Page 26 of Where the Rivers Merge

Roses belong to the Rosaceae family and are some of the most well-known and widely cultivated flower species in the world. Roses are native to various regions across the globe and have been cultivated for thousands of years for their aesthetic appeal and symbolic meaning. These perennial plants typically have thorny stems, bear flowers in a wide range of colors, and are known for their distinct and pleasing fragrance.

1918

It was an ordinary day. A Monday. The heat of July was bearing down on us. Clementine was in the backyard behind the kitchen doing the laundry, and I was in the rose garden with Mama, working meditatively.

The enclosed garden was Mama’s sanctuary. It was a captivating blend of natural beauty and man-made elegance. Redbrick walls and camellias formed the backbone, and the pathways and patio were also made of intricately arranged red bricks. Dominating the wall opposite the house was a black wrought iron gate that led to a vast park of live oaks.

Roses were Mama’s passion, and she had all kinds in her garden—climbing roses with blooms cascading over the edges of the wall, grandiflora, floribunda, polyantha, miniature, and the queens—the hybrid tea, all in hues of scarlet, crimson, yellow, and white. They painted a tapestry of color against the brick walls. Small songbirds chirped and hopped from bough to bough of the live oaks to the sun-loving roses. I watched a bee land on a rose and begin its work. The fine hairs on its legs were thickly covered with the golden pollen, yet still it worked, unaware or uncaring that I observed.

Mama and I wore wide-brimmed straw hats against the sun, garden gloves, and thick canvas aprons to protect our linen dresses from snagging thorns. Like the bee, we were tending the blossoms, removing the faded or spent flowers from the bushes. There is an art to deadheading that I learned at an early age. Once a bloom is spent, remove the entire flowering head by cutting the stem just above the first leaf with five leaflets. This encourages growth and repeat blooming. Mama used to make me laugh when I was young by ringing her shears to the bloom and calling, “Off with her head!”

from Alice in Wonderland.

I was thinking of that when I heard a car drive up to the house. I lifted my head from a hybrid tea, its blooms the purest white, to peer through the pierced design in the brick wall. I saw that it was a Marine vehicle carrying two men. My hands stilled and my blood chilled despite the heat of the day. I watched the two men walk in a slow, somber fashion up the stone stairs to the front door. The driver was young. The other was older, his broad chest covered with medals. He looked familiar.

“Mama,”

I said in a flat, breathless voice.

My mother looked up from her floribunda and seeing my face, her expression changed. She quickly turned her head to peer out the pierced brick wall. I heard her breath intake.

“That’s Colonel Dunlap,” she said.

Colonel Dunlap. My father’s friend. In command of Parris Island. The man who came to dinner with Heyward. All these tidbits clustered in my mind, unwelcome connections that kept me frozen to the spot. I did not go to the front door, nor did Mother. We stood as stone solid as the brick wall, unmovable, waiting. I heard the doorbell ring, then the rush of footfall, my father’s voice calling out, “Hello, Colonel.”

In time, the door to the garden opened and my father stepped out. He was wearing a white linen shirt, but his hair was messed, like he’d run his hands over his head. When he met my mother’s eyes, his face told all. He was followed by Colonel Dunlap in full dress uniform, and the unknown driver whose hands held an envelope.

Colonel Dunlap walked directly to my mother. He was tall, yet his large shoulders slumped as one carrying a great sorrow. Thick, bushy brows dominated his heavily lined face.

“My dear Mrs. Rivers . . .”

he said, extending his hand.

My mother stared at his hand in midair. She hesitated, and I knew she dreaded the touch that preceded the ominous message. But protocol clicked in and she took his hand, barely touching his fingertips.

“Won’t you sit down?”

Dunlap asked and looked for a chair.

“Here,”

my father said, indicating a black wrought iron bench framed by an arched trellis covered in blood red roses.

“Miss Rivers?”

Dunlap said, indicating that I should sit next to my mother. I looked into his solemn eyes and knew without a shadow of a doubt what message he had come to deliver. I moved stiffly, unaware of feeling, following orders. My father stood beside Mother, his hand on her shoulder.

Once seated, Colonel Dunlap turned to the other man, who at this moment was unmemorable. He took the envelope and extended it to my father. When he spoke, it was in the manner of recitation.

“As commandant of the Marine Corps, I am entrusted to express the Corps’ deep regret that your son, Heyward, was killed in action in Belleau Wood, France. We . . . I extend my deepest sympathy to you and your family in your loss.”

Silence.

I felt nothing. It was as though I was shot with bullets but had not yet fallen.

Again, Colonel Dunlap turned to his assistant, to retrieve a small black box. Inside was a star-shaped medal made of bronze. He pulled it out by the light blue ribbon that contained thirteen white stars in a cluster just above the star.

“Your son, Heyward Rawlins Rivers, was awarded the Medal of Honor, the highest honor, in recognition of his exceptional courage and selflessness in battle. Heyward went above and beyond the call of duty to protect his fellow Marines.”

I heard my mother’s breath come in short, shallow gasps as she clung to the metal bench armrest for support.

My father reached out to take the medal. His hand was shaking as he looked at it. He cleared his throat then spoke, his voice choked. “What did he do?”

