paused in his
shadow and stared at the barn. It was certainty. He
knew that there were things inside of the building that
would serve him well, tools and implements that he could
use and greatly desired. But they were not breeches and shirts.
The man might have to make his remaining clothing last
a couple of months longer than he had intended, but
that wouldn't harm him or take food from him and
his wife's table. Taking the tools that he used daily
to survive just might. Reuben clutched his stolen garments a
little tighter as he ran for the cover of the shadows.
He traveled all through the night, and he still felt
comfortable moving that way. But all the while that he
was walking, he kept his senses stretched for sounds of
conversation or of a wagon wheel turning. The sparsely used
road was not so far away that he would not
hear it if it were being traveled, and his eyes
flicked this way and that, looking for lights in the
darkness created by cooking or sentinel fires, and he made
sure to know where the breezes came from so that
he could sniff it periodically for a hent of smoke.
Maybe he wouldn't hear voices or wheels turning, Maybe he
wouldn't see the small but bright orange flames poking out
of the dark, but he was sure that if smoke
were on the breeze, he would detect it. Surely, if
a brigade or troop or unit was nearby, he would
hear or see something to alert him. But he couldn't
take any chances with anything. It hadn't been easy since
he had run from his obligation, but it had been successful,
and it was all because he had been cautious in
all things. So far as he knew, the war was
still being waged in earnest and possibly not so far
from where he now walked. Acting as if everything was
over and done with was the surest way he knew
to be noticed, and being noticed was the last thing
he would allow. Even if the war wasn't being fought
on a front not so far away, those who worked
in the shadows could be anywhere. Not finding those that
they searched for was carried like a personal insult might be,
it was a mark on their abilities and a slight
to their attentiveness. Forever. Those that hunted for him would
continue to look in dim corners and down bleak galleys.
The war would undoubtedly in one day, but those hounds
would never give up the hunt. It had been late
in the summer of sixty two when he had taken
his leave of the army and of the war, and
now two summers had come and gone. Already he knew
the men he had been fighting with, even if the
shot and powder ran out, they would continue to fight.
They locked onto the calls the same as a hound
locks its teeth onto a hog's ear, and the hounds
don't turn loose until they are dead. And those men
who wore the gray uniforms were the same damn way.
He couldn't say much about the other side because he
didn't know any of them, but from what he had observed,
they didn't like backing up either, and that was why
he could never be less than on his guard. For
some the war would continue until the lid was nailed
down and the dirt was being shoveled in, So as
long as that was going on, he would never feel
safe to just walk about as other men do. It
had always seemed to him that the war had been
a war of passions, despite what any politician or those
who rode the horses instead of walking might say. And
the passions are what keeps a thing alive. As long
as the potential was there for the war to keep churning,
then he would have to remain as he was. Only
when every soldier from both sides was dead would he
finally feel free, and the chances of him living long
enough to feel that freedom ever again were not very good. Rested,
he continued his walk back to the coal chef that
he called home. He felt safe there, but he now
knew that he would never feel anything other than alone.
It was the price to be paid for the decision
he had made. Eight He cut the thirteenth notch in
a limb and placed it gently on the pile with
the others that had the same thirty notches. He had
to do it gently so they wouldn't all tumble and
clatter to the ground. There were eighty five of them now.
Each day to him seemed to last forever in his
lonesome existence. But when he gave thought to it. It
seemed as if it were only yesterday that he had
found this place to live and hide in. It didn't
seem as if he had been here seven years plus
a month. Each day had dragged agonizingly slow, like molasses
through sand. But the years had come and gone, like
the good book said, quicker than a weaver's shuttle. He
wondered who was winning the war now, And he wondered
if anyone was so much of the time when he
had been in the thick of it, it seemed like
a stalemate, each side so bull headed that they refused
just to stop and go home, And the amount of
killing taking place didn't seem to matter as long as
one side or the other could claim a momentary victory.
They were probably out there still killing each other in
whole self fashion. And he had not spoken a word
to another soul in more than seven years. Let them
trade places with him for a time, and he was
sure that those guns would have gone quiet only when
you were refused the company of your fellow man. Can
you appreciate them? Flaws and all? He thought? Wonder where
they're killing each other today, he asked himself. Seven years
gone by, that's a lot of time to travel and
find new ground of Bloody, and the seven years since
he had been living in the coal shaft, very little
had changed. Of course, some things were different, but those
were minor when looked at alongside the time that he
had been here. His once dark hair was now more
gray than black. He was aware of the change more
every few months when he gave himself a haircut. His
beard was now all gray. Two of the large, mighty
trees that surrounded and protected his home had fallen, for
reasons that he did not know. The trees had once
stood tall and forceful on the incline behind the shaft
where he lived. Their falling did little, aside from opening
up some space in the canopy for him to sit
under in the sun. It wasn't until he started doing
it daily, if weather permitted, that he realized how much
of his life had been spent in the shadows and darkness.
It felt good to sit with his head leaning back
so the sun could shine on his face. And once
a fox crept up and pressed against his palm with
its damp nose as he sat dozing in the sun,
and Reuben awoke from his sleep as soon as he
felt the touch but he didn't jerk his hand away.
With one eye open, he watched the fox. They studied
each other for more time before the fox grew bored
and trotted away. He hoped the little fellow did not
make his way into his snares. He would have hated
eating the little fellow that he had enjoyed watching so much.
