Where the Light Enters

by Sara Donati

  “If you decide you’d like another opinion, I hope you’ll call on me.”

  There was an edge of pain behind Mrs. Reason’s smile. “I will do that, gladly. If the time comes.”

  “You came all the way from Brooklyn just to give me this news,” Sophie said. “Can I offer you a place to rest for a few hours?”

  “I would appreciate that, but first, there is one other reason I’m here. You remember my grandson Sam?”

  Sophie had been half expecting this opening. She composed her expression. “Yes, I remember Sam.”

  “He brought me here today, but he’s gone for a walk while you and I visit.”

  “Sam is very welcome to come in,” Sophie said. “He can wait here for you, in the parlor or library—”

  Mrs. Reason shook her head. “No, let me start again. He would like to speak to you, if you could give him a half hour of your time.”

  Sophie’s voice failed her for a moment. This seemed not to surprise Mrs. Reason at all, because she went right on.

  “I know that he was rude to you when you first met last year. Believe me when I say that we had a long and very serious discussion about his behavior. I won’t make excuses for him—”

  As if it had been timed exactly, there was a knock at the front door.

  “—and I realize this may be too much of an imposition. But I told him I would ask, and so I have.”

  She could have said no. She might have pleaded weariness or an appointment, and Mrs. Reason would have understood that Sophie was refusing her request. But Sophie had to admit to herself that she was curious about this turn of events, and what would make Sam Reason ask for a meeting. Unless he had discovered more faults he wanted to tell her about, to her face.

  Mrs. Reason was drawing a piece of paper out of her reticule to put on the low table beside her. “You asked in your letter about names of potential board members. This is something you might want to discuss with Sam, as he can answer questions about all of them. Ah, here he is.”

  He stood in the doorway with Laura Lee just in front of him.

  To Mrs. Reason Sophie said, “Miss Washington will show you to a room where you can rest for as long as you like. Your grandson and I can talk right here. Unless you wanted to stay while we do that?”

  * * *

  • • •

  MRS. REASON DID not want to stay, and so Sophie found herself alone with Sam Reason, walking forward to offer her hand and welcome him as she would any visitor. She was determined to put their earlier two meetings out of her mind. If he would just allow it.

  Now, sitting across from him she felt all her anxiety drain away. There was nothing alarming about Sam Reason: taller than most but not to an extreme, strongly built—a printer’s work was physically demanding—but not muscle bound, as dockworkers sometimes were. He was carefully and tastefully dressed, his hair was cropped to the scalp with a faint trace of white at the temples, his features strongly African. Good looking, Sophie had decided when she first saw him, all the more so for his vibrant good health. If not his attitude.

  It struck her then that they had something in common. He had been married, but lost his wife before their first anniversary. Sam Reason understood, as many could not, what life was like for her without Cap. She resolved to try harder with him. After all, he was attempting to repair the harm done, saying all the right things in the right tone. He offered condolences on the loss of her husband, inquired about her journey home and her own health.

  He was a curious character, Sophie decided. His grandparents had come to New York from New Orleans, but his accent was closer to Georgia and in fact she remembered that he had lived in Savannah for some time. With that accent in his deep bass voice he commanded attention.

  “You’re wondering why I wanted to speak to you,” he was saying. “It’s about the letter you wrote to my grandmother.”

  He propped his fisted hands on his knees, cleared his throat, and just that quickly Sophie’s mood slipped over into irritation. She decided to get to the heart of the matter.

  “Have you come to offer your printing services?”

  It was both a logical and illogical question: She had engaged him the year before to print pamphlets on ways to inhibit pregnancy; his work was excellent, and he would be glad of steady custom. But the materials he had printed at Sophie’s request had been illegal under the Comstock Act, and he had almost been caught up in one of Comstock’s elaborate schemes. If he wanted nothing more to do with her and the rest of the women physicians who wrote the pamphlets, she would not have been surprised. Then again, she was someone about to launch a large undertaking that would require many different kinds of printed material.

  “It’s not that,” he said. He looked at her directly, his demeanor not unfriendly, but cool. “I understand that you are looking for a secretary and bookkeeper. I would like to be considered for that position.”

  In her surprise Sophie could produce nothing more substantial than a tilt of the head, an invitation for him to go on.

  “You’re aware that I apprenticed under my grandfather as a compositor, but for the last ten years I had full responsibility for running the business as well. I handled the accounting and bookkeeping, correspondence with customers, suppliers, and city officials. I write an excellent hand, and my typewriting skills are first rate. I have brought samples of my writing for your examination. Along with references. I also have an account book if you’d like to see my bookkeeping skills.”

  He had placed a thick leather folio beside him on the floor, she realized now. A dozen thoughts tumbled through Sophie’s mind, but she forced herself to focus on the most important.

  “Mr. Reason, you own a printing shop. Why would you want to apply for work with me?”

