Fred
Fifty years ago, Grandpa’s older brother Fred died in the war. The history book Mama teaches from calls it the Civil War, Daddy calls it the War Betwixt the States, and Grandpa simply calls it The War. He fought in it, Grandpa did, and Fred fought beside him.
Grandpa says he traipsed after Fred soon as he could walk, says Fred called him Shadow on account of he was always right behind him. When Fred fought in the war with Stonewall Jackson, his Shadow did, too.
I reckon it was right hard on Grandpa when Fred died. Every July second, he stands beside Fred’s stone in our cemetery and fires his squirrel rifle in the air. He says it’s a tribute to mark the day his brother died.
Today Mama tells me Fred isn’t buried there.
“Then who is?”
“Nobody. It’s a memorial stone because nobody knows where Fred is buried. He died on the battlefield. Likely he doesn’t have a stone wherever they interred him.”
Interred is not one of Mama’s customary words, but she’s having me read Shakespeare, and likes to see what I’ve learned.
“Interred means buried,” I say, and she smiles.
Tributes are important to Grandpa. Naming his firstborn Freddie was a tribute. Might be if Grandpa had known my daddy would come along two years later, he’d have saved the name for him, but Daddy is Tom, for General Thomas “Stonewall” Jackson.
Carrying a man’s name doesn’t weigh on Aunt Freddie. Work doesn’t weigh on her either. Whether knitting, peeling potatoes, or gathering herbs to make medicine and poultices, she hums and smiles while her hands fly like a flail at threshing time.
And she’s uncommon sensible, Aunt Freddie is. Today, when the family discusses Grandpa’s trip, there’s a need for sensible.
Mama thinks Grandpa’s too old for a long trip, fears it will make him unduly heartsick. She claims the war gave Grandpa haints, ghostly images that still battle in his head.
“Let him go,” Daddy says. “Might be he needs to face the battlefield again to stop fightin’ it in his mind.”
“And you think going there will get shed of his haints?” Mama says.
“There’s bound to be others with the same haints,” Daddy tells her. “Might do him good to be with ‘em.”
“What if most of them are Union veterans? How will that sit with a staunch Confederate like your father?”
“He’s a full-growed man,” Aunt Freddie says, “and he ought ta do whatever he has a mind to.”
“But I don’t have to let him take Ginnie Lee.” Mama crosses her arms and rests them on her round belly.
I’m supposed to be reading King Lear, but how can I concentrate? They’re talking about Grandpa’s trip. My trip! I mostly keep my eyes on the page, but my ears take in every word they say.
I chew my lip near bloody to keep words from spilling out. Though Daddy talks in favor of my going, he can jump to Mama’s side quick as a red-backed salamander if he thinks I’m being sassy. Better to look like Mama’s prize pupil, even though I read the same page ten times and still don’t know what it says.
“Ginnie Lee’s old enough to look after herself,” Aunt Freddie says. “Ya wouldn’t want Pa makin’ that long trek alone. She won’t let him git hisself too tuckered. And she can keep his haints at bay.”
“Tom could do that.” Mama looks up at Daddy.
“Ain’t likely,” Aunt Freddie says. “Tom brings out the cussedness in him. Pa thinks Ginnie Lee gives the sun its shine. Ain’t no haints when she’s around. Besides, we need a man here fer the heavy work.”
“You could go, Freddie.” Mama’s eyes look hopeful.
“Think on that,” my aunt says. “If ya come ta yer time whilst they’s gone, you want me here ta help with the birthin’ or Ginnie Lee?”
“And you know how Ginnie Lee laps up history,” Daddy adds a fitting touch for my education-minded Mama. “Visitin’ that historic battleground will be good fer learnin’.”
Mama sighs and throws up her hands.
We can go! I want to shout and run to Grandpa, but he doesn’t know they discussed it. He was readying to go before my birthday even came.
