LITMIR.BIZ

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      Only two of the eight tables in the dining area, a bright, surprisingly homey space with wood plank floors, red checkered tablecloths and bunches of wild geraniums, situated to take full advantage of the view, were occupied when they made their entrance. Seated at one of them was an overgrown Dutch family of five who had just received their food and were arguing in their guttural idiom about who had ordered what. Mr. J. W. Whaley, the owner and host, rearranged their plates until the brood was satisfied and then stretched out his arms and motioned for the cousins to come in.

      “Mornin’, ladies. Late risers, aren’t cha?”

      “Actually, we woke up earlier than usual. We’ve come up from Edenville.”

      Towering over Sarah in a red flannel shirt, rolled up sleeves, with veins bulging over thickly muscled arms, was a Paul Bunyan of a man. The advertisers of the Big Six would have loved him, although his high-pitched drawl counteracted the effect a bit. “Y’all must be hungry, then, from such a long walk,” he said with enthusiasm, as if they were the first customers he had ever served.

      “Yes, we’re starved.”

      “Well, then, you’ve come to the right place.”

      Escorting them past the empty tables, Mr. Whaley seated them near another gleaming window, directly across from a young couple on their honeymoon. “Traveled all the way from Alabama to be married by Justice of the Peace Ephraim Ogle,” he whispered, “down ta Ogle’s general store in Gatlinburg. Ephraim’s gettin’ to be a popular fellow these days.”

      From the scavenged look of their table, the honeymooners had worked up a good appetite, too. Sarah smiled at them congenially before turning her attention to a bulky, dark mass moving in the distance outside.

      “They’s been a bunch of ‘em this mornin’,” the woman said in a syrupy sweet twang.

      Sarah turned around and smiled again. “What’s that?”

      “Baars. A whole family, cubs and everthang.”

      “Really?”

      “Yep. They’s lovely, don’t ya thank? But scary, too.”

      “Well I definitely wouldn’t want to get too close. But from here they do look beautiful.”

      “Plannin’ on goin’ to the top?” the woman asked.

      “We’re not sure,” Sarah said.

      “We neither.” She looked at her husband who was loosening the notch of his beaded belt and then back at them. “If ya don’t mind me asking, where’d you’ns get them work clothes?” They look very comfortable, raht for hikin’.”

      “I ordered them from the Sears catalog,” Lena said quickly.

      Sarah raised one brow at her cousin. She knew Lena had purchased them at Cohen’s.

      “I was just admiring your husband’s belt, too,” Lena said, not meeting Sarah’s gaze. “I sure could use something to help keep these things from sliding off me.”

      “Cost me two dollars for this heah belt,” the man said. Them injuns ain’t cheap but they sure do make some handsome things. The Cherokee—they’re everwhar round heah.”

      “Well, I’ll keep that in mind. Enjoy your hike.”

      She turned back to Sarah, and before Sarah could even form a word, simply said, “Leave it alone.”

      “But . . .” Sarah stopped herself and started to giggle. “Injuns?” she whispered. It’s almost too funny to be offensive.”

      “Then don’t let it be, Sarah. R and R, remember?”

      Lena fixed her dark eyes on her. She obviously wasn’t going to budge until Sarah relented. “Right,” she said, returning to the comfortingly unaltered view.

      Looking out into the miles of untainted forest, though, Sarah couldn’t help but wonder about the professor’s shooting in the college woods. She thought of what a lonely death that must have been with no one there to speak to or hold his hand as he slipped from this world to the next. Lena hadn’t spoken of him for a few days now, and Sarah didn’t want to remind her of something she was trying to forget. But she also wanted Lena to know she should feel free to talk about it without worrying Sarah was going to plan her escape again. “Lena,” she started, “you’ve been fairly mum on your colleague’s death. Would you rather not talk about it?”

      “No, not at all. There’s just not much to tell. The memorial service is next week. Apparently, it’s not uncommon for hunters to shoot birds in those woods. They don’t know who was responsible yet. The person who shot him probably doesn’t even know himself.”

      “Have you heard anything about who will take the professor’s place?”

      “The former chair has agreed to take the job for another year. By then the good ‘ole boys will find a replacement.”

      “What about his personal life. Was he married?”

      “He was. His wife died a few years ago.”

      “Children?”

      “No. And that apparently was a sensitive topic. When I asked him about it one time he abruptly changed the subject. I found out later that he was sterile.” Sarah felt a familiar lump starting to form in her throat. “Well, at least he had a legitimate reason.”

      “Now, Sarah. You know that’s been your choice.”

      “I suppose. Anyway, what about that paper you two were working on together? What’s it about?”

      “You really want to know?”

      “Of course.”

      Just then Whaley came by with a steaming, speckled blue pot of coffee. “Breakfast will be ready in a jiffy,” he said, filling their mugs.

      “Better drink up lest you fall asleep right here at the table hearing about it,” Lena said.

      Sarah stirred in two teaspoons of sugar and took a giant swig of the nutty brew. “I’ll try my best not to doze off. Go ahead.”

      “Okay. To begin, how does one teach literature? That is the question the professor and I were trying to address.

      “I thought you already knew how. Isn’t that why you were hired?”

      Lena laughed. “I suppose you’re right. But like everything else, education is always changing. You know, some think the imagination is the bane of society, that fiction is the devil’s work. Others, like myself, believe it’s a source of truth. But as an academic discipline, it’s essentially been taught as another part of history, a way to teach a moral lesson, a reflection of the author’s time and place.”

      “Uh huh,” Sarah said. “That’s pretty much what I was taught.”

      “Me too. But a growing group of scholars have begun to think that the literary work should stand by itself, you know, viewed as art, judged on its own merits. The question is, how? To be taken seriously in academia, you’ve got to have a serious method. Otherwise, the whole thing becomes too subjective, simply a matter of opinion. Are you with me, so far?”

      Sarah nodded. “I think so, but, well, I don’t mean to sound simplistic, but what about enjoyment? Isn’t that an important part of reading?”

      “Definitely. And actually that’s part of the argument. Students of literature are too bogged down with the background. They aren’t encouraged to see the beauty of the language, the soul of the story. Professor Manhoff . . . Nick . . . was helping develop a method to do so, a nearly scientific method.”

      “Beauty and science. Sounds somewhat contradictory.”

      “Well, yes. It is, sort of. That’s why the work isn’t complete. It’s really just begun. Because the theory is only in the beginning stages, contradictions are

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