CHARLOTTE
August 29, Manassas, Virginia
Beau and I are breathing hard and sweat streams off my face. The hill in front of us blocks our path home. Well, at least, what’s home now. My real home is thousands of miles away.
And it’s not home anymore, anyway.
Ahead, I can make out a statue of a guy on horseback. He’s the imaginary finish line. The flanks of his bronze horse dull the light of the evening sun. I swear, no matter what people say about Arizona’s desert heat, summers in Northern Virginia ought to be outlawed. How anyone breathes this soup is a total mystery.
“C’mon, Beau,” I say. The look he gives me, with his tongue lolling out, and his black fur gleaming in the sun, says, “You got to be kidding me” as clearly as words.
“You’re right,” I say to him, “I don’t know why I bother.”
In one of his last emails, Dad sent a training schedule that he was supposed to be home for. It was to get me ready to try out for the Cross-Country team. I guess he’ll never know if I make the team or not, which means he won’t know I didn’t train hard enough, either.
And that means I’m not letting him down.
I swallow hard and start up the hill, slowly. The trip up the hill isn’t a sprint, but it’s the best I can do. Although Cross-Country wasn’t football, like he played,
according to him, it was the best option for a girl.
And now everything has changed. I live in Northern Virginia, and Dad will never be coming home.
The sign by the base of the statue says the guy on the horse is Thomas “Stonewall” Jackson. He and his Virginia brigade threw back Lincoln’s troops and stopped the Union advance into Virginia in the first battle of the Civil War, “like stones in
a wall.”
So, this must be the guy my new school is named after.
It’s hard to believe my parents grew up here. But the whole Confederate general thing explains a lot. The way he looks, sitting there on his horse like a god, you’d think the South won or something.
A cloud of gnats buzzes around my head, and my heart’s rhythm matches the tempo of Beau’s panting. I wipe my face with the hem of my shirt. Beau tugs me across the parking lot to the water fountain mounted on the wall of the Visitor’s Center.
With a twist of the handle the water leaps over the basin. Beau’s head goes sideways to lap at the stream as it splashes on the cement.
It’s so sweet, I laugh, then catch myself.
Lately, laughter feels like treason.
I look out over the hill we just climbed. Mom’s unpacking. She says the sooner we get things put away the sooner things will feel like home. She’s said the same thing every time the Army moved us. This time is completely different, thought. This time, all Dad’s stuff went on a Goodwill truck back in Arizona.
No matter how many times she says it, Manassas will never be home.
My shadow stretches clear across the parking lot making me cringe. Five-feet seven is too tall for 7th grade, and now, even the sun’s making me feel like a freak.
Dad was tall.
I lean in over the arc of water and pull on my ankle to stretch my quad. Water mingles with the salt on my lips before it slides past an ache in my throat that never seems to go away.
After a couple of gulps of water, I take a deep breath. “Be brave, soldier.”
It’s what Dad said before every deployment. Even with all the videos we have of him, sometimes I can’t remember what his voice sounded like.
Beau watches as the barn swallows twitter and swoop low in front of a horizon streaked with rose and gold, and his tail sways high behind him. The scent of dried grass hangs thick in the air. How creepy is it that there’s a park where all those people fought?
And died.
I’d bet you a billion dollars no one will ever build a park like this in Afghanistan. Not in a million years.
I slurp another mouthful of water and let the water splash over the side again for Beau. My hamstrings twitch.
“You gotta run every day, C.C.” It was practically all Dad
talked about the last few times we spoke, back when we thought he’s be home for tryouts.
A tree beyond the building sways and the leaves whisper.
Hoping to catch whatever breeze might be trying to fight through the heat, I lift my arms out to my sides. Mom says storms come up pretty quickly around here. But there’s not a wisp of a cloud in sight. The gust moves Beau’s fur.
As we turn toward the road, I notice a kid, a little older than me, sitting on the wall that borders the Visitor’s Center’s outdoor patio a couple feet away. He’s got his head in his hands and his elbows are resting on his legs.
Funny, he wasn’t there a minute ago.
Most boys my age are a lot shorter than me. Or tall and skinny.
Not this guy. Sweat plasters his shirt to him and you can see every muscle in his back. His sleeves are rolled up above his elbows, and even his wrists and forearms look strong. Blue veins stand out against pale skin.
The super strange thing, though— he’s wearing a pair of thick grey wool pants. With suspenders.
I step away. Even though he snuck up on me, I’m give him plenty of space. But good old Beau has other ideas. Before I can stop him, my dog lunges toward the kid, tugging me along with him, and he knocks the kid’s elbow with his nose.
