Doves Migration (17 page)

At the Honeycutt mansion, as the minutes passed into hours, Sarah
kept silent vigil in the couple’s bedchamber. Intuitively she knew that
Michael was still pacing the library floor waiting for Tad, just as he had
every night that week. Like her husband, she too paced the floor, praying
Michael would be able to come to terms with what had happened in the
past so that all of their futures could be brighter.

Knowing the torment Michael was putting himself through, blaming
himself for his son’s radical behavior, Sarah desperately wanted to help
ease his burden but knew this was something he had to work through on
his own. Fighting his inner demon was not his only concern and she
wondered how long Michael would be able to refrain from speaking his
mind, watching his only child stagger in well past 4:00 a.m., reeking of
alcohol, night after night.

To keep herself busy, Sarah decided to catch up on correspondence
with her friends back home, hoping to find some comfort in them since
there was none to offer her or the man she loved.

Within moments of opening her first letter from the Mason’s, her heart
sank. Fairfax was besieged with such unthinkable changes in such a short
time since the war had ended. The small ravaged town was now filled with
Carpetbaggers from the north, strangers not accustomed to the southern
way of life and furthermore, not interested in any of the traditions. These
men were there for one purpose and that was to make sure that the traitors,
whom they clearly despised, adhered to the new laws of the Union.
Holding positions as judges and federal marshals, accountable for several
towns in their jurisdiction, they were responsible to make changes
immediately.

All across the south, these men came into towns carrying carpetbags
and stayed only long enough to determine new law and order, then moving
on, leaving a path of uncertainty behind. Many newly appointed lawmen
were hand-picked by these strangers to the communities. Their choice of
who should hold positions of importance was based primarily on if they
had ever pledged their allegiance to the rebel cause. Many were mere
overseers or sharecroppers, now able to tell their past employers what to
do.

Even more shocking was that some of these newly-appointed lawmen
were Negro men, educated from the north. Panic and hate flooded the
hearts of the southern townsmen, no longer free to govern themselves since
it was feared they may rise up again and rebel against the new laws.

Lee’s troops were engaged in a new battle. However, this one was
fought on no battlefield, using no weapons that could be seen. This attack
was aimed at the very core of these prideful men and what they had fought
so hard for to begin with. Men and women alike, who had suffered
immensely from the war, were now in an invisible bondage, forced to
adhere to the new laws as hate filled their hearts.

Irma wrote of a new General Store that had opened up on Main Street
filled with much needed household goods, staples and farming tools, along
with new fabrics from up north. However, the prices of the goods were
high. Many of the white families having no income, their fields barren, and
no seeds to plant or no money or any valuables left to barter with, went
without--leaving them with hate in their hearts as they watched others able
to buy the things they so desperately needed. Many of whom were former
slaves, who seemed to have more than the white families did. They were
the ones being hired at the new establishments in Fairfax and in Centerville
alike. Everyday, news came of white families leaving their properties to
travel west, leaving everything behind to start fresh with only what they
could carry.

Oh dear, how awful,
she thought, rubbing her eyes that were strained
from the dim light of the room. Finding her place again, she read on and
was shocked to find that Jessie now worked at the new General Store in
town. Apparently, his salary was twice what Michael had been sending him
and he had been seen around town with Clarisa, Gweneth and Noah’s
former slave. Clarisa and Jessie were now living at the old Green’s
homestead since the day following Lincoln’s assassination. The new Mayor
gave Jessie ownership of the property now that the federal government
owned this unclaimed property. Stunned, Sarah shook her head unable to
comprehend such changes in such a short span of time.

Why didn’t Jessie just ask us for more money? We would have gladly
given it to him! What is poor Mammy doing with out him?
Quickly she read
that Jessie and Clarisa were expecting a child some time in the fall.
Jessie
and Clarisa, going to be parents? Oh poor Mammy must be heartsick,
worried about her boy and his newfound freedom along with trying to take
care of Doves Landing too.

Painfully aware that the boy she helped raise was never one to hold his
tongue being so willful, Sarah feared trouble would certainly find him, if
he wasn’t already looking for it on his own. Closing her eyes, feeling
hopeless, she said a prayer for her beloved former slaves and friends back
home.
Maybe I should return
. . . she thought, then as if answering her own
question she said to herself.
No! My husband needs me. I cannot leave him
now. Please dear God help those I love back in Fairfax
.

