Literary Sampler: Essays, Book Reviews, and More...
Monthly Column by Charity Gingerich

I shifted uneasily, feeling my frown deepen. Was this guy touched in his topnotch? And why did he seem so familiar? Unconsciously I reached down to finger the photo in my pocket, wishing, I suppose, that Tom would chime in about now. He’d been all too happy to earlier.

As if he’d read my thoughts, the hand grasping my fat notebook lost its grip, sending it skidding off into the grass, showering reams of neatly typed paper left and right before coming to land thunk next to a sun-warmed rock.

“Dangit!” Blowing a frustrated puff of air at the wisps of ponytail that had strayed into my eyes, I started off into the tall grass after my precious papers.

“Hang on there, better let me get those.” He peered cautiously into the tall grass, turning to grin sheepishly at me; “never know when we might disturb a mamma-diamond you know.”

“I’m not from around here. But I should have thought of that,” I replied, mumbling the last phrase more to myself than him.

“Where you from?”

“Ohio.”

“Really? I grew up in Franklin County. Prettiest place in the world.”

I was a loyal Ohioan, but this sentiment seemed a bit heavy-handed. Again I fought the urge to exclaim “are you serious?!” He obviously was.

“Ah. Yes. Well, if you don’t mind, I’ll just track down the papers over here on the trail.” We shuffled our separate ways, he to Ohio and I to Venice, the heaviness of the afternoon’s heat settling between us.

After a few seconds of gathering papers I heard him begin a strange litany: “Poppin? No. Toots? That’s not it either. Miss Froggle Star…naw. Shoot the rooster.”

“Excuse me?” I’d straightened and now it was my turn to stare.

He laughed sheepishly, as if surprised at being overheard. “You remind me of my sister Bets. Spunky as moonshine on ice. She had all these names, see. I was trying to remember one that would fit—you, that is.”

“Well…It’s a bit tame, but you can call me Olivia.”

“Olivia,” he said, as if tasting it. “It fits. Reminds me of honey ice cream.”

“Ah.” I didn’t even want to ask.

“So, Olivia, do you write for a newspaper?”

“Sort of. But these are stories.”

“Real book-stories—like Robinson Caruso? Haven’t seen one of those since I was a kid.”

It didn’t occur to me that he’d want to get started reading ‘real book-stories’ again—right then.

“Well…they’re about my relatives—things that happened long ago. Boring stuff.” When he didn’t reply I turned, puffing like a fat troll who’d been conned into forking hay for his lunch. Without asking permission, my strange helper had perched himself on the sun-warned rock—he must have found the area safe—knees to chest, hat pushed to the back of his head, his nose mere inches from the page.

‘HEY! I bellowed, flabbergasted.

He remained motionless, like someone straining so hard to hear a far-off sound, all else fades.

“Young man? If you are currently employed here it won’t be for long.” I started towards him, intent on wrestling my manuscripts back if need be.

Midway to the rock, I hesitated, realizing that the pocket with Tom in it had grown heavy. I reached down to see if taking the photo out of my pocket lessened its weight. It did, but only slightly. The typically half-ounce picture continued to weigh like a small rock in my palm.

“I knew you’d be trouble from the minute I agreed to bring you along,” I informed my interfering friend heatedly. “Give me one good reason why I should I be okay with letting some young snip Civil War buff—if that even—read my work?”

The kid must have thought I was still talking to him, because he broke out of his little Sir Roland-and-bugles moment just then, looking up with a lopsided, apologetic grin.

“It’s just…I saw my name at the top here and…I’ve started it now. You’ll let me finish, won’t you.” It was not a question. A certain tightness had settled around his mouth that discouraged argument, even an authorial one. I shrugged, plopping down in the grass, feeling suddenly too weary to deal with snakes and snoops. I propped Tom up beside me and glared at him as I answered:

“Of course, go ahead. Have at it. Be my guest. I couldn’t care less. And did I mention I need feedback on it too?”

But he was off with the bugles again. His “yesss” was distant, almost a whisper, and the freckles that a moment ago had melted in with his deep tan were now distinct orange flecks on his nose and cheeks.

“You’re doing the solider piece, right?”

I didn’t really expect an answer.

Tom looked at home lounging beside me in the meadow-length grass. He also looked smug. “Oh, so now you’re going to tell me this dude is one of the reasons I was supposed to come here? Of course. Why didn’t I think of that myself?” My feeble sarcasm didn’t faze him, and our repartee was just hot and popping when the stranger interrupted. Well, he didn’t exactly say anything, but when I happened to glance up he was staring at us as if watching a live show. Some color had returned to his face, though his freckles still appeared too bright, as if they’d been buffed. His eyes retained a far-off look, as if he was still orbiting a different planet.

“Who you talking to?”

