After Alice Fell(28)

We all want the best—

Lionel

Near Petersburg, VA Aug 20, 1864

Brother,

We have been hard maneuvered by the secesh, and reinforcements have come too late. All soldiers exhausted and myself bone weary though brightened by the sewing tack and two aprons mailed August 1. Cathy is kind to think upon me and you, too, for the box of cheroots to pass to the men. They send a large huzzah.

I have received no letter or word from Alice, though I have written some twenty letters. Out of guilt or kindness I cannot say but certainly out of worry. She is not so able to incorporate such change.

My dreams are troubled often by her crying. Even in the midst of all this chaos, I cannot elude the tears.

Have you visited? Can you send her word I love her? Can you ask if she has received my letters? I sent in July 1 dollar and a small porcelain of a dog that looked much like Old Harold. Can you find out if they have been received?

I am at empty pockets here. Could you send 4 or 5 dollars—I will return when my pay is received.

Marion

Turee Aug 28. 64

Sister—

Enclosed find 5 dollars. It’s a gift not a loan.

Toby is into everything, a curious boy and running Cathy ragged. Sometimes he looks too much like Lydia—it is like a fist in the chest. I can’t tell C—of course. She’s been a blessing, really, keeping all spirits afloat. I cannot be anything except in her debt.

Alice refuses our visits. Perhaps later, Dr. Mayhew says. Letters are held in trust until she is further well. I have much confidence in her treatment.

Kylie Humphrey is missing. Bill Hardis got shot in Richmond and is now home to rest. Did you tend him?

Let this war soon be over.

L—

Dry rivulets snake the surface of Alice’s grave, smooth and glittery with crushed mica, the leaves and twigs brushed to a pile at my feet. I have ordered the stone and the one for Benjamin, though he rests under oak and moss somewhere in the South. I sent the good doctor the receipt for both. Lydia’s tombstone is simple gray granite, an arched top with chiseled peonies to each corner. Wife & Mother. Father’s and Mother’s tucked into the stand of woods, shadows dappling the rectangle fence surrounding them. Farther still, under the brambles and ferns, other relatives lie with stones laid flat to the ground, words sanded by frost and the passing of time.

I lay a fistful of black-eyed Susans against Lydia’s stone. Another bunch atop Benjamin’s. The rest for Alice, placed above her heart. Her favorite flower, both plain and showy. We planted the front yard of the cottage full with them, so they waved in the sun, and everything glowed a gold yellow. The bees moved from flower to flower, at first one or two, then too many to navigate the walkway without fear of a sting. Maybe it was her way of guarding the house from whatever scared her. I didn’t ask. They were pretty, and it was amusing watching the schoolboys hop and shriek their way past them.

Dr. Mayhew responded to my letter; I pull it from my skirt pocket to read again, as if the words will change. As if his words will be less unctuous, the meaning less dismissive.

Brawders House, August 10, 1865

Dear Mrs. Abbott,

Your grief over your sister’s passing is deeply respected. It is always a shock when a family member succumbs to their own demons. The confusion of emotions and thoughts are chaotic at best, and thus I can only tell you that they will lessen, though not fully dissolve, with time. It is, truly, the finest medicine.

Our reports, though you may wish them of a different nature, stand as is.

Respectfully Yours,

L. Mayhew

I cannot accept his answer.

“What happened to you, Alice?” I kneel, press my ear to the soil, close my eyes, and pray for a susurration of words. Speak to me in death, since you would not in life.

A snap of a branch. I sit up, brushing dirt from my ear. I squint at the figure standing behind me. The sun glimmers bright around the boy, outlining him as if he were cut from paper to be framed in the hall. He holds a bow in his fist, the tip dragging by his feet.

“Will you teach me to shoot?” He thumbs the strap of the quiver, shrugging it up his shoulder and then gripping it so it won’t slide off. He strides around so I see him properly. His lips are rosy and pursed, his cheeks swathed in freckles. He tips his head and waits for me to answer.

“You should ask your father. Or Cathy.”

“No, just you.”

The quiver knocks the ground as he drops to his haunches. He reaches out, touching his fingers to my cheek.

Then he stands and walks across the graves, over the mounds and into the furrows. He stops at the edge of the woods. “Come on.”

“I don’t have a bow and arrow.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“These are the Sentinels.” Toby sets his bow to a fallen log, pulls the quiver strap over his head, and clambers over, his heel catching and stripping bark. He runs into a small clearing bordered by red maples and dark pines. “Come on.”

I lift my skirts, follow him to the clutch of trees, and stop at the view beyond. We are on a steep bank of smooth rock, and below slips the black water of the Narrows. I take a step closer, but Toby grabs my skirts and pulls back.

“You can’t ever go past the Sentinels.”

I stare at him, not knowing what he means. But then he points to the tree by my right. It is just a tree. He points at the next one, then the next—five in all—and says, “You don’t see.”