Footsteps
Evening breezes brush the steaminess from the day’s oppressive heat. Perfect for sitting on the porch. But Florence won’t. She worries about her daddy and wants to go to the Camp.
“Grandfather won’t like that,” Chance says. “Besides, we’re not allowed in the Camp since the Reunion started.”
She puts her hands on her ample hips. “No rule says we can’t take a walk.”
Chance and I walk with her, and it’s no surprise when she heads in the direction of the Camp.
Folks crowd Gettysburg streets and sidewalks more than cornstalks crowd a cornfield. I am watchful to not step on toes.
The walk tuckers Florence long before we get close to the Camp. We sit on a bench beside a monument for her to catch her breath. I’m right glad she insisted on the walk, because the view from the bench is glorious.
Hundreds of electric lights burn above the Camp and among the tents. A thousand glimmers from the veterans’ lanterns give the appearance of a firefly reunion. The lights mingle in a friendly glow that makes it easy to forget these men had a mind to kill one another fifty years ago.
We’re too far away to put names to the Camp’s sounds, but they blend together to wash over me in a proud melody. I’m glad Grandpa came to be part of this. Might be he and Westy have found each other and are swapping stories. And if he’s with old fellows from the war, he isn’t thinking about finding me a husband.
Walking back to the boarding house, Chance takes hold of my hand, and I forget the pinch of my high-heeled shoes. Might be he wants to make sure I don’t get lost in the crowd, but when we are past the bustle, he doesn’t let go. We walk right slow, so’s not to let his mama get weary.
Sometimes in the daylight, Chance’s eyes seem to talk to me, but now in the dark, there is only the feel of his warm fingers wrapped around mine.
After the others go to bed, I soak in the bathtub in the cramped space under the stairs. I close my eyes. Instead of the painted walls of the pantry-turned-bathroom, I see Chance’s face, his gap-toothed smile, his eyes the color of an overcast sky. I almost feel his hand on mine. I reckon I am soundly smitten.
My contented woolgathering is interrupted by footsteps over my head. They scurry up the steps like mice. But in this place under the stairs, they sound more like mules than mice.
Who else is still awake at this hour? Did someone need to use the water closet and found the door hooked? I dry myself and scramble into my nightgown.
Nobody is in the hall or on the stairs, so I slip into bed and try to re-create the comfort from the tub. But I can’t forget the footsteps. If someone came from upstairs, I would have heard coming-down footsteps first. It’s hard not to ponder on something so confusing.
