Jubal Leatherbury: Book Ii

By Charlotte Thomas March

In Book I, young Jubal was found hanging in a woodshed near death, the victim of ongoing and horrific abuse at the hands of his mother. Taken from his home in Mobile, Alabama, and given into the care of his grandmother by a panicked father, Jubal grew up in New Orleans, losing all memory of the shocking events of his life before his fifth birthday. As a young adult, he returned to Mobile and met with his mother for the first time. This resulted only in grief for Jubal and for those who loved him.

In 1914, only tax revenue provided more income for the state of Alabama than that provided by the lease of convicts to railroads and to the coal and timber industries. Leased convicts became the property of the leasing company. There were fewer safeguards in place for these prisoners than there had been for former slaves which, in fact, some of them were. They were routinely beaten, starved, and often worked until they died from exhaustion and disease. Their deaths may or may not have been reported along with the request for another prisoner.

As Book II opens, Jubal leaves Mobile, pursuing a business opportunity in the heavily forested hill country of north Alabama. There he encounters the practice of using convict labor in private industry. In his tender, wounded heart, a passion to relieve the suffering of these men is ignited, a passion that would consume and govern him, no matter where it led or what it cost him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press
• Release date: Sep 30, 2015
• ISBN: 9781504339537

Charlotte Thomas March

Ms. March grew up in a solidly white farming community in North Alabama, the granddaughter of German immigrants. She came of age in the early 60s working as an emergency room nurse in Birmingham at the height of the civil rights struggle. She later worked as a midwife in a refugee camp in Bangladesh and as a home health nurse in the mountains of northern Pakistan. She claims a unique perspective on the commonality of the human condition, a perspective brought to bear in her first novel, a story about people that might have been set anywhere. She lives with her husband in Mobile, Alabama.

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Copyright © 2015 Charlotte Thomas March.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-5043-3952-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5043-3954-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5043-3953-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015913785

Balboa Press rev. date: 09/30/2015

Contents

Acknowledgments

Preface

Introduction

Significant Characters from Book I

… .From the last chapter of Book I

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

Epilogue

Author’s Note

Endnotes

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Acknowledgments

Painting of the Middle Bay Lighthouse in Mobile Bay used in Book I by permission of the artist, Blanche Sumrall.

Photograph of Mobile Yacht Club is from the Erik Overbey Collection, The Doy Leale McCall Rare Book and Manuscript Library, University of South Alabama, G-658: Mobile Yacht Club, circa 1910. Used in Book I by permission.

Blanche Sumrall’s painting of dueling yachts, Sailing Under the Red, White and Blue, used in Book I by permission of Fairhope Yacht Club/Dauphin Island Race Committee.

Pencil sketch of horse and buggy used in Book I, city grid of early 20th century Mobile and a map of Mobile Bay used here by permission of the artist, Rachel Burrows.

Special thanks to Janie Daugherty and Amy Raley, librarians in the Local History and Genealogy Division of the Mobile Public Library, for the hours of assistance they provided during the research phase of this project, which included helping me load hundreds of reels of newspaper microfilm and hand written sexton’s records from the last two centuries.

Most special thanks to my husband, Cary, for his constant encouragement and for writing the fabulous sailboat race in Chapter Ten of Book I.

Dedicated to the men in my life:

My father, my husband and my son

Preface

This novel is a work of fiction, but it’s as true to the people, the place, and the time as I was able to make it, after spending almost six years in the local history library reading newspaper articles on microfilm and handwritten sexton’s records, pouring over books and papers with descriptions of Mobile and New Orleans at the turn of the century, reading through thousands of pages of Alabama Senate and House Journals in the Mobile Law Library, and walking many miles in Mobile cemeteries.

It is not biographical, but I have used stories, letters, and pictures from friends and family, plus drawn on experiences I have had with people I knew well, and with others I knew less well, to develop the story and the characters. One may be able to recognize something they have done or said, but it never follows that they are that character or even the inspiration for that character. For example, in Book I, the story of the black dress with the shivery fringe distracting the groom on an errand to a flower shop, actually happened to my dearest friends who were married in Mobile in 1945. But apart from exceptional goodness of character, my friends have nothing in common with the bride and groom in the novel. In fact, the real bride is stunningly beautiful, still, at eighty-something.

The story of the Eisenberg house in Book II is another example of inspiration that in my opinion doesn’t qualify as biography. The house is my grandparents’ home in every detail; the romantic story told about it in the novel is my grandparents’ story. The house was built by my grandfather and his father for the younger man’s bride. The young couple moved in on their wedding day, their six children were born there, their four daughters were married in the living room of that house, and in their turn, both died in the house where their life together began. The Elizabethtown wedding was based on my mother’s wedding, but the dress described was actually my grandmother’s. The wedding night following was also my grandparents’ experience, based on the story told to me by my mother. I remember the house in vivid detail, and I walked through those rooms with every sentence written about events there. But, however much inspiration was drawn from them, neither my parents nor my grandparents appear here in biographical form. Every character is many people, and most of those people are completely imaginary.

The story I’ve told is about a little boy and the incredible sweetness that defined him as a child and as a man. Through his life, a picture is drawn of the mélange in the south in the early years of the twentieth century, from which today’s uniquely southern culture would emerge and grow—old families with generations of southern heritage, new families who came from states outside the south in the years following the American Civil War, and new immigrant families arriving during the same period. It is set in the south and written about southerners. I attempted to provide a realistic sense of the time and place through use of language, but with minimal use of accent to identify the characters either as today’s stereotypically southern white or southern black, or as educated or aristocratic southerners. Some reference was made to the speech patterns of the German immigrants who settled Elizabethtown, and to the influence of a French dialect still spoken in many homes in coastal Louisiana, but in those cases, too, the actual pronunciation is left to imagination. When people of any region or language speak with each other, they hear what is said without the distortion and alteration that can happen through interpretation by people alien to the area. I want everyone to be able to hear what the characters heard when they interacted with each other, and to see with their eyes the things around them.

