“Maybe not. I’ve got a second line of attack with these people.”
“Let’s hope it’s not a line of attack like the one used on Reuben Pierce.”
Mason stared at him. “Sarcasm is unbecoming to you, Mr. Bridges,” he said at last. “I didn’t know this Pierce, but I’m not going to make snide comments about his dying in order to distract from my own deficiencies. If somebody shows me proof of wrongdoing, then I’ll buy it. But till then, I’d leave the lawmen to their business and mind my own. It’s plain to us that you’ve become too personally involved with the Daybreak deal, so we’re taking matters into our own hands from now on.”
He turned abruptly and walked away, leaving Bridges stung. He knew he had no better claim to knowledge than Mason or anyone else. Mason’s indignation felt disingenuous to him, but maybe he was right. Speculation only fed discontent. And this second line of attack to buy the Daybreak land? Surely Mason wouldn’t be fool enough to send Yancey, not with a deputy sheriff living among them. And that “us” and “we” made one thing clear—he had lost New York’s trust.
But still—a dead man, one of their own, and on their land. This hardly seemed the time to draw back and wait for the good offices of others, lawmen or not. He watched, distracted, as the men rushed to stack the rough lumber onto the railcars while the engine chuffed, the engineer eager to get on to Piedmont, Leeper, Poplar Bluff, and points south. The tyranny of the timetable overrode them all.
Chapter 29
Arainy week passed with no word from Lily Breeze. Newton’s cravings grew until he could stand them no longer, so he sent word to her although he knew he was supposed to wait. Another day went by before Wilhelmina showed up at his door.
“You can come tomorrow,” she said.
“Did Lily Breeze send you?”
Her eyes darted. “All I know is you can come tomorrow.”
So it was Braswell. He should have expected as much. And when he walked down the road to Masterson’s farm, there sat Braswell on the front porch, slicing an apple and popping the slices into his mouth a piece at a time.
“The hot-blooded Mr. Turner,” Braswell said as Newton stood in the walk.
“I figured it was you sent the message,” Newton said.
“You figured right.”
“So here I am.”
Braswell cut another slice from his apple and offered it to Newton, who shook his head. “Ate already.” Braswell shrugged and ate it himself.
The silence lengthened. “Here, sit yourself down,” Braswell finally said. “I want to bring you up to date.”
Newton took a seat in the chair beside Braswell, whose chewing was infuriatingly slow and noisy. He thought of Lily Breeze, inside, waiting for him, but vowed patience.
“Lily likes you,” Braswell said, “and so do I. Over the past few months, I’ve come to think very well of you. You’re quick and sensible, a good thinker, nobody’s fool.”
“Kind of you to say.”
“Kindness is not my concern. My interest is in meeting the needs of my church and my family, and that’s where I place my attention. So when I see a likely young man such as you, I take notice. You strike me as someone who may be a good ally.”
Braswell worked his way to the core of the apple, then broke it in half, chewed down to the stem and blossom ends, and spit the seeds over the porch rail one by one. “What do you think?” he said. “Think you’re a good ally?”
“I suppose. Never thought about it that way.”
“You suppose. You never thought about it that way.”
His repetition made Newton uncomfortable. Ally? Of course he had never thought of himself in those terms. The community president was supposed to be encouraging to all but impartial. What kind of part did Braswell think he played?
Braswell’s slow gaze gave him further pause. “I believe you’ve gotten a fair taste of my philosophy as of late. Lily Breeze has instructed you in our basic principles, wouldn’t you say?”
“Sure.”
“And you don’t subscribe to all our beliefs, but that’s all right. The world would be a dull place if everyone believed the same thing. I’m a man of God, but I know too well there’s many a one would call me a man of the devil if they had even the most superficial awareness of what we believe and practice.”
