laughs.
“I should let you get back to work,” I say, sliding reluctantly off the seat. “Today just got a little less quiet.”
“Come back and use the bathroom anytime,” he says—an understated invitation to return.
“Thanks.” I smile. “I will.”
The bell jingles behind me as I go, leaving him to his sketching.
Thinking how nice it was to talk with him, I realize that I am desperate to pretend I’m normal and healthy and not stalked by angels, punished by God.
Yet even without shoes dropping or angels visiting, just the thought of that icy clear light, that terrible voice, makes me feel weak and ill. I glance over at the quiet haven of the tattoo shop, which seems like a bastion of normalcy even as it projects a sense of urban edginess in this quaint little town. And just like it forces Hamilton to acknowledge that it is no longer the 1950s, I know that no matter what I want to pretend, the truth is with me. The issue of what drove me into the tattoo parlor is inescapable. I need a doctor, but I fear what I have is nothing a mortal can fix.
As my mother said when we were younger and faced unpleasant consequences, my chickens had come home to roost.
I shiver, though the day is pleasant and warm.
I begin my walk to the newspaper office, wrapped in melancholy.
VIII .
O N MY WAY TO THE NEWSPAPER OFFICE , I notice the strange flags again. Bright yellow with a large green
H
. I can’t figure out what they have to do with anything. City Hall doesn’t have one, but the bank, two restaurants and a high-end boutique do. The courthouse doesn’t, but a couple of law firms do. A few private homes have them, though most don’t.
Frank’s in his office, so after peeking in to make sure he isn’t on a phone call, I enter.
“Is there a festival or something?” I ask him.
“What?”
“The
H
flags—what’s that about?”
He leans back in his seat far enough that it creaks, and I hope it doesn’t break under the strain. “It’s the one hundred forty-fifth anniversary of the Battle of Hamilton. One of the bloodiest mornings in the history of the war,” he says, ratherproudly. “Ten thousand dead in three hours.” The glee in his voice creeps me out. I’m not a Civil War buff, but I did study it in American history and I never heard of the Battle of Hamilton. All that blood didn’t even buy it a place in the history books.
“The
H
is for Hamilton?”
“
H
is for hospital, Miriam. After the battle was over, twenty-eight makeshift hospitals were set up. The battle was fought all around the town. Every house still standing was turned into a hospital.”
“Where did they get doctors from?”
“No doctors. Maybe one or two medics rushing around and sawing off limbs. Mostly it was the lady of each house, using up her linens, drawing water, giving comfort as boy after boy died from their wounds. You’ve seen the cemetery, right? The one behind the Linden Plantation?”
My chest feels tight, and sweat pools under my arms. More proof of God’s distant disinterest. How could such terrors exist? This town no longer seems so cute and quaint. I think of all the buildings I pass every day and the horror that occurred in them. I’d seen glimpses of the old cemetery with its small faded markers, its maple trees and wildflowers, and thought it a peaceful place.
“Think of it, Miriam,” Frank continues. If nothing else, the man loves a good story. “Boys your age dying as their legs were sawed off with no anesthesia, bleeding to death or, worse, rotting from the inside out from gangrene. No antibiotics then, remember.”
“Yeah, I knew that,” I say weakly. And where was Raphaelthen, that cold healing angel? Where was the meddling, the divine concern that has landed me in this current situation? Once again, I’m shocked and frightened to be singled out like this.
“They were burying them as fast as they could dig. It was the last Southern offensive of the war. After that battle the Yankees
“I should let you get back to work,” I say, sliding reluctantly off the seat. “Today just got a little less quiet.”
“Come back and use the bathroom anytime,” he says—an understated invitation to return.
“Thanks.” I smile. “I will.”
The bell jingles behind me as I go, leaving him to his sketching.
Thinking how nice it was to talk with him, I realize that I am desperate to pretend I’m normal and healthy and not stalked by angels, punished by God.
Yet even without shoes dropping or angels visiting, just the thought of that icy clear light, that terrible voice, makes me feel weak and ill. I glance over at the quiet haven of the tattoo shop, which seems like a bastion of normalcy even as it projects a sense of urban edginess in this quaint little town. And just like it forces Hamilton to acknowledge that it is no longer the 1950s, I know that no matter what I want to pretend, the truth is with me. The issue of what drove me into the tattoo parlor is inescapable. I need a doctor, but I fear what I have is nothing a mortal can fix.
As my mother said when we were younger and faced unpleasant consequences, my chickens had come home to roost.
I shiver, though the day is pleasant and warm.
I begin my walk to the newspaper office, wrapped in melancholy.
VIII .
O N MY WAY TO THE NEWSPAPER OFFICE , I notice the strange flags again. Bright yellow with a large green
H
. I can’t figure out what they have to do with anything. City Hall doesn’t have one, but the bank, two restaurants and a high-end boutique do. The courthouse doesn’t, but a couple of law firms do. A few private homes have them, though most don’t.
Frank’s in his office, so after peeking in to make sure he isn’t on a phone call, I enter.
“Is there a festival or something?” I ask him.
“What?”
“The
H
flags—what’s that about?”
He leans back in his seat far enough that it creaks, and I hope it doesn’t break under the strain. “It’s the one hundred forty-fifth anniversary of the Battle of Hamilton. One of the bloodiest mornings in the history of the war,” he says, ratherproudly. “Ten thousand dead in three hours.” The glee in his voice creeps me out. I’m not a Civil War buff, but I did study it in American history and I never heard of the Battle of Hamilton. All that blood didn’t even buy it a place in the history books.
“The
H
is for Hamilton?”
“
H
is for hospital, Miriam. After the battle was over, twenty-eight makeshift hospitals were set up. The battle was fought all around the town. Every house still standing was turned into a hospital.”
“Where did they get doctors from?”
“No doctors. Maybe one or two medics rushing around and sawing off limbs. Mostly it was the lady of each house, using up her linens, drawing water, giving comfort as boy after boy died from their wounds. You’ve seen the cemetery, right? The one behind the Linden Plantation?”
My chest feels tight, and sweat pools under my arms. More proof of God’s distant disinterest. How could such terrors exist? This town no longer seems so cute and quaint. I think of all the buildings I pass every day and the horror that occurred in them. I’d seen glimpses of the old cemetery with its small faded markers, its maple trees and wildflowers, and thought it a peaceful place.
“Think of it, Miriam,” Frank continues. If nothing else, the man loves a good story. “Boys your age dying as their legs were sawed off with no anesthesia, bleeding to death or, worse, rotting from the inside out from gangrene. No antibiotics then, remember.”
“Yeah, I knew that,” I say weakly. And where was Raphaelthen, that cold healing angel? Where was the meddling, the divine concern that has landed me in this current situation? Once again, I’m shocked and frightened to be singled out like this.
“They were burying them as fast as they could dig. It was the last Southern offensive of the war. After that battle the Yankees
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