Good and evil, joy and sorrow, love and hate are to be found within these pages; but when the book is closed, I think it is love that will be remembered.

ctm

Mobile, 2012

Introduction

This book is the second volume in the story of Jubal Leatherbury. Book I began in the year 1894, in Mobile, Alabama. Four-year-old Jubal was found hanging in a woodshed, and rescued near death, the victim of ongoing cruelty at the hands of his mother. When his loving but inattentive young father learned what had happened, what had been happening, he panicked and ran with the child to New Orleans, where he left him with his own mother and his aunt. What was meant to be a temporary arrangement while he attempted to deal with the situation in his home, turned out to be for the duration of Jubal’s childhood.

Growing up with the two elderly and somewhat reclusive women, the child’s life was peaceful and he soon appeared to have forgotten what he had endured. In spite of the relatively easy distance between Mobile and New Orleans, he didn’t see his mother again. She didn’t accompany his father on the frequent trips he made to New Orleans and Jubal never asked for her. Attempts to explain the situation to a child who seemed to be without curiosity, were ineffectual at best. Quietly, he concluded that his mother would not take him back—did not even care to see him.

After the death of his grandmother when Jubal was twenty-two, he was encouraged by his father and his remaining guardian to move to Mobile, at least temporarily, in their hope that some relationship might develop between the aging mother and a sweet natured but emotionally fragile young man. When it came, the encounter with his mother and with his older brother was mystifyingly filled with hostility and animus, which subsequent encounters only seemed to deepen. Handicapped by loss of memory and a child’s conclusion that he was removed from his home because of his unworthiness, Jubal struggled with little success to understand his place in the family. Within a month of his arrival in Mobile, he began having episodes of a debilitating dizziness which those who loved him feared might herald some sort of crises, perhaps a surfacing of buried memories and the possible affect that could have on his mind—defenseless against what he didn’t know was there.

As Book II opens, Jubal leaves his father, his intimate friends and the parish priest who had become his spiritual mentor, to pursue a business opportunity in the expanding timber industry in the heavily forested hill country of north Alabama. Among the new experiences awaiting him there, the one destined to have the greatest impact on his life was his encounter with the practice of using convict labor in private industry.

In the tender, wounded heart of Jubal Leatherbury, a passion to relieve the suffering of these men was ignited, a passion that would consume and govern him, no matter where it led or what it might cost him.

Significant Characters from Book I

Jubal Leatherbury: Born in 1889, to Henry and Imogene Leatherbury. Suffered abuse amounting to torture at the hands of his mother until he was rescued near death, and taken to live with his grandmother in New Orleans.

Henry Milhet Leatherbury: Jubal’s father (son of Henry and Odette). Henry was inattentive to what was happening in his home and when he learned what had been done to his son, he immediately took him to New Orleans and left him in the care of his mother, Odette.

Odette Leatherbury: Jubal’s grandmother, widowed and stranded in New Orleans during the Civil War.

Isabella Poitivan: Though unrelated, she held the position of great-aunt to Jubal. Isabella was a free woman of color who had taken Odette and her young son into her home during the Union occupation of New Orleans, and the two women huddled together for safety through the years of misrule that followed the American Civil War. In the end, they spent their lives together, first raising Odette’s son, Henry, and later sharing guardianship of Henry’s wounded son, Jubal.

Roger Leatherbury: Jubal’s brother, older by 5 years. Forced by circumstances to witness the on-going abuse of his little brother, he became hardened even as a child, and grew into a hard, cruel man.

Gabriel Nolan: 13 year old boy, neighbor of the Leatherburys. He found Jubal standing on a chair with a rope around his neck in the Leatherburys’ woodshed, just as the child was losing consciousness. He took him down and ran through the woods to his own home where his mother took care of him and notified the little boy’s father.

Hazel Nolan: Gabriel’s mother who cared for Jubal during the immediate aftermath of his rescue and became a sort of surrogate mother to him in his adulthood.

Barre Johnson: Jubal’s co-worker and friend at the Landry Saw Mill. Later became business partners.

Esther Vaughn Nolan: Main character in Book I. Marries Gabriel Nolan and becomes an intimate friend of Jubal.

William Haas: Esther’s young, mildly retarded uncle. Son of Emma and John Haas

Abigail and Walter Vaughn: Esther’s parents

Emma Haas: Esther Vaughn’s grandmother

Sarah Rushing: Best friends with Esther Vaughn from childhood. Has deep and unrequited love for Jubal.

Julia and Taylor Rushing: Sarah’s parents

Sharlene Elliott: Contemporary of Esther Vaughn and Sarah Rushing. Daughter of a man of dubious character and a social climbing mother. Ill taught how to protect herself, she falls under the influence of Roger Leatherbury in Book I. When she becomes pregnant, Roger is forced at gunpoint to marry her.

Cameron and Cornelia Elliott: Parents of Sharlene Elliott. Left Georgia under a cloud and moved to Mobile when Sharlene was nine years old.

Edith McVay: Contemporary of Esther and Sarah and special friend of Sharlene’s. Leaves the circle of friends and goes to Birmingham to become a nurse. Later roommate and close friend of Sarah Rushing when she follows Edith’s example and enters nursing school in Birmingham.

Maggie Trufant, Libby Nonweiler and Sally Toenes: Other main members of the group of friends/contemporaries who grew up together at the Government Street Methodist Church with Sarah, Esther, Sharlene and Edith.

Father Gregory: Parrish priest, friend of Henry and mentor to Jubal.

Dr. Stackhouse: Pastor of Government Street Methodist Church

Rachel Hammac: Former teacher of Sarah and Esther at Barton Academy. Widowed early in Book I, left with two small children.

Waterston family: William Waterston, pillar of the Government Street Methodist Church. His children, Maple, Paul and Edward. His children-in-law, Agnes married to Edward and Rachel Hammac married to Paul.

