LITMIR.BIZ

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and “Joe’s” peach cobbler, seventy-five cents. And then, up ahead, Cohen’s. The Jew Store. She was curious, to say the least, and soon found herself peeking in its sparkling front window where thread, needles, shoes, work clothes and toys were all displayed in perfect order. Soon she realized that while she was looking in, someone was looking out at her, too. She raised her eyes and encountered a smiling face and a hand motioning her in.

      “Well, hi there ma’am. What can I do ya for?”

      The accent was strange. An unlikely coupling of West Brooklyn and East Tennessee.

      “Oh, I’m just browsing.”

      The man eyed her and nodded. He was at least two inches shorter than Sarah, with a thick crop of graying hair, pale blue eyes and a warm, full-faced smile. A Jewish smile, Sarah thought to herself.

      “Well, y’all take ya time.”

      The man kept looking at her, though, as if in recognition. “You’re not from these parts, are ya?”

      “No, I’m from Ohio.”

      “Well, I’m Charlie Cohen, and it’s good to have you here, dahling,” his accent suddenly favoring the Brooklyn half. “What is it that brings you to our fair town?”

      “I’m visiting my cousin. She teaches at the college.”

      “Oh. That right? What’s her name?”

      “Lena. Lena Greenberg.”

      “Ah,” he said nodding, smiling even more broadly. A second later, though, a shadow crossed over his face. “The college. Oh my. You must have heard about the death of that professor.”

      Sarah sighed deeply. “Yes, I just found out.”

      He shook his head. “Terrible. Did your cousin know him well?”

      “Not well, but they did work together.”

      He sucked air through his teeth and kept shaking his head. “Such a shame.”

      “Shame my ass.” A heavy-set man with worn overalls and a leathery face walked over holding a small shovel he had just picked out. “That there’s a tragedy. Man was a true Southerner. Too few of ‘em these days.”

      Sarah, feeling suddenly uncomfortable, gave a little smile and walked down the narrow isles. Toward the back of the store, she stopped to examine a paisley wool scarf, similar to one her mother had owned. The same swirling pattern and soft feel. It would be perfect with her grey winter suit. She couldn’t find a price tag, so she started back to the counter, where Charlie was nodding, his smile tighter, more reserved.

      Clearly, the disgruntled customer had not been satisfied to let the conversation end, and indeed seemed to be fueling his own fire the longer he talked. “That professor, he was the kind gonna bring back the Confederacy. That’s what I heard. Gonna show ‘em this ain’t no lost cause. Those good for nothin’—” He picked up a plaid fleece blanket. “How much, Cohen?”

      “How much can you afford, Mr. Sloan?”

      The man didn’t answer. Fingering the blanket, he eyed the upstairs of the store, where a sign read: Negro Dressing Room. “Hey, anyone up there,” he shouted. Receiving no response, he yelled louder, undoubtedly aware that the room was occupied.

      At that, a black teenage boy stuck his curly head out of the dressing room. “Yes, sir?” he said.

      The man just glared, so the boy shut the curtain. Either he was drunk or just itching for a fight, mad at himself or the world. Whichever, he started for the stairs. But his wife, standing quietly until now, grabbed his arm, causing him to trip and knock over a neat row of fishing rods. Charlie walked over calmly and picked them up. “Now, now,” he said. “Let’s not start anything. He’s just a boy.”

      The man shook him off. “I don’t need no kike tellin’ me what to do!”

      “Bobby, c’mon. Let’s go,” his wife calmly pleaded. “The kids are in the wagon.” He shook her off. “And I don’t need no bitch bossin’ me around neither!” He stuck the blanket under his arm, threw two dollars on the counter and stormed out. Giving a slight nod to Mr. Cohen, his wife followed.

      Charlie shrugged his shoulders and looked at Sarah, who was standing in stunned silence. This wasn’t quite the harmonious picture Lena had painted for her.

      “Don’t let it bother you, ma’am,” he said. “No point.”

      4

      For once, the guidebook had not exaggerated. The Great Smoky Mountains were indeed “nature at its most sublime.” Sublime and gloriously indifferent. Away from the noise and crime, away from the lingering curious stares of her neighbors and friends—each waiting to see if she might yet break. Away from it all, and now, protected in a thicket of pines, she realized how grateful she was that Lena had encouraged her to stay . . . if hiding her suitcase could be considered a form of encouragement. Sarah couldn’t blame her, though, for resorting to such extreme measures. Had the bag been at her disposal she probably would have left. The professor’s death had already put her on edge, and the run-in at Cohen’s had proved more than she felt she could handle. But now, trudging up the dusty trail, dressed in overalls that sagged in all the wrong places, she felt better. Looking at Lena in the same silly outfit, she felt almost giddy.

      They had decided to start with a hike up to Hotel Le Conte for breakfast. Sarah, whose stomach had been talking to her for an hour, was just about to ask Lena how much longer it would be until they arrived, when she spotted a pointed tin roof. Rustic, isolated, with an unobstructed view of seven-thousand-foot Mount Le Conte, the place, Lena said, was a well-kept little secret. A two-story frame building situated near a clear, stony river, the remote outpost complemented the rugged land in both design and scale. Their other option was the Allegheny Springs, but with its velvet-upholstered furniture, crystal chandeliers and imported French coffee, they decided it was too opulent, not at all in keeping with the spirit of the wilderness. Besides, they couldn’t have shown up there with sweat trickling down their foreheads and dirt clinging to their hems.

      Once inside, Sarah, unwilling to let go of the view, peered back out again through the large, rectangular window in the entrance to the dining room. Had a blue jay not just splattered a white dropping as it flew by, she very well might have reached for the billowy cluster of pastel wild flowers dancing amidst the pines—it was that transparent. As they waited to be seated, she entertained herself by speculating on the quantity of vinegar required to attain such an effect—a quart, a gallon?—and made a mental note that she must get around to cleaning her own windows upon returning home, though the view outside of her little house on Fulton was not so grand.

      She opened up her guidebook again and read a passage to Lena as they waited to be seated: “The Great Smokies are the western segment of the high Appalachian Mountains, majestically shaping the land from Asheville, North Carolina, to Knoxville, Tennessee, arguably some of the most spectacular scenery in the world. Wildlife that would stun the most jaded naturalist, slopes to both soothe the weak and challenge the hearty, flora of infinite variety. With each rise in elevation a dazzling explosion of color, shape and texture—purple-pink blossomed rhododendron, mountain laurel, red spruce, hemlock, silver bell, black cherry, buckeye, yellow birch. Towering pines. Chestnut trees reaching seventy to one hundred feet, softly blanketed in the region’s characteristic haze.”

      “Right on the money,” Lena said.

      Yep. It was all here, Sarah thought. Right there, on the other side of the vinegar divide.

      She read on. “To preserve the region for future generations, efforts are currently underway to turn the region into a national park. Logging is threatening to destroy the last remaining sizable area of southern primeval hardwood forest in the United States and leave world-weary city dwellers one less pristine habitat in which to rejuvenate.” Sarah nodded in agreement at no one in particular. She was all for the park. Especially since it was a fellow Ohioan, Dr. Chase Ambler, who had started the organization that would bring it to fruition. But she

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