With God There Is Hope: Hope For Humanity - Ellen Chaksil

With God There Is Hope: Hope For Humanity

Chapter 1

Hunger for God

In the fall of 1977, I had reached a time of crisis in my life. After twenty-eight years of marriage one would suspect my restlessness to be rooted in boredom, or even a state of midlife doldrums. Yet such was not the case; I was a healthy, very active housewife and mother who found enjoyment in being with her husband and family. I delighted in cooking, golfing and dancing with my handsome husband, and all this activity had also been interspersed with much involvement in my church.

On the surface my life appeared to be full, but inside I was troubled, or perhaps “restless” is a better word to describe my state. In spite of what I thought of as my very deep faith, I even began questioning the very purpose of existence, wondering if there was more to life than I was experiencing. The deep longing within me convinced me that something was missing in my life.

From time to time, I searched for the source or sources that were causing my uneasiness. I concluded that the unrest could not be caused by any problems in my marriage. Though I had been only nineteen when Bruce and I got married, we still shared a deep love for one another even after all these years. I also knew that the void within me was not due to our financial status; we were certainly not wealthy, but we were comfortable. Bruce had built up his own accounting business, and provided well enough for our family. Yes, in that area I was satisfied, but then again even in my earliest years I was never driven to desire things beyond my family’s means. Certainly when I was growing up, our family didn’t have a lot, but there was always love. Perhaps that was how I came to learn that material things were less important.

Today Enon, Pennsylvania, the town where I was born, bears almost no resemblance to what it was like at the time of my birth. The Appalachian mountains are unchanged, but nearly everything else in the surrounding area is totally transformed. In the past there were streams and fields where my siblings and friends and I ran and played, and we delighted in our carefree existence. We would use rocks to mark out the rooms of make-believe houses in the fields and furnish them with empty boxes and wooden crates.

In those days, coal mining was the principal industry, but the air was not congested with smoke and fumes as one would expect. Instead it was crisp and clear, because the mines were located a safe distance from the town. Our father had built our two-story family house on Adler Street himself. The dirt road remained unpaved for many years, and echoed with laughter every winter as our sleds raced through the snow.

Our paternal grandparents lived on the lower end of the street, and each morning the crow of their rooster awakened the entire neighborhood. I cherish a treasury of tender memories of them to this day. Bobba, as we of Slavonic descent called our grandmother, always wore a long dress and apron, with a babushka or scarf tied around her head. Each Christmas Eve, her entire family gathered to celebrate the birth of Christ. The three rooms on the first floor of her home were filled with tables and chairs to accommodate her children and grandchildren. Growing up, I liked to sit in the kitchen near the coal stove, which served not only to cook the delicious traditional foods but also lent a sense of coziness and well being which I am still able to draw forth from the recesses of my mind.

As we gathered around the tables every year to pray and then to eat, Bobba never failed to remind us of the reason for our coming together. She would point to the crib in the center of each table, where Baby Jesus lay resting upon a bed of straw. We children, assailed by those wonderful aromas, could barely wait to dig in, and yet we listened as she spoke. Those marvelous memories, filled with love and warmth, are imprinted upon my consciousness forever.

The town of Enon also had its dangers. We children often ventured into the nearby hills where there were some abandoned strip mines. The gaping holes which were left behind, filled with sulfurous water, were a great hazard. One balmy summer day when I was eight, my four-year-old brother Aaron tagged along with me and some of my friends as we trekked through the area near the abandoned mines. I must have lost sight of him for only a minute, but it was enough time for him to wander off toward one of those hazardous pits. By the time I caught up with him, he was nearing the edge of the deep sulfurous water. With my heart in my mouth I hurried down the treacherous slope until I reached him, took hold of his hand in the nick of time, and then began the climb upward again, reaching out to those waiting to help us. It’s strange how some memories are imprinted upon our consciousness.

Aaron and I were the two youngest in a family of seven, but two of our siblings were unknown to us, except for the following sad stories, so indicative of the time. The firstborn, a boy named Cyril, died at the age of two in the arms of our gentle father after the doctor performed an emergency tracheotomy on him as he lay on our kitchen table.

Another story I am always proud to share involves our sister Gertrude. During the Spanish flu epidemic following the First World War, my mother contracted the flu late in her seventh month of pregnancy. She was told her death was imminent unless she allowed the doctors to abort her baby. Her response was adamant.

“Well then, I’ll die, because I will not let you take my baby.”

Gertrude was born and lived long enough to be baptized and taken home from the hospital, where she was kept alive for a very short time in a box surrounded by heated bricks.

I think now you have a small idea of the character and goodness of our parents.

I have no at-home memories of our sister Maryann, as she married at an early age, even before Aaron was born. Shortly after her marriage she and her husband moved to New Jersey. Maryann had a gift of hospitality, and when anyone entered her home they were welcomed by her beautiful smile.

Our sister Mary Lucille took advantage of Maryann’s hospitality when she finished high school. Though she graduated with honors and greatly desired to attend college, she was unable to do so, as our parents could not afford it. This was during the Second World War, and so Mary Lucille decided to seek employment in the city, where good job opportunities were available. And of course Maryann and her husband Joe graciously opened their door to her.

There are many at-home memories of my brother Mark, who was four years older than me. He loved to fish and hunt with our dad. Often he and I were assigned the chore of washing the kitchen floor. He would scrub, then rinse out the rag and hand it to me to dry and shine the floor with it. More often than not, this ended in a free-for-all. Rather than simply wringing the cloth dry and then handing it to me, Mark would call out and then toss it, sopping wet, in my face. Today, instead of bursting into tears and lunging at him, I cherish the memory, because Mark is no longer with us.

Mark had a brilliant mind and, when he was old enough, he enlisted in the U.S. Navy and joined the Seabees, where he became a member of a construction battalion. Upon his discharge from the Service, he entered college and became a successful engineer.

Then there were just two of us at home on Adler Street, Aaron and me.

* * *

When I reflect upon the year that I was born, 1929, the start of the Great Depression, and recall hearing so may stories from others about those difficult times, I realize I was graced even then in that I didn’t know enough to be negatively affected by our everyday hardships.

For example, we had no indoor plumbing, and yet thought nothing of going to the outhouse in any and all types of weather or, for that matter, of taking a bath in the tin tub after heating the water on the stove. It never occurred to me to be unhappy when my mother made some of my dresses from another relative’s hand-me-down clothes; instead I was pleased and proud that she had made them for me.

Whenever we sat down to dinner, even though our dad came home exhausted from working in the mines, he always waited until everyone else was served before he took his portion. In spite of our poverty, there was always enough food, as Mom was a good and resourceful cook. Every Wednesday the house smelled wonderful; that was the day she baked bread, and sometime even fried some of the dough, covering it with sugar for a special treat. Even now, just thinking about the taste makes my mouth water.

Growing up in Enon, we children had the opportunity to earn some extra money in the summertime by picking blueberries. It was necessary to get up at five in the morning and walk up into the mountains with pails attached to our belts. In later years Mom would make us laugh by telling stories of how each of her children reacted to this chore.

“Mary Lucille,” she would say, “Made every excuse, even feigned illness, so she wouldn’t have to go out and pick berries.”

Mark, on the other hand, was a good worker, and he always came home with his pail filled. As for me, I was filled with pride to hear Bobba say, “Look what a good girl Elenka is! She not only comes home with her pails filled, but then she starts cleaning the house for her mother.”

Even at an early age I made every effort to do my part so as to please those around me.

Aaron and I, as the youngest and only four years apart in age, were very close. However, as with all siblings, we had our differences, especially when it came to our choice of radio programs. In those days there was no television in our house, and only one radio. Every Saturday afternoon, the rest of us grew annoyed with Aaron as we were literally forced to listen to the opera being broadcast from the Metropolitan Opera House in New York City. Until today, I wonder how he found these broadcasts, and where he developed this passion for opera. Living in a small mining town, he had never been exposed to that beauty; it simply was not a part of our culture.

Yet Aaron loved that music so much that when he was in the eighth grade he walked all the way to the next town‐a good ten-mile hike‐to hear Patrice Munsel, a noted opera star, perform. Today, in these quite different times, we realize he converted many of us. My husband and I appreciate and love the music; time and again we have attended the opera with him.

Aaron also had a brilliant mind; he excelled in high school and became a member of the National Honor Society. As for picking blueberries? He did not do much of that, perhaps because once he was old enough our mother began working in the sewing factory and money was a bit more available. In fact our parents were able to pay Aaron’s tuition at a nearby high school which was considered to be academically superior to the one in our borough.

Our high school years were quite different from those of teenagers today. Our parents were quite strict, and we had a 9:00 p.m. curfew. In my junior year of high school in 1946, I was finally allowed to attend the dances which were held in a hall about six blocks from our house. Consequently, the course of my life was set in April of that year when I caught sight of a young man entering the hall. I could not help staring at him because I thought he was the best looking man I had ever seen.

Shortly thereafter, even though I thought I looked very young in my bobby sox and broomstick skirt‐the fashion of the day‐I was thrilled when this handsome man asked me to dance. As we slowly circled the hall, I learned that his name was Bruce and he had just been discharged from the Army. I was awestruck when he told me he had fought in the Battle of the Bulge.

When the dance was over he asked to take me home, but at first I politely refused, knowing my mother would not approve of my getting into his car. Once I explained my dilemma, Bruce offered to walk me home. That was the beginning of a romance that has lasted until today.

We often share a laugh with our children when we tell them about the first time I was finally allowed to ride home with him following the dance. We sat together, parked in front of my house, steam gathering on the car windows as we kissed. My mother must have spotted us as soon as she looked out the front window, because in an instant the door flew open and she came storming down the walk in her flannel nightgown. Just as quickly she yanked the car door open, reached inside and, holding me by the ear, pulled me out of the car.

Despite that bad beginning, however, as the weeks passed my mother apparently became persuaded that Bruce was an honorable young man and I really liked him, and so I was able to invite him into the house. Of course, once my parents met him they allowed me to date. Later that summer both sets of parents met as well, and the meeting resulted in a fine and lasting friendship.

In the Fall of that year, Bruce entered college and I began my senior year of high school. I was thrilled to bring him to my prom, and even more excited to attend a dance with him at the University of Scranton. We were engaged in 1948, and were so eager to be together all the time that we were married in 1949, just a year before he graduated from the university to begin his career in accounting.

