Healing Grace (22 page)

Sadie was lying flat on her back in bed, a cool damp cloth over her face. The ache was still there, but in this position, at least it wasn’t quite as horrible. She hadn’t seen what Edward Murphy hit her with, but Mr. Trent had used the term ‘pistol-whipped.’

If that didn’t just take the cake! She’d thought the wetness on her face was from tears. But she’d been bloody, too. That’s why Mr. Trent, Mr. Julien and everyone had been so aghast when she’d come flying into the yard. Thanks to Miss Emily’s prowess with needle and thread, Sadie now had five stitches bisecting her eyebrow.

“Are ya alright, Sadie girl?” Wally asked.

“I’m okay, Daddy.” Sadie didn’t remove the cloth, so she couldn’t see him, but she knew from his voice her father was peering around her bedroom door.

“Well, I’ma turn in fer da night. If’n ya need somethin’ jus’ holler.”

“Okay, Daddy. Sleep well.”

Wally didn’t leave. Sadie could tell because she didn’t hear his footsteps retreating down the hallway. For the longest time he just stood there. Sadie was about to ask if something was wrong, when finally he spoke again.

“Do ya want me ta bring dem books of yers in here fer ya? Da ones ya done lef’ on da table?”

Sadie reached up and slipped the cloth down far enough to bare her eyes. Wally didn’t like her reading so much. He was always complaining about it. He wasn’t a particularly demonstrative man either, yet he was nervously fingering his cap and biting the inside of his cheek. This only made his offer all the more endearing. If she could have—she couldn’t because it hurt too much—Sadie would have smiled. She would have hugged him, too.

“That’s okay, Daddy. My eye is watering too much to read right now.”

“Alright, then, goodnight. Jus’ holler if ya need somethin’,” he repeated.

“I will,” she said.

This time he did go, and Sadie covered her face again.

How long she lay there, she wasn’t sure. She couldn’t stop thinking about Archie, and what his mean old goon of a father might do to him. Her only hope was that Sam had gotten there in time. She knew Sam had gone, because while she was being cleaned up and sewn, Miss Emily and Miss Jessica had been carrying on something fierce about it. It seemed Mr. Trent and Mr. Julien had insisted on going with Sam, and Miss Emily and Miss Jessica had begged them not to. Miss Emily and Miss Jessica thought it would be too dangerous. In the end, Sam had declined their offer and gone alone. It didn’t bode well that he hadn’t come back yet, and this only amplified Sadie’s worry.

She was still fretting about Sam, and Archie, when a noise outside brought her head up. It wasn’t a wise move. The pain was enough to make her groan, but since she was up, there was no point lying back down, not when she heard the noise a second time. Curiosity—and hope that whoever was out there was Sam—had her going to the door and peering out.

Whether the moonlight was too sparse, or because her eyes hadn’t adjusted to the darkness yet, Sadie didn’t know. She could see virtually nothing. But she could hear. Whoever was out there was groaning, and cursing, and sounded as miserable as she felt. Not only that, but the grumbles were coming from the direction of Sam’s cottage.

Sadie grabbed the lantern off the wall, lit it and stepped out into the night. “Sam?” she called out. “Sam, is that you?”

“Sadie,” he murmured. “I lost my key.”

Sadie stumbled onward until the lantern light picked up his form. He was sitting on the step in front of the cottage, forearms resting on his knees. Because his head was bowed, she saw his hands first. The swollen, bloody knuckles caused her breath to catch. Then, when he raised his head to look at her, she gasped aloud. His boyish, pale face wasn’t pretty anymore. Both of his eyes were swollen and red. Other bruises had formed on his jaw, and scabbed-over cuts sporadically marred him, the most prevalent being on the bridge of his nose.

“Oh, Sam…” she whispered as she dropped to her knees at his feet. “Is your… is Mr. Murphy responsible—”

“Yeah, we fought,” he interrupted. “I guess you could say he won.”

