Under Water, page 16
To us fell the heavy labor of the earthen works about the Capital and, tho we are not fine Philadelphia gentlemen, Captain William treated us like we was good as him. And so we followed him when General Pope engaged the Rebs at Bull Run.
Captain Sprigett’s wounds are fearsome bad, but he has survived them so far—it has been six week—and we see more men die from being in hospital than we can count. Diseases spread from bed to bed, hopping from man to man like fleas in a pack of dogs.
Three of us are planning to bring the captain home to you before winter sets in. He will be very weak and needing a bed and loving care. The way he speaks of you sets our hearts at ease, knowing his chances of getting better are best in his own home.
He sends his love and begs you tell no one of this missive.
“Is there no name signed?” Aoife asked.
Thomas shook his head.
“If only he’d told us who he and the others were! To be sure, I would raid Thomas’s money box and send it to them. That way we might guarantee a more comfortable journey. Are they coming by train?”
“I doubt it, Aoife. The rail lines are what are fought over now, for the control of the east-west routes to bring men and supplies. They must bring him as they can, in coaches or in wagons. And for certain, they fear what would happen if their plans were discovered. They would be deserters and branded as such, if not executed.”
She went to the fireplace and removed a small, lidded pot from its tripod. “Take this to Lettie and make her eat. Warmed milk with fresh bread and blackberry preserves, sweet and wholesome for such as her. We need her well again. Keeping the farm and tending two invalids might break us.” She spooned the pot’s contents into a bowl. “Hurry now, lest it cool.”
Thomas stood still for a while. “You are too good to her, Aoife. It is time Lettie knew that. Please come with me to the barn and tell her your husband is returning. She admired him greatly.” Too greatly, I fear, and I do not want it revealed how she spied upon you.
Aoife laughed. “I had best pin my apron on or change into my oldest dress. For ’tis sure she will spit at me and stain the cloth.”
Aoife
1862
Her heart soared like the swallows in the barn, high above every burden. She wouldn’t allow herself to think of William’s injuries or the risks of travel. Just of the one thought: Her William was coming home.
She stripped the bed of its coarse cotton bedclothes and took out the fine linen ones from the blanket chest. She put them on the goose-down mattress, smoothing the wide lace border she’d tatted just after their marriage and tucking the edges so he would not, in restlessness, lie uncovered. She sprinkled all with lavender water and the light, fresh scent rose in the air. It was sure to lift William’s spirits.
The old bedclothes she put on the floor, atop the braided rag rug. She would sleep on them until he arrived, not knowing how long his journey would last and not wanting to be caught off guard. This would guarantee everything fresh and ready for William, whenever he arrived.
Aoife backed down to the kitchen, wiping each stair with a damp cloth as she went. She pumped a bucket of water and went back inside to scour the floor. Nothing may be out of place. ’Twill not only be William but, sooner or later, his mother. I do not wish her here, but I’ll not come between a mother and her son.
And then her fretting gave way to a small shiver of delight. With William coming home, mayhap soon we will have a son of our own.
Mother Sprigett had made note of the need for whitewashing the house. While the kitchen floor was drying, Aoife went out and looked at the walls with a critical eye. Indeed, the old dragon was right and there were signs of neglect. Devotion to the farm work had done more damage than Aoife realized.
She’d have Thomas fetch the lime and the salt and mix it herself to mop on the wall and make it glow again. There was only enough lime to whitewash the kitchen side of the house but that would have to do for now. William would enter that way and the front parlor side was mostly obscured from the road by summer sweet bushes and dogwoods. It was a shame the dogwood was not still in bloom, but the summer sweet’s honeysuckle-scented white flowers would do nicely in vases.
Aoife walked to the pigsty behind the barn and looked at the ten pink-snouted shoats clustered about their huge white mother. Thomas could slaughter one of the piglets upon William’s arrival. Roasted, there would be more than enough tender flesh to nourish an invalid’s recovery. She planned a chicken stew as well, with carrots, potatoes, and onion.
