Slant of Light

by Steve Wiegenstein

  In a kitchen chair propped against a shade tree, a young man in his early twenties was reading a book of poems. He was wearing a derby hat and a bright yellow vest. He was slender and pale, and he absently picked a tooth with his little finger.

  “May I introduce you,” Foltz said. “James Turner, this is Lysander Smith.”

  “Ah,” said Smith, standing to greet him. “The rustic utopian.” Before shaking Turner’s outstretched hand, he plucked a blade of grass and stuck it in his book to keep his place.

  “So do you know anything about botany?” Turner said.

  “God, no. Does anyone? Linnaeus, I suppose, but he’s dead, thankfully. Fear not, I am a masterful faker.” Smith gave him a mischievous smile.

  “So how do you propose to pass as a botanist?”

  “Oh, my good fellow! I have my books, and my sketchbook. And my little glass. And I shall press leaves.”

  Turner spun and walked inside, beckoning to Foltz. He stopped inside the door to Foltz’s summer kitchen.

  “Does this man realize what he is embarking on?” he said, half angry.

  “He has been thoroughly instructed. He comes from a fine line, the Philadelphia Smiths.”

  “I don’t care about his line. That man will stand out like a wart. I can’t believe you would send him on this task.”

  Foltz pursed his lips. “Mr. Smith is a free man. He chooses what to undertake and what not to.”

  “He’s a young fool, from what I can see.”

  “I’m not this boy’s father. Neither are you. He wishes to offer himself to my cause, and I’m willing to take him at his word.”

  They stepped back outside. Smith had returned to his book.

  “Let me tell you about Daybreak,” Turner told him. “We are building it with our own hands, house by house, acre by acre, based on principles of equality and shared wealth. It is an experiment in living, and people are investing years of their lives into it.”

  “Ooh, I hit a nerve. Very well, it’s not a rustic utopia. It’s an experiment in living.”

  “I’m not going to endanger this community for your noble cause or anyone else’s.”

  “Oh, dear fellow, it’s not the noble cause that interests me. Foltz here is the noble cause man. I am seeking—” He paused dramatically. “Ad-venn-ture.”

  “Please be serious. This is not a game.”

  The mocking expression dropped from Smith’s face. “Different people are serious in different ways, friend. What’s a man like me to do if he wants to break out of the cage? I am looking for something large, something to throw myself into. And do I look like the military type? The National Anti-Slavery Society will work as well as anything else.”

  “And you want me to help you play out this dream.”

  “No, Mr. Foltz wants you to. If you don’t put me up, someone else will.”

  Foltz cleared his throat. “As I said before, it seems to me you are both idealists. You both are looking to create something great.”

  Smith’s amused look returned. “Mr. Turner here is the creator. I am just looking to play dans le forêt”

  Turner turned to Foltz. “And how long would you expect this forest adventure to last?”

  “I’d like to have Mr. Smith back here by June or July of next year. If this mission goes well, we have other places to send him.”

  “And just so we’re clear—there will be no slave-stealing, no actions to bring suspicion to our community. He is just there to make observations.”

  “Agreed.”

  “You’ll have to buy and care for your own horse,” Turner said to Smith. “We are a working community, not a hotel.”

  “Mr. Smith is well provided for,” Foltz said.

  Turner looked at the two of them. He could hardly believe that he was about to go in league with them, the bedrock abolitionist and the young fop. But with the lecture proceeds and the subscriptions, Foltz’s money would cap this trip’s success. He shook their hands.

  Adam Cabot’s eyes snapped open and he gazed into the darkness. He could discern dim shapes in his room. An hour to dawn, maybe, or a little more.

  In the dream that had awakened him, he was back in Boston, somewhere in the Irish slums across the South Bay, walking from tenement to tenement on a benevolent mission of some sort. The people greeted him as he walked from room to room; he was known to them. But the buildings had no central stairs, so when he traveled he had to climb outside the walls and ascend on stone ledges that grew narrower as he ascended. This did not frighten him and seemed quite natural, although he was aware that he was in danger.