… .From the last chapter of Book I

The telegram was brief: Our dear Aunt seriously ill. Come at once. I’m already here. Papa. The trip by train was short but full of misery. Jubal was afraid that she would die before he arrived. Perhaps she was already dead and his father was trying to mitigate the pain and helplessness he would experience en route. But Jubal didn’t think he would do that.

When he arrived in New Orleans, he took a cab from the station and in minutes, the familiar outlines of the house came into view. He went to the back door which he found open. He locked it behind him, then walked quietly to the open door of her room. Henry had been sitting beside the bed but he stood when he heard Jubal at the door. There was a chair already placed on the opposite side of the bed. Henry didn’t speak.

When Jubal neared the bed, Isabella smiled and opened her eyes. I thought I heard your step, my love, she said, but then I thought perhaps I was dreaming. She lifted her hand and he took it. What a wonderful time I had in Mobile, she said. Her voice was clear but very weak. He sat down to bring his face nearer her and kissed the hand he held. It was so wonderful being with you and with the two of you together. Jubal, do you think you could put your face on my pillow without too much discomfort?

He leaned forward and put his head on the pillow facing her. He put his arm across her, holding the weight of it on his hand. In perfect comfort, he whispered. His face was near enough that he felt the skin of her face move when she smiled.

Just until I go to sleep, she said weakly.

He moved his face closer so she could feel his hair against her cheek. She didn’t speak again and as her breathing became slower and shallower, he knew that she was asleep and would not wake up. Still he stayed there.

You can sit up, Jubal. She doesn’t know you’re there, Henry spoke for the first time. Jubal straightened his body stiffly and picked up her hand. Then they sat in silence, waiting for the angel of death. Jubal gestured a question about a priest. Already done, Henry answered in a whisper. She wanted only you and me to wait with her.

Her heart had failed earlier in the day, but now it stubbornly refused to stop beating. It was two-thirty in the morning when they knew that she had taken her last breath. They continued to sit with her until the priest arrived at first light. Henry put the coffee pot on and the two of them sat in the kitchen allowing the priest time alone with her body.

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Jubal, you look very well, Fr. Antonio said when he joined them in the kitchen. How long have you been away?

Four months, Jubal said. Just about four months. I’d like to hear what happened. I’ve had two letters from her since she came home and she didn’t mention feeling at all unwell.

Would she have done? the priest asked.

Yes, I think she would. We had a sort of agreement not to withhold the kind of information that would be known if we were together.

It might have come very suddenly then, Fr. Antonio said. What I know is that she was with a customer in the gallery and suffered some sort of attack. Chest pain, I think. The customer said she became very pale and had to be helped to her room. It was a man and his wife. The woman stayed with her while her husband went for the doctor. The doctor then sent for me and I sent telegrams to you both.

I was in Mississippi, Jubal said.

Henry told me, Fr. Antonio responded. I’m so glad, for both of you, that she was able to see you before she died.

She said she heard my step in the house, Jubal said.

Almost as dear as the sight of a face to a loved one, Fr. Antonio answered.

I suppose, Jubal said.

No tears had been shed but Jubal was aware of a deep longing to be held. Maybe I need a wife after all, he thought.

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The next few days were anesthetic in their busyness: unfamiliar arrangements that had to be made, the funeral Mass and then the burial with Odette.

We were here the last time I was home, Jubal said to Henry. She indicated the stone and said, ‘I’ll leave it to you to finish that.’ I wish I could think of something beautiful to write on it. See seemed to love some of the ones we saw in Mobile.

I know she did, Henry said. But her story can’t be told in the loving words of a grieving spouse or parent. I think I would just fill in the dates and let her story live in our hearts.

That sounds right, Jubal said.

Do you have a thought about what you’ll do with the house? Henry asked him.

Not an idea, Jubal answered. I suppose I thought I’d come back here to live with her. When she suggested that I move to Mobile, it was meant to be … after a long pause he continued, some form of temporary. ‘Live there for a while’ is what she said. If she needed me, I could return, or, she said she would come to me.

It sounds like she was pushing you out of the nest, but telling you that the nest would be there as long as you wanted it, Henry suggested.

Jubal smiled. Maybe that’s what she did, he said, but I don’t think she saw me as a reluctant fledgling. I think she wanted to free me of responsibility for the nest.

You wouldn’t want to live here without her? Henry asked.

I hadn’t even considered that eventuality.

What? Of her not being here?

Jubal rubbed his hand over his face. No, he said, I won’t live here, although every room is dear; every piece of furniture; every plant in the court yard. What do you think I should do?

Nothing immediately with the house, Henry said. Let yourself become accustomed to the fact that she’s gone. We’ll need to do some inventorying. Some things will need to be moved because of possible vandalism when it becomes known that the house isn’t occupied. The street has changed so much since I was a boy and it’s still changing. Soon I think there won’t be a vestige of residential left—not on this section anyway. All her art work, the portraiture, and whatever pieces of furniture you might particularly want, should probably be moved now.

Where would I take it? Jubal asked. I like my life right now—where I’m living, the way I’m living, but it’s pretty nomadic.

Yes, Henry said. Yes, it is.

I might take that, Jubal said, indicating a bookcase of four stackable shelves with glass fronted doors that raised and slid back into the case to allow access to the books. But I’m not sure I could fit it into the cabin.

It might go in the kitchen if you turned it a little bit catty-cornered on the front wall, Henry suggested.

Jubal was thoughtful. I think I’ll take it. Every book is a memory from some evening or other when the three of us read together. Sometimes one of us read aloud and at others we all read whatever we had going at the time. Let’s crate up all the books and arrange to have them shipped with the bookcase, but anything else—I don’t know.

Well, let’s do an inventory and make whatever decisions we’re able to make, Henry said. As they removed the books and stacked them for packing, Henry was aware of how different Jubal’s experience of growing up in this house must have been from his own experience. He had loved his mother and Izzie, but spending evenings reading with them was not what had appealed to him.

