Gerald Simms
At last, Grandpa wakes and looks rested as a bear in springtime. He takes his time getting dressed and gussied, while I pine for breakfast. He looks down at my old shoes and tells me to wear my high-heeled ones.
“They hurt.”
“How’s your feet goin’ git used ta proper ladies’ shoes if’n ya git shed of ‘em ever’ time they pinch?”
I don’t want to argue. I want to eat. And see Gettysburg. I change my shoes and nearly drag Grandpa to the bakery, where fresh buns linger in the window to bedevil my tongue.
Grandpa buys cinnamon rolls, and I eat three of them. I even lick my fingers, in spite of Grandpa’s disapproving tongue clicks. He’s become near as bad as Mama about manners.
Still savoring the taste and smell of the bakery, I ask, “Will you show me the battlefield now?”
“It’s south’a here. Long walk.”
“We walked miles to get here. Why stop now?”
Before he can answer, a man I acquaintanced earlier steps up and speaks to us. “The young lady from West Virginia. And you must be the grandpa.” He extends his hand to Grandpa, as I avoid his dazzling blue eyes.
Grandpa doesn’t shake hands right off. He looks the man up and down, from the flat-brimmed straw hat on his slicked-back hair to his high-buttoned shoes. “How ya know my granddaughter?”
“We met in passing. I’m Gerald Simms.” The man grabs Grandpa’s hand, pushing it up and down like a pump handle.
“He’s from New York,” I say.
Grandpa raises his eyebrows at me, and looks back at Mr. Simms. “New York?”
“That’s my home.” His eyes take stock of us in a manner less obvious than Grandpa’s. “My father’s a New Yorker, but Mother’s family lives in Virginia.”
“I’m Stewart Kent. Seems ya already met—.”
“Virginia Lee Kent,” I say.
“Miss Kent, I’m charmed.” Mr. Simms brushes the tips of my fingers with his clean hands. “Perhaps I can take you both to dinner one evening—as soon as my father wires my funds.”
I feel awkward in front of this bold young man, who talks so open about money. He makes my insides fluttery and nervous, but not truly unpleasant.
Grandpa and I leave Mr. Simms to head to the battlefield. At last. From close-together buildings with front doors a step from the sidewalk, we reach stretches of green, dotted here and there with blocks of granite resembling huge tombstones. I leave the road to get a closer look, and Grandpa traipses after me.
Not a tombstone, it’s a monument bearing a bronze plaque dedicated to New York artillery. I find more monuments and read plaques that mourn men from Pennsylvania, Massachusetts, and New Jersey. I find no mention of Virginia or West Virginia.
“What about Southern states, Grandpa?”
He grunts. “Ya won’t find none. But look around ya. Ya wanted ta see the battlefield.” He points west. “That hill-line yonder is Seminary Ridge, and this here’s the Emmitsburg Road. Cain’t spit a peach pit without hittin’ a battle site.”
Today, it looks nothing like a battle site. Men bustle to the sounds of sawing, hammering, yelling, and the snap of canvas. Grandpa says they’re Army. They dig ditches, construct buildings, raise tents, and string wires high atop poles—a heap different from what armies did here fifty years ago.
A slew of tents roost side by side, and more arise like mushrooms in the damp season. Much bigger than our Sears, Roebuck tent, they could hold a dozen men. Enough tents to hold hundreds of dozens.
“The vet’rans will stay here fer the Great Reunion.” Grandpa’s voice dips in sadness.
“Will you stay here?” Will I be alone at the hotel? How can I keep watch on him and his haints if we’re apart?
“Don’t be a-frettin’.” He puts his arm around my shoulders. “I won’t leave ya alone.”