“Beau!” I yank him back, but he’s gotten what he wanted.
The boy goes down on his knees, and hugs Beau like they’re
long-lost buddies.
“Sorry,” I say, giving Beau some leash. “He’s really friendly.”
The boy doesn’t seem to hear me. He’s got his face buried in Beau’s neck, and he’s muttering something. Beau sits down quietly. His tail scrapes the ground behind him. “Blue, you crazy dog,” he says. “You found me!”
“It’s Beau, actually,” I say as my dog slobbers all over a stranger.
I step forward to grab Beau’s harness. The boy smells of the forest, like moist earth, and a scent that reminds me of the Fourth of July. Dead leaves and a twig cling to his hair. It’s like he’s been rolling around in the woods, and now that I’m closer,
his pale skin seems almost transparent.
“So, do you go to Stonewall Jackson?” I ask, then cringe.
God, C.C. You just met this guy.
The boy looks at me. His eyebrows knit together, and a muddled look crosses his face. A strand of matted, blond hair falls across his eyes, and splotches of something dark are smeared across his face.
“I’m not Thaddeus,” he says.
And then, I swear to God…he disappears.
JEREMY
April 18, 1861, Fairfax County Courthouse, Virginia.
Sweat trickled down Jeremy’s neck and spine. Spring wasn’t even a month old, and already the sun felt like it would fry him. He lowered the plow’s handles and hitched his shoulders to keep the reins from falling.
Pa bent over the blade’s front bracket and hoisted it out of the mud.
Ginny was old, but she’d make it through spring planting.
Muddy red dirt splayed out on both sides of the plow’s hilt emitting the rotting grass and sharp tangy smell of Virginia clay.
Virginia had its very own particular smell.
The smell of home, Jeremy thought.
Pa resettled the plow’s blade, and Jeremy grabbed the handles again. “Come on, girl.”
He made a soft clicking sound in the back of his throat. “We’ve only got a few more rows.”
Good thing she can’t count, otherwise, she’d stop right here and refuse to take another step. Ginny’s flesh twitched, and her tail whistled through the air striking her back with a thwick. She strained against the harness.
“Good girl, Ginny.”
From the corner of his eye, Jeremy saw Blue raise his head off his paws. The dog was asleep in the shade, but something had caught his attention. He stared down the lane toward the road. Jeremy followed Blue’s stare. Will Dawson was hollering and waving something over his head.
Blue stood and watched as Will approached. Then he was off in a flash, like he was after a rabbit. The dog raced toward Will, his black coat luminescent-blue in the sun, mud flying from under his feet. Jeremy smiled. Blue would never walk if he
could run. The dog pulled up short in front of Will and barked the high-pitched bark that meant he was happy to see you.
Pa and Jeremy stopped struggling with the plow. Ginny sighed. Her tail whipped past Pa’s face.
“Blue!” Jeremy called to him. “It’s Will Dawson for goodness’ sake, you crazy dog.”
“I ran all the way here,” Will gasped and handed a broadsheet to Pa. His words were punctuated by gasps. “It’s done . . .They voted. . .Virginia seceded. The Governor’s . . . called up . . . the militias…Meeting tonight.” He squinted up at them. “Pa sent me over…to tell thee. Master Janney has called a Meeting. Tonight.”
Jeremy watched Pa studying the paper. He wiped the front of his shoulder across his face. “What do we do, sir?” he asked.
Pa didn’t speak for a long time. When he handed thepaper back to Will he said, “I thank ye for the news, Son. I expect ye ought to go on home now. I expect there are still
chores to be done with thy pa.”
Jeremy started at Pa’s words. Pa wasn’t a Quaker like Ma.
When they married, the Fairfax Meeting expelled her on account of Pa’s father and brothers all being officers in the United States Army. “Ye” and “thy” sure sounded odd coming from him.
Jeremy squinted into the distance as Will Dawson trudged back across the neatly plowed field. “Are you gonna fight, Pa?” Jeremy asked. A lilt of excitement crept from his heart to his voice. Jeremy studied Pa. “Are you gonna fight for President Lincoln?”
“I don’t aim to do anything until we finish plowing thisfield, Son.” Pa turned back toward Ginny whose ears twitched off a fly. “Didn’t you tell this animal we only had a few more rows left? A field don’t plow itself.”
“Yes, sir.” Jeremy bent and wrapped his hands around the plow handles. The wood bit into his calluses. Whatever happened now that Virginia had chosen a side would have to wait until this field was plowed.
“Get on now, Ginny,” he said and leaned toward the horse’s rump. “A field don’t plow itself.”
CHARLOTTE
I sprint home. Now I don’t even notice the heat.
