Lou had always known the day would come when her son-their son-would want to know about his father. Deep down she knew she should have told him much sooner-like that time when he'd asked why, if they were her brother and sister, Theresa and Jeremiah had the same last name as he did. But sooner would have been when the pain was too fresh-when the mere thought of talking about Kid had left her fighting for breath-and fighting back the tears.
She had hoped that moving back West would help-away from people who knew who and what Kid had been before . . . before the bullet that had ripped through him had taken him from them. At least away from the war-ravaged South, she could start a new life without the stigma of being the wife of a Rebel (always with a capital 'R' in most people's minds). Even a hero Rebel was still nothing more than a Rebel in some people's eyes.
And Kid had been a hero. She had the medals to prove it. Medals for courage-or stupidity depending on your point of view. Medals that were presented to him by Robert E. Lee himself along with a promotion to sergeant after battles where Kid had risked his life to save his fellow soldiers. Medals that were now worth little more than the value of the silver from which they'd been cast-and the memories she carried in her soul.
During the move, there had been another opportunity. While she was packing the boy had seen her fingering the flag she'd been given from a "proud and grateful nation." She could have shown him everything then but he was too young to understand. Or so she'd told herself.
The boy's curiosity had grown almost as much as he had in the past months though. At age ten, he was almost as tall as she was-but not quite tall enough to reach the top shelf of her closet.
She'd found him standing tippy-toed on a chair, stretched to his full height trying to reach the box where she had stored her physical memories of Kid and their life together. He'd started when she spoke his name and she'd barely been able to break his fall. He was much heavier than she remembered-but then it had been some time since she'd had to carry him to bed.
He hadn't apologized, just simply stood there, unashamed, as she'd asked him what he thought he was doing. He had waited for her anger to fade, then told her in a quiet voice that he needed to know. Everyone else had fathers they could be proud of, he had told her. He didn't know anything about his. He wanted-needed-to know why she was so ashamed of his father that she kept him such as secret from his own son.
That remark had shaken her. Of course she hadn't spoken about Kid much while the boy was growing up. Never once had she ever thought he would think the reason was shame. It had never occurred to her that her grief would be mistaken for anything but what it was.
Looking at the boy, she realized how much he looked like his father. Standing there with that same determined look, those same eyes challenging her as Kid had done so many times, she knew he deserved an answer to his questions. The time had come and the boy wasn't going to take "not now" for an answer.
She'd told him she needed some time to think about what to say to him. At first he'd looked as if he was going to argue with her but instead he agreed to let her take the time she needed-as long as it was soon. He had walked from the room then, to do his chores and give her peace.
Peace was the last thing she had gotten though. How do you tell a boy that his father never even knew he was going to be born? How do you tell him of a life lived hard and cut far too short because of a belief in something others had deemed to be wrong? How do you show him as a proud man who believed and fought-and died-for his belief?
The boy wanted someone to brag about to his friends. Friends whose fathers most likely were on the other side of the battles. She'd have to find a way somehow to show her son an image of Kid without the politics and disgust others would show for his being born in what amounted to the wrong place at the wrong time. Pulling the box from the shelf, she began spreading the relatively few items on the bed.
The flag, of course, still folded neatly into a triangle. Some things hadn't changed because of the secession. Flags were treated with respect even though they may not represent the current nation in power. The flag bore the "Southern Cross" or the cross of St. Andrew. It had been described as a proud emblem of Southern heritage when it had been given to her-and as a shameful reminder of slavery by the "victors" after the war. She had never truly espoused the Southern attitude towards slavery but had, as her husband had, believed that no group had the right to tell others what they could and could not believe. It was a flag she'd never be able to display with any kind of pride but for which she would die before destroying.
A few letters, now yellow with age, were neatly tied in a yellow ribbon. The letters, written in Kid's careful scrawl spoke of the love he had for her and the hopes he had for them once the war was over and they could live in peace. Careful to keep her tears from staining the papers anymore than they already had been, she read the final line in the final letter. It was dated just two weeks after a furlough that had resulted in the conception of the son he would never see.
The captain says we're heading for somewhere in Pennsylvania. One big push and it'll all be over. Then I'm coming home.
But he hadn't come home. Instead he'd been buried in a field that the Northern President had declared "A final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live." No one had even recognized that the nation Kid had fought for wasn't the one of which the great orator spoke.
