The Road Home

  The following pages contained photographs of letters sent and received by soldiers in the Vermont militia. Most were unreadable, the spidery handwriting difficult to decipher. Fortunately, next to each letter appeared a transcription of the contents. Burke read through some of them.

  He found himself drawn particularly to a letter identified as being written by one Amos Hague, a soldier in the 3rd Vermont Infantry, to his fiancée, Tess Beattie, back home in Sandberg. For one thing, he could actually read it. For another, it included a sketch—remarkably well done—of a sweet flag plant. Curious to see what the sketch had to do with the letter, Burke began to read.

  My beloved T:

  How long has it been since I last saw you? It seems an eternity, though I know it is less than three months’ time. Much has transpired since I last wrote, but I will not waste words or time on descriptions of war, except to report that last night my good friend William Holburne succumbed to fever brought on by an infected wound. I have spoken of William to you before. He was a young man of only eighteen years, gentle and full of spirit. I considered him my brother and sought to look after him as much as I could. I feared this day would come, as the very young seem always to draw the eyes of the Fates upon them, but now that it has, I find myself unable to grieve the loss of him. It is but one more thing this war has taken from us, the soothing power of tears. Or perhaps I am simply afraid that should I allow myself to mourn, I shall never stop.

  I comfort myself with thoughts of you. Our last kiss lingers still on my lips, and the taste of you relieves both thirst and hunger. Two days ago, while marching to our current encampment, we passed through a marshland where I plucked sweet flag and tucked it into my haversack. At night, in the darkness of my tent, I crush it ‘tween my fingers and hold them to my face. The scent remains for an hour or more, during which I recall afternoons lying with you in the grass. I hear your laughter and feel your sun-warmed skin beneath my hands. Whispering your name, I fall asleep and dream.

  It is just past dawn. We will be moving on shortly, to where, I do not know. I know only that it takes me another step, another mile away from you. I pray that soon the day will come when I turn my face homeward. Then I will not walk but run to you as swiftly as these feet will carry me.

  Your devoted companion,

  A

  Burke ran his fingertips over the drawing of the sweet flag. It was detailed enough that he could almost feel the hundreds of tiny bumps on the spadix that rose up from between the leaves of the plant. It seemed such an odd thing for a soldier to focus on. Then he reminded himself that the soldiers had been other things first, farmers and teachers and shop owners, who had been called up to fight for the North. He wondered what Amos Hague had been before he’d put on the uniform of a Yankee soldier, and what he’d gone back to following the end of the war.

  He searched the book for more letters written by Amos Hague but found none. Nor was there any information on the man, apart from the fact that he had been part of the 3rd Vermont Infantry. From other chapters in the book, Burke learned that the unit was instrumental in several key battles of the war, including encounters at Gettysburg, Antietam, and Fredericksburg. Amos’s role in these skirmishes, however, went undocumented.

  Burke read until his eyes grew heavy. As the first lines of dawn cracked the dark face of the night, he fell asleep again. He found himself standing in a field. The grass, green and high, was stained with blood. Around him lay fallen soldiers, some dead, some near death. A few were merely wounded.

  Burke himself was unscathed, as if he had just that moment materialized out of thin air. A man, his leg shredded below the knee and the life quickly draining from him, lifted a bloodied hand and pointed at Burke with trembling fingers. His mouth opened, but no sound came out.

  Then Burke heard his name called. He turned, searching for the voice, and saw a young man lying not far off. The front of the soldier’s uniform was stained with blood, and he was pressing his hand to his chest. Once more he called Burke’s name, his voice faltering.

  Burke tried to run to the boy but found that his feet refused to move. He wanted to take the soldier in his arms and comfort him in his last moments, but could only stand and watch in horror and despair as the stain on the young man’s uniform grew larger and the light in his eyes flickered out.

  He awoke with a gasp. For a long, terrifying moment he thought he was unable to breathe. Then his lungs drew in air, and the terrible weight was lifted from his chest.

