Words From The Past
As we approach the cemetery gate, I see others have the same notion. Folks cluster around graves. Some plant small flags. Some place flowers. Some simply stand with their heads bowed.
Once more I admire the organized pattern of the graves, grouped together by state—even though no Southern state is represented. I recollect the piecemeal look of our cemetery back home, and think on how Rebecca moved her husband’s grave to protect the land.
Mama’s babies are buried in a row on the hillside where morning sun shines its first light. It’s no grand pattern like here. But a reason lies behind the placement of every stone.
“You know what Mama said? Sad as it is when folks die, it sometimes brings change that ends up good. Lots of men died in the war, but it made our country whole again.”
“So we can be sad and grateful at the same time,” he says.
“Mama says the dead have something to say, if we listen. What do you reckon these men want us to hear?”
Chance doesn’t answer, but his grip firms on my hand.
We walk back along sidewalks spilling over with people, sending the overflow into the street. Teamsters struggle to move their mule-drawn wagons through the masses, shouting to their teams and barking at folks to get out of their way.
Chance says something that’s lost in the press of voices.
When we get through the square and closer to the boarding house, the quiet returns. I even hear calls of chimney swifts and phoebes.
“I didn’t know there’d be so many folks,” I say. “I wanted to be where history happened, but it’s powerful hard to see anything for the crowds.”
He grabs my hand and pulls me along so quickly I have to hold my goldfinch hat to keep it on.
“I should have thought of it sooner,” Chance says.
“Thought of what?” I ask.
“You’ll see.” We burst into the boarding house, trying to catch our breath. He pulls my hand and leads me upstairs.
In the dim hallway, he opens a door, and a steep stairway rises before us. A dab of daylight from above lights the stairs, revealing a flower on the second step. Gerald springs to mind for a scant moment, and I fight off chill bumps.
But it’s just a tiny bloom, and I stop quick-like to pick it up. Chance still tugs my other hand.
“Where are you going?” Mrs. Grome’s voice screeches. “Come back down here!”
A sheepish Chance leads me down the steps, where Florence stands with Mrs. Grome at the foot of the stairs.
“How dare you race through my house like a team of horses!” Mrs. Grome’s squeaky voice finds a level I didn’t think it could.
“I’m sorry,” Chance apologizes. “I wanted to show Virginia the writing in the attic.”
Writing? My curiosity has questions, but I don’t say a word in the face of Mrs. Grome’s anger.
“It isn’t proper for you two to be in my attic alone.”
Chance turns to Florence. “Mother, go with us.” But for once, Florence has no words.
Mrs. Grome, however, hasn’t used all hers yet. “Do you know how hot it is up there this time of day?”
Chance apologizes again and asks, “May I show her? Please.”
“Maybe later. When it’s cooler.” She stands firm like an army general, and we slink like kicked dogs out to the porch.
“What writing is in the attic?” I ask.
“When Confederate forces invaded Gettysburg, Mrs. Grome hid Union soldiers up there. Some of them wrote their names and regiment numbers on the wall and rafters. They’re still there.”
I truly want to see those names, but Chance’s wanting to show them to me means more than the writing itself.
My hand still clutches the flower from the attic step. A red clover. Its stem is warm from holding it, but its flower is rose-pink with scarcely a droop. It could not have been on that step for long.
I look for Mrs. Grome to add my apology to Chance’s.
In the kitchen, I find the elf-woman at the stove.
“I apologize for running in your house,” I say.
“The bent woman looks up from pouring boiling water into an earthenware crock. “No harm done. I didn’t mean to get so cross. Sometimes the heat makes me plain mean.”
“You shouldn’t stand over this hot stove.” I look into the crock. Red clover blossoms float in the water. “Can I help?”
She plunks a lid on the crock. “No, I’m all but finished. This just has to sit and steep.”
“Are you making cough syrup?”
“For Mr. Redmond.”
“Aunt Freddie makes red-clover cough syrup, too,” I say before Mrs. Grome fusses me right out of her kitchen.
