Read Online The Deserter by Jane Langton - Free Book Online Page B

human behavior turned upside down.”
    â€œStill—”
    Homer was carried away. “Civilization grinding to a halt. Primeval savagery taking over. The pitting of one snarling beast against another, thousands of men against thousands, the games of strategy, the weather, the mud, the bad luck, the colossal mistakes.”
    â€œBut it’s so terrible. There ought to be other ways to settle a dispute.”
    Homer wasn’t listening. “And then there are all the fascinating details, the thousands of separate stories, one for every man who fought on either side. There’s no end to it.” Then Homer stopped ranting and said, “Well, look at this. What have we got here?” He was trying on a pair of old-fashioned spectacles, hooking them over his ears.
    Mary laughed. “Oh, Homer, you look sweet.”
    â€œCan’t see a thing.”
    â€œMay I help you?” It was the proprietor, a thin bearded man in a Robert E. Lee T-shirt.
    Homer put down the specs and grinned at him politely. “A rebel sympathizer, I guess?”
    â€œNo,” said the man, “I don’t take sides.” He patted his chest. “Half the time it’s Abraham Lincoln. Name’s Bart. What can I do for you?”
    Homer took Mary’s arm. “We’re from Massachusetts. Just tourists, looking around.”
    â€œHelp yourself,” said the proprietor. At once he was captured by another customer.
    â€œHey, Bart,” said the customer, “you know the cavalry battle on the third day, Stuart and Custer? What’ve you got on the Spencer repeating rifle?”
    â€œGot a book,” said Bart. “Follow me.”
    Mary and Homer drifted to the front of the store and looked at a table covered with antiquities. The wall behind it was hung with looped flags and a pair of moth-eaten coats, one gray, one blue.
    â€œOh, Homer, look at this, an old stereoscope and a set of cards to go with it.”
    â€œI remember those things.” Homer put a card in the holder. “Here, try it.”
    Mary lifted the contraption to her eyes and stared. “It’s not working.”
    â€œYou have to adjust the focus.”
    She moved the card holder back and forth, and exclaimed, “Oh, it’s so real. Oh, Homer, we’ve got to have this.”
    â€œWell, how much is it?”
    She found the price tag. “Twenty-five dollars. Oh, but Homer, it’s so charming.” They looked for Bart, but he was still busy with his customer.
    Waiting, they lingered beside the table, inspecting a pair of gold-fringed epaulets in a metal box, half a dozen squash-fronted caps, the tall hat of an officer from Louisiana and a display of regimental belt buckles. There were cartridge boxes and canteens on the table, along with swords, knives and guns. Under a glass dome a small case held a photograph. “Oh, Homer,” whispered Mary, bending close, “look at this.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThe photograph, look.”
    Obediently, Homer peered at the little case, which stood open like a book. One side was padded with velvet, the other displayed a photograph in an oval frame. “Some soldier’s wife?”
    â€œBut Homer, I’ve seen her before.”
    â€œIn a book?”
    â€œNo, not in a book. In my house.”
    â€œ Your house? You mean in Gwen’s house on Barrett’s Mill Road?”
    â€œYes, yes. I recognize her. It’s a family picture. She’s somebody in our family. Oh, Homer, we’ve got to have this too.”
    â€œGood grief. Well, all right, if it means so much to you.” Homer turned to look for the proprietor, then jumped, because Bart was right behind them.
    Mary pointed to the small case. “How much is it?”
    Bart looked at her. He looked at Homer. They were outsiders, well-spoken tourists. “A hundred and fifty,” said Bart.
    Homer winced but reached for his checkbook.
    â€œActually it’s