At dinner that night, he thought about mentioning the incident to Charlotte but held his tongue. He didn’t quite know why. It was just another of the many things that he preferred to keep to himself these days.
They were eating pork again, pork as always. Turner was heartily sick of pork, boiled, fried, stewed, or baked in a pie. It was still pork. He knew they needed the eggs, and everyone had voted not to kill any chickens for a while, but still. Another month and it would be hog-killing time again, and more pork. Pork stretching out to meet the horizon.
“What?” Charlotte said. Turner raised his head, startled.
“What?” he said in return.
“You were saying something, something about hogs.”
He tried to cover his confusion. “I’m sorry, my dear, I must have been thinking aloud. I was thinking about pork, and the many ways we eat pork, and I was just thinking—thinking about a chicken, or a fine steak, how good a juicy steak would taste nowadays. Not that I don’t understand the necessity—the necessity—in the war, we dined on mule more than once—”
He stopped. He had run out of words. And in the silence, he became aware of the stares of his wife and children: Charlotte weary and guarded, Newton red-faced with anger. And Adam? Tears were streaming down his face, though he sat still with his hands in his lap.
“Papa, have you become a madman?” Adam asked in soft voice.
“Shut up!” Newton cried, but Turner put a restraining hand on his shoulder and turned to his younger son.
“Why do you ask, son?” he said as gently as he could. But his voice trembled.
“The boys say—the boys say you are. They say you’ve become a lunatic, a harmless lunatic who wanders the woods and fields all day. You lost your mind in the war, and—” He turned away.
“And you idle away the days with some old slave from who knows where, and pay no mind to your family or the common good,” Newton said, his eyes burning. “That’s what they say.”
“Boys, I don’t know what to tell you,” Turner said. He stared at his plate. “There’s justice in the things these people say, I’ll grant. But I’m no lunatic. Perhaps I lost myself a touch in the war, but I’m as sound a man as any. Just give me time, and I’ll find a purpose to it all. I have an idea! Let’s all take another lecture tour. You boys have never been farther than Fredericktown. It’ll be good for you to see the cities. We’ll raise money for Daybreak and see the world.” The sudden inspiration made perfect sense to him; he had been seeking a purpose, something to do with himself that would mean something, and here it was. He would do what he had always done best, talk. Why hadn’t he thought of it earlier? He lifted his eyes to see their reaction.
But Charlotte had left the table.
That night they lay in bed together, awake but not speaking. “You heard what I was thinking,” he finally said.
“Yes.” Her voice was soft in the dark.
“Well?”
She sighed. “What makes you think you can lecture? You hardly speak two words to me in a day.”
He felt the sting of truth in what she said. “I can’t explain it,” he said. “I hadn’t even thought about it before. But when I said it, I knew it was right. Charlotte, I have to find something to do, something bigger than myself. I need a big thing.”
“Will I get my old James Turner back if you do this?” Her voice was plaintive.
“I don’t know if that man is still alive,” he said into the night. “But if he is, you can have him.”
“All right, then,” she whispered. “But only with a vote,” she added hastily. “The community must approve.”
The vote was easily passed the next Thursday night; Turner wondered if many of the people in Daybreak weren’t secretly glad to see him leave. But as Turner and Charlotte wrote for halls and plotted the schedule, Newton declared he had no interest in making the trip.
“I want to stay in Daybreak,” he said. “Ain’t no need to ride around on trains.”
“Isn’t any,” his mother corrected. But he met her glare with a fierce look of his own.
Charlotte tried to command, then persuade, Newton to change his mind for a few days, but softened as it became clear that Turner wasn’t going to force the boy to travel. “We’ll go to Washington, see the Capitol,” she told him. “Won’t that be a fine thing, to see the Capitol?”
“It’ll still be there later on,” he said mulishly.