With a little ingenuity and quite a bit of hard work,
he had fashioned a garden of sorts, a large one
like he had raised years earlier when he had still
been living with his family, but a small one set
out in a sporadic and periodic method. A hill here
for a squashed plant, a scraped off spot here for
a tomato plant, cleared ground around a poplar tree, so
a couple of vines of green beans would have somewhere
to run. And different animals sharing the ridges with him
matched wits with him for the fruits of his labor.
But he was able to eat a few vegetables each
night of the season. He had taken the plants from
different farmstead gardens once they had sprouted and grown to
sufficient size to be relocated. He never took all the
plants from the same garden plot, and that wouldn't have
been fair to the farmer that was counting on them
for his summer and winter fair. But a plant or
two here or there seemed to be something he could
live with taking after years of eating almost nothing aside
from roasted meat. It was amazed at how wonderful it
was to bite into a tomato or crunch away on
green beans right off the vine. Most of what he
grew would have been all the better if they had
been cooked in his mother's kitchen all day with a
fist sized chunk of side meat and served beside a
large wedge of corn bread. But what he had was
better than burnt muskrat any day. And the special treat
was the quart of cane's syrup that he had snitched
from a shelf on the outside of a smokehouse. One
spoonful per day was what he allowed himself as a
special treat, and on rare occasions he allowed himself to
Once he had brought a jar home, he had to
busy himself with carving a spoon just so he could
enjoy that special luxury. It was a grand taste at
the end of each day until the night that it wasn't.
He'd always had something of a sweet tooth. Auther's vice
had been smoking tobacco, and his mother's had been hot
tea each morning, but his had always been sweets. Story
found this secret out from Reuben's mother and tested out
her baking skills on him with frequency. Not often did
a week go by that he hadn't been gifted with
most of a cake or the majority of a pie.
Her father enjoyed the sweeter bites as well, so Ruben
rarely received an intact gift. The offerings from her oven
weren't the reason that Ruben fell in love with Story,
but it was one of the ways that she intended
to keep him feeling that way. So when the temptation
for something sweet presented itself for the first time in
nearly ten years, Reuben was in no position to stiffen
his back and turn aside from it. His weakness overtook him,
and he didn't care. For more than a week, he
ate barely tasting his food, chewed with anticipation of that
spoonful of delight that he would wallow around in his
mouth to savor. Before grudgingly he allowed only a trace
after trace to slide down his throat until his mouth
was finally empty. Then, with admirable will power, he would
place the jar in a safe place and begin anticipating
a repeat the next night. But on the eighth night,
even though the taste was just as exquisite as it
had been the previous nights, something was different and horribly wrong.
There had been a stiffness, or soreness, or something new
and odd located somewhere around the back of his right jaw.
As he worked his way through a roasted rabbit and
some lettuce. He gave it little thought. He assumed he
had turned his head the wrong way or pulled something,
and given time, all would be right again when his
body had worked through whatever this disruption to his unique
brand of no normosty was. But when he allowed that
sweet cane syrup to wash over the insides of his
mouth like a delicious coat of paint, he saw stars
brighter than he had ever before, even though he was
huddled on the floor of the coal shaft, yards from
the outdoors, where the real stars could be viewed through
the leafy treetops. Pain greater than any he had ever known,
exploded inside his head, greater than when he had disjointed
and subsequently broken his toe before having to reset it
with his own ill prepared hands, far greater the pain
he had felt when he had stumbled and fallen ass
over tea kettle into this place that he now called home.
And he pressed his hand to his thriving jaw and
then harder, hoping that the pressure would alleviate some of
the torture. But it did nothing except make the outside
of his jaw hurt and also cramped the ends of
his fingers. The pain made it so that he couldn't think,
but he tried to as he slowly weaved back and
forth while still keeping his hand pressed firmly against his cheek.
He tried to think of anyone he had ever known
that had complained about having a similar ailment, and if so,
what had been done to release them from the agony.
No one came to mind. Everyone he had ever known
had been as healthy as a horse until they had
been found dead after dying in their sleep. Clean living
and hard work and a clear conscience keeps a man healthy,
his father had always said. He paced around his fire
as he noted how little used that particular pearl of
wisdom that his father had dropped had been moaning offered
no ease either, but he began to do it anyway,
and it seemed the thing to do at a time
like that. He wondered if something cool might ease the pain,
and a way of cool damp cloth will help with
the headache or a sprain. He was frightened of trying it,
but if it helped, then he'd be glad. He gave
it a goat. He fumbled around until he clasped his
fingers around a canteen, and with a shaking hand, he
lifted it to his lips and filled his mouth with
cool water. His jaw pained him too greatly to spew
the water from his mouth with the force he wanted
to use. Instead, simply parted his lips and allowed the
water to fall from his mouth to the dirt floor
as he moaned even louder. The pain that had been
horrible had somehow been worsened by the water, but Reuben
didn't think it was the water that had instigated the
increase in the agony. Thinking about how it had felt
when the cool water washed over the insides of his
mouth led him to believe that he knew what he needed.
The water, yes, but at a very different temperature. He
poured water from his canteen into one of his two
wooden bowls and balance stood on the rocks that made
up the fire ring. It was a tricky trying to
get the vessel near enough to the fire so that
the water would heat without catching the wood bowl on fire.
Having to heat the water in this way was going
to be excruciatingly slow, and his staring at it did
not speed up the process. He now knew exactly what
the old saying meant by a watched pot never boils.
