An Undisturbed Peace (11 page)

Abe wondered if the painter—who certainly must have created the painting he'd found under Marian's bed—was also the author of the letters she kept. It occurred to him that the black man in the portrait was Jacob, the black woman no doubt Lulu. He thought of the letters a little more. Why would she keep the letters of a man she found ridiculous? He thought to probe a bit more on the subject.

“Maybe that's just what she told you, Jacob,” he said.

Jacob slammed his fist against the tabletop, rattling the candlesticks, the bowls, the crystal glasses, and the bottle of liquor.

“No!” he said. “I was there! Ridiculous was exactly right! How we laughed together about him! I was there, I tell you! Ridiculous!”

Because he was envious of the painter, because he'd had too much to drink, because he was yet young and not done with recklessness, dark emotion overrode Abe's finer sensibilities. He dismissed what Jacob said. He failed even to regard the strength of his reactions. He pushed a little harder.

“How can that be?” he asked, eyebrows raised in innocent conjecture. “When I was with her, I saw a painting of Dark Water with her family and you also, I must assume. Surely it was one of those you mention. It had a most prized place in her cabin. There was a box of letters that was somehow connected to the painting too, as I recall, although I didn't think much of them at the time. Perhaps they were from this painter?”

Jacob gave him his full face. One eye brimmed with rage. The good side of his mouth, reeking fumes of bourbon, snarled. On the opposite side, everything remained as it was.

“No! No! No! They can't have been! When finally we were able to get him back to England—and oh, what a trial that was!—there was nothing more between them. Nothing! It was me she spent time with, teaching me to read, to write, to speak like the English! Oh, golden hours! Not his! Mine!”

Jacob inclined his neck backward, imploring his God, no doubt, to deliver him from the idiotic skepticism of his guest. In the next stinking breath, he succumbed to the intoxication his anger had inflamed. His good eye rolled back in his head and he fell forward onto the table, his torso landing with a whack on the tabletop. Abe poked him in the shoulder. Nothing. The man's gone 'til morning, he thought. He stood and found himself unsteady. In his head, he heard his mother's admonitions.
Never drink with gentiles
, she'd say.
It will end badly every time
. Hoping he would not suffer too much in the morning from his indulgence, he staggered to the settee, collapsed, and fell into a deep, drunken sleep.

Morning came in bright shafts of light streaming through the open door of Jacob's house. Abe groaned and lolled his head against the tufted cushions, his back stiff, his stomach queasy. Jacob was gone, but the mess of the night's meal was yet strewn over the table. He got up with difficulty and made his way to the little barn, where he found his host feeding the animals. Jacob greeted him with good cheer, seemingly unaffected by the night's excess.

“Good morning, young sir!” he said. “You look some the worse for wear. No matter. We'll have a tea I make from flowers and herbs. You'll soon feel tip-top.”

They went back to the house and cleared the table. Jacob brought in tea with bread. After a short time, Abe felt wondrously revived.

“If only the tea restored the memory,” Jacob announced. “I can't recall where we were last night in my story.” He shrugged. “Have you any idea?”

It might be best, Abe thought, to skip the painter for now. It was the murder he'd come to investigate. Why not take advantage of Jacob's foggy recollection?

“You were telling me how the son of Teddy Rupert was killed.”

“Ah.” Jacob looked around the room. “The matter that brought me here. The murder of that dirty, nasty creature.” He slapped the table but not in the violent manner of the night before. Here was a gesture of finality, not anger. “I'm sorry, but I cannot tell you that. I have made vows.”

“To whom?”

“To her. Of course to her. She would have to release me.”

Frustration rose from the peddler's gut. This vow between Jacob and Marian made his journey to Echota less profitable than he'd hoped. Yes, he'd learned a great deal he didn't know before, but hardly as much as he wished. Much of what he'd learned he could have asked her directly. Instead, he'd wasted days that delayed his return to her. What bond could Marian and this monster share that would inspire such fidelity? Yes, Jacob loved her. He'd admitted as much. But could she possibly have returned his affection? Had they been lovers? And what of his ruination? Had his injuries been sustained in a battle with Billy Rupert or elsewhere? He had to know. So he asked.

“What happened to you, Jacob? What caused your scars and crippling?”

Immediately, he regretted his inquiry. It was rude, perhaps hurtful to whatever pride the man had left. But his scruples were irrelevant. Jacob was long past pride. His face, so ugly and so handsome at the same time, betrayed no emotion.

