Slant of Light

by Steve Wiegenstein

  “Fine by me.”

  “Here’s the thing. He’ll want to take back his entire contribution to the community, rather than just his share of what we currently hold, and people may want to give him that, out of sympathy or just to be rid of him. But with all the purchases of seed, building materials, and the like, our accounts are pretty low. We can’t have him get his entire amount back. Will you back me on this?”

  Cabot paused. It would be a hardship on Cantwell and his wife to leave the community with little, but harder yet on the rest if they didn’t. An ugly business, but the world was populated with ugly business these days.

  “All right,” he said.

  “Just watch for a chance to make a difference,” Turner said.

  The prospect of a troublesome scene with Cantwell made Cabot tense, though everyone else seemed relaxed. The citizens lounged on the grass, discussing the coming week in easy tones, none of the usual arguments breaking out.

  Not that the news was all good. The planting was going well, but some of last fall’s winter wheat had been washed out in the flooding. Grindstaff had cut down on his clothing orders. People seemed to prefer the ready-mades from the factories back East. Donations from outside had leveled off, despite Turner’s exhortations in every issue of The Eagle, and subscriptions themselves were down. The only growing source of income was Mercadier’s shoemaking. They had rented him a room in town, where he stayed from Monday through Wednesday, and every week he brought back hard cash and plenty of trade.

  “I am proud,” Mercadier said, standing to address the group. Charlotte gave him English lessons in the evenings, and he liked to try out new phrases. “It cheers me to serve the communa-tay.”

  A young man sitting near Turner muttered under his breath. “You’d think with the old one gone half the week, a fellow could make some progress with the girl.”

  “You?” said his companion. “Good luck and best wishes. She’s a hard-nosed case, she is. Now me—” Cabot quieted them with a cough.

  Cantwell stood up. “I have something to say. Me and the missus have decided to go back East. We are resigning from the colony.”

  “Very well,” Turner said. “According to our charter, any member leaving Daybreak is entitled to his share of the assets. Mr. Webb, what are the colony’s assets today?”

  Webb consulted his account book. “One thousand, six hundred twenty-eight dollars and fifty cents.”

  “And how many members on the rolls?”

  “Twenty-two. Giving Mr. Cantwell a share of seventy-four dollars and … two cents.”

  “Wait a minute!” Cantwell cried. “I brought three hundred dollars to this colony. That ain’t fair. I want my share back!”

  “Your share is seventy-four-oh-two,” Turner said. “When you joined the colony, you cast your lot with the common good.”

  “He didn’t bring in hardly nothing,” Cantwell said, pointing at one of the younger men.

  “He also helped build your house.”

  Cantwell’s voice was down to its familiar whine. “I want my three hundred dollars.”

  “Your three hundred dollars is in homes and seed and livestock, Mr. Cantwell. It’s in that reaper out in the barn. You think we just put it in a hole in the ground?”

  “All right then, I ain’t resigning.” Cantwell sat back down.

  Cabot saw his moment. He stood up, his chin jut out. “Mr. Director, I wish to make a motion. I move we strike George Cantwell from the membership rolls.”

  “Second that motion,” said the young man who had been at the end of Cantwell’s pointing finger.

  Cantwell jumped up, his face bright red. “Now wait a minute, I said I wasn’t resigning.”

  “Cantwell, since you got here you have done nothing but complain,” Cabot said. “You are always in a pucker about one thing or another. You hoe half a row of corn in the time it takes another man to hoe two. We are well to be rid of you, and if I had my way, you’d get the two cents but not the seventy-four dollars, because that is about what you are worth.”

  Cantwell took a step toward Cabot, but Cabot stood his ground. He had figured Cantwell for a hollow barrel. But even so, a tremble went through him as he braced himself for violence, taken or given.

  “This ain’t fair,” Cantwell repeated. “I ain’t well. When I get my health back, I’ll show you who can work.”

  “Motion and second on the floor,” Cabot said, his voice hard.