She supposed that some would need be given to Lettie as well.
Lifting her whiskered snout, the sow eyed Aoife with suspicion, as if years of losing babies had alerted her to the evil intentions of humankind. “Sure, old lady, ’tis hard, but they are why you loll in the mud, staying cool, and why you get tasty slops every day, brought to you in a pail. And soon ’twill be acorn time, and we’ll drive you all into the woods to fatten.”
Aoife decided on the second biggest boar shoat, as the largest might one day breed true to size. The sow was noted locally for prize offspring.
The path alongside the barn was in shade and so she came down that way. Reaching the front corner, her gaze went to movement at the open door. Lettie stood almost hidden in the shadows with her feet bare, her tangled hair hanging to her waist, and her nightdress off one shoulder in a mockery of seduction. She looked mad enough to launch another attack on Aoife, this time with fists and feet instead of words.
Aoife’s breath stopped with a loud gasp. At the sound Lettie lifted her head. “Mr. William returns, injured?”
She must have overheard the talk. Best that extra care is taken now she is moving about. “Yes.”
Lettie arranged the neckline of her gown properly. She pushed back the disordered tendrils of hair, twisting some into a bun away from her face. “Would you do me a kindness?” she asked.
Aoife shrugged, still afraid to speak.
“Thomas can fetch me a pail of water to wash myself with but he is too rough at combing my hair. Would you brush out the knots?” Two hectic red blotches adorned Lettie’s cheeks, but her affect was docile and childlike.
Aoife’s shoulders relaxed.
“I fear my hairbrush was left in town, though.” Lettie gave a pleasant little laugh. “Men are careless with such things.”
Thomas is never careless. “I have an old one tucked away, still with enough bristles to do the job. I will seek it out for you and, yes, I will brush out your braid until it is such that you can dress it yourself.”
Lettie smiled and, at the change in her demeanor, the beauty that had ensnared Thomas was evident. Her features were soft, rounded, and delicate. Perhaps the spell of melancholy had passed. Thomas had said that her moods were like quicksilver, and a period of calm would ease the work of William’s return. With the Lord’s grace, Lettie might keep stable.
Chapter 18
They relaxed for three days, being loving and careful with each other. Then they sat again, and Benny continued his recounting of their loss. “The doctors said your withdrawal was grief and even brain trauma from the time you spent in shock from blood loss. Maybe I shouldn’t have taken it personally but…”
Iris tucked her face against his chest to keep him from saying how unloved he’d felt, hiding her burning cheeks, fearing it would break her heart. “But you always said we’d never need to see anyone. We loved each other so much; we’d always be able to work things out.”
“Well, things have gone pretty far if you were so angry with me. If our realities are so far apart. If the gap between us is so huge.”
“Oh, Benny…”
“You may not remember. I was alone more and more as friends—not really friends, you know I don’t have friends, just the few people we knew in California—grew tired of showing up with food or flowers only to be turned away. Relatives flew in and left feeling the trip was a waste; I saw pity in their faces. Pity for me—rightly or wrongly, they felt you weren’t trying. It was months of you being silent, of you turning away. I disgusted you—you shied from my touch like I was a monster, a rapist or something. The cause of all your pain.”
She only remembered the blackness, the nightmare images. And the pain of loss.
“You were like an ice sculpture called Angry Woman Who Hates Her Husband. I was alone with you, Iris. And without you.”
The affair. He was excusing the affair, blaming what had gone before. But she needed him. She had just almost lost him. She shook her head against his chest, trying to clear the tangled memories, the grief mixed with rage. Her voice muffled by his shirt, which was growing damp from her moist breath, she said, “I didn’t mean to be like that.” But she had. “I’m so sorry, Benny. I love you. I always have.” But for a while, she hadn’t.
His voice softened. “Your little John Doe brought it all back, didn’t he?”
Iris nodded.
“And I understand your attachment to that grad student Charlotte. She must be pretty much the age our little girl would be if she’d had the chance to grow up.”
