Spinning the Moon (16 page)

His words barely audible, he said, “You are not alone anymore. Let me help you.” He let go of me and took two steps backward. Small clouds of tiny flying insects began to hover about us in the dwindling twilight. “But you have to be honest with me and tell me who you really are. And why you are here.”

My hand closed over my mouth. What had I done? This was not allowed. “Don't. Please don't.”

He stepped closer. “What are you afraid of?”

I looked down at the ground, my hair dripping into the dirt around my skirts. I searched for what truth I could tell him. “Of more loss. I could not survive it.”

He tilted my face back up to his. “You are strong.”

My gaze rested on his lips and I knew I wanted him to kiss me again. I tried to turn away, but his hands held me captive. “No. I'm not. You've misjudged me.”

His eyes darkened. “There is something else—I see it in your eyes. What is it? What is it you cannot tell me?”

I could do nothing but look at him and then lower my eyes.

He dropped his hand. “Why do you make me feel as if I am consorting with the enemy?”

“I'm not your enemy. I wish you would just trust me.”

“I wish I could.” Walking past me, he left the cemetery and grabbed Endy's reins, which had been dragging in the red dirt. He paused momentarily. Without looking at me, he said, “I am not a patient man, Laura. I will find out. And if I discover you have been playing with our affections and deceiving us, you will live to regret it.”

Tugging on the reins, he walked on ahead of me, leaving a trail of red dust.

We do not know the past in chronological sequence. It may be convenient to lay it out anesthetized on the table with dates pasted on here and there, but what we know we know by ripples and spirals eddying out from us and from our own time.

—EZRA POUND

T
he three red drops on my drawers alerted me to the fact that my body was functioning as normal, despite the abnormal circumstances of my life. My father, a Civil War history buff, had dragged me to the Atlanta History Center about one hundred times, the Cyclorama just as many times, and Civil War battle reenactments more times than I could count. But nothing I had ever learned could have prepared me for the realities of being a woman in the 1860s.

Knowing by instinct that a woman's monthly cycle would be a delicate subject, I had to consider who would be the best person to ask how to deal with it. Asking Stuart would be out of the question. Julia would probably be able to give me an answer, but only after a few horrendous moments of utter embarrassment.

There was a brief tapping on my door, and Sukie entered with a pile of clean linens. My muscles ached as they remembered helping to wash the linens the previous day—lifting, turning, and squeezing constantly—and I was pleased to see the fruits of my labor.

I gave her a bright smile. “Sukie, I need some help.”

She paused in the middle of the room. “Ma'am?”

I decided the direct approach would work best. “I need something to protect my clothing. I'm having my period.”

She squinted at me for a moment before she realized what I was
saying. “You be havin' your monthly bleeding.” She set the laundry down on the bed and patted my sleeve. “I be right back.”

And that was the easy part. Figuring out what to do with the cloth belt and mounds of rags that Sukie brought for me was another. Staring at the strange ensemble, I suddenly realized where the expression “on the rag” came from. Sighing to myself, and saying a quick prayer of thanks that I ovulated sporadically and nowhere near twelve times a year, I set about folding the rags in a thick bundle and inserting the ends in loops on the belt. I said another prayer of hope that the thing would stay in place.

Walking down the stairs, I heard the soft murmur of voices. Hoping to find Julia to enlist her in teaching me about some of the plants in her garden, I approached the library. I hesitated in the hallway when I realized it was Pamela's voice.

“It does not matter where I got the information. It is from Sherman's headquarters and could do the Confederacy a lot of good.” I heard the rustle of petticoats and the tapping of heels against wooden floor. “Here—take it. Use it.” Her voice was low, the word “use” coming out with a hiss. “And if you get caught, I have brought some quinine with me. You could say it is the medicine you are smuggling and nothing else.”

Stuart's voice was also low, but I heard enough to understand what the conversation was about. “How can you betray your own son-in-law? Does Julia know?”

I pictured Pamela waving her hand through the air, dismissing any inconvenient thoughts. “During wartime, one must forget one's personal loyalties and concentrate on the needs of the greater good. I am not betraying anyone. I am only doing what I can for the South.”