  “I’ll go to law on this, I swear it. You people will rue the day.”

  Turner spoke again. “Mr. Cabot is correct; there’s a motion on the floor. Anyone else wish to speak to the motion?” No one did. “Show of hands then, all in favor? Anyone opposed? Motion carries.”

  The group stirred as Cantwell made his way through them, leaving through what would someday be the back door.

  “Mr. Cantwell, you are no longer a member of Daybreak. Mr. Webb will draw you your share, and you can have until Monday to pack and leave.”

  “I swear to God you will regret this,” Cantwell said, his voice fading into the distance.

  Cabot watched the faces of the crowd as Cantwell stomped off. He read their minds in their changing expressions: first the painful pleasure of a lanced boil—Cantwell is gone!—then giddiness at the ease with which it happened—so fast! Just like that!—then a moment’s remorse—He wasn’t such a bad fellow after all. His wife deserves better—ending with uncertainty—If Cantwell can get thrown out with such ease, what about me? Sent off with seventy-four dollars to my name. And in that sequence of expressions he saw the group move from a band of equals to a group of workers with a boss, looking up at Turner with worker eyes, waiting to be told what to do. It was not what he had imagined a workers’ paradise would look like. The crowd drifted away in twos and threes, the married ones joining their wives to talk as they walked home.

  Turner appeared at his side. “That went well.”

  “I suppose,” Cabot said. “Hate to see a man humiliated and sent off like that.”

  “Brought it on himself. He didn’t want to work, so he deserves what follows.”

  “You’re none too sympathetic.”

  “I’m thinking of the common good,” Turner said. “Whatever advances the common good has my full sympathies, but whatever holds it back—” He paused. “Whatever holds it back is my enemy, and should be yours, too.”

  “I thought you might bring up that idea of another lecture tour. See what the community thinks.”

  “Time didn’t seem right.” Turner shrugged.

  He awoke late that night with Cantwell’s threats and curses in his mind. It was sometime toward morning; birds were singing in the darkness. So it was the common good they were protecting. But Cabot could not get over the feeling that he had done wrong. He knew what it felt like to be driven out of a place, and now here he was doing the same to Cantwell. He couldn’t sleep any longer, so he got up and dressed, then sat in his doorway to await the day. Purgation and violence seemed to go together wherever he went. Could he ever find a home that didn’t need cleansing of its undesirables—or where he was not the undesirable to be cleansed? Perhaps he should just return to Boston and resume some sort of normal life, find a job, earn some money, pursue his cause the ordinary way, through meetings and pamphleteering and contributions. Maybe even meet someone like Charlotte and get married.

  But he knew he would not. He was here for the duration, for better or for worse.

  On Sundays they held brief community meetings instead of church. There were readings from Travels to Daybreak and occasional performances, and Turner usually gave a short lecture. Turner woke that Sunday thinking about lecturing on their expulsion of Cantwell. It had been ugly but necessary. The ideal of the community might be equality, democracy in the pure form, but the reality was that not everyone was ready for that condition. Cantwell was not ready for it. He was like a sapling that had been bent down by a falling tree but regrown with a new trunk. Take the fallen log off the sapling, and
it still won’t grow straight. It was already bent. What the community had to do was give room for the saplings, let those grow straight that could, and chop out the rest. But he wasn’t sure whether everyone was prepared to hear it yet. He could tell from Cabot’s reaction that there were plenty of people who thought Daybreak could cure anyone of their old-world habits. Idealism was fine, but there were the boundaries of human nature to be considered.

  He took Charlotte’s hand after breakfast. “Let’s walk,” he said. “See what wildflowers are in bloom.”

  Charlotte, surprised, cast a querying glance at Newton. “All right, if Marie will watch him for an hour,” she said.

  They strolled down the Daybreak road in the warm April air. The dirt street was damp but not muddy; the Mercadiers’ house was at the far end of the road, close to the Temple of Community. The rows of cabins were still rough-looking and windowless, their doors open front and back for ventilation. The planks for their siding were seasoning in the barn.