  She had surprised him. “My grandmother didn’t write to you about the fire,” he said. “I thought she had.”

  “She didn’t,” Sophie confirmed. “You’ll have to tell me.”

  He cleared his throat. “Six months ago the shop burned to the ground. The printing press, all the supplies—everything gone. I had outstanding orders I couldn’t fill, and thus debts I couldn’t pay. In the end my creditors seized the land and everything else of value. I’ve been looking for work ever since, but without success.”

  Sophie considered, and then asked the question foremost in her mind. “How did the fire get started, if I may ask?”

  There was just the slightest hesitation before he answered. “Lightning strike in the middle of the night.”

  She was relieved, for complicated reasons she would have to sort out for herself later. “I’m sorry,” Sophie said.

  “So about the position,” he prompted.

  Sophie considered her folded hands. “Have you inquired at the newspapers and journals?”

  His gaze was steady, but a muscle twitched in his jaw. “The ones who might hire me have no open positions. There are possibilities elsewhere, but I don’t want to be so far from my grandmother, given her health.”

  That made sense, but it didn’t resolve Sophie’s doubts. She approached from another direction.

  “Mr. Reason, we have had blunt conversations in the past. I was hoping to avoid that, but I see now that it’s not possible. To be honest, I fear your temperament isn’t suited for this position.”

  She had not shocked him; in fact, she had the idea he had anticipated this objection.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because you’d be working with me—” She held up a palm to stop his reply. “Your disapproval of me has always been palpable, please don’t deny it. Beyond that, you would be interacting with many other people you might not approve of, and this position will require considerable diplomacy.”

  He leaned back, considering her with an expression that was nothing more than thoughtful.

  “May I make a suggestion or should I say, may
I ask a favor?”

  She had to bite the inside of her cheek to stop the remark that came to mind: Can I stop you? Instead she turned over one hand to show him an open palm.

  “I’ll leave my portfolio with you. If you like what you find, we could continue this conversation.”

  There seemed to be little way to refuse him without causing unnecessary offense. “Yes,” she said. “All right.”

  “Thank you. I have some errands to run. I’ll be back by one to take my grandmother home.” He paused. “You might think of it this way: you can ignore the portfolio and return it to me unread. I’ll take that as answer enough.”

  Something a little harder had come into his expression. A challenge? A judgment?

  She stood, a clear dismissal. “I’ll look at your materials,” she said. He held her gaze for a long moment, then left her.

  * * *

  • • •

  AS SOON AS Sam Reason left, Sophie walked into the kitchen—empty for the moment, with the exception of Pip sleeping on his cushion in the sun—and realized Laura Lee had gone out.

  She put the portfolio on the table and sat there considering it. The leather was soft, supple, well used, a great deal like the leather of her own Gladstone bag. The ties gave with a simple tug, and before she could reason with herself, she had taken out a folder of papers. The first one was a letter of recommendation, neatly typed, on letterhead that was immediately familiar to her: The Freethinker.

  On Waverly Place there was a stack of The Freethinker issues on one of the side tables in the parlor, one of the many periodicals that Aunt Quinlan subscribed to. A more recent subscription, but not the only one dealing with the subject matter.

  “Your uncle Quinlan introduced me to Freethought,” Aunt Quinlan had explained when she and Anna were old enough to understand. “My ma would have approved. She and Harrison never really knew each other, but they would have spent hours talking about Kant and Voltaire and Lefebvre.”

  Apparently this letter of recommendation had been written by the publisher of The Freethinker himself.

  THE FREETHINKER

  LONDON

  G. W. FOOTE PUBLISHER

  28 December 1883

  To Whom It May Concern,

  It is my sincere pleasure to write a letter of recommendation for Samuel Payne Reason of Brooklyn, New York. I first met Mr. Reason in 1874 at the annual conference of the National Secular Society. We began to correspond and quickly established an exchange of first ideas, and then written work.

  In the year 1881 I founded The Freethinker, a quarterly magazine designed to employ the resources of science, scholarship, philosophy, and ethics against the claims of the Bible as divine revelation. At that time I suggested that Mr. Reason relocate to London from Savannah and take an active role in publication. He politely declined, but from the start he has been a valued contributor to The Freethinker, writing under the pen name S. R. Smith. His editorials and articles have always received the highest praise for their reasoned, tightly constructed arguments. His style is persuasive but without literary artifice, elegant without pretension. When challenged he responds thoughtfully and with an air-tight logic that is rarely countered.

  When Mr. Reason left Savannah to return to Brooklyn I again encouraged him to consider London, where he could take a more active part in the Society and in the publication of The Freethinker. Indeed, we are now in the process of buying our own press and Mr. Reason would be very welcome here for his demonstrated expertise as a master printer and his experience running a small business, but first and foremost, for his fine mind and superior writing. I know that Charles Watts, who publishes the journal Secular Thought in Toronto, has also extended offers of employment. And yet, despite the recent loss of his place of business, I understand that Mr. Reason intends to stay in New York to fulfill family obligations.

