The 150 Year Civil War

Deep in the Confederacy of the United States where racism was strong, and minds stayed closed, Damen Morrow stuck out like a sore thumb. Driven by curiosity and his ambition to learn, Damen always seemed to break the social laws of the southerners who enjoyed living the ideals of 1865, even in 2015. When an unexpected opportunity fell into his lap Damen was faced with the choice to begin a new life in the more liberal Union and leave the structure of his cozy southern life behind or settle down in a community, where he never felt he belonged.

“Damen, you can’t just GO to the Union.” Winnie’s voice was unbearable when she was about to cry, which was only a few notches above her normal pitch; but people didn’t call her ‘Whiny Winnie’ for nothing. Her messy blond bun lost a fair number of tendrils to the heat and humidity the Texas sun.

“I can, and I kinda have to. It’s not like I’m going overseas or anything, I’m not even leaving the continent. It’s like crossing a line in the sand. You know, pre-Civil War people lived in ‘ONE’ nation called America.” He stepped off his soapbox when he realized Winnie had fought back her tears long enough to mock him while he spoke. She’d offended him, like countless times before, without apology. Damen continued.

“My great-aunt died, Winnie. Regardless of if I knew her, a person has lost their life! And not only that but they thought of me enough to leave me something. I feel more than obligated to at least ‘go’.” With the last word, he mimicked her horrid impersonation. Damen hated himself in that moment, both that he allowed himself to stoop to her level, and for having ever asked her to see him off. Every word Winnie spoke ushered him onto that plane, saw him to his seat and provided the inflight entertainment. The more she opened her mouth to talk him out of going, she only succeeded to push him further out the door.

Finally though, he’d struck a blow that landed, and it must have hit hard because they sat in silence until the boarding call hailed over them in the terminal. Even petulant Winnie wasn’t one to take death lightly. When the announcement to board eventually came, they embraced in a one-armed hug, barely an hug at all, and then she was off. Her bun bounced ever so slightly as she tramped away. Whiny Winnie was gone in an instant, and for a second Damen wondered if he was making the right choice.

“Last call for Flight 137 out of Dallas of the Confederate to Pittsburgh Union International.” Though it said, last call, he could have sworn it said, ‘last chance’, ‘now or never’, ‘last point of no return’. The tear of the ticket stub in the attendant’s hand made a horrible course rip as it pulled apart from break away piece. She handed half back to Damen and announced he would be in seat 32K; almost all the way back, to the left, window seat. He left the comfort of the terminal and headed down the passenger bridge the onto the nearly full plane.

Damen squeezed past the few people still getting settled, focused, intent on finding his window seat. Though he’d never flown, there were a fair share amount of elbow/service cart references he planned to avoid. After getting nestled in the less than spacious compartment, Damen took one last glance at the terminal. Through the window he saw people milling to and from their flights, exhausted from tearful goodbyes and joyous returns, when he caught a familiar face that stood still and watched. Nearly out of sight, her shoulders still shook from uncontrollable sobs, but otherwise she was a stationary cog in a tizzy of clockwork. One person among a crowd, that stood, and seemingly starred right back at him; pierced through the glass window, and into the windows of his soul; Winnie.

The streets in the Union weren’t entirely unlike streets in the Confederacy, though Damen quickly found himself in a sea of diversity. Everywhere he looked were people of different races as his ears tingled with dialects he’d never before been privy to. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end with every deep breath he took as he ventured farther from the airport. He hailed a cab, and as it neared, Damen could see no visible person inside.

“Hello?” he popped his head into the rear door that had opened for him and glanced around. “Hello!” his curiosity quickly turned to panic when he realized the vehicle was empty. Giggles formed around him from behind, sending a wave of shame over his entire body.

“It’s a self-driving taxi, man. Where have you been living your whole life, under a rock?” a heckling voice distinguished itself among the laughter.

“Yeah, I suppose I have,” Damen conceded, and much to everyone’s surprise, joined in the laughter. He thought briefly back to Winnie and her father, envisioning the sheer looks of dismay at such a ridiculous idea. ‘The Devil’s Work’ was the preferred term for most priest and preachers attempting to ward off constituents from modern technology. By all accounts it seemed to work.

The GPS suggested the trip to take 45 minutes, though the particular model he was in, failed to factor in traffic into it’s time estimates, meaning his barely hour-long commute turned into almost double that. He took the time to enjoy the ride, absorbing the sights as they passed, or moreover, as he passed them by.

People of all kinds littered the streets in beautiful mosaics of humanity. When you looked really close you saw the flaws and cracks, jagged from everyday life, but from afar looked more like a mural of vibrant mortality. Something inside him wanted desperately to be a part of it; of all of it. The air in the Union felt different, as if there were no black and white lines here, no do’s and don’ts of definitive social acceptance.