Newton nodded. Braswell wiped his pocketknife on his pants, folded it, and tucked it in his hip pocket. “Fortunately,” he continued, “we have people who understand and help us, even if they don’t share our beliefs. That’s what makes this country great. Take Mr. Masterson. We came down the road, strangers to him, and he took us in. ‘He was a stranger, and I took him in.’ That’s living your Bible right there.”
There was a strange quiet inside the house. Newton wondered if anyone else was at home, or if they were all listening in. “He helped us in our time of need, and now we help him. Do unto others. That’s in our Bible, too. And don’t think we don’t appreciate it. Never forget a friend. That’s a solemn oath.” His expression grew meditative. “And we know that helping us comes at a risk. Can you imagine what would happen to Masterson if word got out of some of our practices? The names he would be called? After they got done running us out of the county, they’d do the same to him. Or maybe just a horsewhipping. They still do horsewhippings around here, don’t they.”
A chill came over Newton as he began to realize where Braswell’s conversation was headed. “I expect so.”
“But Masterson has nothing to worry about, because he’s our friend. We never tell the secrets of our church to outsiders, and Lord knows Masterson never will. He wouldn’t want to have people calling him whoremonger, seducer, whatever names they can think of. I guess you know that Rose Rain has been giving him the same kind of treatment that you’ve gotten.”
“I can’t say that I did. But I wondered.”
“Speaks well to Lily’s discretion, not revealing the secrets of the house. But I have to say—” Braswell cleared his throat and spit. “I’m not sure I can say the same about you. I’m not sure you can be trusted.”
“Of course I can be trusted,” Newton said. “Whatever would make you think that I couldn’t?”
“Just this,” Braswell said. “Masterson gave us a place to live, food and rooms, a space to start a church. What have you ever done for us?”
His voice rose. Suddenly he was looming above Newton. “What have you ever done for us besides come down here every week with your dick in your hand like a common biscuit-snatcher?”
He paused dramatically, letting Newton squirm. Then he sat down again, his tone soft. “When we came to the meeting last week, I can’t tell you how it pained us—pained me, personally—to be provisional members, unable to participate in the decision. Mr. Turner, it’s time for you to prove yourself a friend. We want to become full members of Daybreak, and soon.”
His request surprised Newton. “You and your group are due for a vote in a few months. Why the rush?”
Braswell’s face was blank. “We are people who have lived in uncertainty for years. We are used to it, and I really don’t mind it. But the young ones want to settle for a time. Can’t say I blame them. We’ve been run out of three states, and they’ve been called free-love advocates and worse. Of course they’d like to plant some roots. Until we’re sure we have a place here, though, I can’t allow it. And so we come to you.”
“To me?”
“You’re the leader. And don’t give me that ‘I have to stay neutral’ shit. We need you, and you will make us full members. And soon. Do I need to make myself any clearer?”
Newton stood up. “Mr. Braswell, I will take my leave now, before this conversation gets any more heated. I take your point.”
Braswell took hold of his bicep. “Maybe you do. But in case you missed it, the point is that we will not be taken for granted and we will not be left dissatisfied. We’ll be made full members of this community, or we’ll go our way, and when we do, we will burn the ground behind us. So keep us h
ere and happy, or see us leave and live to regret it.”
His face burning, Newton found the road to Daybreak with Braswell’s threat echoing in his ears. What a fool he had been, walking into Braswell’s trap—and of course, it had to have been a trap all along, and the only question was whether Lily Breeze had been aware of it too. Didn’t matter. It had sprung, and his leg was firmly held. Leg or something else, he thought grimly.
For a minute he considered defying him. He was a child of Daybreak, son of the founder, community president. He had status. Why shouldn’t he just denounce this preacher-pimp and put them all behind him? But he knew the answer. His status, his reputation, meant that he was the one with the most to lose. They could scoot for the state line, creatures on the move like a family of coyotes, while he would remain, nowhere to go, the object of scorn, disrespect, and laughter. They would float on; he would sink.