Our first apartment was near Bru’s parents’ house, and I loved visiting with his mom and learning how to prepare his favorite foods. Bru was an only child, and so early on he and I planned to have a child. In the following year we were heartbroken when I miscarried, and then learned that because of a problem with my female organs it was unlikely I could ever become pregnant again. When faced with that possibility, I was told that perhaps surgery could alleviate the condition. In consequence, in the hope of conceiving a child, we decided to go forward with the operation.

Following surgery, as the months passed, I prayed in the fashion I always had, just as I believed all Catholics did‐I made novenas to St. Ann and the Blessed Mother. Because in those times before Vatican Council II, we as Catholics did not read the Bible, our knowledge of Jesus, except for His birth and His death on the Cross, was limited. As a result, instead of seeing St. Ann and Blessed Mary as intercessors, we prayed directly to them.

This is a very important point that I wish to make. In fear of mortal sin, no one in our family was ever allowed to miss Mass, but beyond that all of our prayers were directed to the Mother of Jesus. In fact, during the month of May, which was dedicated to her, we erected altars in our homes, prayed the rosary and said special Novena prayers before them. Little did I realize at that time how much my understanding would change years later.

* * *

Bruce and I were filled with joy when our son David was born in October of 1951. He was followed two years later by our second son, Jonathan and, five years afterwards, by our daughter Ria.

In that span of time conditions in Enon and the surrounding towns and cities changed tremendously. Numerous industries set up factories in the area, offering employment opportunities to many. Even on Adler Street, much to everyone’s glee, outhouses became obsolete. I recall how pleased and special I felt when our dad built a small powder room in our basement and there was no longer any need to venture

outdoors. The former dirt road was paved, and soon cars raced up and down its length. I often wonder what Bobba would have thought if she had lived to see that transformation.

Bru worked hard setting up his own accounting practice, and we were able to build a beautiful, two-story colonial house right on the border between Enon and the next town. We were a happy family, and whenever we were able we took wonderful trips with the children. One of our first was to bring the three of them to the place in Canada where Bru and I had spent our honeymoon. At the time, David was ten, Jonathan eight and Ria was three. Each evening at dinner, the boys looked so proper in their Eton suits and bow ties while Ria looked beautiful in her starched organdy dress.

Another time we took a trip to Radio City in New York, followed by dinner at the then famous Mama Leone’s restaurant. One memory never fails to make me smile. We had just finished eating a sumptuous meal and the boys, who were unfamiliar with finger bowls, watched as the waiter set the finger bowls on the table. Simultaneously they bellowed out loudly enough to be heard throughout the entire restaurant, “No, no, we don’t want any! We just can’t eat any more soup.”

Even at that age, though, Jonathan always attempted to be prim and proper. Yet another time when we were out to dinner and it was his turn to give the waiter his order, he very seriously said, “I would like some breastless bone of chicken, thank you.”

The waiter managed to conceal his laughter, but Bruce and I had a hard time meeting each other’s eyes.

Growing up, the boys were very different from each other in many respects, but both were musically talented; David played the piano and Jonathan the violin. Often at socials and family gatherings they were called upon to entertain, and we were quite proud of them.

All three of our children attended the parochial school in a nearby town. It was there that we met a priest who is still one of our best friends today. Father Vinnie, as we continue to call him even though he is now a monsignor, is an important part of our lives. When the children were in the lower grades, he administered the Sacraments to them. He also married David and his wife Jan, as well as Ria and her husband Bobby. He would prove to be my guide and mentor through what was about to become the new focus of my life.

Years later, during that time of crisis in my life in 1977, as I reflected upon the lives of our three children and what wonderful young adults they had grown into, I decided they could not be at the heart of my unrest. Our daughter Ria was attending college and our twenty-six- and twenty-four-year-old sons were already making their way in the world.

Having gone through my mental checklist and found nothing outside myself that was causing my unrest, I determined that the restlessness was necessarily rooted in my very core. I began to wonder‐could this sense of deprivation have something to do with my relationship with God?

But how could that be? I wondered. How could such a thought even enter my mind? In my smugness, I attempted to point out to myself that this just could not be the cause of my restlessness. Why, I went to church every Sunday and even on Holy Days. I said the rosary and, before receiving Holy Communion, I did go to confession. In addition, I always participated in all of the activities at our church, serving at the dinners held as fundraisers, sometimes working at bingo. In fact, I could not, would not allow myself to believe that my relationship with God could be the cause of my unrest. Yet as the months passed, in some of my quiet moments, it seemed I heard my inner self accusing me.

But Ellen, I heard myself say, Do you have a close relationship with God? Do you really know Him?

I was taken aback by that question and, in seeking an answer, I realized that, yes, I was a good Roman Catholic, I did obey the laws of the Church, but as for knowing God in a close personal way, I had never given that any thought. I could truthfully say I did not have that type of personal relationship with God, and it seemed that just going to church was not the solution. Maybe, I decided, that was the reason I had begun church hopping.

Then again, maybe Vatican II had had something to do with that skipping around. Twelve years had passed since the Council had ended, and changes ordained in its deliberations were being implemented in the Church, changes which I had welcomed and was excited about, and I had wanted to attend Mass where those changes were in place.

For example, the Mass had become our prime form of worship and we the people, the Church, were allowed to participate, as the words were no longer spoken in Latin but in our own language, the vernacular of the people. It was also incredibly exciting the first time I took the Body and Blood of Christ into my own hands at the Eucharist. Then, too, at Mass I experienced a sense of community in exchanging the sign of peace with the people around me.

My reflection pointed out to me that the Mass was not what I had been searching for, because I already had it. Instead, I came to realize that the “something more” I was looking for in my life must be the Someone who is my God. I wanted to get to know Him in a personal way.

That stream of thought brought to mind our very good friend Father Vinnie, who was also my spiritual advisor. If he were here, I mused, instead of in Rome where he was pursuing his doctorate in theology, I knew he could have helped me; he would have pointed me in the right direction. It was he, after all, who had first introduced Bruce and me to the ways opened to all at the Vatican Council. I reminisced about how proud I had been when Father selected Bruce to be one of the first lectors in our parish. He was among the first lay persons able to stand in our sanctuary and read the scripture passages designated for that Sunday’s Mass. What an exciting time to live in!

Over the years we had developed a close relationship with Father Vinnie; it was he who had administered the Sacrament of the Eucharist to Ria at her first Holy Communion, and he was also present when the bishop confirmed our sons Jonathan and David. Yes, I was sure if he had been there at this time of my soul-searching, he could have helped me to understand and quiet my inner restlessness.

My thoughts about the return of our priest friend to Rome evoked a flood of memories, one of which was when Father Vinnie helped coordinate a wonderful trip to Italy for our family in 1967. Through his efforts and those of an acquaintance he had made during his seminary days at the North American College in the Vatican, we had been afforded a very special time in the audience hall in Castel Gandolfo, the summer residence of the Pope.

* * *

1967: Italy

Arrangements were made for us to hire a driver, Remo Velli, who knew the region well and who had been of service to many in the Vatican. Remo proved to be compassionate as well as competent. When our daughter Ria, then nine years old, complained of an upset stomach, my husband, who speaks fluent Italian, mentioned the problem to Remo, who stopped on our way to purchase some medicine to ease her

tummy troubles.

Needless to say, we were quite pleased, as then we were able to enjoy the beautiful scenery unperturbed as we drove up into the mountains. We soaked in more beauty as we walked into the center of the charming little town in Lazio where the Pope’s summer residence is located. We saw the townspeople sitting at tables in the square, enjoying each other’s company as they sipped their beverages and the men smoked their pipes.

When we finally entered the audience hall, we were surprised to see our driver up on the stage conferring with a group of cardinals. Apparently he was well known to them. We were further amazed when he came forward and invited us to take seats closer to the stage. However, we decided to remain where we were; we thought our seats on the aisle would afford us a better view of Pope Paul VI as he passed by.

At that point all eyes were riveted on the back of the hall where the Pope would enter; the excitement was almost palpable. After some time, amid shouts of welcome, we caught sight of the Holy Father. Though he looked frail, he smiled and reached out to the people from the chair in which he was being carried on the shoulders of some men. For Catholics like me, it was a thrilling and awe-filled moment!

We were quite pleased with our decision to remain in our original seats, for we were close enough to almost touch him. Then, wonder of wonders, as he passed by he did grasp and hold onto our son David’s hand. Moments later, when the Holy Father moved on, there was a look of awe on everyone’s face, especially that of our sixteen-year-old son David, who appeared dazed.

“Mom,” he said. “I can’t believe I was holding the Pope’s hand! He held on so tight my ring almost slipped off!”

After the audience, bubbling with excitement, we left the hall and made our way to the car. We marveled at our good fortune‐to think that we had had seats in an area where we could literally touch the Pope’s hand! In a short time we caught sight of our driver, who was carrying a very large box in his arms. Immediately Bruce told him of our good fortune. Instead of putting the box into the trunk, he turned to us and asked if we would like to take a picture with him and Ria holding on to the box. He went on to explain that the box contained some of the Holy Father’s clothing. Needless to say, Bruce immediately took the picture. Later, on our way back to Rome, our driver told us it was part of his duty to deliver the garments to an order of nuns inside the city who laundered them.

Today, as I reflect on those awesome events‐the Pope clasping David’s hand, and then being in the car bringing the Holy Father’s clothing to be laundered‐I could see that the Lord was preparing me for even greater happenings in my life.

Remembering that wonderful visit to Castel Gandolfo, I recalled yet other memories of that 1967 trip. Some days after our encounter with His Holiness, Bruce was filled with anticipation as we approached and entered the small town of Perticano, the birthplace of his mother. The town, nestled between some towering mountains, appeared to be unchanged from the earliest of times. We immediately caught sight of the communal oven located in the very center of town, made of stone and brick, that had been constructed at least a hundred years before. Bruce’s mother shared a memory with us once. She recalled seeing her own mother and grandmother baking bread and roasting meats in that very same oven. Certainly that shared activity fostered community in this lovely little town.

At the time we visited, there was no hotel in the town, and we stayed with Bruce’s relatives. Each morning our daughter Ria would run outdoors to catch sight of some of the women in kerchiefs and aprons as they led their geese through the streets; she also delighted in seeing the chickens, goats and other animals as they freely roamed about. Even though the language barrier was a problem for the children and me, we were made to feel most welcome.

