Free A Place of Peace by Iris Penn Page A

was clear.  She felt fresh tears spring up.
    Her father was not taken prisoner.   There would be no prisoner exchange.  If he was missing, then he was presumed dead or deserted.
    The letter came that morning.  A fresh-faced boy who had been delivering death notices of local boys killed or wounded had delivered it to the surrounding farms.  He had galloped up on Melinda as she was putting the final touches on a crude scarecrow built in the center of the corn patch.  It kept wanting to fall over, no matter how far she tried to pound it into the ground.  It finally stood, tilted slightly, its arms jutting out and its head canted to one side.
    “Melinda Jacoby,” the boy read from the envelope before handing her the letter.  “Good day,” and just like that, he was gone down the road, raising small clouds of dust to deliver more notices of loss.  Melinda simply stood, letter in hand, and stared at it.  It looked official, as the postage on the envelope marked that it came from Nashville.  She didn’t want to open it, but found herself quickly ripping it open, sliding the slip of paper out with a shaking hand.
    Now she sat with blurred eyes staring out at the gathering darkness.  The world wavered from behind water, and she angrily wiped her tears out of her eyes.  Her father might not be dead.  He might be missing, or lost.  The letter crumpled in her fist, and she felt herself collapsing inside.  The farm with its tilted scarecrow was all around her, and she couldn’t keep it together.  For the past week, she had been eating well but a little too recklessly.  She had gained a little bit of weight, and new color had returned to her face, but the reserves in the cellar were fast dwindling.  They would be gone soon if she kept eating like she had.  It would be late July or early August before the corn would be ready, and the other crops, what was left of them after the torrents of April, were looking wilted and sad, no matter how much water she carried out to them each morning.  By midday, the sun would crack open the earth and dry out her plants, and the next morning she would be lugging bucket after bucket of water back out into the gardens to water them all again.
    She was tired now most of the time, and she often found herself dozing off if she sat for more than a few minutes at a time.  Sometimes she would walk out to the edge of the tree line and visit her mother’s grave, but she grew tired of that as well, and just the thought of the walk made her exhausted.  The thought of taking Joan Johnson up on her offer came back to Melinda.  It was tempting, now more than ever.  They would probably  insist as soon as she told them about the letter.
    Then the thought of her father came to her.  He was either dead or wandering lost in the wilderness, most likely looking for a way home.  She refused to allow the word “deserted” to come into her mind, but it was there anyway, like a black sore.  He deserted the army, and he’s not coming back.
    However, she knew he was not the type of man who would run from his responsibility.  
    But then, how would she know how he would react under the pressure of fire?  What would she do under the same circumstances?  She wouldn’t blame him if he had run away.  As she looked around the farm, she had the wish to run away, too.  Leave the farm and head to Nashville.  Abandon the rural life for one of city living.  She could even have suitors who would take her for long rides in their carriages through the countryside as they went for their picnic beside the lake.
    She shook her head, snapping herself out of her dream.  That was not her.  She would rather be thrown in the back of a hay wagon than ride in a stuffy carriage, and what would a suitor see in her anyway?  The product of rural living and the result of a lifetime of scratching in the dirt for her next meal?  She looked at her hands, worn and deeply calloused from welding a hoe all day.  Like