By the time he returned to Daybreak, the drizzle that had held off for the past two days returned. Just as well that the weather would match his mood, he thought. If he was going to peddle his legacy to a man like Barton Braswell, he’d just as soon do it on a rotten day.
Chapter 30
The road to Ambrose Gardner’s house had nearly fallen through, and Charlotte wouldn’t have made it across the creek west of Annapolis if there hadn’t been a plank bridge strung across it. She led her horse across slowly to keep it from spooking. Even so, she wondered whether she had done right to cross it, for all the streams were running full and the return passage would be no easier. But for the first time in many years, she felt lighthearted, even gay, and determined not to let her enjoyment of the day be dampened by ordinary concerns. She had left early so as to catch Ambrose before he made it to town, for the excuse of lunch at Mrs. Bone’s only meant they had less time to spend together alone. And her plan worked, for she was halfway up the second hill before she spied him on his way down.
“By my word, my dear, you are as bright and brisk as a chickadee this morning!” Gardner exclaimed. She jumped from her saddle and trotted up to him. He took her into his arms in a swallowing embrace that turned into a long kiss.
“Well, now I want to sing,” he said.
“Go ahead,” Charlotte said. “I’d like to hear you.”
Gardner laughed. “Cross a donkey with a screech owl. That’ll approximate it.”
“Come on. We’re out in the woods. Who can hear you?”
“All right,” he said with a laugh, clearing his throat. “Let’s see. Here’s a good old song.” He threw back his head into the foggy chill.
“‘Twas on one bright March morning I bid New Orleans adieu,
“And I took the road to Jackson town my fortune to renew.
“I cursed all foreign money, no credit could I gain,
“Which filled my heart with longing for the lakes of Pontchartrain.”
He grinned. “Meadowlark of the mountain, that’s me.”
“Not half as bad as you let on.” She took his hand. “One of those campfire songs you were telling me about?”
He blushed. “You remembered.”
“And why wouldn’t I?”
“I’m just not used to people paying attention to what I say.”
“Well, get used to it. I listen and I remember.”
“All right, then. Yes, it’s one of the songs we used to sing in the evening. Funny, how so many of the songs we sang were about the South. The lakes of Pontchartrain, the yellow rose of Texas, the Swanee River, Old Virginny. None of us had ever been South, either.”
“Such sad songs, too.”
“Oh, we used to make ourselves cry with those songs. The colonel banned ‘em for a while, said they were bad for morale. We had to make do with marching songs.”
He pulled his coat closer. “But why’d you come out all this way? And why so early? We’re not due at Mrs. Bone’s for another couple of hours.”
Charlotte lifted the basket she had brought. “I thought we might skip Mrs. Bone’s today. I brought sandwiches.”
Gardner grinned. “That sounds like a fine idea! It’s a better day for an indoor visit than for a long hike, that’s for sure.”
George the dog met them in the woods a hundred feet before the cabin with his usual joyful wiggle. Charlotte had brought some cracklings wrapped in paper and tossed them to him.
“Now you’ve done it,” Gardner said. “He’s going to follow you home.”
“Dogs and men have similar tendencies, then. Slaves to their bellies.”
Gardner had banked a fire in his cookstove, so some added sticks of wood soon had the cabin warm. And soon the two of them were under the flannel sheets of his narrow bed, gripping each other with the intense abandon of long-unsatisfied desire. Charlotte knew she was supposed to feel embarrassment at herself, an old woman giving rein to the urges of nature, but discovered that she felt none. Instead she felt free for the first time in decades, pursuing her own feelings and wants without thinking of the opinions of others. Perhaps it was the seclusion of the forest cabin that emboldened her so, or perhaps it was the appeal of Ambrose Gardner himself, who matched her like a tenon to her mortise in mind, spirit, and now, she knew, body. Or perhaps it was the simple pleasure of not giving a damn for once about the high thoughts and low whispers of others, but doing what she wanted. All her life, people had looked to her to be the sensible one, the responsible one, looking out for the good of the community, and she had obliged them willingly. But now she felt the delight of the transgressor.
