What Chauncey did took courage too. It wasn't the kind where you had a scar or ribbon you could show off, but instead a day-to-day courage as you stood up for what you believed no matter what. An unsung hero, because you couldn't go around telling people that any man could hold a rifle and stand in a trench but only a select few could do what a general or commodore or recruiter did. Regular soldiers needed to believe they were the ones who mattered most, and that's what Chauncey did with every recruit. He made each one feel special and he never forgot for a single moment that a few of them would be special, real heroes like Paul Clayton, who'd wiped out two Hun machine-gun nests and won a Silver Star.
Another of the old men raised his empty glass.
“I'd like to toast you as well, sir, except I've got nary a drop.”
Chauncey pushed another silver dollar in Meachum's direction and the bartender filled the glass.
“I'm glad to buy any man in this room a drink as long as he's not a shirker,” Chauncey said loudly.
“To you and the uniform,” the old drunk slurred.
“Who are you calling a shirker, Feith?” Estep asked.
The old men quit talking and Meachum stopped wiping the bar.
“I said, who you calling a shirker, Feith?”
He watched in the mirror as Estep pushed back his chair and stood.
“I'm not talking about you,” Chauncey said.
“Who are you talking about then,” Estep asked, “besides yourself?”
Meachum came around the bar and stood in front of Estep.
“This doesn't concern you, Meachum,” Estep said.
“It does if it's happening here,” Meachum answered.
For a few moments no one spoke.
“Yeah, I guess it does, especially since the savings and loan's got a note on you,” Estep said.
The veteran turned and shoved through the swinging doors, so late in the day now that no light flashed in from outside. Meachum returned to the bar with the table's empty glasses. He doused them in a bucket of gray water and wiped each one dry before setting it on a cloth.
“Estep knew I wasn't talking about him,” Chauncey said.
Meachum didn't turn around. Chauncey picked up his change and turned to leave, but the room tilted and he grabbed the bar edge. Give yourself a minute, he told himself. Chauncey tried to recall why he'd come into the Turkey Trot in the first place and remembered. He thought about how Paul Clayton hadn't waited to be conscripted but had come into the recruiting office on his eighteenth birthday and volunteered despite his mother and uncles telling him not to. When Paul had finished signing the forms, the first thing he did was salute Chauncey. It had been all he could do not to shed a tear, especially since Paul had been one of the first to join Chauncey's chapter of the Boys Working Reserve.
He slowly crossed the floor and passed through the doors. If he went home soused, his father would be displeased and his mother would cry, so Chauncey decided to go to the recruiting office instead. After a few stabs at the key hole, he got inside and turned on the electric light. The black letters on the eye chart bobbed a few moments before resettling in their proper positions. Chauncey sat down at his desk and placed his brow on his forearms as the nausea came again. He tried to be perfectly still, his breaths mere sips of air that went no farther than the top of his lungs. He imagined his insides a froth of foul water that had to be calmed. It helped and he began to feel better.
He opened the desk's bottom drawer and took out his speech for the next jubilee. It was a bully speech, one the governor of North Carolina himself would be proud to give. Which was no surprise because Chauncey had always been good with words. At the bank, he'd been able to sit down with men three times his age and convince them that their money was better off in Feith Savings and Loan than hidden in a tin can, or explain why a mortgage was the best way to secure a loan. Chauncey had always found the words to assuage their concerns, just as he did now with parents and wives and sometimes the recruits themselves.
The tower bell chimed eight times before Chauncey felt sober enough to go home. A headache was forming like a thundercloud, but before it erupted an idea came to him. He'd show Estep and Meachum and every other person in Mars Hill that Sergeant Chauncey Feith could lead by example as well as words. He'd show them he could lead not just a troop of boys but a whole community. When Paul Clayton got out of the hospital, he'd have the best homecoming of any soldier in the whole state.
