Soul Like a River

By J. B. Morton

The year is 1959, and the winds of change rip through the bucolic river town of Jordan, South Carolina. On the cusp of the civil rights movement in America, ethnic tensions reach a boiling point within a cauldron of clashing ideologies and faiths. A devout family – one intimately connected to the land – awaits the homecoming of the eldest son from up north. He has been away at the seminary for some six years. In a highly anticipated event, he arrives home with none other than the Reverend Martin Luther King, Jr, himself.

In the tumultuous weekend that follows, the mighty King electrifies Jordon with the gospel of freedom and integration. But amidst the larger social conflict, another contrasting mindset intervenes, that embodied by the fiery young protagonist, Jimmy. A product of the mean streets of an urban ghetto, the precocious intruder is steeped in the militant ethos of Malcolm X, and his worldview amounts to a bombshell within this isolated, genteel community, a potent source of moral confusion that will wreak havoc, threatening to rip little Jordon asunder.

Wendy Williams, syndicated television and radio host.

“A treat for lovers of fiction.”

RAWSISTAZ reviewers.

“Make note of the name and make sure to digest this important work. His is a new, refreshing literary voice.”

Curtis Bunn, Founder National Club Conference.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: May 26, 2023
• ISBN: 9781647508173

J. B. Morton

A native of South Carolina, J. B. Morton built and led two successive international banking businesses at large banking companies in the South for more than 30 years. From a base in North Carolina, he conducted business in support of domestic clients in Tokyo, Hong Kong, Singapore, Taipei, Bangkok, London, Rome, Florence and Vienna as well as elsewhere through the world. Previously, he published an historical account of the international monetary system (World War II to the 1970s) in a leading business journal. Soul Like a River is his first work of literary fiction. His completed stage play entitled Dusk and Desire was given a staged reading during a high-profile national theater festival in the past.

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About the Author

A native of South Carolina, J. B. Morton built and led two successive international banking businesses at large banking companies in the South for more than 30 years. From a base in North Carolina, he conducted business in support of domestic clients in Tokyo, Hong Kong, Singapore, Taipei, Bangkok, London, Rome, Florence and Vienna as well as elsewhere through the world. Previously, he published an historical account of the international monetary system (World War II to the 1970s) in a leading business journal.

Soul Like a River is his first work of literary fiction. His completed stage play entitled Dusk and Desire was given a staged reading during a high-profile national theater festival in the past.

Dedication

For Evelynn and June in consideration of love and understanding

Copyright Information ©

J. B. Morton 2023

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Ordering Information

Quantity sales: Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address below.

Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data

Morton, J. B.

Soul Like a River

ISBN 9781647508166 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781647508159 (Hardback)

ISBN 9781647508173 (ePub e-book)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023905125

www.austinmacauley.com/us

First Published 2023

Austin Macauley Publishers LLC

40 Wall Street, 33rd Floor, Suite 3302

New York, NY 10005

USA

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Prologue

When I received the news that Big Mama had died, it really knocked the wind out of me. While the family had known that her days were short, the reality of her passing staggered us all. She had lived a long and good life, devout and devoted to her family to the end. And now we would miss her dearly. A great big hole was left in our lives, bereft of the glow from her warm sun, devoid of the soothing country contours of her voice, her elevating embrace but a fond memory. Most of all, we struggled with this fact: the triumphant spirit that had animated our lives for so long, that which had anchored us in the only place we could ever call home, was gone forever. And so, in this time of our bereavement, we reflected upon the formative days of our upbringing, recalling the tumultuous era in years past when, even under duress, we grew stronger as a family, remembering how Big Mama, in those trying yet wonderful days, had made all the difference in our little world.

Part I

The Homecoming

Chapter 1

We were a river people, most all of us in this story of a family from not so long ago. The year was 1959. In our little corner of Carolina, the river ruled us, shaped us in some mysterious way. Thundering through the voluptuous landscape, the river loomed omnipotent, ubiquitous as the ghosts of the Confederacy. Capricious with its power, it slashed headlong like a comet, bold and relentless, full of spirits, the old folks claimed. In this time and place the people flourished like orchids in a hothouse. Here the righteous inherited a bounty of land and hope, infused with the spirit of the river. Both fecund and spectacular, given to unexpected extremes, she was then, as today, the mighty Savannah. Big Mama, when the train gon’ come? I yelled. Big Mama was too wrapped up in preparation for that evening’s big event to even hear me then. For on this day, we awaited a very special evening. Tingling with excitement, our little family brimmed with good fortune. Indeed, it was the most thrilling and dramatic homecoming day ever.

