34. Sad Tidings

1865 APRIL 10, MONDAY

34

The day the world righted itself was the day my world tilted on its axis. It happened when Mrs. Zimmerman found me in the vegetable garden clearing winter debris. The rain had let up, and although still cold, the sky was clear.

"Better come inside," she ordered in her thick, German accent. "No good, no good."

She always looked at me with disapproval. Nothing I did seemed to please her, and getting my hands dirty made her frown.

"I'll be in for the noonday meal," I told her, turning back to the discarded detritus in the garden bed.

"Better come inside, Mrs. Chisholm," she demanded again.

"Why?" I finally asked.

"Post is here."

I stopped, confused, searching her face for an answer. Obviously, her English was lacking. Otherwise, she would have been able to explain herself better.

"News and a letter," she repeated. "From the army."

My heart lurched. Mrs. Zimmerman followed behind me, waddling on her thick legs. She didn't say a word as we entered the house. I went to the table in the entryway and saw the newspaper folded, with two letters on top. The paper was dated today, and headlines blared with news of the Confederate surrender.

The war was over.

I exchanged a look with Mrs. Zimmerman.

"It's over," I told her, shocked. I never thought it was going to end. And just like that, it was done.

For the first time, Mrs. Zimmerman's face broke into a brilliant, wide smile. She said something in German I did not understand, clasping her hands and looking to the heavens. Although I did not know what she said, I knew she was praising God.

I picked up the two letters. One from Pa, and the other had been posted from North Carolina, but I did not recognize the address. It bore the mark of the Fifth Vermont Infantry, Brett's regiment. Blood rushed in my ears, and I knew what I was about to read. Mrs. Zimmerman did as well, as she worried her lip. I opened the letter, and it was dated March 23rd. Three weeks ago.

Dear Mrs. Corporal Brett Chisholm,

I regret being the bearer of sad tidings. Your husband fought honorably during our most recent engagement at Fort Fisher. He even saved one of our officers, shortly before he took a bullet in his side. Corporal Chisholm was the most loyal man I had ever had the privilege to know. He was a warrior, if ever I saw one.

Today, I visited him in the hospital, and he wished for me to write to you to tell you he was sorry he could not keep his promises. He said this was for the best, though, because now he would be with his Lord, and he hoped you would find peace in knowing. Shortly thereafter, I received word he had passed away in his sleep. He felt no pain as he slipped into the afterlife. He will be buried along with his comrades, who sacrificed for the preservation of the Union and the freedom of all. I will send his effects to you after I post this note.

Again, I regret to be the one telling you the sad news. He will be gravely missed among his regiment and his comrades. I hope this letter finds you well. Many condolences to you and his family.

Sincerely,

Lieutenant Charles T. Allchinn

I read it again to make sure I understood correctly. My mind fogged. The war was over, yet he was gone.

"Vhat?" Mrs. Zimmerman asked, but I ignored her.

Brett was dead. Shot by a Rebel bullet. Shot in the side. Bled to death. He would not march home. The war was over, but he would not march home.

"Lieutenant Charles T. Allchinn," I whispered to myself as I finished reading it over for the second time.

"Who?" She appeared nervous, rubbing her hands together in apprehension.

"He's dead," I told her, handing her the letter, not knowing if she could read it.

She looked at me in shock and then glanced down at the letter. I turned away from her, opening Pa's letter. I barely digested his words as he revealed he will surrender the ironworks and himself to the authorities. He was going to confess everything he knew about Ethan and his involvement with the Confederacy. I was angry. I was furious. I would never be able to return home.

I was angry at Brett for leaving me, for dying and breaking his promises. I was angry at Pa for betraying me, for his involvement with Ethan, for putting me in this position, and for his damn honor that demanded his confession.

An unbidden sob wrenched from my chest. I clapped my hand over my mouth. I left the letters with Mrs. Zimmerman and ran to the bedroom, shutting myself in. I had to remind myself to breathe.

Trembling with searing fury, I shuffled through my drawers until I found my hidden whiskey bottle. The sip seared my throat.

I screamed, not caring who heard me. I wanted to rage, to flail my limbs until I was spent. The bottle, cold in my grip, left my hand with my throw, shattering against the wall.

Glass scattered on the floor like the remains of my heart.

Mrs. Chisholm sat in shock, her chin trembling and her eyes glistening. "My last, and youngest, son is dead?" she asked for confirmation.

I nodded and she parroted my nod.

"Well," she whispered, her voice cracking with emotion, "you should probably go tell Clara. I don't think I can."

I squeezed her hand, but she withdrew it away from me and clutched her handkerchief to dab at her eyes. She was trying her best to hold her composure. I stood up from the settee and left the parlor. As soon as I stepped onto the stairs, I could hear her gut-wrenching sobs muffled in the settee cushions. I bowed my head, sad for them more than for myself. Of anyone, I dreaded telling Clara.

When I went to Clara's room, she said, "I'm not well today, I'm afraid. My company will be poor."

She didn't look sick, but her hair was down in a long braid, and she was dressed in a green-and-gold-threaded, silk-embroidered dressing gown. A wedding present.

"I need to speak with you. May I please come in?" I asked.

"I suppose so," she said, opening the door all the way so I could enter. She walked back to her bed and got back under her quilt, propping herself against the pillows. I followed her in, closing the door behind me, and took a seat by her bedside.

I fidgeted with the ends of my shawl. Silence passed between us, and then I finally took a deep breath and gathered all the courage I could muster.

