Monty emptied out his bag of curses. Rose marveled he could have learned so many this far from civilization.
“You’re not going, are you, George?” Monty asked.
George didn’t answer. He sat staring before him.
“I won’t go,” Jeff said. “I don’t care what they do. If any of us has to go, it’ll have to be you, George. You’re the oldest.”
George didn’t answer.
“A parade!” Monty said, furious. “You wouldn’t get Hen to go if you held a gun to his head. It’d serve them right if I went just to tell them what a weasel they were honoring.”
Rose knew that William Henry Randolph hadn’t been a good father. She couldn’t imagine what he had done to cause his sons to hate him so, but she felt that ignoring the parade would only make things worse.
“I know this is none of my business,” Rose said, afraid to speak but feeling she must, “but they’re honoring what your father did, not your father himself. I’m not trying to change anybody’s feelings about him, but wouldn’t it be better if you could put them aside long enough for the parade?”
George got to his feet. Rose had never seen such a pain-filled look in his eyes. She had always felt he had a shell which somehow protected him from the extremes of emotion.
But this was pain, deep and searing. Not bitter or angry like the twins. Not even belligerent like Jeff. He had been hurt where he was most vulnerable. Where he was still vulnerable.
“The boys can do what they want,” George said, still staring into space, his voice, dull, lifeless, “but I won’t be there.”
He turned and walked out of the kitchen.
“That takes care of that,” Monty said with a kind of grim satisfaction. “George is the only one who could have gotten us to go.”
“Did you get the ring?” George asked Jeff. He had followed Jeff into the bedroom.
“Yes,” Jeff replied. He dug in one of his pockets and handed George a small packet made from a piece of paper folded over many times. “He had it waiting. He said he knew you’d be back for it soon.”
George unfolded the paper until it yielded up its secret, a gold band set with a largè yèllow stone. He knew it was a topaz, but the names of stones were meaningless to him. Rose wanted it. That was all that mattered to him.
“Did you get enough from the sword to cover the cost?” George asked without removing his gaze from the ring.
“Yes. I could have gotten more, but I made him promise not to sell it for at least a year.”
“Why?”
“You’ll want it back. You may not want to remember the war, but you’ll want your sword. I figure by then we’ll have enough money to pay for it. And even if you don’t want it, your children will.”
George stared at his brother. He could hardly believe he was talking to Jeff.
“You want to know what’s brought about this change in me,” Jeff said. He smiled, a self-conscious, humorless smile. He looked like a man who had come to accept, without any degree of enthusiasm, something he would never like. “I’ll never forgive you for marrying Rose any more than I’ll forgive life for taking my arm. It’s not a matter of wanting to or not. I just can’t. But you’re my family. With this thing,” he said, glancing down at his stump, “you’re all I’m ever likely to have. Besides, you’re the only people who look at me without making me feel like a freak. It does come in handy in closing a deal, however. It takes a hard man not to feel a little sorry for my having lost my arm for the cause.”
George felt a tremendous sense of relief.
“You’d make a sharp deal without depending on that arm. As for the sword, I don’t want it back. And there aren’t going to be any children to inherit it.”
“What the hell do you mean? Unless I’m badly mistaken, that woman is looking forward to a swarm of little bluecoats romping about the place.”
“You remember what our father was like. Do you seriously think I’d tempt fate to repeat itself?”
“For God’s sake, George, you’re nothing like Pa.”
“Maybe not, but that’s a chance I’m not willing to take.”
Rose sat for a long time over her coffee. It grew cold before, with a fatalistic sigh, she got to her feet. She knew George’s self-doubts were tied up with his father, but she didn’t know what to do about it. She didn’t know if she could do anything, not unless she could get him to talk more about it. She didn’t know when he would be ready, but from the look in his eyes, it wouldn’t be soon.