Sadie didn’t find his attempt at levity amusing. She couldn’t return his smile, though she would have despite her own pain. “And Archie?” she asked.

“That’s the funny of it. He wasn’t even there. He ran off before I arrived. I’ve been looking for him for the last couple hours. You haven’t seen him, have you? He didn’t come back here?”

“I haven’t seen him,” Sadie confirmed, then said, “You were out looking for him in that condition?” She didn’t wait for a reply. “I’ll go grab my key. I’ll be right back.”

It didn’t take long. When he heard her coming, Sam got to his feet, though the movement was awkward, and he clutched his ribs. Sadie brushed past to unlock the door. Once inside, she lit the lamps, put water on to warm and gathered a basin, several washcloths and some salve.

To Sam, who was still standing, leaning on the wall, she said, “Sit, please.”

“I’m sorry, Sadie,” he said. “I’m so sorry my father hurt you. I should have never asked you to help with Archie.”

“You didn’t ask me to help. I volunteered. And don’t worry, I’ll be fine. So will you, if you’ll sit so I can tend you.”

He did sit. And Sadie did her best to clean and dress the worst of the lacerations on his face. Although the number was plentiful, at least none were deep enough to require stitches. She also had him take his shirt off, so she could bind his ribs. He swore they were merely bruised, but Sadie was sure the injury was worse than he let on. He could barely lift his arm on that side. When she was done, she held his shirt for him so he could slip into the sleeves. He didn’t bother with the buttons.

They ended up side by side on the floor, leaning against the couch, with cool washcloths on their faces. This was because when Sam attempted to settle on the sofa, somehow he misjudged the distance and ended up on his rump in front of it. Though he didn’t make a sound, Sadie knew the slip off was painful.

She brought the basin of water over—cool water this time—and set it beside him. Then, because she didn’t want him to have to move again, she plopped down next to him. Once her head was back against the seat cushions and a cold compress over her own bruises too, the position was actually kind of comfortable.

“Where do you think Archie is?” she asked. Her voice was slightly muffled because of the covering.

An equally muffled answer came from Sam. “I have no idea. He must have a hideout somewhere. I just don’t know where.”

“I can help search,” Sadie said. “It’s the least I can do. And I can ask around town and in the black communities, though I doubt Archie will go anywhere near them.”

“You never know. Since he met you, his perspective has changed.”

Sadie chuckled, then wished she hadn’t. When she could, she asked, “How come you’re not like most white folks? How come you’re different?”

“I used to be,” he said. “I grew up with prejudice and didn’t know any better. Thank you, Edward Murphy.”

His sarcasm made her chuckle again. This time the twinges weren’t so bad. “What changed you?”

“War. Rebellion. The Klan. West Point. Books. The colonel.”

“Here, fresh cloth, don’t move,” she said. “The colonel’s not a bigot?”

“That feels good. Thank you,” Sam murmured. “He was.”

Sadie leaned back and replaced her own freshly wrung cloth. “His brother’s not. But you know what Mr. Julien did to stop the Klan. He’s kind of a hero around here in the black communities. It’s too bad he has so many enemies and has to keep his presence secret when he comes to visit. Were you living here when all of that happened?”

Sam rolled his head against the cushion. “No, I was in training at that time. But before that, I was in the Klan. I joined after the war.”

“So did most white folks. Even Mr. Emerson and Mr. Trent were part of it. Mr. Trent’s not like that now, either. He’s good to us here.”

“He cares about you,” Sam said. “As he should. If it weren’t for all your hard work, he wouldn’t be as prosperous as he is, and he recognizes that.”

“Not my hard work,” Sadie countered. “I don’t work for Mr. Trent and Miss Emily. I was employed by old Mr. Emerson. Now that he’s gone, I don’t have a job.”

“Have you ever considered doing something different?” Sam murmured thoughtfully. “Like being a teacher? You’d be really good at it. And no, don’t deny it. I’ve seen you with Archie. You know, there’s a good teacher’s college in Washington you could attend. They take colored students.”