The water wasn't as hot as he would have liked,
but it was quite warm, and what remained in the
wooden bowl would continue to heat up the longer it
sat near the fire. He soaked a section of shirt
sleeve in the water and then folded it a little
before pressing the warmth against his cheek. The relief he
felt was not a total and complete one, but the
severity of the pain was definitely lessened. For the first
time in hours, it seemed his body relaxed, and he
began to breathe more normally. And for the remainder of
the night and all the next day and night, Reuben
slowly paced the interior of the coal shaft. With the warm,
moist cloth pressed against his cheek, He ventured from his
home only when he needed to fill his canteen with water.
An apossum and a squirrel were caught in his snares.
He gave them a look and passed them by without
taking any action. He supposed that they would become supper
for a different predator, and he didn't care. He didn't
even have the energy to free them and throw their
carcasses somewhere away from the pool. Likely his harnesses would
be molested and destroyed, but just then he didn't care
about that either. It was a second morning since the
pain had begun that Reuben realized that he had a
decision to make, and it was not an easy one.
He now knew, after tender but extensive investigation with the
tips of his fingers and tongue, that he had a
tooth that had gone bad. He couldn't not live until
it suddenly decided to heal itself, because in all likelihood
it would never happen. He didn't know much about the body,
but he did think that he knew that if a
body part went bad, it almost never went back right again,
and the doctors that served when he had still been
a part of the war knew this also. That was
why so many men drew the detail of pushing wheelbarrow
loads of arms and legs away during and after each
battle to be buried or burned. The body is a
wondrous and splendid thing, but it has its limitations, and
there are some things it can't come back from. Reuben
was now convinced that his right and tooth was one
of these things. The decision before him was to go
to one of the farmsteads and beg for help, or
take care of the problem himself. If he went and
asked for assistance, he would probably get it, despite his
unsightly and disheveled appearing, and because from what he had
observed the residents around here being mostly keep to themselves types,
would likely help him and then forget him. But someone
somewhere along the way would take notice of him and
have questions, and once it was known there was a
stranger in their midst, folks wouldn't stop looking until they
found him and understood who he was and why he
was there. He might get his tooth fixed, but in
doing he would open himself up to greater problems, or
he could fix the problem himself, just as he had
done with his toe. Remember how enjoyable that had been.
He thought. His knife had sat in the hot water
for a time and was as sterile and clean as
it was ever going to be. Yet he just let
it sit there while he stared at it. He was
trying to work up the courage to do what he
must do. The courage was something that most would have
doubted he had had an ounce of. An argument could
be made that it had taken tremendous courage come to
this place and live as he had lived, But others
would have said that if he had owned any courage
at all, he wouldn't have run away from his friends
and duty in the first place. He could debate all
this with himself again at a later time, but now
he had to find enough courage just to pick up
the knife. His hand was tribbling, as if palsy as
he reached for it, and some of the tremors were
from the constant and unrelenting pain, and the rest was
from his fear of doing what he believed he had
to do. Perhaps he would not feel so terrified if
he had any faith at all that what he was
about to do was in fact the right thing, or
that he had any idea of how to do what
he was going to attempt confidence and either was hidden
from him. His fingers closed around the handle of the knife,
and he closed his eyes, as if not being able
to see would somehow make all of it easier. He
cautiously touched the steel blade to his lips, and unfortunately
found that the heat of the blade was not so
great that he could not stand it. He could have
benefited from another minute to prepare himself before he could
find a reason to postpone. He opened his mouth as
white as the pain would allow him to, and inserted
the knife blade. He knew with his tongue and finger
the tooth that was causing such a bother, but all
seemed confusing and puzzling when trying to do it. Feeling
about with a knife blade tip in turn, he tapped
at the top of each tooth until he located the
one that he was after. There was no doubt about it.
Once he had a tremendous and terrible charge rattled his body.
When the steel landed on the diseased tooth, he still
jerked and flinched the next time he did it, but
at least he had prepared himself for its coming before
he could talk himself out of it. He traced the
surface of the tooth with the tip of the knife
until he felt the sharp prick of the knife leaving
the bone and finding the tender flesh of the gum
that surrounded it and dreol flowed from his lip and
onto his lap from keeping his mouth open, and he
made soft sounds of fear. He took a deep breath
and pushed the tip of the knife between his tooth
and the gum. It wasn't that there was no pain.
His screams echoing off the walls testified to the fact
that there was, But he pushed harder, even while plunging
the knife in deeper and deeper. He wagged it around
as much as he felt like he could, until he
felt the gap or what he perceived was being a gap.
Feeling more than knowing the direction he should push, he
worked the tip of the knife under the tooth where
it met his jawbone, and once he was relatively sure
he had pressed the knife inwards as far as the
blades with would allow him to, he began to twist
and pull downward on the knife's handle, crying freely and
making sounds that he had been unaware of that a
man could make. He wrapped his free hand around the
one holding the knife and pulled down with all his strength.
His reward was a sudden pop, followed by the tip
of the knife puncturing the roof of his mouth. Reuben
allowed the knife to fall to the dirt floor, and
then laced his fingers together to try to quiet the shaking.
He sat with his head bowed and his mouth open,
and the blood poured free, and soon the tooth that
had caused so much trouble tumbled out atop the crimson stream.
