“Why isn’t he on my family tree?”
“Most family trees in the South are fulla lies, but I’m surprised he made it onta any copy a the Wate Family Tree,” Aunt Grace said, shutting the book and sending a cloud of dust into the air.
“It’s only on account a my excellent record keepin’ that he’s even on this one.” Aunt Prue smiled proudly, showing off both sets of her dentures.
I had to get them to focus. “Why wouldn’t he make it on the family tree, Aunt Prue?”
“On account a him bein’ a deserter.”
I wasn’t following. “What do you mean, a deserter?”
“Lord, what do they teach you young’uns in that fancy high school a yours?” Aunt Grace was busy picking all the pretzels out of the Chex Mix.
“Deserters. The Confederates who ran out on Gen’ral Lee durin’ the War.” I must have looked confused because Aunt Prue felt compelled to elaborate. “There were two kinds a Confederate soldiers durin’ the War. The ones who supported the cause of Confed’racy and the ones whose families made them enlist.”
Aunt Prue stood up and walked toward the counter, pacing back and forth like a real history teacher delivering a lecture.
“By 1865, Lee’s army was beaten, starvin’, and outnumbered. Some say the Rebels were losin’ faith, so they up and left. Deserted their regiments. Ethan Carter Wate was one of ’em. He was a deserter.” All three of them lowered their heads as if the shame was just too much for them.
“So you’re telling me he was erased from the family tree because he didn’t want to starve to death, fighting a losing war for the wrong side?”
“That’s one way a lookin’ at it, I suppose.”
“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”
Aunt Grace jumped up out of her chair, as much as any ninety-something-yearold woman can jump.
“Don’t you sass us, Ethan. That tree was changed long before we were born.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am.” She smoothed her skirt and sat back down. “Why would my parents name me after some greatgreat-greatuncle who shamed the family?”
“Well, your mamma and daddy had their own ideas ’bout all that, what with all those books they read about the War. You know they’ve always been liberal. Who knows what they were thinkin’? You’d have ta ask your daddy.” Like there was any chance he would tell me. But knowing my parents’
sensibilities, my mom had probably been proud of Ethan Carter Wate. I was pretty proud, too. I ran my hand over the faded brown page of Aunt Prue’s scrapbook.
“What about the initials GKD? I think the G might stand for Genevieve,” I said, already knowing it did.
“GKD. Didn’t you date a boy with the initials GD once, Mercy?”
“I can’t recollect. Do you remember a GD, Grace?”
“GD… GD? No, I can’t say as I do.” I’d lost them.
“Oh my goodness. Look here at the time, girls. It’s time for church,” Aunt Mercy said.
Aunt Grace motioned toward the garage door. “Ethan, you be a good boy and pull the Cadillac around, ya hear. We just have ta put on our faces.”
I drove them four blocks to the afternoon service, at the Evangelical Missionary Baptist Church, and pushed Aunt Mercy’s wheelchair up the gravel driveway. This took longer than actually driving to the church because every two or three feet the chair would sink into the gravel and I’d have to wiggle it from side to side to free it, nearly tipping it and dumping my great-aunt into the dirt. By the time the preacher took the third testimony from an old lady who swore Jesus had saved her rosebushes from Japanese beetles or her quilting hand from arthritis, I was zoning out. I flipped the locket through my fingers, inside the pocket of my jeans. Why did it show us that vision? Why did it suddenly stop working?
Ethan. Stop. You don’t know what you’re doing.
Lena was in my head again.
Put it away!
The room started to disappear around me and I could feel Lena’s fingers grasping mine, as if she was there beside me— Nothing could have prepared Genevieve for the sight of Greenbrier burning. The flames licked up its sides, eating away at the lattice and swallowing the veranda. Soldiers carried antiques and paintings out of the house, looting like common thieves. Where was everyone? Were they hiding in the woods like she was? Leaves crackled. She sensed someone behind her, but before she could turn around a muddy hand clamped over her mouth. She grabbed the person’s wrist with both hands, trying to break their hold.
“Genevieve, it’s me.” The hand loosened its grip.
“What are you doin’ here? Are you all right?” Genevieve threw her arms around the soldier, dressed in what was left of his once proud gray Confederate uniform.
“I am, darlin’,” Ethan said, but she knew he was lying.