Sarah Wickman had loved Newton Turner for as long as she could remember. As children she and Penelope had teased each other about which of them would marry which of the Turner boys—Newton older, diligent, driven; Adam the dreamy one, too sensitive for his own good. And by ten they had determined that Penelope’s wry wit and good humor would make her the perfect tether to keep Adam connected to the ground, while Sarah had the energy and determination that paired her with Newton as the future leaders of the community, like matched horses in a team. And yet here they were, rounding their twenties, and only Penelope had made her match, living in what looked like marital bliss with her sylvan scribbler or whatever he was calling himself these days, while Sarah plodded toward spinsterhood, caring for Papa and waiting for Newton to pick up the clue that she was his meant-to-be. She’d done everything but fling herself at him in the street, and yet he gave no sign that he returned her feelings or even noticed. Any other suitors—as if there had been any—had drifted away and paired with someone else. Not that Sarah wanted any other suitors. She wanted Newton Turner, who didn’t want her, and so she was a fool. Maybe Papa wasn’t the one getting soft in the head.
Papa sat in his customary chair by the window, where light to read by came in year-round, dozing with a book in his lap. The book was Travels to Daybreak, battered and long out of print, Papa’s original copy. Sarah had heard the story so many times as a child that she felt as if she had been there herself, how Papa was a young man clerking in the Baltimore shipyards, ever more uneasy at the distance between the rich men in the high offices and the workers on the docks, poorly paid and in those days even slaves, and how this book had clarified his unease and pointed the way to its remedy. Common ownership, common goals, a common fate. What an image the tale created for her! Her father and mother packing up their belongings and striking out for Missouri along with scores of like-minded people. Would she have dared such a journey at such an age, driven only by beliefs and a conviction that a better way of life was possible? Not likely. The modern world was timid and complacent by comparison. And to think that they had not only left the only life they ever knew, but had lost two children, the older sisters she and Penelope had never known, to cholera back in the day before anyone knew what caused it. A passerby might see an old man in his dotage, snoozing in the sunlight of his favorite afternoon spot, but Sarah saw a battered hero, Don Quixote of the hills, resting from the labors of life.
But now that he was asleep, she could slip out and visit Penelope for a little while. She missed daily talks with her sister, and now that they had the boy Anton working for them Penelope got out even less.
Although the sunshine was bright through the window, when Sarah stepped outside the March air cut through her wrap. She drew it tighter. “Cuss this chill,” she murmured.
“Cuss it indeed,” said a voice behind her.
Sarah turned in surprise. It was Dathan, on a rare trip across the river, a rake over his shoulder, on his way to tend the old slave cemetery.
“Just like Ulysses and his oar,” Sarah said.
“What, child?”
Sarah felt abashed. “Just something from a book that Papa used to let us read,” she said. They fell into step down the street.
Dathan smiled and rubbed his whiskery chin. “Your daddy was always a man for books. How’s he doing these days?”
“All right,” she said. “This is his nap time.”
“Nothing better for a man than a good nap, so I’m told, though I never could do it. I get restless this time of day.” He hefted his rake. “Too early to start planting, so I figured I’d come over and get the leaves off.”
“Well, if napping is good for you, Papa should live to be a hundred,” she said. “He’s a man of steady habits. Fool around in the barn in the morning, down to the Temple of Community for lunch, then nap till dinnertime, and off to bed. On pretty days he goes up the hill to sit with Mama.”
“We’re old people, honey. That’s our job—to remember the ones who go on ahead.”
Sarah slowed her pace to match his, and as she did she remembered that Dathan had been a scary figure to her as a child, dark and silent, appearing from nowhere at the end of the war and joining the community as if by force of will. He had formed a bond with Mr. Turner, Newton’s father, but it was years before Sarah had gotten the nerve even to speak to him. The thought of her timidity made her smile.
Dathan spoke again. “Your daddy has always been a man for deep thoughts. I’ll wager he’s probably thinking even while he’s asleep.”
Sarah was unable to disguise the sadness that crossed her face. “Not anymore,” she said. “He’s getting addled.”
“The great fear,” Dathan murmured.
So it was, she supposed, although more for the near ones than the sufferer himself, it seemed. Her fading father spent his days placidly, with rare bursts of anger when he couldn’t recall a word or find his spectacles. She and Penelope were the ones who felt the growing dread, the full sense of loss, the monstrous unfairness of it all. “What did he do to deserve this, Mr. Dathan?” she burst out. “What on earth? Such a sweet and gentle man, and now he wets himself in his chair.”