“Mr. Morrow?” the car door opened, releasing him to the single member party waiting for him. Her milk chocolate colored hand extended to him as he exited the vehicle, that then left the two of them standing curbside alone. When his eyes met hers, he was shocked to find the most vivid hazel he’d ever seen. Every feature complimented the next as her sleek black hair curled around her thin jaw line, which supported perfectly contoured cheeks and plump soft lips. Finally, he circled back to her eyes before he remembered to shake her hand, hoping she didn’t take him for entirely uncouth.

“You can call me Damen.” His hand found hers, soft, it folded into his like a missing puzzle piece he wasn’t’ aware he’d lost.

“Sylvia.” She said, no time for small talk. “We’ve got a lot to cover, Mr. Morrow, and since you seem to have an aversion to deadlines, let’s just get started.” Sylvia was a woman on a mission, and today Damen was the obstacle she needed to overcome. She led the way as he tagged along. They briskly walked past giant topiaries and hedges, up the straight walkway with intermittent stairs in sets of five, toward a sprawling estate.

Damen examined the structure as they entered, concluding it must be some sort of state official building. They walked into a room with nothing but a dark, heavy, hardwood desk where paperwork mars the otherwise pristine study.

“Ok, I’ll save you all the bullshit. Sign here, you get the house, the grounds, and the money tied to it. OR, and I have to put this in because most people would take the money and the house and run, but if you decide not to take the house, you in turn, forgo the money and the house then goes up for auction where anyone, and I mean ANYONE, can bid on your family’s estate. Now we didn’t get to do the full walk through like I intended, but I will give you a few minutes to decide.” She began to step out of the room. Usually Sylvia would go check her e-mail, or do some last minute touch ups to the bathroom mirror, or rehang a crocked picture in the foyer that never seemed to sit right.

“Wait. What estate? How much money are we talking about?” Damen always prided himself on being intelligent, so he found himself uncomfortable, still unsure exactly what was going on.

“This estate. This house, garden in front, pool and guest house out back. It’s all yours. Well, if you sign on the line.” She tisked, still semi annoyed with Damen’s lackadaisical arrival. His jaw dropped. That amazing garden they’d traipsed past, the mansion he’s already eyeballed emphatically, and there was even more he hadn’t seen?!

“And the money?” Somehow the words fell out of him, though his stunned composure still told Sylvia she wasn’t sure he could handle the vast amount.

“$1 mil.” She lowballed, a lie she wasn’t comfortable with but if a small million scared him away, his heart would stop at the actual $12 (mil) at stake. Why did she care, she thought to herself, what was it about this goofball of a man tugged at her heartstrings, made her want to brush the loose brown hair that had fallen over his brow up and sweep it back into place? She wasn’t’ sure what, but something about Damen softened her.

“Still need a minute?” She questioned, and even he noticed the sudden gentleness in her voice. It made him look up from the slurry of papers in front of him where he instantly remembered her beauty. It was hard not to.

“No, you can stay.” He paused, “I mean, I’d like you to stay, if that’s alright. I don’t really have-“ he didn’t finish, but he didn’t have to. She knew what he meant. A second alone would mean there were things to consider outside of himself, a family, a lover, even a dog to think about this decision and the effect it would have on anyone, other than just Damen. There wasn’t, in this moment it was apparent to Sylvia, but even more so to Damen; there was no one. He thought of life back in the Confederacy, and he thought about Winnie. Pictures flooded his mind of children, the huge family Winnie would gladly give him, dressed in their Sunday best week after week, content to spread their seed and grow old in a world wearing rose colored horse blinkers, sheltering them from the outside influence of the Union and the world beyond.

“Congratulations! You are now the proud owner of a 9,000-acre estate.” Sylvia took Damen’s hand in both surprise and genuine joy for a man who seemed to have really nothing to his name. Damen realized somewhere along the thoughts of sitting in the church pews and the thought of growing elderly with Whiny Winnie, his subconscious mind had made the conscious decision to sign his name, thereby assuming full ownership, of what, he wasn’t completely sure yet.

“Well,” he sighed, more to himself than to anyone else.’

“Well,” Sylvia seized the opportunity, “seeing as how you don’t do deadlines very well, wanna catch a bite now? I know a great little place to people watch, if you like that kind of thing.” She reached for his hand, but Damen could have sworn she grasped his heart.

“I’m game! Not to brag or anything, but I recently came into a decent amount of money.” Damen winked at her, and as he locked up his new estate.

“More than you know,” she winked back, whispering in his ear the actual inheritance amount. Damen’s knees buckled slightly at the thought of that much money, but something told him he would figure it out one day at a time.