  “We need to order some windows as soon as we can afford them,” Turner murmured.

  “Amen,” Charlotte replied.

  Marie met them at the door. She was dark-complexioned, with deep brown eyes that tended to squint much of the time; Turner wondered if she might be a little near-sighted. They were making the handoff of Newton when Turner felt a movement at his side and realized that Harp Webb had appeared out of nowhere.

  “Stars in heaven, you move quiet!” Turner exclaimed. Harp touched the brim of his hat to the women.

  “I was down by the river,” he said, nodding with his head in that direction. He held up what looked at first to be a polished stick, but on second look Turner realized it was an unstrung fiddle bow. He held it out to Marie. “I’ve had this in the barn don’t know how long. Heard your daddy was a fiddle player, thought he might want it.”

  Marie took its other end. “It’s a nice bow,” she said, flexing it slightly.

  “I would have strung it, but I didn’t know how,” said Harp.

  Marie laughed. “No special secret,” she said. “When you brush down a horse, you just collect a few hairs from its tail. Three, four horses, and you have plenty for a start. Papa, he keeps a few handy all the time.” She hefted the bow in her hand. “So, how much you want for this? I will ask Papa.”

  Webb looked surprised. “I ain’t selling it!” he said. “It’s a present. Been sitting in the corner I don’t know how long, and I thought—”

  She handed it back. “A gift is a debt.”

  “Well, I’m damned!” cried Webb. “I try to do something nice, and this is my thanks?”

  Turner laid his hand on Webb’s arm. “Please, it’s just a misunderstanding,” he said. “I’m sure—”

  “Ain’t no misunderstanding,” Webb said angrily. “I understand just fine. She don’t want the bow ‘cause it’s from me. I ain’t my fine, educated daddy, but I ain’t stupid.” He walked away, his face contorted with anger. As he rounded the corner of the Mercadiers’ cabin, they could hear the bow snap, and then snap again.

  Turner felt embarrassed. “I’m sure Harp just meant—” he began.

  “Oh, I know what Harp just meant,” Marie said briskly. “My mama, she died when I was thirteen. And three weeks later, old Dupuy showed up with a bottle of wine for Papa, wanting me to sit on his lap while they talked. When I take a man, he will need to be someone who can talk to me directly, not come with presents for Papa. I am not to be traded for like a calf or a sheep.” She swept Newton into her arms. “Now take your walk. I am fine. I have dealt with men like him before.”

  They strolled north to where the Daybreak road joined the main road, by the river ford. There they continued north into the woods along the bank, thick with mayapples in the rich bottomland.

  “So no more Cantwell,” she said at last.

  “No.”

  “I can’t say that I’ll miss him.”

  “But?”

  “But what?”

  “I think I heard a ‘but’ at the end of that sentence.”

  “Perhaps there was. It was a hard way to be dismissed, in public, in front of his wife and everyone.”

  The trees were not fully leafed out yet. The serviceberries and redbuds had bloomed and gone, and now the dogwoods were full. Dappled sunlight fell on their faces in thin slants of brightness that made the whole forest floor seem alive with energy.

  “That’s what Adam said,” Turner said after a while. “I think I am just now learning how to lead this community.”

  He was still turning the ideas over in his mind. Charlotte said nothing as they walked.

  “I’m thinking about lecturing on Cantwell today. Why it was necessary to get rid of him. Daybreak is not a magic place where malcontents will suddenly become productive. People need to understand this.”

  She took his hand as they walked.

  “We expelled him two days ago,” she said. “Day before yesterday, we watched him load up and leave, and the last thing we heard was a curse from his lips. Lecture on the beauties of spring, or on the Dred Scott case. Don’t rub this wound.”

  “All right. But this business with Cantwell has made me a better leader. I know when something needs to be done, I have to bear down and do it, not worry about what everyone else thinks. The community needs someone to do this for them, and I am that someone.”

  Their walk had taken them up the river to where the head of the mountain closed in. The valley grew narrower and cooler, and the carpet of mayapples thickened.