  Some people thought dreams had special meaning. To him they seemed a jumbled mess of memory and fancy, a stew of impossibilities that only made sense in the retelling. Still, that sense of being at ease on a precipice—

  He should get ready for his morning meditation. He was going to the river today and soon there would be enough light to see by. Generally he liked the river better than the hilltop, although a couple of times he had very nearly stepped on a snake as he followed the path in the dimness. There was something elemental about it—rock, river, trees. Movement and stillness. The high hill behind him, an uplift of the eternal earth itself, the river in constant motion before him, and the village perched between, so insignificant and temporary by comparison. It was a good place to gain perspective.

  He dressed and stepped into the dark street. No lantern light could be seen from any of the houses. That was the way he liked it, walking through the village with everyone still asleep. He headed south past the houses of the Wickmans, Captain Carr, all the villagers one by one, until he reached the junction of the street with the main road, where the Turners’ house stood.

  There was a figure sitting on the stepstone in front of the house. As he approached, it stood. He could tell it was Charlotte, dressed in her everyday brown shift and apron. He thought of turning around; he thought of walking past as if he didn’t see. But he slowed, stopped, lifted his hat.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” she said quietly. “I have a request for you.”

  Cabot was startled but smiled. “Of course.”

  “I’d like to see this contemplation spot of yours. Perhaps I will take up the practice myself.”

  An uncertain look sped across his face. “Do you think that would be proper?”

  “I can manage my own sense of propriety.”

  “Of course.” He gave a slight bow. “This way.”

  They continued down the road toward Webb’s house. Neither of them spoke for a while. The air was warm and moist already.

  “You’ll be good to start your haying early this morning,” she said at last.

  “I don’t know. George wants to wait till all the dew burns off.”

  They were reaching the end of their valley, where the mountain curved back toward the river from the right. Soon they would be in the narrow passage where the road to French Mills traversed a slender spit of ground between high bluffs and the river.

  But before they reached that place, Cabot veered off down a tiny trail—not even a trail, just a hint of easier walking through the underbrush—that led to the river. At the end of the path was a large slab of limestone that sloped at a gentle angle into the water. Half a dozen turtles plopped into the river as they approached.

  “I’m afraid the turtles have had to learn to share their rock with me,” Cabot said.

  He sat on the rock near the edge of the water and crossed his legs. The breezeless air closed them in.

  “What do you do here?” she asked him. The quiet of the morning made them both speak softly.

  “Usually I spend a few minutes in the river. Not today.” He reached forward and touched the water. “When it’s warm I immerse myself. If not, I just dip whatever feels right. Then I sit and contemplate for a while.”

  “Contemplate what?”

  “The book says I should contemplate the emptiness of existence. I try, but more often I just let my mind rest on whatever it re
sts on. Then I push that out and let it rest on something else. Sometimes it finally gets empty, but not always.”

  They sat on the rock about a foot apart. Sunrise was still a few minutes away. Cabot’s heart raced, although he tried to keep his manner calm. Surely she understood the impropriety of the two of them together, but there she was, inches away from him. And for what purpose? Did she mean to offer herself to him? Was there a secret she wanted to discuss? Propriety be damned. He was glad for the intoxication of her near presence.

  What had she asked? Ah, yes, what he did here. “I don’t come here to learn about the wild creatures, but I do. The deer come down to drink at the other side, over there.” He made a small gesture. “And twice I have seen a black bear work his way through the woods across the river, sniffing and digging like a hog.”

  He kept talking, despite Charlotte’s eyes, which were distractingly blue. His words sounded like nonsense to him. “The way I see it, this rock must have fallen off the bluff many years ago. It goes way out into the river, then there’s a deep hole right where the rock ends.”

  “You should fish here sometime.”