Arriving on the cusp of enormous social ferment, the year 1959 was indicative of a gentler time. The Butler clan was a particularly fortunate breed, full of faith in an almighty God. Blessed by nature’s everlasting rhythm, graced by a spectacle of beauty that was our abiding wealth, life seemed grand. Above all, it was an article of faith that the river was all-knowing; the truth of its ancient memory was in the blood flowing in our veins.

Prancing about on the farmhouse porch, happily awaiting the arrival of the train, I grew anxious in time. Redolent with flowers, the air was charged. I drank in its perfumed essence in long, delicious draughts, letting it penetrate me, be absorbed by me. Our day had come.

In those long-ago days in our Southern town, doors were left unlocked. Children roamed far and wide without fear of harm in this unsullied place. The world revolved at a slower pace. To be sure, we lived a soulful life, one suffused with layered textures. In certain ways, I am still there, or rather I find myself transported there when the scent of wild honeysuckle brings it all flooding back. The mighty Savannah sliced through the menthol pines of Carolina, flooding the red clay, renewing the soil. On intimate terms with it, we blossomed under some spell of nature, nourished by a kind of metaphysical warmth.

A brisk hint of fall drifted down upon Jordan, South Carolina, on that momentous homecoming Saturday in September 1959. The somnolent summer days gave way to autumn’s air of expectation; the tonic breeze bestowed its seasonal magic; and the secret perfume of clover, sweet and lovely, drugged the air. But the halcyon days would soon evaporate. Like driftwood tossed about upon the river, we were swept up by the tumult of the times, humbled by a storm crackling with the fury of thunderbolts on a summer’s day. A rare air of anticipation gripped the Butler farmstead, as it did much of Jordan County, which, as a boy of twelve, I knew only through the lens of family. Every nook and cranny of the Negro section of Jordan trembled with excitement. For not only was our own favored son coming home from Brooklyn that very evening, it was expected that he would be accompanied on the train by none other than the most revered black man of the day, the comet known as the Reverend Martin Luther King, Jr. himself. Alonzo Riley Butler was the son of Mamie and James Butler, sturdy people of faith who had raised us from birth. Guided by solid values, they were there for us at all times, unwavering in their devotion, the very rock in the river of our hopes and dreams. Later that evening, the family’s shining young prince would glide in upon the Silver Comet, heralded by a piercing whistle that would rent the sky. And although I longed to ride upon the mighty iron chariot, at this hour I was thrilled by the mere awareness that, soon, I would witness the train barreling along tracks running parallel to the river, glistening in the early evening sun. Out in the barnyard beyond the farmhouse that rested on a hill, I scouted the golden landscape in the distance. The placid river valley that defined Jordan sparkled before me. I craned my neck skyward to see if the birds were stirring, if they sensed an auspicious arrival. Autumn leaves rustled in the fields, floating about in swirling eddies. Gray, weather-beaten barns stood erect like stolid sentinels. The sun shone brilliantly in the late afternoon sky. The long broad meadow sloped down into the heart of the river valley, merging with acres of fir-clad hillsides and Muscadine vineyards. In all, the land seemed relieved by the advent of autumn, the parched fields recovering at last from the scorching summer heat. Once again, I drew in the bracing smell of the farmyard and the fields, letting the aroma swirl in my head, savoring the essence of the land. But it would be the last time I would feel so at peace in the only place I could ever call home. I ran back onto the wooden-plank porch of the farmhouse. The air about the house was electric. For days, Alonzo’s homecoming had triggered emotions flushed with memories of the past, reigniting a warm sense of pride in all of us. Eagerly, the family had followed his star in the six years since he had gone to New York to study at the Baptist seminary. The firstborn son, he was our vessel in the strange new world up North, propelled there by a mother’s selfless, unconditional love. Indeed, it was this indomitable spirit that was the absolute strength of our family. Big Mama! How long it gone be now? I asked again, yelling from the front porch, searching the horizon.