The cabinet door opened, followed by the clinking of glass. I pictured Stuart pouring himself a drink. After a slight pause, he said, “And if William finds out whose side you are really on, what then? What will happen to Julia?”

Pamela chuckled softly. “Do not worry about William. I will contend with him if the need arises. And as for Julia, I am sure you will take care of her.”

I heard Stuart slam down the glass. “That is enough. There is nothing
between Julia and me. And if I take that piece of information from you it will be for the Confederacy and not for some petty cause like thwarting William. Despite our many differences, he is still my brother, and Julia is his wife.”

Another pause was followed by Pamela's voice. “There is something else we need to discuss. That man, Matt Kimball, approached me yesterday in town. He wanted me to pass on a message to Mrs. Truitt. I thought I would tell you first.”

I held my breath to better hear her words.

“What is it?” Stuart's words were clipped.

“He says he has information regarding her daughter.”

My heart tightened in my chest, and I barely heard Stuart's voice. “I do not trust him. I will speak to him myself. Do not tell Laura about it. If it is anything, I will let her know.”

Pamela's brittle laughter came through the door. “Is it him you do not trust—or is it her?”

“Never you mind, Pamela. I will handle it.”

The stamp of his boots heralded his departure from the room, and I quickly ducked into the parlor just in time to see Stuart cross the hallway and crash out the front door.

I jumped, startled, at the sound of pecking from the parlor window. I walked slowly toward the sound, peering cautiously through the glass. I stepped back as a large black crow, its raven wings a startling shadow against the brightness outside, brought its beak against the glass. The staccato taps broke the silence of the room as the black head of the bird continued to thrust its beak at the windowpane.

The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end, and I abruptly turned around.

Pamela was staring at the crow, her eyebrows raised and her face a pasty white. Without looking at me, she said, “A crow tapping on one's window is a very bad sign.”

“What do you mean?”

She turned toward me, her black eyes as cold as marble. “It is an omen of death.” Without another word, she turned and left the room.

My body shivered, and I hugged my elbows to give me warmth.

For the next several weeks, I waited for Stuart to approach me with
information about Matt Kimball. When he didn't, I knew I'd have to take matters into my own hands and seek out Matt myself. I just preferred to do it when Stuart wasn't around to catch me doing what I was sure he would consider covert activity.

The news of General Lee's devastating Confederate loss at Gettysburg in Pennsylvania cast a somber pall over the town, and there were considerably more women dressed in head-to-toe black in church on Sundays. I didn't see Matt Kimball in church again, and wondered how I would ever find a way to approach him.

As we moved into September, the overwhelming heat of summer began to dissipate and the oncoming autumn was evident in the turning leaves and cooler evenings. Since the scene in the cemetery, Stuart had been avoiding me, his attitude cool when we did cross paths. But sometimes as we all sat at the dining table or in the parlor, I would look up suddenly and find him watching me, his eyes brooding. I began to feel like a mouse nibbling at cheese set in a trap.

Julia was busy in her garden, harvesting the fall vegetables and planting turnips. She explained to me that the turnips would have a sweeter taste if they were planted in time to experience at least one frost. From the amount she planted, I assumed the turnip would have a starring role on our winter dining table.

One evening I sat on the porch before supper, rubbing my knees, made sore from helping Julia in her garden. The door opened and Stuart hesitated in the threshold.

“I am sorry to disturb you. I thought you were Zeke.”

I stopped rocking and frowned. “I must try harder to stay out of the sun if you're mistaking me for a man more than three times my age.”

Stuart sent me a sheepish smile. “No, you misunderstand. Zeke was supposed to meet me on the porch for a game of backgammon, but he sometimes forgets the time when he is immersed in one of his books.” He held out a board, a bag of playing pieces clinking in his other hand.

I sat up. “Backgammon? I love that game, but I haven't played in a very long time.”

He walked closer to me. “May I challenge you to a match, then?”

“Only if you're not a sore loser.”

He cocked an eyebrow without comment as he slid a small table over and pulled up a chair. “Perhaps we should set up stakes for this.”

“Stakes?” I smiled nervously.