“You must have overheard Miss Jessica.”

“Heard what?”

“She’s been trying to get me to apply to that teacher’s college for years,” Sadie told him.

“So why don’t you?”

“I don’t have the qualifications to be accepted. Besides, I’ve never been outside of Tennessee,” Sadie said.

“Neither had I before I joined the army,” Sam said, then added, “That’s not true. I was all over during the war. But that’s beside the point. You should do it, Sadie. I’d be willing to write a letter of recommendation.”

“You’d do that?”

“Sure, I would,” Sam said. “And I’m acquainted with the superintendent, Sebastian Nash. He’s a good friend of the Graces, and the colonel knows him well. I could even write a second letter for the colonel to sign. My turn. Hold still.”

He took the cloth from her face to dip in the water and wring out. When he was ready to recover her, a smile distorted his swollen lip.

“Close your eyes,” he murmured.

Sadie did so, though not before noticing again that his shirt was still unbuttoned. Her eyes flittered briefly to his chest and the bandages beneath before she shut them. He settled the cloth on her face so gently she barely felt it. A moment passed while she listened to him rewet his own cloth, and then return to his slouched position.

“Speaking of the colonel, will he give you time to search for Archie?”

Sam huffed. The sound was so unexpected, Sadie turned to look at him, then had to reach up and lower the cloth so she could see.

“The colonel wanted me to go to the races tomorrow to keep an eye on my father. So much for that plan,” he scoffed.

“You don’t like disappointing him,” Sadie remarked.

Sam sighed and murmured, “The colonel is too busy with his own…
er
… pursuits to notice what I’m doing.”

“What do you mean?”

“It seems he’s got himself a lady friend,” Sam said.

“Oh.” Sadie may not have been able to see Sam’s face, but the irritation in his tone was unmistakable. “You don’t think it’s a good idea?”

Sam didn’t answer for a moment. Finally he said simply, “No.”

Because he didn’t seem inclined to elaborate, Sadie prompted, “May I ask why?”

Again he hesitated before answering. “He has other things to do here and he’s neglecting them, but that’s not the only reason. I’ve known the colonel a long time, and I’ve never known him to have a dalliance with a woman. Most people don’t know this—and I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t say anything—but the colonel is divorced. His wife left because… well, let’s just say, he’s a complicated man. He has issues and certain… needs that women won’t be able to understand. Let’s leave it at that. I’ve said too much already.”

“I understand. It’s personal and none of my business,” Sadie said.

“The problem is you’re easy to talk to,” Sam returned. “I feel like I could confide anything to you.”

“You’re easy to talk to, too,” Sadie admitted softly. This turn of conversation, however, was making her face hot, despite the cool cloth covering. A change in subject was necessary. “If we’re going to search for Archie, perhaps we should get a map of the town and surrounding areas. That way we can better assess where he might be and come up with a direction to take.”

“How did you know I was thinking the same thing?” Sam quipped. “We make a good team. Maybe I shouldn’t worry so much about the colonel and spend more time with you.”

Sadie wasn’t sure whether he was simply humoring her or being serious. Regardless, she told him, “Well, we look like a team. We have matching facial scars.”

Sam laughed, so Sadie did, too.

“Secrets”

Of your peace and wondrousness,

in pleasant dreams I reminisce,

Protected by your stealthy shield,

awe and wealth to you I yield,

Ticking in times’ extended hands,

affection no one understands,

Yet to this cloak-and-dagger, I aver.

Upon this world I have relied,

but all of this is classified,

In spite of wisdom’s forewarning,

I don’t see what fate will bring,

Misguided by impending ache,

I have made the worst mistake,

And I have died inside.

