unattended and with little trouble. Occasionally a heifer bearing her first calf would require assistance, particularly if she was small. But as Elizabeth neared the big poplar she was delighted to see a small dark red calf curled up on the ground. The cow, a heifer no longer now that she had produced a calf, lowed softly and began to lick her tiny offspring. The little creature at once rose, hind end first, balanced on wobbly legs, and teetered to its mother’s swollen bag. It thrust its little head at the udder in a series of surprisingly hard butts, captured a dripping teat, and began to suck.
“What a good mama! A fine baby and it’s a heifer too!”
After a quick check to be sure that there was no retained placental tissue dangling from the cow’s rear, Elizabeth decided to walk on into the woods for a little way. Now that the sun had set, it was almost cool among the huge poplars and hemlocks, maples and hickories. She walked on, savoring the breeze that rustled the leaves above her and listening to the small scurryings and tappings of the wild inhabitants of this bit of the farm. The staccato hammer of a pileated woodpecker brrr ed out like machine-gun fire, and a gray squirrel’s raucous warning chatter sounded from a tree just ahead.
Suddenly, she heard a single explosive bang just as something whistled past her head. Incredulous, she stood frozen. There was complete silence for a moment, then a clatter of wings as the big black and white woodpecker flapped away.
At last she found her voice. “Goddammit, get out of here! No hunting! There’re cows and dogs and people here, for god’s sake!”
She waited, listening hard. At last she heard a stealthy rustling that quickly diminished into nothingness. Idiot kids, she raged, probably the Robertses from the next holler. I know Ben’s had to run them off before. By god, I think I’m going to call Morris Roberts and complain. We’ve always gotten along just fine but now that his new wife’s kids are living with them…
Fuming, she turned back, the pleasure of the walk spoiled. The pale splintered wound in the big maple just a few yards behind her made her catch her breath. Sweet Jesus, that was close. Her heart was pounding as she strode quickly back down the path toward the garden.
FROM LILY GORDON’S JOURNAL— THIRD ENTRY
Today I came across an article about Leo Frank, the Atlanta Jew who, years ago, was unjustly accused of the rape and murder of a young Gentile girl. I had almost forgotten the story— but I was struck by a photograph of him in the courtroom— a faraway, doomed stare, as if he knew what lay ahead— the unjust guilty verdict, the anti-Semitic crowds, the rabid lynch mob, the noose and the slow strangling death. I remember too being moved by that same expression not long ago in a film on the television— The Last of the Mohicans it was— the kidnapped girl at the edge of the cliff— her Indian captor beckoning her to move away from the perilous edge and that same lost, hopeless look— the look of a spirit already leaving the body— crosses her face before she turns and deliberately plunges to her death. And I have seen it one other time— not in a film nor a photograph, but on a face I loved, a face whose eyes looked into mine, then turned away forever.
But I run ahead of myself. I must tell the story as it occurred and in its entirety, beginning with my arrival in Hot Springs, North Carolina— early April of 1934.
I had changed trains in Asheville without time for a look at this thriving Southern town. My only impression was that it was certainly no Boston. And as the train for Hot Springs sped along the narrow railway that clung to the rocky cliffs high above the dashing French Broad River, it seemed to me that we were on a journey back in time. From my window I could see log cabins, rudely built unpainted barns, ramshackle outbuildings, men turning the red soil behind teams of mules or even oxen. A tiny child, sitting on
“What a good mama! A fine baby and it’s a heifer too!”
After a quick check to be sure that there was no retained placental tissue dangling from the cow’s rear, Elizabeth decided to walk on into the woods for a little way. Now that the sun had set, it was almost cool among the huge poplars and hemlocks, maples and hickories. She walked on, savoring the breeze that rustled the leaves above her and listening to the small scurryings and tappings of the wild inhabitants of this bit of the farm. The staccato hammer of a pileated woodpecker brrr ed out like machine-gun fire, and a gray squirrel’s raucous warning chatter sounded from a tree just ahead.
Suddenly, she heard a single explosive bang just as something whistled past her head. Incredulous, she stood frozen. There was complete silence for a moment, then a clatter of wings as the big black and white woodpecker flapped away.
At last she found her voice. “Goddammit, get out of here! No hunting! There’re cows and dogs and people here, for god’s sake!”
She waited, listening hard. At last she heard a stealthy rustling that quickly diminished into nothingness. Idiot kids, she raged, probably the Robertses from the next holler. I know Ben’s had to run them off before. By god, I think I’m going to call Morris Roberts and complain. We’ve always gotten along just fine but now that his new wife’s kids are living with them…
Fuming, she turned back, the pleasure of the walk spoiled. The pale splintered wound in the big maple just a few yards behind her made her catch her breath. Sweet Jesus, that was close. Her heart was pounding as she strode quickly back down the path toward the garden.
FROM LILY GORDON’S JOURNAL— THIRD ENTRY
Today I came across an article about Leo Frank, the Atlanta Jew who, years ago, was unjustly accused of the rape and murder of a young Gentile girl. I had almost forgotten the story— but I was struck by a photograph of him in the courtroom— a faraway, doomed stare, as if he knew what lay ahead— the unjust guilty verdict, the anti-Semitic crowds, the rabid lynch mob, the noose and the slow strangling death. I remember too being moved by that same expression not long ago in a film on the television— The Last of the Mohicans it was— the kidnapped girl at the edge of the cliff— her Indian captor beckoning her to move away from the perilous edge and that same lost, hopeless look— the look of a spirit already leaving the body— crosses her face before she turns and deliberately plunges to her death. And I have seen it one other time— not in a film nor a photograph, but on a face I loved, a face whose eyes looked into mine, then turned away forever.
But I run ahead of myself. I must tell the story as it occurred and in its entirety, beginning with my arrival in Hot Springs, North Carolina— early April of 1934.
I had changed trains in Asheville without time for a look at this thriving Southern town. My only impression was that it was certainly no Boston. And as the train for Hot Springs sped along the narrow railway that clung to the rocky cliffs high above the dashing French Broad River, it seemed to me that we were on a journey back in time. From my window I could see log cabins, rudely built unpainted barns, ramshackle outbuildings, men turning the red soil behind teams of mules or even oxen. A tiny child, sitting on
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