Staring into the flickering light of the lamp, holding back the tears
stinging at her eyes, Sarah knew that if Michael saw she had been crying,
he would only worry more than he already was.
For Michael’s sake I must
be strong
. . . she pledged.

Redirecting her attention back to her letter, she discovered the
remainder of the news was primarily about the girls at the school, and how
every day or so another showed up at their doorstep--some from as far
south as North Carolina--claiming they had nowhere else to go. There were
now twenty-eight young girls at the school. Reading about the girls, Sarah
whispered to herself, “Whew, Glenbrook sure isn’t quiet anymore.”

The rest of the letter explained daily life at the school. And how
fortunate they were that Lucas continued to send what money he could,
making good on his promise to do so through the harvest when the fields
should produce enough food for all of them to sustain the winter.
Oh I hope
you are right, dear friend,
she thought while folding the letter neatly to
show Michael later.

Straining to hear and recognizing the familiar sounds of the rocking
chair from the sitting room in the lower level of the home, Sarah leaned
back in her chair, suddenly feeling very tired. Not giving into her heavy
eyes, she thought,
I wonder what time it is . . .

Looking about the second-story bedchamber, she couldn’t help but
notice how ominous the room looked. Shadows danced across the walls
from the flames that flickered off the kerosene lamp. Feeling slightly
uneasy and not willing to give into the temptation of having a good cry, she
opened the next letter she held in her hand. Seeing the smudged edges of
the folded paper in front of her brought a smile to her drawn face.
This
could only come from Verus Wiley.
Peeling away the wax seal, she eagerly
began reading his letter.

I hope this letter finds you in good health. I’m certain
that you are aware of how this small town of ours is under
Reconstruction and all the ramifications that goes along
with such acts.

Smiling, she realized her old friend wrote as he would an article for his
newspaper, reporting the news. Without saying so directly, she could tell
that his concern over “Reconstruction” was foremost on his mind. She had
heard Michael speak with his father of this often in the past few weeks and
understood that the taxation already had begun for the education of all
children, including Negroes, through a public school that was now
mandatory.

Sarah didn’t need to be told just how this tax would affect people from
her hometown, knowing only too well how grave a situation this actually
was. Such radical changes so quickly after the war could only add
dissension among the already tense situation. Remembering how only a
few years ago, such actions as teaching slaves to read and write was
considered a crime, Sarah was certain Fairfax was no place to be right now.

How on earth could that be of any use? No wonder there is tension in
the south.
She thought while placing the letter in her lap.
Doesn’t Congress
realize what the south needs now is for their lives to be restored with
necessities like food and clothing for their families; certainly not the
burden to educate their former slaves? We were better off before the war!

Michael, have you heard of a group, called the “White
Camellia”? This group founded in Tennessee, proclaims to
recapture the comradeship and excitement of the war, be
that as it may. Are you aware that Thomas has been asked
to be the head of this secret social club for his district? His
title is the ‘Grand Poppa’!

Hmm, White Camellia . . .
Sarah paused, thinking about this new
society.
How lovely this group sounds. I’m sure Thomas will do splendidly
being such a natural leader!
Eagerly she read on.

“Did you also know that Thomas has hired an old
army buddy and his wife to help out around Doves
Landing? Such a shame that Mammy has gone to live with
Jessie. The old boardinghouse doesn’t seem the same any
longer.

What?
Sarah's heart pounding in her chest, she quickly reread his last
line then shook her head.
Mammy gone from Doves Landing? How can that
be?
Needing more of an explanation to why Mammy Tess would move
from the only home she had ever known, Sarah quickly read more of the
letter.

Under the circumstances it is probably best for her,
besides since Clarisa is not well, I’m sure Jessie could use
some help.

Sarah quickly turned the single sheet over to see if something was
written on the backside then searched the floor to see if a sheet had fallen.
Realizing there was no other, she reread his letter again. Puzzled, she
wondered had her friend gone daft? What was he talking about, she asked
herself,
The best under the circumstances. What circumstance?
Rereading
the short letter yet again, Sarah was even more confused, seeing nothing
out of the ordinary that could explain such actions from her beloved
Mammy leaving her home like that.
And what was wrong with Clarisa?
Hadn’t Irma just said she and Jessie were expecting? Surely, Verus
wouldn’t refer to being in the family way as ill?

