part 2 chapter

37

e arly on, i developed the habit of conversing with john bibb. he dwelled there with

me in augusta. i saw him every day. the mornings were the worst, when cobwebs of sleep still

clung to my wits. he was present when i dashed icy water on my face from the basin and peered

into the wavy glass framed on the wall above. his flat, dead eyes stared back, sweeping me with

blame. to shorten the time i spent before the damned mirror, i grew a beard.

one day, after i’d been particularly surly to pa at breakfast, mary materialized before me on

the porch, anger alight in her blue eyes. “what got into you this morning?”

“nothing. i’m just fine.”

“you’re not fine. every day you sit in that rocking chair where you mutter to yourself—

huddled in a blanket as though it was winter. have you given any thought to helping pa at the

mill?” she paused. “maybe if you busied your hands, your bleak mood might lift. law, that

snapping at ma and pa needs to stop.”

i thought how simple it was for her to be critical. hands chalky with flour, she brushed wisps

of auburn hair from her eyes with the back of her wrists as she waited for some response. she

and tish were baking bread that morning. what could she possibly know about the hell i’d been

through? folks complain that old scars often act up when it rains, but these invisible ones act up

regardless of weather.

“why don’t you just go back in the house and mind your own business?” i said.

she stomped from the porch, slamming the door, and rejoined tish in the kitchen. her

indignant voice floated toward me as i continued rocking. reluctantly, i conceded that maybe

she was right. pa could use help, and i certainly couldn’t be any more miserable at the mill than

squandering my days on the porch. besides, guilt for my sharpness toward my well-intentioned

family was eating at me. i wasn’t ready to apologize to mary, but i slinked off the porch and

rounded the side of the house away from the kitchen windows, cutting through the field down to

the mill.

i took to working steadily with pa. the regular rhythm of creek water against the massive

millwheel’s paddles, the grinding of the coarse stones against the corn, and the conversation of

farmers hauling in their sacks kept my mind from festering old wounds.

but i missed all my old fighting comrades. in my heart-sore state, i idly considered visiting

beards, just to hear what news he’d scoured out of the neighborhood—up to his old habits

again. now and then, i puzzled over his absence at our place. then one day, mr. beard, one of

the earliest to bring his harvest in, arrived at our mill with a cow lagging behind on a rope lead.

he was followed by beards and his brother jackie driving a wagon creaking under a load of

bagged rye. thanks to their remote location behind the hills, the family had managed to keep

this beast, all skin and bones, throughout the war.

one more curious thing about those times was what passed for money now that no one had

any. “smiley, would you consider taking this cow in exchange for services? she’s not much to

look at now, but with time and care, she’ll be a fine milk producer.” mr. beard puffed his chest

and pulled at his suspenders with his thumbs. “she has more than a few years left on her, and if

you can find a bull hereabouts, you might even get a calf or two outen’ the trade.” pa pretended

to consider the offer and then eagerly accepted, anticipating a later barter of milk and butter.

miss baldwin was now taking such exchanges for tuition at her finishing academy in staunton,

where my sisters would return to their studies of history, literature, mathematics, and

philosophy.

as the two younger fellows positioned sacks against the wall, i emerged from the mill and

embraced them warmly. it was so good to lay eyes on my old friend. “beards, where’ve you

been keeping yourself? you know mary and tish would be mighty pleased to see you at the

house.” i gave him a pointed look. “especially mary.” i didn’t tell him that mary was deeply

hurt that he’d made no attempt to contact her. she was now after me constantly, speculating

about reasons for his absence from our lives. “they ask after you frequently, and i wouldn’t

mind catching sight of your old mug from time to time.” he looked through me, as if i hadn’t

spoken.

beards had always been fastidious about hygiene, but his brown hair was now matted in a

greasy skullcap. i swear the stain-mottled wool pants and soiled muslin shirt hadn’t been washed

since we were set free. he lowered his gaze, “well, you know how it is; there’s so much

necessary work on the farm. but maybe i’ll come by someday soon.” he turned back to

unloading the wagon as if i were a mere acquaintance. his rebuff was nothing like my old

friend. jackie threw an apologetic look at me over a bag of rye and shook his head. but i already

suspected beards wouldn’t be coming around, and i knew it had nothing to do with farm work. i

let him be and busied myself moving sacks—brought low by yet another loss.

one afternoon not long after beards’ mill visit, i found mary huddled on the parlor loveseat.

she gazed absently at a point beyond the window. “you seem miles away; why such a long

face?” i said.