W
ednesday morning after the men went to the pasture, Laurel stood before the books on the makeshift shelf. She ran her index finger down each one. Keep reading and studying them, Miss Calicut had told her that long-ago September when school started again, that way you can stay caught up until enough parents realize how silly they're acting. By then your father may be sprier too. Even with all the meanness she had endured from other pupils, Miss Calicut had made school the best place Laurel had ever known. Everywhere in the classroom there was something specialâon the back wall a map of the United States and around it pictures of a beach in Florida with white sand and a blue ocean, a field of purple wildflowers in Nebraska, another of buildings in New York so tall they were called skyscrapers, another of an orange canyon in Texas. There'd been a globe in the room and Laurel could spin it and the whole world pass before her, each continent a different color. Miss Calicut had a big table next to her desk too, and on it were boxes with pretty rocks and a glass case with butterflies and moths. Real American and North Carolina flags stood by the doorway and beside them a shelf you could pick a book from to borrow over a weekend. Even now, sixteen years later, Laurel had seen more of the world in that one classroom than anywhere outside it.
Miss Calicut had been young and pretty and she knew all sorts of interesting things about different places, like what people wore and ate, and if the country had mountains or deserts and what kinds of animals lived there. When Miss Calicut read books aloud like
Anne of Green Gables
and
Great Expectations
, she changed her voice for the different people in the book and it seemed you knew those people in the realest sort of way. Miss Calicut was always bringing in a plant or bug and once even a live snake and she'd feature something about it that you didn't know. Best of all, she made Laurel feel different in a good way, doing small things like hugging her every morning or letting her take the roll or ring the recess bell. One time when a town girl teased about her homespun dress, Miss Calicut told Laurel that the other girl was jealous because her own mother couldn't sew. Whenever she made the highest test grade or won a spell down, Miss Calicut bragged on her and said Laurel had the smarts to be a tip-top schoolteacher, said it in front of the whole class. On that last day, Miss Calicut had given her the seventh-grade textbooks and a brand-new dictionary.
For Laurel Shelton
,
with great expectations for one of my favorite students
, Miss Calicut had written on the dictionary's first page. She'd hugged Laurel and said that as bad as things were they'd get better. It will be good teacher practice for you, Miss Calicut told her, you'll be your own pupil. Laurel had studied the books all that fall, working out the ciphering, reading, even making up tests for herself. She'd taught Hank some too, though he soon lost interest. But her father had got more needsome every day and by the new year all the books were skiffed with dust.
Laurel lifted her finger from the last book, wiped the dust on her dress. She took the apron and pan off their pegs and the sack of green beans from the alcove. Once on the porch, she sat in a chair with the sack beside her and the pan at her feet. Laurel watched the men work as she snapped beans and tossed them in the pan. Walter had done this kind of work before. She heard it in the quick clap of the hammer strikes and the way Hank wasn't stopping to show him how things were done. Surprising considering his smooth hands, his making a living with the flute.
As Laurel set another handful of beans in her lap, she thought about Walter not hiding the sixty dollars. Even if it was gold, the chain and medallion wouldn't up-scale a quarter eagle, and why not hide the flute? A man with lots of swivels to him. He hid one thing but not another, gaumy as any boxcar tramp but with money and silver and gold, couldn't talk or read or write but played the flute so pretty your heart near busted from the wonder of it, a man who made notice of a single green feather. All Laurel knew certain was that she wanted to know more about him and was glad he hadn't left.
He brightens up my life. That's what Marcie said about Robbie, and that was what Walter did. But brightness never stayed long here. Laurel had learned the true of that as a child. The parakeets had flown over the cove like a dense green cloud, but they'd never paused in their passing, never circled or landed. Instead, the birds went over the cove the same way they would a deep murky pond. But one time it was full noon, the few minutes when enough light sifted in for the parakeets to see the orchard and its shriveled fruit. The flock curved back, low enough that Laurel could hear them calling
we we we
as they bunched above the orchard and began swirling downward. One by one, the birds sleeved the orchard limbs in green and orange and yellow. Laurel had been in the cornfield with Hank. She should have run into the orchard right then and chased them away, but she'd just stood watching as two dozen birds pecked and hopped and preened among the branches. It was like their bodies had knit together and lifted the whole cove skyward into the sun's full light.
