The letter came on the first Friday in April.

Papa's liver-spotted hands quivered as they unfolded the paper. He read the words haltingly, although his eyes had perused the sentences over and over since he'd retrieved it from the post office early that morning.

Your son, Bosworth Alexander Reed. . .

His gravel-throated voice caught.

He repeated, Bosworth Alexander Reed, saying the name with proud intonation. His bespectacled eyes glanced over the tops of the half-moon glasses toward me.

I didn't move an inch, waiting, listening.

. . .will arrive on the Thursday train from Louisville, Kentucky, arriving in Decatur, Alabama, in the second week of April, Papa read.

He looked up weary-eyed and gazed across the lantern-lit parlor at me and said, Son, you'll have to go fetch him.

I twisted in my seat and frowned, worrying on the proposition.

I glanced toward Mama, sitting in her caneback rockingchair busying her hands with a pair of knitting needles. I knew that she too had read the letter when Papa brought it first to the privacy of their bedroom before sharing it with the rest of us. I knew they would have exchanged words about what it meant and who would be sent to retrieve him.

You'll ride Jed and pull Jenny along behind, Papa said. He didn¹t ask. He didn¹t inquire of his children what he assumed they would do without question. But the prospect of such a trip bore deeply into me. It was no easy matter.

When I didn't speak right up, Papa growled. It came from deep down in his throat, a dissatisfied sound, like a sullen, angered dog. He bared his teeth below his bushy brown mustache. I knew he was not happy with the absence of my eager response.

After supper I went to Mama, thinking she'd form a boundary between me and the old man, but she was stoic as a tree trunk. And her eyes, if possible, were even more accusing than his.

Mama was a mite of a woman, but her spidery fingers and bony arms and frail little face belied the strength of her will and her heart. She'd come from the same kind of pioneer stock as Papa, and she held her children close, fed them like a mama bird, and hesitated til the last moment before she pushed them from her nest. Whenever there was a hint of communication from the warfront, Mama nervously awaited word from her oldest son, whom I'd always suspected was her favorite. I'd heard Sister and the other girls say that Bosworth was suckled at the teat until he was past four. I knew enough to know that was long past usual weaning time, but I didn't question. I figured it was something most females knew about, and the mysteries of women lay hidden in the darkness of my brain as yet unencumbered by knowledge.

After the letter-reading, after supper of leftover chicken and warmed-over beans and peas, our usual fare on a weekday night, Papa sat in his chair and unfolded the Bible in his lap. After hooking his glasses around his ears, he looked over at me and said, Bosworth¹s your brother, your oldest brother, my first born. His voice shook a little as he spoke, a sound that raked against my backbone like Miss Ella Gray¹s chalk against the blackboard. Looks to me like you'd take off without my having to beg. Bosworth's a fine Christian gentleman with a great future in front of him. He's smart and applies himself. He's always been a credit to his family. He was a quiet and dependable boy. Your Mama and I, we always counted on Bosworth, and he never let us down. He was on his way to becoming a successful businessman when this war came up and took him away. His voice, low and guttural now, almost broke between words. As an afterthought, he added, I'll tell you this: Bosworth's no slacker. When his country needed him, he went. No questions asked. No lollygagging around. He just dropped everything and went, following his duty. Frivolity was never a habit with him.

Mama said nothing. Putting aside her knitting, she took needles from her hair that was silky black as a crow's breast and meticulously combed it out down to her waist in her nightly ritual. The hair that each morning she wrapped in a tight knot at the top of her skull shone like the coat of a new colt in the lantern light, each strand a fine thread that demanded individual care.

After I went to bed and watched ghost-like shadows climbing the wall as the moon moved across the sky, I remembered the words of the letter. I remembered Papa's nervous reading: Your son, who has spent months recuperating at the hospital near Baltimore, will ride the train from here to Louisville with two medical officers accompanying him. He will be placed on the Louisville & Nashville and sent south to Decatur, Alabama, the debarkation point nearest your home. You will need to meet him there. Signed: Dr. Albert C. Steiner, M.D.

The words, cold and clear, sent chillbumps over my body like a December wind. To me, they were too cold and too sharp, like a well-honed straight razor cutting into a man's skin.

Thinking on the words of the message, void of adjectives that might have given us some notion about the condition of my brother's health, I cringed.

It was a long trip to Decatur. At least two days. I'd have to spend the night along the road, in some strange place, then find Bosworth at the depot, then return, having to camp once again on the road, constantly watching for highwaymen known to rob unsuspecting travelers or renegade Indians known to wander from their settlement north along the river or other dangers that lurked in the thick woods or in the open fields.

