Reverend Farris held his hands up and smiled out upon the congregation. “Receive now the Lord’s benediction.”
In the third row, John Granger reverently bowed his head and hoped he could get down the aisle in time to catch Lawler before he left the church.
‘“Now may the God of peace, our Lord Jesus, that great shepherd of the sheep, through the blood of the everlasting covenant, make you perfect in every good work to do his will, working in you that which is well pleasing in his sight, through Jesus Christ, to whom be glory forever and ever. Amen.’”
Reverend Farris descended from his pulpit, and, straightening his black robe, hurried down the center aisle toward the church door where he would greet each departing parishioner.
Granger stood and offered his wife his arm. She took it and rose decorously from the pew. “Hurry along, Martha,” he said. “I need to talk to Michael before they leave.”
Fellow worshipers crowded into the aisle to leave, but nevertheless he managed to steer his wife on a course that took them to where their son-in-law stood with their daughter Elizabeth and the two children.
Michael Lawler bent his head and said something to Elizabeth and then stepped away from her side. Martha dutifully went to join Elizabeth and the children.
“What do you want?” Lawler asked. “If it’s about that scheme of yours to—”
“Keep your voice down,” Granger said.
Elizabeth and Martha looked up. Granger frowned at them and they turned away. “Not that. Come out to Hickory Hill this afternoon while the women are napping. I need your legal expertise. I may have a little problem that—”
“Is there something I can help you with?”
Abby jolted back to the present. A middle-aged man dressed in black stood in the aisle looking at them and their computer. John shut it and they rose awkwardly.
“Oh, I was checking—”
Abby jabbed her elbow into John’s side because it sounded like he was about to break the eighth commandment. In church, no less.
“E-mail? I check mine a dozen times a day,” the man said, chuckling.
“The church is beautiful,” Abby said. “Are you the pastor here?”
“Yes,” he said, extending his hand. “Dwight Henderson. Glad to meet you.”
They rose and John introduced Abby and himself. “Not e-mail,” he said with a smile for Reverend Henderson and a small discreet jab of his elbow into her side. “I have this program that keeps going on the fritz. Thought I’d see if it was working.”
“We try to leave the door open as much as we can for folks to come in when they need to.” Reverend Henderson grinned. “Mostly had in mind praying, but still.”
“Don’t you worry about thieves?” Abby asked.
“It used to be we didn’t need to worry too much about that. Of course, we’re too young to remember those days. Most every church had an open door policy at one time. But now that crooks have sunk so low as to rob offering plates and loot sanctuaries—so low as to bomb a church in Alabama during Sunday School. Well, anyway, we take precautions nowadays. But that’s a dreary subject. Why don’t you come on by tomorrow? We’d love to have you worship with us.”
They thanked him for the invitation, saying they weren’t sure what their plans were for Sunday. Reverend Henderson sent them on their way with a smile and God’s blessing.
“Sorry for the jab,” Abby said when they stepped out onto the sidewalk.
“I wasn’t going to lie. Give me a little credit, okay?”
“I said I was sorry.”
John put an arm around her and pulled her close to his side as they started down Lane Street. “Guess I should thank you for watching out for my immortal soul.” Abby turned her face up hoping for a kiss, but he just grinned and kissed her hair. “That’s the only P.D.A. you’re getting from me in the middle of the street.”
“If only we’d had a little more time, maybe we’d have found Ned Greenfield.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Too bad. Just when Hickory Hill came up.”
“I’m confused,” she said. “That Granger guy owned Hickory Hill.”
“At least in 1853,” he said. “Maybe he bought it from Greenfield.”
“Mayor Windham would be so proud to know we met his hero, the famous General Lawler—well, soon-to-be hero, anyway.”
Kate and Ryan were no longer in sight, and so they hurried past the rest of the craft and food stands on Lane Street, which turned out to be only two blocks long. It ended at the intersection with Calhoun Avenue with a muddy, rock-studded ravine. Abby wasn’t thrilled about going near the edge, but John coaxed her over to see.
“It looks like storms washed out the street,” he said. “I wonder why no one ever repaired it.”