That kid had been sitting right there. Beau saw him, too.
“Crazy dog.” I say looking at him running beside me. “You started it.” I shake my head, ignoring a sharp kick in my chest.
But what exactly did he start?
I don’t slow down until I turn up the front path to our house. Mom’s car is in the driveway.
I take the four steps of our porch two at a time with Beau right beside me. We leap across the deck and the screen door crashes into the frame as it swings closed behind us.
“Mom?” I call.
“I’m in here, Charlotte.” She pokes her head out of the kitchen. A long red apron covers her work clothes. She’s holding a hunk of raw ground meat.
“Mom, something weird just happened. On the Battlefield.” How do I explain this? “We were running near that statue of the guy on the horse…There was a kid …and he...”
“Slow down, slow down.” Mom blows a stray hair out of her face. “You’re talking too fast. Look at poor Beau! Give him some water for heaven’s sake. He’s overheated.”
I fill Beau’s bowl, but before I can say anything else, Mom’s cell phone rings.
She takes a deep breath. With her hands extended in front of her, palms up, covered in ground beef fat, she says. “Get that, will you sweetheart?”
“It’s Mrs. Tuckerman,” I say, Mom’s new boss. She nods, and I tuck the phone between Mom’s shoulder and ear, as she wipes her hands on her apron.
“Hello, Dona,” she sings into the phone. She mouths to me, “Dinner in 15 minutes.”Mom looks down at Beau. “Feed the dog” she signals and turns around to listen to her boss.
I stare at Mom’s back. I don’t know what I expected. It’s not like I can explain what happened, anyway. And I can guess what she’d say.
First, she’d tell me that I’ve been under a lot of stress with the move and “everything.” And then she’ll say, “Oh C.C., don’t be so melodramatic. I’m sure there’s a perfectly good explanation.
People don’t just disappear.”
I go over the whole scene in my head. The kid was probably a re-enactor or something. She talked the whole drive from Arizona about how much I was going to love Virginia. “It’s so full of history. Loads and loads of Civil War reenactments every summer.” How when she was a little girl “my daddy rode around on a great big horse pretending to be a Rebel general,” she laughed. “Folks down there are still fighting that old war.”
The closer we got to Virginia, the more her Southern accent came back.
JEREMY
Ma’s voice broke into Jeremy’s dream of sitting with Caroline under the oak tree while Blue chased birds by Old Man Carter’s pond. Then he ran across the back pasture toward home, fighting to wake up. Caroline was gone but something heavy held him down. He struggled under its weight, and breaking free, opened his eyes.
Lying hard against his back, on top of the covers, Blue snored. Jeremy couldn’t move. His parents spoke in hushed voices as they sat at the dinner table, haloed, and silhouetted by the moon’s pale light coming through the window. Silver splashed across the tablecloth and the bare floor.
“John Gabriel Turner, you can’t up and leave the farm like that,” Ma whispered. Jeremy held his breath. “It’s the start of spring planting.”
“I’m not going to sit by while others fight. It’s my duty to go. President Lincoln’s called up troops.” His father’s voice grew louder as he spoke.
“Shhhhhhhh!” Mother looked over at the bed where Jeremy slept. He snapped his eyes closed. Blue snored.
Good old Blue. His snoring always fooled them. They’d be hoppin’ mad if they caught him listening. Jeremy ducked his face under the patchwork quilt that covered him. When they started whispering again, he risked a quick peek.
“Virginia called out the militia. They aim to fight Lincoln. If they’re mustering troops too, they’re going to make me join up.” Pa’s voice sounded cross. Jeremy couldn’t remember a time when his father had raised his voice to his mother.
Pa’s voice softened. “Laurie, you’re not a member of any Meeting. And I never was. I might not be an officer like my brothers, but I am no Quaker, neither.” His shoulders slumped. “You can’t expect me to sit by and let other men die.”
Ma shushed Pa again, pressing her index finger against her lips and glancing back at the bed. Pa stood. The chair scraped on the hard floor. He looked down at Ma, and she snatched his hand, clasped it in both of hers, and laid it against her cheek. “I’ve got to go.” Pa’s voice rang with a firmness Jeremy knew well. Pa didn’t chew on decisions. He acted. But there was something else in is voice. Sadness maybe. “It’s my duty,” he said. “I stand with Lincoln on this. It’s time we end the abomination of slavery.”
Ma didn’t answer. She clasped his hand to her heart. Pa put his other hand on her shoulder then knelt down in front of her. He pulled her to him.
“What about Jeremy?” Ma asked as Pa backed away.
“He’s just a boy. Even secessionists won’t force a child to fight.”
