“Go back! Why? . . . I told you, he’s not the man I thought he was.”
“Nevertheless, you made a vow before God that you would cleave to him ‘for better or for worse, in sickness or in health.’ ”
“I know, but—”
“ ‘As long as you both shall live.’ ”
“But he’s a drunkard, Mama. You want me to live with a drunkard?”
“You made those solemn vows to each other before God. If Horatio isn’t abusing you, and if he is providing for all of your needs, then you must keep your vows—for better or for worse. I understand that this is one of those ‘worse’ times, but you made a solemn promise. You have to go home to him.”
“Mama, no! Please don’t make me go back there.”
“It isn’t up to me, Beatrice. You promised God. In His eyes, you and Horatio are no longer two separate people. You’ve become one. And Scripture says, ‘What God therefore hath joined together, let not man put asunder.’ I would be disobeying Him if I allowed you to stay here.”
“But I’m so miserable in Roseton. There’s nothing for me to do all day, and his parents hate me, and Horatio doesn’t care about me anymore, and I’m so angry with him for lying and for drinking—I don’t want to go back to him!”
“You can stay for a visit and take some time to calm down. But you are a married woman now, and the Bible says you must leave your father and mother and cleave to your spouse.”
Bebe folded her arms on the table and lowered her head on them. “I can’t live that way for the rest of my life!” she wept. “It’s like a prison.”
“No one says it has to remain that way for the rest of your life. That choice is up to you. You can always pray for your husband. Ask God to help him overcome his weakness. Fight for him. God is stronger than the enemy who has captured Horatio. Do you believe that?”
“I don’t want to fight for him. I don’t care what happens to him! I’m tired of holding all my feelings inside, tired of trying to be polite to his hateful mother and trying not to nag my husband. I can’t stand living there another day!”
Hannah stroked Bebe’s hair. “I hear a lot of anger and bitterness, Beatrice. Even if your circumstances created those feelings, you’ve been wrong to harbor them and nurture them. Horatio and his family might have helped to sow the seeds, but you’re the one who has allowed them to grow in your heart, untended. Bitterness is like a weed. Remember how hard it always was to pull out thistles once they take root? Remember how deep those roots grow, and how if you just snapped off the end of it, the plant would grow right back? You have to dig down deep inside. Let God search your heart. Let Him show you what’s there and help you root out all that bitterness. Then you can pray for forgiveness.”
“Why should I ask for forgiveness? This is all Horatio’s fault.”
Mama rose from the table and tied an apron over her dress. She would have to get dinner on the table soon. “You may stay for a few days, Beatrice, and we’ll talk some more. I’ll pray with you, if you want me to. Once you’ve asked God to search your heart, you’ll be able to go home with a renewed love for your husband. You’ll be able to help him. And you’ll also be able to show God’s grace to his parents.”
“They’ve never liked me, Mama. They’re probably glad that I’m gone.”
“Nevertheless, it sounds as though they’ve been showing grace to you if they’ve been feeding you and clothing you and providing a roof over your head.”
Bebe didn’t want to hear any more of her mother’s advice. And she certainly wasn’t going to heed it. The fault in her marriage was Horatio’s, not hers. Mama was wrong. And Bebe was never going back to him.
“I’m going for a walk.” Bebe knew her mother could use help, but she didn’t want to talk about Horatio anymore. She put on her tight-fitting city shoes and went outside. Hannah didn’t stop her.
The farm was so beautiful and lush during these early summer months. Bebe had missed the view from the barnyard of rolling hills and fences, the verdant green pastures and trees, the sedate black-and-white cows grazing in the distance. She could see a wide swath of azure sky above the Pocono Mountains, and smell fresh earth-scented air—so different from the city. If Mama wouldn’t let her stay, maybe she could find a job in New Canaan like Franklin had, or work as a hired girl for one of the town’s more prosperous families. Maybe she could be a schoolteacher. No matter what, she would never go back to Horatio.
Bebe followed the familiar path beside the pasture that led to the river and the rope swing. The riverbank had become overgrown with brush and weeds since she’d left three years ago, and the river had dried up into a stream half its size. She looked around for the swing but it was gone. All that remained was a ragged, rotted end of rope dangling from a branch high above. Bebe felt the loss as if the swing had been an old friend. She sank down in a heap on the dusty ground.