He’a be on in here directly, chile! Wit’ the Reven’ Martin Luther Kang. Lawd ham mercy! Thank you, Jesus! Big Mama said, her heart full of joy.

Wit’ the Reven Martin Luta Kang? I asked, dutifully impressed.

Thas right, baby! Martin Luther Kang, Jr! Ni, ya know they say he’s a GOD-SENT mane, Big Mama declared. Vaulting off the porch and into the yard, I gazed upon the hillside in the west, panting. Soft, white, fluffy clouds scudded by overhead. In time, the sun evolved into a fading fireball perched heavenward in a perfect blue alley of the sky. Butterflies in dazzling colors danced in the meadow, a vibrant canvas of rhododendrons laced with the seasonal exuberance of black-eyed susans. As my uncle, Alonzo and I had much in common. We were reared in the same household and under the all-consuming influence of a most formidable woman. We were forever brothers in this way, nurtured in the same loving brown arms. Like Alonzo before me, I reveled in the sweet, juicy kisses she plastered on my big, fat Butler jaws. Our prince of a young man, Alonzo, was marked for something special, though. And at home, there were fervent hopes that he would not let us down. On the day Alonzo returned to Jordan, Big Mama attended to every conceivable detail of the homecoming. Indefatigable, she had connived with the pastor of our somewhat prosperous little church to create a special and memorable weekend occasion. Indeed, the redoubtable Reverend Willie B. Cade was a figure of some resourcefulness himself. Shrewd, Southern-bred, blessed with a magnetic personality as well as vast speaking gifts, the pastor was the ringleader for the weekend events. Over the course of the prior week, he and Big Mama had cajoled everyone under their influence—and then some—enlisting their support in making that weekend an unforgettable one for King, Alonzo, and everyone else. More than they had bargained for, the glorious weekend joyride we were about to embark upon would be not only a uniquely festive occasion but one bearing the seeds of unprecedented friction and turmoil. For me, Big Mama was a blessed force of nature, a whole world to me, beautifully Southern in a soft and selfless way, as sweet as the tea on a Sunday afternoon. One could not help but notice Alonzo’s striking resemblance, their smooth brown complexions bearing the ginger-colored glow of oak leaves in autumn. The boy looked like she must have up and spit him out one fertile day. Some twenty-seven years hence, he had been born on the farm in Jordan, arriving upon the tide of a full moon. Born fifteen years before me and a year before his sister and my natural mother, Viola, Alonzo was destined to be a thoroughbred. In the circumstances, Viola would not be in Jordan during this time. Her story and that of Alonzo were quite different. Like many other young, able-bodied children of the South coming of age in the forties and fifties, she had fled Jordan a year after Alonzo had left for the seminary. Drawn by the siren song of the fabled promised land up North, she—like armies of her brethren—left home to find work that better suited her disposition. Of course, similarly disposed young men of that era left in droves. After all, gifted and energetic young men and women were interested in latching onto something other than the rear end of a mule or, for that matter, cleaning up after white folks. Somehow, Viola persuaded Big Mama and Big Daddy that leaving Jordan was for the best, even though this had to be a tough sell for any young woman in our family. Still, dignified work was hard to come by in Jordan. Negroes owned few successful, enduring businesses, and preaching and teaching just wasn’t for everybody. Beyond that, working in the brutal cotton fields left much to be desired; such a lot in life would simply not do for Viola. Oftentimes when Big Mama grew subdued by the mere mention of Viola’s name, she took solace in the sorrow songs, songs that, in and of themselves, were as soothing as the sound of the river. On this occasion, she chose the old Negro gospel I’ll Be All Right Someday. Come what may, she seemed to rise above the rugged times, elevated by the spirit channeled in the music, her soul deeper than the ocean.

As for Big Daddy, he was a natural-born country stud, grounded in the land. And, unlike Mamie, his plump and fertile wife, he was never gracious in his assessment of the young ones who uprooted themselves for the fool’s gold of some faraway paradise. Perceptive and blunt, he hardly minced words when remarking upon the wanderlust that had even influenced his only daughter, Viola.

