JUDGE ROBSON STRUCK the table three times. The attorneys would now address the jury.
Richards rose and did his best to assure everyone that he was speaking, not just to the jury but to “all the honest, hardworking citizens in this land of steady habits.” He said these words as though Mr. Smith would be speaking only to the dishonest, lazy ones. Richards went on about lines drawn in the sand and laws of God. He didn’t mention any law of Minnesota that I had broken but instead offered his indignation as the true measure of my offense. He made it sound as though I carried some dreaded disease that would spread like pox among the children.
When it was his turn, Mr. Smith got up and walked in a slow circle. He spoke about “freedom” and “liberty.” About how they need to get stood for every now and then. Mr. Smith then asked the jurors if they thought that they had the right, the liberty, to choose their own clothes. Or did they want the sheriff to do it for them? There was some laughter as he said these words, but the judge didn’t move a muscle—he was letting him have his say. “We have come a long way since the days of the New Haven Colony,” said Mr. Smith by way of summation. “Liberty is the gift we have brought to the world. Let us defend it.”
Finished with the jury, Mr. Smith started back to our table. Then he stopped and turned to face Judge Robson. “Your Honor, I wish to petition the Court—”
The judge waved his hand for Mr. Smith to stop. “Counselor, you know—”
“What I know,” said Mr. Smith, raising his voice in outright defiance, “what I know is that this trial is a minstrel show! It's an embarrassment! A travesty!” The judge tried to say something, but Mr. Smith wouldn’t let him, as though Mr. Smith were the one wearing the black robe. I was surprised, for I had not seen this passion from my attorney before. And Mr. Smith was not speaking to the jury or anyone else in the room. It was down to just him and Robson, like they were going to finish it out on the street. “This woman,” said Mr. Smith, pointing to me but still looking hard at the judge, “has cheated no one! Defrauded no one! And violated no law of this state! I know this and you know this. I move for a summary judgment.”
The room was suddenly quiet. All eyes went to Judge Robson to see what he would do. And for all that had just happened the judge was strangely calm. “Are you done, Mr. Smith?”
“Yes,” said my attorney, now speaking in a normal voice.
“You may sit down now.”
Mr. Smith took his seat, and the judge turned to me. “Mrs. Slater,” he said, his eyes meeting mine like a scolding schoolmaster, “I am offended by your conduct and think you should desist from it or leave the protection of our society. But juries decide matters of fact, and judges decide matters of law. And it seems there is no matter of fact at issue here. It is for me to act, and I cannot wash my hands of it, though I would like to.”
The judge then raised his eyes and spoke to the whole room. “There have been in this trial references to the laws of God and man. Here, on Sundays, as you know, I pass on the Lord’s Word as best I understand it to those who would listen. If Mrs. Slater has violated a law of God, then she will stand as a defendant without counsel, as we all will when we face that moment of truth. But in this venue, I interpret the laws of the State of Minnesota and those of Meeker County. And so I must dismiss the case against Mrs. Lucy Ann Slater, because no offense has been proven against her.” He then brought down the hammer. “So be it.”
A murmur of disapproval ran through the room. Mr. Smith stood and shook my hand. I wanted to throw my arms around him. Out on the street, we faced a gaggle of women who seemed angry at the outcome. I heard the words “harlot” and “Jezebel.” With Dr. Blanchard and Mr. Wylie opening the path for us, Mr. Smith offered his arm.
The doctor’s house felt warm and safe. Mrs. Blanchard was roasting a chicken, and Mr. Wylie and Mr. Smith were invited to dinner. Then Noah White appeared, all smiles. He gave a bow to Mrs. Blanchard and shook hands all around.
“We were very glad to have your sympathies,” said Mr. Wylie.
Mr. Smith raised his eyes. “Yes. They almost cost us the case.”
Noah laughed because he knew Mr. Smith didn’t mean it. The he turned to me. Our eyes met and he took my hand. “Lucy Ann. Is it all right that I call you that? Or would you rather Joseph?”
I felt awkward. I was blushing. “We could try Lucy Ann,” I said, “and see if anyone’s at home.”
“Well, Lucy Ann,” said Noah with a grin, “I see that the Blanchard’s have a checkerboard. Are you up to the challenge?”
“Yes,” I said, “if I can be black.”
* * *
At dinner, Dr. Blanchard asked me to say the blessing. I folded my hands and bowed my head. “Lord, thank You for the true souls You have put in my path. I have never known such generosity. Bless the meal before us and bless us to Thy purpose.”
The food was passed, and then Mrs. Blanchard said that she and the doctor had been honored to have me as a guest in their home.
“I hope I haven’t cost you any friends,” I said.
The doctor laughed. “Oh, if I’ve ruffled any feathers, I’ll be forgiven in a week.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Smith, “because it’s you who stands between them and God, not Robson.” There was laughter at this remark, and I did my best to appear merry, but underneath I was afraid. Mr. Smith seemed to sense it. “What will you do tomorrow?” he asked.
“I will go back to my farm,” I said without much conviction. “I will tend to my garden and go to Manannah as little as possible. I just want to live in peace, if people will let me.”
“You’ll be surprised at how fast this will be water under the bridge,” said the doctor. “The people around here are decent, despite what you saw today.”
