“I suppose you got the telegram,” she said. “Fortunately, Caleb is alive and well.”
“That much is clear.” He was huffing. “A second telegram proclaiming as much would have been appreciated.”
Aside from his complexion, transformed by the Florida sun to a muddied bronze, he was all but a duplicate of the brother Isabelle had known all her life—the boy with yellow hair and loose pants who used to keep her company on those long days growing up. He’d kept their father’s land after his passing, worked it, and started off on new projects in more recent years, with little time to pay her any mind.
He dismounted and joined her on the porch, declining her offer of tea and giving a stern once-over to Caleb, who stood awkwardly before the door, his hands in his pockets.
“You’re well, then?”
“As well as can be,” Caleb said.
“Your nose?”
“Just a scrape.”
“From what little I saw, there were plenty of those to go around.”
Caleb left her alone with Silas at the first opportunity, and there was so much to cover that it was difficult to begin. Robbed as they were of Caleb’s death to discuss, it seemed that no one trivial matter was more worthy of inspiring conversation than another. The silence grew into something tangible and was alleviated only when she asked after his wife, Lillian.
“Oh. She is perfectly fine.”
“The boys?”
“Quite well. I believe they’ll make something of themselves one day. Both fond of school. Quincy likes steamboats. I can picture him as an engineer.”
Although Silas had never cared for George, a rift that had only grown deeper over the years, with Isabelle he had always exhibited a jubilant nature that allowed for lively chatter. Yet it had been more than a year since she’d seen him, and he seemed in that time to have lost this bearing, so much so that her brother, her closest relative, now appeared to be a total stranger.
She asked him if he wished to stay for supper, but he stood and demurred, telling her that he shouldn’t. If all was well he would be on his way. He spun the brim of his hat in his hand, flicking it and catching it, just as their father had done in times of nervousness. The action gave her pause: here was the boy who had inherited another man’s entire constitution—all while she was attempting to reinvent herself with no guidepost or assistance. How easy Silas had it. Yet she was proud of her brother, even comforted by his surety.
She reached out before he left and put a hand on his shoulder.
“Silas. I might call on you one day.”
His face pinched together in concern.
It hadn’t been her intent to worry him. She confessed that she wasn’t sure what she meant.
“It’s just—well, you never know these days.”
“I’m only a day’s ride away,” he said. “If you need anything, you come find me.”
Satisfied, she let go of his shoulder and watched him off, pondering, once more, how far two siblings might grow apart without ever losing the bond that united them. She thought to call out and thank him for coming but realized, catching herself, that with a brother like hers, such a show of gratitude would never be necessary. He’d simply carry on, ignoring her words altogether.
*
The days that followed were quiet. True to his word, Caleb was often around the house and would eat or sit with her. Like his uncle, though, he seemed to have molted part of himself, and tended to keep his distance, aloof in the way most men, in her experience, were inclined to be. His mangled face weakened her if she looked at him too long. His skin had been raw and pale from birth—his nose, eyes, and mouth all too delicate for a man—and when he had departed the previous year, she was sure that his body, too soft and fragile for the climate of war, would leave him more prone to hurt than the other boys. His scar traced a line between his cheek and his nose, separating them as if two compartments, and the nose itself hooked right like it was chasing a scent it could not capture.
Reminders. These constant reminders. Of time lost, relations frayed. She was resigned to it all but refused to let her son dwell in the center of that pain. In those moments he grew distant she nudged him, certain that some activity, any activity, was better than none at all.
“Your father could use all the help he can get,” she suggested.
“He’s got help.”
“I’m sure he’d be happy to have more, is what I mean.”
Caleb would retrieve eggs from the nest boxes in the coop, or wash down Ridley, lingering with a faraway look at the field down the way. George was not sensitive to his son, any more than he was sensitive to anyone else. His life now was one that excluded his family, which was fine as far as she was concerned, but such treatment could not extend to Caleb. This she would make sure of.