  “Good morning,” his father said. He was standing at the foot of the bed, regarding his son with a bemused expression. “Sleeping in today, are you?”

  Burke looked around. “What time is it?” he asked.

  “Half past seven,” his father answered.

  Burke groaned. “That’s sleeping in?” he said.

  “How’s the leg?”

  “Still broken,” said Burke.

  His father nodded. “I can see that,” he said.

  “It hurts,” said Burke. He was tired and irritated, and it felt as if his father was teasing him.

  “Means it’s healing,” his father said. “We need to get you up soon, get the muscles working again.”

  “Swell,” said Burke. He noticed the cup of coffee in his father’s hand. “I don’t suppose there’s any more of that?” he asked.

  “Whole pot of it,” his father told him. “Want to come down and have a cup?” He chuckled at his joke. “I’ll bring you up some with breakfast. You should be hungry. I see you didn’t eat your supper.”

  Burke glanced at the forgotten peanut butter sandwich. It looked none the fresher, despite a night of rest. “I should have told you, I apparently developed some kind of an allergy to peanuts,” he lied. For some reason he wanted to spare his father’s feelings, although he had no reason to think he would be offended.

  “Good thing you had only a bite, then,” said his father. “Figured it out before it was too late.”

  “Yeah,” Burke said. “I guess I wasn’t paying much attention when I picked it up.”

  “I assume you’ve got no allergy to pancakes?” his father asked as he picked up the plate.

  “No,” Burke replied. “Pancakes are fine.”

  His father walked to the door. “I’ll be back in a bit,” he said. “I’ve got to meet Mars out at the barn first.”

  “Mars is here this early?” Burke asked.

  His father chuckled. “A country vet never sleeps,” he said. “I guess you’ve forgotten what it’s like out here after all those years in the city.”

  “I’m not sure Boston’s the city, but it’s certainly a pretty nice one,” Burke said, unable to contain his irritation.

  “Mars has made a nice life for himself here,” his father said. “His son seems likely to stick around, too.” He paused. “Anyhow, I’ll be back shortly. Lucy’s gone off to run some errands, so it’s just us fellows this morning.”

  Errands? Burke thought. At seven thirty in the morning? What’s wrong with these people?

  His father retreated downstairs, leaving him to stare out the window. Now that he was more awake, Burke noticed Mars’s pickup parked outside. A minute later he saw his father walk across the yard as Mars emerged from the barn. The two men shook hands. Burke’s father said something, and Mars turned his head and looked up at the window of Burke’s room. For a moment his eyes seemed to look right into Burke’s. Then he laughed. So did Burke’s father.

  Anger rushed in. Burke was clearly the subject of their amusement. Probably his father was telling Mars how his lay a bed, city-boy son had slept the day away, while they had already tilled the field, milked the cows, and raised a barn.

  Then there was his father’s comment about how great Mars’s life was. Compared to mine is what he meant, Burke thought. And what was that about Will staying in Vermont? He knew his father thought that he’d made some bad choices in his life, but did he really resent so much that Burke had left Wellston? Had he really expected his son to stay a
nd become—what—a farmer? A schoolteacher? A country vet?

  Apparently so, he concluded. And did he really think it was fair to compare his life to Mars’s? Burke bristled at the idea. But was it really so unexpected? After all, he and Mars had both been raised there. Why had one of them left and one of them stayed?

  Burke knew the answer to that question. He’d had to leave, not only because he wanted to see what else the world had to offer, but also because staying in Wellston would have meant forever hiding who he was. Mars could stay because he was one of them. He fit in. He was everything Burke wasn’t.

  This realization irritated Burke more than he expected it to, not because he wished he had Mars’s life, but because he resented that it was a life Mars was afforded because he played by the unwritten rules of small-town life. He hadn’t fought for it, hadn’t risked anything, hadn’t risked alienating anyone by daring to break out.

