about you?”
“So far, so good. I need to read more to judge.”
“No, I mean what do you do?”
“Oh.” Sarah blushed and straightened in her seat. “I’m head of the Toledo Women’s Probate and Juvenile Courts.”
“My, that sounds impressive too. Seems like you’ve got something special runnin’ through that family blood of yours.”
He asked her to explain what her job entailed, which she did in the simplest of terms: “wills, property and marriage,” she said, not caring to elaborate upon the actual unpredictable and varied scope of her duties under the Honorable O’Brien O’Donnell.
“So, what is it you plan to discuss in this class of yours, Mr. Jarvis?” she asked, wanting nothing more than to avoid the topic of her own work. And that was all it took. Before she knew it, he was opening a worn leather satchel overflowing with notes and papers, though it still had room to hold a short, wooden pipe, already filled. He bit down on the tooth-marked stem and held it in his mouth in perfect suspension. “Do you mind?” he asked. She shook her head, and without hesitation he lit the aromatic substance, puffing in and out rapidly until it burned on its own. He closed his eyes and exhaled.
“Since you asked, ma’am, would you be at all interested in hearing a condensed version of my lecture? I could use a fresh set of ears and considering what you were reading . . . well, I’d forever be in your debt.”
Sarah raised one freshly plucked eyebrow and glanced down at her book. She hoped to have been further along, but for once there was no rush. “All right,” she said, with just a hint of resignation. “Mind you, I’m a tough critic.”
“You’re a peach.” He laid the smoldering pipe on the armrest and rearranged the papers until he was satisfied with the order, pulled himself up in his chair, and began.
“Now, I know most of y’all call Tennessee home. But it’s surprising how much we sometimes don’t know about the place where we live. So bear with me.”
Sarah found his folksy opening endearing, and nodded her head in encouragement. Even if she hadn’t, however, she probably would have reacted the same. She was, as everyone told her, a good listener. Really, she couldn’t imagine being otherwise in her line of work. She hated to hurt anyone unnecessarily, and there was nothing more hurtful than being ignored.
“Tennessee, the sixteenth state to enter the Union, has a long history of oppression. In 1830, President Andrew Jackson, the Tennessean who allegedly gave the state its name, signed the Indian Removal Act. Can anyone tell me what that was?”
Sarah was tempted to raise her hand. Fortunately she caught herself, for an invisible student had apparently already answered the question.
“That’s right,” Mr. Jarvis said. “It was the forced relocation of the Cherokee and other tribes from their southeastern homes to territories west of the Mississippi. ‘The Trail of Tears’ as it has been termed, borne of white supremacy and greed for land.” He relit his pipe and licked his lips. “It was also in Tennessee, in Pulaski, a small town in the middle of the state, that the Ku Klux Klan was later formed.”
Sarah shuddered. The KKK? Six months had passed but the mere mention of the name still nearly undid her. She felt for her rings and began to twist. One, two, three.
“With white hooded robes, rapes, whippings and murders as their calling cards, the group, which rapidly spread to other states, succeeded in instilling fear among Negroes and Union representatives, those they considered enemies of the Southern way of life. Though the organization disbanded during Reconstruction, it reconstituted and is now an even more intolerant group, widening its net of undesirables to include Catholics, immigrants and Jews.”
As if in perfect theatrical timing, the train jerked to the right, and Sarah’s stomach, already on edge, turned inside out.
“The group has become more powerful and currently has candidates on political tickets nationwide. The most, I might add,” his voice now bellowing, his eyes directly on Sarah, “in the North, in Indiana, just a skip and a jump from Ohio.”
He needn’t have gone to such dramatic measures. Sarah already knew about Senator Stevenson and his bunch of thugs. And she knew too, more intimately than he ever could have imagined, about the Klan’s presence in Ohio. In the last election, the Toledo chapter had tried its best to remove Obee from office, something that nearly cost him his sanity . . . and Sarah her life.
•••
Steadying herself as the train turned another hard corner, Sarah grabbed hold of the cool handle to the restroom door and locked herself inside. It was hard to maneuver in the cramped space, but she needed a private place to recover after Mr. Jarvis’ speech. Of course, she knew he was blissfully unaware of the turmoil he had stirred inside of her—how could he have known?—and she had made every attempt to happily congratulate him on a well-presented lecture. Now that she was alone, though, she let herself go. After a moment, her stomach eased a little and she ran the hot, mildly sulphuric water and lavender scented soap over her hands, splashing cupfuls onto her burning cheeks. By the time she dried off, steam had completely fogged up the small oval mirror hanging on the wall directly overhead and she wiped it with a towel until her image reappeared.
She let out a little self-deprecating laugh. Sarah knew that now that the past had resurfaced she couldn’t prevent it from playing itself out; she only hoped it wouldn’t carry her too far away. The stubborn past. Like a perpetually rewound film waiting for the next flip of the switch. She stared into the mirror, seeking her own reflection, but one by one the images came fast, stuck in time and place, blotting her out. Obee, weak and frail in his hospital bed, the blackmail note, horrible words and terrible threats, and always, the moment she thought she would die. Panic. Suffocating breath. Hands tightening around her throat. She felt them all now and had to pinch herself to stop from going any further.
Of course, Sarah was no stranger to murder. Counseling victim’s families, visiting perpetrators in prison, listening to innumerable attorneys prosecute and defend in its name. But until six months ago, it had always felt . . . distant. Then, suddenly, unexpectedly, death and fear grew close, hovering around her friends and family, haunting her dreams, until finally, she saw it, felt it, tasted it for herself.
Holding firmly to the basin’s rim, she breathed in deeply and exhaled. Whether fate, luck, or the grace of God had intervened Sarah wasn’t sure, but she reminded herself now that she had managed to escape. And that she had helped Obee, her boss, her mentor, her friend to regain his health and return to the Bench. She had found the strength, risen to the occasion.
Thinking of these things always calmed her nerves, and soon her hands dropped to her side, her breathing slowed, and she once again saw her own reflection before her. Her involvement in the matter had come at a stiff price, but she was alive and now determined to move forward. And Sarah reminded herself there was a reason she had come so close to death’s door. She was glad she had helped put things right, but she’d traveled too far afield. She wasn’t a detective. She was an officer of the court, and a good one at that. When she returned from her holiday, she would be so again. The more routine the case, the better.
Feeling steadier and stronger by the moment, Sarah reached into her purse and pulled out a small, gold compact. Normally, she wouldn’t have bothered—she could reapply the tiny amount of powder she used blindfolded—but since the events of last fall, she had become somewhat self-conscious about her appearance. Not about her so-called imperfections: the outward curve of her rather prominent nose, the slight gap in her front teeth, the tiny, half-moon scar on her left cheek. Those she had accepted long ago, had even grown to half-heartedly believe that they gave her the character everyone said they did. No, it was the loss of youth, or more precisely, no longer looking younger than her years, that had prompted vanity to rear its ugly head. Having been complimented on the trait so often, she had, even at forty, simply taken it for granted. Not any more. Not when nearly everyone she encountered offered instead their well-meaning advice: “You know, my dear, you could benefit from a trip to the baths.”