Across the ravine, the road resumed, and Abby saw what looked like a school along with more houses. No doubt there was access via another road, but she couldn’t see it from where they stood.
“The street must have been very steep. It’s no wonder it gave way.”
A voice behind them called out, “Be careful there!”
Abby spun around so fast she nearly stumbled, but John put out a steadying hand and she grabbed it. The police officer they had met coming into town was walking toward them, a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth.
“You’d better step back,” he said.
“Sorry, officer,” John said, taking a step away from the edge.
Abby read his brass name badge and added, “That is, Chief Logan.”
“Lane Street used to go on down the hill and out to the Half Moon. Equality was a booming little town back in the day when salt was king.” Chief Logan drew on his cigarette and contemplated the washout. “Now, the mines closed down, and there aren’t enough funds to rebuild the street. Ironic, huh? The Red Onion used to be down that way in the old days. It was sort of a—” He stopped suddenly and looked apologetic. “But you don’t want to hear about that. Are you having a good time today?”
“We are,” Abby answered. “But actually we didn’t come for the Salt Festival. We’re trying to help a friend trace her roots. Do you know of any Greenfields living around here?”
“I do,” he answered.
Abby waited for him to go on. When he didn’t, she said, “Can you tell us where they live?”
“I could.” Chief Logan turned away to blow out a stream of cigarette smoke. “But if your friend’s the young lady with you in the car, I don’t reckon the Greenfields I know are the Greenfields you’re looking for.”
Abby frowned, but before she could ask more, John changed the subject. “Kate’s ancestor apparently lived at a place called Hickory Hill. Do you know where that is?”
Chief Logan dropped his cigarette on the pavement and ground it out with the toe of his shoe. “Can’t help you there.” He started to walk away.
“Who could we ask?” Abby said. “Surely someone around here would know.”
He turned to study them. “There’s nothing there to see. Why don’t you go on over to the square and learn about General Lawler. Listen to Eagle Creek play. They’re just a local band, but we’re proud of them.” Giving them a little salute, he walked a short way down Calhoun Street, then crossed over and went into the municipal building.
“What was that all about?” John asked.
“I don’t know, but it was weird.” Abby took his arm. “Come on. Let’s go find Kate and Ryan.”
Up ahead they saw the shiny, new water tower that the mayor had bragged about and the band playing bluegrass music in its shade. Most listeners sat on lawn chairs. Others stood in back, including Ryan and Kate, who was busily sketching the scene on her pad.
Abby started toward them, but John held her back. “Wait,” he said, pointing to the right. “Look at that. It’s got to be old. Really old.”
The huge two-story building John had spotted was nearly hidden by tall trees. It was made of brick, time-weathered to a beautiful rosy shade, and had seven sets of tall windows across its front. Someone had used black spray paint on a piece of plywood to make a sign that said, “General Lawler Bed and Breakfast Opening Soon.” A wheelbarrow full of remodeling debris stood next to the front door, which was propped open with a length of two-by-four.
It was surely too large to be an ordinary home and too plain to be a rich man’s mansion. It looked more like a hotel, but whatever it had been, a building that old was sure to have a history.
“Looks like the perfect place for a little time-surfing,” she said.
“Not so fast,” he said grabbing her arm. “Obviously, someone’s there.”
She slithered out of his grasp and went up to the door. “I don’t think so. Look.”
A yellow post-it note was stuck on the doorframe advising someone named Zeke to put the drywall in the kitchen and that he’d be back at four o’clock. She grinned at John. “This seems to be our lucky day for time-surfing.”
John stuck his head in the door and then went in, already taking out his laptop.
“Opening Soon” seemed a little optimistic. Paint cans still sat on drop cloths, and an over-sized ladder stood against one wall where someone was trying either to remove the wallpaper or to re-glue the loose strips of it that hung from the wall.
They decided the best place to sit was on the stairs. Beautiful Houses took its time to load, and when it did, nothing happened—that is, nothing other than that the houses began scrolling by as usual. The old house they sat in wasn’t one of them.
“We may be too far from an internet connection,” John said.
Abby pointed to the indicator at the bottom right of the screen. “No, that’s not it. You’re online. Do you think the program’s broken again?”
“I hope not,” John said.