Weeks went by after the colonel learned what the boy’s father had done to him. Every night since, the colonel wrapped the boy in his arms and held him until dawn, until the boy woke. The boy didn’t know how to describe the contentment found in the colonel’s embrace. There was no fear, no apprehension. There was just warmth and comfort and peace.

But then, one night, the boy couldn’t sleep. He didn’t know why, really. He just wasn’t tired. As always, he was lying against the colonel, but with his head back just enough, he could see the colonel’s face in the moonlight. He knew, because of the way the colonel breathed, that the colonel didn’t have the same problem he did. For once, the colonel was truly resting.

For a long time, the boy remained that way, silent, not moving a muscle, staring at the colonel. One by one, he studied the colonel’s handsome features, and while he studied, he thought of how the colonel hadn’t touched him, not that way. The colonel didn’t kiss him goodbye in the morning anymore, either.

The boy didn’t know why he did what he did next. Maybe it was gratitude. Maybe it was regret. Maybe it was something entirely different. All he knew in that moment was that he needed…
needed…
to kiss the colonel, so he did.

As soon as he felt the colonel’s sudden stir, he put his hand on the colonel’s chest and coaxed the colonel’s mouth open with his own, the same way the colonel used to do to him. When his fingers slipped through the buttons of the colonel’s underwear, to feel the skin and muscle beneath, the colonel didn’t stop him. The colonel didn’t wrench away until the boy’s hand went lower.

“No, love… don’t…” the colonel said.

“But I want to,” the boy whispered. “I want to…”

From then on, the colonel referred to what they did together as ‘love.’ The boy didn’t have to worry or be afraid, because the colonel was always tender. Never was there a moment of discomfort or pain. There was only appeasing release and serenity.

But the colonel trembled. He trembled while they loved and he trembled afterwards. This puzzled the boy, because he couldn’t remember the colonel trembling like that before. For a while, the boy didn’t say anything, because he wasn’t sure what to say. Then one night as he lay in the colonel’s arms, he asked if the colonel was cold.

“No,” the colonel murmured. “I’m not cold, not when you’re with me.”

“Then why are you shivering?” the boy asked.

The colonel didn’t answer for so long, the boy didn’t think he was going to, but then he said, “Because I’m scared.”

The boy was stunned. He couldn’t imagine the formidable, valiant colonel being frightened of anything.

The colonel asked, “Did I hurt you, love? Did I hurt you tonight?”

“You didn’t hurt me,” the boy said. It wasn’t dangerous to say these words to the colonel. But the colonel’s tremors didn’t end. If anything they got worse.

“Colonel?” the boy whispered.

“Yes, love?”

“I’m not as strong as you, so I don’t know if this will work, but I’ll try.”

The boy shifted, uncurling his arms to slide them around the colonel. Lightly he rested his cheek against the colonel’s and whispered the same words the colonel had so often whispered to him, “Don’t be scared, love. I’m right here. I won’t let go. I won’t ever let go.”

Many times he did this, but the colonel still trembled. The boy had to tell him, “I’m sorry I’m not strong enough.”

Even though he was still scared, the colonel said, “You are strong enough, love. You’re beautiful and special and stronger than anyone I’ve ever known.”

The boy thought that was funny, because it was so far from true. But he didn’t laugh, because this was the way the colonel always spoke to him. The colonel never said anything unkind. It did, however, take a while for the colonel to stop being scared.

In the evenings, as before, they talked, but their conversations became more personal. They spoke of their lives, their opinions, their thoughts, their troubles. The boy liked it best when the colonel shared stories of his childhood. The tales the colonel told were true, but to the boy they seemed like fairytales.

From his own childhood the boy spoke of working the fields and how he liked watching the harvest grow. He spoke of the school he’d attended, the books he’d read and the poems he’d written in his notebook. He told the colonel about the tree fort he’d built, and about the kittens whose mother died. He’d poked a pinhole in the finger of a glove and used it to feed them cow’s milk.