  He smiled. Always the practical one. “I suppose I should.”

  Silence came over them again, and they sat as if listening, although there was little to listen to. Cabot found himself admiring Charlotte’s ability to be still, to remain quiet and do nothing. It was a skill rarer than it might seem; he had to work to attain it, and Turner surely did not have it. He thought about the journey to Daybreak that he and Charlotte had taken, and how they all had changed since then. Turner had gained an intensity and a sense of certainty that had no doubt always been there but now was less fenced in by social constraints. Charlotte had changed, too. Motherhood and the cholera battle had made her tough, but not in a harsh way, just tough in the sense that she knew more about the struggles of the world and was capable of looking them in the face. Perhaps his ideas about the benevolent influence of Nature were true, but not in the way he had imagined. Perhaps Nature showed you her teeth, and you gained wisdom from learning the severity of her bite, discovering your ability to withstand it.

  “You look deep in thought,” she said. “Would you care to enlighten me?”

  Cabot looked her full in the face. “I was thinking about how we have changed since we first met.”

  “How have I changed?”

  “You are stronger, more sure of yourself.”

  She laughed. “If you only knew.”

  “And have I changed?”

  Charlotte lifted her hand from her lap and placed it on the rock between them, where Cabot could easily place his hand on it, should he desire to. He thought she would like for him to. But the thought of what might happen if he did frightened him. Could he be that kind of man? Could she be that kind of woman? In the yellow light of morning he observed how brown the back of her hand had become. She noticed his glance and read his thoughts.

  “Yes, brown and spotted,” she said. “Nothing to do about it, I suppose. The price of a working life outdoors. Mother used to scold Caroline and me if we ventured outside without our hats and long sleeves. Caroline was always better at obeying that command.”

  Her hand still rested between them.

  “But we all lose our pale complexions and grow brown over time,” she said. “Yes, I think you have changed.”

  He laid his hand on hers and felt its warmth. Then he curled his fingertips around her hand, knuckles scraping stone. Her fingers curled, too, and gave his hand a slight squeeze.

  As if pulled by a single string, they stood up, hands still clasped. She was on the upper slope of the rock, her back toward the bank. He paused for a heartbeat, then leaned forward and kissed her.

  The earth seemed to lurch under his feet. Trees swayed and the sound of wind filled his ears. But all he could feel was Charlotte’s lips beneath his. He held the kiss, held it longer, then released her hand, released the kiss, and turned away, embarrassed, his heart hammering.

  He looked back. Charlotte was gazing at the river, where a muskrat swam by leaving a silent V in the water behind it.

  “I should go see about Newton,” she murmured.

  “Yes.”

  She brushed off her dress. “Thank you for sharing your spot.”

  Was this to be it? A single moment, a mere glimpse of what could have been? Better not to have kissed at all, then. He seized her shoulders and pulled her toward him. She tilted her face to him, eyes closed, and he kissed her again, more passionately this time. And she pulled him closer, arms around him, one hand on the back of his head, and kissed back. For a moment everything fell away, everything stopped. But then she broke off, her hand lightly brushing his cheek as she turned away and walked up the path. He didn’t try to stop her.

  “This spot can be your spot too, you know. Come out and meditate anytime you like.”

  She gave him a skeptical look and a smile, and they both knew that meditation was far from their minds.

  August/November 1858

  Chapter 13

  Morning found Turner and Smith catching the early packet boat for St. Louis. Smith still wore his preposterous derby hat perched high on his head, but had changed into a black and white checkered vest.

  “If you’re looking to blend in, you might want to drop the Eastern manner,” Turner told him as the boat dropped its planks and pulled out into the current. “I am who I am,” Smith said, but his tone was nervous. “And who is that, exactly?”

  “About what you’d expect. Rich family, lazy childhood, trips to Europe, bored to death. Family’s rid of me now. Had to leave Philadelphia. Caused a little scandal.”