Iris’s mouth dropped open. That rang so true and yet was so unexpected. It had been thirty-six years. She pressed her lips together, realizing a small wet area of drool had formed on his front, though he was oblivious. “Benny…”
“No need to say anything now, Iris.” He gently pushed her back until they could see each other clearly. “We’ll look for someone to talk to, but meanwhile, I think you should call Charlotte and continue your research. You’ve got a mystery to unravel.”
Iris sniffled a bit, overwhelmed with emotion. She nodded and picked up her cell phone. “We were supposed to go ask the coroner’s office for photos and hopefully get the clothes he was wearing. Are you okay? Does it feel risky to be alone? Do you mind?”
He shook his head, a small smile on his lips.
She stood and headed toward the kitchen.
“Oh, Iris?” Benny called. “One more thing. Don’t worry about me.”
Shit. The self-congratulatory feeling of being a good, attentive wife evaporated.
* * *
Iris was the driver for the twenty-minute trip to the county forensic facility. Five minutes on the road, Charlotte announced that she hadn’t eaten all day and was so hungry she was getting carsick.
Iris pulled into the drive through of a fast-food place. There was a long line of cars. Hopefully, this pitstop wouldn’t make them late for their appointment. It seems like when we’re together, one or both of us realize that we’re hungry.
Benny had described Iris’s hunger, but what was Charlotte’s?
“I was surprised to see on the website that the coroner’s a woman, and such a pretty one,” Charlotte said after she’d gotten her food. “I expected an old man.” She bit into a cheese and bean chalupa. “Oh, so good,” she moaned, licking the melted cheese from her thumb. “I don’t usually eat such fatty, salty crap, but it’s so tasty.”
I wonder how she’d react to the real Tex-Mex I make? Iris’s heart warmed at the thought of preparing dinner for the young woman. I think Benny would welcome her visits, now that he understands how I feel. He better!
“Glad you’re enjoying it.”
Oily cheese, like luridly orange plastic, oozed from the folded dough, dripping down on Charlotte’s skirt. Maybe we should have taken her already messy car.
But Charlotte’s driving frightened Iris, who was known to exceed speed limits—sometimes excessively—but only when it seemed safe. In her rickety car, the younger woman sped and tailgated egregiously. Iris lapsed into silent thought, hoping Charlotte would pay close attention to the food and so save the SUV’s leather seats from grease stains.
A propane truck passed in the opposite direction, its silvery tank distorting the reflection of the trees beside the road. Trucks that could explode always made her nervous. She watched it, sighing when it disappeared down the road, a risk only to strangers down the road.
Charlotte soon finished the food and was rapidly slurping up her iced tea as they pulled up at their destination.
* * *
The coroner’s assistant, a young man with a wispy blond beard, asked, “Weren’t you here before about the pond baby? Didn’t you pick up the ashes?”
“I’m surprised you remember,” Iris said.
He laughed. “How many perfectly preserved, hundred-seventy-year-old bodies do you think we get? Pretty memorable, I’d say.” He pointed to a sitting area where Charlotte and Iris could wait and left to get the file and any effects from their little John Doe.
The attendant returned carrying a cardboard file box marked with Iris’s address and the date the baby had been found. He put it on a table set in the middle of the room.
“Ahh!” Charlotte cried as he removed the lid. “Look, Iris, the clothes are still here.”
The man shot her a resentful look and stiffened. “We’re very careful with personal effects here.”
Atop a few sheets of paper, a sealed clear plastic bag held the little gown and cap, pressed flat. Iris stroked the outside of the bag. “Is it mine to take?”
The attendant shrugged. “Found on your property, not part of a crime investigation, so, yeah, I guess.”
“You guess?” Charlotte said.
He sighed. “You already took the body, so yes, go ahead and take the clothes. The coroner’s throwing in a photocopy of the kid’s face. You’d have to pay for copies of the full autopsy.”
