LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

       Nearly two weeks had passed, but finally the day had come. Lena stood waving on the hot, empty landing. “Good luck.” Sarah read her lips and watched until the petite, polka-dotted figure became a tiny unrecognizable speck. She then turned around, facing in the direction of the lumbering train.

      The tracks led south. Southwest to be exact, toward Dayton. When she first told Lena of her plan, her cousin thought she was joking. “Yeah,” she said, “and I’m going to teach at Harvard.” Only when she observed Sarah studying the train schedule did she start to believe her. Then she just thought she was nuts. After everything Sarah had been through. All her talk about simplifying her life. Besides, she said, it would be a waste of time.

      Maybe, but once the idea of going to Dayton had occurred to Sarah, the reasoning easily followed. Mencken was a much sought after figure. His time, as he let the world know, was valuable. Therefore, if in fact he had scheduled a meeting with Professor Manhoff, especially during what was already being called the “Trial of the Century,” he must have considered whatever they were going to discuss important. Probably he knew the man. Perhaps he knew him well. If so, he might be of some assistance, might, at the very least, decipher the notes and confirm or deny their troubling implications.

      When Sarah suggested this to Officer Perry, he stuck another thick wad of tobacco in his cheek, leaned back in his swivel chair and closed his eyes. Except for a few nonchalant, sideways spits, he was silent. Then finally he said, “Uh huh. Might work.”

      As Sarah had guessed, Officer Perry was considering the possibility of a racial motive for the murder. But she had underestimated him. He was by no means planning to “round up” the Negroes. He shook his head resignedly, as if he’d expected more from her. “That wouldn’t be fair to them now would it, ma’am? Understandably, they’d resent such an action. And can you imagine what effect it might have on the town’s bigots? Why, the whole place could go up like dry leaves under a lit match.” What he needed, he said, was a concrete lead. So if there were even a remote chance that Sarah could find it in Dayton, he would send her off with his blessing. In fact, to make it easier, he would deputize her. Since she worked for the courts and all, it wouldn’t be hard to explain. And if anyone had a problem with it, he’d just remind them who was in charge.

      The buttons on his tight, overly starched shirt had looked ready to pop, and tobacco had stained what were left of his teeth. But after listening to him, Sarah was impressed . . . and humbled, for even with a twang that sounded like a painfully out-of-tune guitar, he had single-handedly reminded her that all Southerners were not alike. She, who shouldn’t have needed such a reminder.

      The truth was, however, she would have gone to Dayton anyway. She was glad to help in the investigation of the professor’s murder; the sooner this matter was solved, the sooner justice would be served. Yet her decision to make the trip was also a test. A personal test. To be sure, she had come here to enjoy nature, to visit with Lena. But she also had come to escape. As if her demons would somehow stay put in the North. As if an imaginary boundary could contain them. Instead, like hoboes, they had hopped a car and followed her wherever she went. At Cohen’s, the Smokies, the parade. When she left Toledo, she was certain she needed a rest. Now she felt differently. Perhaps it was seeing Lena, who dealt with her fears by avoiding them. Perhaps it was remembering Obee, who nearly died trying to do the same. Perhaps it was the burning cross. Whichever, she was starting to believe that the key to overcoming her own fear was work; the very kind of work she swore she would never do again.

      She wished she could have gone immediately, but the appointed date had still been days off. So she had waited, as unsuccessful in her efforts to relax as Officer Perry had been in finding a lead. He, too, had been eager for her departure. Ignoring the fact that she was an Ohioan, a Jew and a woman, he placed her hand on the Bible and asked her to uphold the law. Was she worthy of his trust? Was she up to the task? She was about to find out. Dayton was just up ahead.

      •••

      Sarah turned and apologized to the scowling man behind her. He looked like a bulldog ready to bite. She didn’t blame him. Startled by the commotion in the depot, she had abruptly stopped while disembarking, causing him to trip. He caught himself, but not before initiating a disagreeable chain reaction. What was wrong with her? She was so concerned about how Mencken would receive her, she’d forgotten the event that brought him here in the first place. Of course, there would be a crowd. The papers had said it for weeks: the eyes of the world focused on this tiny backwater town. The press, cameras, even radio, the first broadcast ever of a trial. She grabbed her suitcase and exited the train, scolding herself for being so oblivious.

      “Sarah, Sarah, there you are!”

      A shot of adrenalin raced through her body, making her momentarily weak in the knees. The tall, lanky figure was loping towards her. His thick salt-and-pepper curls and heavy brows were coming into view. As usual, he needed a shave.

      “Mitchell,” she said, stiffly extending her hand, “thanks for coming.”

      He ignored the gesture and gave her an affectionate hug. “Of course.”

      She pulled back and repositioned the red felt hat Lena had labored over to get at just the right angle. She wished he didn’t smell so good. That same slightly woodsy scent.

      “Sarah, Sarah, you look wonderful,” he said, his large, downward sloping hazel eyes moving over her as familiarly as they would a child’s bedtime story.

      “You’ve got to be kidding. I’m hot, tired and just about caused a wreck to rival the B. & O.”

      He laughed and took her arm. “That’s my Sarah,” he said. “Come on, let’s get out of here. The Southern’s got extra trains from Chattanooga about to arrive. I’ve got this timed to a science.”

      My Sarah. She thought she had made the purpose of this trip clear. Perhaps in his excitement over the possibility of an interview with his hero, he had misinterpreted her call. She’d have to straighten him out immediately. Their friendship in Toledo was one thing. People don’t share an experience like that and not develop some kind of bond. After all, without Mitchell she very well might not have lived to tell the tale. It was natural to feel some warmth, to confuse gratitude with attraction. But when things had settled down, he had persisted. He wanted her, but she wanted to be alone. She hadn’t been ready, perhaps never would be, for anything more.

      As they strolled toward the center of town, she freed her arm, about to kindly remind him of just that. But her attention was diverted. On July tenth, the first day of the trial, the Edenville Times described the atmosphere in Dayton as “carnival-like.” It was now five o’clock on the evening of the twenty-first, and the term still seemed apt. Several blocks of the main street were blocked off to traffic. Vendors were everywhere, some selling souvenirs—stuffed animals, banners, commemorative coins—some food, especially snacks such as ice cream, or “eye scraim,” as they called it down here. With the help of its master, or maybe the other way around, a live monkey in a three-piece red and white checked suit was taking a picture of a banana. Across the street, another was playing a toy piano, undoubtedly much more comfortable in its undershirt and knickers. If this didn’t prove Darwin’s theory, she didn’t know what. Only a descendant of these sweet little creatures would participate in such a ridiculous display.

      The entire town indeed was adorned for the occasion. Shop windows were decorated with pictures of apes and monkeys. To her right, a music store displayed a poster of a hot new tune, “Darwin’s Monkey Trot.” To her left, a billboard showed an orangutan drinking a bottle of milk. And amidst it all were signs admonishing people to “READ YOUR BIBLE.”

      Mitchell slowed his pace. “Bizarre, huh?”

      “Utterly. It must be hard to remain objective writing about this stuff.”

      “Nobody’s even trying to be. You should read what the French are saying.”

      “I can imagine. Something about De Tocqueville having it right?”

      “Worse. Much worse.”

      Continuing on, the blur of faces

Скачать книгу