“That’s right,” Sylvia said. “That’s…sort of what happened.”
A noise in the hallway behind her made her turn. There stood Brigid Coneval and several of her other neighbors. Somehow, almost as if by magic, everyone knew when a Western Union messenger brought bad news. Had anyone doubted the news was bad, the look on Sylvia’s face would have told the tale.
“Oh, you poor darling,” said Mrs. Coneval, who, if anyone, knew what Sylvia was feeling at the moment. “You poor darling. What a black shame it is, with the war so near won and all.”
People crowded round her, holding her and telling her they would do what they could to help. Someone pressed a coin into her hand. She thought it was a quarter. When she looked at it through tear-blurred eyes, she discovered it was a gold eagle. She stared in astonishment at the ten-dollar goldpiece. “Who did this?” she demanded. “It’s too much. Take it back.”
No one said a word. No one made any move to claim the coin.
“God bless you, whoever you are,” Sylvia said. She started crying again.
Mary Jane said, “You’re going to have to go to bed without any supper, because you aren’t eating your pork chops.” Small things mattered to her; she didn’t understand the difference between what was small and what was not.
Sylvia wished she didn’t understand that difference, either. Not understanding it would have made life much simpler and much easier…for a little while. Life wasn’t going to be easy, not ever again. Life probably wouldn’t be comfortable, not ever again. If she lost her job at the shoe factory, she’d have to find another one, and right away. If she didn’t find another one right away, her children would go hungry, and so would she. Even if she did, money was going to be tight from now on.
What could she do if she lost the factory job? She had no idea. She couldn’t think. Her wits felt stunned, strangled. She knew she had to use them, but they didn’t want to work.
“Mourning clothes!” she exclaimed suddenly, out of the blue. “I have to fix up some mourning clothes.”
Brigid Coneval put an arm around her shoulder and steered her back to the sofa in the front room. When the Irishwoman pushed her down, her legs gave way and she sat. “You wait right here. Don’t move, now. Don’t even twitch. Back in a flash, I’ll be.” She hurried out of the apartment.
Sylvia didn’t move. She didn’t think she could move. George, Jr., and Mary Jane, seeing their mother upset, picked their way through the crowd of neighbors and crawled up into her lap. She did manage to put her arms around them.
“Out of my way, now. Move aside.” Brigid Coneval spoke with as much imperious command as General Custer or some other famous war hero might have used. She thrust a tumbler of whiskey at Sylvia. “Drink it off, and be quick about it.”
“I don’t want it,” Sylvia said.
“Drink it,” Mrs. Coneval insisted. “He was a good man, your George, sure and he was. Hardly ever a cross word from him did I hear. But he’s gone, darling. You may as well drink. What could you do that’s better, pray?” She rolled her eyes. “Drink!”
Without much will-without much anything-of her own, Sylvia took the glass and gulped down what it held, choking a little as she did. As far as she could tell, it didn’t do anything. Her head was already spinning. “What am I going to do without George?” she asked again, as if one of her neighbors might know.
No one answered. As Mrs. Coneval had, people kept praising her husband. He would have been a happier man had they said all those nice things about him while he was there to hear them.
Then Sylvia started to cry again as another thought struck through the walls of grief and liquor. “He won’t even have a funeral,” she said. “He would have hated that.” Fishermen dreaded being lost at sea. They ate of its creatures, and did not want those creatures turning the tables.
After a while, even in the midst of disaster, routine reasserted itself. Sylvia had to put the children to bed. After she did that, she went to put the pork chops she hadn’t been able to eat into the icebox. She discovered a couple of silver dollars and a tiny gold dollar on the kitchen table, along with some smaller coins. When she opened the icebox, she found a dressed chicken in there she had not bought, and also a package wrapped in butcher paper that might have been sausage or fish.
“Thank you,” she said. “Thank-” She couldn’t go on. Brigid Coneval put her to bed, much as she’d taken care of George, Jr., and Mary Jane. She lay awake and stared and stared at the ceiling. What will I do? she thought, endlessly, uselessly. What will I do?
When his name was called, Jefferson Pinkard marched up to a pair of officers, his Tredegar on his shoulder. “Pinkard, Jefferson Davis,” he said, and then his pay number. He tossed the rifle down on a growing pile of weapons.
“Pinkard, Jefferson Davis,” echoed a Confederate captain from divisional headquarters. He had a list of the soldiers in Jeff’s regiment. After lining through his name, he turned to the other officer and spoke in formal tones: “Jefferson Davis Pinkard has turned in his rifle.”
“Jefferson Davis Pinkard has turned in his rifle,” the other officer agreed. He was also a captain, but wore a uniform of green-gray, not butternut. He lined through Pinkard’s name on his copy of the list.
Yankee officers freely crossed the line between their positions and those of the CSA these days. Confederate soldiers had to obey them as they obeyed their own officers. Confederate officers, even those of higher rank, had to obey them, too. The Yanks didn’t sneer or gloat, but they didn’t take any nonsense, either.
One by one, in alphabetical order, the soldiers of his regiment surrendered their weapons. Hipolito Rodriguez came only a few men after Pinkard. Once he’d thrown his rifle onto the stack, he came over and stood by the big steelworker. “Finito,” he said.
That was close enough to finished for Jeff to understand it. “Yeah, it’s done,” he said. “It’s done, and we got licked. Who the hell would have reckoned on that when we started out?”
Rodriguez shrugged. “Asi es la vida,” he said, and then translated that: “Such is life. Now they must send us to our homes once more.”
“Bully,” Pinkard said in a hollow voice. He hated the west Texas prairie, no doubt about that, but he dreaded going back to Birmingham, too. What had Emily been doing since the leave when he’d walked in at just the wrong moment? Even if she hadn’t been doing anything since then (which, knowing her, he found less likely than he would have wanted), could he live with her once he did get home? Or-the other side of the same coin-could he live without her?
And how was he supposed to go on living next door to Bedford Cunningham? That was a smaller question, but not a small one. They’d been best friends and foundry partners for years. But Bedford wouldn’t be going back to the Sloss Works, not shy an arm he wouldn’t, and how could you be friends with a man when you’d found your wife naked on her knees in front of him?
Hip Rodriguez sighed. “I hope everything goes good for you, amigo.”
“Thanks,” Jeff said. “Same to you.” Here, unlike talk about going home, he could speak freely. “I never knew any Sonorans before you. You’re a good fellow. You ever get tired of trying to scratch out a living down where you’re at, you bring your family on up to Alabama. Plenty of good farm country there. You’d live high on the hog.”
“Thanks, amigo, but no thanks.” Rodriguez’s smile was sweet and sad. “I want to go home. I want to talk espanol, to see my friends and family. And in Sonora, I am a man. In Alabama, I am a damn greaser.” He tapped a brown hand with a brown finger to remind Pinkard of what he meant.
In the trenches, Jeff had long since stopped worrying about their being of different colors. Hip was right, though; it would matter in Alabama. Jeff put the best face on it he could: “It’s not like you was a nigger.”