Charlotte nodded and moved to say something, but Iris shuddered. “No thanks.” She smoothed the bag of clothes a bit more. They were still mud-stained, though dry—or at least without water squelching and bubbling out when she pressed the plasticine bag. “How do you take care of clothes like these?”
“Advice is above my pay grade.” He watched her hands caressing the plastic, then leaned in conspiratorially. “Got a really good dry cleaner? Like someone you’d trust with silk? Your wedding gown? Just don’t put them away dirty. Degrades them.”
“Okay, thanks, I think.” Iris regretted not thinking of this before and finding a local cloth conservator. It would be best to protect the clothes immediately. She held out the envelope she’d brought. “I have the DNA analysis. Is it of any use?”
He took it, put it in the box, and closed the lid. “Not to me. See you next time.”
“No offense,” Charlotte said, “but hope not.”
Iris pulled her purse strap higher on her shoulder. “Let’s go, Char.”
In the car, Charlotte broke out in peals of laughter. She gasped, “Imagine him saying ‘next time’!” Giggled again, her face red and shiny with perspiration. “Like a whole nursery of babies will be found in your pond.”
“God forbid.” Iris spit on the first two fingers of her right hand, saying, “Puh, puh, puh.”
Charlotte leaned away, turning to look at Iris. “What was that?”
“Means God forbid. I’ve used it a lot during the renovation, not so much now the kitchen’s usable and almost done. Benny’s grandmother used to do it.” Iris had forgotten Maida until, recently, she’d seen the gesture on a TV show and remembered the stooped old lady. “She never said, but I think it’s a Jewish superstition.” She laughed then. Maida had spit like that the first time Benny had brought Iris home. Of course, her own parents had never let her bring Benny home at all. Maybe they would have done to see a grandchild.
Charlotte’s face morphed from amused to somber and she nodded, her gaze losing its focus. “Family’s funny, isn’t it? The things they tell you and the things they don’t?”
Thomas
1862
Thomas headed to the barnyard with a load of fresh timothy hay, destined for sale in town. The sweet smell was always heady, an odor full of promise—almost of romance, of mid-summer nights when the cool damp rose from the ground. Of two bodies crushing the grass, releasing its scent.
Across the field, Nan and Mamie were bent over, hard at work. He sighed. They were right. It was a dangerous time for him, for Aoife, and for the community. Emotions were high and growing higher with every soldier’s death, with every soldier’s crippling. With every family losing a husband, a son, a brother, a wage earner.
Some claimed the local men were fighting to preserve the Union, but everyone knew the Union was fracturing over slavery. And though much of the populace, especially the Quakers, were abolitionists, Thomas had heard muttering in town when they saw him.
The bereft mothers and sweethearts of the casualties—small farmers, tradesmen, and impoverished mill workers—openly resented him, a hale and hearty black man who hadn’t joined up, not even though enlistment was, so recently, opened to Negroes. Who, instead, was preserving the wealth of one of the rich landowners, a Sprigett.
Of course, there were those who suspected him of having designs, perhaps even realized designs, on Mr. William’s beautiful Irish wife. He hoped the news that Lettie had joined him on the farm would seep through the town. That should help put such rumors to rest.
Being on the farm seemed to have soothed Lettie’s tormented soul. There had been no violent rages since her arrival, no fits of profane screaming. Aoife brought her food and, as yet, had not complained of Lettie lashing out at her.
If there was any complaint to be made, any worry to be had, it was Lettie’s craftiness at spying. And, he feared, with peaceful sleep and nutritious food, her debility was now more feigned than real. Soon he would have to introduce the idea of earning her keep. She could not expect the Sprigett farm to provide for her with no return.
He stopped the wagon and entered the barn which, though cooler than the outside, was still warm. Lettie was on her pallet in her nightdress, the quilt pushed to the side. Staring up at the rafters where, as usual, the swallows sported.
“They are graceful, are they not, Thomas? If fairies had mounts to take them through the air, it is certain they would be those birds. Lovely little fairies with cobweb wings on those lovely birds.”
