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“You, too. When you’re done with the horses, go wait with your cousin.” He strode off with Earl cradled in his arms.
Gil slid out of the wagon and waited until Joseph turned it around before crossing the yard to the woodshop. He wantedto be thankful. Neither he nor Earl had broken any bones. Only sprains, the doctor had said, but it would take time for the ligaments to heal. He couldn’t stop feeling guilty for Earl’s injury.
He’d told Joseph the truth—he hadn’tmadeEarl march. But he’d told Earl how important it was to have his trumpet in the band. He’d left the decision to Earl, but maybe the boy had felt pressured. If Onkel Hosea blamed Gil, he would accept the responsibility. Would Joseph accept responsibility for the harm done to Gil’s wrist? He couldn’t wiggle his fingers without great pain. How would he hold a baton?
Gil took a seat on a stack of cut lumber. Joseph came in and stood against the wall near the door, far from Gil. When Onkel Hosea entered a few minutes later, he snapped his fingers at his son and pointed to the stack of lumber. Joseph grunted under his breath, but he trudged across the sawdust-covered floor and perched next to Gil.
Onkel Hosea grabbed a nail keg and dragged it close. He sat and fixed Gil and Joseph with a stern frown. The sight brought back memories from childhood. When they were boys, being called to the woodshop meant punishment. They were too old for a strapping, but Gil’s worst reprimand had always been suffering his aunt’s or uncle’s disapproval. He suffered it now.
Onkel Hosea clamped his hands over his knees. “Joseph, Gil, there is something I want to tell you. Something that should have been told long before now, but Dorcas swore me to secrecy. The pain…She thought if we didn’t speak of it, it would go away. But it hasn’t. It festers inside of her, and it has spilled over onto—” He made a horrible face, as if he smelled something rotten. “By telling the secret, I hope the wound will finally heal and relationships can be restored.” He took a deepbreath, held it for a few seconds, then whooshed it out. “Joseph, you were not our firstborn child. Less than a year before you were born, we had a son.”
Joseph exchanged a shocked look with Gil, then glared at his father. “You had a son before me?”
“Jo. He came much too soon.” Hosea hung his head. “He was tiny. So very tiny, he fit in my hand.” He held out his palm and stared at it, as if seeing the child resting there.
Gil stared, too, trying to imagine a baby nestled in that broad, calloused hand.
Joseph spluttered a few nonsensical noises, then blurted, “What is his name?”
“We didn’t give him a name. Or a church burial.”
“Then where is he?” Joseph grated out the question, his teeth clenched.
“I buried him on our property. There’s no stone to mark his resting spot, but I dug up a maple sapling from the creek and planted it near him.”
Chills broke out over Gil’s body. The single tree in the middle of an open expanse rose like a beacon on the prairie. He and Joseph had reenacted scenes fromThe Three Musketeersaround that tree. They’d sat in its shade, rested or whittled, and watched a robin’s nest take shape in its branches. If he’d known his infant cousin lay at its roots, would he have spent so much time there?
“I’ve watched the tree grow tall and strong in place of my son,” Onkel Hosea said in a somber voice.
Joseph growled and pressed the heels of his hands to his temples. Gil put his arm around his cousin, a meager attempt to comfort him, but Joseph arched away from him and glared at his father. “Why did you never tell me? Do you think I’m a weakling or a child to be cosseted? I should have been told.”
Hosea sat up and gave Joseph a stern look. “I’m telling you now. And I already said your mother refused to let me speak of him.”
Joseph stood and paced back and forth, his fists clenched. “Ma was wrong. She should have named him. She should have buried him at the cemetery where we could pay our respects. She should have—”
Hosea leaped up, grabbed a handful of Joseph’s shirtfront, and shook him. “Stop acting like a spoiled child. What makes you think you’re the only person with feelings that matter? A woman carries a baby in her womb, beneath her heart. She feels its movements and watches her body grow to accommodate it. It’s a part of her in a way that we will never understand.” He released Joseph with a shove, and Joseph stumbled back a few feet before regaining his balance. Hosea pointed at him. “Losing her baby was losing part of herself. We can’t comprehend that kind of pain, and we won’t judge her response to it.”
Joseph sat on the wood again, his chin quivering.
Hosea turned to Gil. “She never let you close. But it isn’t your fault. You were born the same month our son should have been delivered. Even though Joseph was already nestled in her womb, you were a constant reminder of the boy we weren’t able to raise. She felt it was…disloyal…to love you. That loving you would somehow replace him in her heart.” Tears winked in the corners of his eyes. “I saw it, and I didn’t like it, but I did nothing to change it. I am sorry for the part I played in making you feel like an outsider in what should have been your home.
“And, Joseph…” He shifted his focus to his son. “Do you remember when you were boys? You and Gil were nearly inseparable. Dorcas resisted having Gil here, so I let you go toyour Onkel Ezra’s place as often as you asked. I’d grown up with a brother only a year older than me, and I wanted you to have a close and brotherly relationship with your cousin. You had it. Until Ezra and Elizabeth died and Gil came to live with us.” Hosea sat on the barrel again, rested his elbows on his widespread knees, and looked at Joseph. “Son, I’ve watched you absorb your mother’s attitude toward Gil. I don’t approve of the way she treated him, but I understand it. With you? I don’t understand. Help me understand.”
Joseph flicked a frown at Gil, then faced his father. “I thought I was the oldest child, and then he came and was the oldest. And he did everything—everything!—better than me. I…” He dropped his chin. “I was jealous.”
“And resentful,” Hosea said.
Joseph sat as still as a stone for several seconds. Then he nodded. “Jo.”
“Well, now it stops.”
Joseph lifted his head so quickly, his neck popped.
The stern expression on Hosea’s face, although he aimed it at Joseph, held Gil captive. “Gil is my only brother’s only child. He’s been a good son to me and a good brother to you. He will only be in Falke a few more weeks, and during those weeks we are going to treat him the way he should have been treated all along—as a beloved member of our family.”
Joseph swallowed. “What about Ma?”
“I am going to talk to your mother. I know nothing will ever fully remove the pain of losing her first child, but it’s time she stop using Gil as her scapegoat for it.” He stood and shifted his attention to Gil. “Son—” His voice broke. He pressed his fist against his lips for a few seconds, then cleared his throat. “Son, I know I am not your father, just as I know you are not a replacement for the boy we lost. But I want you to know…Ilove you. I am proud of you. And your Mutta and Foda would be, too.” He put out his hand. “Will you forgive me?”