It wasn't the kind of trip you took without some strong thought and mighty consideration, even when the ultimate goal was of a higher calling. I'd never been away from home alone. Not overnight. Once, when I was eight -- more than half my lifetime ago -- I'd ridden on the wagon with Papa and Martin and Ida Mae to Decatur. At first, Papa had said it wasn't a trip for a youngster, but I begged to be included. The day before we left, I heard Mama say, John, Harold's got his mind set on going with y'all. He loves you so. I see it in his eyes, the way he adores you. I don't think he could stand to watch you leave. I knew by the softness of his reply that Mama's persuasion was final. To me, we left on our journey in the middle of the night. I was groggy when Papa put me on a pallet behind the seat and I slept to the Courtland Cutoff a few miles down the road east of Town Creek. When I finally awoke the first light was shining in my face. Papa's hands swept out toward the horizon. Look out yonder, boys and girl, that's not just woods you¹re looking at. Ida Mae said she knew what she was seeing, and Papa, glancing toward her with a touch of disdain, said, Maybe the school girl's getting a wee bit too big for her britches. Ida Mae did not reply. That out there, Papa said, pointing toward the woods between the road and Courtland, is where the greatest general of the War Between the States fought back the Yankees in a little-known skirmish that saved north Alabama from being taken over entirely by the Union army. I listened to Pa's words with excitement building in my brain as he told about General Nathan Bedford Forrest and his band of Confederate cavalrymen saving this countryside where we now lived in peace. Of course, I recognized the name of Forrest from my studies and also from the words of Old Louisa Dot, the former slave who lived down the Bynum Road from us. It was Old Louisa Dot who talked about General Forrest like he was somebody she had had tea with. She remembered him with a quiet reverence.

We spent the first night at General Walker's plantation, Home Sweet Home, arriving after dark, and it had been nice and warm and cozy with burning wood crackling in the fireplace. The general's daughter, Miss Annie, was sweet to me and put ice and chocolate mint in my tea, a special treat. Papa and the general sat up and enjoyed a smoke and talk while Miss Annie took me up and tucked me in the down-soft bed where a few minutes later Ida Mae crawled in next to me. After Ida Mae boarded the train heading for college in Nashville, Papa and Martin and I stayed in Decatur in the same room at a boardinghouse, where once again Papa stayed up late and talked into the night with the lady proprietor, an old acquaintance from an earlier trip when Papa was a young man. Before daybreak the next morning, we headed back west toward our home. On the return trip, I again slept in the bed of the wagon, until an axle broke at a place called No Business Creek and Papa and Martin lifted me out and put me on the ground while they fixed it. Martin said it was called No Business Creek because once, years before, a man had found it flooded and unable to ford the deep water in his wagon. He got down, dove in, tried to swim against the current, and drowned. When told the story, a pioneer who lived nearby commented, He ain't got no business trying to swim this creek when it's swollen with rain. It's dangerous. Ever since, Martin said, it'd been called No Business Creek.

Another time, several years ago, I'd ridden westward from Town Creek with Mama and Papa to Muscle Shoals where we crossed the Tennessee River on a ferryboat to Florence, where Mama picked out dry goods and a bolt of colorful cloth to make dresses for the girls and where Papa bought plows and other implements for the farm. Papa did his own farming at our place at the edge of Town Creek, and Papa helped out with planting, harvesting, and ginning for Mr. Melvin Saunders, who owned the gin and a huge plantation that covered much of the valley. He was by far the richest man in Lawrence County, and his daughter, Sarah Lynn, was the prettiest girl in Hazelwood High School.

The fartherest I'd ever ventured out alone was down to Bynum, about six miles south, to Saturday afternoon baseball games, which I loved almost as much as barbering, and even then I was accompanied by my best friends, Raiford Bradford and Peter Morgan. After the game, traveling back on mule or horseback, we'd talk excitedly about the play: how Jason Greene had snagged a fly ball in left field or how Billy Dee Johnson hit a home-run into the pine thicket so far back Bynum's best fielder couldn't out-run it or how J.D. Sumner, catching for Town Creek, got his windpipe busted when one of Mike Ritchie's curve balls dropped, hit the dirt in front of home-plate and bounced up, catching J.D. in the throat. For a few seconds it looked like J.D. was dead as a doornail, then his hands flew up to his throat. He sucked wind, wheezing like he had tuberculosis. He was finally declared okay, but he couldn't talk plain for nearly a month.

I didn't care much about being out in the vast cottonfields alone, especially early in the morning or after nightfall. Matter of fact, I hated it. I didn't like lonesome one bit. That's why I got a job in Mr. Carl Guyton's barber shop in downtown Town Creek when I was eleven. I talked an old Negro man, J.P. Snowhill, into teaching me the tricks of being a shoeshine jockey, and I cottoned to it fast, although I think that my choice of profession turned Papa's better judgment of me. By the time I was fourteen, I fashioned myself a two-foot-high box to stand on where I could easily reach men's heads in the tall chairs, and I soon proved I could cut hair as well as most seasoned barbers. But to Papa that wasn't proving much.