Adam, by contrast, could barely contain his excitement. He sat on Charlotte’s lap in the evenings as she studied the rail tables and wrote to lyceums, tracing their predicted course as it developed, and though he could not read, he traced his finger over the map. They settled on February as a start date, when the worst of winter would be over but it was still too early for planting: St. Louis to Chicago by way of Springfield and Bloomington, then across to Detroit and Toledo, Cleveland, Buffalo, Albany to Boston, then back by way of the East Coast cities to Washington, then home on the B & O to Cincinnati, Vincennes, and wherever else they could produce a crowd by then.
Turner felt like Adam, transformed by excitement at the prospect of a new tour. But what would he have to say? He could hardly lecture on the same subjects as before, but what else did he know about? River valley farming? Hemp growing?
“Lecture on the war,” Charlotte said. “Or the foreign situation.”
“If I knew what the foreign situation was, I’d try it. And I think the only thing I want to say about the war is let’s not have another.”
“Suit yourself. But we need to have handbills printed by January. Perhaps—”
“Perhaps what?”
“Never mind.” Turner saw it in her look, though.
“Ah. The woman question.”
And there the issue hung for several weeks while Turner thought it over. To draw a crowd he would need to take a stance that put him apart from everyone else, and that meant only one thing. But could he plead the women’s case in good conscience?
As the days grew colder he retreated to the old print shed behind their house, closed since he had left for the war. He cleaned out the stovepipe, dusted the chair and desk, pulled down the grimy curtains, laid in a supply of paper and ink.
Through the window he could see everyone going about their business—the men with tools and loads of wood, the women with baskets of laundry, steaming in the winter air, to be thrown onto the line. Yes, the women in Daybreak had the franchise but were they really less subjugated than the men? Or than their voteless sisters in the country at large? Was their toil any less, or their freedom any greater? It was hard to see it.
But Charlotte was right; it was a fine lecture topic, one to bring in the crowds now that the slave had been freed and talk of the Negro franchise was in the air. Greeley himself would probably turn up when they got to New York. Turner put another stick of wood into his stove and tried to think of what to say.
By week’s end, he had little to show. On Saturday evening, restless, he got up from the table where the boys were playing dominoes and put on his coat. “I need to talk to Emile Mercadier,” he said to Charlotte and was out the door before anything could be asked.
Kathleen answered his knock. “Emile’s over sitting with Marie and the girl,” she said with a glance to the side. “He feels the need to chaperone or something, I suppose. I don’t mind, I can do my mending in peace.”
“Could you ask him—ask them—if I might come in?” Turner said. “I hate to intrude.”
“Of course.” She disappeared out the back and across the dogtrot. Within a moment Marie came out of her front door and called to him.
“Come in, come in,” she said. “Certainly you are welcome.”
Emile sat in a straight chair at the table, his fiddle in his hands, Josephine and Angus across from him playing cat’s cradle. Marie and Flynn were on the sofa. Flynn, sitting stiffly with his hands in his lap, gave him an edgy glance as he entered and pulled out another straight chair beside Emile. The old man’s hand was extended
in his direction; Turner took it.
“You are kind to visit us on a cold night such as this,” Emile said.
“I need your advice,” Turner said.
Emile laughed. “Now there’s an honor,” he said. “A dotard like me, asked for advice.” He fingered the strings, playing a tune only his left hand heard.
“No one has a longer history with our cause than you, Emile. You were a citizen of Daybreak before Daybreak even existed.”
Mercadier nodded. “Fourier, Proudhon, Cabet, I have read them all. I knew Cabet, you know. I wrote this all in my letters to the man at the Evening Post. I shouldn’t be surprised to get a visit from him any day now,” he said with a satisfied smile. Marie and Flynn said nothing; Turner got the feeling that this subject was all too familiar.
“Yes,” he said. “But it’s Daybreak I want to ask you about. You’ve heard I am planning another lecture tour, I suppose.”
“Fine work if you can get it,” Flynn said.
“Mr. Turner’s lectures have brought good money to the colony several times before,” Marie replied. Flynn sniffed but kept silent.
