Soup
Grandpa and I breakfast on dewberries, but hanker after something filling. We walk along the swollen, rushing stream. High above the murky, brown water, a pair of mallards nestles beneath overhanging ferns. Grandpa’s rifle is at his side, and the taste of roast duck flits across my tongue as I point.
“It’s wasteful, Ginnie Lee. One’a them is too much meal fer the two of us. No point killin’ a critter fer no reason.”
At the sound of Grandpa’s voice, the mallards unfold their legs and quack their complaint down the bank. With a flapping of wings, they disappear over the treetops.
“Since we’s goin’ be here a spell,” Grandpa says, “there’s time ta make soup.”
We commence with bones from yesterday’s supper, cooking flavor from them for a stock. Along the trail, Queen Ann’s lace has good-sized carrot-roots, and I find wild leeks in the woods. Grandpa catches a turtle. Together they cook and simmer, giving rise to steam that enters my nose and makes my stomach beg for soup to fill my innards.
When Grandpa finally ladles it into our tin pans, I ponder what I need to say. My second helping is dished before I work up the gumption to speak my mind the way Chance always did.
“I’m disappointed in you, Grandpa.” My tone is the one Mama often uses with me.
He looks up from his spoon. “Ya don’t like the soup?”
“Not the soup, but what you did in Gettysburg and all the lies you told.”
“And you ain’t never told a lie?” His eyebrows lift his forehead into wrinkles.
“Not to you. Not about something important.”
“Never? Ya’s sure?” It’s more accusation than question. His brown eyes grab hold of mine and won’t let go. “Not even about Simms and how your dress got tore that day?”
A pain twists my insides until I can’t breathe. I look into my pan and scrape the remnant of a leek onto my finger.
I study the morsel as he continues. “Ya said ya ripped it on brambles.”
I lick the piece of leek from my fingertip and make myself breathe. “What makes you think that was a lie?”
“I tracked down Simms on account’a him boltin’ with things he stole, includin’ the courtin’ money I give ‘im. The weasel took one look at me and my gun, and stammered and pleaded fer me not ta kill ‘im. Said ya was lyin’ if ya told me he done somethin’ bad ta ya. Why’d he fear ya’d say he done somethin’ if he didn’t.”
I suck that piece of leek until it doesn’t need swallowing, and I fish around my empty pan for another bite.
Grandpa leans toward me. “What was he a-feared ya told me?” He lifts my chin until my eyes can’t escape. “Ya still say brambles?”
“I just wanted to ride in his flivver.” I try to look away, but he keeps a firm grip on my chin. Words head for my tongue, but a sob catches in my throat. All those horrible feelings I buried deep, deep down bubble up from my gut.
Grandpa sets my empty pan aside, and his comforting arms are around me in an eyeblink. “What did he do, Ginnie Lee?”
“He kissed me. Whispered in my ear,” I choke out between sobs. “But he tried to do more. I wrenched free and pushed him. He tore my dress trying not to fall.” Tears, long hidden in a dark place, stream down my face.
Grandpa wipes my tears. “Then what?”
I choke back a sob. “He came toward me again, and I was scared. I pulled out my jackknife to make him stop.”
“And he stopped?”
I nod my head against Grandpa’s chest. “He stopped.”
“Why didn’t ya tell me?”
My voice comes out mousey-quiet. “I was scared.”
“Why was ya scairt, Darlin’?” Grandpa pushes a stray strand of hair from my face. “Did he make threats?”
“I was scared you’d kill him. I didn’t want a blood-letting on account of me, even no-account blood like Gerald’s.”
Grandpa’s grip tightens, and he commences to rock, like in a rocking chair, only sitting on my suitcase beside our fire. I never cried on account of Gerald Simms. I put that day behind me. But now I can’t stop the tears that gush from me. Telling Grandpa that dark secret is like lancing a blister I didn’t know I had.
I use up Grandpa’s handkerchief and sully my sleeve a mite.
“I swear that’s the only lie I told you.” I sniffle. “What about your lies? Why did you lie?”
The rocking stops. “I told ya why t’other day. When Freddie was young, I wanted ta find her a husband, but she flat-out refused. I couldn’t let you do that. When your pa married your ma, I reckoned it didn’t matter no more if Freddie got married. Then all them babies died.” He gets up and walks to the fire.
“Ya don’t understand.” He stirs the soup, but doesn’t ladle any into his pan. “It’s how we keep the branch alive. My pa found my ma on the Kanawha, I met your granny in Richwood, and your pa found your ma in Charleston. Fred was lookin’ fer a wife in Lexington, when we met Major Jackson afore the war.”
I look at his gray beard and leathered face. “Mrs. Grome said you wanted to die after Great-Uncle Fred died. Until a Yankee soldier reminded you what you had to live for.”
“The branch. I had ta save the branch. All them years ago, Rebecca lived. Her son George lived. And my grandpa. And my pa. Ya never seen ‘em, but ya know they lived. On account of ya’s here. Your pa’s here, your Aunt Freddie. And me. Their blood flows in our veins. We’s livin’ proof’a their lives. If the branch ends with you, I might as well died in the war.”
My mind recollects Jess Willoughby’s words about Grandpa’s heart being et up until he got hisself married. “So that’s what One-Thumb Willoughby meant when he said you changed when you came home with a wife.”
His eyes scold. “You’ll not be speakin’ that varmint’s name in the same mouthful with your granny’s memory.”
“So you married Granny and kept the branch alive,” I say.
“When there ain’t no more Kents ta live on our ridge, what do ya reckon’ll happen to it? Might be some loggin’ company’ll timber it down ta stumps. Won’t be nobody left ta stop ‘em.”
I swallow the nothing in my mouth, but it won’t go down.
“Ever think ahead ta when ya’s growed. Or when ya’s Freddie’s age? Or mine?”
I shake my head.
“Who’s goin’ take care of ya if there ain’t no husband nor young’uns ta do it?”
“I’ll take care of myself.” I cross my arms and puff out my chest. “Look at Mrs. Grome. She doesn’t have young’uns, and she keeps that boarding house all by herself.”
Grandpa snorts. “By herself. Hah! Why ya think I patched her screen door and ever’thin’ else I done? She don’t earn enough off that place ta fix it up. If she didn’t live in Gettysburg, where folks come ta see history, that house’d sit empty as a’ old tin can.”
My puffed-out chest empties like that tin can.