“War and killing are sins, John.” Now fear rang in Ma’s voice.
“So is calling another man your property.” Pa glanced over at Jeremy who squeezed his eyes shut again. “I aim to be to Philadelphia before the devils even know I’m gone. I’ll leave at first light.”
“It’s a sin.” Ma sounded like she couldn’t breathe.
Pa didn’t answer for a long time. Then he said, “I’ll send word when I can.” He strode past Jeremy’s bed, his long arms swinging at his side, and heavy shoes clomping hard on the
floor planks. The cabin door opened. Cricket and bullfrog song swelled. Sweet night air swept over the bed and Blue’s snoring stopped. The dog lifted his head. The covers pinning Jeremy released.
Blue staggered, then turned around. His claws scratched at Jeremy’s back and shoulder through the quilt, before the dog jumped off the bed, shifting the corncobs in the mattress. Blue landed with a clack of claws on the wooden floor.
Her skirts swishing, Ma moved across the room. The night sounds grew louder as she let Blue out to follow Pa. A moment later, the mattress shifted again. Ma sat down at Jeremy’s feet. She lowered her head to the quilt. With his eyes nailed shut, Jeremy tried not to breathe as Ma’s sobs shook the bed beneath him.
CHARLOTTE
I think bout the disappearing boy all night. Mom doesn’t care about what got me all fired up, and I don’t tell her, so I suppose we’re even.
Dad would have asked.
Now I’m lacing on my running shoes for Cross-Country tryouts …at the crack of dawn. Okay, so 8:00 am isn’t the crack of dawn, but it might as well be for all the sleep I got last night. Every time I closed my eyes, all I saw was the boy’s eyes. There one second and gone the next.
Just like that.
My heart thinks I’m already sprinting, it’s beating so hard.
I lean on the gate to the school’s track, and it whines under my weight. The air smells of freshly mowed grass.
No one at this school knows a thing about me. If we keep it that way, I won’t have to listen to people say how sorry they are all the time.
Across the field, some workmen are painting the bleachers. A few kids loosen up in a knot on the 20-yard line of the football field. A thin older guy with a clipboard and a whistle motions for us to gather around him in a circle. I trot up and stand behind a girl with a blond ponytail.
“My name is David Elsberry,” he says. “I have the pleasure of coaching the Cross-Country team here at Stonewall Middle School. Practices are Monday, Wednesday, and Friday immediately after school.
We may not be as glamorous as the football team, but we take meets very seriously. If you make the team, you’ll be expected to make every practice, no excuses.
“That’s why we regularly finish in the top three in the league.” He glances over both shoulders as if to see who’s listening.
“That’s more than you can say about the football team.
“Okay.” He checks his clipboard. “Today, folks, I want to see how you run. Anyone can run fast when properly trained, but this is a tryout.” Sweat glistens on his upper lip. “Don’t kill
yourselves. We’ll save that for the meets…”
He pauses. “Got it?”
Some kids nod. Others kick the grass. Me, I’m wondering what I’m doing here. I could turn around and walk away. Dad would never know.
End of story.
“Okay,” Coach Elsberry says, and glances at his clip board again, then back at us. “Isabel Price is our girls’ team captain.”
A strawberry blonde standing to his left straightens, smiles, and gives a small wave with a flick of her wrist.
“And Josh,” Coach says, “is the boy’s team captain.” He checks the group. “Josh?”
“Here, Coach.” I jump like I’ve been poked in the side.
Josh is standing right behind me.
The whole group stares. I step out of the way.
Josh moves to the center of the circle. Like the Battlefield Boy, Josh Gerber is thin and anything but gawky. His shirt hangs loose against his chest and stomach, and his arms look
strong and taut. He also seems totally comfortable with everyone staring at him.
Coach Elsberry smiles at him. “Okay, people, Isabel and Josh will warm you up and set
the pace. This is a slow two-mile run.” He nods then says, Let’s go. And stay together. Got it?” Coach claps his hands awkwardly, still holding his clipboard as Isabel begins counting and stretching her arms and legs. I follow along.
I guess I’m doing this.
“Come on, people. You’re runners!” Coach shouts clapping his clipboard again. “Pretend you’re enjoying yourselves.”
We leave the field through a side gate at a slow shuffle, then trot down the long school driveway in clumps of twos and threes. My feet feel heavy. The air is humid and thick, and in
a few minutes, I’m so drenched with sweat I could have been swimming. Some of the other kids are gasping for air or are red in the face. A few chat, making small talk. They all seem to
know each other already.