“How can I help you, my boy?” Mercadier said. He patted Turner’s hand. “I don’t know where you should go. I’m a silly shoemaker. You know that.”
“Emile, I don’t know what to say,” Turner said softly. “I don’t know if it’s all been worth it. I don’t know if there’s any sense to what we are doing anymore. We work, we share, we hold our goods in common, but have we improved anyone’s life?”
Mercadier’s sightless eyes glittered toward Turner. “I don’t know, my boy,” he said. “What do you think?”
Turner had nothing to say. He felt empty. “Perhaps,” he said. “I’d like to think so.”
The room was silent for a moment, filled with Turner’s gloom, with only the quiet chanting of Josephine’s string game to break the stillness.
“You’re expecting something from me better than ‘perhaps’?” Mercadier said. “What is there in our lives that is guaranteed? I tell you this, I have liked my life and I do not regret it. Would my life be better as a shopkeeper back in France instead of an old socialist here in this valley? How should I know? I’ll take this life, it’s mine and I’m satisfied with it.”
Turner spoke to Marie. “I may speak on the question of the vote for women. You remember when we reprinted the Seneca Falls letter in the Eagle.”
Marie blushed and turned her head. How could either of them not remember? It was that moment—reading the great words, the declaration of women as a powerful people, deserving of all the rights that men so smugly hoarded as their own—when Marie had felt her own power and declared her own passion, and from that moment all their lives had changed.
“Vote for women?” Flynn said. “Now I’ve heard it all.”
“Women have voted on matters here in Daybreak for years,” Turner said, a little defensive even though he was not sure of the issue himself. “You don’t see us growing scales or horns as a result.”
Flynn sniffed again. “The women rule us enough as it is.”
Something in Flynn’s dismissal aroused Turner’s old debating instincts, and he began to make his case, but Flynn waved him off. “You’re the good man with words, I know that already. Heard it many times before. I ain’t going to try to argue with you. I just know what I know. Angus, time to go home.” He stood to leave.
“I need to go home, too,” Turner said, standing also. “Emile, you’ve been a help. Thank you.” He shook the old man’s hand and took his hat off its peg.
“Mr. Turner,” Marie said. “Thank you for coming by. And if you’d care to know it—” She paused. “I have liked my life, too, and do not regret it.”
Turner stammered a few words and let himself out the door. He was a few steps down the dark road when he felt a strong grip on his bicep; Flynn’s face pressed close to his.
“You stay away from her,” Flynn whispered in a voice full of hate. “I see your game.” Then he disappeared in the other direction, pulling Angus behind him as they made their way to the ford.
Turner watched the man’s shape vanish in the moonlight. Behind the curtains of Marie Mercadier’s house, shapes were moving, silhouetted by the lamps. Everything else was dark.
Yes, he would lecture, and the woman question would do just fine. He would talk. He would talk and talk.
Chapter 10
Michael Flynn did not like being as angry as he was most of the time, but when he looked around there was plenty to be angry about. Loafers like James Turner, wandering around his side of the river valley, flouting all the rules of normal society and getting rewarded for it. And his wife, Mrs. High and Mighty, with all her “let’s vote on it” talk. As long as things went her way, of course. Angus, the little snot, sneaking around trying to get out of chores. Or whatever it was that he did; Angus was a mystery to him more often than not, a silent little daydreamer, but a smart lad, he’d give him credit for that. Came from his mother’s side.
Even Marie made him angry sometimes. She had that schoolmarm quality about her, always wanting to improve everyone, and he didn’t much care to be improved. He was who he was, and people would just have to take that. And she rarely let him walk her out to a quiet place where he could grab a kiss or a cuddle, which God knows he wanted more of all the time. It had been too long, much too long. And she still wouldn’t say yes to him or set a date. Just sit on the sofa and talk, holding hands once in a while. She of all people should know that a man needed more than that; it made him feel as if she were waiting for someone better to come along or staying faithful in some crazy way to that bastard Turner.
