"That's kind of harsh,” Mavis said. “I mean, we know farmers probably got killed, but this guy didn't look like the homegrown farmer-soldiers you see in history books, going to battle with their pitchfork as a weapon."
"You're right-he doesn't look like he even has a weapon. He's sure playing it for all it's worth, too. Look, he hasn't gotten up yet."
"Maybe he fell asleep while he was playing dead."
The two women sat back down and waited for the people below them to exit the bleachers. Mavis chewed on a piece of johnnycake.
"Do you have any honey, Honey,” she said with a smile at her own pun.
Harriet pulled a small plastic honey dispenser in the shape of a bear from her lunch bag.
"Don't tell Aunt Beth,” she said and handed it to her friend. “I couldn't figure out how they carried their honey around in those days, so I smuggled the bear this morning."
"Come on,” Mavis said after a few bites. “I think the crowd has thinned enough that I can make it down the stairs without tripping on my skirt or someone else's. We need to find something to drink with these bricks."
Harriet stood up, and her gaze wandered to the forest edge.
"It looks like something's wrong with our farmer,” she said. “He's still lying there. Having a dramatic moment is one thing, but the rest of the people have left that side of the field and he's still in the same spot.” She watched intently for a few moments. “He's not moving.” She started to go down then glanced back at Mavis.
"You go ahead,” Mavis said. “I'll catch up,"
Harriet hiked her skirt up and held it bunched in her fists as she hustled down the risers then continued toward the stage and the forest beyond.
"Where are you going in such a hurry?” Carlton asked as she brushed past him.
"One of the re-enactors looks like he's been injured at the edge of the forest,” she said without stopping.
"I'll come with you,” Carlton said and glanced at Bebe, who was standing in the shade of the stage, fanning herself with an ornate plastic-ribbed ladies fan.
"I'm not wearing this into the forest,” she said and glanced down at her pink satin confection.
Carlton was obviously torn for a moment.
"You go ahead, baby,” she said. “I'll keep your spot cool."
Harriet was already crouched over the man when Carlton arrived.
"He doesn't look too good,” he said. “How is he?"
The man hadn't moved. He was wearing jeans and a plaid flannel shirt and was lying on his side, his back toward her. She reached out to feel for a pulse in his neck, and when she touched him he flopped onto his back, startling her and making Carlton jump back a few steps.
The quantity of blood soaking the front of the man's shirt seemed to be more than a person should be able to lose and still be alive, but Harriet checked for a pulse anyway. He was dead.
Chapter 8
" Carlton,” Harriet said.
Carlton didn't move. He was frozen in place, staring at the body, his face white.
" Carlton,” she said again, more firmly this time.
"What?” he asked in a flat voice, still staring at the body.
"Listen to me. We need the police and the paramedics here immediately. I don't have a phone with me, and I assume you don't, either. I need for you to go back to the park office and ask them to call for the sheriff. The paramedics are in the parking lot, go get them."
He hesitated.
"Go!” she shouted and finally got through to him. He went back toward the stage.
Harriet turned to the body at her feet. A slight breeze gently ruffled his hair, overlaying the coppery scent of blood with the damp smell of pine trees and earth and briefly giving him the illusion of life. She didn't recognize him, but he looked vaguely familiar. Maybe he went to Aunt Beth's church, or drank coffee in the shop she frequented.
She was still looking at him when Mavis came up behind her.
Harriet turned toward her friend.
"Don't come any closer,” she said. “There's been an accident."
It was too late. The blood drained from Mavis's face, and she crumpled to the ground, her full skirt billowing around her as she fell.
"Mavis!” Harriet grabbed at her, breaking but not stopping her fall. “Help!” she called.
A man dressed in the gray of the Confederate army was picking up debris left from the battle when he heard her call. He ran over and helped her ease Mavis onto her back.
"I'm a doctor,” he said as he started loosening the bodice of her dress. He felt for the pulse in her left wrist. “Her pulse is strong.” He continued loosening and checking. “Are you okay?” he asked Harriet as he straightened Mavis's legs and ran trained fingers along her shins to make sure she hadn't broken anything in her fall.
The doctor looked over at the man lying a few feet away.
"He's dead,” Harriet said before he could ask, and the doctor refocused his attention on Mavis.
Harriet held Mavis's hand. The older woman's lips began to move; at first, no sound came out.
"It's him,” she said finally in a garbled tone.
"What?” Harriet asked.
"It's Gerald,” Mavis said, and tried to get up.
"Ma'am, you're going to need to lie down for a few minutes until the paramedics get here with their equipment and we can run a couple of quick tests.” The doctor turned to Harriet. “I can't find any sign of injury, and I don't think its heat-related.” He felt Mavis's forehead with the back of his hand again. “She's not hot enough for that. She just seems shocky.” He looked back toward the body. “What's going on here?"
"I don't know. We were coming down the bleachers and noticed this guy hadn't gotten up when the rest of the re-enactors did. I came over to check it out and found him lying there with no pulse."
I know dead when I see it, Harriet thought. Her husband Steve had died five years before her return to Foggy Point-she'd crawled into bed after a late movie “night out with the girls” and rubbed her foot up his cold, dead shin. It took several years of therapy for her to just be able to sleep in a bed again-most of the time, anyway.
Yes, she knew dead.
"He has a chest injury, and there's blood everywhere."
"Will you stay with her and make sure she doesn't get up while I check him?"
"Of course,” Harriet said and rubbed Mavis's hand again.
Mavis pulled her hand back and was trying to sit up when the paramedics arrived. A thorough evaluation proved she had suffered a substantial shock and fainted but was otherwise unharmed.
Dried grass clung to her skirt as Mavis rose to her feet. Harriet put her hand on her friend's arm, but Mavis pushed it away.
"I'm okay,” she said, her voice sounding stronger. “This is just a bit of a shock."
"Who is that?” Harriet asked, lowering her voice as she looked over Mavis's shoulder at the crowd that was gathering on the battlefield a short distance away.
"That is, or was, my husband Gerald."
"What? Are you sure?"
"Of course, she's sure,” Aunt Beth said as she joined them. “You can't be married to a man for thirty years and not recognize him, even if you haven't seen him in a while."
"A while?” Harriet said, quickly adding the numbers in her head. “A while like a twenty-year while? How can that be? Besides hasn't he been dead all that time?"
"Apparently not,” Aunt Beth said. She patted Mavis on the back. “Do you think you can bear a second look? Harriet's right. It's probably best to be sure. I agree it looks like Gerald, but it has been twenty years."
"I don't need a second look. He's grayer and a little fatter, but look under his chin. See the scar on the left side, right at the beard line?"