On one of those days, though we hated to leave, we took an excursion to the nearby ancient city of Gubbio, parts of which, we knew, had literally been built into the hills and at the base of Monte Ingino, a towering mountain. The city not only looked like a page out of the past but was, in fact, unchanged for centuries, and it remained that way because of a law which prohibited the residents from altering the exteriors of their buildings.

A car could barely pass through the narrow cobble-stoned streets. The passages, constructed hundreds of years before, did accommodate a horse and carriage, the mode of transportation at that time.

In 1967, there was yet another way to ascend Monte Ingino, the site of the Basilica of Santo Ubaldo, a famed tourist attraction, and that was by cable car. When I caught sight of it, a shiver of fear ran through me. I had imagined it would be similar to the kind of car Bruce and I had ridden in to ascend some mountains in the Alps, but I noticed there was a distinct difference. The cars used to ascend the mountain in Switzerland had been enclosed, whereas those in Gubbio were open to the elements.

There was, however, no fear in the children; they could hardly wait to get into the cars, especially sixteen-year-old David and Jonathan who, at fourteen, had that same taste for excitement.

As for me, I knew I wanted to visit the Basilica, and I had no choice except to hop into the car with Bruce. When we finally began ascending the mountain, I closed my eyes, but the children’s escapades began. The two brothers loved their sister and, like playful bear cubs, they incessantly, lovingly teased her. Consequently her squeals of delight resounded in the open spaces between the mountains as they scrambled about, causing the car to rock. As we climbed higher and higher, Bruce held onto my hand and also kept a close eye on the children.

When the cable car at last came to a stop, I did breathe a sigh of relief as I hurriedly stepped out. The scene which confronted us was breathtaking; from that height the buildings below looked like the miniature ones we place around our Christmas tree.

After a short climb, we entered the Basilica of Santo Ubaldo. Amid the seemingly hundreds of burning candles, we could see the prominently situated reason for the tourists’ visits. There in the center of the church, high atop the altar, rested a glass enclosure which contained the uncorrupted body of Saint Ubaldo. He was attired in his miter and the full regalia of a bishop of his time. Certainly, it was a sight to behold.

I did not realize it at the time, but that trip to Gubbio played an important role in preparing me for future participation in God’s plan. Once again, though, looking back, I can see God’s leading.

* * *

As we left the basilica, I did not look forward to the cable car ride down the mountain, but I was more than pleased with our visit. I thought to myself that in time it would be interesting to learn about the life of Santo Ubaldo and also that of the City of Gubbio.

I may not have been looking forward to the cable car ride but, on the other hand, the children were eagerly awaiting its departure so that they could continue with what seemed to them to be a great adventure. And have it they did; Bruce and I were not too pleased when the boys proceeded to shake the car from side to side as we descended, but their sister was delighted. I could barely wait to reach the bottom, not only to set my feet on firm ground, but to get to one of the city’s numerous restaurants; we had been told that the food was delicious.

Having stored away those treasured memories from more than a decade earlier, I realized that I was still plagued with an unexplained restlessness. There was, however, one major difference in my thoughts since I had begun to experience this restlessness‐I now knew what was causing it. I knew I desired something more in my life and had come to understand that the something I was longing for had to do with the Someone who is God. I wondered how this could be resolved satisfactorily, and what course would be necessary to facilitate the solution. Shortly thereafter, a clue surfaced:

I recalled when Father Vinnie had been in our parish he had most likely helped stir up that longing when he conducted some adult education classes. My thirst to seek more knowledge about God had definitely been triggered; there was so much I didn’t know. A subsequent bible course I had taken made me more aware of the same void and thirst within me. That void seemed to be deepening, and left me with the question: Was learning more about God the answer for me?

I remembered also that, prior to our friend’s return to Rome, I had briefly touched upon my growing unrest with him. At the time he suggested I join a Charismatic prayer group which was gathering at a renewal center in Oakdale, not far from my home. However, at that time the bit of advice had slipped my mind. I did not go to Oakdale. Now, almost a year later, my unrest had become a spiritual crisis.

In retrospect, it is clear that I was not in tune with God’s plan at that time. However, perhaps back then it was not yet time for me to become involved in that renewal movement.

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Sleep Before Evening by Magdalena Ball

Sleep Before Evening

By Magdalena Ball

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CHAPTER ONE:

“Mathematical logic holds great promise for an understanding of the world.”

Marianne looked up from the game. “Check.”

Her grandfather's eyes were more intense than usual, a cobalt blue which, just for a moment, was otherworldly.

He reached out a hand to touch her hair, and then twitched.

“Imagine a comprehensive list of all true sentences. This would be an adequate representation of the world as a whole.”

She leaned closer to him as he moved his king out of check, trying to absorb his tremendous knowledge by proximity. His damp pipe tobacco scent comforted her like a warm blanket.

The room was warm, but a light breeze blew in through the open windows, filling the room with the astringent salt of the Long Island Sound beneath them. She imagined herself on the deck of his boat, sitting in her own special co-captain's chair, protected from wind as he turned the steering wheel with his capable captain's hands.

The thought of Eric's boat instantly made her thirsty. Without her asking, Eric passed over her half-drunk glass of orange juice. Then she saw it again. Another twitch, which caused some juice to spill out onto the chessboard, orange flowing like a stain over the black marble square. The twitch lasted long enough for her to note how the upper right side of his face distorted grossly, pulling his eyebrow down towards his mouth.

She stared, unsure of whether he was teasing her or checking to see if she was paying attention, and took the glass from his momentarily frozen hand. Then he moved his king out of check again, oblivious to the spilled juice.

“Grandpa?” His face relaxed and he yawned, ignoring the lightning strike of violence which had just passed through his face. “I'll get a paper towel.”

Eric smiled as she returned from the kitchen. “You're a good girl, Mari. I'm so proud of you. I know you'll achieve great things.”

She moved her knight, putting Eric in check once more. His eyes suddenly cleared and he looked his old self - stolid, nurturing, able to counter her move. He whispered. “Never be afraid of check.”

Marianne leaned back in her chair and sighed, closing her eyes for a moment. She must have imagined the twitch. Eric would counter her check as he always did. She opened her eyes to see where he moved his king, but it was still on the same square, next to the sticky spot where she'd tried to clean the juice. Eric sat still in his seat, staring at her vacantly, his arms dangling at his side.

“Grandpa, it's your move.” Her throat tightened as he fell forward, slowly crumpling on the floor. She waited a moment for an uncharacteristic 'surprise!' or some other indication of a test or unfunny joke, but he lay still on the sisal, his breathing expelled in labored snores.

“Grandpa.” She stared at him, her eyes bulging from their sockets. “It's your move.”

***

“Breathe, damn it!”

Marianne's own breath was fast and heavy, the fingers on her left hand squeezing Eric's in time to the ambulance's flashing light.

“Come on Grandpa, please.”

He lifted his head slightly, blue eyes watering and bulging with the effort. “I'm sorry, poppet.”

“Oh, Grandpa, I'm the one who's sorry. But you'll be okay.”

She turned to the paramedic behind her. “He's talking. That's a good sign isn't it? Do you have water? He's thirsty.”

Eric's hand stopped twitching. His face was suddenly still, his eyes closed.

“We were just playing chess.”

“Chess?”

“We play every Friday.” Her voice squeaked as it moved up the soprano scale. “It was his move. I was sure he'd counter my check, but he sat there doing nothing, his hands were hanging. I thought he was teasing.”

“Mr Cotton,” said the paramedic loudly, holding Eric's shoulders. “Can you smile for me, Mr Cotton?”

Marianne leaned over. “It's Doctor Cotton.”

“Can you squeeze my hand, Doctor Cotton?”

Eric's hand lay still against the stretcher, the pauses between his breathing increasing.

The paramedic tapped Marianne on the shoulder as they began to prepare Eric for movement, tucking his sheets and lifting the bed. “It's okay. You did the right thing. It was good you called us so quickly. How old are you, Marianne?”

“Seventeen. It wasn't checkmate. I'm sure he would have countered my move. He never loses.”

The ambulance slowed to a stop. Marianne followed the paramedics and Eric out and through the glass doors of the hospital. Before she could continue down the hall with them, they motioned her over to the waiting room, ignoring her outstretched hands. “Wait,” she called; but they were already gone.

Sitting in the waiting room, Marianne rubbed her hands, blowing into them for warmth. She looked around, but everything was unfamiliar. Busy strangers with their own tragedies knocked into her as she sucked on the end of her sleeve, a habit she'd kept from childhood. She caught herself and looked up to find Lily walking through the entrance, the sunlight coming in through the glass temporarily blocking Lily's face so that all Marianne saw initially was the flap of her mother's floral scarf, which mirrored

the violet of her perfume.

“Oh god, honey, where's Grandpa? Are you okay?” Lily's voice was louder than the general hum of the waiting room and she moved about manically and without purpose, blowing her nose and asking random questions of any staff members she could find, her voice pitched on the edge of hysteria.

Marianne didn't know whether she was relieved to see Lily, or embarrassed at her mother's usual overt energy. Her stepfather Russell arrived a few minutes later, kissed her gently on the cheek, and tried to corral Lily, who was undoing and redoing her hair while continuing to grill her.

“Was he breathing? Did he hit his head when he fell? Was he still conscious? What did he say to you?”

There wasn't enough pause between questions for Marianne to answer.

Russell was used to Lily's chaos, keeping his own voice measured in comparison and asking no questions while he led Marianne to an empty waiting room chair.

While Lily flapped about within the limits of Russell's containment, Marianne sat silently, her mind rummaging through the final minutes before Eric's stroke. After several hours in the teeth-grinding panic of the waiting room, a doctor arrived to tell them what room Eric was in and then disappeared quickly while Russell led them towards the elevator.

As they entered Eric's room, Lily fell quiet, her restlessness stilled by the regular whoosh-click of a ventilator as the three of them stood dumbly.

Marianne took her grandfather's hand, stroking the raised blue veins and the papery softness of his transparent skin. Would he come back to her? Marianne touched Eric's fingers and there was no response, none of the warm, reassuring squeeze that had gotten her through everything from skinned knees to fatherless birthday parties.

She held his hand and took herself back to the conversations in his study, the piano lessons and gifts, while hissing, almost without consciousness: “Don't do this to me, Grandpa. It isn't fair.”