The colonel sighed heavily and put his hands behind his back. “The date was June twenty-fourth. The Marines had been fighting the whole of the month in a bitter battle against the Germans for control of Belleau Wood. A very strategic location for the Allies. During a significant siege, many of his comrades fell. Heyward heroically carried several fallen Marines back to the trench, one after the other. While returning with a Marine in tow, they met machine-gun fire. It was mercifully quick. Your son showed uncommon selflessness. He was a hero.”

“A hero?”

my mother shrieked. She let out a piercing, gut-wrenching scream that echoed in the garden. Tears streamed down her face as she rose to confront the colonel.

“What do I care about those false words. I curse you and your heroism and medals. My son is gone! My Heyward. My boy . . .”

Mama collapsed onto the bench in tears, covering her face. My father went to her side.

“Don’t touch me!”

she cried, recoiling. “Don’t ever touch me again.”

Her dark eyes flashed with venomous accusation. “It’s your fault he’s dead!”

“Sloane . . .”

My father’s face was anguished.

“You encouraged him to go,”

she spat out at him. “You and your talk about duty and valor. I despise you. And you too,”

she said, pointing a finger at Colonel Dunlap. “I let you enter my home, entertained you.”

Her face contorted. “You are nothing more than spiders wooing young men to your web. To their death!”

Daddy covered his face with his hands.

Colonel Dunlap spoke in a low voice meant to console. “I understand the pain you’re experiencing. It’s a difficult reality to accept. Lieutenant Rivers’s sacrifice will always be remembered. His bravery honored.”

Mother shrieked again, covering her ears. “Nooooo.”

Clementine rushed into the garden to Mother’s side. She wrapped her strong arms around my mother’s shaking shoulders as she collapsed. “Come with me, ma’am,”

she said in a crooning tone. “Let’s go to your room. Out of this heat. That’s right . . .”

As they left the garden and entered the house, I remained unmoving, feeling nothing. I knew I was alive. I heard my mother crying. I saw my father before me. Colonel Dunlap. I was sitting in the rose garden. But I wasn’t. Everything was muted. It felt otherworldly. I couldn’t possibly live in a world where Heyward did not. My dearest brother could not be gone from Mayfield for long. He belonged here. He was to inherit. Not true, my brain whispered.

“Forgive my wife. She . . .”

Daddy said absently in a low voice to Colonel Dunlap.

Compassion was etched on Colonel Dunlap’s face. He exhaled heavily. “No need. The fair sex often responds like this, overwhelmed by the immense sorrow they must endure.”

My father nodded, again at a loss.

I sat ignored as any stone garden statue. Something dire played in my mind. Call it instinct, or a woman’s intuition.

“And Hugh?” I asked.

Colonel Dunlap turned toward me, his expression a bit surprised that I was still there. “I beg your pardon?”

“Do you have news of Hugh Rhodes?”

Anguish flashed again in his eyes, and I knew the second bullet was coming.

“I’m sorry,”

he said. “Hugh Rhodes was a great friend of your brother’s, was he not?”

Understanding flashed in his eyes. “Perhaps your friend as well.”

“Yes.”

The colonel digested this information and rubbed his hands together in thought. He turned to face me directly. His long, lined face didn’t move but in his eyes I saw compassion.

“Hugh Rhodes was with Heyward in the battlefield, bringing in the wounded, you see. Gallant work.”

He looked off at the trees. When he spoke again, his voice was low. “Hugh was felled by a bullet alongside Heyward.”

“They died together?”

My voice sounded hollow to my ears.

“Yes. I’m sorry.”

He straightened and said with pride, as though it would be solace, “Lieutenant Hugh Rhodes is also being awarded the Medal of Honor.”

In the future, some distant day, the fact that my golden boys died together would bring me solace. But not on that morning. The news of my Hugh’s death was a final, brutal onslaught. My body stiffened as the bullet hit true.

I felt excruciating pain pierce my heart, ripping apart that vital organ. It was intense, overwhelming, devastating. I couldn’t catch my breath. I felt myself slide. My hand groped blindly, and finding the trellis, I clutched it to steady myself. Rose thorns stabbed my fingers, but I held tight. The sharp prick brought clarity and focus. I sat straighter and found my voice.

“Have you told his family?” I asked.

“No, not yet,”

Colonel Dunlap replied. Then with visible effort he said, “I intend to visit them next.”

Visit, I thought. What an odd word for such news. “That’s good,”

I said. “I’ll pay my respects tomorrow.”

“My dear,”

my father began.

I shook my head to silence him.

Colonel Dunlap said with compassion, “There is no harder news to bear. I know. But in time, the pain will fade. Life continues. Have faith.”

I slowly lifted my chin to look at him. He was middle-aged, his uniform was crisp, his face clean shaven. His brow and upper lip dripped with perspiration. I looked away and said dispassionately, “Thank you for coming.”

Taking a moment to collect himself, Colonel Dunlap adjusted his uniform, brushed off some nonexistent lint, then looked up and said some words about support for the family, when the deaths would be registered, something about funerals. He coughed then added, “If there is anything I can do during this trying time . . .”

My father escorted the colonel and his nameless assistant out. I stood motionless, trying to catch my breath in air thick with humidity. A faint breeze swept through the enclosed space, carrying the scent of roses, cloyingly sweet. My stomach turned and I slapped my hand to my mouth. To this day, I cannot abide the scent of roses. I released my hold on the trellis. Rose petals fell and thorns were stuck to my glove. I tugged it off and saw bright red blood across my palm.

Deadheading, I thought. Spent flowers removed from the vine.