LITMIR.BIZ

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be okay.” Sarah couldn’t make out any more. Just soft whispers now and the girl’s weeping.

      After a few moments, Lena returned to the bedroom.

      “Lena, what on earth?”

      “I’ll be right back. Don’t worry, Sarah.” She slipped a dress over her head, grabbed her heels, and hurried out the door.

      Unable to do anything else, Sarah sat on the bed and stared into the darkness. Maybe if she cooled off she would be able to go back to sleep. She got up, exchanged her moist, floor-length silk nightgown for a short, cotton slip and pulled all the windows wide open. It was hot, the curtains motionless. She sank back in bed, knowing she should have trusted her intuition. Something was wrong.

      •••

      Sleep came in fits and starts, a restless conclusion to what she earlier thought, as she eased under the soft cotton sheets, would be a peaceful eight hours. Instead she dreamt, as she often did, of the past. Nightmarish visions of white ghostly figures, then hands squeezing her throat. In reality, she’d escaped. But not in her dreams.

      No telling how long she might have continued to toss and turn had the landlady not awakened her with breakfast. Never did Sarah think she’d be glad to see a complete stranger hovering over her. She smiled gratefully and took the tray. A feast by her toast and coffee standards. Fresh squeezed juice, scrambled eggs and syrup-laden grits. The round, flat-faced matron introduced herself as Nan and told her that tomorrow Sarah would have to come downstairs like everyone else. “I ain’t no slave,” she said.

      Sarah thanked her, took a few bites, and went to fill the tub with cold water. By the time she bathed and dressed, she was ready for a shower. Of course, Toledo summers were humid, too. But nothing like this. If the experts were right, soon her pores would disappear altogether.

       To stop her mind from racing—wondering where Lena was, what had happened, why that girl was crying and what it had to do with her cousin—she perused some of the titles squeezed together on one of the shelves. Hard Times, Madame Bovary, Daniel Deronda. An abundance of Victorian novels, French philosophy, Walden. The complete works of Edith Wharton. A thick volume entitled Literary Criticism. Better finish her own book first. She picked up the red, leather-bound work she’d left on the nightstand and started to read:

      You ought to be ashamed, John! Poor, homeless, houseless creatures! It’s a shameful, wicked, abominable law, and I’ll break it, for one, the first time I get a chance; and I hope I shall have a chance, I do!

      Sarah silently applauded Mary Bird for standing up to her senator husband, John. How could he, an Ohioan no less, have supported the Fugitive Slave Act? Both were fictional characters, of course, but Stowe based them on the actions of real people. Leave it to the women to put things straight.

      An hour or so later, Sarah marked the page and watched as her cousin came in, shuffled to the edge of the bed and fell back. For several moments, she lay there, flat and still. Then, as if awakened by the mesmerist’s snap of the fingers, she turned over and shaking her head, looked at Sarah. “I need to tell you something.”

      “So I gathered. Are you okay?”

      “Yes, I’m all right, don’t worry about me. But, well, it’s unbelievable,” she said. “The day before you arrived, a colleague of mine . . .” She stopped and swallowed. “He was found in the woods. Shot dead.”

      “My God! How did it happen?”

      “The police think it was an accident, a hunting accident.”

      “That’s horrible, Lena.”

      “Horrible, and a waste,” she said, still shaking her head. “Such a brilliant man. And so beloved. He had just been appointed to chair my department, and we had even begun work on a paper together.”

      “I’m so sorry. I’ve been worried about you since you left with that girl this morning. Who was she?”

      “One of his students. One of mine, too. The news is starting to spread, I guess. She’d just learned of it and was terribly upset.”

      Lena sat up and pulled off her shoes.

      “Lena,” Sarah said, “maybe . . . maybe I should go home.”

      “What?”

      “I said, maybe . . .”

      Lena widened her eyes. “I heard you.”

      “But . . .”

      “No! I knew you would say that, which is precisely why I didn’t want to tell you. I may be needed here for a couple of days to help sort things out, but after that everything will go as planned. Beginning with our hike in the Smokies.”

      “Maybe they’ll ask you to take his place.”

      “Hardly.”

      “Still, you’ll probably need to—”

      “Not another word. I order you to stay! This is sad, very sad, but life will go on.”

      Sarah sighed and smiled uncomfortably. “Okay. But if you change your mind—”

      “I won’t.”

      In fact, there was a part of Sarah that desperately wanted to go. To flee as quickly as possible. It was selfish, but she had come here to enjoy herself, to escape the unpredictable facts of life. After all, it only had been six months. She deserved a respite. But of course that was unrealistic. Life was full of the unpredictable. A vacation offered no immunity. Thankfully, it didn’t involve someone she knew. She sighed and relaxed her tight shoulders. Lena was right. Surely it wouldn’t take that long to do whatever needed to be done. Lena wasn’t a relative or even a close friend of the poor man. In the meantime, she could look around, explore the town. She glanced at her cousin, who had stretched out on the bed. Her eyes were closed.

      “Sarah, I think I need a short nap.”

      “Of course.”

      “I can trust you not to hop on a train, can’t I?” she said, peering out from one eye.

      Sarah smirked. “I suppose. Maybe I’ll take a walk into town.”

      “Good idea.” She turned on her side. “That’ll take you about an hour,” she said groggily. “Timing wise, that should be just about right.”

      Sarah put on the coolest outfit she could find. She didn’t go in much for hats, despite their popularity, but today she needed protection. From the two she brought, she grabbed the beige canvas one with the extra wide brim and left quietly. Lena was already fast asleep.

      •••

      Despite her light clothing, the humidity weighed Sarah down, forcing her to slow her usual rapid pace to an amble. It smelled different here. Rich, thick, fruity. Earthier than Toledo. Nevertheless, the fragrance was familiar. Not quite as sweet perhaps, but familiar just the same. It was in Nashville, 1918, the only other time she’d been in Tennessee. As chair of the Toledo branch of the League of Women Voters, she had attended the suffrage ratification conference there, held at the palatial Hermitage Hotel. She could still see vividly the walnut paneled conference room, inlaid marble walls and strangely intricate, stained glass ceiling: images of Madonnas and harpies, gods and devils. She remembered too, the roses everyone wore: yellow for suffrage, red against. “A fragrant sea of yellow and red,” as one reporter put it. Having worked tirelessly on this issue—even speaking to President Wilson at one point—Sarah naturally was elated when yellow prevailed, and even now she couldn’t help but smile a little in satisfaction.

      She walked down two blocks, past a mix of Victorian and Colonial dwellings, all situated amidst foliage so lush there was no need for fences. When she reached the intersection, she turned left. On one side of the road was the college, on the other the courthouse, a smaller version of her own, granite and marble with Grecian columns. Up a long hill, and there was Main Street. In the daylight it looked smaller, less quaint, more provincial. She strolled past a shoe repair shop,

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