She felt his pulse, which coincided with the jagged lines on a monitor screen. He was nothing; just another dying patient. Marianne tried to reconcile the body on the bed with the famous Eric Cotton, lecturer, author, confidant.

A doctor entered the room and Russell introduced himself, putting out his hand: “Russell Wilkinson.”

Russell spoke slowly, smiling to an imaginary television camera, his white teeth catching the light. He collected toiletries - hair gel, aftershave, skin tonic, deodorants. Even his tan was out of a Coppertone container, although he spent plenty of time on the beach in the summer.

“Nice to meet you, Russell,” the doctor said. “You're a lucky man to have such a beautiful family.”

Marianne watched Russell's smile tighten and could almost read his mind as the word 'lucky' hit him in the face. Luck was in the eyes of the beholder, she thought. Marianne knew that if he felt anything at all, it was unlucky. He swaggered backwards from the doctor a little, running a hand through his shoulder length hair.

“How serious is he?”

“I'm sorry,” said the doctor, shaking his head. “Did Eric have any directives?”

Russell wrinkled his brow in confusion. “What?”

“Wishes about whether he wanted to be kept on life support in the event of, you know … this. I'm afraid there is no viable brain activity.” He pointed to a machine nearby.

He dropped his voice and the hospital followed suit, the clinking and rushing about from the hallway and other visitors silenced while the doctor's whispers filled the room. “The damage was too extensive. I'm sorry.”

Although she tried to follow the discussion, Marianne was having difficulty working out what was meant by the dissonant words that floated by her; kidney dialysis, ventilators, drips, antibiotics, oxygen, tube feeding, infections. The words felt removed from their normal meanings.

“In a way, death is easier.”

Lily looked sharply at the doctor, her eyes beginning to water, and she sniffed: “How? How is death easier? Easier for us? Or for him?”

The doctor backed away slightly. “We could put him in hospice, of course, if his insurance will cover it. The setting is more pleasant than the hospital, but you know, it would only be prolonging the dying process. Insurance rarely covers long term support, and it can be expensive. He's in what we call a persistent vegetative state. We have a counselor who can talk you through the options.”

Marianne wondered whether her grandfather could hear them debating his life. Did he have an idea that there was something before - a nagging tug of person and meaning? Or was his world now the sum of whatever senses were still working; the repeated beep, the room's smell, the squeak of nurses' shoes and rush of exhalation as they fixed his pillows, turned him and cleaned his body.

Could you still call it life if it went on like this for years? Would he be the same man? Marianne moved as close to Eric as she could and tried to breathe along with him, taking in his breath with her inhalation and blowing towards him with her exhalation. She knew he was there. Alive. Listening and angry. His eyes were closed, but she could still see him looking at her, pleading with her. “Don't let them turn my equipment off. Help me, Marianne. Please help me.”

“Yes,” she whispered back.

“Okay. We'll speak to the counselor and let you know what we decide. Thank you, doctor.”

Russell put his hand on Lily's shoulder. His satin shirt shimmered in the hospital lights and his heeled boots chinked loudly on the yellow and white floor tiles. Leading Marianne and Lily out of the room, away from Eric, he looked ready for the rodeo. Marianne looked at him, the new head of their family. He looked uncertain of the stance he should take - sad or officious.

Marianne heard Aaron Copland faintly up the hall; Appalachian Spring. Was someone else's visitor carrying a boom box on the FM channel? It was probably her own crazy imagination, adding wide open grassy spaces and rolling rhythms to the starched scene; a way of removing herself. She could even

smell grass but, of course, there was a small patch of garden in front of the building, the cheerful daisies mocking them with their perky white and yellow brightness. The flowers felt wrong under the circumstance. If no one was looking, Marianne thought she might stamp on them.

“C'mon, let's go home now. There's nothing much we can do today. We need time to think and talk. Eric won't miss us.”

“Of course he'll miss us,” Marianne said. “We need to stay.”

But Lily and Russell walked ahead, talking together without her. To them, Grandpa was already a ghost, like the Copland Marianne could no longer hear, its echo drowned by the backfiring of their car and Russell's cursing as he drove them home.

When she was little, Marianne was allowed to put her feet up on the dashboard, chalky footprints scattered across vinyl as she danced in time to the music on the radio. Now the car was clean, except for a candy bar wrapper and a half open pack of cigarette papers on the floor. Russell wasn't allowed to smoke in the house, but you could smell ashes in the car. Marianne coughed, breaking the oppressive silence, but an unspoken question still hovered in the air. She wondered who would say something first, when Lily began knocking her fist against the air vent.

“The heating's broken again. One day, I'm hoping we'll be able to afford a car that actually does everything all at one time. If the heating works, the engine stops. If the engine works, the heating stops.”

“Sorry, Lil. Wish I could afford a better car for you.”

“It'll be spring soon enough I guess. It's so damn cold today, though. I just can't get warm.”

“Apparently this is the coldest March on record in New York since 1892.”

“Where did you hear that?”

“Can't remember. Maybe the news last night.”

“Everything is always a superlative, isn't it. The coldest spring. The hottest summer. The tallest building. I don't need a weatherman to tell me it's cold. And who cares whether 1982 is as cold as it was in 1892?”

“Oh dear. Excuse me for filling your precious brain with useless facts.”

Marianne sat in the back, her hands pushed under her thighs, which were moving up and down in an effort to keep the circulation going. Had they given up on Eric already? Marianne didn't dare ask. The tension around that question filled the car. She could hear her mother's unspoken plea. “Please don't ask that.”

Marianne kept silent, as usual, not wanting to cause a conflict.

“We should go to Dad's place.”

“Eric's? Why should we go there?”

“I need to look through his papers to get some idea of what he would want. Maybe he's left some kind of will.”

“I doubt it, Lily. Besides, he isn't dead yet. Isn't looking for a will now a little grubby?”

“I'm not looking for a will to see what he's left to us. For god's sake, Russ, I just want to try and find out what Dad wants. I want to do the right thing by him.”

“I don't think you'll find the answer in his house, Lil. This is a decision we have to make. You can't defer to him this time. Daddy isn't here to tell you what to do.”

“Don't give me that shit. He has a right to have us follow his directives, especially if he's taken the trouble to write them out.”

“And why wouldn't he have given you a copy already?”

“I don't know.” Lily's voice dropped to a whisper. “We didn't really discuss things like that.”

“No. He probably thought he'd live forever.”

“You're a prick.”

“I'm sorry, hon. That was callous. This is hard for all of us. We'll go to his house and I'll just wait in the car with Mari while you go in and have a look.”

“No way. I'm going in with you, Mom.” Marianne watched as Russell made a sharp left onto Waukena Avenue. She could just see the entrance to the Middle Bay Country Club where Grandpa occasionally played golf. He took her with him once and she swam in the big white pool. For members and their guests only. No one swam seriously, dressed in designer suits and lounging on the deck chairs. She wanted to materialize him there now, playing golf in his plaid dockers, joking with colleagues from the University.

Russell turned the radio on. Marianne had changed it to the FM station last time they were out. It was Chopin's Prelude No4 in E Minor, which filled the car, easing the rough spots and changing

the mood from fear to sorrow. Marianne felt as though it had been chosen especially by Eric to describe how she was feeling. The music, with its repetitive minor E, was so soft that she had to strain to pick up how beautiful it was, like the warmth of a paternal hand across her shoulder. She closed her eyes, feeling something almost like joy, pleasure and desire, even though the music was unbearably sad.

“Sorry Mari, time for the headlines,” Russell said, abruptly flipping the channel. The presenter's voice intruded into her bittersweet mood, speaking blankly of the Soviet versus US arms race and potential nuclear war.

Marianne pictured her family huddled in an ineffective bomb shelter waiting for their world to become an x-ray image before disappearing in a mushroom cloud of chemical fission. She shivered, remembering her first grade fallout shelter drills; lining up in the hallway with books on her head, the ubiquitous orange and black triangles of the shelter sign permeating her dreams.

Marianne closed her eyes, blocking out the meaning of the words and tried to sleep, but the hospital was only ten minutes from Eric's house. Beyond the billboards advertising designer jeans and surfboard wax, she could see the big elms and grand houses as they drove towards Parkside Drive. Their own house belonged to Eric too. He bought it for them as an investment. The top half was rented out to some of Lily's friends to cover the taxes, but Lily and Russell lived rent free. Marianne remembered a

conversation held shortly before Eric's stroke.

“He doesn't have to keep reminding me. I know it's his house.”

“You shouldn't let it bother you. It isn't like he spends much time here. He declined my dinner invitation again.”

“Thank Christ. You should have asked me first.”

“I have to ask you before I invite my father to dinner?”

“Not for permission, but it would be nice to be included in the decision process. What if I was planning to take you out to dinner as a surprise?”

Lily snorted, coffee running out of her nose. “Ho, that's a good one. A surprise dinner? Sorry, hon. I'm afraid I didn't consider that option. He isn't coming anyway, so you can go ahead and surprise me now.” She laughed bitterly.

“It's demeaning. I hate the way he calls me Jock and talks about the jobs I haven't done - right in front of me, like I'm not there.”

“He isn't coming, okay? Forget it, Jock. The last place he wants to be is here. My work doesn't interest him, and neither does my cooking. If it weren't for Mari, he'd probably never speak to me.”

Marianne walked out, slamming the door, and headed straight for Eric's in protest against their lack of gratitude. Every penny he gave was treated as an act of cruelty.

She always walked the forty-five-minute trip to her grandfather's home, across the busy main street with its shops, cars and not a single sidewalk. People hardly walked anywhere now. They would stare at her out their car windows as if she was doing something odd. Maisy from school once laughed at her: “I

saw you walking. Walking. Imagine that.”

But Marianne knew the route under her skin, her footfall coordinating with her breath, left foot doing rhythm, right foot beat. She'd hum, dum-de-dum-dum and practice her piano pieces with her whole body, ignoring the cars as she moved up the well groomed streets towards Eric's place overlooking the Long Island Sound.

Eric's boat bobbed off the jetty behind the house. He took her out on day trips when she spent the summers with him on Long Island. She was Little Miss with a kerchief in her hair. It was a forty-minute train ride from New York City to Eric's house. Lily let her come out on her own, dropping her off at Penn Station. Marianne boarded the train, an eight-year-old grownup with her book held tightly against her chest.