Traffic whips by. I concentrate on my feet and putting one foot in front of the other. If Dad had come home, he would have made sure I was in shape, and there’s no way that I would
be huffing and puffing so badly now.
This is me, trying out. I can’t imagine wearing all those football uniform pads in this heat. Running is hard enough.
How did you do it, Dad?
Why do I keep letting you down?
I keep my eyes on the pavement, sucking in air that’s thick with the smell of French fries as we cross the sidewalk in front of the McDonald’s. A truck belching smoke grinds its gears.
The huge personnel transports on the base back home sounded exactly like that, every time a company left for overseas.
The pain in my throat makes it hard to breathe but I push myself, focusing on breathing, on my heart’s thump in my chest. Before you know it, we’re approaching the battlefield.
Crooked fences line the edge of the woods leading up to the park’s driveway.
I’m whupped and we’re only halfway through. But, at least, I’m not the only one. Ahead, the sun bounces bright and sharp off the siding of the Battlefield Visitor’s Center. Behind it,
blue sky warns of another hot, windless day. There are no cars in the parking lot. It’s too early for tourists. But there is a boy sitting on the wall staring across the Visitor’s Center’s parking lot.
No way!
I stop dead in my tracks.
Kids shout and gasp as they dodge me. Someone bumps my arm hard, but I don’t take my eyes off the boy. A breeze stirs the edge of his shirt. He’s wearing the same gray wool pants,
muddy at the knees and streaked with grass stains.
Behind me someone shouts.
I spin around as Josh Gerber trots up. His eyebrows knit together. “What’s wrong?” he asks, hands light on his hips as he stomps to a halt. “You need to rest?”
I turn back toward the Battlefield Boy. He’s gone. Not like he walked away gone. More like he’s completely nowhere-in-sight gone.
Disappeared.
Josh stares at me as if waiting for an explanation. Sweat drips from my face.
“Did you…?”
“Come on. Coach said to keep together,” Josh moves past me. About ten feet down the sidewalk, he turns to see if I’m following him. I sprint to catch up, then stay a few steps behind
him. He picks up speed.
I lower my eyes and match his pace. All I want right now is to get as far from that battlefield as possible.
JEREMY
“We’re counting on you, Son.” Pa said. “Your mother needs you here. I may be a Virginian, but I will not fight for slaveholders. You understand, don’t you?”
The pale morning light washed the spring’s colors into gray shadows. Even the sun seemed hesitant to rise that morning.
Pa was leaving, going north to join in the fight against slavery.
“Yes, sir.” Jeremy looked away. Blue sniffed at Pa’s blanket, his tail wagging in the air.
Dang dog probably thought he’d be going with Pa, too.
Yesterday they’d been planting fields. Today, Pa’s skedaddling north and he’s stuck at home with the women and old men. Doing chores.
Anger gnawed at his gut.
He could shoot a Rebel as well as anyone. Ma said warring was a sin. Well, it seemed to him that sitting it out was worse.
“Old Man Carter will help out.” Pa said. “He’s too old to fight, and don’t support the Secessionists neither.” Pa was talking to Jeremy, but he was looking at Ma. “If I stay, they’ll
force me to muster with them. But those Rebels don’t stand a chance against the United States Army. Everybody says so. I’ll be back before you know it.”
Pa’s hand weighed Jeremy’s shoulder down. The smell of dust and the woods rose from his pack. “I’m depending on you to keep this farm running, Jeremy. Fields don’t tend themselves.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You take care of Annabelle and Ginny, now, you hear me?”
Jeremy nodded as Pa patted his shoulder, then shifted his hunting gun under his arm, and headed toward the woods behind the house. Blue trailed behind him.
“Blue, get back here. You ain’t going.” Blue stopped and turned toward Jeremy. Pa kept walking. The dog didn’t budge.
“Blue!”
What was the matter with that dang animal?
The dog looked at Jeremy then back at Pa.
Now Jeremy’s anger boiled over. “Blue, come!” Blue watched Pa walk away, then he returned to Jeremy’s side. Jeremy didn’t even bother to watch as Pa entered the woods. He
trudged toward the barn. Somebody had to do the milking.
As he set the stool beside Annabelle, Blue settled in his usual spot facing out of the barn door. Ma approached the well outside the barn.
“I’ll not have any sulking today, Jeremy.” Her voice sounded sharp. “There’s no time to feel sorry for yourself on a farm.”
Jeremy’s heart dropped like a duck plugged with buckshot. Last night she called him a child. Well, 14 sure seemed old enough to fight Rebels. She could call soldiering a sin, but as far as he was concerned, if Lincoln needed him, he’d figure out a way to join the fight, and there was nothing Ma could do to stop him.