They worked slowly but steadily over the next two days sorting through the effects of almost sixty years. It was heart rending work which neither man could imagine enduring without the quiet presence of the other. Fr. Antonio visited on the third day with a surprising proposition.

How would you feel about selling the house to the diocese, Jubal, to use as a Guest House? I’ve spoken before to Isabella and to your grandmother about it—just planting the thought, he said. The street is changing and I didn’t think it was likely that you would stay on alone. He went on to outline the advantages from the perspective of the diocese, particularly the size of the house, its condition and its location.

What did they say, Gran … or Isabella? Jubal asked.

Just what you’d imagine—that it would be entirely your decision. After you moved to Mobile, Isabella asked me to give you a few days, in the event of her death, and then to present the idea to you. If you aren’t returning to live here, Jubal, it’s a plan that might serve you well. You could leave the furniture, either include it in the sale price or store it here until and if you ever want it. Everything would be well cared for, he said. One use that might be made of it is to house retired priests who would enjoy working in the court yard. Think about it, he said, but let’s talk before you leave New Orleans.

When the priest left, Jubal said, It sounds like a perfect answer. Do you think that’s because I’m feeling desperate?

No, Henry said. It sounds like Isabella comforting you from heaven.

Jubal smiled. It could stay as it is. We might even visit … and remember, he said quietly. I wonder if they might consider allowing me the use of that small space off Izzie’s room to store the art work until I can make a better plan for it. It’s the space that she used for that purpose.

We could ask, Henry said.

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They did ask, and the deal was closed before they left New Orleans. Nothing could have helped me bear this better, Jubal said to his father. Maybe I should have given it to the church.

"I wouldn’t have allowed it, Jubal. That money is your heritage—their gift to you. If they had wanted it otherwise, they would have made different arrangements.

Jubal left his father on the train and went to Julian Haas to pick up his horse. My darling Izzie, he said aloud as he rode back to Mobile. How can my heart be light? But it is. It’s full of loving memories and the vision of you with Gran, happy, and waiting for me.

But the grief came. A grief that takes one by surprise; a grief that brings pain so severe it stops the breath and immobilizes. During a visit months later, Jubal described it to Hazel. She told him that it had been like that for her when Gabriel’s father died.

At first, I felt such peace, she said. I had a keen awareness that the separation from him was temporary. I went through the days following his death with unusual strength—emotional and physical strength. But when it came, it took me by such surprise, she said. I sat down in the backyard and screamed in pain. It’s the penalty for great love, Jubal. We can’t escape it."

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1

Esther wrote January 1, 1913, at the top of a letter to her dear friend, Sarah, in Birmingham. She had lined through December 31, 1912, evidence of an earlier beginning. She then continued.

I started writing to you yesterday with an idea of reviewing the events of the past year. I was interrupted by a welcome visit from Maggie and Sally, and this is the first opportunity I’ve had to begin again. Now I’ve abandoned the idea of a review—you already know all about 1912. So I’m going for news.

I told you in my last letter that I was almost certain that I’m pregnant. The doctor said he thinks I’m almost three months along, which means that I got pregnant on my honeymoon. I love it! There’s a tiny bulge visible without clothes but nothing at all when I’m dressed. Gabriel is trying to contain his joy, but he spends most of the time we’re together either touching my tummy or looking at it! Grandmother is sewing, Mama is sewing, and Mother (that’s what I’ve taken to calling Gabriel’s mother—she is much too dear to be called Miss Hazel) is sewing. All neutral, of course. Gabriel refuses to say whether he wants a boy or a girl, but I will tell you in secret that I long for a girl.

January 2,

News and more news, my dear Sarah. I didn’t even get finished with yesterday’s when more and bigger news occurred. I think I’ll start with the smaller—good, but smaller. Maggie is dating Harry Palmer! That’s what she came to tell me yesterday. I think it’s wonderful. I want to say they’re so much alike, but it may just be that they have the same joyful spirit. She didn’t indicate that it’s a serious relationship, but I don’t think she would have driven out to tell me about a date or two. I’ll keep you posted!

Now, at your request, I haven’t been writing about Jubal, but you must have this news. His dear aunt died in November, as you know, and Jubal was her only heir. I don’t imagine that she had much money to leave him, but he sold her house to the Catholic Diocese in New Orleans. Now he has invested in a business similar to the Landry operation, in partnership with Barre Johnson, the foreman of the work crew at Landry. Gabriel has told me that they are good friends. Gabriel thinks this is a wonderful chance for Jubal. It’s a lumber mill (sawmill?) located near a place called Elizabethtown, a German settlement named for the wife of one of the first immigrants. It’s called Ehren Lumber Company. Ehren apparently means place of honor in German. I like that so much. It seems like a good omen. (Forgive me, Dr. Stackhouse.¹) Elizabethtown is located in the northern part of the state—about a hundred miles north of Birmingham. (I’m not certain about the exact distance.) That means he will be lost to us, Sarah, and to his father, for all practical purposes. I know how much Gabriel will miss him, but he’s too happy for him right now to foresee the sadness to come.

I know that you’re interested to hear about him, but I have also understood that it’s easier for you not to have a constant mention. He knows that you’re in Birmingham and something about what you’re doing. He and Mr. Johnson will be going back up there after they’ve completed a notice to the mill here, which I believe will be finished in two more weeks. This is a double loss for Mr. Clyde McGee, who is getting up in years, but Jubal said that both Mr. McGee and the mill owners in New Orleans have been supportive of their bid for the northern Alabama company. Anyway, my dear Sarah, he will be coming through Birmingham and I have suggested that he try to look you up. I can feel you boxing my ears, but I’m going to tolerate the pain. I thought it would be even stranger not to mention that you were in the vicinity—for sure the vicinity he would be passing through. I await your chastisement, but please remember that I’m pregnant.

Love,

Esther

PS: Mister gets bigger and naughtier every day. I keep wondering what he’ll think another baby!

