Page 27 of Where the Rivers Merge

Raccoons (Procyon lotor) are found in forests, marshes, prairies, and cities. They are nocturnal foragers, using their dexterous front paws and long fingers to steal eggs and raid garbage cans in cities.

1918

Clutching my bleeding hand, I ran from the cloying scent of roses and raced toward the house. Wilton held open the door, a silent sentinel, his face mournful. Inside, Mother’s howls echoed. When I reached the second floor, I saw my father standing outside Mama’s bedroom door, head bent. He didn’t look up, didn’t seem to notice me as I slid past into my room.

I leaned against the door, closing my eyes, on the verge of collapse. From across the room, I heard crying, and looking toward the sound, saw Covey kneeling at my bed as though in prayer. Her face lay in her hands, her body wracked with sobs.

“Covey!”

I cried, astonished.

She swung around and I saw her face, swollen with tears. “Eliza . . . Oh Eliza . . . Heyward . . .”

“I know,”

I said and rushed to her side, dropping to my knees beside her. We held each other tight, unwilling to let go as tears gushed anew. With Covey, I didn’t have to be strong. “And Hugh,” I cried.

Covey pulled back to stare into my face, horror-stricken. “What? No. Hugh is gone too?”

“They died together.”

Covey shook her head. “No!”

she cried in a wail. Her face crumbled in grief. “Oh, Eliza. I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

We clung together, our tears mingling, our cries merging into a symphony of sorrow. There was comfort in each other’s arms, we who loved them both so dearly. I don’t know how long we cried together, but when our tears were spent, at least for the present, we separated to slump on the floor, hearts weary, sniffing and wiping away our faces.

“I don’t know what to do,”

I said. “I feel lost. Heyward and Hugh are both gone. They were our shining stars. The world feels so empty without him.”

Covey nodded, her head bent low. “Yes . . .”

“And Hugh . . . Covey, my world is over now. He was everything to me. We were to be married. Now nothing. Never to hear his voice. Never to see his face. Never . . .”

I choked and brought my hand to my eyes. “I loved him so much.”

“Yes,”

Covey repeated, taking my hand. She sniffed and sighed wearily. “I understand. Truly.”

We sat quietly for a while, then Covey added, “I, too, feel lost without Heyward. I loved him with all my heart.”

Her words sank in slowly. I took a shaky breath then turned to face her with a mixture of confusion and disbelief. “Covey, what did you say? You loved him?”

I skipped a beat. “As a friend, right?”

Covey raised her tear-stained face. There was question in her eyes first, then her gaze intensified, and she blinked rapidly. She opened her mouth to speak, closed it again. She rose up to square her shoulders and when she spoke, her voice was measured.

“Eliza, I loved Heyward more than a friend. Much more. He was my love. And I was his.”

Seeing my expression of shock, her gaze challenged me. “How could you not have known?”

I was taken aback, struggling to process the revelation. “Covey, I didn’t know,”

I sputtered. “How could I have known? He never said anything to me. You never told me.”

“Tell you? How could I? We dared not speak of it. But Eliza, you’re my best friend. You didn’t see? Weren’t you paying attention? The many times Heyward and I were away together, didn’t you guess? The looks Heyward and I shared. The stolen touches. How could you, of all people, not see that we had fallen in love?”

I stared back, speechless. I had not seen it. A friendship, yes. Admiration, that too. But not love.

“Are you sure he loved you?”

Covey yanked her hand from mine, eyes burning with accusation. “Are you sure Hugh loved you?”

I swallowed. A vignette of scenes flashed before me. Hugh at the pond, telling me that he loved me. The fervent look in his eyes. His hand holding mine. There was no way that Covey could mistake that knowing.

“Yes, I am,”

I stammered. “And if you say it, I don’t doubt Heyward loved you.”

I saw Covey’s expression shift from anger to gratitude. “I’m sorry I didn’t realize it on my own. Of course, I saw you both together. We were all friends,”

I attempted to explain. “But perhaps it was denial.”

“Perhaps . . .”

Covey looked away.

The sense of injustice hung in the air. My mind raced at the thought of Covey and Heyward . . . but couldn’t grasp it. Friendship, yes. Love . . . “I mean, Covey . . .”

I began, stammering. “What future do you and Heyward have? You could never marry. Not here. Not anywhere that I know of. I . . . I don’t understand how. . . .”

Covey’s anger cooled, replaced now with a look of sadness and despair that broke my heart. I didn’t know how to console her.

“Of course, I know what you’re saying. Why do you think we had to keep it a secret? Never speak of it to anyone. Not even you.”

Even me . . . I felt the sting of betrayal. “Did Hugh know?”

Covey shook her head. “Not while living here. Heyward and I agreed. But who knows what was said in the trenches?”

Her face softened. “I hope Heyward did talk to Hugh. It may have given him comfort.”

She looked up at me. “Eliza, we were in such despair. So much so that we tried not to be together. To deny our feelings. Truly we did. We knew our love was futile. Some would say wrong.”

She looked at her hands, bare of any ring. “But love will not be denied. It gives you false hope.”

She wiped her eyes. “When the war broke out, we dared to think . . . we hoped . . . things might change. We were fighting for a better world. For freedom.”

She took a shaky breath. “Honestly,”

she said grimly, “I didn’t believe it possible. But Heyward could be very convincing. He had all these plans.”

