Conspicuously absent were the hordes of tourists that were predicted, or as Mitchell had told her, consciously planned for by the city leaders.
Mitchell stopped and pointed to a small building. “That’s it.”
“It?”
“Where it all started. The drugstore. Robinson’s.”
“Oh.” Sarah eyed the small, red brick building. “F. E. Robinson and Company.” Through the window she observed the usual hodgepodge. Several glass-cased cabinets. A fully stocked bookshelf. A beverage counter, ceiling fan and a cash register. Medicines, cosmetics, spectacles. Quite a selection of spectacles, in fact. She needed a new pair; maybe she’d come back later.
Near the window was a small, round wooden table; according to Mitchell’s sources, the very spot where the deal was made. A calculated deal, at that, not the chance encounter the city claimed it to be. Drummed up by a guy who worked for Cumberland Coal and Iron. Supposedly, the man read an article he thought might help turn around the local, failing economy. The ACLU was offering to pay the expenses of a teacher willing to break the recently passed Tennessee Butler law, which forbade the teaching of any theory that contradicted the Bible. No telling what the publicity of a case like that could do for a town. He took his idea to Robinson, brought in lawyers and town officials, and convinced John Scopes to be the victim. Unbelievable. The whole thing was a scheme, nothing to do with either science or religion. Nevertheless, it had gotten people thinking, a major accomplishment, intentional or not. Perhaps history selected this place ahead of time. Sarah touched the window to see if any mysterious energy emanated from it. It did feel strange.
Mitchell came up from behind and tapped her lightly on the shoulder, his woodsy scent preceding him. “Want one?” he asked.
Sarah turned around, brushing up against his chest. He looked down and smiled. She suppressed a desire to smile back.
“Want one what?”
He motioned to a sign near the store’s front door: “Simian sodas, twenty cents.”
Now she couldn’t help but smile. “No, thanks.”
They continued walking, she thought to her lodgings. But several minutes passed and still they walked. She was afraid of the answer, but she would have to ask. “Mitchell, did you manage to find me a room?”
“Well, as I said, Sarah, there were very few options. Most of the reporters are staying at the homes of locals. Many residents left town and rented out rooms.”
“So you told me on the phone.”
“Yeah, well it was a bit more difficult than I thought.”
“So you couldn’t find one?”
“No, I mean yes, I did.”
“Great. Is that where we’re heading?”
“Yes, but I have to get a cab. It’s a couple of miles out of town.”
She didn’t like the sound of this. “Oh? Well, that’s all right. Tell me the name of the place, and I’ll get a cab myself.”
“I’ll accompany you.”
“No, you don’t have to. I’m tired, anyway. Why don’t you call me in the morning.”
“Sarah, I’m afraid I must go with you.”
“What? Why?”
“Because I’m staying there, too.”
•••
They were heading for the Morgan Springs Hotel, perched atop the Cumberland Pass, six miles to the south of Dayton. In the taxi Mitchell laughed and said it was literally the last resort. Sarah gazed straight ahead and remained silent. She was not amused, and the winding road was upsetting her stomach. “Seriously,” he said, “every other room was taken. Even the extra cots in the lobby of The Aqua, the best hotel in town, Sarah, have a waiting list.” She doubted him, but didn’t have the energy to argue. If he was up to something that was his business. She could take care of herself. She had experience telling him no.
The sign said it was a quarter mile to the summit. It was about time. One more curve and she would have lost her lunch. When they reached the hotel, Mitchell hurried around to open the door, but she was already out, taking in some deep breaths.
“Pretty nice, huh Sarah?”
She looked around. It was lovely. Cooler too. “It’ll do.”
“And they’ve got a special rate during the trial, only seven dollars.”
Sarah nodded slowly and walked over to a marked lookout spot. A vast green expanse framed by a reddening, smudgy sky. She stood for several moments and watched the color subtly change, as if consciously searching for the perfect shade. Apple, rose, ruby, then fading out over the horizon. She felt the muscles in her jaw relax. Even if one had been available, certainly this was better than a cot, in a lobby no less! Perhaps Mitchell was telling the truth. And if he were lying, she ought to be flattered. She turned to where he was patiently waiting and told him she was ready to check in.
Her room was on the second floor, tiny and a bit musty, but charmingly decorated with a polished brass bed neatly covered in a multi-colored patch quilt. On a small, unvarnished nightstand rested a carved, wooden duck and a cobalt blue ceramic vase overflowing with dried mountain laurel. Not a style Sarah would choose for her home, but just right in this country setting. Above the bed was a painting of a grove of pines, a fairly good rendition of the view out the room’s four-paned cottage window.
Before Mitchell left for his own room several doors down the hall, he asked Sarah to dinner, and she accepted. Why not? They were here, the restaurant was open, and now that her stomach had settled, she was hungry. Fortunately, she had brought her one and only evening dress, a black velvet, sleeveless chemise. She slipped it over her head, glanced in the mirror and smiled. It fit. At least better than a few months ago when it had hung on her like a limp noodle. Over it she draped the long string of white pearls her mother gave her shortly before she died. She always wore them when she went out. Now then, just a bit of kohl around the eyes, a touch of rouge and lipstick. Contrary to popular opinion about women over forty, the older she got, the less makeup she used. Age was better left alone. Caked with powder, even the smallest line widened into a deep crevasse. She twisted her hair and fixed it into place with a square rhinestone clip. Enough. Already Mitchell might think she was sending him mixed messages.
9
Sarah had considered ordering the fried chicken. After all, she was in the South. But the special was lamb stew, one of her favorites, and it turned out to be the right choice. Meaty, succulent, with just a touch of salt. Served with buttery mashed potatoes and a bottle of mineral water from the nearby springs from which the hotel got its name. Healing waters, the waiter said. She gulped down a glass and poured another.
After dinner, they took the advice of a couple at the next table and went to the hotel’s lounge, the only such place for miles. Not the Cotton Club, they said, but hot music and “larapin” strawberry shortcake made from the local crop. “With all that’s goin’ on, you might even see someone famous.”
Even though he was on the wagon, Mitchell thought jazz without booze was like a Christmas tree without lights. A sturdy backdrop, but bare, lacking the spark that brought it to life. In most places, speakeasies solved the problem, but not here. “If Dayton has any bootleggers, no visitor has heard of them,” he said, quoting a statement Mencken made yesterday in the Sun. But even he had to admit, the music sounded pretty good. Not like any hillbillies he’d ever heard. A band of seven filled the intimate room with a surprisingly robust sound. Two clarinets, two trumpets, a sax, a flute and drums. Mitchell said the trumpet soloist sounded like Louis Armstrong himself, someone whose music career he had ardently followed after seeing him perform in Chicago.
Small round tables with flickering candles surrounded the raised wooden stage. They were seated near a tall, narrow window just as the group finished a set. The small crowd clapped and whistled