Bosworth's a serious young man, always has been, Papa said. Finished high school early, got a head start on others his age, went off to college, then the war came along and took him away, interrupting his life. Papa was not an educated man, but he read books and taught himself the intricacies of the English language, and knew the Bible better than most. He was quiet and steady and contemplative.

I was just the opposite. I liked to talk. When I was shining shoes or cutting hair, I'd talk up a blue streak. I was never at a loss for words, unless I was in school with my friends. And I also liked to listen. When customers who came in the shop talked, I'd turn my head ever-so-slightly in their direction and nod, letting them know I was hearing what they said. It didn't matter whether they were cussing President Taft or the state legislature, the unfair transportation tariffs levied on the South by Yankee politicians, or the weather, which could blow up a storm before you could turn around on your heels, I took it all in. For me, it was better than any classroom. When I saw by their expectant nature that they wanted an argument, I'd take an opposing view. But usually I'd just listen, until someone came in who obviously wanted to be entertained, then I'd start in on the topic of the day, or I'd make something up, if need be. It was all according to the person and the time. As Mr. Guyton always said: Let the fellow who wants his hair cut determine your demeanor. It's not up to you to take on a braggart's soap box.²

As long as I stayed in Town Creek and close to the barber shop, I was safe. I knew nobody in this cruel world would bother me there. It was my place. I knew my way around Town Creek and Carl Guyton's barber shop. In a few weeks I'd be seventeen. Then I'd ask Papa if it'd be all right for me to quit school and barber full-time. I knew he'd balk. But I was pretty persuasive, when I needed to be.

I lay there and thought about the journey. While the moon cast shadows through the windows, I wondered about the dangers of the road, dangers I'd heard about while shining shoes and cutting hair at Carl Guyton's barber shop. From time to time travelers came through and stopped to be refreshened on their way across the Tennessee River valley. They were given to talk about the problems of travel: horses being spooked by rattlesnakes or gusty winds, falling trees or outlaws laying in wait for innocent passers-by, Indians gone mad, or gypsies with nothing to do but fleece a passer-by, or mean and ornery criminals waiting for easy prey.

I'd known from the time Papa'd first read the letter that I'd go, even though I questioned it in my mind. I had never been able to say no to him. Few people ever did, with the exception of Mama. While I debated with myself in the silence of my mind, and told Lucy about my fear of talking to the animals, I knew deep down that the trip was inevitable.

And that's what I told my boss, Carl Guyton, at the barber shop on Saturday morning. Mr. Guyton said he understood perfectly well and added that it was a long twenty-eight to thirty-two miles from Town Creek to Decatur. And if I took a wrong turn somewhere along way, it would be longer.

As I was cutting the gray hair back from Caleb Andrews's ears, I thought: Twenty-eight? Thirty-two miles? Maybe farther. I tried to measure it out in my mind, but nothing I could fathom satisfied my trepidation. It was too much distance for my small mind to comprehend.

We were busy all day Saturday. People from all over the valley piled into Town Creek. Wagons and buggies pulled by horses and mules lined River Street. Even Mr. Melvin Saunders's Ford motor car was parked in front of the gin office. I saw Sarah Lynn sashay by in a perky yellow spring dress, her golden curls bouncing in the sunlight. I watched every step she made and eased over to the window to peek at her from behind. Mr. Guyton said, She sure is something, ain't she, Harold? but I slid back to my position behind the third chair and didn't comment.

Late Saturday afternoon Mr. Guyton remarked about my silence. You've been brooding over your trip, Harold, he said. You'll just be gone a few days.

I frowned. Three, four days at most, I said.

That's what your Papa says, but if Bosworth's train's late, or if something's happened to him. . . I couldn't imagine what, but it was a heavy thought.

That night I asked Papa.

Mama looked up from her crocheting at Papa, who'd been reading the Florence newspaper.

Didn't that last letter say he'll be arriving on Thursday morning? he asked.

Mama lifted the envelope, pulled out the paper, read it and nodded. That's what it says. The second Thursday in April. The army people could be wrong, but that's what it says.

Without hesitating, Papa said, Bosworth's always been good at his word.

I nodded.

Like a giant, Papa unfolded his long body from the chair on the far side of the fireplace. He stepped across the room and put his huge hand on my shoulder and held it there. He¹ll be there, son, he said. Sooner or later, he'll be there. If not Thursday, the next.

I nodded. Yes, sir, I said, and I rose and began preparing for my trip.

Just in case his time of arrival was later, I fixed my portable shoeshine box into a traveling case that would hang on Jenny's side balanced by some clothes and food that would hang on the opposite side.

Copyright 2002 Wayne Greenhaw