“What kind of plans? Not . . .”

I paused, clutching my hands tight at a thought. “Not leaving Mayfield. Heyward would never do that.”

Covey’s eyes flickered with anger again as her face twisted with dismay. “You and your precious Mayfield. There’s a world outside this boundary, Eliza.”

“Not for me. Not for Heyward.”

Covey did not move for a moment, then she reached into her pocket and pulled out a letter. The envelope was well worn, and I recognized Heyward’s handwriting instantly. She held it out to me. “This was his last letter to me. I’m sorry, I couldn’t share it. But now . . . Read it,”

she said, moving the letter closer to me. “He can tell you his thoughts better than I can.”

I took the letter from her hands, feeling both dread at reading my brother’s final words and an eagerness to feel close to him again. The ink could be seen on both sides of the paper, so thin and fragile, like a spun web. I unfolded it carefully, glancing up to see Covey watching me like a wary cat. I smoothed the paper in my lap with the tips of my fingers, caressing his words, marks made by my beloved brother. Then I began to read.

My dearest Covey,

Tomorrow, I lead a group of men to battle once again. The odds are not in our favor, but they never have been. Our orders are to maintain the ground we gained in the past few weeks. We Marines are a tenacious bunch and refuse to yield. I’ve witnessed remarkable bravery as we’ve advanced and captured key German strongholds. The dense forest is both our ally and our enemy. We’ve had heavy casualties. Still, we push on.

I do not tell you this to garner your admiration. Quite the opposite. Tonight, I feel the need for your tender ear. I am, I admit, afraid.

So instead, I think of better times. Sitting with you at the river, your head on my shoulder, as I rambled on and on. You’ve always been so patient, listening to my hopes, my fears, my desperate dreams for the future.

My darling love, I am sitting in the mud wondering about our future together. Here in France, I have hope. I see a possibility of us living as husband and wife in this distant land. There is not the insidious discrimination of class and race as in the South. I am forced to consider if, when I return to Mayfield, will our small bit of the world have changed enough after this horrid war to accept us?

We face rejection by our families and friends, our entire community. Legal restrictions. Limited opportunities. Cultural barriers. Even physical threats. That battle, I fear, will be greater than the one I face tomorrow. My sweetheart, do you have the courage? The resilience? The determination to navigate the challenges? Do you love me enough?

If I have a shred of heroism in my body, it is for the battle we face together. Even if it means giving up Mayfield, family, friends—everything! I will find a place where we can be together. Perhaps even as far away as France. Say you’ll come with me.

I’m fighting for us.

Heyward

Tears filled my eyes, blurring the words. I looked up at Covey. Her face glistened with the residual moisture of recent tears. Her cheeks were flushed. Her eyes puffy from crying. Her brows, usually arched and defined, were now knitted with the weight of sadness. Yet there was a triumph in her expression that made her beautiful.

“I’m so sorry,” I said.

Covey nodded. “Thank you.”

Pat phrases. But the simple words held all we wanted to say.

Covey stood and smoothed her pink cotton dress with clipped strokes, then she adjusted the bun gathered at the nape of her neck. Likewise, I rose to stand a few feet across from her while my fingers tucked wayward strands back into my own chignon. It was strange, this new awkwardness between us. I wondered if it was just aftershocks from the news or the vulnerability one always felt after sharing something profoundly personal or a secret. From her fidgeting, I knew Covey felt exposed. Did she regret telling me about Heyward? Did she doubt my good opinion of her? Or did she feel relief the truth was out? The secrecy she and Heyward had kept shielded our friendship from this challenge. But now that the words were spoken, there was no turning back.

We stood facing each other, emotionally spent. “I’m glad you could tell me the truth,”

I said in way of farewell.

“Eliza . . .”

Covey licked her lips and hesitated. “There’s something more.”

I waited, steeling myself. What more could there be?

Covey rested her palm against her abdomen, a protective gesture. “I’m carrying Heyward’s child.”

My breath sucked in. A child! Heyward’s child. I burst into a wide grin of happiness. “My Lord, Covey—a baby!”

Covey laughed shortly. Her smile could not be contained. “It’s a lot to take in. I know.”

“Did Heyward know?”

Covey shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t believe so. I wrote to him the day before I received this letter. I . . . I can’t imagine the letter reached him in time.”

“Oh, Covey, that’s so sad. I’m sorry. He would have been so happy.”

She looked up, her eyes hopeful. “Do you think so?”

“Of course.”

“Yes, of course,”

she said, reassuring herself. “Eliza, I know this is complicated, given our situation. But I want you to know that I loved your brother deeply and I will care for his child. Our child.”

I reached out to take Covey’s hand, seeking connection. “You’re not alone. We’ll navigate this together. As friends. And family.”

Covey retrieved her hand, shaking her head. She crossed the room, stopping at the window. She turned to face me, and her voice was firm. “I don’t want your family to know.”

“But . . . but why? Covey, they must know. It’s Heyward’s child, after all. All they have left of him.”

Vigorously, she shook her head no.

“Covey, think! You won’t be able to keep this a secret for long. Let us help you.”

Covey crossed her arms in front of her and swung her head to look out the window. “I have much to think about. I need time.”

She looked at me again, her dark eyes emphatic. “I told you—my best friend—and my father. No one else knows. I don’t want anyone else to know. Eliza, I trust you to keep my secret.”