The train was nearly empty between commuter hours. Marianne felt at home on the Long Island Rail Road, looking out the window and enjoying her invisibility, only a little envious of the tree lined blocks, the small, picket-fenced houses and the 'normal' families she imagined inside them, her nose pressed against the glass of the grimy train window.

Then one day she was in one of those small, picket-fenced houses - Lily, Russell and Marianne, only two blocks from the beach. It was Lily's dream to get away from the city and live in a real house with her own studio. She was sick of having to squeeze her work into their everyday life, with half-finished paintings on the kitchen table, on the tops of their radiators, filling up the nonworking fireplace, stepped on by cats and ruined by spilled drinks.

The apartment was small, although not too bad when it was just the two of them and one cat, but when Cinnebar suddenly proved he was a she by mating with the neighbor's Persian, and Russell began staying the night, leaving his own cartoons on the table and radiators, home suddenly was impossibly small.

Plus, there was a man with a gun hanging around the playground and when Ramona the big black girl from her school teased her everyday - “I'll whup your butt, white girl” - moving near her grandfather wasn't such a bad idea.

Marianne knew she would miss her tiny room where she watched people, invisible behind the home-made Marimekko curtains on the fifteenth floor. On the street below was the endless play of life, with her the only one in the audience. There were arguments in the middle of the night, spontaneous dance parties or conversations that floated up to her as clearly as if she'd been an intended recipient. She hardly ever went outside but felt in the thick of it behind the curtains, tapping a symphonic beat with her

fingers on the windowpane.

Russell pulled the car into the driveway of Eric's house, squeaking the brakes as he came to a stop in front of the garage doors. The small front garden looked well tended, bright green lawn enhancing the white siding of the two story house. Eric valued neatness and mowed every Sunday, although the vivid colors of her grandmother's bulbs had long since given way to easy care shrubs.

If she squinted, Marianne could see her grandfather in front of her, waving happily while he pushed his electric mower across the green patch, his white baseball cap tilted jauntily. He would surely be back in time to keep the grass down, she thought, a lump gathering in her throat.

The house smelled of roses and cinnamon: the potpourri Eric's housekeeper put in little jars on the fireplace. It was mock hominess, a subtle reminder of the real cooking smells that once filled the house when Grandma Cotton lived in it.

Lily opened the refrigerator and poured herself a glass of orange juice. Marianne frowned. “Mom.”

“Why waste it? I'm parched. Now, where does Dad keep his papers? In his study I guess.”

Marianne walked over to the piano and ran her hand lightly across the keys. The chessboard was still there in the living room, scattered black pieces pointing towards her in accusation. While Lily went into Eric's study, Marianne sat down on the living room couch, her head spinning as she leaned forward to pick them up, whispering: “I shouldn't have checkmated you.”

“Hold your horses, poppet. I saw your knight would check me. I had a counter move. Don't forget, there are no external influences in chess; no acts of fate. You only have yourself to blame if you lose or win.” Marianne heard the deep rhythm of Eric's melodious voice, his words echoing in her own head, an imagined conversation.

“But a stroke is an act of fate, Grandpa, isn't it?”

“There are no acts of fate. I lost for a reason.”

“Of course, you won, Grandpa. You always win.”

“No, I didn't win this time.”

She closed her eyes, holding onto the edge of the couch, and remembered the way he looked as he leaned forward, his pale blue eyes simultaneously kind and thoughtful. “I once tried to teach your mother to play chess. She lasted for two moves. No concentration at all. Except when she was painting. I could have

used her touch here. It's too bland now Grandma's gone. All these neutrals. Don't you think?”

He smiled, crinkling his eyes into slits. Marianne had plenty of concentration. It was the intensity of her attention span that set her apart from other children. He tapped her shoulder as he told her so, and she felt warmth spread through her chest as she smelled the tobacco Eric tamped into his pipe. She was taken back to a memory of herself as an eight-year-old child.

“I made the invitation myself. It isn't a lot to ask, is it? Just once a year for a father to attend his daughter's birthday party?”

“It's okay, poppet. You didn't really think he'd show up did you?”

“No, I guess not.”

“He's to be pitied, Mari. We only give what we can take. Somewhere along the line someone must have hurt him. His rejection of you is just a rejection of himself, you know?”

She shook her head. “How can you defend him? I thought you hated Daddy.”

Eric laughed. “Of course I don't hate him. But he hasn't been much value to us, has he, leaving your Mom before you were even one? He could pass me on the street and I wouldn't even recognize

him. He gave the world you, though, and that's something for which I will always be grateful. Here, let me tell you a story.” Eric took down a brown leather book of Aesop's Fables. He spoke in a sonorous voice and Marianne found herself sitting up straighter, leaning forward towards him as she furrowed her brow in

concentration.

“An ant nimbly running about in the sunshine in search of food came across a chrysalis that was very near its time of change. The chrysalis moved its tail and thus attracted the attention of the ant, who then saw for the first time that it was alive.”

Eric raised his voice to a falsetto. “'Poor, pitiable animal,' cried the ant disdainfully. 'What a sad fate is yours. While I can run hither and thither at my pleasure and, if I wish, ascend the tallest tree, you lie imprisoned here in your shell, with power only to move a joint or two of your scaly tail.'

“The chrysalis heard all this but did not try to make any reply. A few days after, when the ant passed that way again, nothing but the shell remained. Wondering what had become of its contents, he felt himself suddenly shaded and fanned by the gorgeous wings of a beautiful butterfly. 'Behold in me,' said the butterfly, 'your much-pitied friend. Boast now of your powers to run and climb as long as you can get me to listen.'

“So saying, the butterfly rose into the air and, borne along and aloft on the summer breeze, was soon lost to the sight of the ant forever.”

He snapped the book shut and put it down on the table. “So …”

“Things aren't always what they appear to be at first?” She looked at him hopefully.

“Yes. That's it, exactly, dearest clever Mari.”

Eric's skin was summer brown and his blue eyes icy in contrast. He brushed a lock of hair off his forehead. “Your father was a good looking guy when your mother met him. He spoke well and dressed in fancy clothes. But it was an illusion. He gave up the important things in his life and ran towards the meaningless. The loser, of course, was him.”

He stood up and put a record on his old gramophone. “Listen. This is the piece you're working on.”

He moved his head from side to side. “Largo.” He hummed along with the music, which rose and fell like Eric's breathing.

“Hear how the sound feels like the sensation of longing, the horns answering one another. It's a call from far away that moves closer and closer and increases in intensity without ever speeding up.

“Coming home. There is no quick way. You have to journey to get to any destination.” His head nodded appreciatively.

It was her second grade exam piece, but it was hard. She couldn't resist the urge to go faster as the piece progressed.

“Slow down, Mari. You have to call and answer. The most poignant parts are measured. Draw out the longing. Draw out the sad knowledge of a traveler. Capture the birds flying. Hear the flutes twittering in your head as you make your way back to where you began. That repeated sound is what conveys the nostalgia of the piece. It's critical.”

She tried her best, working across the black and white keys of his mahogany piano, but her small fingers couldn't sustain the sound long enough. She got a B-plus on the exam, but she knew that she had failed to please her Grandfather. Her tears made a similar pattern to the notes, falling in order on the piano keys: E, G, G, E, D, C.

She wanted to draw out the longing from each note, to convey the beauty he kept pointing out to her, but she just played more quickly, her fingers burning as they flew, jarring, destroying the music as the song transformed itself into something else, nostalgia giving way to bitterness.

She could hear Eric's voice, a deep echo: “What a sad fate is yours, imprisoned in your shell.”

“Marianne. MARIANNE, are you OK?”

Citrus replaced the musty pipe smell as she tried to sit up. “Just lie still, honey. You're pale as a sheet.” Lily held a cold cloth against her head and pressed her lips against Marianne's cheek while pulling her gently up. “Here, drink this juice slowly. Are you okay?

“Russell!” Lily yelled out the window.

Marianne rubbed her head as she drank the juice. “I'm sorry. I… I don't know what happened.”

Lily stood up. “I'll open a window. It's hot in here. You're probably exhausted.”

Russell stood in the doorway, his hair a lion's mane around his face. “What is it?”

“Mari fainted. Come and give me a hand.”

“I'll get some water.” Russell set a glass of water next to the juice and put his arm around her. “What happened?”

“I need the toilet.” Marianne lifted Russell's arm off her shoulder and walked off in the direction of Eric's bathroom.

Sitting on the cold toilet seat she wondered whether Eric was just in his chrysalis phase; a temporary moment of silence before breaking his cocoon and flying out. She was still dizzy and leaned

forward to put her head in her hands, crossing her fingers.

“Please let him wake up,” she said repeatedly under her breath, the whispered sibilance flushing away with the water. She washed her hands and returned to the living room.

“Your color's back, Mari. How do you feel?”

“A little better.”

“Let's go.”

“I want to stay here. Or maybe we can go back to the hospital. I need to speak with Grandpa.”

“He isn't really there, Mari. You heard the doctor. Anyway, we'll go back tomorrow. Russell and I need to talk.”

“About Grandpa?”

“Yes.”

“Don't I get a say? Are you two going to discuss it without including me? What about what Grandpa wants?”

“Mari, you heard what the doctor said.”

“He isn't dead yet. You can't just turn your back on him. He hasn't even been in the hospital for one day.” Marianne's voice competed with the loud 'chchch-chee-ree' of a warbler outside.

“Listen, hon. I know that you and Grandpa were close. But he's my father too. I know that he wouldn't like to lie there in - what did the doctor call it - a persistent vegetative state? He's a vegetable, Mari. He'd hate that. You aren't the only one who understood Grandpa.”

“Oh, sure. He'd rather you killed him off as quickly as possible. What if he wakes tomorrow or in a week or two? How can you make that decision?”

“I haven't. We haven't made any decision yet. But we need to talk about it.”

“Did you find anything, Lil?”

“No. Nothing except the book he was working on. We'd better go home. We have a lot to discuss.”

“Let's go.” Russell sighed. “I feel uncomfortable here without Eric. As if we were trespassing.”

“I'm staying.” Marianne picked up one of the chess pieces still on the floor and put it on a starting square.

“Honey, please.” Lily took Marianne's hand and pulled her towards the door.

“We're lucky this happened on a weekend. Next week is a horrific one for me. I'm presenting to the Board on Tuesday,” Russell said.

Lily pulled Marianne into the car and Russell took off while she closed the door.

“How can you say that, Russell? Dad didn't have his stroke to suit you. Slow down.”

