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 was somewhat guiltily relieved that the area was not recognized yet as such, knowing that as soon as the official designation came, the crowds were sure to follow. Although in the last few years visitors to the region had increased dramatically, one could still travel for miles without encountering a soul.
•••
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