When her mother saw the parakeets, she'd run to the cabin. Laurel's father had hobbled onto the porch shirtless and barefoot, shotgun in hand, swearing he'd not allow what paltry fruit they had to be taken. Her father had moved unsteadily into the pasture, Laurel's mother beside him with a hay fork. Laurel tried to speak, but no words came. It was Hank who spoke.
“Just scare them away, Daddy.”
That was what Laurel thought would happen, because the shotgun wavered in his thin arms. When it went off, the flock bloomed upward. But one bird had been hit, and though it rose too, it quickly lost what grasp it had on the sky. The parakeet landed in the orchard, the hurt wing dragging on the ground. The other birds at first flew west toward the ridge, then turned as one, made a wide arc, and came back, twice flying over the wounded bird before descending. Her father fired again and this time four parakeets fell from the branches. The unharmed birds did not flee as far this time. The bitter smell of cordite filled the orchard as another shot cracked the air and only five parakeets rose. Her mother walked beneath the limbs, gigging wounded birds with the hay fork. When Laurel had run into the orchard and begged her father not to shoot any more, her mother seized her by the arm and said it had to be done. There'd been one more shot before her mother opened the gate and prodded the hogs toward the orchard. They grunted and squealed with each jab, moving forward, slow and contrary, until they saw. The following winter her father placed the barrel between the largest hog's eyes and squeezed the shotgun's trigger. Laurel had refused to eat the sausage and ham, but her mother put the bones in soup, the fatback in beans and cornbread. No matter how little, she could always taste it.
Laurel lifted another handful of beans into her lap and wondered where Walter had found his green feather. She thought about the medallion and the possibility it was a gift from a sweetheart. Not likely. It didn't seem a girl's name or have an etching of a heart on it. Not being able to talk would be a lacking many women couldn't abide, the same way it'd been with Hank's hand, but Laurel could abide it. Hank had to set store by how good a worker Walter was, and there'd be plenty to do before cold weather came, especially if Hank wanted to finish the well. She bet he was already wishing Walter would stay, perhaps starting to feel like Walter could become his friend. Laurel let herself fancy Walter staying another week and another week after that. Maybe the cardinal flower's love potion might really work. If Walter stayed on there might come a time they'd be alone and he'd lean over and buss her on the cheek and after that, as the days went on, the kisses would get longer and she'd start picking the Queen Anne's lace to make a tonic or even the virgin's bower to twine in her hair.
Laurel smiled at her own silliness. It was like years ago when she'd open the wish book and place her finger on this or that, making believe it was something she could actually have. He'll be gone come Saturday, Laurel told herself, and you'll never see him again.
The pan was almost full when she saw Slidell coming out of the woods. Laurel brushed bean strings off her apron and walked out in the yard to meet him.
“Finally found you a hired man, I see,” Slidell said as he looped the reins around a dogwood tree.
The hammering had stopped and Hank and Walter were walking toward the cabin.
“For a little while at least.”
“Who is he?”
“Walter Smith is his name,” Laurel said.
“From around here?”
“No,” Laurel said, “New York.”
Hank and Walter came into the yard.
“This is Slidell,” Hank said to Walter. “He's the fellow who lives up at the notch.”
“Good to meet you,” Slidell said, and held out his hand.
The two men shook hands.
“His name's Walter,” Hank said. “But he can say it out loud no more than that scarecrow yonder can.”
“Not being able to talk could be a hard thing,” Slidell said, “but I misdoubt there's a man alive who'd not have wished for it sometime in his life, whether saying I do or I'll have one more.”
Slidell gestured toward the fence.
“He looks to swing a hammer true enough.”
“He does that,” Hank agreed. “Only problem is I just got him through Friday. Walter's of a mind to catch a train to New York. He may be wanting a ride into town with you Saturday.”
“That's fine,” Slidell said to Walter. “Just be up at the trail notch by full light.”
Slidell nodded at the windlass.
“Too bad he's leaving so soon. You might could get that well done before the snow flies.”
“What you figure before I sound some water?” Hank asked.
“For you and him together it'd be a full week's work,” Slidell said, “lest you get lucky and hit no rock.”