PPS: I’m sorry to hear about Sharlene’s girth. I’ll try to let it encourage me to keep my appetite within bounds. Does she seem happy about the baby? My heart breaks for the way her marriage began, but I’m guessing that a baby must bring some measure of happiness and contentment.

She folded the letter and addressed the envelope. She could put it in the box at the road, but she decided to ask Gabriel to mail it tomorrow. She had been curled up in front of a low fire in her room. Mister was lying beside her with as much of his back against her as he could manage.

Let’s go lazy dog, she said. You’re supposed to be playful and full of energy. As if on command, the silky red ball leapt to its feet and began running about the room excitedly. Esther laughed. Oh, you think we’re going out, don’t you? Come on then, just for a little while. As she passed the kitchen she called out to Hazel that she was going to the mailbox.

Because of you, Sarah’s letter will be a day later, she chided, but the dog ran happily ahead, showing his unconcern. She let him play fifteen or twenty minutes, and then hurried back inside to help get supper ready.

Hazel smiled at her when she came in. You are absolutely aglow, girl.

Esther laughed. I feel wonderful, she said and on an impulse hugged her mother-in-law and kissed her cheek.

Another month, you think, and I’ll feel him moving?

Hazel smiled at the ‘him.’ Is that what the doctor said? she asked. The truth is, Esther, I can’t remember that sort of thing—what happened when, I mean. What I remember most vividly is when I saw his face. It made up for everything. Hazel realized that she had broken her own rule not to allow anyone to tell Esther scary childbirth stories. They did no good and only served to frighten. Even a girl as brave as Esther wouldn’t be immune to it.

I’m sorry, my dear, she said. To tell you the truth, Esther, seeing his face is all I remember.

Don’t worry, Mother. You know I’m not afraid.

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In bed that night, Esther snuggled down close to her husband and laid her arm across him. She pulled the bedclothes up closer around them and then replaced her arm.

Is it too cold in here? he asked.

Uh-uh, she murmured and put her hand on his chest inside his pajama shirt.

He knew that she wanted him, but Gabriel was getting uneasy—uneasy enough that he had visited the doctor providing her pre-natal care for advice. I wondered if there’s any particular thing I should do to take care of my wife and the baby. I mean, should I limit, or even avoid sexual activity at any point in the pregnancy?

I doubt that many men put much of a brake on their appetites during pregnancy, the doctor answered, and generally things seem to work out satisfactorily. Is she showing some disinclination?

Oh, no, Gabriel said. No, it isn’t that. I know you said before that we could have normal relations as long as it wasn’t uncomfortable for her, but …

But you want to know if limiting sex might give the pregnancy a better chance. To that, I think I would have to say yes; however, it might not be the best thing for the marriage.

Gabriel told him that he understood and thanked him. He was going to tell her tonight about the visit and about the possible benefit of some limits, but he should have told her before they came to bed. Saying anything now might feel like rejection, and it was still early. He didn’t say anything. He kissed her, held her, loved her and they went to sleep in each other’s arms.

Around midnight he was jarred from a deep sleep by a cry. Gabriel, Gabriel, Esther’s voice. Something is wrong, very wrong. Get your mother, Gabriel. Hurry.

Esther?

Please, she said. Call your mother.

Gabriel sped down the stairs and knocked loudly at Hazel’s door. Come quickly, Mama, he called. Hazel came to the door pulling on her robe. It’s Esther—something’s wrong and she wants you. Hazel hurried up the stairs in front of him, her heart already racing in fear. Esther was rolling about on the bed. Hazel sat down beside her and put her hand on Esther’s abdomen. It felt rock hard.

Gabriel, we need the doctor. Tell him that she’s threatening miscarriage but it hasn’t happened yet. Esther cried out and wrapped her arms around her abdomen.

Esther! Gabriel said, falling on his knees beside the bed. He put his face against hers. I’m going for the doctor, my love.

She raised her arms and pulled his mouth onto hers. She kissed him quickly two or three times and then said, Hurry.

He started down the stairs without changing his clothes. Hazel met him coming back up, and handed them to him. She walked quickly back to the bed.

Am I losing the baby, Mother? she asked in a whisper.

I think so, Esther, but I don’t know for sure. Are you bleeding?

I don’t feel anything—just pain, pain, unbearable pain. I thought labor pains came and went. This is constant. She broke off in another long, loud cry.

Relax as much as you can, my dear, Hazel said, when she thought Esther was able to hear. Think ‘endure,’ Esther. Speak the word into the pain—not aloud, into the pain. Endure… say it slowly… stretch it out. I remember doing that.

She was quiet for a minute or so and Hazel knew that she was trying. However, the effort seemed to fail and for the next hour Hazel comforted her as much as she knew how, keeping a cool cloth on her forehead and speaking gently when panic seemed to grip the girl writhing on the bed. At last she tensed and cried out, a long wail, at the end of which she said, I feel something now, wetness… Hazel drew the covers back and folded one sheet beneath her. She hurried to the bathroom and came back with an armload of towels, one of which she also put beneath her. Esther was cooperative, moving as requested. She was crying, but she wasn’t screaming anymore.

It’s done, my love, Hazel said. The baby is lost.

Esther was shaking violently and Hazel knew that she had to get her warm. She pulled the bedclothes free from the bottom of the bed and covered her from the waist up. Keep your arms inside the covers, she said softly. Then she stoked up the last of the embers in the fireplace and added a log. She returned to Esther and began a gentle massage of her abdomen. She was crying quietly now.

I’m going to change the towel under you, Esther. I need to see how much bleeding there is. She blotted up as much as she could—enough to determine that the bleeding was slowing. She folded a clean towel lengthwise and put it between her legs as she pulled the blood soaked bedding from beneath her. She replaced that with a double fold of clean towels. Then she pulled the bedclothes down to cover the lower half of her body.

Esther, I’m going to massage your abdomen some more. It can help stop the bleeding. The worst is past. Now we’ll just have to deal with our grief.