His face was drenched in tears and sweat as he
stared at the ivory and black piece of himself lying
in the red sand. He started to stand, but realized
that even if he did make it upright, he would
not have the power to walk. And crawling, he made
his way to a small bed, he pulled one of
his shirts to him. The fabric was so brittle and
worn that it wasn't a problem tearing swatches from it
With shaking hands, he folded and folded the small piece
and gingerly inserted it into his mouth. He used his
tongue to help place it into the hole that felt covernous,
and then bent down hard, and he hoped that soon
this would staunch the flow of blood. He dragged himself
on to his bed and laid on his side. He
was afraid to lie on his back for fear of
swallowing his own blood. If the bleeding didn't stop relatively soon,
Reuben slept more from exhaustion than from relief. Nine He
walked softly up to a point and then stopped altogether.
It was unclear to him if he was doing the
correct thing. He knew this place and why it was special,
and because of that knowledge, he felt like a trespasser
or an anteloper. But he also felt that words needed
to be said, and he believed himself the only person,
or at least the person most uniquely qualified to say
those words. What those words were, he didn't know, but
he felt certain that they would come to him when
they were needed. He just needed to start. A pair
of ducks were gliding across a small pond. Every little bit,
one or the other would bob its head under the
water to look around and then furiously shake the water
from its head. After reemerging, she was facing in the
direction of the ducks, but he didn't believe that she
was watching them. He believed her faults to be where
they normally were when she came to this place, a
thousand miles away, but also right beside where she now sat.
He knew what she was thinking about. She had discussed
at one time or another, and he had been told
of it. Would you mind tarily if I sat down
beside you and pass some time in your company? He
asked her. He already started crouching before she answered by
shaking her head slowly back and forth. Her answering had
merely been a detail he had planned all along. On
sitting down, she placed a hand on the small of
his back to help him down. Getting down to the
ground wasn't as easily done for him now as it
had once been. She was kind enough to make no
remark when both knees cracked and popped loudly, and for
long moments they sat in silence and watched the ducks.
I'm not as smart as I like to think myself
to be, so anything I might think to say, you
probably already know. Oh, but on occasion, hearing things said
aloud by someone else can be helpful. And that's all
I'm trying to be by coming here and horning in
on your quiet time, he said. It's fine, mister Miller.
Storry said, I've always enjoyed talking to you. First off,
I've told you about that mister nonsense, and I'd like
for you to call me eb just like everyone else does.
After all, you were to have been my daughter in law,
which to me would have meant the same as you
been my daughter. Were you going to call me mister
Miller for the rest of your life? Ebenezer asked. He
had been concerned about finding the right words to say,
and just out of the gate he had said something
that had made her cry. She was trying to smile
at the same time, but she wasn't doing a very
good job of it. Now, I know there's a peacefulness
and a familiarity to this place that you hope and
might even think brings comfort to you, But you need
to stay away from here. Ghosts afford us no peace,
and they do not quiet our minds or heal our hearts.
And ghosts are all that come to this place now,
he said, do you think I come here to talk
with a ghost or feel one sitting beside me, She asked,
ghost of memory, I think for you, they are one
and the same. I have a knowledge of such things.
Do you not think that I went and sat on
the edge of his bed for more nights than I
can count, just so I could try and feel what
you were trying to feel. I was with him every
day for almost twenty years. I was with him even
when he went away. He was my son, So how
could I not be with him in one way or another,
no matter where he was fighting? He said, So you
just decided to no longer be with him, she asked.
It was meant as a sincere question, but it had
out rather cool and edgy. I decided nothing. I simply
came to a realization when the letter came that told
me of how many that had fallen on or around
that worthless bridge, and that, despite their best efforts, my
son had not been found. I began to think and
feel differently. No one knew where his body had lain
down for its final rest, so I knew that I
could never be with him again. But I also knew
that he would always be with me. He said, do
you not think it possible that he was wounded and
was taken somewhere to be cared for. Perhaps he is
sitting in the sun even now, but has no notion
of who he is, because his injuries were not to
his body alone, but also to his mind. Perhaps he
cannot tell them who to send for because he does
not know. She said, well, yes, I considered that. I
believe that I have thought of all things possible. And
if I were told today that, aside from having no
recall of his prior life to the war, my son
Reuben was healthy and well, and I would rejoice as
no other ever could, even if I was told that
I could never cast my eyes upon him again, I
would rejoice because he was alive. But I don't feel
that is a possibility. It has been nine years since
that letter came to my door, and I'm sure that
he is now where there is no war and never
will be. Eb told her. Rubin asked me to be
his wife, ask only that I love him for the
rest of my life, as he promised that he would
love me now. I gave him my word and my
solemn vow that I would do that gladly. Nine years
and nine times that amount of years. I cannot break
my promise to him. Starry replied with conviction. I never
suggested that you stop loving him, nor would I ever
suggest such a thing. If I had ten lifetimes and
all the world to search, I could never have found
anyone that I would have preferred more than you for
my son. With all my heart, I wanted for the
both of you what I want for you now, and
that is to be happy in living a life that
you can look back on one day with satisfaction. That
cannot ever be with Reuben, but it still can be yours.
To have. Coming here and pining for that which you
can never have again will not serve you except to
take from you that which you have so much of
to give. Now your heart is tender, but it is
all so large. A Reuben will always be there, but
it is big enough for more than his memory. A
thousand times and more. I have wished that you could
have become my daughter, as was intended. But now I
want you to have someone to sit by near a
fire at night. Now I want to see the children
that you will raise to be fine men and women.