But his stories weren’t as good as the colonel’s. His tree fort fell apart during a storm. He didn’t tell the colonel that part. He didn’t tell the colonel he snuck into the schoolhouse and stole books because he wasn’t allowed to go to school anymore. He didn’t tell the colonel he wrote poetry on the walls in his bedroom behind his dresser, because his notebook had been ripped from his hands and thrown into the fire. He didn’t tell the colonel the kittens all died.

One evening, just after they finished supper, the colonel asked, “How come you never talk about your friends?”

The boy shrugged. “I didn’t have any.”

The colonel cocked an eyebrow. “What about the kids from school? You must have played with them?”

The boy didn’t know how to answer. He just shook his head and stared at his hands. He could feel the colonel watching him, and though he didn’t look up, he knew the moment the colonel’s curious smile withered away.

The colonel said, “There are few people in this world who can teach themselves how to read, or who can study and understand poetry on their own.” He paused and said poignantly, “You are so bright, so gifted.”

The boy couldn’t help it. His eyes watered. “I always… I always put the books back when I finished with them.”

“Hey, hey, hey,” the colonel murmured. He got up from his chair, walked around the table, crouched down beside the boy, and reached up to smooth his hair. “Being smart is not something to be sad about.” Then the colonel gathered him into his arms and held him for a long time.

After that the boy never lied to the colonel, even when the colonel encouraged him to talk about his parents. It wasn’t easy, and sometimes he felt stupid, but the colonel assured him his mixed-up feelings weren’t wrong. Soon enough he could remember without panicking, and he began to feel lighter, like he’d been hefting weights around and the colonel had lifted them away.

The colonel talked about his home and family, too. The colonel said he wasn’t a good husband, or father. He loved his children, but he’d spent so much time away, he didn’t know them. Their letters were sent, not because they wanted to write, but because their mother forced them to. Of his wife, the colonel said he admired her and she was a good friend, but he didn’t like to touch her.

Once the colonel remarked that it was a blessing the war came along, because he most likely wouldn’t make it home and his family would be better off. When he said this, the colonel laughed. It was supposed to be a jest, but the boy didn’t think it was funny. He told the colonel his family was the luckiest family in the world.

In November, while he was sweeping the floor, the colonel came in with a crate tucked under his arm. He set it on the bed, then took the broom out of the boy’s hand and leaned it against the wall.

The colonel was smiling. “I have a birthday present for you. Come on. Come sit,” he said.

The boy had forgotten it was his birthday, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d received a birthday present. He sat on the bed beside the crate. His heart was racing.

“Go ahead. Open it,” the colonel said.

The boy’s hands shook as he lifted the lid. When he saw what was inside he gasped. Then he couldn’t breathe. All he could do was stare into the crate.

“Well, aren’t you going to pick him up?” the colonel asked.

A tiny black and white ball of fur with big green eyes was looking up at the boy, and it meowed. The boy picked it up, held it close to his face, and closed his eyes.

“You said Toby was black and white. I tried to find one that looks like Toby,” the colonel said quietly.

The boy nodded, because he still couldn’t breathe. When finally he could find his voice, he asked, “Can I keep him?”

“Of course you can keep him. That’s why I got him,” the colonel said.

“But you said never bring cats inside.”

“I changed my mind.”

“What about when we have to move on? What will the men say?” the boy asked.

“He’s yours and you stay with me, so he stays with me and that’s all they need to know. When we march, he comes with us,” the colonel said.

“Really? I can really keep him?” The boy still couldn’t look at the colonel. “I will keep him out of the way. You won’t even know he’s around. I’ll make sure he’s always clean. I’ll make sure he doesn’t make any messes. I’ll make sure—”

“Hey, hey, hey,” the colonel interrupted. “The only thing you need to make sure of is that he gets fed. You don’t have to hide him. I expect him to share our quarters. This may come as a surprise, but you might, every once in a while, catch me petting him, too.”

The colonel was teasing, but the boy still couldn’t look up. If he did, he knew he would cry.