After a minute she said, “If Merri’s theory is right about the program only working when it wants us to learn something it wants us to know…”
“As crazy as that sounds, I’m beginning to believe it.” John put the laptop back in his backpack and pulled Abby to her feet. “Come on. We might as well go.”
“Yes, I don’t want to be here when the three bears come home.”
The crowd was still enjoying the music on the town square, but Kate and Ryan had moved on. In reality, what Mayor Windham had referred to as the town square was no more than a grassy area with Calhoun and Jackson Streets forming a roundabout. There were no buildings there, nothing to indicate Equality’s business district had once extended that far. But Abby could picture a time when it had, when the square was lively with people shopping and horse-drawn buggies and wagons clattering by.
They found the memorial for Equality’s favorite son at the edge of the square. The brass bas-relief sculpture of Michael Kelly Lawler didn’t do him justice, but then how could an image in stone or metal capture the real living, breathing man? A brass plaque below the sculpture said pretty much what Mayor Windham had already told them.
Steps led up to a stone platform where visitors could sit on benches flanked by flower-filled urns to contemplate the general and his military exploits. Kate and Ryan were sitting on one of the benches, Kate bent over her sketchpad and Ryan sourly watching the audience. He didn’t seem to be enjoying the music any more than he had earlier.
“There you are,” Kate said, looking up from her drawing. “Where have you two been?”
Ryan, arms folded across his chest, turned from scanning the audience to glance at them.
Abby angled her body away from him. “I’ll tell you later,” she said softly.
When she turned back to watch the band, she saw that Ryan wore a sneering smile, and she realized that he had overheard her and obviously come to the wrong conclusion about their delay.
“We struck out with the courthouse,” Abby said. She explained to Kate and Ryan what the mayor had told them. “Also, there are no Greenfields listed in the phone directory, and the police chief was disinclined to tell us where to find the ones he knew.”
“Or where to find Hickory Hill,” John added.
“Why on earth not?” Ryan asked. “He seemed like the helpful sort.”
“He went from nice to weird just like that,” Abby said, snapping her fingers.
“Makes you wonder what he’s covering up,” John said. “Did you guys find the library?”
“Not so far,” Kate said. “We kind of got sidetracked here.”
They had a clear view of the Eagle Creek band from their elevated position. One bald guy played an upright bass in back. A man wearing a black suit and a huge white hat played a banjo. Two guys played guitars. And a young woman stood with a violin at her side. They all sang into microphones, harmonizing in a way that was unlike anything Abby had ever heard.
“I love it,” she said. “Different, but I love it.”
“They’re playing Uncle Penn,” John said over the music. “It’s an old Bill Monroe tune straight out of Appalachia. They’re pretty darn good, too.”
“Why is that one guy playing his guitar sideways?” Kate asked, pointing with her sketchbook.
“It’s a dobro,” John said. “Not a guitar.”
Violin in hand, the young woman stepped forward, and Abby realized it was the Salt Queen they’d seen earlier, still wearing her tiara and sash. She put the violin under her chin and began to play an intricate counterpoint to the other instruments. The guy playing the guitar, a bearded man wearing a plaid shirt, smiled up at her.
“She’s really good on that violin,” Abby said.
John put an arm around her shoulders and laughed. “Yes, but don’t let her hear you calling her fiddle a violin.”
When the song was finished Abby joined in the applause and waited eagerly to hear what they’d play next. But then the musicians began putting their instruments in cases at their feet on the grass.
She sighed. “I guess we got here just in time for it to end.”
“Maybe it’s just as well,” Kate said. “If we’re ever going to find the library—”
“And the funnel cakes,” John added.
Beyond the square, more vendors’ stands beckoned, and Ryan, with Kate in tow, started toward them.
At one stand, Abby bought a jar of homemade raspberry jam from a man with nothing much to say and at another a necklace made of tiny woven ribbons from a woman who had plenty to say. Tragically for John, there were no funnel cake stands.
The little Ferris wheel marked the end of the festival, and John suggested they go up in it, that maybe they’d be high enough to spot the library. But there was a long line of people waiting to ride. To get tickets they’d have to walk all the way back to the mayor’s stand and listen to another spiel, not something any of them cared to be subjected to again. Abby wished they’d asked the mayor for directions right off, but none of them had expected it to be so difficult to find the library in such a tiny village.