What could I say? I held my friend up. “Meet Tom, my traveling companion.”

The soldier scrambled down off his rock. “Hey is that—“ His eyes popped wide, nearly rivaling the freckles.

“It’s a photograph. Have a look.”

He reached for it as if about to inspect one of the world’s most novel discoveries. But the expression on his face passed swiftly from eager delight to stunned disbelief as he examined it.

“Do you—how?—Tom,” he finally managed, his voice thick. The name sounded strangely at home in his mouth, but he handed the photo back with a hurried gesture clumsy with reluctance. I was about to ask how he knew the name of my soldier, but my pocket kicked me. I shrugged, knowing by now it was best to do as I was told.

“Anyway. He may have died here. Tom. On this very battlefield.” I looked around, trying to imagine the battle, to feel it and know, somehow. Instead, I heard only birds talking with their mouths full in the cramped branches overhead.

“Killed, here?” His eyes looked beyond me as if he rather expected Tom to walk up at any moment.

“Or maybe earlier, in Virginia. That’s what his brother believed, and what the books say.”

He grunted.

“I’m thinking of doing a follow-up on the piece you just read.”

“Another war story, eh? About Tom?”

“What’s with that tone, ‘another’ war story?” I knew I sounded like a four-year-old, but was piqued.

“You mean pitch? Should I have said it higher?” He reached for his falsetto.

“Do you realize how much research I’ve done?” I hissed, looking around defiantly. I pointed to a tree. “I can give you forty-seven different species of trees and plants that grow here.”

His calm nod didn’t exactly stroke my ego. “They didn’t see much combat here. Musicians.”

“That one,” I said, pointing, “is a cedar glade.”

“Though they near wore out their pipes the night before this battle.”

“Are you quibbling with my facts?”

“Except for the part about Mother, you’re pretty dead on. Pardon the expression.”

“Wait a minute…how do you know Tom was a musician?”

“Then again. In the fighting we didn’t much care who was holding a gun or who a bugle.”

“Could we focus here? Which part about your mo—the mother?”

“You should write it. Tom would be proud for you to tell his story. But,” and here he tapped the papers he was still holding for emphasis, “only if you let me help.”

“Oh really?” It was meant to be a challenge but came out a squeak.

He remained silent. I could have sworn just then that Tom himself had jumped out of his photo and was standing there, staring me down. I resisted the urge to check my pocket.

For a moment my body felt as if it was passing through spider-fog of an extraterrestrial time-zone. Or maybe it was just the heat. But no. I was suddenly hearing the throbbing pulse of the past, of thundering guns, hooves and shouts, with my ear nowhere close to the ground. I had joined a conversation I’d not bargained for.

My companion gave one of his startlingly noisy laughs, remembering something more than just my earlier question. “Mother threatened to thrash me when I told her I wanted to sign up for Lincoln.”

“And when you did enlist?”

“She marched out to the fields where we were cutting hay and dumped a bucket of cold water over my head. Said she didn’t mind cooling her boy off on a hot summer day while she still had him.”

I looked down at my research journal, dimly remembering what I’d written about the dead being nothing but…well, dead. How flippant the words seemed now.

“And Tom? How do you know this Tom, my Tom?”

He stared at a far-off piece of sky for a long moment, and when he looked up tiny silver minnows swam in his eyes. “Kid brother.”

I was definitely going to have to start writing in pencil.

We stood and looked at each other as if on opposite sides of a moat. Like two people centuries apart trying to figure out how to shake hands. Finally, fumbling a little, I reached into my pocket, pulled the photo out and looked solemnly at Tom.

“I can’t say ‘I brought you home,’ can I? Since you did the bringing.” In the light his eyes had gone from hard slate to light blue, and there were smile crinkles at their edges.

Slowly, I reached Tom towards the soldier. “It seems he belongs to you then.” A grape-sized lump rammed my throat. “Isaac’s Tom.”

He motioned away the proffered photo. “I don’t mind sharing him.”

Obeying a sudden, instinctive impulse of gratitude, I reached to shake his hand. He stared at me for a long moment, wiping his palm up and down his faded coat once, twice, three times, before offering it. The touch of it was light as air and warm as a cow’s sunned flank. Before releasing it I glanced over his shoulder at my proud cedar glade, thinking what stories it could tell given the chance! A tall figure was leaning casually against its trunk, and when he lifted his cap to us, I saw that it was Tom, and he looked mighty pleased.

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Copyright © 2008 by Charity Gingerich.

About the Author: Charity graduated from Kent State University with a BA in English, as well as minors in writing and history in 2006. This fall (2008) she will be entering the MFA in Creative Writing program at West Virginia University where she will be specializing in poetry. Charity always welcomes any questions/suggestions about this column. Click Here to send her an email.