I want you to know happiness again, eb said I
don't think I'll ever be able to feel toward another
the way I felt about Reuben. Story said, I know
that you wont eb told her there. I know others
exactly like Reuben, and there aren't supposed to be. But
if you give someone a chance to make you happy,
you might find that you appreciate them as much, but
in a different way. As wise as you may think
yourself to be. You are not the first to tell
me such things over these nine years. However, because it
is you, and because of who you were to Reuben
and are to me, your words carry more weight and
fall deeper into my thinking. I never wanted Reuben or
his spirit to think that I turned my back on
the promise that I made to him. But I never
wanted you to think I had abandoned him in any
way either, And my commitment to him was forever, And
even though he has been so long parted from us.
I would not have you think that I considered my promise.
It's a frivolous gesture despite the loneliness. I could not
have you thinking ill of me that would break again
an already broken heart. Story said to him, well, I
could no more think harshly of you than I could
think harshly of him. You will forever be my daughter
I wished for. I do not expect to leave this
place and find that the sun has finally begun to
rise in your heart, but I hope that you will
give it a chance to if there is an opportunity. Now,
come to this place now and then and remember my
son and all he meant to you. But do not
become a ghost to yourself and the doing. Bring the
daughter I want you to have to this place one
day and tell her about my son and how he
was your first love. Tell her how she will always
remember her first love. I know that I said earlier
not to come to this place, but that was wrong.
Come but come for the right reasons. Do not come
and roll the spirit. Come to treasure the memory, and
then leave and live. You are now only existing. Do
you think that even for a moment, my son would
have wanted you to be unhappy? He asked. Storry shook
her head back and forth as she dabbed at her
eyes with a handkerchief that eb had handed her. He
put his arm around her shoulder and felt her lean
into him, and she wept softly with her head on
his shoulder. He held her tight, but not too tightly.
As much as I wish he could see you, I
know that he wishes the same thing even more wherever
he is. Now, what you have been left with is
not what you want, and you cannot touch it. But
you can go live and remember how treasured you were.
Very few are granted to love like you had. Now
be glad in the fact that you will always know
what it felt like, eb whispered. She encircled him with
her arm once they had stood up, and he let
her hold on to him as long as she needed to. Now,
you dry those tears and take my hand. My wife
was making a fine supper when I left, and you'll
be coming along to help eat it. Make no office
of excuse or refuse, because I will not accept either.
We will go and eat, and then we will share
fond memories of Reuben, he said. Ten. He looked around
the interior of the coal shaft after he had dropped
the latest limb into the wooden box. His face was expressionless.
There was no sign of pride or accomplishment. Neither was
their sign of revulsion or disgust. His face remained a
blank canvas. It was the face of a man who
had been forced to accept nothing and accept what was.
This is what became of my life, he thought, one
hundred and forty limbs in the box, twelve years in
this place, with nothing to show for it other than
a ragged bed and a pile of sticks that only
loosely resemble a chair. On one of his explorings, he
had found the wooden box washed down a creek and
wedged into a bank. There were probably a few different
things that he could have used it for, but after
it dried out, and he thought that holding the record
of his time here might be the best use of all.
For it lasting might be the only thing of importance
he will ever do. When his meat was done, he
pulled the skewer from above the fire and ate the
meat straight from the stick. There had been times in
the past when he had made almost of production out
of meal time, insomuch as he could the way his
mother had while he was growing up. He would have
a vegetable or two in the meat. Of course, he
would have his bowl in his fork, neatly arranged and
waiting for when the food was finished cooking, and then
he would force himself to eat slowly as he remembered
pleasant evenings around the table with his parents, or sometimes
he would imagine that he was having a meal that
Starry had prepared for them. She would talk of some
fanciful notion that had crossed her mind, and he would
smile as he listened and ate, not pretending to smile
for her benefit, but actually smiled because he enjoyed listening
to her so very much. Sometimes, when the things would
drift away, like the smoke from the coal fire, he
would realize that he was still smiling, and he would
force himself to stop, because none of it was real,
and it never would be. But those had been meals
from times past. Now he rarely used the bowl or fork,
and even more seldom did he find reason to smile.
It had been more than a year since he had
plucked any growing thing from the ground or from the
vine to eat. Meat was still plentiful, and it would
suffice growing The poor excuse for a garden brought in
a few fresh things to ingest, but it was also
a sham, a depressing one at that Growing a garden
was the same as planting flowers or painting a house.
They helped to sustain you yes, but those were tasked
that you did to beautify your life. To try to
do any of those things in this place could be
construed as him being fond of this place, that he
took pride in it, that he was content here. But
none of those could be further from the truth. The
only reason he stayed was because he was afraid of
what he might find if he ventured too far away.
For all he knew, the country had not yet run
out of men to sacrifice, and the war was still raging.
If the war was still going on, or even if
it wasn't, someone might still be looking for him, just
to show that they never shirked the task once it
had been given to them. The ones that did that
type of work never gave up. He could leave, but
if he was found out he was no longer able
to run as far and as fast as he once could,
he would be caught. And even if he did manage
to wriggle away a second time, there was little hope
of finding a place that met most of his needs
as this place had, and then out in the open,
and after an arduous delay, he would be caught. Staying
did not rule out that he would be discovered, but
it greatly reduced the chances of such a thing happening.
He bit into the meat and ate without tasting it.
He did not smile at the fact that he had
pulled it from the fire just as the meat was done,
but before it burned. He simply stared at the fire
and chewed until there was no meat left to eat,
and then threw the bones into the fire. Reuben Miller
was a smart and insightful man, so he was well
aware of what he was allowing himself to become. He
was reverting back to that which teachers theorized mankind had
fought and clawed its way away from in order to
become a higher form of human. He was becoming animalistic
in his mood and in his habits, and he knew
that he was. It wasn't that he was powerless to
stop the regression. It was that he simply did not
care any more life itself, but more importantly, life with
Story had made him want to be a better man.