  And now he’s the one down there laughing with my father, while I’m up here playing the prodigal son, he thought. It wasn’t the way the story was supposed to end. In his version he would have come home triumphant, having conquered the world, found love, and achieved fame and fortune. Instead, he couldn’t even take a piss without someone’s help.

  Whoever said there’s no place like home was never a middle-aged gay man laid up in his childhood bedroom, waiting for coffee, while his high school crush joked about him with his father, he concluded. Because that story doesn’t have a happy ending.

  CHAPTER 8

  “Are you trying to kill me?”

  Burke leaned against the hallway wall. The pain in his leg was excruciating. His head throbbed, and for a moment he thought he might pass out.

  “The doctor says you need to start moving around,” Lucy said.

  “The doctor is a vet,” Burke argued. “And I’m not a calf.”

  “Well, you’re certainly acting like one,” said Lucy. “Honestly, you’d think I’d asked you to play hopscotch, the way you’re carrying on.”

  “It hurts,” Burke insisted. “I want to go back to the bed.”

  Lucy shook her head. “To the end of the hall and back,” she said. “Now.”

  Burke gritted his teeth and steadied himself on the crutch. Had both his arms been usable, it would have been difficult enough, but with one in a cast, it was almost impossible. He had to put his weight on the single crutch and hop forward on his left leg, then shift his weight to that leg and bring the crutch even with that foot. On his first attempt the injured leg clanked against the crutch, making him yelp.

  “See?” said Lucy. “That wasn’t so bad.”

  “For you,” Burke snapped. “For me, it was fucking horrible.”

  “Language,” said Lucy. “Don’t let your father hear you talk like that.”

  “Why?” Burke asked. “Is he going to wash my mouth out with soap?”

  “I imagine you were a difficult child,” Lucy mused as Burke attempted once more to move forward. “Your mother must have had quite a time with you.”

  “My mother never would have tortured me like this,” said Burke.

  “Oh, I’m sure she would have,” Lucy said. “She’d have known it was what you needed.”

  After another painful five minutes they reached the end of the hall. Burke, relieved, turned around. “Happy?” he asked Lucy.

  “Very,” she said. “Now, I suppose you want to get back to bed.”

  “That’s the general idea,” Burke answered as he began the long trek back to his room. Although it was fewer than twenty feet, it might as well have been a mile. To his surprise, however, he seemed to be moving more quickly than he had on the outbound journey.

  “Like a horse to the barn,” Lucy joked as Burke employed the awkward forward-step-swing maneuver.

  “Can we stop with the livestock references?” said Burke. The door to his room was not far off, and he covered the remaining six or so feet with only a few stops.

  “While you’re up, we should probably change those shorts,” Lucy suggested. “You’ve worn those for three days now.”

  “I asked Gregg to pack some sweatpants,” Burke said. “Those should fit over the cast.”

  Lucy went to the dresser and opened one of the drawers. She looked through the clothes and pulled out a pair of sweats. Then she looked at Burke thoughtfully. “Probably time to change the underpants as well,” she said.

  “I’m good in that department,” Burke said quickly. “But thanks.”

  “Suit yourself,” said Lucy. “Now, let’s get those shorts off.”

  Ten minutes later Burke was propped up in bed, wearing the sweatpants and a white T-shirt. His leg had stopped aching, and apart from wishing he could wash his hair, he felt almost human.

  “I think I may be up for a shower later,” he announced.

  “Excellent,” said Lucy. “Another few days and we’ll have you downstairs.”

  “That would be nice,” Burke said. “I’m starting to feel like one of those princesses locked in a tower by her evil stepmother.”

  “So that’s how you see me, is it?” said Lucy, feigning offense.

  “Exactly like that,” Burke replied. “And you know what happens to evil stepmothers.”

  “They get all the money and send the kids to boarding school,” said Lucy. “Not bad work, if you can get it.”

  Burke laughed. Then he said, “Are you and Dad going to get married?”