“If I win, I get something. And if you win, then you get something.”

Worry grew in the pit of my stomach. “But I have nothing to give.”

He leaned close to me, his eyes narrowed. “Oh, but you do.” His mouth spread in a thin smile. “If you lose, you have to answer truthfully any question I ask.”

My throat felt thick. “And if I win?”

He settled back in his chair and began setting up the game. “That would be your choice. You could have your freedom to come and go as you please.”

“I should have that anyway,” I said. I finally saw a way to seek out Matt Kimball. “Whoever wins the best of seven.” I picked up the dice and rolled them. Double sixes. “I go first.”

We began playing and I quickly discovered we were evenly matched. Soon we were called in for supper, and afterward we moved the set indoors to the parlor. A crisp snap had invaded the air, and the ladies were all wrapped in thick shawls. The clicking of Julia's knitting needles and the popping of the wood in the fireplace punctuated the cozy silences in the conversation lulls.

I found myself furtively watching Stuart as he contemplated a move. He had the habit of running his hands through his hair when he was concentrating, causing the thick black bristles to stand on end. When he growled as I rolled another pair of sixes, I offered a polite suggestion that he smooth it back down so as not to scare any visitors.

Dr. Watkins had taken to calling most evenings now that the cotton harvest was over and Stuart had more free time, and he had perched on a chair between Julia and her mother. I watched him as he looked at Julia, his eyes softening like a puppy's, and I knew that his feelings for her hadn't altered since Robbie's birth.

I had been almost unbeatable in backgammon when I had played my father or Michael, but Stuart was a formidable opponent. I won three in a row, and then my luck seemed to run out. Unfortunately, I was not as gracious a loser as he was. By the middle of the sixth game, he was resoundingly whopping me. I looked in dismay at the large
number of my counters still on the board and the piles of his pieces resting on the table.

He tossed the dice onto the board and chuckled slightly with the result. I brought my hand down on the table with a thump, making the pieces jump. “That's not fair,” I shouted in mock dismay as I stared at the double sixes. “If you win this game, it will be from sheer luck and not due to any skill on your part, that's for sure.”

I realized that all eyes rested on me and I offered, “The man gets doubles every time he rolls,” as a feeble explanation for my outburst. The three gave polite smiles in my direction before resuming their conversation.

Stuart rapidly picked up two of his counters and began moving them home. He looked up at me, a small smile framing his lips.

“Do you really think that's the best move?” I asked, pretending to study the board.

He shook his head slowly. “That is not going to work on me, Mrs. Truitt.”

I gave him a look of false innocence. “Pardon? I'm sure I don't know what you mean.”

“Hmm,” he murmured, and he threw the dice again. Double fours.

I put both elbows on the table and made a frown. “I don't think it's gentlemanly to beat a lady at backgammon.”

Quietly, he said, “If I did not think I would win, I never would have agreed to our little wager.” He leaned forward, as if to make sure nobody else heard him. “But if you continue with your distractions, you might still win this match.”

I saw his gaze directed at the low neckline of my dinner dress, one of two from Julia's wardrobe that had been modified to fit me. I quickly yanked my elbows off the table and sat back as far as my hoop skirt would allow, which was approximately two inches. I felt myself blushing as I hastened to roll the dice. Snake eyes. “Whoop-de-do,” I said unenthusiastically.

“Never say you do not roll doubles,” Stuart said, and he rolled again and completed moving his counters off the board. His blue eyes gazed steadily at me, making the blood run thick and heavy through my veins. “One more game, and the winner takes all.”

I chewed on my inner cheek, wondering how I would answer the question he was bound to ask me. I looked down at the board and began setting up my pieces one last time.

The wind outside picked up, alerting us to the signs of an early autumn storm. Dried leaves and other debris were tossed carelessly at the window, mixed with the louder
pat-pat
of water droplets against the glass. The crackling of the fire in the fireplace joined the chorus, and I breathed in deeply the homey smell of the pine logs. I absently fingered the smooth polished wood of a counter in my hand, remembering games I had played with my father and with Michael.

“Your move,” Stuart said, his voice low.