Buck shifted his attention from Gus’s wife to Mrs. Greenwald and finally to Sarah. “Excuse me. Sit what?”
Miriam patted Ruth’s hand sympathetically while explaining to Buck, “It’s our religious practice for the next of kin to remain in isolation for a period immediately following funeral services. All mirrors are turned to the wall or covered and meals eaten in seclusion. Ruth and her daughter will observe this custom in our home.”
“You mean she can’t travel? For how long?”
“Shiva means seven days. Actually eight, since the Sabbath doesn’t count.”
“That’s too long, Miriam,” Sarah protested. “Since we’re traveling I can satisfy the obligation by sitting Shiva for three days.”
“Is that when you’ll be ready?” Buck asked. “In three days?”
“I’m ready to leave immediately if that’s what’s needed. Right now saving the family business and our honor is more important than a ritual that can be performed later.”
Buck nodded. The woman had endured the violent death of her father, yet was still willing and eager to take on the world. One hell of a woman.
“I’ll check with the stagecoach company and find out what their schedule is and get back to you.”
“No, no,” Ruth objected. “It’s much too dangerous.”
“I’ll be traveling with your daughter to Charleston to insure her safety,” Buck informed her.
“For propriety’s sake,” Miriam cut in, “I’ll send Janey as your servant and companion.”
A few minutes later, Gus escorted Buck to the front door and put his hand on his young friend’s shoulder. “Well, doctor, as usual the women have everything well in hand. All we have to do now is exactly as we’re told.”
Buck grinned. “I’m eminently familiar with taking orders.”
#
Buck went directly from the Grayson house to his room at the Sand Hills Hotel. Today he’d participated in a strangely soothing ritual that reminded him that there can be death with dignity. So different from what he’d witnessed in the war; where torn-up bodies were carelessly discarded more often in pits than in dignified graves; where there were no markers to remind the world that here feeling men had yielded up their lives, limbs and dreams; where few words were spoken to commemorate their sacrifices, many of which the world had already forgotten.
He removed the two unread letters the banker had earlier given him from the inner pocket of his ill-fitting frock coat, and tossed the garment itself onto the back of a chair in the sitting room. Once again he studied the two envelopes and was surprised to see his hands were trembling. What last words had Raleigh had for him and Clay? What premonition might he have had of his own demise?
Sitting on the edge of the settee in the corner between the windows, he opened the envelope with his name on it.
To my elder son Buck:
One of the greatest joys of my life was the day you were born. The two greatest sorrows were the loss of your mother and that you and I parted with such rancor. But that does not dampen the pride I have for you and your accomplishments. Even as a boy you were more like your mother than me, with your compassion for wounded animals and your kindhearted care of our slaves. She and you touched the tender part of my soul. I need not remind you how profound was her loss on my nature. Perhaps it explains the inexcusable behavior I now so deeply lament.
I pray you will forgive me and in time recollect me with some fondness for those moments of happiness we shared. May you return safely from this terrible war, establish your medical practice here in South Carolina, and enjoy a long and successful life.
Your loving father,
Raleigh
Buck let the single piece of paper slip from his fingers and fall to the floor, overwhelmed with unexpected emotion. Gus had been correct. For all his shortcomings, his father had loved him. How much Buck himself regretted the hostility of their last meeting. If the war hadn’t intervened, would they have been reconciled? They’d always have differences, but Buck liked to think they’d eventually have found common ground.
He picked up the paper, refolded it and tucked it back into its envelope. Several minutes went by before he broke the seal on the other one. He felt unclean, as he opened this letter, written on the same personalized stationery. To read the private correspondence between his late father and his dead brother seemed somehow a sacrilege, yet it would be irresponsible and doubly disrespectful of their memories to ignore it.
He sat more deeply into the upholstered sofa. His fingers trembled as he read:
To my dear son Clay:
I pray your reckless exuberance for life has not placed you in harm’s way and you return safely from this dreadful war.
It was apparent to me from your earliest days that you appreciated the good life of a plantation owner and are unafraid to enjoy the pleasures and privileges it offers. I have therefore willed the entire estate of Jasmine to you. All pertinent documents are on file at the Richland County Bank in Columbia. Be discreet and generous in your affairs, but drink deeply of life and the joys it offers. Your memories of me will fade, but I hope from time to time, you may think of me and smile.
I have also established a trust fund with Gus Grayson to carry faithful Emma and the child through these troubled times. We owe her a great deal. God bless her.
I trust you will be able to put behind you the tragedy of our failed cause and the sorrows it has brought. May this meager bequest help you fulfill your dreams. I could not have asked for a finer son and heir.
Your loving father,
Raleigh
His throat tight, his hands still trembling, Buck managed to return the document to its envelope, which he laid on the side table at the base of a whale-oil lamp. Folk wisdom said time healed all wounds, but the scars left by some injuries never completely disappeared, and the pain of some afflictions remained with a man for the rest of his life.
Though the day was still young, Buck removed his boots and crawled on top of the faded four-poster bed, overwhelmed with fatigue and a sense of guilt that was more deep-seated than mere physical exhaustion. The rawness of the pain radiating from his soul, however, did not diminish his commitment to rid the world of the evil around him.
On the contrary, he was more determined than ever to find the deformed caricature of a man responsible for Clay’s death.
He would track down Rufus Snead, and he would kill him.
#
“He saw me,” Rufus told Zeke. “He recognized me.”
“You sure?”
“Of course he’s sure,” Hank put in. The three of them were sitting at the table closest to the plank bar in the Whiskey Jug, a tankard before each. “His pint-size was a hint, but the long red hair was a dead giveaway.”
Rufus would have favored cutting the man’s gizzard out. He didn’t appreciate being reminded he was small, only a hooter over five feet. As for the red hair, he supposed he could cut it short like Floyd had done his, or dye it a different color, but cut it once and he’d have to keep cutting it. As for dyeing it . . . out of the question. He wasn’t no Mary. Besides, that’d be even more work.
“If my dad-blamed hat hadn’t come off,” he explained, “the folks at that burial would have figured me to be somebody come to visit a dead relative.”
He hated cemeteries. Always had. His old man had bound him to a tombstone one night to teach him a lesson. Couldn’t remember what he’d done wrong. Didn’t matter. The sot didn’t need a reason. Rufus had learned his lesson though—to stay as far away from the crazy lush as he could after that. Done all right too until the night the bastard started beating on Sally Mae.