the hour, suggested they take a brief ride through the school before heading to Lena’s rooms. To sweeten the deal, he offered to roll back the car’s flimsy top. Though heavy now, the air was fragrant with the sweet smell of honeysuckle and blew sufficiently to unstick Sarah’s dress from the small of her back. Dusk, falling in varying shades of blue and orange, found the campus empty, save the fireflies, their bright tails flickering like miniature beacons in a darkening sky.
“The school was started by a group of Presbyterian ministers,” Lena said, assuming the impromptu role of tour guide as they passed through the entrance. Engraved on a gold plaque next to the magisterial gate was the college’s founding date: 1819. “One of the first fifty small colleges in the country.”
Sarah counted ten four-story, red brick structures with arched, Gothic windows and white plantation-like columns bearing names of local heroes, former presidents and generous patrons. They drove past Preston, Simmons, and Jackson Halls. Thickly foliaged oak trees peppered the trim lawns on which each building stood equidistant, collectively framed by woods so dense that, at least from here, they were indistinguishable from the encroaching night. Forming a star-shape pattern, each hall led to the chapel, a high-domed, wooden edifice with colorful stained glass depicting the life of Christ. Like planets circling the sun, the chapel, with its towering oversized steeple was the fixed point around which mathematics, English, music and all the other disciplines turned.
“You can’t imagine how many here still view the church as the life-giving force,” Lena said. “The anchor. The final word. Without its watchful authority, they think we’ll all go spinning out of control.”
“I don’t know how you do it, Lena,” Sarah said. It’s hard enough being a Jew. Even at court, where the separation of church and state is enforced, I have to watch my back.”
“You know me. I just let them believe what they want and keep going my own way. Besides, my department is different. The zealots don’t worry about us much. We only teach fiction, after all. It’s science they keep their eye on.”
As they exited the campus Sarah yawned deeply, covering her mouth in a failed attempt to hide the exhaustion that had suddenly overtaken her. On their way to Lena’s, they passed through Main Street, an eight-block paved road with quaint stores on either side selling the staples of modern life. City Drug, Duke Dry Cleaning, Coleman Tires, Luke’s Sandwiches, the names blurred together until Lena gave her ribs a little nudge. She shook herself just in time to see a soft, blue light rhythmically flashing: Cohen’s. Cohen’s. Cohen’s.
“Don’t want you to miss the Jew store, my dear,” Lena said.
Sarah watched the light as it flickered and faded from view. She’d heard the moniker was common in the South, a reference to Jewish-run shops selling dry goods inexpensively to farmers, Negroes and anyone else short of cash. Still, it was disturbing.
“It’s not as bad as it sounds, though,” Lena said, no doubt seeing Sarah suddenly stiffen. Most people down here don’t know enough about the Jews to know the term is offensive. Their ignorance isn’t malicious.”
“Oh come on, Lena. You’re smarter than that. Inexpensive is a euphemism for cheap, and cheap for Jew.”
“Well, of course, I know that’s true in many places. But it’s more complicated in these parts. The Cohens are well-liked, and their store does a good business. The euphemism isn’t fully realized.”
“Maybe so,” Sarah said. “But I wonder if they would mind if we called, oh, I don’t know, those little religious shops popping up everywhere the ‘Goy’ stores.”
Lena laughed. “You’re right, of course. But we’re not going to solve that problem today. I know what you’ve been through, and you’ve cause to be wary. We all do. But remember what you told me. ‘Lena, I want nothing more than to relax my body and rest my mind.’”
Sarah squeezed Lena’s hand and smiled. “All right, all right. I suppose I’m overreacting. You certainly seem to be surviving. Thriving, even.”
Lena turned away for a moment and was silent. “Yes,” she replied, “I’m great.” But the tone in her voice said something else. Sarah touched her shoulder and Lena turned back, smiling, perhaps just a little too much. Had the last year made Sarah so nervous that now she was misjudging her own cousin? She needed to watch herself, reading into things this way. “So, Lena, where is your place, anyway?”
On cue, the driver turned down a tree-lined street and stopped in front of a white clapboard house with a wide, inviting porch. Lena pointed to an upstairs window. “Right there.”
•••
Lena occupied two spacious rooms in a Colonial-style house for faculty women. One was a bedroom, in which there were two comfortable-looking twin beds, a large walnut desk strewn with papers, and three windows, on which, thankfully, the lace curtains were lightly blowing. The other room served as living space. An overstuffed maroon couch, black leather chair, Art Deco lamp and ebony Victrola surrounded a worn Oriental rug. The remaining area, except for a small icebox in the corner, was filled with books. Packed in the built-in shelves, stacked in neat piles on the floor, tossed here and there. Lena ordered Sarah to sit down and then went to fetch a snack.
“I’m sorry things are a little untidy,” she said, her head in the icebox. “I had meant to clean up more, but things have been a bit . . .” she paused, “busy here the past few days.”
Sarah hadn’t even noticed. She had already kicked off her shoes and unrolled her stockings, and was rubbing her sticky feet on the floor. The silk had been hot and the hardwood was wonderfully cool. “Your place is lovely. Don’t give it a second thought. But what have you been so busy with?”
Lena walked over with a plate of sliced Georgia peaches, a wedge of Swiss cheese and a pitcher of iced tea, a drink that she claimed was a rite of passage in the South. She put the Brandenburg Concerto on the Victrola as Sarah took of a sip of the sugary drink. “Oh, um, nothing worth mentioning. You know, just work. What do you say we go to dinner in a few minutes? Meals are served downstairs.”
“Forget dinner,” Sarah said, leaning back like the worn-weary traveler she was. “This is all I want. Cheese and fruit. Bach and tea. Three-quarter time.” She didn’t feel even a need for the drop of “imported” whiskey she’d become accustomed to taking at night. Yes, she’d brought the flask with her, just in case. And yes, in doing so she was technically breaking the law, however destructive that law had proven to be. But her doctor, who ignored Volstead entirely, had given her orders.
“You sure you want nothing else to eat?”
“Positive. I think I’ll even put off a bath until tomorrow.”
And so she did. For the remainder of the evening, Sarah sat right where she was, talking, laughing and sipping tea to the strains of her favorite classical composer. With each note, another muscle relaxed. By the time the last chord was struck, she was ready for bed. “Good night, Lena,” she said rising.
“Good night, Sarah. Sleep well.”
3
Sarah’s eyes flickered open. The room was still—it couldn’t have been any later than one in the morning—and just a hint of moonlight washed the room in muted purple-grey. She pulled herself up on one elbow and felt a bead of sweat trickle down her arm and rest in the folds of her wrist. Her whole body was drenched. The sound that had jolted her out of her slumber came again, a soft knocking at the door, this time with a girl’s voice calling out in a desperate whisper, “Miss Greenberg, Miss Greenberg!” She peered at Lena to see if she had heard and saw that she was already wrapping herself in her robe. “What’s going on?” Sarah’s voice cracked.
“It’s nothing. Go back to sleep.”
Lena motioned to Sarah to stay where she was and went to the front door just outside the bedroom. It creaked open.
“Kathryn?”
“Oh, Miss Greenberg. Did