The sound of horse hooves echoing from the silent street below
distracted Sarah from the concerns of those back home in Fairfax. O
h
please God, let it be Tad,
she prayed
.
Pulling herself from the chair, she
stood motionless, afraid to breathe as the carriage came to a halt.
It is him.
Thank goodness!
She sighed, hastily tucking away the correspondence.

From the study, hearing the carriage come to a stop, Michael lunged to
the door overwrought with anger, concern, and self-pity for not being a
better father to his son. As Tad‘s footsteps approached, it was apparent to
Michael, who was standing in the doorway, that his son was intoxicated, by
his unsteady steps. Seeing his father through his drunkenness, Tad
attempted to tidy up by struggling to put his shirt back into his trousers.
Weaving back and forth, he brushed his hair off his bloody face and smiled.

“Father, how good
of you to wait up for me. It
wasn’t neces . . . sary
though!”
“Tad, you’ve been in a fight, and you’re drunk! I’d say it was quite
necessary! Here, let me help you, son,” Michael said, concerned while
walking toward the young man, offering him his hand. The emotional
turmoil that he had felt waiting for his son these past several hours
dissipated as concern for his son’s safety became foremost on Michael’s
mind.
“I can take care of myself. I always have. . . . Since when do you care
anyway?” spat Tad indignantly.
“Tad, I’ve always cared.”
Trying to focus on his father, Tad asked, “Is this a slow month for
current events? Or is it to show Sarah what a devoted husband and father
you are?” Glancing about and seeing no one else in attendance, Tad
defiantly pulled away from his father and rushed past him.
Stepping inside the foyer, Tad proceeded to the stairwell where he
dramatically waved his arm above his head. “Go to bed, Father. Tomorrow
you can be the doting father in front of your new wife and I’ll be the
grateful son. Now I’m far too tired.”
“Tad, you can’t mean those cruel words. I’ve always thought you
understood that it was my job that kept me away from you. How dare you
insinuate my concern for you is an act simply for impressing Sarah! Every
night this week I have agonized over where you have been and what it is
that keeps you out all night. Son, please do not walk away while I’m
talking to you. Let me see that cut over your eye.”
Shaking his head, Tad stumbled up another stair. “Always the reporter,
never the father. Am I now to be research for a character in your novel?
The great man who has a drunk for a son.” Sarcastically he laughed aloud
before continuing. “Father, you really must come up with better material
than that if you intend to continue with the successful life you’ve built for
yourself.” Obviously amused at his comments, he continued to snicker.
“What did you say to me?” Michael snapped in retaliation.
Not turning to acknowledge his father, ignoring Michael completely,
Tad staggered up the next stair raising his foot far above the step trying to
judge its distance.
“Son, please. Why won’t you talk to me? We used to have such grand
talks. Don’t you remember?”
Tad’s back stiffened hearing Michael’s plea and he responded coldly, “I
wanted to talk to you when I was ten, and when I was twelve. Even the last
couple of years would have been nice.” His words trailed off as he stood
weaving, holding onto the railing as the room began to whirl about him,
never turning to face Michael. Taking in a deep breath, he got his bearings.
“Now I don’t care to talk to you any longer. I’m a man now, so go find
yourself an interesting story to write about rather than your drunken son.
Maybe there’s another war going on . . . what? No war? Oh well Father,
maybe next year.”
Trying to find the words to help ease the pain his son felt and
struggling with his own guilt, Michael pleaded with him. “I’m sorry I
wasn’t here when you needed me, son. But you must have known I always
loved you.”
Tad jerked around. “Love? What do you know of love? You think
writing me your letters, telling me of your great adventures is
love
? You
loved your work. Not me! Why didn’t you quit your job when mother
died? You did for Sarah. Why couldn’t you do it for me or for my mother
when she was so ill?” he shouted while gripping onto the railing as his free
arm flung across his chest.
“Yes Father, I knew exactly how much you loved me. I grew up with
no mother and a father who thought a week’s camping trip once a year was
what I needed.” He glared down at Michael, the liquor giving him the
courage to say the words that he had kept bottled up inside of him for so
long.
“I needed you! I wanted you! Even when I begged for you to stay with
me, you left me alone.”
“Son, you never begged me to stay with you . . .”
“Every night I begged God to send you home to me. If you were home
where you belonged, you would have heard my prayers.” Never had
Michael seen such hate in his son’s eyes before as they burrowed a hole
through his tortured soul.
“Dear God Tad . . . I’m so sorry. I had no idea. How can I ever make it
up to you?”