And then there were all the Goddamn rebs walking around, unrepentant and proud as Lucifer. The way they acted, a man would think they had won the war. Pettibone, that pup, not the worst of them but bad enough. He’d heard the talk of them forming some sort of vigilance league; it sounded more like a Sunday afternoon drinking society to him. Let them do what they want. He had no objection to their keeping the niggers in line, but, by God if they tried to interfere with him, he’d remind them who could fight the best.
He’d show them all. All the doubters, the Irish-hating bastards, the goddam Army officers worst among them, carrying on about the lazy Micks while they sat in their tents and drank tea all day. The man had not yet been born who could outwork Michael Flynn, and if everyone wanted to underestimate the Irish, well, bully for them. He’d come into this piece of property by a fine bit of luck, and in a few years, he’d have the whole valley cleared, barns raised, and a herd of cattle on the ground. He’d already picked out the breed, Devonshire, only decent thing ever to come out of England. Beef cattle for him; more profit in it. The hell with these mongrel cattle and the roaming hogs. He wanted his own herd, cattle he could mark. He could pay off much of the debt to the Daybreak people with the first slaughter. And when it was all his, free and clear, he’d build his house. He’d pictured it in his mind since he was a child. It would be a house that people would come from miles around to see. He had talked of it to Marie, a little embarrassed by the grandness of his plans—an octagon, three stories, framed all the way to the top, with a little walk-around space on the roof to see out over the fields. By God it would be fine.
But tonight was no time for thoughts of work. He’d persuaded Marie to leave the children with Kathleen and her father and ride with him to Oak Grove. There was a Christmas dance at the schoolhouse; he had brushed down the horse and cleaned out the wagon, bought a little jar of whiskey from
Durand, and if they ended up taking the long way home, who knew what might happen? If nothing else, he could press her for an answer; if she wouldn’t marry him, he wanted to move on. All these nights perched on her sofa had to amount to something pretty soon.
He picked her up at sunset, fording the river carefully to keep from splashing water onto her skirts. “That’s a fine dress,” he said as they climbed the hill.
She seemed lost in thought. “Thank you
,” she said after a moment.
“You make it?”
“Yes.”
“That’s a fine skill, dressmaking.”
“I don’t pretend to be an expert at it. Before the war we used to make clothes for Grindstaff’s store in town, but he quit buying.”
Now that they were away from the scrutiny of the old man and the ever-present ears of the children, he had nothing to say. They followed the ridge in silence. A man would think that the lady could help him out a bit, surely, but she just rode along, wrapped in her heavy coat. He gathered the reins into one hand so he could reach into the clasp of her hands and take one in his grip. She let him.
“You cold? I have whiskey in my pocket,” he said after a time.
“No. I’m fine.”
He tried to think of conversation topics. Of course, everyone was talking these days about the Turners and their upcoming travels, but he didn’t care to speak of that.
“Working hard lately?” he ventured.
To his surprise, she jerked her hands away and covered her face. Her muffled sobs sounded to him like the snorting of a hog, a comparison he immediately regretted and tried to banish from his mind. He let her cry for a while, the horse at a slow walk.
“Of course I’m not good enough for you,” he said once she had settled down. “I’m sorry. You’re a pretty thing, and smart. You made a mistake, with the child and all, but God almighty, who hasn’t made mistakes? I’m a brute who never went to school a day in his life. It’s all right if you can’t stand me. I’m all right. I’ll turn the wagon around.”
She looked at him, and there was a smile through the tears. “I wasn’t crying over you,” she said. “I was thinking about my father.”
Then it all poured out, how the old man was losing his hold, his memory failing, his eyesight gone, his body giving out. How the new wife was kindhearted but sharp-tongued, and how she didn’t feel right to speak but felt pained to hear her scolding. How little Josephine was so silent and watchful all the time, never letting her know what she was thinking, and she feared that the child was feeling the shame of her parentage, judging her, scorning her own mother. He took her hand again as the torrent of words emerged.
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