"I got a letter today?—"

"From Brett?" Her face lit up.

"No, it wasn't from Brett …" I began. This was hard. I just needed to come out with it. The shock and adrenaline were starting to wear off. My shoulders drooped. "The letter I received this afternoon was from a lieutenant in Brett's regiment. He was shot at the Battle of Fort Fisher. He didn't survive his wound, Clara."

Clara stared at me. She appeared paralyzed, her eyes unblinking and her lips parted. She didn't breathe, but just sat still, her face like stone, like an alabaster bust. Her eyes grew wide, as if she were seeing a fire gaining before her and she was unable to escape, but watched helplessly while it engulfed her and burned her mercilessly to death.

"Brett's dead," I said again, as if she hadn't understood, but the truth was, I was beginning to fear the look on her face and the sudden, stale silence. Thick like the musty air in a cellar.

Her eyes watered, her lips quivered. "He can't be. I would have known. We're like one, he and I. We're twins. We came into this world together, we should leave this world together. No …" She tried to repeat herself, but instead, her words were repeated in silent sobs. She shook her head and then buried her face in her hands. I placed a comforting hand on her trembling, arched shoulder. She brushed my hand away. Blotches of crimson stained her wet cheeks, her eyes a fiery glare.

"How dare you!" she yelled. "How dare you!"

I recoiled back into my chair. "W-w-what?" I stammered.

"You took him away from me! You deceived him! Made him think that you loved him, but you never did! I bet you haven't even shed a tear for him yet! I'm ashamed to ever have called you sister!"

"Clara, I'm so sorry." I did not know what else to say, I was so taken aback by her outburst. But part of me understood. I was angry too.

"You are the most selfish person I've ever met! You led them on. You let them hope, and then you killed them!"

"Pardon?"

"Don't act like you don't understand me! You know rightly well what I'm talking about! I'm not daft! I know! You took them away from me—both John and Brett! I loved them both with all my heart, and you took them away from me! They are the only ones I've ever loved, and both of them loved you. Now they are dead because of you! Oh, and I must not forget Matthew!"

She knew! How much did she know?

"Don't you dare!" She held up a finger, stopping me when I opened my mouth to speak. "I know he fell in love with you, too, and he proposed, but he wasn't good enough for you! I'm not blind! I saw how Matthew looked at you! All the men look at you like that! I won't be surprised if my own husband dies and never returns! And you know what? I'll have you to blame! You're like poison! You come on quickly without warning and kill them while they gradually become paralyzed and blind with obsession, and then you consume them, and they are lost forever! They all fell in love with you, and they are dead! Think about it, Ella. Think about the destruction you've caused! If you genuinely loved them, as I did, they would both be alive!"

Her tirade burned like a hot poker. I swallowed the sting, not wanting her to see the effect of her words.

"Get out of my room! I never wish to lay eyes on you again! You are nothing but a conniving, manipulative whore! Get out!"

I sat there in shock. She threw off her blankets in a flurry and stood, glaring at me, her eyes burning. When I didn't move, she raised her hand and slapped me. I didn't notice the force of her long, thin fingers, but as soon as her hand left my face, my cheek burned. I put a hand to my jaw and moved my mouth to release the numb, tingling feeling in my lips.

"You don't know what you're talking about," I told her. "I loved your brother, and I loved John with every fiber in my being. Maybe it is my fault that I let them both love me, but don't ever think or even tell me that I was the cause of their deaths!"

"Oh, shut up! Shut up!" She covered her ears with her hands, like a child who didn't want to hear she was wrong.

"It's because of this war, Clara, not because of me! It's taken everything we love. Yes, it is my fault that I let them both leave without telling them how I truly felt, but I wasn't the one at the other end of that barrel! I wasn't the one with my finger on the trigger!" I didn't even know why I was trying to defend myself. I was beginning to feel the shame of guilt, just like the burning in my cheek.

"Get out!" she screamed again, walking to the door to show me out. She stomped her foot.

I swallowed my pride and anger. I wanted to hurt her with words worse than she used to hurt me. When I reached the door, her hand flew over her mouth, and she rushed to the washbasin by her vanity to retch. If she hadn't angered me, I would have been by her side to rub her back as she vomited, but now I didn't care. I left the room and the sounds of her gagging and sobbing.

I leaned against the wall in the hallway and slowly melted to the floor, gathering my knees against my chest and finally succumbing to tears. I couldn't help but wonder if Ethan was right about a curse, whatever that was. Whenever I realized I actually loved someone, it was always too late. I lost them all—Robert, Mother, John, now Brett and Pa. I could have loved Brett. My affection for him could have turned to love. He was easy for everyone to love. Now I would never be able to tell him that. He knew when I said I loved him that it wasn't sincere. It was only for his sake. Oh, Brett, I'm so sorry.

What had I done? I sat there, my face buried in the folds of my dress, and muffled my whimpers, these thoughts haunting me and circling me like vultures. I couldn't live like this. I just couldn't! Everything was lost to me now.

I must have sat in the upstairs hallway for quite a while as I regained composure because when I got downstairs, I was surprised to find Mr. Chisholm in the parlor. Mrs. Chisholm still cried in her handkerchief while her husband comforted her. They both looked up when they heard my footsteps.

"How did she take it?" Mrs. Chisholm dabbed at her face.

I shook my head and looked down at my clasped hands. "Not well."

Mr. Chisholm nodded. "I'll be over to see you tomorrow."

A dismissal. I pulled my boots back on and walked out of the house—numb and fatigued—to leave them to their grief.