Huh head done jumped high, he would say. As it happened, Viola had eloped with the slippery character who marginally regarded himself as my father. Fortunately for me, I knew where I belonged: right here in Jordan, in Big Mama’s loving arms, alongside Big Daddy.

As the five o’clock hour drew near, I paced in the barnyard, frustrated to the brink of boredom. Predictably, it was not long before I indulged in typical barnyard mischief, scattering the hens with rocks I slung at them, watching the birds flee, screaming hysterically. Big Mama, I still can’t hear nuthin’! I yelled from the yard, jumping up and down, slinging away at anything that moved.

When the train gon’ come? The farmhouse stood stone silent; Big Mama being otherwise engaged. By then, Big Daddy had gone about his business of lining up men for the hog slaughter scheduled for later that evening. Spirited gospel music blared from the kitchen table radio. Big Mama was setting her mood right. Her boy was coming home at last.

I arrived in the kitchen to find Big Mama stirring there. A greasy, stained, and sweat-drenched apron clung ever so tightly to her rotund belly. The earthy, warm smell of her, bathed and perfumed, put me at ease. Mingling with the fresh, green garden aromas of our percolating little country kitchen, it was enough to comfort anyone. Flaky, baking-powder biscuits beckoned me. Warm and buttery, I knew they were bursting with flavor.

Randy, I don’t want y’all to be late for the train ni. I’m qwine git outa here directly, Big Mama said. The preacha say he need me to git thangs set up jes right down yonda…at the train station. So you and my baby, Junie, come on down in a lil bit. Lonzo a be mighty upset if y’all don’t be there when the Silva Comet git here. You hear me, boy?

Yassum, I replied, wondering where Junie, the baby of the clan, was hanging out just then. He was mine to keep track of. Two years younger than me, Junie was the last (and, quite likely, surprise) child of James and Mamie Butler.

Naturally, it was ordained that Junie and I be on our very best behavior —if only for the sake of appearances. In a pointed reminder, Big Mama warned that we had better act like we had some sense. Or else. Frankly, I was pretty sure Alonzo didn’t much care about our behavior then. He’d be just as happy to see us. Moreover, part of his charm was his smooth, easy-going manner. Good-natured to the core, he was a real down brother, as they say nowadays.

By all accounts, Alonzo had confronted the big city on its terms and survived it well enough. The prevailing assumption was that his well-mannered Southern style, decency, and common sense were still firmly intact. Influenced mightily by his mother, he had prepared himself for the Baptist ministry at the seminary up North over some six years. It was a calling and a trade of sorts, one that would stand him in good stead in time, they said, preferably in or near Jordan.

He ain’t been contaminated yet, Big Mama would say. Least I can tell. He know he been raised right. She remarked upon this fact often during the years of his sojourn in New York.

Judging from the many letters she read to us in her proud but halting manner, an uneducated woman reading slowly by the warmth of the pot-bellied stove in winter and on the porch at other times, she let us know that her eldest son, the keeper of the dreams, was doing just fine. Randy, come here a minute. You thank my dress look okay? Big Mama said from her bedroom, primping hard. She regarded herself in the mirror at her wood-paneled bureau, patting her hair, checking her mascara, craving reassurance, I sensed.

Lawd, I ain’t woe’ this ole thang since Lonzo done been gone.

I was quick to flatter her.

It looks good to me, Big Mama, I said. When the train gone come?

I may as well have been talking to the wall.

Anybody’s got any sense…is stayin’ down South, Big Daddy was known to say.

Shaped by the land, he never cared much for the city, especially those way up north. By his lights, the city was a god-forsaken place. I reckon us folks got that mud in our blood. Anyway, that was how he saw it. By his lights, the soil was poor in the city, and the souls of black folk stunted. Many of the children of Jordan came home over time, the spirit of the land still burning in their soul, causing them to amble home for Christmas, family reunions or funerals, often looking like they’d seen a hard time more than anything else. Most betrayed a withering away of their former selves, like a flower without the sun. I ran back out onto the porch again to search for signs of the train, imagining once more its fiery arrival at the little train depot just off the courthouse square in the center of little Jordan.