Turning on his heels Tad walked up the remainder of the steps leading
to the second-story landing, standing erect and tall, no longer affected by
the drink as he was earlier. Glaring down at Michael he said, “Father, I
desire nothing from you--except an increase in my monthly allotment. My
funds are rather low this month, and of course, money has never been an
issue with you. I trust this will remain the same. As for trying to tell me
what is best for my welfare, well, you have been replaced. In the event I
require advice, my friends who have been here for me over the years will
do nicely.”
“What are you proposing, Tad? That I should hand over some money
and pretend nothing is wrong here? These friends of yours, were they there
for you tonight when you were hurt in a fight?”
“How dare you speak ill of my friends when they have stood by me.
More than you ever have.”
“I’m here for you now. Tad, I can’t just stand by and let you throw your
life away.”
“Father, tend to your own affairs and I shall do the same.” Giving his
father an icy stare, he shouted, “Good night.”
Michael, unable to respond or move, just watched as his son walked to
his room, wanting to run to him and try to explain. Instead, he remained
planted to the spot where he stood as if there were anchors at his feet
holding him in place. “Oh God what have I done?” His voice trailed behind
him as he returned to his chair in the library. “Forgive me, son, please
forgive me.”
Hearing the angry words of her stepson, Sarah wept silently for both
Tad and Michael. Unsure exactly what she should do, she left her
bedchamber and crept into the darkened hallway. Glancing at the closed
door of her stepson’s room, she hesitated.
I should go to him, the poor dear
needs a mother figure now
. . .
Knowing Tad’s current frame of mind, she concluded he might
consider this an invasion of his privacy so instead, Sarah slowly went down
the stairs to find Michael. Silently she stood at the doorway to the library
where she found him staring out the window into the darkened night.
Seeing her reflection in the window Michael turned and sheepishly said,
“Dearest, I thought you went to bed hours ago.”
Realizing this could be the difference in their relationship, if she let
him go through his pain and suffering alone without discussing together
what had just taken place, Sarah decided to go to him. Offering her hand
she said tenderly, “Come darling, let’s go to bed. Nothing can be done this
evening. Perhaps tomorrow we can help our boy together.”
“Oh Sarah, he hates me.”
“No. He loves you. He is just filled with resentment. Give him
time . . .”
“Time? But what if my time has run out? What if I’m too late?”
“It’s never too late, darling. You taught me that. Together we can help
your son learn to forgive and forget the past. But first we must work on
today, one step at a time.” Standing now and taking his wife in his arms, he
pulled her closer to him.
“Yes, but the step is mighty steep. I’m not sure how I can climb it.”
“You’ll find a way. I have faith in you. Now come darling . . . you need
some rest.”
Taking her by the waist, he turned to go up the stairs with his wife.
“How much did you hear this evening?” Michael’s voice sounded hoarse
and shallow.
“Everything. I wasn’t trying to pry or meddle, you must believe me.”
“Oh I know . . . it’s just . . .”
“Michael, please hear me out darling. Both you and your son are
hurting very deeply, and have for quite sometime. The only way you can
help Tad is to be open and honest with him and yourself. Before he can
learn to forgive you for his pain, you must learn to forgive yourself. What
has happened must remain in the past. Nothing you can do can ever change
that. But you can change the future. You have a bright future with your son,
if you both learn to let go of your pain. Tad must learn that parents make
mistakes too. When he does, and he will, he will then learn to forgive and
forget, and within time this will pass.”
“I hope you’re right.” Michael turned to look at the closed door of his
son’s room. “But where do I begin . . .”
“Just be yourself, and don’t stop trying to be his father. You are a good
and decent man whom I love very much. Show him your love and who you
are. The rest will surely follow.”
“You make it sound so simple.”
Responding with a reassuring smile, she knew neither of them was
fooled in believing it was going to be easy, especially after hearing the
venom that Tad had spoken to his father.
From inside Tad’s room, hearing the door shut to Sarah and Michael’s
room, Miranda slowly walked away from Tad’s closed bedroom door.
“They’ve gone to bed, Tad. Please let me help you,” she whispered, her
chest pounding through her dressing gown, seeing him remove his
bloodstained shirt and discarding it on the floor near his feet.
“Leave me be!” he whispered hoarsely bending over to pull off his
leather boots. “As kind as your offer is, I don’t need or want your help.”
Timidly Miranda made her way across the dimly-lit room, painfully
aware that if she were discovered in his bedchamber dressed in only a