  That is our loss.

  I trust that a prescient publisher or business owner will recognize Samuel Reason’s intelligence, ethics, rational mind, and practical skills, and offer him a position where his gifts will continue to bear fruit.

  He has my highest recommendation.

  G. W. Foote

  Publisher

  Sophie went on to read the other letters. The first was from the editor of the New York Globe, probably the best known and respected newspaper published by and for the city’s colored population. The second was from someone she knew. She read the letterhead twice before it began to make sense to her.

  Philip White was a druggist with a successful apothecary at Frankford and Gold, a man of education and means who was active in the New York Society for the Promotion of Education among Colored Children. And like Sophie, he was mulatto. Socially she had a passing acquaintance with him and his wife, who were among the leading figures in the black community and played a prominent role in all the clubs and charities. Before medical school, when she had time for such things, Sophie had sometimes attended receptions and events organized or sponsored by Mr. and Mrs. White. Anna and Cap had often come along.

  More important, she knew Philip White professionally as an excellent apothecary. When she was first introduced to him as a medical student, he had refused to see her, a colored woman pursuing a profession in medicine, as anything out of the ordinary. Since graduation Sophie had consulted with Mr. White many times on compounding of medicines for her patients, but usually by mail as his place of business was in Brooklyn.

  The letterhead gave a street name she didn’t recognize, but the message was much like the previous letter: Samuel Reason was a rare intellect and an astute businessman. Mr. White had done a great deal of business with all three generations of Reasons, and he had never been disappointed. He closed by saying that the reader of the letter and potential employer should also know that Mr. Reason was an active, contributing member of the Society for the Promotion of Education among Colored Children, and donated both his time and resources to that very worthy cause.

  There were three more letters, all from men who had done business with the Reason Brothers printing establishment, and all of whom were full of praise.

  She read through all the letters again, and then she put back her head and laughed.

  Pip opened one eye, made sure that all was well, and settled back to sleep.

  For all of her life Sophie had dealt with people who judged her by the color of her skin. People who were unapologetically shocked and openly displeased to learn that a colored woman had accomplished so much. More than most. And still she had treated Sam Reason as she had been treated, not because of the color of his skin, but because of the work he did. A respect for skilled labor was something she had learned from her parents and in Aunt Quinlan’s household, but somewhere along the way she had lost sight of that.

  Sam Reason was introduced to her as a printer; she assumed on that basis that he was strong and quick, that he had excellent reading skills and visual acuity, and that was as far as she had gone in her imagination. If she had thought to ask him about his interests, he might have told her that he had an international reputation as a writer and social reformer, that he was well known to the city’s colored journalists and business elite.

  She was a light-skinned woman of color, highly educated, active in a profession denied to most; she lived well, wanted for nothing, and had married into real wealth. Into the white world, or at least he would see it that way. And she had condescended to him. She was ashamed of herself.

  There was no question: she would have to hire him. What she didn’t know was how she would ever clear the air between them.

  A half hour later when Laura Lee came in from the garden Sophie was in the middle of an article by S. R. Smith that had appeared in the National Reformer, an English magazine of great repute.

  “You look flustered,” Laura Lee said. “Did that Sam Reason insult you again?”

  “I never said he insulted
me,” Sophie said. “He was rude and opinionated and—yes, all right. Insulting.”

  Laura Lee observed her closely, mouth puckered. “Why is it that you suddenly feel like you got to make excuses for the man, that’s what’s on my mind.”

  “I underestimated him,” Sophie said. “And now I’m going to hire him as a secretary and manager.”

  “You mean it?”

  Sophie nodded.

  “Then let me warn you, I won’t put up with insults. He’ll hear from me when he steps out of line.”

  “Good,” Sophie said. “Because I don’t want to have to handle him all by myself. Now for the next challenge.”

  Laura Lee raised a brow.

  “I have to tell Anna that I’m hiring Sam as my secretary. She’ll think I’ve lost my mind. In fact, I think I’ll take the coward’s way out. I’m off to write her a note.”

  * * *

  • • •

  ANNA READ THE note twice, her mouth puckering into a very dissatisfied frown, and handed it to Jack.

  Dear Anna,

  You know all the trouble about finding the right secretary to help with my project? The problem has been solved in the most unexpected way. I’ve just hired Sam Reason, the printer who did some work for us last year. He’s far more than a printer, and more than qualified to take on this task in all its complexities.

  I can hear you shouting from here.

  Believe me when I tell you that once you have seen his portfolio of work you will understand. Tomorrow morning he’ll meet with Conrad, and I have no doubt he will approve of my choice. Mr. Reason wasn’t at his best last year when I met him; now I’m asking you to give him a chance.