“You know I didn't mean it that way. Ah, shit, I just went through a red light.”

“Lucky there aren't any police around. What's that about there never being a policeman when you need one?”

Marianne wondered how you determined whether you were lucky or not. Could you take a scale and simply put the good stuff on one side and the bad on the other and see which one was heavier? How would you know where to put things if they weren't clearly good or bad? Some things start off looking good but turn out bad.

Like when she was shortlisted for the Chopin award. You might put that on the good side of the scale, but Lily cried about her own lack of music, and her father didn't even knew about it. Grandpa wanted her to begin practicing right away and then it was the 'competition' all the time and she had to prepare and everyone had expectations and she had to wear the label 'prodigy' like a sign around her neck, even though she was only fourteen and just wanted to go swimming or something where there was no pressure to win.

Marianne knew she would lose in the end and hurt everyone except her mother who was secretly pleased but held her close and said it didn't matter. Of course it mattered. But you could probably find good and bad in everything that happened, which meant that there was no such thing as luck, only perception. This was just the sort of question she would have to ask Grandpa about when he woke. He would know the answer. He always did.

***

Eric handed Marianne a book of Chinese silk. The cover was delicately embroidered and there were blank music staff lines inside. It was tied with a string.

“This is for your secret music. The wild stuff in your head. Write it down. You never know when you might need it.”

Eric's hair needed a cut. It stuck out in a wing on the left side. Marianne flipped through the rice paper pages carefully. She wanted to leave it pristine. Once she began writing, her clumsy penmanship would ruin it.

“What you create matters, Marianne.” He reached out to touch her arm.

“Yes, Grandpa. It matters,” she echoed, believing that he would always be there to cheer her on. She was only seven years old but she was already writing her own music, her chubby fingers trying out different combinations on the piano before rushing back to capture them in arched handwriting, along with Italian words indicating how it should be played: arpeggio, rit, staccato.

“Let me see, Mari.” Lily leaned over the pages, but she had no ear for music. Everything was visual to her. The notes were only pictures, black ink against beige. They were soundless; contrast and texture. Lily was tone deaf, but Eric could read Marianne's music and always knew what she was trying to say.

She copied out the first page of the Ode to Joy from Beethoven's Ninth Symphony as practice, humming each line before entering it into the book. Freude, schöner Götterfunken Tochter aus Elysium. She could almost capture the exuberance; the pure joy, shouted from the rooftops, which Schiller might have been striving for as she then began her own piece, called 'Joy', and didn't eat or drink until it was finished, ten hours later.

When she played it for her piano teacher, Mrs Hendrix looked at her with shocked eyes. “Did your Grandfather make you do this?”

She was usually annoyed at Eric's interference and accused him of pushing her too hard. She praised the piece, though, and told Marianne she had a great future and from then on let her move as quickly as she wanted, rushing through six or seven pieces a week to get to the next level.

“This one can't be rushed Marianne, take it slowly. You might need a few weeks.” But Marianne was back the next week, her fingers aching from hours of practice - despite her mother's urging to get outdoors and play - ready to move on to the next song.

“She's so good,” she overheard Mrs Hendrix saying one day, shaking her head. “She needs her own piano, Eric. She's outgrown me. What are you going to do with her?”

Eric patted Marianne proudly on the shoulder. The book in her hands gave off a musty odor. She shut it, wondering why it mattered, and to whom. Her grandfather's pride was gone and her own talent wasted. The delicate silk was stained with ink, the pages brittle with a decade of neglect, and her handwriting was nearly unreadable.

“I remember when he gave you that music diary. You took it to bed with you every night. I was jealous of your relationship with Grandpa. You were kindred spirits.” Lily blew her nose while stroking her daughter's shoulder with her other hand. “I wish I was able to talk to him the way you could. You should take up the piano again. You play so beautifully.”

“I still have a relationship with him. He isn't dead yet.” Marianne stood up, dropping the book onto the faded pink carpet, a childhood concession to femininity. “I can't read it now anyway. The writing's a mess.”

Marianne left Lily alone on the bed and went into the kitchen. She could still see her in the window reflection above the sink as she washed the dirty dishes. Her mother's golden hair was wrapped in two chopsticks, the loosened tendrils curling around her face; a white splotch of paint on her cheek. Although Lily was crying, her face was clear. Even her neuroses were attractive.

In contrast, Marianne saw herself as a shadow; Lily's mousy daughter. Her dark hair was frizzy, her skin wan and her breasts too small to attract the attention of boys. She could never figure out how to wear makeup and she always somehow stained her clothes. There wasn't even an iron in the house. Lily didn't need one for the stretchy bodysuits and slinky tank tops she wore under her smocks.

“Oh honey, you have a perfect body,” her mother would say, absentmindedly, her mind full of some abstract image of her daughter - a multicolored Picasso in profile or one of the sketched nudes she had lying about the studio. Lily was warm and loving when she wasn't depressed under her covers or running around the house in a fit of hysteria. But Marianne sometimes wondered who Lily saw when she looked at her.

Marianne dried her hands, went to the stereo to put on a Chopin record and closed her eyes, letting the twinkling piano sound flow around her body, her fingers moving softly in time against her cheek. Her mother was right. It had been long since she'd played. She pictured herself walking on stage to a cheering audience. She'd worked hard but somehow it all occurred without her involvement; an act solely for the sake of the performance until she took her bow and the curtain went down.

The real Marianne came out then, an empty vessel for a talent that had already begun to fade. She was too old now to be precocious or cute. Moving her fingers around her eyes, her nose and mouth, she tried to get a blind man's sense of what she looked like. Her features were nondescript - large eyes, a small

uninteresting nose and simple mouth. No high color like her mother or beautiful shining golden hair. How could she live up to the expectations of her grandfather?

Then she got up, the music still playing, and finished washing the dishes. She could see her face reflected in the window, but her features were floating away from one another, distorted by a crack running down the left hand side of the glass. They needed a new window, a new kitchen, a new house. Her

mother was always saying it.

***

“Do you want to talk?”

“No.”

Russell stood in the doorway of Marianne's room like a pelican, balancing a foot against his knee and then shifting to the other side. Stepping in, he picked up a small glass swan off the bookshelf. “I remember when I bought this for you at Adventureland in that mock Bavarian village by the flume. You wanted it so badly.”

He turned it around so that the thick glass reflected blue beams of light on the wall opposite. “Do you remember? After your mom said no, you cried so hard I snuck it up to the register when she

wasn't looking. Not much of a father figure, eh? One tear and I'm lost.”

Marianne looked up from the bed. “I gave you away with my squeal when you slipped it to me in the car. Mom was really pissed.”

“I told you not to say anything.”

“I was always a lousy liar.”

“She was wrong anyway. You're not exactly spoiled.”

“Thanks, Russell.”

“Long time ago now. God, it's gone fast. And look at you. All grown up.”

“Yeah. It's like another life altogether. Sometimes I wish I could get back to that little girl.”

Russell laughed gently. “When a glass swan was your biggest problem?”

“Mmm.” Marianne shook her head, drying her eyes with the back of her sleeve.

***

Lily was in her studio, a converted garage attached to the house. Paintings were scattered around the limited space with unframed finished work around the periphery and canvasses in varying states of evolution in the center.

Marianne adjusted her eyes to the strong light, blinking until she could make out the whole room in a glance. Like Picasso, her mother had different periods, and the paintings were roughly grouped accordingly. In the right corner she could see the series of empty cereal cartons, some vividly colored and some in muted siennas. Marianne imagined herself eating through the mountain of boxes Lily took in here to copy. Cereal was an easy meal. You only had to add milk, and not even that if you were hungry enough; just put your hand in and start eating the vitamin fortified pieces. She could live off those boxes for years, reaching into the canvas and pulling out something sweet and crunchy.

Lily liked to paint the same thing from different perspectives with small variations of shade or texture.

Then there were the cartoon animals, crying, laughing and socializing. Lily could work for days at a time, not stopping to eat or sleep until she ended up sobbing on one of the canvasses, paint on her face. Then Russell or Marianne would take her, floppy and lethargic, to bed while she muttered about how she was wasting her time, her life, had no talent, no worth, wasn't a good mother, while Marianne stroked her hand and whispered “it's not true” in her ear until she fell asleep.

Marianne always knew what would happen and how. It was a play in which all the lines were memorized, all the parts issued. Still, Marianne never knew whether maybe just once the plot would vary, or her mother would decide to do something stupid and unchangeable. She couldn't take the risk. Couldn't just say “oh shut up already”, though she sometimes thought it, while gentle, kind words flowed from her mouth and the show went on.

“Do you like them, honey?”

There were beads of sweat above Lily's mouth as she stood in front of her latest monochromatic work. Marianne tried looking closely and then from a distance. The paintings had shadow and depth and she could see things in them; curled up bodies, ghostly faces and buildings on top of other buildings. Marianne felt dizzy and uncomfortable, as if something ugly had been exposed in her. There was paint on Lily's shirt, hands and in her hair, which was loosely tied up in a clip.

Marianne tried, but she couldn't say how she felt about them. She felt the work's pull, a kind of gravity, but it was a painful one. Looking at them she thought of Kandinsky, of Baudelaire, of a saxophone playing an intense high note. She felt the power of the art in her gut almost as a loss; a cold wind moving through the tightly packed buildings and black scratches on the canvasses. The work contained her pain, her mother's pain, and other things that couldn't be said.

Marianne wondered whether this kind of talent was passed on through the DNA. She would like to be able to pick up a paintbrush and capture the chaos in her brain, creating meaning that others could see and feel. She imagined people standing in front of her work, tears rolling down their faces as they instantly understood her in an effortless hit. Was this what Lily was aiming for, she wondered. It was the same thing Marianne felt when her fingers moved across the piano; a wordless desire that suddenly changed her individual and meaningless experiences into something bigger, universal, spiritual.

Marianne suddenly wanted to hug her mother, to return to those days when they would whisper in one another's ears as confidantes.

“Mom, have you and Russell talked about Grandpa yet?”

Lily looked pretty in her smock, concentrating on a single point of light on one of the canvasses. She took up painting shortly after Marianne was born, bringing her young child with her to art courses. The teachers always made the same jokes - “she's starting early” - while Marianne drew pictures or wrote out simple stories.