Every day he had wanted to be better and more
especially for her, than he had been the day before
and the day before that. But now his life was
an unending circle of catching something to eat. And then
doing it again. And that's all there was now, aside
from the fact that he knew how to make and
maintain the fire, he was no different from an animal,
and he no longer cared. He lived in a burrow,
He was filthy, He tore meat from the bones with long,
dirty claws, and he grunted and chuffed more than he
spoke sensible words. He knew all these things, but the
strength to change no longer resided within him. Working to
make this place where he huddled from public eye and
his life in general take on as semblance of a
normal life did not have the same effect on him
as it did for other people. That was why he
stopped trying and stopped caring. It was just too hard,
not the doing, but the seeing afterwards. Constructing a routine
in being pleased when each item was ticked on the
list each day was what other people did. He didn't
do such any longer. It was all part of that.
Having conversations with your self trap living each day as
if you were one of those people, the ones that
lived in real houses and had real interactions with other
real people, was all make believe that whisk you to
pleasant height so quickly that you never realized did it happen,
and then forced you to open your eyes so you
could see the ground coming to meet you as you fell.
You can't survive by living in an imaginary world, no
matter how pleasant it is while you were there. But
you can't stand trying to make something out of what
you have either, because you have to see it for
what it is, and that makes things just as bad,
if not worse. So you put blinders on and focus
only on what is directly in front of you, and
take very small steps so that you don't take in
too much at a time, and you hide from the
world in this dark place. But you learn to hide
from yourself as well, else you will not last. Animals
make noise when walking through dry leaves, not much, and
not near so much as a man, but they do
make noise. He perked his ears and forced himself to
step out from the dark place where his mine had
taken him, and he listened intently. In a world as
quiet as Reuben's world was, any small sound gathered his
attention rather quickly, and after having spent so many years
developing his paranoia, it would have been hard for him
not to jump at every shadow there was a soft
growling combined with a plaintive keening. Reuben breathed a sigh
of relief. He didn't yet know what it was outside
and somewhere just above him, but he did know that
it wasn't a man. He bent over at the waist
and walked up the ramt that led out of the
coal shaft, and then stopped at the entrance so he
could listen again. He couldn't see out, but he could hear.
Between the setting sun and the door he had woven
together from simple limbs and laurel sprouts, visibility was impossible.
It was just one more thing to try and keep
his home from being discovered, and he thought it did
find work of concealing the shaft, but neither could he
see out of it from the inside, so he stood
very still and listened. Whatever it was was no more
than a few feet away. He tried to understand what
he was hearing, but he couldn't. With his knife in hand,
he nudged the door open gradually and stuck his head
out of the shaft. If he saw what was making
the noise, then his curiosity would have been stated and
he could go back to sitting in front of the
fire till it was time to go, and checked his
snares the next afternoon. If he didn't see what was
causing the sounds, even better. He was in no mood
to be disturbed. He had enough self loathing and situational
hatred to attend to without all of these interruptions. The
light was failing, but his eyes were still sharp. Still,
he could see nothing out of the way as far
as he could tell. But then there was movement a
few yards away from the entrance to the shaft, a
hissing and almost groaning. He thought that he could identify
almost anything that neighbored with him in these trees by
the sounds that they make, whether it calm or in distress,
But he did not recognize the sound that he had
just heard. With caution, he eased himself through the hole
that served as his entrance and stood on the slope
ground of the ridge. Only then could he see and
identify what had roused him. The bobcat tried to stand,
and it did, but it stood on wabbling legs as
it stared at him. It tried to hiss ferociously, as
they are fond of doing, but it seemed to take
something from the animal, and it fell back to the
ground and began that mournful keening again, only slightly more relaxed.
Reuben walked over so that he could see better. His
first thought had been rabies. As a young man, he
had seen a cat with rabies, and it had made
an unusual sound, as well as displayed problems with walking
and merely standing. Rabbit animals were nothing to be trifled with,
but as he approached it he saw none of the
signs of soociated with the disease. Still, it was hurt
or in pain, or it would not be acting so pitifully.
The animal could not move so well. That was obvious
by the way that it kept turning its head so
an eye could be kept on Ruben. But Ruben was
slinky and the cat was almost immobile. Ruben bent over
and grabbed quickly and exactly at the fur on the
back of the bobcat's neck, and once he had a
firm hole there, it didn't leave the animal with many options,
less because of its inability to move as it normally
would have. It was a big cat, and despite his
woeful health, it still proved to be a handful. But
Ruben was patient and allowed the cat to play itself out,
and when it was once again still, Reuben laid the
bobcat on its side with a knee pressed against its
head and his left hand holding down behind quarters the
front leg. He didn't worry about striking out and slashing
at him. He could see that the injury was to
that portion of the cat's body and the leg could
barely move. There was a deep laceration down the front
of the leg that originated at the animal's shoulder. It
was seeping thick green and yellow fluid around that which
had already congealed, and dirt and fur were muted into
the wound. Whether the wound had come from a musket
ball grazing the leg or if the wound had been
incured in a fight, Reuben didn't know, but he did
know that the animal would not live in its present condition.
Its inability to move would cause the animal to starve
to death unless the infection killed it first. So with care,
perhaps the leg could be restored, but that meant that
the one giving the care would in some way have
to care if the animal lived or died, and Ruben didn't.