I pictured him disembarking the train, hand-in-hand with the one Big Mama called a God-sent mane. In a kind of reverie, I envisioned them sauntering off the train and onto the awaiting tarmac, dignified and beaming amidst a wildly jubilant crowd, enveloped in that fine evening ether of Jordan at dusk. Glowing like the shining prince he was destined to be, I could see him wowing the bevy of fine, young, buttery-lipped honeys swooning about him and King at the depot. Tirelessly, Big Mama had prepared Junie and I for the homecoming. Judging by her actions, one would have surmised that the second coming of the very carpenter from Nazareth was imminent.

I sho wish Viola was gone be here to see Lonzo comin’ home today. But I guess de Lawd can’t make a way fa evythang, Big Mama said, doleful. She went on about ironing the flower-patterned dress she had styled while primping in front of her mirror. With the reality and nearness of the evening’s celebratory event at hand, she shook off the fleeting somber mood and sang a hymn of gratitude. As she sang, I began to clap a beat, bobbing my head, writhing in rhythm. She sang an old Negro spiritual that was like a tonic for her, and she sang in such a way that you just had to pat your feet to the beat.

I’ll be all right! I’ll be all right, she sang. I’ll be all right…SOMEDAYYYY. All my troubles will be ovah. I’ll be home at last. I’ll be all right…Somedaayy.

Her heart full, Big Mama soon worked feverishly over a percolating pot of collard greens back in the kitchen. The bracing scent of it filled my nostrils. I salivated at the prospect of indulging myself with the veritable feast she had prepared for later. Food of every garden color and aroma bulged from the kitchen table, adjoining counters, and stove. Freshly shucked and boiled yellow corn smoked alongside platters of piping hot rice and gravy. Lima beans, red tomatoes, fried okra, candied-yams, and baked sweet potatoes that were sliced open and lying in wait tempted me. Earthy aromas drifted up from all manner of garden vegetables, some laden upon the old battle station of a stove. The kitchen steam enveloped Big Mama, her command of the kitchen a thing to behold. Later on, she would see to it that the family ate itself into a contented stupor.

Ni I don’t want you and Junie to be late for Lonzo’s train, she reminded me for what must have been the tenth time that day.

Yassum, I replied, having little choice in the matter.

You s’posed to be the one in charge, she said.

Yassum.

Not having an actual brother, Junie had more than sufficed within the Butler household, even if I had to personally watch over him half the time.

I’d take y’all myself, Big Mama said, ‘ccept I gotta go git the choir goin’. It’s near ‘bout time we’s there. And I ain’t got time to be foolin’ with no chaps. Lawwddd! And the preacher ’bout ta drive me crazy, she said, having the time of her life I knew. Ya know it’s just so much Big Mama can do. Sweat streamed in myriad pools of glistening moisture down her neck and bare arms. The warm, piquant odor that always comforted us flowed naturally from her body, cutting through the smell of the steaming ham and greens and onions. Pulled magnetically into her orbit, Junie and I were like happy little moons revolving tightly around her glowing sun.

The sweltering little kitchen pulsed at full throttle just before Big Mama left the house for the train depot. Radiant in her blue and white Sunday best, she primped in the mirror right up until the last moment. Don’t y’all be late ni! she said, lost in thought as she got ready to leave.

You know old folks ain’t got no bizness tryin’ to raise chillun’ these days. I inhaled the pleasing aroma of coconut custard pie that called out for me from the kitchen counter, living dangerously while calculating my odds at indulging myself before Big Mama had given the word. Junie stormed into the kitchen then, having been lured there himself by the sugary aroma wafting through the house. He regarded me with his sneaky look, cutting his eyes at the coconut custard pie. Suddenly, we both froze in our tracks as Big Mama marched back toward the kitchen, the sound of her high-heel shoes announcing her imminent arrival. We pretended to look out of the kitchen window and into the barnyard as she entered, ignoring the cake, as if Big Mama wasn’t hip to us. She carried a large purse under her arm and wore her brand-new, blue Sunday-go-to-meeting hat. Big Mama looked sharp. And while I wasn’t around to note the Queen of the Nile, she couldn’t have had much over Big Mama. Not on this day. For us, she was Queen of the Savannah. Ni lissen here! Daddy gone pick up the preacher. So y’all gone have ta’ git ya lil selves on down there by yasef. Don’t be countin’ on him to come back and gitcha. And you know the preacher ain’t neva on time. So gitcha lil tails down there by six! she barked.