Lily was the child with a child. Marianne's grandparents lived close by and were always there to baby-sit, their house still the place she associated with the concept of home. It was a subtle association, tied up with the smell of coffee in the morning or home-made pancakes with applesauce and Canadian maple syrup. They were her grandmother's smells, no longer real except as memories.

In the corner was a faded painting of an abstract apron, white against blue, with no one in it. It reminded Marianne of her recurring nightmare, banging on the bathroom door trying to get her mother to open it. She could see the door moving, the vibrations making tangible impressions in the air, but her voice was soundless, the pain in her cramped hands radiating down her arms. She couldn't get the door open or work out the nature of her fear until the scene ended with the clean smell of Grandma Cotton's apron.

Lily's paintings conjured that dream - the mixture of fear and helplessness followed by comfort.

“Not really. We haven't decided anything yet,” her mother said.

“I feel like Grandpa is trying to communicate with me.”

“What? Oh, Marianne, you're still upset, I know. We all are, but it doesn't help to go loopy.”

“Sure, you're always sane and rational.”

“Don't start now. I have a show coming up and a load of work to finish here.”

“You told me you'd include me in the discussions.”

“We have.”

“When? When have you?”

“Look, this isn't easy for anyone. You're not the only one who's suffering. I miss him too, but …”

“But what? He doesn't want you to turn off his life support. He doesn't want you to kill him. I know it.”

“Oh, shit. Listen, this isn't a good time for me. We'll talk later.”

“Sure we will. When you and Russell have already made the decision. I'm not a child, Mom. Grandpa was like a father to me. I don't want to lose him.”

“It's too late, Mari. You've already lost him. I mean, he's already gone. It isn't something you or Russell or I have any control over. This is only an administrative decision.”

“That's a crock. Grandpa's life isn't an administrative decision!” She pushed an old chair over while Lily kept painting, concentrating on the canvas.

“Don't ignore me.”

“I'm sorry. Look, I don't mean to ignore you, but I've got to get this painting done. Can you please just give me some space?

We'll talk more later, okay? I promise. We won't do anything without talking to you first.”

“Yeah, sure. We'll talk another time.”

Marianne went outside, kicking sticks along the ground, swallowing her anger.

***

It was one block to the end of Mission Street and another to Pacific Boulevard where she walked up the steps to the gray wood boardwalk and down the ramp onto the sand.

Marianne lay on her back without a towel. It was still cold enough for the beach to be empty aside from the silhouettes of a few dedicated surfers out in the waves. She closed her eyes and imagined herself disappearing forever into the grains of sand beneath her until she was no more than an outline, blown away by a gentle breeze. Then she would be a memory too, like Grandma.

She lived with the fear of losing Lily for most of her life, but not Grandma, who looked immortal in her white apron, making another batch of cookies while her Grandfather wrote in his study. Lily's years of self-abuse meant nothing versus an aging body. Marianne could see Lily laughing in her studio, coming out of her stupor to pick up a brush, splashing more paint on another picture.

“Smelling of roses,” Russell would say, “while I continue to shovel the fertilizing shit.”

But Grandma, who took nothing worse than a cup of coffee and occasional piece of cake, had her insides eaten away by cancer. It wasn't the kind of dream death dissolved into the gentle ocean which Marianne imagined. It was hard work, Grandma running off to throw up after a session of chemotherapy, tired always; and towards the end, those sharp hospital smells and the endless visits where no one knew what to say. Eric put on a brave face, covering sorrow with work and ineffectual speeches about the impermanence of matter.

Marianne could hardly remember the actual day. What she did remember was that impending smell of death, the leaked urine which the antiseptic couldn't cover up and her grandmother's papery hand on hers while she stifled the urge to yell “don't go! I need you, Grandma.”

Sweat poured down her head as they lowered the coffin. She wore her favorite pink dress that Grandma gave her for her birthday. But it was no comfort, especially since everyone else wore black. Grandpa suddenly looked old, his philosophy no help to him.

Everything changed after that. There was no more coffee in the kitchen. No more waking to pancakes with applesauce and maple syrup. No stacks of Vogue and National Geographic magazines to cut pictures out of. Eric hired a cleaner and Marianne went home to her mother and Russell.

After Grandma's death Lily wouldn't even take an aspirin. She held onto her manic energy as long as she could.

“You want me to have a lobotomy like Frances Farmer? Keep me quiet? I could maybe paint portraits or still lifes of flowers and fruit?”

“At least that would be lucrative.”

“You think I don't want to sell my work?”

And now Marianne could do anything she wanted. Lily and Russell were too busy with their own lives to worry about her. Grandpa still paid for piano lessons, helped her with homework, sent her to summer camp, took her out on his boat, read to her and played chess, backgammon and Parcheesi with her. He helped with Lily's attacks too. When he was there it wasn't so awful when Lily was down. He'd roll his eyes after bringing Lily a plate of food that Marianne prepared and they'd giggle, cutting intricate snowflakes from paper to hang on the windows just before Christmas.

Without Grandpa's logic and firm hands, it felt like the edges of her world had slipped. Lily's depression went on for days, Russell was always out and Marianne sat alone in her bedroom, biting her nails so hard they bled. She could skip school and swim at night in the ocean or even drown in the waves, eaten by a white shark like a scene out of Jaws, and still her mother wouldn't leave the bed, shivering and asking in that quiet voice for more covers and apologizing again and again for how bad a mother she was and how it would be better if she were dead. Marianne held her mother's hand instead, saying nothing, wiping Lily's eyes, her nose, and letting her rant. It was just a matter of waiting out the blackness.

Then Lily would be up again, tidy her hair, dress with casual elegance, and laugh at everyone, even herself. Lily could pull herself together in a way that appeared effortless and Marianne wondered with a pang of guilt whether at least some of her mother's tears were put on. She looked terrific no matter how long she'd been lying in bed, no matter how much crying and pillow banging she'd done.

As for Russell, he was out, as always. That was the way with men, Marianne thought. They could leave any time they wanted; walk out and start over or slip away and disappear, shedding the past like a lizard's skin. Marianne hadn't disappeared though. She sat up, lifting her hands and feet out of the sand and brushed herself down while looking out at the ocean. Dark teal faded to a hazy gray at the horizon, the water blending imperceptibly into the sky.

Secrets and Sacriffices by Diane Wylie

Secrets and Sacrifices

by Diane M. Wylie

Chapter One

Late Fall 1861

Allegheny Mountains

Charlotte “Charlie” Garrett, crouching uncomfortably behind a boulder, swallowed the lump of fear in her throat, adjusted the position of her beloved army-issued Springfield, and waited. All snipers had been ordered to come before the main body of the regiment and pick off any Yankees they could. The moment of truth had arrived. Since disguising herself as a young man to join the Twenty-Fifth Virginia Infantry, following her husband Joshua into war, Charlotte had never shot a man. She was now a sharpshooter for the regiment, having been ordered into this maligned group of men due to her ability with the weapon she clutched tightly in her hands.
From where she was hidden she could see Clarence, the older man who had taken her under his wing, and a few of the other soldiers selected for this job. He was lying on the ground behind a huge log, and two of the younger snipers were up in the gnarled oak trees that overlooked the ground below. The others were invisible through the falling snow.
The weather had gotten progressively worse up in the mountains, and the soldiers had been growing more and more discontent. The Confederates held this part of the Allegheny Mountains and were to defend Staunton-Reidsburg Pike from Union forces who hoped to take the summit from them.
The idea that the officers were counting on her and the rest of the sharpshooters to draw the enemy out from behind their artillery made her stomach feel as though it were full of nervous butterflies.
Taking off her spectacles, she looked down at the valley while she polished the smudged glass ovals on her shirt. No Bluecoats were visible at the moment. Charlie's stomach twitched. Where are the damn Yankees? Smoke belched out of the slightly raised tree line, and a loud boom echoed across the ground.
All of the time spent drilling and marching had not prepared her for the mind-numbing terror beginning to claw its way up her spine. Today something was going to change…her life was going to change…history was going to change. Two armies were going to clash, and people were going to die just like they had already died in the time since Fort Sumter and Bull Run.
Oh, God! She was starting to tremble at the very idea that she was here doing this! She wished she had not joined the snipers. It came as a surprise when she found out most of the other foot soldiers didn't like them. Jeers of “sneak” and “murderer” were sometimes directed toward her group. The soldiers who fought out in plain sight didn't appreciate the skill of those who perched in trees or behind rocks to pick off their unsuspecting targets. Many considered the sharpshooters to be coddled or even cowardly when they were allowed to shoot behind cover while the others marched headlong into battle.
It would have been so much easier to stay with her husband. If she were beside him, with his comforting presence to draw strength from, she was sure her heart would not be pounding as hard as it was. Joshua seemed to have gotten over the rage she had seen him display on the practice field when he recognized her, despite the baggy uniform, dirty slouch hat, short hair, and glasses.