Afterward, they lay together in the quiet. “I was in love with a man once, a man other than my husband, I mean,” she said. Charlotte didn’t know why the words came out just then. She hadn’t thought of Adam Cabot in so long, and he had not been on her mind at the moment. “He wanted me to run off to California with him.”
“But you didn’t.”
“Oh, no. We didn’t even get close to—you know. This, or anything like it.”
“Why didn’t you?”
Charlotte laughed. “I was a married woman, with a child of my own! Running off is not in our dictionary. As for the other. I don’t know. It just didn’t feel right. Then he was killed in the war, and that was that.”
“Do you ever regret it?”
She pondered a moment. “Yes,” she said. “Not for the act itself. But there will always be a ‘what if.’ And I hate that.”
“At least with us, you don’t have a ‘what if,’” Gardner said, stroking her hair.
“No. With us, it’s more like a ‘What now?’”
“What now,” he said, “is we take a look in that sandwich basket.” He rolled out of bed and put on his trousers, and as he walked to the front room Charlotte pulled her dress over her head to join him.
“Dogs and men,” she said.
In the afternoon, he walked with her down his bluff trail to see the spring. The path was steep and slippery from the weeks’ rains, so they worked their way slowly, gripping saplings for steadiness as they descended.
The spring flowed out from a narrow, triangular cave opening about twenty feet from the river’s edge. The water, a deep greenish blue, gushed out through dolomite boulders into a series of small pools rich with watercress.
“It’s running high,” Gardner said. “Everything’s running high from the rain. River’s up a half a foot, spring’s twice as big as usual. In the summer I can go fifty, sixty feet back, until it gets down to a belly crawl, which I do not choose to do. I store my meat down here, wrap it tight and weigh it down underwater with some of these stones. You’d be surprised how big a rock it takes to keep a raccoon from pulling out your provisions.”
Charlotte gazed into the mouth of the cave, from which a faint moist breeze emerged as if from a living mouth, bearing the scent of roots and damp earth and something deeper, the smell of nascent creation itself, elements assembling into existence. She thought of underground channels deep beneath Gardner’s cabin, the flow of water unseen, emerging here after its slow, patient travel thr
ough rock and crevice.
“Where does it come from?” she said. “The water, I mean. There’s so much of it, and so constant.”
“I don’t know,” said Gardner. “Everywhere and nowhere, I guess. There was a man over by Van Buren a while back, lost a wagonload of salt down a sinkhole, and a week later the Round Spring was as salty as the ocean, or so they tell me. So no telling.”
“All the while that we are sitting and talking, going about our work, waking and sleeping, water is moving beneath us, finding its way out here and the springs at Daybreak and a thousand other places. It’s like the earth is alive, or maybe like we are aboard a great ship that moves and swells all the time, but is so immense that we don’t notice it. The world is a remarkable place.”
He gave her a look that was both quizzical and appreciative. “It is indeed.”
He had brought two gallon buckets with him, and they filled them with spring water to take up the hill. “Jack and Jill,” he said. “So let’s mind our steps.”
“Here’s where you need one of your patented pulley arrangements,” Charlotte said.
“I’ve thought about it. But this bluff isn’t as straight up-and-down as you might think from climbing it. To reach the spring, I’d have to swing an arm out thirty feet from the blufftop, and that would spoil my view. So I guess I’ll tote the buckets.”
At the cabin, Charlotte dipped out some of the water for tea and poured off a little into a shallow pan so they could wash their muddy feet. She had grown so accustomed to having a well right outside her back door, and not just any well but a deep well with a fine hand pump, that carrying water and rationing it out felt like an act from a different century. She rarely used the springhouse at Daybreak any more, even though its water tasted better than her well water. The seductions of convenience.
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