Nan Ryan (53 page)

Kathleen had taken great care in dressing for her three o’clock meeting with Dawson. She chose the best gown she could find in her closet. It wasn’t as lovely as she would have preferred, but, though years old and rather plain, it was a pretty shade of blue and it had a very high neck. She giggled to herself as she struggled to button every tiny button right up to her chin, happy to follow the instructions of her jealous, but easy-going husband-to-be. She brushed her long blond hair until it shone with highlights and luster, then parted it down the middle to let it tumble loosely around her shoulders, because Dawson liked it that way.

Kathleen remembered with a shudder the other time Dawson was to come to Sans Souci for their engagement. She’d been so young and desperately in love with the handsome, dashing Dawson Blakely. And he’d been just as much in love with the sixteen-year-old, naive Kathleen Diana Beauregard. Kathleen sighed and sat down on her bed. There was no denying it, the young eager girl so infatuated was gone forever. There was no recapturing what she’d felt for Dawson then. She had adored, longed for, idolized, looked up to, almost worshiped him. Her heart would never beat quite that fast by his simply coming through the big double doors downstairs. She would never again wish the world contained only the two of them so that they could spend all their glorious days making love with a passion too great to have ever been experienced by other mere mortals. Then, with a rush of remembering, last night’s hours of lovemaking came to Kathleen’s mind. She realized she was blushing and she laughed and said aloud, “So we’re not that young anymore, but last night with Dawson was better by far than our other times together and it’s only the beginning.”

As the grandfather clock in the hall struck three, Kathleen skipped down the stairs, ready for Dawson to arrive, ready to start a new life, one full of hope and happiness. By fifteen after the hour, she was pacing in the drawing room, becoming increasingly irritated at Dawson’s lateness. By three thirty, she was angry.

“Why is he late? He distinctly said he would be here at three sharp. I could choke him!” By three forty-five, Kathleen was furious and more than a little nervous. “My Lord, is this to be like the other time so long ago? Is he on his boat leaving Natchez as I wait here for him? Has he decided he doesn’t want me after all? Have I been duped, made a fool of by him again? Dawson, where are you?”

By four o’clock, she was beside herself. “He’s not coming! I know he’s not. If he were, he would have been here long ago. What is happening? Is my whole life to be one long series of broken promises and misunderstandings? Haven’t I suffered my share? Must I pay my life long for mistakes and sins I committed when I was still a young girl? Do I deserve it? Have I been that bad? Dawson, why haven’t you come?”

At fifteen past four, Kathleen had given up hope. Resigned and dry-eyed, her nervous pacing had ceased. She sat with her hands folded in her lap as weariness claimed her body and once again she forlornly looked ahead to a cold, uncertain future alone. For whatever reason, Dawson had no intention of coming to Sans Souci today to bring her a diamond engagement ring. She didn’t search for his reason, what difference did it make? Tiredly, Kathleen raised a hand and massaged the base of her long neck. She had a frightful headache. It raged with a vengeance and she felt her whole head might explode at any minute. She was hot, the room was stuffy and warm. Slowly, she unbuttoned the buttons under her chin. I guess I can undo as many as I like,” she thought, “Dawson will not be here to witness my wanton display of bosom and berate me.” She kept unfastening the tight bodice until it was comfortably open half way down.

Still feeling too warm, she rose wearily and headed for the double doors. As she crossed the hall, another disturbing thought struck her. “Where is Scotty? It’s after four-thirty, he should have been home before now. Has the whole world turned upside down again? Has Scotty decided to desert me too, leave me all alone to die a lonely old woman? I’ve told him repeatedly never to dawdle after school. I shall blister his bottom when he gets home. If he ever gets here.”

Dawson recognized the boy. It was Scotty. He started to call to him, but looked at the man before he spoke. Dawson studied the features, the face was strange yet vaguely familiar. Though gray-headed, the man did not look elderly. The left side of his face carried deep scars, from forehead to chin, grotesquely vivid under the afternoon sun. The scars carried none of the redness of a recent injury, they were completely healed, as though they had been there for a long time. The two had stopped in the road, seemingly to rest before going on in what was conspicuously a chore for them both. Dawson continued to study the face of the man holding onto Scotty. The right side of his face was unscarred, though in need of a shave. The man straightened at that minute, bringing himself to his full height, with the assistance of Scotty. The man’s head raised and looked up at the grand carriage approaching. The unmistakable eyes of Hunter Alexander!