They stopped in the street. Dathan’s face took on a look of sadness so deep that Sarah could barely look into it. “I ain’t a preacher, child,” he said. “I can’t explain why things happen.” He sighed, leaning on his rake. “When I was younger, I used to ask the same question. Why was I born a slave? Why was I born black? What did I ever do to make people treat me like they do?” He squinted into the sun. “And then it came to me that I didn’t do nothing. Same with you and your daddy. There’s only two kinds of evil in this world, the things you do yourself and the things you allow to be done. And if you ain’t done anything, then there’s no ‘why’ to it, no deserving or not deserving. It’s just a gift from God.”
“Some gift.”
“Honey, some gifts look like burdens. If I hadn’t been a slave on this farm, I never would have met Cedeh.”
“I’m glad you can see all the way to the blessings at the end of the trials. I’m afraid I don’t have that kind of vision.”
Dathan shrugged as they started down the street again. “I ain’t too bright,” he said. “The good thing about being simple-minded, you just accept things as they happen and don’t see all the complications.”
A man on horseback was approaching from the south. As he drew nearer Sarah could see it was Charley Pettibone, outfitted for his job as a deputy, heading toward town, she guessed.
“Here’s a man who knows what I mean,” Dathan said.
“Say what?” said Charley as he reined up. He tipped his hat to Sarah.
“We’ve been talking about the evils of the world. You’re a man of the law, you should know all about that.”
“I guess so,” Charley said. He scratched his forehead with the back of his gloved hand. “I don’t usually swim in water that deep.”
“Come on, Mr. Charley,” Dathan said, with an edge in his voice that Sarah had not heard before. “You’ve been a deputy for twenty years, seen the best and the worst. Surely you’re done a little speculating about the world we live in.”
Charley shifted in his saddle. “I am not a speculating man, and neither are you.”
“True,” said Dathan. “No speculation then, just your experience. Do we live in a just world or not?”
“No, sir!” Charley burst out. “Not by a long damn shot.”
“See,” Dathan said, nodding to Sarah. “We agree.”
“About the only thing we agree on,” Charley said. “And I’ll tell you something else. The best and the worst ain’t as far apart as they look sometimes. I’ve seen as much hate come out of a man over a property corner as over a grievous harm.”
“I’m glad to see you so worked up over this,” Dathan said. “It’s nice to know you ain’t just in it for the money.”
Charley snorted. “If I was in it for the money, I’d be out digging holes in the woods like—” He stopped himself when he realized that he was about to talk about Sarah’s brother-in-law. “Never mind.”
“It’s all right,” Sarah said.
“Anyway, if you want to live in a just world, you’ve gotta make it yourself,” Charley said. “One little bitty piece at a time.” He twitched his reins. “Speaking of which, I need to get up to Oak Grove.”
“What’s the great wrong you have to set right?” Sarah said.
“Something about a hog,” said Charley. “Neighbors.”
Charley rode off to the north, slouching in the saddle with the relaxed posture of a man who’d spent many hours on a horse, and the other two resumed their walk south. When they reached the path that led through the fields to the river, Dathan paused.
“I’m a little hard on Charley sometimes,” he mused. “But he needs it.” “Why?”
Dathan glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. “You’re probably too young to remember this,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “Charley signed up for the South in the war, and when he came back he was a hard young man. I had never met him before, but the way they told it he was a happy-go-lucky fellow as a boy. But when he come back his heart was full of hate. First word he ever spoke to me was ‘nigger.’ Of course, he wouldn’t remember that, but I do.”
Sarah stood silent, wondering if she had ever used the word in his presence. “And now you’re friends,” she ventured after a moment.
“We get along. I don’t call anybody friend who’s called me nigger.” He turned to leave. “Anyway, my point is, things change.” He took her hand, engulfing it in his enormous, callused palm. “Your papa’s in a bad way now, and so are you. It’s lonesome. And you don’t have to deny it, but I know you’d like to have that young man with you to help you bear the burden and share the joys.” He raised a finger of his free hand to stop her protests. “If Charley Pettibone can change from a night rider to a defender of the law, Newton Turner could get his head out of the well someday and see what everybody else in Daybreak sees. I ain’t saying it will happen, but I’m saying it could. Now go on and see your sister.”
“No,” Sarah said, following him down the path. “I want to help you clean your graveyard.”
“Honey, I ain’t got but one rake,” Dathan said with a smile.
“Then one will rake the leaves, and one will burn them. And then we’ll trade.”
“All right,” Dathan said. “But we don’t burn where the spring beauties are blooming. I leave that patch alone. And when we’re done I’ll come back with you and sit with your daddy a spell while you go visiting.”