As they stood there discussing what to do next, the Salt Queen came bouncing down the crumbling sidewalk toward them. As she got closer, Abby estimated her age at fifteen or sixteen.
Abby smiled at her. “I loved your music. I’m sorry I didn’t get to hear more.”
“Thanks,” the girl said. “But if y’all are going to be around, we’ll be playing ‘til dark. We’re just taking a break.”
“Pardon us, Your Highness,” John said with a courtly bow, “We are from a distant land and know not of this Salt Festival. Can you tell us about it?”
She laughed and curtsied to him. “I guess I’d better be able to,” she answered, winking at them. “It’s part of my job description, after all. But can y’all walk with me as I tell you? I need to check on my grandma up yonder before I go back to fiddling on the square.”
Just ahead on the right, a small house covered in gray asphalt shingles stood in the shade of a mulberry tree. A small wooden table sat crookedly on the sloping sidewalk in front. Abby couldn’t tell what was on the table, but she and the others followed as the girl continued on down the sidewalk toward it.
“You see,” the girl began, “salt was really important around here—since way back—because of the salt springs. You can see buffalo trails all over the place, if you know where to look. The Half Moon Salt Mine just outside of town is named for the crescent-shaped indentation where for thousands of years mastodons, buffalo, and other animals came to lick the salty soil. The Piankashaw and later the Shawnee Indian tribes made salt at the springs using clay evaporation bowls. They traded the salt to other Native American tribes in the area and as far away as Cahokia and Peoria. You can see evidence of their presence by the pottery shards, arrowheads, and other cool artifacts they left behind. Thomas Jefferson considered our salt springs national treasures. And in the early years after Illinois became a state in 1818, as much as one-seventh of the state’s revenues came from the sale of salt. Unfortunately for us, the saline content of the spring eventually declined until it became unprofitable to manufacture salt here.”
When the girl paused for a breath, Abby said, “Wow, you’re an excellent salt queen.”
“You could say,” John said, “she’s worth her salt.”
“Why thank you,” she said, smiling again at John. “I’m glad you know that saying. Which, as you probably already know, comes from the fact that it was such a valuable commodity that people were often paid in salt. We get the word salary from the word salt. Our Saline River flows into the Ohio, and Saline County is just next door.” She stopped suddenly and grinned sheepishly. “I’m sorry. I tend to get carried away. That was probably more than you ever wanted to know about salt.”
“No, that was great,” Abby said. “I love learning about stuff like that.”
When they got to the table in front of the little gray house, Abby saw that jars of some amber-colored substance stood in rows on it. Beside them, colorful handmade potholders were fanned out, each cleverly designed and expertly stitched. “They’re like little quilts,” she said, picking up one fashioned from coordinating blue and white fabrics. “Look at the workmanship.”
“Aren’t they darling?” Kate said. A hand-lettered sign made from a brown paper grocery bag taped to the side of the table indicated the potholders were two dollars each.
“Thank you, ma’am,” the Salt Queen said.
“You made these?” Abby asked.
“Yep. My grandma taught me to sew. She’s minding the stand while I fiddle.”
John picked up one of the jars and studied it. “Maybe I’ll get some of this honey for my dad.” He looked around. “Do I pay you or your grandma?”
Abby heard a creaking sound coming from the porch. An elderly woman she had not noticed before was rising from a porch swing. “Sold three while you were gone, Patty Ann,” she said as she trudged slowly down the front walk toward them.
“Hey, Grandma,” the girl said, walking forward to put an arm around the old woman’s waist. “I thought you’d gone on in to look at TV. This is my Grandma Ethel Frailey.”
After Abby introduced herself and the others, Patty Ann said to John, “That’s sorghum, not honey. My dad makes it.”
“I’ve never heard of it.” Ryan said it as if he doubted her since he hadn’t been aware of sorghum before. “What is it for?”
Patty Ann looked shocked at his ignorance. “For putting on your biscuits,” she said kindly as if she were dealing with a particularly slow child. “I like it on leftover cornbread too.”