“It would be good to get that done,” Laurel said.
Hank's face darkened.
“We best stick to getting the fence up. From what I've seen luck don't wander this cove much, excepting the kind nobody wants.”
Maybe that's changing, Laurel almost said, but decided saying so might jinx it.
“New York City,” Slidell said to Walter. “I'd not have reckoned a big need for wire stringing there, other than they got so many folks they need to keep them from herding off into the ocean.”
“He's a musician,” Hank said, “and he can play a flute like nobody's business.”
“Can he now?” Slidell said. “I'd like to hear that. Bring him to the house tomorrow evening and we'll see if that flute can whistle out some mountain tunes. Ansel and Boyce are fetching me my tonic, and Boyce always brings his dulcimer.”
“That tonic ups the ante for coming,” Hank said.
“You're not averse to a drink of homemade corn whiskey, are you?” Slidell asked Walter.
“You'll not want to leave these hills without sampling what Ansel and Boyce potion up,” Hank said. “It goes down smooth as mama's milk. You'll hardly know you're drunk until your legs numb out on you.”
“I've had no better, taxed and sealed included, and I've tested plenty of both,” Slidell said. “So I can expect you all?”
“Let us see if we've got enough briskness to. We've not slacked our reins all afternoon and tomorrow we'll make a full day of it. If we don't get up there though, ask Ansel and Boyce how Paul's faring.”
Walter nodded toward the posts next to the shed.
“Yeah, we'll need more of them,” Hank said. “You go on ahead. I'll be up there in a minute.”
“His hands are blistered,” Laurel said. “Let me put some salve and a wrap on them first.”
Laurel motioned for Walter to come inside. She sat him at the table and took the salve and a hank of cloth from the shelf. She took his hand in hers and tended to the blisters. Hank and Slidell were still out in the yard. Their voices were softer but she could hear them through the open door.
“Anyway,” Slidell said. “That fellow you've been trying to impress was up at the notch earlier.”
“I thought I saw him there,” Hank replied. “By himself?”
“Yeah. I told him he could ride down with me for a better look but he wouldn't.” Slidell shook his head. “You'd think a man like Weatherbee wouldn't abide such silly notions.”
“More do than don't,” Hank replied. “He say anything else?”
“He said you'd fixed up this farm better than he'd have thought you could, so I'd say you've passed your audition.”
For a few moments neither man spoke. Laurel finished knotting the cloth on the back of Walter's hand.
“You told her the truth of all this fixing up yet?” Slidell asked.
“The time ain't been right,” Hank said.
The men, still talking, walked over to the horse, but Laurel could no longer hear them. Laurel let go of Walter's hand, and they walked onto the porch.
“I'll see you Thursday if not before,” Slidell said as he rode out of the yard. “You come too, Laurel.”
“That man's been through some hard times in his life,” Hank told Walter once Slidell disappeared into the woods. “For you northern folk it was natural to wear the blue in the Confederate War. Slidell's daddy was a Lincolnite too, but it wasn't so common a thing in these mountains. One day three fellows come up from Marshall, outliers but wearing butternut so they could alibi their meanness. Slidell's older brother and daddy was in the field. Those men rode right into that field and shot them dead, even with Slidell's brother but fourteen years old. Slidell was in the barn helping his momma, so him and her hid in the loft. After those bastards stole what they could from the house, they come to the barn. They led the cow and draft horse out. The man trailing had a match. Slidell says he didn't see that match struck but heard the rasping of it. That outlier was about to drop the match when one of the others said don't because he'd be coming back with a wagon for the hay. Slidell and his momma had to do the burying themselves. There was a shotgun hid under a mattress and Slidell got it out. Twelve years old but he'd have gone after them except for his momma begging him not to leave her to fend alone. If she hadn't, that hand of cards would have been played out full. He did go looking for them after the war, but they'd run off like cur dogs to Texas. Slidell says he'll never forget the sound of that match being struck and that barn so stoked with dry hay it'd have gone up like a rag doused with kerosene. I don't notion I'd ever forget hearing that match strike neither.”