Free Shades of Gray by Tim O’Brien Page B

buttons my friend Matt and I collected around Winchester. I showed him Papa’s saber, too,” he explained.
    Meg sighed. “I wish I could have seen all that.”
    Will looked up in surprise. He hadn’t thought a girl would be interested in such things. “I’ll show them to you when we’re through supper,” he said.
    â€œWouldn’t mind seeing ’em myself,” said Uncle Jed.
    So after the dishes had been washed and dried, Will brought down the pouch and saber. He drew the saber from its scabbard and laid it on the table, pretending he didn’t see his uncle’s outstretched hand. Uncle Jed picked it up and ran a finger along the finely sharpened blade. “Never saw one of these before,” he admitted.
    Meg’s eyes were wide. “Did your pa really kill men with that? It must be terrible to see the face of somebody you have to kill!” She shuddered.
    Uncle Jed slid the saber back into its scabbard. “Yes, I guess it’s easier to fire your musket at somebody that’s wearing a different color uniform. Or just to aim your cannon in the general direction of the other side.”
    Will felt a flood of anger sweep through him. “There’s times a man can’t take the easy way out,” he said, glaring at his uncle.
    His uncle’s dark eyes met his and held. “That’s right, Will. A man has to do what he believes is right.”
    Will looked away, confused. Did Uncle Jed really believe he’d done the right thing when he refused to fight? He was glad when Meg broke the strained silence.
    â€œCan we see the buttons now?” she asked.
    He emptied the pouch onto the table. “Each one is different,” he said. “I gave my friend Matt all my duplicates so he could swap ’em for ones he doesn’t have.”
    â€œWhich ones are Yankee and which ones are Johnny Reb?” asked Meg, leaning forward.
    How Will wished his cousin would say “Confederate”! He sorted the buttons into two piles, muttering under his breath as he worked: “Thirteenth Georgia . . . Seventh Maine . . . Ohio Volunteer Militia . . . Twenty-sixth Massachusetts. . . . ”
    â€œAnd just think, a man probably died right where you found every one of those buttons,” Meg said when he had finished.
    Will had never thought of it quite that way before. He wished his cousin hadn’t said it.
    â€œWhat I don’t understand is,” she went on, “why you have so many more Yankee buttons. If so many more Yankees were killed, how could they win the war?”
    â€œEasy,” said Uncle Jed, pushing his chair away from the table. “They had more men to waste.” The door slammed shut behind him.
    Meg helped Will gather up the buttons and put them back in the pouch. “Thank you for showing me your collection,” she said politely when they had finished. Then she went up to her attic room and closed the door quietly behind her.
    Will stared down at the leather pouch. “I think I’ll get rid of these,” he said at last.
    Aunt Ella reached over and laid her hand on his. “No, Will. Don’t do that. That collection is part of your past, and you have little enough left to remember it by.”
    Back in his room, Will whispered, “Aunt Ella’s right. I don’t have much to remember the past by.” His hand lingered on the saber as he hung the belt on its nail, then moved to the family Bible on the table beneath the window. Idly, heturned to the family record pages. In the waning light he could just make out the last two entries in his mother’s writing: Elizabeth Anne Page, born June 1, 1855, died August 18, 1864; Eleanor Jeanne Page, born July 3, 1857, died August 19, 1864. He flipped back to the page where he’d recorded his mother’s death. Why? Why did she have to die?
    The weight of the leather pouch made its drawstring cut into