  “Look at this,” Turner said, walking a little way up the hillside. A cairn of rocks about three feet tall was piled at a seemingly random spot on the slope, among fallen logs and moss. “Wonder what this is.”

  “It’s the corner of our property,” Charlotte said. They sat on a log.

  Turner eyed her with surprise. “You are an unending novelty.”

  Charlotte rested against him. As he spoke, she had relaxed, and now they sat quiet for a moment.

  “I need you too,” she said.

  “You have me.”

  “I know. You can go on your lecture tour if you must. We will manage here. Don’t forget, it wasn’t you alone who conducted the removal of Mr. Cantwell. Adam played his part to perfection as well.”

  Turner chuckled. “Yes. Among you and Adam and George, I’d say we’re safe.”

  Charlotte’s look grew worried, and she drew back from him. She looked him directly in the face.

  “There is something I need from you. And I need to be very serious, please.” He caught her mood and remained silent, looking back at her. “Marie Mercadier,” she said. He nodded.

  “When her father is off in town, I want her in with us. She can work with me, or help you with The Eagle, or whatnot, and you can walk her home at night. But I don’t want her alone.”

  “What, you think she will scandalize the community with one of the single boys? Believe me, they’ve all tried to get a word from her, and she won’t give them a drop. We won’t find her out in the hayloft with anyone. Or is it Harp you’re worried about? She seemed pretty sure of herself back there.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think Harp is that easy to dismiss. Call it a nameless fear if you wish. But I just don’t think she should be alone.”

  Turner saw no need to worry. He had admired the spirited way she had set Harp down; a girl with that kind of ginger should have no trouble managing someone like him. He had seen men like Harp in lecture halls all over the country—would-be roughs who would deride from the back of the room, throw an egg if they thought they could get away with it, but shrivel when confronted by a man with any conviction. But he didn’t want to spoil the moment. “All right. The two of us will have no trouble keeping her busy. To tell the truth, I could use some help with the typesetting.”

  “There you are, then.” She rested back against him, her head on his shoulder. He kissed her. Her lips were warm and open, and he felt himself stir. They had not made love since Newton was born; h
e had been afraid of hurting her, waiting for a sign. He kissed her again.

  “Speaking of trips to the hayloft,” he said.

  She smiled. “I knew you had a secret motive for this walk.”

  “I didn’t, I swear.”

  “You forget I can read minds. I know what you’re thinking before you’ve even thought it. And don’t swear, it’s unbecoming for a leader. Just declare.”

  And then her hand was inside his coat, finding its way to his skin, cold at first but he didn’t mind. He took off his coat and laid it on the mossy slope. He tried to guide her down to his outspread coat, but instead she took him by the arms and pressed him onto the ground.

  “I’m not going home with leaves all over my back,” she said. “I get enough scrutiny as it is.”

  And she was atop him, her skirts spread out over his body. She found the buttons of his breeches and opened them, slipped them down, just enough. Desire swept over Turner irresistibly. He felt fabric—cotton, linen, something—but she reached beneath her garments, something was adjusted, pushed aside, and then there she was. She lowered herself down to him and held there. Lying on his back, Turner looked to the side and realized they were atop a raised, circular hump of earth. An old burial mound, maybe? But his thought only lasted an instant before he was lost in sensation.

  Afterward, they walked back to the settlement slowly, saying very little, enjoying the quiet of the spring day.

  “So—” she said.

  “Yes?”

  “Sixteen hundred dollars? That’s all we have?”

  “Less than that, once we subtract Cantwell’s share.”

  “Surely George knows enough not to keep it all in one bank.” Turner laughed. “George Webb is a creature of the old ways, bless him. He has never trusted a bank in his life.”

  “Good for him.”

  “Seriously. When someone brings in some banknotes, he takes them to town, trades them for hard money at whatever discount he can get, and brings it back. And what he does with it after that no one knows, but he accounts for every penny, every week.”

  “No one knows?”