“When a fugitive is a resident of a city of refuge,” he said, “he cannot be molested nor threatened by any man seeking justice or revenge against him. But for that, he must be at the front in whatever war is declared from the time he is absorbed by that city until his first kill. Afterward, he is absolved of his crime. He may go free. For me, my chance at redemption was the Creek War, where I served with the Cherokee at the Battle of Horseshoe Bend under General Jackson. It was a great victory for Jackson but not for me. Perhaps one of my arrows stopped our enemy, I couldn't know. Just look at me. I should be dead. I fell early in the battle and the Creek set upon me, burning my face, gouging my eye, crushing my limbs. At the worst moment of my extremity, I had a vision of my sweet lady. I saw her face as I was about to enter the arms of death and she told me to return to life. I've always struggled to please her and so I did.” The good half of his mouth smiled. “What a life, eh? Should I tell you to thank her, young sir?”

He laughed a hearty, healthy laugh, not the anguished laugh of the night before. But it was his words, not his laughter that struck Abe as most significant. The slave murderer was asking him, in his way, to carry his story back to Marian, to deliver a message that he was alive, if not exactly well. That meant Jacob would not be going to her himself. A wild, self-indulgent thought struck the young man's mind, hot and sharp as a bolt of lightning. If Jacob had been Marian's lover, he would rush to her now that her blessings had been delivered. If he chose to remain where he was, then his devotion to “his lady” had never been of the carnal sort, or if it had, it had faded beyond reawakening. How obvious! How marvelous! Abe made certain by asking him directly.

“Don't you wish to tell her yourself, Jacob?”

“Oh, young sir. I am never leaving Chota. Never.”

Abrahan Bento Sassaporta Naggar felt all ill will toward the man wash away from his heart and mind. Whatever Jacob meant to Marian once upon a time, he looked to be staying exactly where he was, and whatever had transpired between them would remain in the past. The Englishman, whoever he was, had returned to London twenty years before. Abe's heart swelled with delight. As far as he knew, he was the last man standing. Marian would remain his and his alone.

At Uncle Isadore's Camp Town

T
here was much for Abe to ponder on the way back to Uncle Isadore's camp. First he prepared an announcement to his uncle that thanks to a beneficent God and a miraculous season, he was able to pay off his debt. This was a delight. Next were multiple rehearsals of the far more glorious speech that would win Marian's agreement to join him in a place where the treacherous world could not reach them. Abe's visions of that euphoric event changed according to the day's weather, as he imagined her assent to his plans in the rain, in the sun, in the fog, in a shower of turning leaves, in the day, and in the night. Always, matters ended in an avalanche of sighs, the most ardent of embraces, and the deepest kiss. With utter confidence, he puzzled over the logistics of transporting Marian and their possessions into the virgin wilderness. Hart had an earful of his practical concerns. As they neared the camp, his plans took definite form.

“This spring, I managed through my skill at packing to burden you with a bonanza of wares, dear Hart,” he said, leaning forward to pat the sturdy horse on his neck while they walked the woods, “a load happily made lighter quickly, first by the accidents and misfortunes of our starting out, and then by my equal skill in salesmanship.” The horse snorted agreement, as if remembering. “Perhaps when we set out for our new lives, you might pull a cart or a wagon of some kind, with Marian's mount as your teammate, eh? You two can haul everything and us too. What do you say to that, my boy?”

Apparently, Hart found the idea unappealing as he suddenly broke into a rapid trot that stole his rider's breath and thought. Abe did not try to slow him down, knowing by now that when certain moods struck the beast, resistance was useless. Better to trust his good sense and hope for the best. By the time he slowed again, the peddler was elated by both the thrill of their jaunt and the proximity of the camp. They halted by a clear, cold stream, where Hart took a drink and Abe freshened up, combing the hair that stuck out from under his cap with his fingers, washing his face and hands. He separated the commissions the retired peddlers expected from his hoard, stuffing that bundle of coin and bills in his trouser pockets, then remounted and straightened his back. Proud and happy, he rode into town with his head high, nodding to the people he passed, all of whom seemed to regard him with a curious excitement. He attributed their interest to the handsome figure he cut astride the noble, high-stepping Hart, who tossed his head and whinnied their approach. He rode directly to Uncle Isadore's office, tied Hart to a post, and, slinging his saddlebags over his shoulder, ascended the front steps and threw open the door.

As usual, Uncle Isadore sat behind his large, imposing desk imported from England, an enormous dark affair with thick legs each terminating in the claw of an eagle strangling a ball. His winged chair had a back as high as a king's throne and was covered in a rich purple damask. There was a bookshelf behind him stuffed with ledgers, a hooked rug on the floor, oil lamps here and there, as well as a few uncomfortable chairs for visitors. Everything about the room was designed to intimidate. Until this moment, the design had worked on Abe, but suddenly all fear was banished by the young man's joy of accomplishment, and love, and hope. He felt a surge of affection for the bent, bearded figure holding a quill in his ink-stained hands, sitting in a stream of light from an open window like a patriarch of legend. With exuberance, he swung the saddlebags from his shoulder and slammed them emphatically on the desktop. A spiral of dust motes ascended like smoke to form a halo around his uncle's head.