The colonel took the kitten from him, held it up and said, “I think, kitty, you and I need to convince your new master that the only thing he should be concerned with right now is what to name you.”

Toby Two had his own pillow at the foot of the bed, but every so often, when the colonel was lying on his stomach Toby Two would curl in a ball in the middle of the colonel’s back. Seeing them like that made the boy smile. It made him smile even more when the colonel said, “I can’t get up. Toby Two’s holding me down.”

The kitten wasn’t the boy’s only birthday present. He hadn’t written poetry since he’d run away from home, but from the moment the colonel put the new notebook in his hands, the boy couldn’t stop writing. Since he didn’t have any money to buy gifts for the colonel, the boy wrote poems for him. He wrote about the army, the war, his memories, his parents, but mostly he wrote about the colonel. Sometimes it was hard to share what he wrote and some of what he wrote he didn’t share, but most of it he did. The colonel said he was gifted and his poetry was beautiful. The boy didn’t think he was gifted and he didn’t think what he wrote was beautiful, but he wrote anyway. He wrote because he liked to write.

At Christmas the colonel gave the boy another gift he would never forget. While he waited for the colonel to return so they could celebrate the holiday together, the boy took a bath and shaved. He didn’t shave very often. There was no need because the few whiskers he had were thin and soft. Then he put on the new clothes the colonel had given him earlier that day. Unlike all the other clothes the colonel had brought him, these weren’t practical. They were gentlemen’s clothes—a three-piece suit—too fine and expensive to wear around camp, and much too grand for the boy.

He was fully dressed, standing in front of the mirror combing his hair when he heard the colonel coming. He set the comb down and turned around.

The colonel walked in with his arms full of what looked like rolled maps. “Look at all this,” the colonel said as he kicked the door shut behind him. “I’ll be here until midnight deciphering this mess.”

The colonel dropped the maps on the table and turned. When he saw the boy, his eyes widened and his jaw dropped. One of the maps rolled off the table, but the colonel didn’t seem to notice. “You look… you look… you… are… breathtaking…”

The boy held the colonel’s sizzling gaze. “I’ll help you go through the maps,” he said. Slowly he slipped the jacket off his shoulders and then started in on the buttons of the vest.

The colonel murmured, “I don’t give a damn about the maps.” In a few short strides, he covered the distance between them.

The colonel told the boy he was handsome a lot, but this was the first he could remember actually feeling that way. With it came a sense of urgency that was new and splendid. Every second, every touch, every stroke was besieged with intensity, and the boy didn’t want to stop. He didn’t want the night to ever end.

As it was, they slept very little, and they laughed too, because they’d forgotten to lock the door. Never once did they look at the maps.

After that night the boy found himself taking more care with his appearance. He also became the primary instigator of their intimacy. He remembered how in the beginning, he’d strived so hard to please the colonel. What he’d come to realize was that he didn’t have to strive to do anything. Pleasing the colonel was as easy as breathing, and he reveled in every second of it. He even enjoyed doing his chores, because, as the colonel put it, the boy was ‘taking care’ of him. The boy thought it was funny when the colonel said it like that, because in his mind it was just the opposite. The colonel was the one taking care of the boy.

With the colonel he felt cherished, needed, wanted. He felt important and special. And even though the colonel never said the words, the boy knew, he just knew, the colonel loved him. The colonel really loved him.

The months drifted by, and winter turned to spring. And with spring came the news. General Lee had surrendered. The war was over. The Confederacy was no more.

Several days went by before the regiment began to break camp. But there was nothing more for the men to do, and it was time for them to return to their homes. During those days, the colonel became strangely distant. The boy believed this was because the colonel was upset that the South had lost. He thought, perhaps the colonel wished their regiment had done more, that maybe if they had, the outcome would have been different. The boy tried to get the colonel to talk about it, but the colonel remained oddly silent. The only thing the boy could do to console him was love him long into the night, and he did.