The Incident
At night my dreams flit between automobiles and soldiers—and that warning frog voice and wagging finger. I hear rain. Or Rebecca’s Branch. Or the water closet next door.
When I wake, Grandpa’s bed is empty. Sun peeks over the horizon as drops trickle down the open window to plop on the sill. I reckon the rain part of my dream was real.
I have three pennies left from yesterday, and the bakery calls to me. I wear my new green dress and the high-heeled shoes Grandpa insists will make me more of a lady. I set my goldfinch hat on my pinned-up hair and tie its ribbon under my chin. I dab fancy French cologne behind my ears.
The high-heeled shoes dodge puddles, and I still get to the bakery in a dash. I open the door on the same gray-eyed fellow I’ve met by chance every morning in this same spot.
He smiles. “Are you talking yet?” It’s like a joke between us since my first tongue-tied morning.
I giggle. “Not yet.”
The three pennies buy day-old doughnuts. Munching them, I head back to the hotel. When I near the town square, Gerald steps from a doorway with a single red rose.
I swallow my last bite of doughnut and accept the rose, not being mindful of its thorns. “Ow!”
Gerald plants a kiss on my thorn-pierced fingertip.
To stem my blush, I ask if he’s seen Grandpa.
“Two minutes ago. He was going to meet someone about a room for you.”
“Oh,” is all I say, but he takes meaning from that single word and asks what’s wrong.
“Grandpa is being right peculiar. I came to Gettysburg to see the kind of places that make me bow my head, but he seems disinclined to show them to me.”
“I have a surprise.” Gerald’s blue eyes glitter above his wide smile. “Your grandpa gave permission for your flivver ride, and I know one of those bow-your-head kind of places.”
“What place? Grandpa said yes?”
“You’ve heard of the Round Tops?”
“Of course. A slew of men died fighting there fifty years ago.”
“Why don’t we go to the Round Tops for your flivver ride?”
I know I should make sure with Grandpa first, but it’s a ride in an automobile! To the Round Tops! And Grandpa does seem to like Gerald. Gerald said he got permission.
I seem to feel Mama’s fingernail in my back, but I pay it no mind. If her voice gives warning, I don’t let myself hear it.
The flivver takes my breath away. Not like the train, this ride bumps and bounces at first, its jiggle causing rose petals to drop in my lap. When Gerald drives faster, the ride gets smoother. I hold tight to my goldfinch hat as wind tugs at its ribbon under my chin. We race down the road, and my heart races in my chest.
The automobile winds through the valley and around the hill called Little Round Top before it grinds to a stop.
“We’ll leave the flivver here and take a walk up the hill.” Gerald opens the door for me and offers his arm. Rose petals fall to the ground as I step out.
“I’ll buy you a new rose tomorrow,” Gerald says.
He takes my hand to lead me up the trail. The hill is rocky where it’s not wooded, so we stay to the woods—though I can climb rocky hills as well as a goat if I get a mind to.
“Does Grandpa know where I am? And how long I’ll be gone?”
“Don’t worry about your grandpa.” Gerald slips his arm around my waist.
I pull away. He mustn’t think I’m that kind of girl.
He stops in the shelter of a maple and takes both my hands. I know he shouldn’t be so bold, but I confess I like it some. He wraps his arms around me and pulls me close. I feel his warm breath on my cheek and smell the bay-rum pomade on his hair.
His brashness startles me. I step back, tripping over tree roots. He catches me and keeps me from falling. He kisses me. Hard! I pull away. His lips move to my neck, the pomade on his slick-backed hair leaving a greasy smudge on my face. I cringe from its smell. He does think I’m that kind.
“Don’t!” I push against his chest.
His grip tightens as he pins me against the maple. Its bark pulls at my hat. “Come on, sweet Virginia,” he purrs in my ear. “You smell good. Isn’t this what you want?”
“I want you to leave me be!” My voice screeches. I shove him so hard he stumbles. In his struggle not to fall, he clutches at my sleeve. My skin prickles with fear as I hear my dress rip.
I can’t breathe as he climbs back to his feet.
Forcing air into my lungs, I slide my hand into my pocket. My fingers close around my jackknife. They shake as I open its blade.
“Stay away from me!” My spit flies in his face. I try to keep my voice from quaking. “Don’t make me use my knife.”
His face blanches as though I drained its blood without a nick. He calls me a shameful name and backs away. He glowers at me, hate plain in his eyes. But I see fear, too. I hope my own fear isn’t so clean-faced.
He takes slow, backward steps before he turns. As he starts down the trail, he looks over his shoulder. “Only a fool would marry you.”
I keep my knife open and stay beneath the maple until I no longer hear the rustle of his footsteps. I am afraid to move. Every sound of a bird or squirrel catches my breath in my throat.
Trying to gather my wits and a hint of courage, I carry the knife open in front of me, and walk down the hill, cautious-like, listening.
I finally reach the spot where we left the automobile. The only sign it was here is an oily rainbow in a puddle beside a few rose petals. I should feel relieved, but my trembling hand holds my knife so tight I have to pry open my fingers. And my chest has a tightness I can’t ease.