“Uncle! I am home! I am triumphant! Count your money, pay me my salary, and declare me released from obligation!”

He stood back, rocking on his heels in anticipation. Uncle Isadore looked inside one of the saddlebags and scooped out the moneys within. A thick spray of coin glittered in the light. Fans of cash enfolded the coin in a soft, voluminous embrace.

“I am amazed, my lad,” Uncle Isadore said. There was admiration and warmth in his tone. Abe smiled, basking in avuncular appreciation. “I was impressed beyond measure by the wares you collected, but this! Nephew, you are one revelation after the other, a true branch of the family tree.”

He rose from his desk and walked around it. He put a hand between Abe's shoulders, then clapped him on the back. “Good fellow,” he said, “Good fellow. I know I was hard on you when you first arrived. You must understand I had my reasons. This life is not for everyone. The strong survive, the weak are swallowed up. I took you on because your mother wrote me that you lacked direction and that you'd fallen into idleness, perhaps even petty crime. I did it for her before she saw you in the hulks then off to Australia.”

Abe interrupted him to defend himself. “Uncle. You cannot know what it's like in the ghetto these days. It's likely changed since you were there. Without a few games up his sleeve, a lad would starve, and his mother too.”

He could not tell if Uncle Isadore believed him or not. The older man waved his hands about, dismissing his excuses.

“Be that as it may, I was skeptical, I will admit! I was not sure if I might not have to ship you back to her. But the past is past. You've proved your mettle. So!” He paused to catch his nephew's eye and hold it. He raised his bearded chin in preparation of a grand announcement.

“I'm going to give you a promotion!” he said, smiling. “No more wandering about. You know that shop I've just built in Greensborough? No mere trading post but an emporium, the first of its kind, highly anticipated. I'm thinking I must do no less for you than make you manager. Eh? Eh? After all,” he concluded with a wink and a nod, “you are my blood.”

It was not the reception Abe had imagined. Like every fatherless boy that ever was, praise from an older man, his chief, you might say, a man brimming over with paternal authority, was a drug to him. He inhaled deeply, greedily, taking it all in with delight. Yet he demurred.

“Uncle,” he began, “your offer humbles me. You might well ask yourself, how would I, a pup, a greenhorn, an ignoramus of all things American not two years ago, succeed so? I'm telling you, it was because I had a motivation. First, to be free of debt …”

Isadore laughed, clapped him once more on the back, then sighed in amusement, as if Abe had delivered a fine riposte.

“Free? You think you're free? Oh, my lad, yes, you've made a fortune but your debt is not yet paid.”

Abe's jaw dropped. His brow wrinkled. Stunned to silence, he waved his hands over the pile of money on the desk. His uncle grinned at him and nodded his head encouragingly, ready to hear what great joke might come out of his nephew next. After a few torturesome moments, the old man showed mercy.

“Forgive me, Abrahan. I have a surprise for you, a marvelous surprise!”

He took Abe by the shoulders and turned him toward the corridor that led to his camp-town living quarters. With a great flourish of his arms, he gestured welcome to a dimly seen figure who advanced slowly into the light. “I present,” Uncle Isadore said, beaming with the self-satisfied pleasure of a master of surprise, “your mother!”

Susanah Naggar Sassaporta, a short, stout woman of forty years, dressed in old-country black, a mantilla pinned to her well-dressed wig, her plump little hands stuffed into black lace gloves, her great browned-butter eyes running over with joyous tears, stretched out her arms as she toddled her way into those of her beloved and only child.

“Mother!”

“My son!”

Uncle Isadore came up behind them to hug them both together. There were damp eyes all around. Abe inquired about her health and her journey. Susanah waved all that aside and reported on the welfare of the friends of his youth and the gossip of his old neighborhood. She told him she'd been waiting weeks for his return from his rounds. How worried she'd been! What had taken him so long? Abe blushed and muttered something about rains and overflowing tributaries, which was the best he could come up with on the spot. Later, they settled at table to a dinner Susanah prepared, featuring as many Ladino delicacies as she could create out of the foodstuffs on hand. She'd brought spices from home, saffron, cardamom, paprika, and piripiri. Their aromas did a trick. The men were effusive in their praise. Combined with a bottle of Madeira she'd also packed away, they sunk into a haze of nostalgia and familial warmth. Abe thanked his uncle for bringing his mother to him. The drink enlivened his veins and his nerve. “Although,” he dared to continue, “I'm not sure the price of such a delightful surprise should be the renewal of my debt!” His mother sat at the head of the table and the men on opposite sides. Abe took up his mother's hand, kissed it, and asked, “How much more have you decided I owe you?”

