Healing Grace (31 page)

“I’m so sorry, love.” The colonel brushed his hair back, but not meanly as he deserved. The colonel was gentle, tender… as before, as always…

“Don’t… don’t…” The boy tried to knock the colonel’s arm away. He didn’t know how to make the colonel understand what he was, how he’d been used and thrown away like garbage. “I’m bad,” he whimpered. “I’m dirty… I’m—”

The colonel sucked in a sharp breath and said, “No, that’s not true. Oh, my poor love.”

The next thing the boy knew, the colonel was on the bed with him, gathering him into strong arms—arms that encircled and consoled as no others could. Although he tried, the boy couldn’t break free. The only thing he could do was succumb, shuddering, while the colonel held him. He kissed the boy’s cheek, his temple, stroked his hair and all the while quietly whispered words meant to calm and offer relief.

“Don’t you know, love, how important and special you are?” the colonel asked. “Don’t you know how much I care about you?”

“You’re…you’re stupid to care about me,” the boy choked.

“Then I’m stupid,” the colonel said vehemently, though his voice was still hushed. “Let me tell you how stupid I am. In order to do that, I have to share a story with you. It’s about a young man I had the privilege of meeting eighteen years ago. To do this story justice though, I must start at the beginning, long before I knew him.

“As a baby, he was sweet and thoughtful, a precious treasure to his mother. But times were hard. You see, her husband—this boy’s father—was tragically killed before the child was born. His mother took in laundry and sewing, and she did the best she could, but there was never enough. She sold off furniture, valuables, everything she could think of, and still there wasn’t enough. Do you know that little boy gave back the tiny bits of bread she scraped together for him? He told her it was for her. Many cold winter mornings she woke to find his blanket wrapped around her, and him lying beside her with none. He told her she’d been shivering in her sleep. When she cried he wiped her tears away. And every night he kissed her cheek and told her he loved her. He was just a baby then, an unusually sensitive, compassionate child.”

The boy closed his eyes and tried not to listen. He wanted the colonel to stop, to just be quiet, but the colonel wouldn’t stop.

“He was five years old when she remarried,” the colonel continued. “At first the marriage seemed like a dream come true. She could finally give her little boy a better life—a home on a farm and a father to care for him. But those dreams turned into unimaginable nightmares. Her tenderhearted little boy became the victim of horrors no child should ever endure. He was ridiculed, battered and molested. He suffered so much. And yet, not only did he survive, he transcended the terrors of his childhood and he thrived. The more I got to know him, the more amazed I was, every day, by his intelligence, his sense of humor, his creativity, and his integrity. I have never met anyone, either before or since, who has his sense of humanity or his capacity for giving.”

The boy wasn’t anything like the person the colonel described. He tried to cover his ears, but the colonel pulled his hands away.

“He was fourteen when he ran away from home,” the colonel went on. “Our nation was in the middle of war. He was too young to fight, but old enough to run errands for the troops. I saw other boys doing the same, but none of them worked as hard as he did. None of them stuck around after the battles to help with the wounded. He ran for water, bandages and medicine. He mopped blood off the floors. He carted severed limbs to be buried or burned.

“Every now and then the men threw him spare change, but no one ever thanked him. Some of them made sport of him. They pushed him around and called him names. He never did anything to defend himself or strike back the way the other boys did. Once he was shoved so hard, he fell in the mud. Several of the men gathered around. They laughed at him and called him a pig. I could have intervened that day, but I didn’t.

“A few days later, one of those men was wounded. He told the boy to fetch him another blanket because he was cold. Supplies were scarce and all the surplus blankets had been taken. The boy went through the troops, asking if anyone would lend a spare, but no one would. Do you know what he did? He gave that man—the one who had been so cruel to him—his own blanket.”

The boy felt the colonel’s fingers tenderly caress his cheek. He didn’t move. He didn’t open his eyes.

