9. What the Deserter Concealed

“You think Boniface Antony is going to kill us! I thought you thought he wasn’t out to kill civilians. You said Mr. B said what he said because he was mad at the soldiers for stealing the milk.”

“Yes, I did say that.”

“I believed you!”

“I believed me.”

“What changed your mind?”

“I couldn’t stop him from bringing his things into the cellar. I was afraid that, if I tried, he’d know we suspected him. He’d kill you and Tante Laurencia and the deserter once he was finished with me.”

“You said you’d protect us!”

“Yes, and I would do my best. But do I know how to stop a man? I’ve never killed a mad dog, let alone hit someone.”

“You might have stood up to him. Or to the deserter! If you ask me, that critter has no right telling people what to do on our premises. He doesn’t live here. Besides, he didn’t even know that we had a cellar. What if we didn’t?”

“It’s farbay, Loydie. Over. Done. Boniface Antony’s things are down there now. We can’t watch him if he sneaks away from us. We need to watch him before he sneaks away, and either try to keep him upstairs or think of a reason to go down there with him."

“And leave Mama with the deserter?”

Events were turning quicker than milk left in the summer sun, but, alas, I had no time to consider the flies swimming in it. Mama was calling for us to take the coverlets off our beds and bring them downstairs post haste.

Two men, civilians, sat in front of the fire, hugging themselves and leaning forward as if sharing secrets with the flames. Their teeth were chattering, and their cheeks were dabbed with little patches of red and blue. The older of the pair was in a brown plaid suit bigger and louder than any plaid I’d known to exist. The hems on the sleeves and trousers receded, as though the clothing had enjoyed a prior episode of shrinking. Each frozen parcel thanked Mama as she wrapped a coverlet around him. They looked up in gratitude, too, as the deserter, who had seen fit to raid the cupboard, poured coffee into cups from what I knew was the tea set Mama reserved for birthdays and other celebrations.

The man in plaid introduced himself as Ambrose Hodnett, and his companion as Lewis Groves. They were photographers working for the Richmond Dispatch, he said. Their wagon, horses and equipment had been stolen. “We had no choice but to walk until we could buy horses or until we reached Richmond ”

“Deserters.” Boniface Antony had the gravity of a governess who has successfully predicted the naughtiness of her charge. “Where did this unfortunate lapse in morals occur?”

Mr. Hodnett thought. “Maybe four, five miles from here, wasn’t it, Lew?”

Mr. Groves grunted. “More like ten.”

“You sure of that? We walked ten miles in a snowstorm?”

“We’re froze enough for ten.”

“Allow me to understand the situation, sir,” the deserter said. “Your wagon is a photographer’s studio on wheels, correct?”

“Indeed, it is, sir. You’ve got that right.”

“How was it possible for somebody to abscond with a photographer’s studio on wheels, and you not notice him doing so?”

“We stopped at a farm where the owner was said to offer refreshment. We came out, and the wagon was gone. We’re not sketch artists. We can’t take pictures of the war without cameras. We thought we’d head back to Richmond.”

“You’re traveling around a theater of war, and you don’t have a pass for safe conduct?”

The laugh had the appeal of splashing through puddles on a winter’s day. “Like I said, we’re lost. And we’re no longer in possession of our possessions. We’re strangers in a strange land, trusting that people will act like Christians and treat us right.”

Mama disregarded the bit about the Christians. It was an expression often pronounced by people who didn’t know any better. Mama never failed to help them know better, and to take delight in the learning. “I’ll fry some eggs for you,” she said. Without delay, the deserter upped and said he would go to the henhouse.

He tossed on one of the shawls we kept on a peg near the back door, but he forgot something to put the eggs in. I perceived a chance to speak with him, and dashed after him with a basket.

“Daddy!” I shouted before I was out the door. I wanted Anshel and Mama to know I was with the man. I hoped he would understand that everyone knew I was with him and not try anything untoward.

The henhouse was in the back of the barn, behind the empty boxes where the sheep and goats once lived. The deserter’s horse and Boniface’s horses were in the two front stalls, where Daddy had once lodged his own horses. I didn’t realize how small the deserter’s horse was until I saw it in close proximity to the beast Boniface had ridden onto the premises. Both animals whickered as I passed.

The deserter acknowledged me without looking up. “In truth, Miss Elodie, I don’t know if I want these eggs cooked for those two malcontents or thrown at them.”

Who was he calling malcontents, the photographers? I confess I backed up a step and almost ran to the house. “Why? They’ve been cruelly set upon.”

“Out of the mouths of babes,” the deserter said. He had turned a little away from me and his head was down as he inspected the nests, but it seemed to me that he was smiling as he spoke. And then his voice became louder and stern, as if he struggled to dispel his mirth.

“They had no business talking about their misadventure in front of you and your mother. If you ask me, the Good Lord saw fit to punish them on the spot for indulging in their natural urges. They’re lucky; He could have struck them dead. If I hear any more talk about refreshment, I’ll drive them out of the house. No decent Daddy would let a man recount that sort of thing in front of his wife and daughter.”

My real Daddy might not have approved of the tale, but I doubted he’d have driven anyone out of the house. The subject, though, gave me the chance to let my false daddy know how I felt about the situation. “I hope you don’t mind us all playacting to help you, sir, but I can’t believe myself when I call you Daddy. Could I please call you by your real name?”

He set one egg atop the other, fitting them with the care of a stonemason setting bricks. “This isn’t a big, working farm, Miss Elodie, so I’m of a mind to say your daddy wasn’t a farmer before the war.”

“He was a lawyer, sir. But we had a couple of horses, and we kept a few sheep and goats for wool and milk. Were you a lawyer, too, sir?” I added as the deserter’s eye brightened.

“My own daddy was a lawyer.”

“But what about you?”

“I was a teacher.”

“Of what”?

“Sunday school.”

The stress he placed upon the phrase reminded me that some people of his faith might not be pleased about being presented as someone of my own faith. I could barely hear myself asking him if my family had embarrassed him.

“Your father’s name is David,” he replied. “The Old Testament tells us that David was a great leader. While still a boy, he slew Goliath. Our Lord Jesus Christ was a descendant of David.”

“Then you’re not embarrassed?”

He had begun to open the barn door but closed it again, squinting against the tail of gritty snow that blew in. “Miss Elodie, we are the recipients of coincidence. Your father’s name is David. My name …”

I waited. There was something about the preamble that made me think he was going to come out with something grand in the Biblical style, like Jeroboam or Moses. But hardness shuttered his eye.

“My name is your father’s name,” he said, and opened the door, holding his kippah down against the wind.