* * *

All during training camp in Virginia, Charlie had managed to avoid direct contact with Josh. They were in the same company and, with Josh's natural ability to cultivate new friends, she knew it would only be a matter of time before he made the rounds of the entire regiment and knew each one of them by name.
She had carefully studied the actions and habits of the men around her and had gotten very adept at burping, spitting, and scratching when the time seemed right. By acting like a man, dressing like a man, and keeping her hat pulled low, Charlie had managed to avoid detection. Even Clarence, who kept a close eye on his “adopted” son, had not picked up on her gender. Fortunately, he respected her need for privacy whenever she could get it.
Then one day it happened. Charlie lined up with the rest of the troops on the practice field as usual. Standing beside Clarence at attention, she waited for the officers to give orders. She remembered looking around and searching for Josh, as usual. Her husband was the whole reason she was here after all. She just couldn't bear to be so far away from him. All she needed to get through the day was to see his handsome face, but she had to make sure he didn't see her. He was somewhere in the ranks of soldiers that had gathered on the muddy field.
“At ease, men,” Captain Weaver had yelled. Then he'd moved closer to the rank and file. “Tomorrow we march to our destiny, gentlemen. We must rise above the oppression of the Federal government and, with your help, we will persevere against the Northern aggressors.”
A chorus of whoops and catcalls had erupted all around and swelled to a thunderous noise.
“Hear that, lad?" Clarence had clapped her on the back hard, almost knocking her over. "We're gonna whip them Yankees. We are gonna whip 'em and send them running with their tails 'tween their legs.” He had grinned at her from under his grizzled, scraggly beard.
“We sure are, Clarence, we sure are!”
Suddenly, the trumpet had blown, and they had all settled down and stiffened to attention again.
Captain Weaver had been trying to speak once more. “Everyone has done a bang-up job these past weeks. Some of you have never handled a rifle before, while others have obviously been hunting many times and know exactly how to handle a gun. One such young man has proven himself to be a very good shot. He will be part of the sharpshooters in our regiment. Charlie Garrett, please step forward!”
With no choice, Charlie had come forward then turned and, with a start of surprise, she had found herself locking eyes with Josh in the crowd. That was the heart-stopping moment when she knew her husband had seen her, really looked closely at her.
The thunderous cloud appearing on Josh's face the moment he realized the real identity of “Charlie” Garrett had been obvious to her, even yards away from him. She
had watched him reach for his powder charges and prepare to load his rifle. Terror had swept through her. He'd glared angrily at the soldiers all around him The other Augusta County boys had seen Josh's strange reaction, encircled him immediately, and Billy Kaufman, the largest man in the regiment, had taken Josh's gun away with one massive hand, then pinned Josh's arms to his sides. As soon as she had the opportunity, Charlie had escaped the practice field. She just hadn't been able to face him.
Joshua had not come anywhere near Charlie when the regiment marched into the Allegheny Mountains, which was fine with her. She had really needed the time to think.
Then, just this very morning, Josh had just walked up to the cook fire, introduced himself as her cousin, and they walked off to talk.
“You need to go tell Captain Weaver you're my wife and that you joined up without my permission or knowledge. I'll give you my wages, and you can buy passage home,” Josh had said as soon as they were out of the other soldiers' earshot.
Startled by his blunt command, she'd nearly tripped over an exposed root. He had not considered for a moment what she wanted or even why she was here. Fighting tears she had quickened the pace, leading him down a ravine to a spot where they might have a little privacy.
“Stop, Charlie.” Josh's hand had landed on her shoulder gently but firmly. “You heard what I said, but I will not be the one telling the Captain anything. You will.”
“Oh, no, I won't.” Facing him squarely, she had raised her chin and crossed her arms over her chest. Clenching her jaw, she'd given him her best stubborn glare. Only he hadn't blustered and blown as usual. He hadn't even huffed. Not once. The sad expression on his face had been thoroughly confusing to Charlie. It was so unlike her husband to react this way. His hand had come up toward her face, and she had flinched involuntarily. Josh's woeful expression had deepened. “Charlie, oh my darling, is this what you think of me now?” He'd dropped his hand. “Do you think I would raise my hand in anger to the woman I love? Though it seems plain you no longer love me.”
“What? Why do you say that, Josh? I joined this army because I love you. It is the only reason I am here.”
“If you love me, why are you sleeping with all of these men?”
“Josh! No one has touched me! They think I am a man, like they are!”
“If it weren't for big Billy, I would have shot them all! What about your parents? Where do they think you are?”
He had moved closer then. Slowly his big hand had come up and gently removed her hat and glasses. “There now, you look more like yourself.” His fingers played with the short, dark curls. “I miss your long hair.”
“It will grow back,” she had informed him tersely. “I told my family I was going to visit Aunt Betty in South Carolina. I told them I couldn't bear to stay at the farm without you…and it was true. I couldn't, Josh.” She had needed to pray for control and the right words. “You have to understand…I like it here…where I know you are close. I like the army. It's like camping out. I always enjoyed the hunting trips we went on with my brothers.”
He had frowned even more sternly, if that was possible. “You liked hunting? Why did you refuse to kill the doe on the last trip we made?”
Fiddling nervously with a button on her uniform, she had watched Josh lower his long-limbed body to a moss-covered log. “That was different--uhh!” Josh had yanked her down onto his lap. “--That was different. It was a beautiful animal with two young ones. They were so darling. I just couldn't kill their mother.”
Josh hadn't looked at her face. He had kept his eyes down in the vicinity of her chest. “Honey…those Yankees may not be beautiful, but chances are good that some of them will be daddies to young ones, too.” He'd raised his face then, so handsome and so familiar, and had looked at her somberly. “Are you prepared to shoot somebody's daddy, somebody's husband, or somebody's child?”

* * *

His words came back to her now as she looked down on the scene below and waited for a glimpse of blue. She put on her glasses and wiped her perspiring hands on her gray woolen pants. Was she prepared? Could she shoot somebody's husband?
“Clarence,” she called softly.
He didn't turn around. He too was busy scanning the ground below. The spyglass glinted in the sunlight. Would the Yankees see the reflection off the glass? Her
heart jumped into her throat, choking her and increasing the trembling of her hands. How could she shoot now?
“C-Clarence?”
The grizzled face swung around to face her. “Charlie? You okay, boy?”
She motioned with her hand and, after a quick look around, Clarence came in a crouching run to join her.
“Whatsa matter? You got a case of the jitters?” he asked amiably. Then he glanced down at her hands and up again at her face. “Yah sure are jumpy, Charlie. Yah gotsta calm down and keep your mind on one thing at a time. Jus' remember what I taught you. Tear open the cartridge, git the powder down the barrel, put the bullet in--don't forget that part,” he gave a short chuckle, “then ramrod it down, put the cap on the nib under the hammer, and ya'll is ready to go again.”
“Sure, I remember it all,” Charlie retorted indignantly. “I'm not stupid, you know, just scared.”
Clarence chuckled again. Reaching down at his side with steady hands, he offered his canteen. She looked at it, puzzled. “I have my own water, Clarence, I don't need to drink yours.”
“Mine is special. Have a drink, boy,” he insisted, thrusting it at her.
“Okay.” She took the canteen and tilted it up for a large mouthful. “Gak!” She choked and finally swallowed the stuff that burned all the way down. Tears sprang to her eyes, and she pulled out a blue bandana to wipe under her glasses.
Clarence laughed softly again. “Ain't you never had no strong drink befo'? A little shot of courage, that's all.
My grandma set a great store by her own shots of courage. Said they were the reason she lived so long…my grandma was ninety-seven when she passed on.”
A shot rang out. They threw themselves into position. The other snipers were taking shots at a group of Bluecoats picking their way through between the rocks and scattered trees. A cry echoed up the mountain, and Charlie saw one man fall, holding his hands up to his neck as a stream of red appeared, visible even from this distance.
Clarence sighted down the high-powered scope of his special-issue Whitworth rifle and easily picked off another soldier from a distance of almost four hundred yards. He turned away to reload with a precious .45 caliber bullet then took down another man before Charlie could squeeze the trigger of her ordinary rifle once. The Yankees were running back in the direction they had come. One man was lagging behind the rest, having a more difficult time maneuvering the natural landscape. He would be so easy to shoot. The snipers continued to fire all around her. She took a bead on the clumsy soldier.
“Shoot, Charlie! Every man you take could save the life of one of ours.”
Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes and pulled the trigger. Opening her eyes again, she saw the man fall to the ground. She'd killed a man! No…wait…the man sprang up and began running again. He had only tripped and fallen.
“Come on, boys!” Clarence called to the sharpshooters. “Stay sharp now. The real fighting is about to start. The snow is lettin' up!”
Sure enough, no sooner had the words left his mouth than the now-familiar Rebel yell sent goosebumps skittering along Charlie's arms. With an explosion of noise, the army in gray erupted from somewhere below them. Hoards of men came screaming out into the open--some falling over their own feet in their haste and others nimbly leaping over the obstacles in their path. The Confederate flag, like a beacon of light, drew them toward their enemy in a stream of humanity.
“Here they come!” Clarence shouted. “Pick off as many Yankees as you can before they reach our men!”
As if they were magically summoned, the tide of blue flowed out of the trees heading directly for a clash with their boys. Spurts of gunfire now accompanied the war cries of the Rebels and the screams of men being hit.
Charlie hurried to reload, tasting the powder as she ripped open the cartridge to put it down the barrel. No time to waste. Josh is down there! Don't think. Just aim and fire. She listened to the voice in her head directing her to pick out a Bluecoat through the pall of smoke, pull the trigger, reload, pick another one, fire, and load again. There was no time to watch them fall, no time to see how she had put a bloody hole in a living, breathing human being. A strange kind of trance fell over her, and her actions became mechanical, repetitious, and unthinking. Over and over she hit her mark.
But gradually, confusion began to mount, and her anxiety grew. It was getting harder and harder to sight her targets. She could no longer see the Bluecoats clearly! Pulling off her glasses, she flung them aside and continued to peer down the gun barrel. Nothing! A quick rub of her eyes…still nothing. What was the problem?
“Charlie! Charlie!” Clarence was tugging at her arm. “We have to go down! The smoke is too thick to see from here anymore!” Grabbing up her wire rims again, she followed the angular figure of her mentor as they made their way down to join the fighting below.
Sliding down the steep incline with rocks rolling under her brogans, Charlie strained to see what was happening. The noise was horrendous. The high-pitched whine of bullets, the lower booming of the cannon fire, and the screams of injured and dying men filled her ears, blocking out sensible thought. Everywhere, soldiers were running, stumbling, and crawling in the opposite direction.
A bugle's faltering tones rang out, sounding the retreat. “Back! Go back!” An officer on horseback gestured to their group. “Retreat! No use, boys. There are too many of them!” The captain had lost his hat, and blood ran from a rent in his sleeve. The distinctive whine of a cannon ball grew louder, and Charlie dove for the ground. It hit behind the horseman. He was gone in a shower of dirt and debris that exploded up then came down on her head.
Quickly scrambling to her feet again, fear gripped her with a horrible force, and she forgot to follow Clarence. She had to find Josh! Where was he? Charlie began to run.
“Charlie, come back! We have to retreat!”
Clarence was calling after her but she paid him no mind. The smoke lay in a thick blanket over the valley. Soldiers appeared out of the fog, stumbling and
staggering past her. Searching and searching, she ran, tripping and jumping over obstacles. Some of them appeared to be human. Bile rose in her throat as she peered with dread at each torn and bloody man who lay on the battleground or crawled past. Some plucked at her sleeve and pleaded for help, while others were beyond helping. There was no time to spare for any man, no matter their rank or need.
“Joshua Garrett! Have you seen Josh Garrett?” she pleaded with the soldiers who ran, hobbled, and crawled past her. But they ignored her frantic words in their quest for safety. Bullets whined past Charlie's head and plucked at her clothing as she made her way deeper onto the smoky battlefield, but she cared little.


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