“I asked him to work for me, as my errand boy, and he said okay. Every day, not only did he do everything I asked of him, he went above and beyond. I was impressed, but also convinced he was too good to be true, so I decided to test him. I asked him to do more than he should have been able to do in a day. He still got everything done. Some of my demands were ridiculous, such as walking around in my new boots to break them in, and going out to search for wild raspberries because I told him I wanted some. I left money lying around, on purpose, to see if he would take it. I threw change under the bed, so it would seem like I wouldn’t miss it. I never paid him a penny, but at the end of the day, every last cent of mine was neatly piled on the table, waiting for me.

“Once he nicked me when he shaved me. It was nothing. I barely felt it. That night, when he prayed, he asked God to heal me. I used to listen to him whisper prayers a lot. He prayed for the troops, for those who died and for those who were wounded. He prayed for the camp followers and for the wild cats. But most of the time he prayed for me. He said things like ‘the colonel looked sad today, please help the colonel be happy’ and ‘help the colonel not to blame himself when the men are killed’ and ‘let the colonel’s children write more because their letters make him smile.’ Do you know I never once heard him pray for himself?

“I wanted to figure out what motivated him. I couldn’t fathom how anyone could be that brave and care that much. I’d never known anyone with his strength of spirit. I was completely fascinated, but also baffled.” The colonel paused. “When I met him, I was a pathetic mess, unworthy of being called a man, and failing everyone I cared about. I didn’t think anyone could love me, because I was different, and I hated it. I hated myself. I used to pray to be killed in battle. I used to beg God to take me off this earth, because I thought the world would be a better place if I wasn’t in it. I was at one of the lowest points of my life.”

The boy wanted to open his eyes and refute the colonel’s words. He wanted to tell the colonel how valuable he was, not just to him, but to everyone. He wanted to say how much he cherished each and every one of the colonel’s visits to the prison, how he sleeplessly anticipated them for weeks beforehand, how he worked himself into an agonized frenzy the night before because he was terrified the colonel wouldn’t come, how relief coursed through him so thoroughly he could barely stand when the guards finally came to escort him, how he dreamed of the colonel for hours and hours, endlessly, every day, every night. He wanted to tell the colonel that without him, the world would be a black void of nothing.

The colonel said, “That young man worked tirelessly to ensure my comfort. He told me jokes and made me laugh. He consoled me when I was upset. He empowered me when I didn’t think I could go on. He lifted me up when I fell. It was like he read my mind and knew exactly what I needed. He knew even before I did. And never, in all that time, did he complain. Not once did he ask for anything in return. Not once. He was an angel sent from Heaven. He was the best friend I ever had.”

The colonel’s voice became low and gravelly as he continued, “Instead of seeing this miraculous gift thrown to me, I took him for granted. I took advantage and selfishly used him. And then, as if all of that wasn’t bad enough, I raped him.”

The boy’s eyes opened instantly. He started to shake his head, but the colonel’s hand restrained him. The colonel’s eyes bored into him.

“I raped him,” the colonel repeated. “And do you know what happened? Do you know what he did?”

The boy said nothing. The colonel’s eyes were so severe, he couldn’t look away.

“He offered to love me,” the colonel whispered. “Do you have any idea what you did for me, love? Do you know?”

The boy didn’t say anything.

In the same reverent whisper, the colonel kept going, “You reached inside of me and ripped out my shame. You showed me beauty where I had only known filth. You found my heart and taught it to beat again. You made me believe in myself. You, love. You. You were just a kid, a gentle, timid kid, but the most selfless, benevolent soul I have ever known. You healed me.”

Because he couldn’t look at the colonel anymore, the boy sat up. He didn’t know how to contest the colonel’s words. The colonel said the boy was giving, but he’d learned to be that way by copying the colonel. The colonel said the boy was honorable and kind. No one was more honorable and kind than the colonel.

“Why…” The boy had to take a breath and start again. “When you led the Klan, why did you pretend you didn’t know me?”

