Foolish Games | Tombstone

Chapter Four

July 4th, 1881 - Midmorning

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"What do you mean Thomas is missing?" Katrina gasped at her husband.

"I didn't say he was missing, Kat. I said he isn't in town."

Clara huffed a sigh, watching as Mama snapped open her fan and began cooling herself down with frenzied swoops.

"Well, if he isn't in town and you don't know where he went, I'd call that missing, Douglas."

Daddy rubbed his temple, flustered with his wife. He had forgotten in the six years they'd been apart how worrisome (perhaps even bothersome) his wife could become. And it had only taken a matter of seconds.

"Woman, I came to tell you I'm fixing to find out. Hell, he could be out with other youngsters his age. A lot of them are probably camping down by the river. Thomas isn't a boy anymore, Kat. At some point, you're going to have to realize that."

Katrina became rigid in her movements, stepping squarely up to her husband and arriving just at his chest. Never being a tall woman, Daddy liked to say Mama was akin to a small dog. That is to say, there may not have been much to Kat, but she knew how to bark and bite.

She smacked his shoulder with her fan. "Don't you dare lecture me about such things, Douglas Grady! Don't you dare! Unless you've forgotten what happened the last time we went down this road."

Clara sat up from the chaise in their parlor room, lounging, listening to her parents argue. In front of her. The air in the room turned dark as her Daddy's face became ashen gray. In those few moments, a volcano of pain lying dormant for all those years in darkness erupted out of its metaphorical vessel. Neither of her parents had ever discussed the loss of their eldest son. They simply carried the weight of it in their ways, together but separately. However, it had been clear from the beginning to both their surviving children that Mama had blamed Daddy for William's death. After all, it had been her father that agreed if not pushed William to enlist near the end. Mama just opened a can of worms. And Clara wasn't sure her mother would ever be able to put them back. Her heart began to race.

Douglas looked over at Clara, his expression sorrowful and wounded. She'd never seen him cry before; he looked as though he just might. Blinking sporadically, he cleared his throat, addressing his wife again. "It's hardly the same situation. I understand how you must feel, Kat. I do."

An audible gasp left Clara's lungs as she witnessed her mother slap her father. It seemed Mrs. Grady was finding a new pastime.

"Mama!" She shrieked in a scolding tone.

"Quiet, Clara," Her Daddy ordered. "Your Mama felt the need to do that. So go on then, Katrina. If it will make you feel better about it all."

Katrina started to sob. "Don't you give me that! It wasn't his war-it was yours-he was just a boy. But you pushed him. You put a rifle in his hands and sent him out to die. And then you had the God-damn nerve to leave me with two young children. Left me to pursue other ventures."

Clara stared in unabashed horror. She had never in all her years seen Mama, the epitome of southern style and class, become unhinged. From Katrina's screaming with tears to the very language she used, her daughter felt this might be the coming of the end of days. Hell had most certainly frozen over. Unsure what to do, to stay sat on the chaise or to leave the room altogether, Clara desperately wanted to disappear.

"Is that what you think I did?" Mr. Grady whispered.

Mama pressed her palm to her forehead, furious. "You lost the war, turned right back around, and served six years for the blue coats. Yankees. Yankees who killed our son. Do you have any idea what that did to me? What you up and leaving did to Thomas?"