General Walker
Sleep is still a struggle. Nightmares wake me, and I shiver. Gerald’s face adds to the frog voice and wagging finger that haunt my nights.
Sometimes I dream I hear Grandpa’s snores. Or I hear footsteps and the soft thump of a door. I get up and feel my way down the dark hall, but no one is there. I go back to bed and pull the blanket over me, even though the room is sticky hot.
* * *
After Tuesday supper, Florence settles into the porch rocker, and Mr. Redmond lights his pipe. I stop in the bathroom to tidy my hair.
Mrs. Grome is in the kitchen, stirring a vinegar-smelling mixture in a small bowl. “Watch where you step in the dining room,” she warns. “I’m about to brush this on the carpet stains.”
“It smells just like the carpet cleaner Mama makes,” I say.
Chance stops me before I step outside. “I thought you’d want to know,” he says. “The sheriff in Cumberland County arrested Simms.”
“Good,” I say, hoping I am shed of a nightmare.
* * *
On Thursday morning, I read through my book of letters for the name of the general Grandpa mentioned. Walker. If I find him, I’ll find Grandpa.
Chance and I head to the Camp. Though I’ve known Chance only a short time, I think of him as a friend.
He points to a monument. “It honors Ohio Volunteers.”
“You live in Ohio, right?” I ask.
“Yes. In Marietta, a town named for Marie Antoinette.”
“The Queen of France who was beheaded.”
“That’s right.” He grins. “I forgot you’re a prize pupil in history. Have you been to France?”
I shake my head. “Shucks, no. Pennsylvania is the first state I’ve seen outside West Virginia. Until this month I was never more than spitting distance from Skitter Falls.”
“You should come to Ohio,” he says. “Marietta has a fine college.”
“Is that where you’ll go?”
He nods. “I want to be a teacher.”
“Mama was a teacher. Still is, I reckon. But now I’m the only one she teaches.”
“Do you want to be a teacher, too?” he asks. “Maybe teach history?”
“I never thought on it before.” Back-home folks only ask a girl who she wants to marry and how many babies she’d like. I kick a pebble with the toe of my high-heeled shoe. I like the idea of becoming Something.
“What things do you like?” Chance asks. “Besides root beer and ice cream?”
“I like butterscotch candy,” I say with a giggle.
When we catch up to the kicked pebble, Chance’s foot gives it a tap. “What do you like to do?”
I kick the pebble again. “I like writing. I enjoy putting words on paper.”
He nudges the pebble forward. “What kind of writing?”
“You ask questions I don’t have answers for.” I take my turn kicking the pebble. “I don’t reckon I could make up stories like Louisa May Alcott, or write poems like Emily Dickinson. I mostly write letters.”
Chance kicks the pebble hard, and I scurry after it. When he catches up to me, I kick it even harder.
“Maybe when we go home, you’ll write letters to me,” he says and chases after the pebble. I’d like to write letters to Chance—if he’d write back.
* * *
We find Corporal Westy in the same spot as yesterday. He plays a tune on a harmonica, and we wait until he finishes.
“I al’ys carried a mouth organ durin’ the war,” he says. “Never seed no reason ta give up the habit.” He plunks the harmonica into his shirt pocket and draws out a toothpick.
I don’t hesitate. “My grandpa is here in the Camp, but I can’t find him. Do you know where General Walker is?”
Westy chews the toothpick. “Onliest General Walker I knowed was General James Alexander Walker.”
“Was he with the Stonewall Brigade?” I ask.
“One’a the string what took over after Jackson fell.” Westy flicks the toothpick to the other side of his mouth and chews a few times. “He was one what survived the war.”
“That must be him. Where can I find him?”
Westy stares hard. “Ya won’t find ‘im here. He passed on a dozen years back.”
“Then it’s a different General Walker.”
The toothpick lies still. “Weren’t no other. Not with us. By the time the war was over, the Stonewall Brigade was jist a rag-tag bunch, none higher’n a cap’n.”
How can that be? My worry for Grandpa turns into hard fear. Has his addled mind conjured up a true haint from the Beyond?
“Did you know Stewart Kent from the Stonewall Brigade?” Chance asks.
“Or Fred Kent?” I put in.
“Hmm…” The toothpick shifts from one side to the other. “Cain’t recollect them names right off.”
Chance leads me away.
“Someone has to know where he is,” I say. “This doesn’t make sense.”
“He’s bound to show up sooner or later.”
“Don’t you understand?” My voice comes out a screech. “He said he’d be with General Walker. If General Walker is dead, somebody lied to him.”
Chance’s eyes look like gray storm clouds. “Or he lied to you.”