Oh, Mother, Esther said. She spoke through flowing tears. He’s going to think it’s his fault.

His fault? Hazel asked. You mean Gabriel?

Esther nodded. He’s been afraid that making love to me might not be good for the baby. He hasn’t said anything but he’s been… cautious. I knew he was afraid, but I couldn’t leave him alone. Now he’s going to think that he caused it.

Hazel handed her a small towel to wipe her face.

I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t be saying that to you.

Our guards are down right now, Hazel said. I’ll speak with the doctor and see that he forcefully manages that misunderstanding. You don’t need to say any more about it—to me or to anyone else. Let me have one more look. She pulled down the towel to find that it needed changing but that the blood flow was not excessive.

They’re here, my dear, she said. I’m going to meet them downstairs.

Gabriel met her on the staircase, the disheveled looking doctor behind him. Let me pass, Gabriel. You go to her and I’ll speak with the doctor down here first. He stepped back to let her pass, and then hurried on up the stairs.

The doctor followed Hazel into the kitchen, where she showed him the blood stained towels. They both turned when they heard a loud cry, but it was a cry of grief not of pain.

It’s done then, he said. Hazel nodded in agreement. And the bleeding is slowing? he asked.

Yes, she said.

I’ll have a look at her, but you know there isn’t really much I can do.

There is one other thing, before you go up. Hazel told him her entire conversation with Esther, using her words as far as she remembered them.

She was right that he was afraid. He was in my office today asking me about it. I’ll do what’s needed to see that there’s no unnecessary guilt over this loss and no unnecessary deprivation in the future.

Hazel did not accompany him upstairs. She set to work to remove all visual evidence of the night’s suffering and loss.

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That was Wednesday. On Saturday, Jubal came to see her. She was still in bed but Gabriel had fashioned a bolster that allowed her to maintain a sitting position comfortably.

You look fine, Jubal said. Maybe a little peaked around the eyes. He smiled to say ‘not really.’

I am fine, she said, but I’m being a good obedient girl and staying in bed.

Whom are you obeying? he asked.

The doctor, my husband, and my mother-in-law, she answered.

He moved his chair a little closer and picked up her hand. I’m so sorry, Esther, he said. I know how much you both wanted the baby. Tears started to trickle down her cheeks.

He didn’t speak and after a minute she said, You must have been warned about this. She indicated her tears by wiping them away.

I was, he answered. But I decided I wouldn’t let it keep me from speaking to you sincerely.

She held his hand tightly. I’m glad of it—glad they don’t scare you off.

No, he said. I don’t scare that easily.

The doctor has said there’s no explanation for why it happened this time and no reason to be afraid it will happen again.

Good, he said.

Miss Hazel has been wonderful. She took care of me; she’s a very strong person. Gabriel is suffering deeply, but he may have hidden it from you.

I’ve seen his suffering, Esther, but I think it’s more for you than over his lost child.

I believe that, she said. Miss Hazel sent him at once for the doctor. I was so glad he wasn’t here. I wasn’t very brave. If he’d been here, I’m afraid he might not have allowed me another chance.

Jubal laughed. So you think banning fathers from the birthing chamber is a good practice?

Oh, I do, she said. They can’t do anything, hovering about, and the poor mother has to bear their suffering, too. No, completely out of earshot is best. She was smiling but he knew that she was serious.

I was coming today anyway, to hear your thoughts on my adventure, he said. Shall we speak of it, or have you had enough time to think about it at all?

I’ve certainly thought about it, but I’m guided totally by what Gabriel and your father say, and by your own opinion, of course. My personal view is of our loss, but I’m completely in support of whatever you do and wish you the greatest success.

Gabriel came into the room carrying a tray with a coffee pot, some cups, and an assortment of goodies. Jubal squeezed her hand and laid it beside her to take the cup Gabriel offered.

I’ve worked myself into being excited about it, he told her. The personal loss is real to me, too, but it isn’t across the ocean or anything. And train service is better and better.

Sarah writes me that Birmingham is beautiful—green like Mobile, but with a different kind of woods, Esther told him.

It’s more industrialized, he said, with some of the dinginess that comes with that.

Tell me something about Elizabethtown. I like the name. She smiled.

I do, too, Jubal said. It’s actually quite mountainous. It seems odd to find such different terrain in the same state. I think you would call it picturesque.

Sarah says there are distinct seasons—snow in winter, color in fall.

Yes, but the snow in winter may not be the best thing for our business. Pretty, though, he added. There had been a dusting of snow when he and Barre were there last, with the promise of more to come.

Have you noticed, Esther, he said, looking around, how much this room is like my cabin?

She smiled widely. Of course I have, she said. Influence of the same designer and artisan.

That’s true, he agreed. You may not know that I finished out that cedar closet, practically single handed.

He did, Gabriel agreed. He also helped with the flooring and all the finish work.

I’m glad I got to see it in use, although the occasion for it grieves me. Tears welled up in Esther’s eyes, unremarked but not unseen.

When will you go? Do you have any sort of schedule yet?

Actually, I leave on Wednesday. Barre will follow in a week or maybe two. I’ll have my things shipped when I have a place to stay.

This time they couldn’t be stopped or ignored. She sobbed openly into her hands. Gabriel stood up to go to her, but Jubal asked a silent permission to sit beside her. It was granted with a nod, and he sat on the bed beside her and put his arms around her. She leaned her head against him and continued sobbing. No one spoke, and he held her for several minutes. The sobs gradually subsided and she wiped her face on her sleeve. Jubal took out his handkerchief and gave it to her.

I didn’t know it was a goodbye visit, she whispered.

I know, he said. Write to me, Esther—regularly, when you’re feeling better. Gabriel has all the information about how to reach me. He put his hands on both sides of her face. I love you, he said, and kissed her gently on the forehead.

I love you, too, she said, her voice still a whisper.