“Let God search your heart,”
Mama had said. Deep down, Bebe knew that she still loved Horatio—the old Horatio from their days at the hospital in Philadelphia and when they’d visited Niagara Falls. She wanted him back.
Fight for him.
Bebe remembered how she’d nearly drowned after leaping from the swing into the river. That’s how she felt now—like she was drowning. She had wanted to die when Mr. Garner said Horatio must be unhappy with his marriage. But should she let despair overwhelm her this way? She had fought to survive her plunge into the river, battling her way back to shore. And if she wanted to save her marriage, she would have to do battle again. Where would she ever find the strength?
A long time later, Bebe returned to the farmhouse, still unsure what to do. Franklin had arrived home for supper and her father had come in from the barn. “Hello, Papa,” she said as she gave him a brief hug. “It’s so good to see you again.”
“Where’s your husband?”
Bebe glanced at her mother before replying. “Horatio didn’t come with me.” She hoped her face didn’t reveal her emotions as the four of them sat down at the table to eat, along with the hired hand who now worked for her father. Bebe strained for something to say to change the subject. “Mama never mentioned in her letters that you’ve been working in town,” she told Franklin.
“That’s because they just hired me about two weeks ago. I can get along pretty good on my new wooden leg, but Pa and I figured out that farming is just too hard for me. Too much mud and manure to slip around on.”
“Do you like your new job?” She thought of Horatio and how he hated working at the tannery.
Franklin shrugged. “I’m getting used to it, little by little. Mr. Freeman wants to retire as stationmaster, so if all goes well, I’ll be replacing him in a few years.”
“Did Franklin tell you that he has a girlfriend in town?” Mama asked. She wore a pleased smile on her face.
“That’s wonderful, Franklin. Who is she?”
Franklin’s cheeks colored, and Bebe remembered how ghostly pale he had been in the hospital. “Remember Sadie Wilson?” he asked. “Her pa has a farm west of town. I haven’t asked her to marry me or anything. She’s only my girlfriend.” He paused and his blush deepened. “But I think I might like to marry her, if she’ll have me. I’m going to save my money to build a house for us in town, near the station.”
Bebe had to hold back her tears when she remembered all of Horatio’s promises to build a house for her. She hoped Franklin mistook them for tears of happiness. “I wish you and Sadie a lifetime of happiness,” she said.
They finished their meal and the rest of the rhubarb pie, then the men went out to do the evening chores while Bebe and her mother washed and dried the dishes. Late in the evening, after her parents had gone to bed, Bebe decided to confide in her brother. “Can I ask you something, Franklin? . . . Do you ever dream about the war?”
He shrugged. “Not really. Why?”
“Horatio has terrible nightmares about the war. He wakes up screaming and trembling. . . . He says that the only way to make the dreams stop is to drink whiskey.”
Franklin sighed and sank onto his chair again, massaging his knee. “We both saw some pretty terrible things, Bebe. Men blown to pieces . . . and some of them were our friends.” He shook his head as if to erase the image. “Horatio seemed more bothered by sights like that than the rest of us. I always figured it was because he was a city boy and wasn’t used to seeing animals slaughtered—all the blood and guts. . . . Yeah, he had a pretty hard time with it. I was surprised he enlisted in the first place, him being wealthy and all. I always gave him a lot of credit for not buying his way out like a lot of other rich fellows did. But it seems like he got sick more often than anyone else and couldn’t always make roll call.”
“That’s because Horatio was weak and ill as a boy,” Bebe said. “His mother told me that they nearly lost him several times from pneumonia, pleurisy, influenza . . .” Bebe didn’t know why she had come to his defense. Why make excuses for him if she was furious with him?
Franklin nodded. “I remember one doctor who seemed to have it in for Horatio. He kept sending him back to fight, even if he was coughing or feverish. Accused him of faking. Horatio tried to report in sick on that last day when we were both wounded. Said he had the flux real bad, but the doctor sent him right back to fight with the rest of us. Bad luck that he got shot that day.”
Bebe wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer to her next question but she asked it anyway. “How did it happen? Did you see him get wounded?”
