The Rebellion of Miss Lucy Ann Lobdell by William Klaber Page B

morning, Joseph, just to see the man as he was marched up the street. There was a fence to hide the gallows, but ladders were brought, and people paid money to climb them. And when it was done, our good citizens took the rope and cut it into pieces, so each could have a memento of the occasion. Imagine.” Lydia’s eyes burned, and had they been turned on a pile of leaves, it might have burst into flames. She was beautiful.

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    I GOT BACK to Blandin’s to find the tavern oddly crowded for the late afternoon—merchants and bargemen sharing tables, of all things, many of them with soot-darkened faces. I soon found out why. There had been a fire south of town. The men had gone out to fight it, but the fire kept advancing, driven by a wind that was pushing it toward the coal yards, which, had they begun to burn, would have been the hellish end to everything that had ever called itself Honesdale. Then the wind died, and the town was saved—all of this while I was teaching girls to dance. That night I played many a merry tune.
    But that Sunday, Reverend Albright saw no cause for celebration. In its place he read the story of Lot. He spoke with such passion that I started to think that he would have liked to see the town burn. But it didn’t burn, and Reverend Albright knew why. God had spared Honesdale the fate of Gomorrah as He had spared the city of Zoar. We should fall to our knees and give thanks—we should be grateful for this warning to turn from our wicked ways. Our sins piled together had called forth the fire. God’s mercy had stopped it. I saw heads nod in agreement.
    After service, Reverend Albright and I walked to the square. I intended to challenge his sermon, for I didn’t believe that God burned cities, despite those Bible stories. Maybe those cities burned because someone knocked over a lamp. And why was Lot’s wife turned into a pillar of salt? What did she do?
    But Reverend Albright and I didn’t talk about the sermon. His troubled thoughts were elsewhere. “Have things not gone well with Miss Jenkins?” I asked.
    “They have not,” he said, fussing with his parson’s cap. He didn’t say more, so I could only imagine. Had he tried to tell a joke? Confess his desire? Why had I even suggested it?
    “Malcolm,” I said, wishing to change the subject. “I’d like to tell you about a story. By Mr. Hawthorne. About a village pastor. One day he comes to church wearing a veil—”
    Reverend Albright waved his hand. “I’ve read only one work by Mr. Hawthorne. I’ll not hear of another. His Reverend Dimmesdale was an insult to men of the cloth.”
    “Insult? Don’t men of the cloth wrestle with sin like the rest of us?”
    “Of course, but that’s not the problem.”
    I took a breath. “What is the problem?”
    My minister looked up as if to search the clouds. “Books should be morally uplifting. Unfortunately, that appears to be beyond your friend Mr. Hawthorne.”
    My friend Mr. Hawthorne? I was losing patience. “And just what is my new friend’s great sin, if you care to tell me?”
    “Mr. Hawthorne was a founder of Brook Farm,” he said, folding the crooked sticks he had for arms. “You may know that their grand building—they had some fancy name for it—that unholy building burned to the ground. Burned by the hand of God, of that I am certain.”
    Brook Farm, again. Had the place still existed, I would have gone there just to see it for myself. Burton thought it misguided. Reverend Albright saw it as outright sinful—so much so that God had burned the place down. I didn’t believe it. And I was getting tired of my minister’s small-minded lessons.
    “Malcolm,” I said, “if God weeded the wicked by fire, I think we would smell smoke every day of the week.”
    Albright stood there gaping like an old hen, no doubt searching for scripture in his old hen head. I walked away.
     
    * * *
    The girls stared dreamily out the window as they waited for class to begin. I had done the