his rumpled white shirt, stained with a chunky remnant of what appeared to be mustard, and blond Byronic curls that crept haphazardly down his long neck.
“You know,” he said, “their stance against slavery was often theoretical.”
“Their?”
“Oh, I am sorry. There I go again. Starting in medias res.”
Sarah knew that meant “in the middle of things,” but noted that he didn’t seem to care if she did or not.
“Name’s Paul Jarvis. I’m a graduate student in history at UT, the University of Tennessee.” He took her hand and shook it vigorously. His palm was soft and moist, and Sarah quietly wiped his sweat off of her hand onto her dress. “I’ve been assigned my first lecture next week, and, to tell you the truth, I’m terribly nervous. An overview of Tennessee history.” He pointed to her book. “When I get to slavery, I’m going to discuss Mrs. Stowe a bit.”
Sarah nodded, observing his unlined face. No trace of nervousness there. She wished she could say the same of her own, which, she worried, manifested every harrowing moment of the last year.
Sarah cocked her head and twisted the long string of pearls that hung in a heavy loop around her delicate neck. “You know, Mr. Jarvis, my cousin, whom I’m actually on my way to visit, thinks Mrs. Stowe is terribly underrated. She’s a new hire in the English Department at Edenville,” Sarah said, puffing out her somewhat underdeveloped chest.
“Really? That is interesting!” he said, smiling broadly to reveal deep dimples and a slightly chipped front tooth. “What about you?”
“So far, so good. I need to read more to judge.”
“No, I mean what do you do?”
“Oh.” Sarah blushed and straightened in her seat. “I’m head of the Toledo Women’s Probate and Juvenile Courts.”
“My, that sounds impressive too. Seems like you’ve got something special runnin’ through that family blood of yours.”
He asked her to explain what her job entailed, which she did in the simplest of terms: “wills, property and marriage,” she said, not caring to elaborate upon the actual unpredictable and varied scope of her duties under the Honorable O’Brien O’Donnell.
“So, what is it you plan to discuss in this class of yours, Mr. Jarvis?” she asked, wanting nothing more than to avoid the topic of her own work. And that was all it took. Before she knew it, he was opening a worn leather satchel overflowing with notes and papers, though it still had room to hold a short, wooden pipe, already filled. He bit down on the tooth-marked stem and held it in his mouth in perfect suspension. “Do you mind?” he asked. She shook her head, and without hesitation he lit the aromatic substance, puffing in and out rapidly until it burned on its own. He closed his eyes and exhaled.
“Since you asked, ma’am, would you be at all interested in hearing a condensed version of my lecture? I could use a fresh set of ears and considering what you were reading . . . well, I’d forever be in your debt.”
Sarah raised one freshly plucked eyebrow and glanced down at her book. She hoped to have been further along, but for once there was no rush. “All right,” she said, with just a hint of resignation. “Mind you, I’m a tough critic.”
“You’re a peach.” He laid the smoldering pipe on the armrest and rearranged the papers until he was satisfied with the order, pulled himself up in his chair, and began.
“Now, I know most of y’all call Tennessee home. But it’s surprising how much we sometimes don’t know about the place where we live. So bear with me.”
Sarah found his folksy opening endearing, and nodded her head in encouragement. Even if she hadn’t, however, she probably would have reacted the same. She was, as everyone told her, a good listener. Really, she couldn’t imagine being otherwise in her line of work. She hated to hurt anyone unnecessarily, and there was nothing more hurtful than being ignored.
“Tennessee, the sixteenth state to enter the Union, has a long history of oppression. In 1830, President Andrew Jackson, the Tennessean who allegedly gave the state its name, signed the Indian Removal Act. Can anyone tell me what that was?”
Sarah was tempted to raise her hand. Fortunately she caught herself, for an invisible student had apparently already answered the question.
“That’s right,” Mr. Jarvis said. “It was the forced relocation of the Cherokee and other tribes from their southeastern homes to territories west of the Mississippi. ‘The Trail of Tears’ as it has been termed, borne of white supremacy and greed for land.” He relit his pipe and licked his lips. “It was also in Tennessee, in Pulaski, a small town in the middle of the state, that the Ku Klux Klan was later formed.”
Sarah shuddered. The KKK? Six months had passed but the mere mention of the name still nearly undid her. She felt for her rings and began to twist. One, two, three.
“With white hooded robes, rapes, whippings and murders as their calling cards, the group, which rapidly spread to other states, succeeded in instilling fear among Negroes and Union representatives, those they considered enemies of the Southern way of life. Though the organization disbanded during Reconstruction, it reconstituted and is now an even more intolerant group, widening its net of undesirables to include Catholics, immigrants and Jews.”
As if in perfect theatrical timing, the train jerked to the right, and Sarah’s stomach, already on edge, turned inside out.
“The group has become more powerful and currently has candidates on political tickets nationwide. The most, I might add,” his voice now bellowing, his eyes directly on Sarah, “in the North, in Indiana, just a skip and a jump from Ohio.”
He needn’t have gone to such dramatic measures. Sarah already knew about Senator Stevenson and his bunch of thugs. And she knew too, more intimately than he ever could have imagined, about the Klan’s presence in Ohio. In the last election, the Toledo chapter had tried its best to remove Obee from office, something that nearly cost him his sanity . . . and Sarah her life.
•••
Steadying herself as the train turned another hard corner, Sarah grabbed hold of the cool handle to the restroom door and locked herself inside. It was hard to maneuver in the cramped space, but she needed a private place to recover after Mr. Jarvis’ speech. Of course, she knew he was blissfully unaware of the turmoil he had stirred inside of her—how could he have known?—and she had made every attempt to happily congratulate him on a well-presented lecture. Now that she was alone, though, she let herself go. After a moment, her stomach eased a little and she ran the hot, mildly sulphuric water and lavender scented soap over her hands, splashing cupfuls onto her burning cheeks. By the time she dried off, steam had completely fogged up the small oval mirror hanging on the wall directly overhead and she wiped it with a towel until her image reappeared.
She let out a little self-deprecating laugh. Sarah knew that now that the past had resurfaced she couldn’t prevent it from playing itself out; she only hoped it wouldn’t carry her too far away. The stubborn past. Like a perpetually rewound film waiting for the next flip of the switch. She stared into the mirror, seeking her own reflection, but one by one the images came fast, stuck in time and place, blotting her out. Obee, weak and frail in his hospital bed, the blackmail note, horrible words and terrible threats, and always, the moment she thought she would die. Panic. Suffocating breath. Hands tightening around her throat. She felt