  They sat on a bench by the railing. The early birds had all rushed to the west side of the boat to get in the shade, but Turner took a spot away from the crowd. “The river twists and turns so much, you’ll be in the sun anywhere you sit,” he told Smith. Foltz had kept his promise, and with another two hundred and fifty dollars in gold coins in his possession, Turner could no longer keep the money strapped to his chest. He had it in his valise, swaddled in cloth so no passerby could hear any tell-tale clinking, and sat with one foot on either side of it.

  “So has your upbringing taught you anything useful in life?” he asked Smith.

  “Oh, indeed. I learned how to comport myself with an air of authority, and that if I wanted something I should just take it and not ask. And enough Latin grammar to avoid embarrassing myself.”

  With the current behind them, they made St. Louis by nightfall. Turner slept on the deck with his valise for a pillow, his belt tied through its handles and then wrapped around his biceps. Smith went ashore; in the morning he returned watery-eyed and smelling of whiskey. “I like this town,” he said with a wan smile.

  They caught the Pilot Knob train, and by the time they had reached Jefferson Barracks, Smith was asleep, his head bouncing against the window pillar beside their seats, a small string of drool hanging from the corner of his mouth. He woke up after they had passed Potosi and gazed out at the blur of blackjack oaks and red cedars as they sped by. There had been rumors of new mineral strikes in the area, copper, iron, maybe even silver, and they could see men with picks and shovels digging into hillsides seemingly at random.

  “This is it?” he said.

  “It gets wilder as we go.”

  “Lovely.”

  By the time they reached the Pilot Knob depot, a lonely shack set up close to the iron mines, Smith seemed mired in gloom. “Now what?” he said as they dragged their cases away from the landing.

  Turner looked at the sky. It was already well past noon. “We get a room. It’s a hard day’s travel to the colony, with two fords along the way. Not something to try at night.”

  They found a room at the hotel across from the courthouse in Ironton. Turner was exhausted from the trip and fell into bed as soon as it was dark, dropping his shoes at the end of the bed and using his valise as a pillow again. For a few moments he thought about how he would explain the pres
ence of Smith. Charlotte would probably smell him out within a minute. He might have to tell her the truth despite his doubts. Surely she would see that stepping publicly into the slavery question at this moment would be poison to their place in the community—the sheriff had made it clear how even a whiff of abolition sentiment would be met. But anyone else? Was there anyone else in Daybreak he could trust with the truth?

  Smith stayed up and sat in a chair, looking meditatively out the window. Turner fell asleep with him still there but at some point in the night felt him clamber into bed. When he woke, though, Smith was already gone. Turner instantly reached for his valise—found it undisturbed—and blinked in the morning sunlight. Then a piercing whistle brought him to the window. Smith was out in the street atop a wagon loaded with supplies, holding the reins on a hearty-looking team.

  “All right, then,” Smith said. “Let’s go to Paradise.”

  Charlotte avoided Cabot for the next several days, not because she didn’t want to see him, but because she did. She knew that if they met, she would kiss him again, and she wasn’t ready for that or for what could happen after. She wasn’t sure if she ever would be. All she knew was that she wanted to be transported back to that moment by the river when time stopped and the world seemed full of possibilities again.

  In the evenings they still met, she and Cabot and Webb, and she smiled to herself at Cabot’s obvious nerves. She thought she might feel awkward around him as well, but instead she felt powerful, the possessor of a secret. It was a good feeling, though she recognized its corrosive force. As soon as the meetings were over they walked away in opposite directions, neither trusting themselves to speak. Lying in bed at night, with Newton in the crib beside her, she imagined Cabot climbing in with her, his tender hands and his clean smell. But at the same time, she missed Turner and wished he would hurry home from his tour. She didn’t know how those feelings could coexist, but they did. Two men, two powerful emotions. Two loves? She didn’t want to let the word enter her mind.