The breath caught in Dawson’s chest. Kathleen’s husband stood in the road not fifty yards away. He was alive, though scarred and crippled. He was alive in Natchez, Mississippi, walking along a country lane with his arm around his son. He had come home. Kathleen Alexander was still a married woman.

The crushing blow of Hunter’s existence brought with an alarming rush all that his reappearance meant to the lives of Kathleen, Hunter, Scotty, and himself. Painfully aware of where it left him, Dawson quickly told Jim to go past the man’ and boy without slowing down.

“But, Mistah Dawson, looks lak they could use some help, why the man’s all crippled and …”

“Apply the whip and go past without looking down,” Dawson commanded and sank back deep inside the carriage, saying under his breath, “Damn my luckless soul to hell!”

The black man laid the whip to the horses’ backsides and the brougham quickly passed the helpless man and little boy standing in the dusty road. Only when they were safely past did Dawson slowly turn around in his seat. Scott and Hunter were making their slow, steady progress down the road. The tall, thin man and his loving son were heading home. To Sans Souci.

Scott had walked home from school with four of his classmates. The day was warm and lazy, the sun overhead bright and brilliant in a blue, cloudless sky. The children were in high spirits because another school year was nearly at an end. They walked the road from the school house, shouting and yelling like wild animals turned out of their cages. Turning somersaults and running, hitting each other, the young boys were full of unspent energy and looking for adventure as always. They made their way to the nearby railroad trestle, hopeful of seeing the 2:30 train to Memphis, a treat they would be afforded due to classes being dismissed early on this pleasant spring day. They might get to see the mighty locomotive, blowing its whistles grandly, filling their young heads with dreams of adventures in far away cities.

They waited for the appearance of the roaring train and one of the boys shouted to the other, “Hey, look down there! There’s an old derelict under the trustle,” and following his lead, all ran down the embankment for a look.

The thin, gray-haired man sat in the shade, his right knee pulled up in front of him, the left leg stretched out, his head resting on his arm. Their shouts made him raise a weary head warily and when the boys neared him, one hollered, “Look, he’s all scarred and ugly,” and took one of the pebbles he still carried and threw it at the man, barely missing his head. The wretch made a move to rise, but had great difficulty as he crawled from the opening on the far side of the trestle and tried to get to his feet. More rocks were now sailing past his slim form and he did his best to dodge and shield his body with thin arms thrown up. His progress was slow as he dragged his left leg stiffly behind him. Rocks were starting to hit his back and he heard one of the boys say, “Stop it! Stop it! You’ll hurt him,” and footsteps running towards him.

“Aw, you don’t ever want to have any fun,” one of the voices said and then he could hear the laughing boys, running in the other direction. All but one. The boy who had told the others to stop throwing rocks was heading in his direction and the man tried to speed his pace, hopping hopelessly, trying to flee. The boy soon caught up with him and came to stand in front of him.

“Are you all right, mister?” the boy said and looked up at him.

Hunter looked down at the boy and something about Scotty’s olive face, his dark flashing eyes, brought everything back in a wave of remembering. Staring unbelieving down at his son, Hunter raised a frail, shaking hand and said, “Scotty!”

Not wanting to be touched by the strange, dirty man, Scott moved out of his grasp easily, “How did you know my name is Scott?”

The strange man looking down at him had tears in his eyes and he was choking, trying desperately to speak. Scott couldn’t understand why, but he felt compassion for the poor man and finally raised a small brown hand up to the man’s arm. “Sit down,” he said softly and helped the cripple to the ground. Scott dropped on his knees in front of the crying man and again asked, “How do you know my name is Scott?”

“Scotty,” the man said, looking at him intently, “I know you are going to have a hard time believing me, but I’m you daddy.”

Scott drew back as if the derelict had burned him, “No you are not! Why do you say such a cruel thing?”

“Scotty, it’s true, I’m your father. I swear to you. I know I look very different, that’s why you don’t know me, but I’m Hunter Alexander.”

