Colder than here — that’s for sure.
We were in the thick of December by then, the temperature dropping off into the low thirties. It was only going to get colder the deeper into winter we went. That meant less visitors. Less dog walkers. Less joggers. Less families. Less of everything.
You know this used to be a prison camp?
Sure feels like one.
During the Civil War, I said. Over five hundred thousand Yankee soldiers, right here. Couple thousand at a time, freezing their asses off in the open air.
You’re lying.
It’s true.
The more we talked, the more our breath spread over each other. Good way to keep warm. Our mouths were our radiators now.
Since when did you become such a history buff?
They used to march prisoners over the bridge, I said. Corralled them together like cattle. They went through the whole winter out here like that. Freezing. Starving.
Sounds familiar.
Slid in next to her. Nestled my knees into the back of her legs, just where they bent. Had my face pressed against her shoulder, breathing into the bone.
They’d bring a surgeon out to check up on the men in the morning, figuring out which limbs he had to saw off from the frostbite.
Everybody in this city’s a goddamn Civil War aficionado, she said, inching off without me. Figured that was the end of the conversation — up until Benny turned back around, asking, So you gonna hold me, soldier? It’s cold out here.
Yes, captain.
Fell asleep first. I was always falling asleep before Benny — drifting off to the sound of her cough, these short retorts right at my ear, like some soldier in the trenches, the sound of musket fire just over my head.
Brought my daughter to Belle Isle once. Couldn’t even tell you when anymore. Years ago. A different life. Packed a picnic and everything. Had to get there early, just so we could lay claim to one of the broad rocks resting along the river. We’re talking prime real estate here. You ended up battling the sunbathers for the best spread. The Battle of Belle Isle.
Don’t go out too far, hon, I said. You’ve got to be careful about the currents.
Benny always had to hold me when I woke up. Wrap her arms around me so I didn’t buckle, bring me back to the present tense.
You’re okay, you’re okay, she’d say. Just another bad dream, that’s all.
Everywhere you step on this island, there’s another history lesson under your feet. Signs saying what happened at that very spot, almost two hundred years ago. Nothing but plaques in the ground. Never would’ve realized this place could hold so much pneumonia, so much dysentery. That’s Richmond for you. Too much history for its own good. Whole city’s a graveyard. It’s only when you have no home to call your own that you can see this place for what it really is. You’re standing on the graves of men no matter where you step.
The prison camp had been directly below the highest mount on the island, overlooking the river. I remember bringing Benny up there, showing her the view for the first time. We could see the Capitol building up north. To the west was Hollywood Cemetery, on the other side of the James. Petersburg wasn’t but so far off, if you squinted hard enough.
Can’t see why those soldiers wouldn’t just swim for it, Benny said, shaking her head. Lord knows I would.
They’d try, I said. End up getting shot right there in the water. Their bodies would drift downriver. Never set foot on dry land again.
How do you know about all this stuff?
I just pay attention is all.
Pay attention. A good parent pays attention.
Let’s go down there, she said, pointing toward the north side of the island.
Where?
Those big rocks — down there. Where the sunbathers all go.
I’m not setting foot down there, Benny.
Why not?
It’s off limits to us.
There’s a dam still standing, upstream, left over from the hydroelectric plant. Steers most of the water northward, around the bend and into the rapids. There are signs posted all around the island, warning families about the rapids. Always have a parent supervising swimming children, they say. Don’t let your kids go out too far unattended. A bit of the river’s funneled south through this concrete canal, into what’s left of the turbines. Generated enough electricity to light up half of Richmond back in the day. Benny’s body slipped around the south, into the canal. If she hadn’t been dead when she entered the water, she was once she washed into the turbines. Her green paper gown was wrinkled, clinging to her skin like tissue. One sock on her left foot, nothing on the right. Reminded me of those sheep you see getting their coats shorn clean. Once the wool’s been buzzed off their bodies, what’s left behind seems so much smaller than what was there before. Pink skin. Thin frame. Legs don’t even look real.
I’m staring at Benny, lying on her side in the turbine — and I can’t help but remember her all bulked up in her jackets, a layer of long johns underneath. She’d just gotten another coat, three sizes too big for her, pulled it out from the lost-and-found at some church. Made her look like a little girl wearing her daddy’s jacket, her hands swallowed up by the sleeves. Now she’s naked. I’m noticing all the bruises I’ve never seen before, the abrasions. All the liver spots and melanomas that were hidden from me. Her wrinkles are full of mud, as if the river has tried washing the years away. I’ve never seen her face so smooth. I can almost imagine what she looked like when she was a girl, like in that photograph. The mud in her hair has dyed the white right out, back to natural brown. Chestnut eyes to match her new brunette curls.
I see the expression in her eyes, glassed over — those last few thoughts that passed through her mind as she wrestled with the river, fighting for dry land.
Afraid. She looks like she was afraid.
I’m imagining her numb hands thrashing through the water, reaching for anything that’s going to save her. She’s wearing some sort of ID bracelet, orange plastic snapped into place. Her arms are so thin, nothing but skin and bones. The bracelet slides all the way up to her elbow.
Have her listed as DOE, JANE. Bastards even took her name away.
She’d been complaining about a cough all week. Hacking up phlegm in her sleep. Sounded awfully deep. Whatever it was, it was rooted within her chest, beginning to block her breathing. The air couldn’t reach her lungs without sounding wet.
Jesus, Benny. You sound terrible. Think you better have that looked at.
You my doctor now? Where am I gonna go?
How about a hospital? I asked, pressing the back of my hand against her forehead.
Hospital? Nah. Need to sleep it off is all.
It was easy to feel the fever burning through. Felt so warm, I couldn’t help but keep my hand there a little longer than I needed to. Hold onto that heat for a while. Couldn’t help but think about all those soldiers, sitting in the cold. Sickest prisoners were always taken to the hospital just on the other side of the island. They were made to stand and wait until their names were taken. Could’ve been hours before they got called up. If they survived that long, they were led to a ward already cluttered with dozens of others. Sheets were never cleaned. Beds full of vermin. These doctors would rush through the ward like it was a race, seeing who could finish first. I never blamed Benny for distrusting doctors. But there she was, sounding like she was drowning from the inside out. Running her finger along the anchor tattooed on my arm, only sinking deeper into her own lungs.