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, a rustic, pre-industrial looking little place with a Gepettoish cobbler hammering away at a tall leather boot. Immediately next door was a dingy but crowded diner with a sign announcing the daily special: fried chicken, greens 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