He had eaten a bobcat once since arriving at this place,
and it had not agreed with him. So when Reuben
drew his knife across the bbcat's throat and spilled its
life blood and then threw it down the ridge, it
wasn't because he was scared of eating the meat that
could have traces of infection. It was because he did
not like the way the bobcat tasted. If he couldn't
eat the animal, then he had no use for it,
and he sure wasn't going to listen to it holler
until it finally decided to die. He wiped the blood
from the blade with the leaves and went back through
the door into the coal shaft. The fire was dwindling,
so he added more coal eleven. It was small and
obviously rural, but it was clean and well maintained. There
wasn't a lot in the way of frilly or less
than necessary lying around or hanging from pegs and nail heads,
but this town didn't give the appearance of a frilly
or less than necessary type area, so it was probably fitting.
The stove in the center of the room gave off
fine and sufficient heat. Lazy tendrils of steam could be
seen rising from the kettle that was sitting atop it.
A woman barely in her twenties that would have been
awfully pretty if she spent some time trying to be
was studying a ledger full of numbers, the way that
a cat studies a bird, while an older, barrel chested
man was in the back of the room slicing bacon
off a sizable portion of meat. The woman did not
look up from toating her ciphers when she spoke out
and said, if you need any help finding something? Just
seeing out the Hamilton General looked like many other stores,
except this one seemed cleaner and for some reason friendlier
or perhaps homier was a better description. I was hoping
to find a few sticks of peppermint. The road is
hard enough without all the dust drying my throat out,
the customer said. The young woman looked up and then
pointed with her pencil at the collection of large bell
shaped at the end of the counter. Several different colors
of stick candies were contained in them. The girl went
back to her ledger while the woman began to pull
sticks of sweets out. The one behind the counter wrapped
the sticks in paper. Once the woman returned to the
counter and then told her that the cost would be
twenty cents. We don't have many visitors in Hamilton, much
less women visitors. Do you have people here or are
you just passing through? By the way, My name is
Maggie Neil, she said, as she handed the woman her change.
We're just passing through. I'm afraid I didn't even know
where we were until you just said. Now, Buggy came
down with a bad will and we diverted here to
have it repaired. Camping at night and writing in a
lame Buggy is not the way I would advise you
to spend a honeymoon. My name is Starry good Night,
or it has been for three days now. Really your
name is Storry good Night, Maggie asked, it really is?
Could you ever imagine such a thing? She glanced out
the window when she had finished speaking and saw a
man hurriedly walking up the street. He stopped and pressed
one finger to the side of his nose and then
blew a watery club from the open nostril. He pinched
at his nose and then ran his hand up and
down his pant leg a couple of times before continuing
on his way. There goes my husband, Now, Starry said,
as she pointed, Well he seems nice, I guess, Maggie said, Oh,
he is. He's very nice and he's a hard worker.
We're actually on our way to Baltimore, where he has
to see a man about some things. I had never
been out of town where we live, so he suggested
that I come along. Up until this little delay, it
has been a nice trip, aside from his stopping every
two or three hours for me to fulfill my wife
lit duties with him now that I could live without. Well,
I think it's the locations that soured the experience. But
like usual, I'm talking too much about things that others
have no interest in. Storry said Maggie, shook her head
back and forth and waved her apology off. Is mister goodnight,
your first husband. Forgive me for being rude. I only
asked because, well, forget that I said anything. It's none
of my business, Maggie said, you mean because my bloom
is a little more faded than most new brides. Yes,
Paul is my first husband. I was engaged once before,
long time ago, but the war took him from me.
He was a fine man and so easy to look upon.
He was all I ever wanted, and then he was gone.
Storry said, Oh, that's terrible. I was only five or
six when that war ended, but I can still remember
those tired and awful looking men walking down the streets
every day on their way to somewhere else. I remember
thinking how glad someone was going to be to see
them when they finally made it home. And on which
battlefield did your promise die? Maggie asked, well, that's a
tricky kind of question to answer, and I fear I
was not the only heartsick young woman who had to
endure the same thing. A note from somewhere said that
he supposedly fell at Antietam, but they couldnot prove that
he had died because there were no remains to identify.
I don't expect that I was the only one who
heard that, but if there had been proof positive, then
I think it would have been easier to let go.
Because of the way things happened, I maintained my position
until one day I was staring at an old maid
in the mirror, or someone who was not far from
becoming one, and I had callers, but I always turned
them away because I always held out hope that the
note had been wrong, and that my Reuben would come
back to me. But after fifteen years, I grew tired
of sitting alone every night, and knew the feeling that
being alone brings would only grow worse if I did
nothing to change it. Storry said, So you honestly don't
know where he died, or when I mean, not exactly,
you don't, Maggie said. Storry shook her head slowly back
and forth, but didn't say anything. But you found mister Goodnight,
and now you aren't alone anymore, Maggie said, And now
I'm not alone any longer, Storry whispered. She had known
him for a few years, and every once in a
while their past would cross, owing it to being such
a small community. He was a few years younger than
she was, but he'd made no secret about his interest
in her. He was known as a go getter, a
man that had been sent away to school and had
apparently done very well in his studies. He came home
armed with an education and an attitude, set on taking
over the world, or at least the export of tobacco
and Apple's part of it. His family owned or least
the large tracks of proper, and he intended to utilize
each acre to the fullest. Unlike so many young men
with their intentions, Paul Goodnight saw his through and he
and his family reaped the substantial rewards. With his education
and moderate charm and success in business. He could have
had his pick of just about any young woman in Marion, Virginia,
but his sights were set on Starry Henderson. Of course,
Storry was flattered in more than a little surprised by
the attentions from the young man who could talk with
confidence on a variety of subjects. He had been to
un seen the busy streets of New York and Philadelphia
and shared what he had seen, even when she would
try walking away from him. But for some reason, when
Paul spoke of things that he had done or seen,
it didn't strike her as boastful or gloating. He just
seemed to want to tell her about them. He always
just seemed as if he wanted to talk with her
about it anything. At the ripe old age of thirty four,
there weren't as many coming to see her as there
once had been. At being older and hopefully wiser now,
she recognized and gave him credit for his persistence, and
that had been the beginning of something she wasn't entirely
sure she wanted to do. As soon as she stopped
finding him charmingly annoying, she began to see him in
a different way and stopped walking away so quickly when
he tried to talk to her. Talks led to hand
in hand walks, which led to suppers, which led to
him proposing two or three times a week for four months.