He stood up and turned away in one motion. Gabriel squeezed her toes and followed him down the stairs. Hazel was waiting for them. Her eyes were also filled with tears.

Oh, no, not you, too, Jubal said, and put his arms around her. She held him tightly, crying against his shoulder.

I don’t have Esther’s excuse for this behavior, she said, but you know that I love you so much.

He kissed her cheek and stepped back. Thank you, he said. I needed that. Since Izzie died I’ve been feeling a great need to be held. It felt good. He kissed her again and took the basket she put into his hands without comment.

On the porch, Gabriel said, If you try to kiss me, I’ll hit you. They both laughed off the heaviness of the moment and went to get the big red horse stomping impatiently in the barn.

2

Sarah received Esther’s letter with the news that Maggie was dating Harry Palmer and that Jubal was moving north, and Maggie’s letter with the terrible news of Esther’s miscarriage, on the same day, Esther’s letter having been held up in the mail. She read Esther’s first and tried to push down the rising excitement that she might actually see him. Did she even want to see him? She remembered clearly the last time she had seen his face. But her palms were damp and she could feel the warmth creeping up her neck. Thank God, it was only warmth, not red splotches like poor Edith got on her chest and neck when she was very nervous or self-conscious.

She did want to see him, of course she did, if only for a chance to try to wound him back a little for his behavior to her at the wharf. Hours of considering that behavior had led her to the conclusion that it was probably nothing more significant than that they had wanted to get away—not from her specifically, but from any more social encounters that day. To pretend that they didn’t hear her wouldn’t have been so unconscionable, if his father hadn’t looked in her direction just before Jubal hurriedly climbed into the cab. Wound him, indeed. She smiled at the thought. As if she would ever do that. How did one go about hurting a man who only wanted you to leave him alone? Still, if he should stop by, which she doubted that he would, she meant to have Edith by her side. That meant that she must be even more open with Edith about her feelings. She had always liked Edith. Now, over the last two months, she had come to love her.

She opened Maggie’s letter. Oh, no, she said, dropping it in her lap but immediately picking it up again. Oh, Esther, I’m so sorry. She finished Maggie’s letter but barely took in the news that she was engaged to Harry Palmer. She felt an urgency to get to Esther. She knew it was unreasonable, but she couldn’t shake off a miserable feeling of guilt. She had run away from her in a fit of pique over a man who didn’t want her, and now Esther needed her.

She was sitting in a room she shared with Edith in a part of the nurses’ residence designated for students. The building was separated from the hospital by a paved courtyard not much bigger than a wide alley. It had taken some maneuvering to be able to room together and it was working out very well. Edith was still a novice herself, but to Sarah she seemed experienced and confident. Sarah had been accepted into the nursing school, but she was weeks behind the rest of the small class. She was making great strides, and she lived and worked every day in a constant state of amazement. It was an entirely different world, and the things she was learning about health and disease and about the human body were nothing short of astonishing to the naïve girl she had been. It was a different world and she was a different person after only a few short weeks. But the old Sarah was still there and she was longing to be with her friend.

She folded the letters away and picked up her cloak. She would meet Edith coming from the wards and talk it over with her. She left the building and walked down Twentieth Street to the corner of Sixth Avenue. It was cold. She fastened the heavy woolen cloak at the neck and tucked her arms inside. The cloak was navy on the outside, lined with thick red wool. It was worn by all the nursing students, an easily identifiable part of their uniform.

As she turned onto Sixth Avenue, she saw Edith walking toward her. She was bundled into an identical cloak and she was walking with a man. He looked slightly familiar, but at a distance Sarah couldn’t make out whether she knew him. This was unlucky; she needed to speak with Edith alone.

As they came abreast, Edith smiled. What are you doing out? I thought you’d be tucked up, warm and cozy. Sarah felt an icy precipitation on her face and looked up. Cliff says these are snow clouds, Edith told her.

Sarah looked at him. Hi, he said, extending his hand. I’m Cliff McGee.

Sarah Rushing, Sarah responded, smiling and giving his hand a little shake.

And I’m embarrassed, Edith said with a little laugh. I suppose I assumed that you knew each other since you were both from Mobile.

I was thinking that you looked familiar, Sarah told him, but I don’t think we’ve met.

I’m sure of it, the young man answered.

You may have seen each other any number of times—in shops and so on. Mobile is a small town, Edith offered.

Edith is a big city girl now, he said smiling. But I’m quite sure. His eyes kept wandering back to her face.

Look, Edith said excitedly, holding out her hand and looking upward. Sure enough, the first white flakes were coming down from the heavy gray clouds—clouds so low they seemed almost to envelop them.

Oh! Sarah cried, as the first few flakes were quickly joined by others, swirling and dancing on their way to the ground.

Still unable to keep his gaze from returning to Sarah’s face, Cliff asked, Is this the first snow you’ve seen?

Yes, she answered. Her face was ecstatic. It’s glorious, she said, putting her arms out through the slits in her cloak.

Perhaps we should walk on toward your residence, Cliff said smiling. You could get sick if you get a chill.

I don’t care where we walk, Sarah responded. She was turning in slow circles with her arms extended and her face turned up to catch the falling flakes. It’s wonderful, she said quietly.

They eventually turned back toward the nurse’s residence but progressed very slowly. Snow flakes collected on their hair and their eyebrows, even on their eyelashes as it grew thicker and thicker. Cliff walked to the door of the residence with them.

I don’t suppose I’m allowed inside, he said.

I’m afraid not, Dr. McGee, Edith answered. But I might get you a scarf or something.

I’ll survive, he said. It’s nice to meet you, Sarah. Then, See you, Edith, he called back, as he ran down the sidewalk to the street.

The girls walked inside laughing with excitement. Shake those cloaks and stomp your feet at the door, the housemother called from the desk just inside the door. They hurried back out to the stoop where they shook and stomped obediently, laughing all the time.