“shh—i’ll tell you when ma and pa are out of earshot,” she whispered. waiting until their

conversation was no longer audible as they strolled toward the garden with basket and hoe, she

began: “i’m just back from calling on sarah beard. i couldn’t stand beards’ absence another

minute and thought i’d ask his sister why he’s stayed away. but instead, i saw the most

distressing thing.” her voice shook. “it’s in the corner of the beard’s yard. a cemetery of small

graves has sprung up by the old picket fence. field flowers poke out of apothecary bottles dug

into the earth everywhere. sarah says it’s beards’ doing. he wasn’t there but was off spending

the day in ways he’s taken up since the war. she says he drags home decaying deer carcasses

from the woods, takes brood hens fallen over from old age, broken mice from his mother’s traps,

and gnawed birds that the tabby brings in, and buries them all in the yard. he sets out every

morning with a burlap sack over his shoulder and returns with dead creatures. his ma and pa

haven’t been able to persuade him in all this time to provide much of a helping hand around the

place.” beards’ sister then told mary that he had no interest in anything else, and that this is his

sole industry. “his family doesn’t know when this madness will end,” she said, wiping at her

eyes. “it’s hopeless. i wish i’d never gone.”

i didn’t tell her what i knew. we’d done too much burying, and beards hadn’t yet let loose of

it.

as days grew shorter and wheat was long ago cut and shocked in the fields, afternoons at the

mill stretched out in solitary boredom. farmers were now infrequent visitors, and there was little

grain to grind. idle time wasn’t my friend. bibb’s grip tightened when there was nothing to

occupy my thoughts. remembering how i’d seen boys in prison whittling wood scraps to pass

time, i took to wandering up into the grove at the top of the hill, looking for just the right fallen

limb.

one late november afternoon, lifting my eyes from the forest floor where i’d been surveying

broken maple branches, i was startled to see old tatternook ambling quietly along our fence

line. clad in his usual black suit and hat with a patch over his eye, he sensed my stare and

turned. he tipped his hat. i shifted my gaze and moved rapidly through the shorn pasture toward

home. but i couldn’t shake the sensation of being followed. when i glanced back over my

shoulder, there he was, striding in my direction and peering intently at me with his lone eye. he

seemed bursting with something to say and was trying to match my pace. i picked up speed and

arrived at the house out of breath, firmly closing the back door before he entered the gate.

that unwelcoming gesture didn’t deter him. he forced his way into my dreams and

wandering thoughts. however, his indistinct words never quite jelled there, although i was

certain that he perceived bibb astride my back that afternoon in the field.

“pa, what can you tell me about old tatternook?” i asked one day at the mill. my father was

taking advantage of the seasonal lull to tidy up and to sweep cornmeal from the corners.

he leaned on his broom and considered before answering. “well, son, your mother and i

always shunned him as a strange bird. you know, he has no use for churchgoing, and one

always wonders if there are gaps where the devil intrudes for heathens like him. but everything

changed during the war, including our opinion of tatternook.”

“how so?”

“well, he proved himself to a be an honorable man, if not any less eccentric. if i didn’t fear

being judged for blasphemy, i’d say he performed miracles around here. his hives have

provided the sweet in our food and helped heal that wounded boy franklin spragins that we told

you about. and he’s to be thanked these days for trading his precious honey in exchange for

grinding a few bags of corn. so, if you see him about, doff your hat and speak politely.”

and lo and behold, there he was in the mill entry, a black outline against the white winter

sun. “william, may i impose on your boy here to help me unload the last of my burlap sacks?”

he requested while staring almost through me. a shudder coursed down my spine, and i tripped

over my own feet, as we approached his rundown wooden wagon. i hefted one of the

cumbersome bags to my shoulder, as he turned and spoke: “clemency, tom, clemency and

compassion are what you need. forgive yourself, boy. don’t wait for the almighty god to do it.

it’s up to you.”

“what did you say?” i asked from behind a sack.

“you are like a wolf cub with its paw caught in a sharp-toothed trap, desperately gnawing its

limb to flee. but the more you gnaw at yourself about that young fellow in prison, the tighter

will grow his grip around your shoulders until the life will bleed right out of you.” i was

speechless. i could only stare at the ground littered with grain. “it was an accident,” he

continued. “confess to your pa. he’s a generous soul, and the telling of it will lighten your

burden. tell as many good folks as you can. none will be as hard on you as you are on yourself.

with time, the guilt will ease.”

but i was red-hot with shame and abruptly turned my back on the man. i had little faith that

he was correct about the leniency of folks’ judgment, especially pa’s. if i told my family, they’d

know a man had died because of my recklessness. no matter how much time passed, i would

feel blame, believing that behind their eyes lurked young tom and his deadly mistakes.

tatternook touched my arm sympathetically, and his piercing eye locked mine. i shook off

his hand and grimaced.