“Do you live nearby, Patty Ann?” Abby asked.
“No. We live out in the hills. Least ways for now.”
“Do you ladies mind if I draw you?” Kate asked, turning to a fresh page in her sketchpad.
“I don’t mind,” Patty Ann said. “Do you, Grandma?”
Nodding her permission, the old woman looked solemnly at Kate.
“Smile,” Kate said, already starting to draw.
“She’s not wearing her teeth today,” Patty Ann explained.
“You’re an artist, too,” Abby said, turning back to the potholders on the table. “These are all so great. I don’t know which ones to choose.”
“Why, thank you.” Patty Ann said it from the corner of her mouth as she stood beside her grandma trying not to move.
Finally, John decided on two jars of sorghum, and Abby picked out several of the potholders. They laid their money on the table, but Abby felt a bit like a bandit for paying such a small sum for the little works of art.
“Kathryn, you’d better hurry,” Ryan said. “if we’re ever going to find that library.” He turned to Patty Ann. “Are we close?”
“I wouldn’t plan on walking if I were you,” she said with a twinkle in her eyes.
“Well, we’ve walked this far.”
“It’s your business, of course. But the nearest library is ten miles away in Shawneetown.”
“But the goat woman said it was by the Dollar Store.”
Patty Ann, obviously forgetting about posing for Kate, drew herself up to her full height and turned to glare at him. “That’s Mrs. Barnett. She must have assumed you’d realize that a village the size of Equality couldn’t possibly support a public library—or a Dollar Store—and that Equality citizens use the library—and Dollar Store—in Shawneetown, which is the nearest real town.” She looked at her watch. “But it’s closed now, so you’ll have to wait until Monday.” There was a hint of satisfaction in her voice.
Ethel cackled behind her hand. “Now, Patty Ann, you be nice to our visitors.”
Abby held back a laugh herself when she saw that Ryan had received Patty Ann’s message loud and clear and was looking a little chastened.
“Why can’t we go to the library tomorrow?” Ryan asked.
“It’s Sunday, Rye,” John said. “Libraries are closed on Sundays.”
“How should I know that? I buy all my books.”
“What about restaurants?” John asked hopefully. “I don’t suppose….” He put the sorghum and Abby’s potholders in his backpack and zipped it closed.
No doubt John sincerely wanted to know, but he was also obviously trying to change the subject. She’d have to give him a star for diplomacy.
“Sure, we’ve got a restaurant,” Patty Ann answered with a small sniff. “The Red Onion on Lane Street.”
“How do we get across the ravine?” John asked.
A loud boom sounded and then a series of smaller ones followed. They all automatically ducked at the sudden noise, John drawing Abby close to his side. A dog started barking from inside the gray house. It sounded like the small yapping type.
Ryan swore, but had the grace to look apologetically toward Patty Ann and Ethel. “What on earth was that?”
“Just Sherman doing some more blasting,” Patty Ann said. Her expression was one of deep sadness as she looked at her grandmother.
“Don’t you worry so, Patty Ann.” The old woman pulled her granddaughter into a hug. “Remember, God’s going to make all things new again one day.”
“I know, Grandma.” Patty Ann drew away from her and said, “Well, you’d better go in and calm Brownie down. I’ve got to get back to fiddling.”
“Let’s go listen,” Abby said.
“I’m game,” Kate said. “I want to do some more sketches.”
“After we eat,” John said.
Kate tore the sketch she’d made from her pad. “Here you go,” she said, handing it to Patty Ann.
The girl studied the drawing and then looked up in amazement at Kate. “You’re good, really good.” She held it up for Ethel to see. “Look, Grandma, you’ve got an actual portrait done by an actual artist.”
The old woman forgot to be embarrassed about her toothless state and smiled happily at Kate. “Patty Ann, you’ll have to make me a frame for it. We’ll hang it in the living room next to your grandpa’s picture.”
As always, Kate’s talent amazed Abby. Her sketch of Ethel and Patty Ann captured their love for each other and, beyond that, their strength and pride. Ethel was still smiling at the sketch when they left, and her dog Brownie was still yapping.