I don’t know what it is about snow that makes sensible girls act like ninnies, the housemother said. Go to your room and get into something warm and dry. I don’t need an outbreak of fever in this house.

Yes, ma’am, both girls said apologetically and started up the five flights of stairs to their room. On the second landing, Edith said, I’ve also heard that it makes them feel romantic.

The snow? Sarah asked.

Yes, Edith said. And I believe it. If you hadn’t come along, I might have let him kiss me. She was laughing.

Edith, I’m shocked, Sarah was laughing, too.

And, Edith added, if you hadn’t come along, he might have wanted to.

Edith! Sarah cried. Do you like him?

I hardly know him, dear Sarah, and I will keep my heart safe from him, at least until he knows that he has no chance with you. She wrapped her arm around Sarah’s shoulders. I’m teasing; you know that. You see, the snow does make ninnies of us. Which doesn’t change the fact that the poor man could hardly keep his eyes off your lovely face, she added. How could he, Sarah? You are so beautiful.

Inside their room, they hung their cloaks to dry, obediently donned dry socks, and set their wet shoes near the radiator in case it should put out any warmth.

When they were settled, Sarah told her about Esther’s tragic news and about her desire to be with her. She handed her both letters to read. I read Esther’s first, with the news that he might stop here on his way to Elizabethtown. I was anxious to tell you. I wanted to be sure that you understood and that you would stay beside me. Now, I just want to go home.

Come sit beside the window, my dear. Let the falling snow thrill you, and listen to me tell you that Esther’s crisis has passed.

The crisis has passed, but her grief hasn’t, Sarah responded.

No, that’s true, and I’m not saying that it wouldn’t be good for both of you to be together, but I don’t think there’s urgency. You’ll have time off in late summer—before fall term begins. I wonder if you won’t be as able to comfort her then. The thing is, Sarah, it could endanger your situation here if you asked for special treatment for this. If it were the death of … a parent, or …

I understand, Edith. I know I’ve already received special treatment. All right, I’ll write to her—long and loving letters.

I’m sure that’s best, Sarah.

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They sat quietly beside the window for a while, watching the snow and letting the decision settle in Sarah’s heart. Did Maggie say when she was getting married? Sarah asked.

Edith took up the letter and scanned it. No, she said slowly. Oh, here, she says it may be as long as a year.

Oh, yes. Sarah remembered reading that. I was thinking that she should schedule it when we’re able to be there. Oh, Edith, Esther’s wedding was such fun—it was wonderful. It wouldn’t be the same, of course, but don’t you think it would be fun for us to all be together, celebrating with her? You know that Maggie was Esther’s stand-in bride, and she played the role so well Esther couldn’t bear it. Sarah stopped speaking suddenly and dropped her face into her hands. I’m such a fool, Edith—much worse than a ninny and it can’t be blamed on the snow. She put her face against the window and gazed out at the thick, swirling flakes.

Don’t worry, Edith said, touching Sarah’s knee affectionately. I’m well past being unable to hear a reference to it. This—being here, the school, the newness of everything—has been healing for me, as I hope it will be for you.

One night, in the quiet of their room, Edith had given Sarah her confidence, although never once did she speak Gabriel’s name. It was total nonsense, she’d told her. I was in love with him for years, but he never once looked at me—not like that, I mean. He was always nice, you know, polite, kind, like he is. I imagined that he was friendlier to me than to anyone else, but I knew it was just fantasy. He had no interest in me. You know, Sarah, he is actually very nice looking—not handsome, but his face is so nice. His smile is beautiful …

Edith, don’t, Sarah interrupted her.

No, let me speak about him this once. I haven’t before—not to anyone.

All right, dear, Sarah said quietly.

Except for his foot, Edith went on, his body is perfect. He’s tall, well shaped and strong. I thought… when I first began to notice him… I thought that maybe no one else would. To my shame, I also thought that maybe he would undervalue himself, which he did—maybe still does. He would never have looked at you, for instance, except maybe with appreciation of beauty, but he didn’t look low enough to see me.

Edith, I can’t endure what you’re saying! Even my deep compassion for you won’t allow it. You will say that he looked ‘low’ to find Esther?

No, and I knew that was how you must take it. No, I didn’t know that Esther cared for him. She hid that well, because I now believe that she had also loved him a long time.

That’s true, Sarah said.

I don’t know how she did it, but I think that she caused him to consider her in a different light. Maybe just, in some way, letting him know of her interest in him. I think it opened a door to a kind of life that he may never have considered possible for himself.

You are so close, Edith, Sarah said. I think I can just tell you this without betraying my friend: it was done for her, by accident, but it was done for her. As you said, it made him look at her, and I don’t have to tell you what was there to discover.

No, Edith said. Losing him to someone so worthy has helped make it bearable. Did it begin before the picnic, may I ask? Edith said.

Oh, yes, Sarah answered. Everything was well settled before then.

I’m glad, Edith responded. I would hate to think that I had thrown anything away. You wouldn’t know if he had any idea about my feelings?

"I wouldn’t know, Edith, but I’m as certain as it’s possible to be that he did not."

That’s good, she said. Of course, Esther did.

She probably did, Edith, Sarah agreed, but she never mentioned it to me.

No, she wouldn’t. She’s a wonderful person.

At least you didn’t make a fool of yourself like I did. You still have your self respect, Sarah told her.

I probably owe Sharlene for that, Edith said with a laugh. She told her about the conversation on the beach in which Sharlene had blurted out that Gabriel and Esther were planning to be married. I was devastated, Edith said. I knew I had to have somewhere to run.

That was a stab in the dark out of a mean spirit, Sarah said. I’m certain that she knew nothing.

That would make it somewhat less harsh, Edith answered.

Yes, I think you can give her that.

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Before going to bed that night, Sarah re-read her letters. Esther’s letter was dated Wednesday, January 1. She mentioned the possibility that Jubal would be leaving in two weeks. It seemed likelier that he would travel on a weekend. That could mean either this weekend or next at the latest. She went