“An article.” Swallowing the surprise edging her tone, Meg set down her brush. Her apple-green muslin skirt whispered as she stepped closer. “Now? Six years after the war’s end?”
“Ten years after the war’s beginning. A fine time for reflection, don’t you think?”
What a luxury that some people might wait that long to consider the war’s toll, when she and Sylvie could not get away from it. “It was ten years in April. You’re a bit late, wouldn’t you say?”
“I’ve been featuring our veterans on a regular basis since then.” Mr. Pierce gave her a look as if to say she would know this if she read the newspaper. “I’m merely continuing the series.”
Hiram joined them, wiry eyebrows drawn together. “Doing a story on the war, young man? Why, if I can be of service, I’d be most willing. I served as a prison guard at Camp Douglas in the south part of town. I remember it well.”
That much was true. It was anything after the war that seemed to slip Hiram’s recollection more and more of late.
While the two men chatted, Meg pulled Sylvie toward the counter. On it sat their mother’s copy of Little Women, which Sylvie must have been reading. Not only did it contain their mother’s notes in the margins, but it also held the photograph of their father when he enlisted. The precious image showed Stephen as he had been before the war had altered him. He didn’t want to see it, but Meg and Sylvie wouldn’t part with it for anything.
Meg glanced at the reporter before refocusing on her sister. “Exactly what have you arranged?”
“I see no harm in it. Mr. Pierce was gathering stories at the Soldiers’ Home last week when I was there dropping off some books. When he learned about Father, he asked to interview him, and I agreed.”
“For a newspaper article,” Meg said. “He barely talks to us about the war. You suppose he’ll talk to a stranger?”
“He might.” Sylvie straightened the cameo at her collar. “I want Chicago to know of Father’s sacrifices on their behalf. On the country’s behalf. Look out there.” She gestured to the window. “All those people going about their business like nothing ever happened. This city got rich off the war—filthy rich—while soldiers gave life or limb, or came home broken beyond repair.”
Meg’s throat cinched tight. “Father can heal. He just needs time and patience and love.” This was her mother’s conviction, bequeathed to Meg before she died. She only hoped her voice sounded as confident as her words.
Sylvie looked away. “He’s had time and love and patience. But perhaps he could do with a bit more respect as well. And it could help the store. We need the business. We may draw new customers from other parts of the city who wish to patronize a veteran-owned shop. A newspaper article is our best chance to reach them.”
“You want to exploit our father for gain?”
“Pardon me.” Mr. Pierce inserted himself into their argument, Hiram still at his side. “I do not exploit.”
“Our father—” Meg stopped before she could say that he was different from the average veteran. That he was easy to exploit, that children already taunted him. They threw bread crusts and apple cores over the Townsends’ backyard fence just to laugh as Stephen scrambled to gather them up. Lifting her chin, she tried again. “Our father survived Andersonville.”
“Exactly why his story should be shared.”
Hiram pounded his walking stick on the floor. “Quite right! My dear girls, your father is a grown man. Let us leave the question to him, eh? Allow him the dignity of making his own decision.”
The ridge between Sylvie’s eyes smoothed away. “I’ll mind the store.”
Conceding, Meg turned her back on the unfinished painting and led the men to the work in progress she could not seem to improve.
It was a lie, Meg had realized years ago, that the end of the war meant the end of suffering. At the age of seventeen, she’d linked arms with Sylvie and their mother on the train platform, waiting for her father’s return. Steam engines hissed, whistles blasted, crowds tramped across the soot-filmed floor. Nearly dizzy with anticipation, she had craned her neck, searching form and face. But the stranger who finally shuffled toward them had borne no resemblance to Stephen Townsend. Emaciated, covered with scabs, breath that reeked of illness. Even his voice was thin. Only the eyes belonged to the man they remembered, but those looked both haunted and hunted.
That night at home, rather than resuming his chair at the head of the table, he had left it empty, choosing to sit elsewhere. Pointing to the vacant spot Meg had waited four years for him to fill, he’d said, “The man who left is not the one who came home. I’m sorry. I am a shock to you. I’m a shock to myself.”
Meg wondered if Stephen was a shock to Nathaniel Pierce as well. Though no longer stamped and scored by starvation, her father remained thin, his beard uncut, his eyes possessed of a fierce alertness. He squatted on the far side of the yard, the knees of his trousers threadbare to a shine though other pairs filled his closet. A canteen hung at his hip. He held up a hand to halt their approach, then pointed to the reason.
Beneath a naked linden tree, a stray dog devoured the blackberry pie Meg had brought home from the bakery last night. Scattered in a drift of dead leaves were the crumbs of what she could only guess had been a loaf of bread.
Meg watched helplessly, Hiram and Mr. Pierce flanking her. At last the floppy-eared stray finished his feast and scampered through the gap in the wooden fence. The air was warm as summer and dry as dust, for they’d had less than an inch of rain since July.
“Father.” She made her way to him, carefully stepping over and around the marks he’d made on the ground, while Hiram stood back with Mr. Pierce. “The pie and bread were for us,” she whispered.
“He was hungry. No man or beast should know hunger. If a creature comes asking for a bite to eat and it’s in my power to give it, I’ll do it. Every time.”
She nodded, choosing to see the compassion and kindness in the act, though she wondered if the reporter would interpret it that way.
Stephen ran a hand down his brown beard, grizzled with coarse grey strands though he was only forty-five. “Who does Hiram have with him?”
“His name is Mr. Nathaniel Pierce, and he’s with the Tribune. Sylvie met him at the Soldiers’ Home. He’d like to hear about your experiences during the war for a series of articles he’s writing on Chicago’s veterans. I’ll introduce you, if you’d like.” Her voice tilted up in question at the end.
“He wants information?” Stephen squinted across the grassless yard. At length, he said, “Let’s see what he’s about.” With strides ungainly from perpetual ache in his joints, he led the way to the waiting men.
“Stephen!” Hiram shook her father’s hand. “This young fellow wants to hear what you have to say about Andersonville. Whatever you want the city to know, he says he’ll print it in that newspaper of his.”
“It would be a privilege, sir.” Mr. Pierce extended his hand.
Stephen turned away from it, pulling Hiram aside.
Mr. Pierce stepped back to allow them more privacy. Meg offered him an apologetic half smile. On the third floor, a window slid open, and she imagined the Spencers were watching and listening to everything.