Isadore raised a palm and patted air. “Now, now. You mustn't feel you're in a hurry to pay me back. Debtors are debtors but family is family.” The merchant took Susanah's other hand and kissed it also. “I could hardly allow this dear woman, my beloved little brother's widow, to withstand the rigors a strong young man could endure on the crossing. Nay, I secured for her a private cabin on a fine French vessel transporting dignitaries to Washington. From there, she rode a carriage, stopping at the best inns along the way. Yes, I spent three times the price of your journey, my lad!” Abrahan Bento Sassaporta Naggar blanched, a fact that did not go unnoticed by his uncle. “Don't worry, nephew, your salary as manager will be handsome and we'll negotiate additional commissions on your bottom line. That will be a treat, eh? I look forward to witnessing your skills in haggling! Susanah! This boy of yours is a marvel to judge by his rapid advancement. We are all so proud!”

Abe's head swam with a confused mass of contradictory emotions. He loved his mother. Whenever his thoughts left the subject of Marian, they often drifted to her. He'd worried about her welfare without him, missed even her nagging. Watching her bustle about serving dinner, hearing her hum his childhood lullabies over the pots in the kitchen, seeing her dear features cast in teary jubilation moved him greatly. At the same time, he felt his reunion with Marian drift further and further away. Their escape together into the frontier, just a few hours ago so close he could reach out and grab it with one hand, retreated to a spot floating above a distant, murky horizon. A grain of desperation lodged in his throat, making it difficult to speak.

Uncle Isadore continued. “Now, where should you live? Obviously, we cannot have your mother in the barracks. And my humble abode here in the camp is too small for all three of us plus the housekeeper. You are needed in Greensborough, and posthaste too, I might add. Even as we speak, the shelves are being hung, the townspeople gather at the windows ogling our every move in preparation for the grand opening. Oh, my lad, we are going to make a fortune, a fortune! So. What I have decided is that you, your mother, and I shall live together in my house in Greensborough until one of your own can be built. I suggest it be large enough to accommodate the wife and children you will have one day—one day soon, I might add, if I judge the light in your mother's eyes correctly! Of course, this will add to your debt as well, but, my lad, you will be with your mother and me in Greensborough a long, long time. And I remind you, I have no heirs but you. None. It will all work out in the end!”

Throughout this speech, Abe's mother clapped her hands, raised her eyes to the heavens and muttered “
Baruch Ha-Shem
” at every new turn in Uncle Isadore's road map of the future. Meanwhile, the grain at Abe's throat swelled to a sizeable pebble. What was he to do? How could he rend the tender flesh of their reunion by shouting “No! No! No!” as he burned to do?

With cloaked impatience, he waited until his uncle had retired, leaving him alone with his mother. The two sat near the fire, their hands clasped, knees pointed toward each other like lovers. He brought her hands to his lips for a tender kiss, then gave her the deep, soulful look that worked wonders against her will when he was a child.

“Mother,” he said in as velvety a tone he could muster, “I left you as a boy and here in these United States of America I have become a man.”

She agreed.

“Oh, my darling, beloved son, I can see that! Your face has lost its fullness, you've a lean look about you now. Your shoulders—who would have thought it possible?—have grown broader yet. Your hands”—here she kissed his knuckles briefly before putting her cheek against them—“are no longer the smooth hands of a city boy, but the rough ones of a man who toils. And there is something else, something in your demeanor, in your very walk that speaks of maturity.” She took her cheek away from his hands and gazed up at him in melting adoration. “You are the image of your father. If I died tomorrow, I should die happy to join him, having left you as his mark upon the living world.”

“Mother! You shouldn't say such a thing! Even in jest.”

She nodded vigorously. The mantilla danced. “I'm not jesting. I mean every word.” Without pause she went on to extol the virtues of her late husband, Abrahan's father, praising his industry if not his luck, as they were never rich, and praising also his piety, his fidelity to the laws of Moses. “I'm not sure how you can do the same in this half-formed place,” she finished up. She glanced at his waist, registering that his tzitzit no longer dangled from it. She frowned at that, but then looked up at his head and noted his ever-present cap. She sighed and continued. “I'm hopeful that you at least say your prayers three times a day, eat only of the meats we are allowed, cease work on the Sabbath, and keep the holidays.”

Abe blushed. He'd tried hard but succeeded in doing maybe half of all that and as the years of his sojourn in—as his mother put it—this half-formed place wore on, so his resolve wore out. At the same time, he knew he was different from the godless men at the camp and the Christians also. “I'm still a Jew,” he said, dismissing her concern with a wave of his hand. He introduced a subject more urgent, the one that pressed a thorn into his heart. He spoke in a low voice in case his uncle was listening from the next room. “Look. Mother. I appreciate Uncle Isadore's offer to me. It's a great honor. But I've a different vision of my future here. It's a big country, big enough to host a million dreams. Let me tell you mine.”