Quietly, resignedly, the colonel murmured, “You knew I was the Imperial Wizard from the beginning, didn’t you?”

The boy folded his arms across his stomach and leaned forward over them. “I spent all that time with you, but you never said a word. You never took your hood off. I wanted you to, but you didn’t. All you cared about was your men, your Klan.”

“No.” The colonel sat up as well, and put his arm around the boy’s shoulders. “I didn’t give a damn about the Klan. After the war, for two years I searched for you. Everywhere. I even went to your parents’ house. I waited until they were out and I broke in, looking for something, anything, to tell me whether you’d been there. I rooted through every room, every cabinet, every drawer. The only thing I found was on the walls in a bedroom. Poems, endless poems. Tragic, beautiful poems. All written by a child’s hand. I thought you were dead and I blamed myself.

“That night at the Klan rally… there you were… alive and well. I thought—because we were both in the Klan—even though you wanted nothing to do with me, I would at least get to see you. I would be able to find out about your life, where you’d been, what you’d done. But I didn’t get that chance because the Klan was disbanded.

“Starting the new Klan was an excuse. I did it to find you. I wanted to make sure you were okay and safe. That’s what I told myself, anyway. But you have to remember, love, I’m not, nor have I ever been, as noble as you. The real reason I restarted the Klan was so I could convince you to be my lover. You were always so timid and compliant, so eager to please. I figured it wouldn’t be difficult to manipulate you. My plan was entirely selfish because I wasn’t free, but more than that, you’re not like me and I knew it, but I didn’t care.”

“But you didn’t do that,” the boy said.

“I couldn’t, you see. When you came to the barn to join the Klan, you were surrounded by friends who admired and looked up to you. I heard them teasing you about your girlfriends. You were a normal, splendid young man, with so much promise, finding your way and making a life for yourself, and I was so proud of you. I couldn’t ruin that. So I decided never to tell you, or anyone, who I was. I couldn’t burden you anymore than I had already.”

“Burden me?” the boy whispered just as his stomach cramped painfully. He’d known, when he’d chosen to overeat, this would happen. All he could do was cringe and press his arms in.

“What is it, love?” the colonel asked. “Are you ill?”

“No,” the boy lied.

“Lie down, love,” the colonel said.

The boy did lie down, but only because under the colonel’s tender coaxing, he could do nothing else. The colonel was there, leaning over him, staring down anxiously, until the cramping pain subsided and the boy could open his eyes.

“You
are
ill,” the colonel said. “And you have been for a while, haven’t you? That’s why you’ve lost so much weight. I hate seeing you this way. You’re nothing but skin and bones. There are good physicians in Pulaski. We’ll go to them, and we’ll get medicine, whatever you need, and we’ll get you well again.”

The boy nodded and closed his eyes. “Colonel?”

“Yes, love?”

“I’m not what you said. I’m not good.”

“Yes, you are,” the colonel insisted. “There’s not one ounce of evil in you. There was no greater injustice than sending you to prison. I’m so sorry I couldn’t stop it. I wanted to, and I tried, but there was nothing I could do.”

The boy’s throat grew tight. “I did deserve it. I…I killed people.”

“One person. One man. And you didn’t want to do it. Afterward you ran off to be alone and you cried. You were the only one who tried to stop the others when the violence was out of control. You went back for that little colored boy who’d been gunned down. None of what happened was your fault, love. I’m the one who should have stopped things. You were trapped. You despised the Klan and everything it stood for.”

“No, I didn’t. You don’t know—”

“I do know,” the colonel said. “I know you, love. I’ve watched you for years. I’ve read your heart. I know you inside and out. I know you can’t stand to see anything suffer. You used to hide after helping with the wounded so the men wouldn’t see how upset you were. You can’t go fishing because you think the hooks hurt the fish. You can’t even kill a bug, love…”

The colonel kept on, and after a while, when finally the boy’s tears no longer choked him, he closed his eyes and savored the soothing drone of the colonel’s voice.