The medals had been stored in a cloth bag. Holding them now, she noticed how tarnished they'd become. Kid had been humbly proud of those medals. He refused to admit that he had done anything any differently than hundreds of other men but she had seen the glint of pride that recognition of his efforts brought him in his eyes.
Under the bag were three framed photographs, each carefully wrapped in tissue paper. She hadn't looked at them in years, always afraid of not being able to stop the tears she knew would come.
The topmost one actually brought a smile to her face as she freed it from its wrapping. It was hard for her to believe that they had actually been able to get the group of people in the photograph to sit still long enough for the picture to be taken. They had all looked so young and eager to take on the world. It was hard to believe that, of the six young riders, two were dead, one was missing and the fourth was trying to get himself killed on a regular basis.
She hadn't heard from Buck in almost a decade, not since he'd written her to express his condolences over Kid's death. For a minute the sadness threatened to overwhelm her. She resolved then to try her best to find Buck. Sam might have an idea she thought. She decided then and there to write the retired Marshal and Emma as soon as possible-as soon as she finished doing what needed to be done for her son.
She'd heard more than she'd ever wanted about Jimmy. "Wild Bill" Hickok was notorious even in the small town where she and her son lived. She'd considered contacting him when they had come back west. There had been a time when she thought the two of them could have been more to each other-maybe she could help him become the Jimmy she had once known. Ultimately, she read too many stories-most of which had to be believed-and realized there was little hope that he would change. She had mourned for Jimmy just as she had Kid and Ike.
The second picture brought more tears. Taken on their wedding day, the boys had pooled their money and bought the photograph as a wedding present. Kid looked so stiff in his suit but no more uncomfortable than she had in her dress. She stroked the picture gently before opening the last of the tissue wrapped memories.
Katy with Kid sitting proudly in the saddle stared back at her. Kid had adamantly refused to take the horse with him to the war. She was too good a horse to be risked as cannon fodder he had declared. He would rather walk than lose Katy, so Katy had stayed home where she and Lou would be safe.
Lou paused for a moment to look out the window to the pasture where the horse in the picture was munching contentedly on a carrot that her son had just fed her. Once again the woman was struck by the resemblance the boy bore to his father-a resemblance she realized she hadn't noticed was so strong until that day. Sighing she moved on to the rest of the items in the box.
Reaching in, she removed the locket that Kid had brought her that last time he was home. It wasn't anything expensive-Lord knows they couldn't afford anything expensive on a Southern foot-soldier's pay-but he'd been so happy to give her something that showed his love for her. He'd probably spent more to have the words engraved on the back than the locket had been worth.
She didn't remember when she'd finally taken the locket off. The chain was broken-obviously from a violent tug, so most likely it was when she'd heard the news of Kid's death. She'd always meant to have the chain fixed-but never did. Opening the locket she smiled softly at the two pictures-her and Kid-that smiled back at her.
There were only two other items in the box. A pair of glasses and a piece of paper even more yellow than Kid's letters. She unfolded the paper and smoothed it out, smiling as she read.
Wanted, Young, skinny, wiry fellows not over eighteen. Must be expert riders, willing to risk death daily. Orphans preferred.
She knew then how she would start the story she would tell her son. He would never know his father like the boys he was pals with but he would know that he could be proud of where his father had come from and where he had gone.
Her story would start with the vision of an older man rising up from a watering trough to teach them what they needed to survive and would end on a great battlefield where men had fought and died for their beliefs. The boy had more to be proud of than he could possibly imagine.
Silver Medals And Sweet Memories
Written by Don Reid
Sung by The Statler Brothers on their album The Statler Brothers Ride Again Volume II
Just a picture on a table
Just some letters Mama saved
And a costume broach from England
On the back it has engraved:
To Eileen, I love you
London, nineteen forty-three.
And she never heard from him again
And he never heard of me
And the war still ain't over for Mama
Every night in her dreams she still sees
The young face of someone who left her
Silver medals and sweet memories
In Mama's bedroom closet
To this day on her top shelf
There's a flag folded three-cornered
Layin' all by itself
And the sargeant would surely be honored
To know how pretty she still is
And that after all these lonely years
His Eileen's still his
And the war still ain't over for Mama....
Silver medals and sweet memories