which he walked. Land for which his grandfather, a Confederate spy, gave his life.
The South. Another passion. Another contradiction. In the study of books, the professor was avant-garde, continuously pushing against the boundaries of convention, lecturing on the newest strains of literary criticism. “Literature should be judged on its own terms,” he boomed to the hall of young, adoring eyes, “not according to some rigid sense of morality.” But on the subject of his heritage, he was firm. Here, tradition was sacred, morality absolute. Right and wrong were literally divided into black and white.
As he forged deeper into the thicket, his thinning white hair beginning to mat with sweat, he thought, as he often did, of the need to restore order and erudition to the region. The South had been turned on its head since the Civil War, and he was committed to putting things—and people—back in their natural place. He was, he liked to tell himself, reclaiming the Golden Age.
In the pursuit of such a noble goal, there were bound to be casualties along the way, and today’s was not the first. Survival of the fittest, his trusted Darwin proclaimed. And so it was with particular pleasure that he took in nature’s best—the sheltering verdure, the familiar canopy of oaks, the gentle slope leading toward the creek whose clear water he would cup to his mouth.
But the professor was not, as he had thought, alone. Mirroring each turn, shadowing every step was someone following closely behind, silently, invisibly, until the moment was just right.
“Jesus Christ!”
“Hello Professor Manhoff,” the familiar voice said evenly.
“Oh, oh, hello there. My God, you scared the life out of me. What are you doing here? I thought you were . . .” And then a fleeting realization. For a moment, the corners of his mouth formed a slight grin of understanding until . . . the quiet rage . . . the gleaming barrel. He opened his mouth to speak, to plead for mercy. “No. Please. God.” But it was wasted breath. One shot rang out, clear and resonant, and he fell, heavy, into a bed of moss and branches. A bright pool of blood gathered in the full growth. It spread, feeding the soil and staining the land of his ancestors until, finally, the ceasing of his heart halted the flow. And then he was alone, truly alone in the college woods.
1
Sarah closed her book, drew back the miniature, velvet curtain and peeked out the window. Finally the flat, grassy checkerboard had given way to rolling hills, which, from the vantage point of the speeding Pan-American, appeared to fold in upon themselves like emerald waves in a land-locked sea. As the conductor strolled the aisles, bumping every now and then against the slumped shoulder of a half-dozing passenger, he announced that they had just entered Kentucky, halfway through the all-day ride from Toledo to Knoxville. Right on schedule, Sarah thought.
She leaned back and exhaled. Now she could relax. As long as she was in Ohio, she wasn’t free. Work could always track her down: dockets in need of review, people in need of counseling, each requiring her immediate attention. And memories. They seemed to find her, too, especially the ones she wished most to forget. But at last she’d managed to escape, each minute speeding farther away from it all. And up ahead lay the holiday she’d put off for years.
She glanced around and for the first time really noticed the car. How trains had changed. So modern! Not at all like the stuffy Victorian parlors they used to resemble. This was her first trip on the Pan, and now that they had crossed the state line she took in every detail. The black upholstered seats, the steel frame sheathed in glossy mahogany, the wide, carpeted aisles. Simple but elegant, with the exception of the portly man snoring across from her whom she was ready to clobber with her handbag.
One month. Four weeks. Thirty-one glorious days. Time to do with as she pleased. As her mind raced with the possibilities, she stretched her stockinged legs out as far as they could reach and closed her eyes. It would be hot, of course. Hot and muggy. But late breakfasts, hiking in the Smokies, a trip or two to the baths would balance out any ill effects. Besides, she’d just read that a little perspiration was good for the pores. And of course, there would be her cousin, Lena. Indeed, if Lena hadn’t invited her down, pleaded with her to visit, Sarah still might be cooped up in her office, attempting to finish the work that never really would get quite done.
Little Lena. Though ten years younger, a kindred spirit. The person Sarah might have been had she been blessed with the same opportunities. Imagine. Graduating from Vassar, with honors. And then landing a teaching job at Edenville College. Quite a feat for a woman. Unheard of for a Jew. Which is precisely why, Lena told Sarah, she believed she was hired. To be observed and poked at like a newly discovered species. If anyone could handle herself, though, it was Lena: brilliant, feisty and deceptively clever. Sarah suspected that in no time her cousin would have her colleagues so charmed, they’d have no choice but to abandon their experiment and simply let her do as she pleased.
The train slowed as it passed one of the many nondescript towns along its route, and Sarah picked up her book again, tracing her fingers along the cover. An outline of a simple, ivy-covered cottage, under which gleamed the gold embossed lettering: Uncle Tom’s Cabin. Despite its renown, Sarah had never read it. “Overly sentimental,” Obee had warned. “Moby Dick, my dear. Now that is a novel.” Uncharacteristic for Obee—Judge O’Donnell, that is—who usually touted his broad literary taste.
As the tip of her finger traced the line of the cottage, she let it trail down to the author’s name etched below: Harriet Beecher Stowe. A Northerner whose portrait of slavery was so powerful that Lincoln was said to have credited her with starting the Civil War. Sentimental? Perhaps. But Sarah wasn’t beyond judging for herself, especially now that she was traveling from one side of the former divide to the other. She turned to an earmarked page and read, silently mouthing the words:
I have tried—tried most faithfully, as a Christian woman should—to do my duty to these poor, simple, dependent creatures. I have cared for them, instructed them, watched over them, and known their little cares and joys, for years; and how can I ever hold up my head again among them, if, for the sake of paltry gain, we sell such a faithful, excellent, confiding creature as poor Tom.
“Excuse me, ma’am.” Sarah slowly raised her eyes. “Ma’am?” A tap on the shoulder now accompanied the smooth, low voice.
“Yes?” she said, craning her neck toward the passenger in the seat behind her.
“Pardon me. I’m sorry to bother you, but I couldn’t help notice your book.” The young man leaned so far over her seat Sarah thought he might fall onto her lap, and she instinctively shifted positions to spare herself. “You’ve read it?” she asked.
“Oh, yes. Quite a coincidence, in fact. You aren’t taking a class at the university, are you?”
“No,” she said, with a restrained smile, knowing full well he knew she was a tad too old to be sitting in any lecture hall. “Why do you ask?”
“Well, Mrs. Stowe isn’t often read for fun. Not these days, at any rate.”
“Really? I’m finding her fascinating.”
“I could only hope my students feel the same.”
“My goodness, you look like a student yourself. Where do you teach?”
He studied her for a moment and without asking, maneuvered himself in one rather clumsy half pirouette into the seat directly across from her. She had wanted to be alone, but now, like it or not, he was here. She smiled to herself and watched as he settled in. Up close he actually appeared even younger than Sarah initially thought. Twenty-one, twenty-three tops. Framed by