They say that’s when the train s’posed to be in.

Yassum, I said.

Yas mam, Big Mama, said Junie.

Hi I look? asked Big Mama, a hint of concern in her eyes. She pulled her small mirror from her purse.

You look good, Big Mama, I said, grinning.

Boootiful, Junie said.

Ahh you hush, boy, Big Mama said, hugging Junie, laughing, knowing he was lying but liking it anyway.

She bent over and kissed us both smack dab on our big, brown, bubble cheeks.

What I do without you two rascals? She smiled broadly, a twinkle in her eye.

Well, ni ya know I gotta look pretty for Lonzo, ya see. Gotta make a good impression for Martin Lutha Kang, too. She checked herself out again in the little mirror she had placed strategically in her purse.

Lawd, we ain’t neva had nuthin’ like this in Jordan. She went on out the door then, looking for her ride to the depot.

And you know it ain’t no tellin’ what some of dese here women in Jordan gone do. You know folks is so silly sometime. Soon Big Mama departed for the train station, leaving in a truck with a neighbor and lady friend. They lost me in a cloud of swirling dust as they took off down the curving dirt hill, moving fast away from the farmstead, chickens scurrying everywhere. Resigned to my temporary state of suspended flight, I reflected upon Alonzo’s arrival and what it meant for me personally. Everyone knew he possessed gifted hands, hands that wrought homemade bows and arrows from the birch and oak trees growing luxuriantly in the woods beyond the farm. A clever country boy of some renown, he had ears keenly in tune with his surroundings in the woods, able to stalk wild prey with a BB gun, able to tell the dulcet call of a robin from that of the bluebird. And as a practical matter, he was brave enough to rid us of those pesky snakes that invariably wriggled up onto the porch where we idled in summer, slithering creatures that were known for striking the fear of God in us. In the fall of 1959, the prospect of one Reverend Martin Luther King, Jr. descending upon Jordan, South Carolina, was quite the happening. Revving up the tension and excitement in our community, King would descend from his singularly lofty perch in the vanguard of the most pivotal social movement in American history. The chosen one, he above others carried the banner for his burgeoning crusade for human rights and justice. Indeed, to the uninitiated and largely skeptical masses, word of the phenomenon known as a civil rights movement. a movement being forged by a band of bright, visionary, and determined Negro men and women, sent shockwaves through our isolated community, alarming both black and white folk. By then, King was a brilliant shooting star in the firmament of moral leadership in the South. No doubt, he was a man for our time, possessed of immense moral imagination. But while he was admired widely for his work and gift as a magnificent orator, there were those within the so-called dignified classes of Negroes—the mulatto elite, for example—who regarded him as a little on the dark side. In more than one Southern Negro community of the day, King was, in fact, persona non-gratis and portrayed as a rabble-rouser. And in the whispers of some, he had crossed the line from docile, well-mannered preacher to militant, unpredictable niggah. King’s rocket to fame and glory had been ignited during the Montgomery Bus Boycott of 1955–56, a seminal event in American history that would be widely acknowledged as the watershed event launching the modern civil rights movement. With stirring eloquence, he not only made people think, he made them feel.

Notwithstanding the great sense of anticipation surrounding his return, Alonzo Butler cruised home upon a cloud of some mystery. The only thing we knew for sure was that, while in Brooklyn, he had entered the seminary and, by all accounts, done well. He planned on plying his trade somewhere down South. Soon he’d be angling opportunity back home with the sure feel of a country boy pulling trout from a running stream, it was thought. With Big Mama guiding the way, anything was possible. Junie sat at the kitchen table calmly munching down a sandwich I had prepared for him, gobbling the remains of the mayonnaised white bread, seemingly content while I ached with anticipation. I paced about in the yard, contemplating leaving for the station right then and there without him. Thinking better of it, I kept a steady vigil on the porch, my eyes locked on the hillside and in the direction of the train tracks that wended around the hills and into the gut of Jordan.

The sun grew fainter in the west. The cloud colors evolved from snowy white to gray. Swirling eddies of leaves littered the ruddy and green fields. The air was sweet and invigorating, seasoned with clover. Vegetation grew thick as far up as a stand of towering oaks rooted just beyond the borders