“You never see the bullets coming, Bebe. We were fighting side by side. Horatio always stuck pretty close to me. Said I was his good luck charm.” Franklin smiled crookedly. “Some charm! Anyway, the Rebels were throwing all the ammunition they had at us. I suddenly felt this jolt in my leg like I’d been kicked by a mule. Then unbelievable pain. Blood everywhere. Horatio put down his rifle and helped me tie a tourniquet around my leg like they showed us how to do. Probably saved my life. He was supposed to keep charging forward with all the others, but he didn’t. When I finally got up the nerve to look down again and saw what was left of my leg, I passed out. Horatio dragged me back to an aid station. Next time I woke up, he was still there beside me. He’d been wounded in the foot.”
“Was it a minie ball?”
“No, a bullet. Doctor said it was from a revolver—like the one Horatio always carried.”
“What are you saying? . . . You think Horatio shot himself?” Along with everything else Bebe was discovering about her husband, she was beginning to fear that she had married a coward.
Franklin held up his hands. “I’m not saying anything. He’s a good fellow at heart. And quite a talker. He kept us entertained on those long marches and on the nights before a big battle when we were all too keyed up to sleep.”
“I wish you would have told me that he drank a lot. I wouldn’t have married him if I had known.”
Franklin stared at her in surprise. “I didn’t know that he drank, Bebe, I swear. I never saw him drinking—least not any more than the rest of us. If he was drinking on the sly, I think I would have known. Why? Is there a problem?”
She shook her head. Horatio’s problem was no longer hers. She had left him for good.
Franklin climbed wearily to his feet, hanging on to the arms of the chair for support. “Well, I’m bushed. We should call it a night.
Can we talk another time?”
“Sure. And I’m sorry for making you think about the war.”
“It doesn’t bother me.”
She watched him hobble toward the downstairs bedroom that used to belong to their parents. It was his now that he had difficulty climbing stairs. “Franklin?” she called. He stopped and turned to her. “Make sure you keep your promise and get that house built for Sadie, even if it’s just a cottage. She won’t care how fancy it is if she loves you.”
“Hey, don’t cry,” he said when he saw her tears. Franklin was as awkward with his emotions as their father was, but he limped back over to her. “Are you all right? Can I do anything? You helped me out when I was low, Bebe.”
And helping Franklin was how she had met Horatio. She quickly wiped the tears away. “I’ll be fine. Good night, Franklin.”
The rooster awakened Bebe the next morning at dawn. She joined her mother in the kitchen. Bebe hadn’t cooked in three years, but she mixed the dough and rolled out the biscuits as if she’d made them only yesterday. She had missed the sticky warmth of the dough beneath her fingers, the velvety softness of the flour. By trying so hard to be the woman Horatio envisioned her to be, she had lost part of herself. Worse, she didn’t like the person she had become, a woman who did nothing productive day after day, living a life of gossip and frivolity. But Bebe also realized as the day progressed that she didn’t belong here at home, either. She was no longer a child.
After lunch, she joined Hannah in the vegetable garden. The early summer sunshine warmed her back as she attacked a crop of weeds with the hoe. Hannah knelt in the dirt, thinning a row of young carrot plants. “I’m sorry that your life hasn’t been what you’d hoped it would be, Beatrice,” she said. “I understand how you feel, because the early years of my marriage were very difficult and lonely for me, too.”
“At least Papa was never a drunkard.”
“True. But like most women, I also came into my marriage with expectations. I imagined that my home here on the farm would be a little paradise, where Henry and I would work together side by side, sharing our lives and our dreams. But you know what a solitary man your father is. He’s a good man, and he lives right before God, but he doesn’t have any idea how a woman needs to be loved. His first love is for his land. He knows his farm and his animals inside and out, but he doesn’t know me at all.”
Bebe stopped and leaned on the hoe, looking down at her mother in surprise. She had never imagined that Hannah was discontented.
“The first years after I married your father I was very lonely and unhappy. Henry never knew how to talk to me. Then the boys came along, one right after the other—and they didn’t talk to me very much, either,” she said with a little laugh. “I don’t think I ever told you how grateful I was for your companionship, Beatrice. But by the time you came along I’d learned to turn to God. We can’t expect other people to meet all of our needs, all of the time. Only Christ can do that perfectly. That’s why I know that if you turn to Him, you’ll find contentment.”