“And you needn’t fear anything from Willie,” said Mr. Smith. “We had a little conversation. He’s gone and won’t be back.” I had already told my attorney, days ago, that I didn’t want to file charges against Willie—I wanted the whole thing to be over. Now Mr. Smith had taken it upon himself to act on my behalf. I thanked him for his concern and his efforts. Then Noah asked if I would like him to come in the morning and walk with me on the road back home. I said yes.
* * *
We set out on the Manannah road, I still dressed as a man, but now known to be a woman. I liked it.
“How is my dear Cleopatra?” I asked.
“Oh, she rules the house,” said Noah. “The hardest part in living with her is that when I’m deciding what to have for dinner, I end up thinking about what she might like.”
I laughed. “Have they built the new capital?”
“Well, they built another cabin. But other than that, all that’s there are thousands of stakes with colored ribbons. Looks like flowers in a meadow when you first see it.”
Noah was in his own gleeful mood. He began to recount the trial, as though I hadn’t been there. He remembered the county attorney as an amusing villain. I forced a laugh or two.
“You had us all fooled,” he said.
“I didn’t fool you.”
“Well, you did for a while. Then Owen came by and insisted you were twenty. Something wasn’t right. And as soon as I thought it, I knew it was true.”
“So you just made up that girl cousin of yours?”
“No, you do remind me of my cousin. But you’re right. I did mention her just to see what you’d say. You were light on your feet, but it didn’t matter.”
“But you didn’t let on about it to Owen.”
“Nah, I just wanted to help. To tell you the truth, I still feel that way.” Noah stopped walking and turned to me. “Now, as you know, Lucy Ann, I am married. But if I wasn’t, I would have you for a wife, if you would have me.”
Noah searched my eyes, and I felt at once that his invitation was more than just suppose—his wife was never coming west. And neither was George Slater. And who was going to care anyway? Out here you could be a soiled dove one year, a farmer’s wife the next and not have to sit in the back pew. I could live as Noah’s wife. I could be Noah’s wife. It was, in many ways, the perfect answer. I didn’t want to be alone forever, and here was a man who loved me and who wanted to be with me, strange as I was. I was very fond of Noah and greatly enjoyed his company. And beyond that, I loved him. I did. I may not have known it until that very moment, but at that moment I did know it. I loved him. A woman might live five lifetimes and not meet an offer of such promise.
I trembled as the truth moved closer. I was unmasked as a man but still in disguise. I had traded Joseph for Mrs. Slater, but Mrs. Slater was further from the truth, because I didn’t want to be with a man. I wanted to be with Lydia—or someone like her or someone like Jenny Lindross. So in that way, I was, as Lucy Ann, more the deceiver than I was before. And if I were to live as Noah’s wife, I would have to play a deceiver’s part every day for the rest of my life. I could not honestly lie down with him, so how could I marry him?
“Oh, Noah,” I said, feeling my eyes water, “if I could be anyone’s wife, I would be yours. But I can’t. This may be hard to understand, but please try. I am more Joseph than I am the woman you might think you see. You were deceived once already. I could not do that to you again.”
I watched as my words fell upon him like blows. I moved forward and gave him a clumsy kiss on the brow. “Noah, you have been the best friend I could ever have.” This made me feel worse. I realized that nothing I could say would make him or me feel better. He had offered me his life—his very life—and words in return seemed like coins. I was breaking his heart. But better to break it once than to do it slowly over years.
Noah nodded as though he understood. He was considerate even in his pain. “If you would like,” he offered, “I could stay with you until things settle down.” It was a gallant, generous offer, and deep inside I wanted him to stay with me. But I said that I needed to be by myself. I think he suspected that I was lying, but he was in no position to insist. Just ahead of us on the road, a rough track branched off and went south, not the easiest path to Kandiyohi, but Noah decided to take it. He turned to me with a pained smile. “Good-bye, Joseph.”
I should have gone to him and thrown my arms around him and held him as hard as I could, so he would know that I loved him, but I felt awkward and afraid. I stood where I was as he walked down the track. Even after he was out of sight, I fought the urge to run after him.
Walking west by myself, I tried to think of how things might be for me now in Minnesota. I should be happy. They had tried to take my land but failed. I still had my farm and what was left of my ambition. And why couldn’t it work? If Mr. Smith was right, Willie was gone for good. Perhaps the people of Manannah and those of Forest City would come to accept me as a woman. Why not? Then I wondered if there were other women like me, women who wanted to be with women. There had to be. Maybe many. But how to find each other?
Perhaps my story—a woman put on trial for wearing men’s clothes—would be retold in the newspapers, like the story of the attack upon Mrs. Swisshelm. Women who were like me might read it and take it for their beacon. They would find their way to my farm. We might become a family and, later, a community, like the Bois Brûlés. Then perhaps many would find their way to our village. And like the Bois Brûlés, we would work hard and act honestly toward all. And like the Bois Brûlés, we would wear bright colors, play music, and dance. These thoughts gave me some comfort as I walked alone toward my land and a new life.
When Willie’s place came into view, my stomach turned. I thought about leaving the road and finding my way along the river. But I kept on, and there were no signs of life around the cabin and no horses. I felt a relief that came with a great tiredness. I thought of my bed.
My cabin lay in a hollow behind a grove of trees, so I could not see it until I gained the small hill to the east. When I reached the heights, I looked down and saw burnt logs and rafters still smoking.
As though in a dream, I walked closer. The shed was in ruins, and the chickens lay dead in the yard. I went to where the cabin had been and looked at the burned remains. There, along the back wall, was the charred neck of what had once been my violin.