To this day, she couldn't say if she had said
yes because she had finally warmed to him, or because
she had just grown tired of trying to think of
new ways to tell him no. But she did say yes,
and then cried all night after he had stepped from
her porch. Eb and his wife had not yet risen
from the breakfast table before she was rapping on their
door to tell them what she had done, and to
ask if it truly was all right that she had
done so. Her own mother did not like talking about
such things, and her father had passed away the winter before,
but it would not have mattered. She would have to
come to talk to mister Miller before speaking to her family,
no matter what. It was their son that she had
been devoted to, and it was their approval that she
had to have. It was a much longer engagement than
he wanted, and a year shorter than she would have preferred,
but Missus Starry Henderson finally did walk down the aisle
to become Missus Starry good Night. It was a small
but well attended affair. There wasn't often much to do
in Maryan in the way of entertainment and celebration, so
the entire community turned out to see the pretty and
sad looking woman that had once been The pretty and
sad looking girl walked the isle and pledge herself to
the cocky young man whose special ordered tonic for his hair,
The young man who should have been courting girls his
own age or younger instead of the one that he
had chosen, the one who was already past her prime,
the one who, despite finally landing a man, always looked
as if she was waiting for someone who was dreadfully late.
Eb Miller walked Story down the aisle to give her away.
Storry's mother objected, but Story would consider no other candidates.
She had been prepared to argue the point with Eb,
but he had accepted the invitation. Immediately after the ceremony,
a lunch was thrown, and Paul shook hands with everyone
and listened while smiling to all the advice that was
whispered into his ear about what was to occur later.
Storry was kissed on the cheek by every farmer and
shop owner, and then hugged by their wives, and then
they climbed into his buggy and left for a two
week visit to Baltimore. All that afternoon, and Paul was
gladdening that his new bride was so happy. He just
wished that she would quit crying. Neither happy tears nor
sad tears suited her face, in his opinion, And besides,
he might wish to lean over and give her a
kiss whenever the mood struck him, and with her crying
all the time, chances were good that her lips were
liable to be moist and slick from runoff that she
hadn't wiped away thoroughly. Storry pulled herself from her memories
and wore the expression of embarrassment on her face when
she looked up and saw Maggie staring at her as
she waited for Storry to say something further, I'm sorry
about that. I just got lost in thought I suppose,
Story said, well, it's just fine. I think all newly
weeds are supposed to be a little dreamy and absent
for the first while. Maggie said, I should probably step
outdoors so that he can see me instead of him
having to stick his head inside every door and down.
Starry said, well, you might should. I bet there isn't
a town between here and Baltimore that he doesn't want
to strut around so that everyone can see who is
hanging off his arm. Maggie said, do you think that
is what he is doing when we walked together anywhere?
Starry asked, well, sure, no, I didn't mean it like that.
I wasn't implying that you were just for him to
show off. I meant that he's proud as punch that
you were his wife, and his brand spanking new wife
at that. That was all I meant by what I said,
Maggie told her. Never had Maggie wanted a customer to
walk into the store so badly as she wanted one
to come in now. Maybe they would help her pull
her foot out of her mouth. It was very nice
meeting and talking with you, Maggie, Neil Starry said, just
before turning and walking out the door. Maggie thought that
the woman looked upset before she left, but also thought
that she sounded entirely genuine in her words words, I
thought we might grab a bite at the cafe I found.
It'll be at least another hour before the man said
that he would have the buggy wheel repaired. Paul said,
after he had walked up the story, and as he
was making quite the show of grasping her hand and
placing it firmly on his arm. How much further is Baltimore,
story asked as they walk. I expect us to be
there around midday tomorrow. If we travel deeper into the
night than we have been, you're going to love it there. Personally,
I'm fonder of Baltimore than I am New York, and
in fact, I have strongly considered us moving there. I
want you to see the city first and appreciate it,
but it would make sense, seeing as I go there often.
I do know that we won't be staying in Marion.
It's too far away from everywhere. We have enough good
men that are able to run the day to day
AFS while I work where the money is. Paul said,
we could relocate here. Hamilton seems a nice little town,
and it's very close to Baltimore, as you said, Starry replied.
Paul stopped and looked at his wife before shaking his head.
Hamilton is smaller than Marian. No, we'll be going to
where we will be seen by the right people, Paul said.
Reuben threw a new limb into the box, but remained
silent as he noted that he had been there fifteen
years plus a month now,