Civil War
The Union soldiers were all blue
including their faces and hands.
Confederates were all gray.
Infantry on both sides, crouched
or standing, aimed muskets,
as James called rifles, at the foe,
as James called the enemy.
Others marched, muskets
slung over their shoulders.
And the cavalry rode red horses.
Both sides had a flag bearer.
And there were wagons, cannons,
tents, boats, buglers: the greatest
set of toy soldiers I’d ever
seen, even in Macy’s windows.
James had recently moved into the
neighborhood. His large, brick
house was catty-cornered
to ours across a weedy
lawn. He was a round pale boy
with light brown girly curls
and he was older than me by a couple
of years. I had just turned nine.
He was called James, not Jim or Jimmy.
We played with his soldiers for hours.
And we could make as much noise
as we wanted — bombs, guns, horses.
I’d laugh when he made a horse sound.
His mom, he said, was his stepmother
and he said he would sometimes visit his
real mother who lived in her own place.
He had a sister, too, a baby, who was
his real sister, he said, not his step.
And he took singing lessons once a week
but “I won’t be singing for you,” he laughed,
shaking his long hair, and snorting
like one of the plastic toy horses.
There were four metal soldiers, painted
by hand. They were, James explained,
antiques. They led their armies into
battle and could never be killed.
But when the plastic soldiers were shot
we had to lay them down. He was pretty
strict about that, but always nice.
He called me a “talented tactician.”
I don’t know who I liked more, James
or his beautiful Civil War set.
After one long visit to his mother
during spring vacation, he didn’t
come back. My parents said he
moved away but I didn’t understand
because his family was still in the
big brick house. So that evening,
I snuck halfway down the front
stairs to listen to mom and dad talk.
“Despondent?” my mother said
kind of loud. “Despondent!”
And dad said, “Well, I guess
there’s despondent and despondent.”
“Yes,” she said, “there’s despondent
and despondent.” They said the word
so many times it began to sound strange.
“There’s a good cry,” said Dad,
“and then there’s the postman seeing
mail pile up in front of the apartment
and the police finding two bodies
inside and a gun next to the woman
lying on her son’s bedroom floor.”
More baffled than bereft,
all I could think was
that it wasn’t a musket.
*
Alec Solomita is a writer working in Massachusetts. His fiction has appeared in the Southwest Review, The Mississippi Review, and Southword Journal, among other publications. He was shortlisted by the Bridport Prize and Southword Journal. His poetry has appeared in many journals, including Poetica, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, The Lake, ONE ART, and several anthologies. His chapbook “Do Not Forsake Me,” was published in 2017 by Finishing Line Press. His full-length poetry book, “Hard To Be a Hero,” was released by Kelsay Books in the spring of 2021. He’s just finished another, titled “Small Change.”