dressing gown, and he half-naked, her reputation would be destroyed.
To add to her concerns, the gentle breeze that swept through his room
from the open window near his bed caused her sheer gauze nightgown to
hug her naked frame beneath the light material gown. Pausing at the foot of
his bed, uncertain how she would make it past him without him noticing
how skimpily she was dressed, seeing him bend over to remove his leather
boots, Miranda swiftly tiptoed past him.
Reaching the dry-sink in the corner of his bedchamber next to his bed,
Miranda’s heart pounded as she nervously stood silently watching Tad’s
reflection through the mirror hanging above the sink. With trembling
hands, she began to pour water into the basin trying hard to avoid his eyes
upon her.
Discreetly she looked at his reflection in the mirror admiring his
physique--his bare chest and broad shoulders--and caught herself just as the
basin was on the verge of overflowing. Feeling the water on the tips of her
fingers as they rested on the side of the basin, she nervously reached for a
linen cloth hung on the rail of the sink. After submerging it into the cool
water and sufficiently wringing it out and gathering inner strength, she
turned to look at Tad.
“If you need my help or not, I’m not leaving here until you let me look
at that gash over your eye. So what is it going to be? Are you going to have
another shouting match with me now, and alert everyone in the house that
I’m parading around in my nightgown like some floozy?” she asked, in a
hushed tone.
Hearing Miranda refer to herself in such a manner produced an
immediate smile across Tad’s lips. “Floozy? Why I don’t recall you ever
saying such a colorful term before. Perhaps I should have disturbed your
rest years ago to see the real you.”
Ignoring his snide comment, Miranda walked over to where he sat on
the edge of his bed, and hesitantly edged her way between his thighs to
view his wounds. Whispering softly, she said, “Kindly bend your head and
pull your hair from your face, Tad.”
Intensely he gazed up at her while brushing his hands through his hair,
tilting his head back as she had asked. Timidly, Miranda leaned closer to
him, her eyes never wavering from his. Taking in a deep breath she softly
whispered, “This might hurt a bit.”
Hearing no response but feeling his breath quicken against her bare
neck as their bodies became closer, Miranda examined the gash over his
eye. “You look like you were kicked by a mule,” she whispered, while
placing the linen cloth over his open cut and patting the dry blood caked
around it.
Wincing, Tad looked up at her while trying to balance himself on the
bed, his hand instinctively reaching for her to steady himself. Glancing
down at his hand on her waist she barely heard him say, “I was. By that no
good O’Flaherty!”
Startled by his comment, she said, “What? Gilbert did this to you. But
why?” Suddenly his nearness and his hand resting on her waist became
secondary to the need of understanding what he meant by such a statement.
“Let’s just say, a certain young lady provoked the mule in him to come
out, or was it the donkey? Ass, mule they both look the same to me and
have an equally bad temper from what I understand.”
Hearing him joke so freely, especially over something so grave,
Miranda paused and looked into his eyes. For a moment it was as if time
stood still and she felt suddenly closer to Tad then she had ever felt before.
Realizing for the first time that he used his quick wit to mask his pain, and
aware that she was still holding his face in her hands, Miranda blushed and
looked away.
“Not that I doubt you Tad, but surely you aren’t suggesting that you
and he fought on my account? I told you before, I only met him briefly this
morning at the orphanage and then again this evening in the gardens. He
means nothing at all to me.”
Hearing her say that, he smiled at her and again the silence between
them was deafening.
“I’m glad to hear that. But considering you addressed him by his first
name just now, and by his reaction this evening, I would definitely tend to
believe apparently you weren’t the only one who resented me calling you,
my dear.”
Trying to appear calm, Miranda continued to wipe the blood from his
face. With trembling hands, she brushed against his wound too closely,
causing Tad to wince.
“Again those two simple words have caused an adverse reaction.
Remind me never to call you, my dear, again. Far too painful, to my
liking,” he whispered.
Not amused by his attempts of trying to be charming, the thought that
perhaps it was Tad who sought out Gilbert out of jealousy, crept into her
mind. Glancing down at him she couldn’t help but wonder if he was telling
her the complete truth. Searching for a sign, she was awestruck at the
warmth and sincerity in his eyes as he looked at her. Such truth she had
never seen before, realizing that the man before her had learned to mask his
anger and pain just as she had. Feeling for the first time that she truly
understood Tad, Miranda smiled tenderly at him.