  Lucy turned from the dresser, where she was rearranging things, and cocked her head. “Do you want us to?” she asked.

  “No,” Burke answered quickly. “I don’t mean no,” he added. “I mean, I don’t care one way or the other. I was just wondering.”

  Lucy shut the dresser drawer. “I don’t think so,” she said.

  “I’m sorry,” said Burke, afraid he’d embarrassed her. “I just assumed he might have asked by now.”

  “Oh, he’s asked,” said Lucy. “Several times. But I told him I don’t want to be married.”

  Burke, surprised by her answer, couldn’t help but ask, “Why not?”

  Lucy sat at the end of the bed. “This may sound strange,” she began, “but it’s because of the gay marriage thing.”

  “You’re protesting by not getting married?” said Burke. “But gay marriage is legal in Vermont.”

  Lucy shook her head. “I’m not protesting,” she said. “Although I do think everyone should be able to marry the person they love, and I don’t see why anyone cares.”

  “Then I don’t understand,” said Burke.

  “Part of the reason for wanting gay marriage is so that partners have legal rights,” Lucy said. “And that makes sense. But personally, I think the main reason is that they want their relationships validated—seen as equal to the marriages the rest of us have been able to have basically forever. I understand that as well. It’s important that we all be treated equally.”

  “But?” Burke asked when she didn’t continue for a moment.

  “But marriage isn’t about what other people see or think or feel,” Lucy said. “It’s about what the people marrying each other feel. I love your father very much, and I don’t need a piece of paper or the blessing of the state to prove that. I want to be with him because I don’t want to be with anyone else, and I want him to be with me for the same reason. I’ve been married,” she added. “And it was wonderful. But it was never about what anyone else thought.”

  “And you decided this because of gay marriage?”

  “I started thinking about it during all the debates,” said Lucy. “Then when your father asked me to marry him the first time, I had to make a decision.”

  “What does Dad think about this?”

  Lucy laughed. “He’s horrified. Says we’re living in sin and scandalizing the whole town.”

  “That sounds like Dad, all right,” Burke said.

  Suddenly the joy on Lucy’s face turned into something else. “I know it hurts him,” she said softly. “He doesn’t entirely understand why I can
’t do this one thing for him. I’m sure he fears that it means something.” She looked at Burke. “And sometimes I wonder if I’m not being selfish.”

  “I think you’re doing what you feel is right,” Burke said.

  “I like to think so,” said Lucy. “Still, it seems ungrateful to not take part in something so many other people wish they had the right to take part in.”

  “I don’t know why anyone wants to get married,” said Burke. “I think the whole thing was cooked up by lawyers so they can get rich off of divorce.”

  “You don’t want to get married?” Lucy asked.

  “You need a boyfriend for that,” said Burke. “And I’m not so good at keeping those around.”

  “Which explains why you’re here,” Lucy said.

  “Which explains why I’m here,” Burke agreed.

  “But this Gregg fellow—”

  “Says that I’m overbearing,” said Burke.

  Lucy patted Burke’s foot. “I can’t imagine why,” she said sweetly.

  “Gregg and I gave it a try,” Burke told her. “It just didn’t work out.”

  “And he’s the only man in Boston?” asked Lucy.

  “All the other ones think I’m overbearing, too,” said Burke.

  “Maybe you should try Chicago,” Lucy joked.

  “Am I interrupting something?”

  Burke’s father entered the room. He was carrying a large cardboard box, which he set down next to Burke on the bed. “I thought you might be interested in these,” he said.

  Burke looked at the box, which, judging by the streaks of dust on it, had recently been removed from either the cellar or the barn. “What is it?”

  “Just some things that belonged to your grandfather,” his father told him.

  Burke lifted one of the flaps holding the box closed and peered inside. The box was filled with half a dozen old cameras and assorted pieces of photographic equipment. He reached in and picked one out. “A Kodak Brownie Hawkeye,” he said, holding up what was essentially a square plastic box. “Very old school.”