“And since there is no longer a Confederacy, we decided to send the money out of the country altogether.”
Bill stared at his clients. Surely they were joking. “But what if you want to use some of it? To buy groceries and things!”
“In that case,” said Flora, “we might find it necessary to transfer some of it back. But for now you must allow us our little gesture. Now here’s the account number. Don’t lose it.”
“Wasn’t there something else you wanted?” asked Anna Douglas. “I’m late for bridge club.”
“Oh, the power of attorney,” said Bill, recalling his original errand. “I drew up a form authorizing me to act on your behalf in the selling of the property. I need each of you to sign on these lines.” He pointed out the appropriate place on the document, and produced the pen his parents had given him for graduation. One by one the ladies signed their names, passing the pen from hand to hand: Flora Dabney, Mary Lee Pendleton, Ellen Morrison, Lydia Bridgeford, Anna Douglas, and Dolly Hawks Smith. Julia Hotchkiss had to be persuaded to sign by the offer of another package of cookies, but in the end she scrawled her name below Jenny Allan’s tentative script, and the form was complete.
“I guess that’s it,” said Bill, putting the paper back in his briefcase. “Tomorrow Mr. Huff will come to my office, and we’ll sign the deed. After that you’ll have two weeks to vacate the house. Will that be sufficient?”
“Oh, yes,” said Mary Lee Pendleton with her serene smile. “We have already decided to go to Oakmont, that lovely retirement community just outside town. They have charming little apartments and a dining hall and people to check on you if you need anything. We’ll still be together.”
Flora Dabney patted his arm. “And you must come out and see us. Perhaps you could come to tea in a month or so, when we’re settled.”
“Thank you,” said Bill. “I’ll try to do that.”
“And you won’t forget about depositing the money, will you?” asked Ellen Morrison.
“It will go straight from the firm’s trust account to you. Less my commission, of course. I’m one of the honest lawyers,” said Bill.
They all laughed merrily.
Forty-five minutes later Bill returned to the office with two large pizzas balanced on the top of his briefcase. “How’s it going?” he called to Edith. “Any problems?”
“Maybe one,” said Edith, clearing space on her desk for the pizzas. “Did you get the old ladies to sign that power-of-attorney form?”
“I sure did,” said Bill. “See? Eight signatures.”
“Uh-huh.” Edith frowned as she examined the form. “Did you remember to have a notary present?”
“Oh, shit!”
“Shall I take that as a no?”
Bill sat down and put his head in his hands. “I completely forgot,” he groaned. “I was so busy rushing around, trying to get back here and finish the rest of this paperwork and buy the pizzas and all. It just slipped my mind.”
Edith sighed. “Want me to type up another one?”
“Well, one of the ladies said she had bridge club tonight. I might not be able to get all the signatures. Oh, hell. I should have thought to take you along. You’re a notary, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” said Edith, cutting the pizza with her letter opener. “Did you remember the napkins?”
“No. Use a paper towel. Look, I don’t suppose you could notarize this now, could you? I mean, I know you’re supposed to see the document being signed, but I
Over a slice of pepperoni pizza, Edith gave him a look of exasperation. “All right,” she said. “You are new at this. I guess everybody’s entitled to one incredibly stupid screwup. But it’s illegal, you hear? So I don’t want you ever to make this mistake again.” She opened her desk drawer, took out her notary seal, and witnessed the document.
“Thanks, Edith,” said Bill. “I promise I’ll never forget again. You’ve saved my life.”
“That’ll be a dollar,” said Edith.
RADFORD, VIRGINIA
THERE WERE ONLY six gray-clad soldiers in a makeshift camp near the house. The redbrick mansion sat on a hill overlooking the New River; it had belonged to a colonel in the Revolutionary War. Now its sprawling green lawn was dotted again with tents and tethered horses.
On the hill all was quiet. Beneath a tarp stretched across four poles, one grizzled sergeant spread out a makeshift dinner of hardtack, apples, and potatoes. On a log in front of the tent, a lanky bearded soldier was cleaning a rifle and passing the time of day with a raw-boned mountain boy, who was whittling on a stick of applewood. The smallest Rebel, a baby-faced corporal with wire-rimmed spectacles, was sitting on the edge of the hill beside the small cannon. The corporal was making ammunition cartridges by pouring gunpowder into paper tubes to be fired at some forthcoming battle. At the bottom of the hill, a private in a makeshift uniform was walking the perimeter, pacing back and forth with his rifle on his shoulder, solemn and silent. The group’s commanding officer, a stocky red-bearded man who in civilian life was a country lawyer, sat with his back against an oak tree, making notes in a small leather book.
The homemade flag flapping in the breeze read THE WYTHE GRAYS and in smaller block letters beneath it: 68th VIRGINIA INFANTRY. The flagstaff was a six-foot tree limb, trimmed of its branches, but gnarled, and still bearing gray bark. It was propped against a cheval-de-frise, a log pierced by sharp sticks used as a defensive barricade. Beside the regimental flag flew the Southern Battle Flag, a red field crossed by two blue stripes emblazoned with stars. It was the only Confederate flag that most people ever saw, but it was not the flag of the nation; the Southern equivalent of the U.S. Stars and Stripes was the Stars and Bars, a circle of seven stars on a square of blue, with two broad red strips separated by a band of white. It was not particularly distinctive, and like President Jefferson Davis, it would be all but forgotten after the war, while Robert E. Lee and his star-crossed battle flag lived on in song and story.
“Do you need any help, Corporal?” The grizzled sergeant had finished laying out the food and wandered over to observe the cartridge-making.
“Nice of you to ask, now that I’m about finished. Think we’ll need more than that?”
“Depends on what transpires this afternoon. If nobody shows up, one of us may have to galvanize. Unless you want to sit around all afternoon and bake in that wool uniform.”
“How about galvanizing Randy? He’s been on guard duty for a good while. He deserves a little excitement.”
“Okay. We’ll see. It’s early yet. Might as well wait a while.”
“Are you expecting any action, Sergeant Jennings?”
“Maybe. The 15th U.S. knows we’re here.” From the edge of the hill, he looked out across the little town of Radford, where all was quiet on the summer afternoon.
Suddenly the sentry shouted, “Company coming!” and they all looked down toward the bottom of the hill, where a white Ford Tempo was pulling into the municipal parking lot.
“Places everybody!” yelled the red-bearded officer. “Civilians on the way!”
The civilians, a yuppie family with two small children, got out and made their way up the hill. The little boy, a sturdy blond who looked about four, ran over to inspect the cannon from a cautious distance, while his parents and older sister looked at the food display under the tarpaulin. “But Arby’s is just across the street,” said the little girl, a prim nine-year-old firmly in the bossy stage of childhood.
“Arby’s?” echoed Sergeant Jennings in tones of complete bewilderment. “What’s that, little lady?”
The child pointed to the fast-food place beyond the parking lot and across the street. “That restaurant. We just had lunch there.”