Scott’s dark eyes were large and luminous, “But … no, you can’t be. My father is, he’s … come! I’ll show you where my father is,” and Scott rose, leaving the cripple to go up as best he could. Wordlessly, Scott led the way to the small consecrated cemetery. The man followed Scott, stun bling along, trying to keep up with the healthy young boy. Tired and gasping for air, the man stepped inside the cemetery gates and followed Scott to a large marble marker “There,” Scott pointed to the headstone, “My father dead!”

Hunter slowly limped to the grave and bent warily down to read the inscription on the heavy stone.

Here lies Hunter Alexander, Colonel, C. S. A
.

Beloved husband of Kathleen Alexander
.

Beloved father of Scott Alexander
.

A brave hero of the Confederacy who gave up

his life in the line of duty in Vicksburg, Mississippi

March 30, 1831-July 3, 1863
.

Hunter read and reread the epitaph. He looked up Scotty standing over him with his arms folded over his chest “See,” Scott said, rebelliously, “My daddy’s dead. He died in the war, he was a great hero.”

Hunter looked at Scott and smiled, “Son, do you have piece of paper and a pencil in your notebook?”

“Sure, but why do …”

“Can I borrow it for a minute?”

Frowning at the strange man, Scott nevertheless pulled out a clean sheet of paper and a stubby yellow pencil and handed it to him.

“Thanks. Now, can I use your notebook, too?”

Scott complied and Hunter placed the paper on the notebook, took the pencil in his left hand and wrote, “Scott Louis Alexander is right-handed, though he’s always tried to be left-handed, just like me. He sleeps each night with his arms thrown over his head and his right foot hanging over his bed. His lovely blond mother, Kathleen, I’ll bet, is waiting right now at Sans Souci, wondering where he is. He remembers me with blond hair and no scars. I remember him as the boy, not five years old, whom I played catch with in the yard on my last morning before I left for the war.”

Hunter handed the piece of paper to Scott and watched as he read it. Scott’s eyes grew wide and when he’d finished reading, he lowered the paper and looked back at Hunter. He studied the face carefully and slowly his small brown hand came up to Hunter’s scarred face. In a half-choking, frightened voice, he said, “Daddy, is it really you?”

“Yes, Scotty, I swear to you. It’s me, darling.”

“But they told us my father died in the war and we thought …”

“It was a terrible mistake, son. I was badly wounded, but I lived.”

Scott slowly sunk to his knees, his hand still on his father’s face. “Then why didn’t you come home? We cried and cried for you. Why didn’t you come back?”

“Son, I was shell-shocked from my head wounds. I didn’t know who I was, I didn’t remember you or your mother. I remembered nothing. I was lost, Scotty, I had no idea where I belonged or who I belonged to. Little bits and pieces of the past have been returning in the last few months, but never enough to tell me who I was. Then, darling, I saw your dear face and it all came back at once. Oh, son, please, please believe me.”

Scotty, tears stinging his dark eyes, raised trembling arms around his father’s neck, “Daddy, Daddy.”

Hunter, dropping the notebook to the ground, hugged Scott with all the strength his frail body possessed and when he felt tears from the boy’s face wetting his own cheeks, he pulled back a little, holding his son by his shoulders, “Don’t cry, Scott. We’ve found each other at last. I love you so much and I’ll make up to you for all the years I’ve been away.”

“Yes, Daddy, yes,” Scott smiled through his tears and rose. “Let me help you, Daddy,” and he tugged on Hunter’s hands, helping him to his feet. “Just lean on me, I’m real strong, I can get you home.”

Hunter stood leaning against his own son, his arm draped around Scott’s shoulder. Scott handed Hunter the notebook, then put one arm around his father’s waist, the other he brought to Hunter’s slim middle.

“Before we go, Scotty, tell me … is your mother … is Kathleen …”

“What, Daddy?”

“Is she married again?”

“Daddy,” Scott grinned up at him, “my mother could never love anybody but you. She’s never been out with another man since you left. Now come on, she’ll be so happy to see you. Just like I am.”

Nearing the double doors of the mansion, Kathleen was flooded with relief when she looked out and saw Scotty coming up the long drive. Then new alarm immediately possessed her. He was with a man, a beggar. Hadn’t she taught her son better than to bring hungry veterans home with him. They hardly had enough to eat themselves, much less enough for the poor hungry men now filling the countryside around Natchez. Indeed, she had cautioned him about even talking to them, much less bringing them home. Didn’t she have enough trouble without her disobeying son dragging some unwashed, half-starved stranger home with him.