“I can say this, Wilhelmina Lindberg, you certainly have good manners. Your parents would be proud of you.”
Wilhelmina said nothing, and her face registered no emotion.
“How long ago did you lose them?”
“I only lost one,” she said. “The other one kind of lost me. My mama died three years ago, and Papa kept us all together for a while. Then we woke up last Easter and Papa was gone. Nobody ever could find him. We didn’t have no other family, so they farmed us out.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Newton said. The girl shrugged. “Well, let’s see this letter.”
Wilhelmina held out the envelope she had been gripping. Newton examined the front:
MR. NEWTON TURNER
PRESIDENT
DAYBREAK COMMUNITY
MADISON COUNTY, MISSOURI
“Quite formal, this,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” said the girl. “It looked important, so I held onto it real firm.”
“I see you did.” He tore it open.
My Dear Mr. Turner:
It occurs to me that I have been remiss in my neighborly duties since our arrival here last fall. I wonder if you might help me remedy this oversight by joining me for dinner tonight, or another night if this evening is inconvenient. I have some matters of a community and individual nature upon which I need consultation, and you are without doubt the man for this task.
Yours sincerely,
The Rev. Barton Braswell
Minister of the Gospel
Newton thought for a minute, with Wilhelmina Lindberg standing by expectantly. Nothing against Barton Braswell, but he had no desire to be sermonized at during a meal. But the part about matters of a community nature piqued his curiosity. Had he learned something about someone in Daybreak? If so, he needed to learn that scolding from the pulpit was no way to influence them.
“All right,” he said. “Tell Mr. Braswell I’ll join him for dinner.”
“I’m to tell you we eat at sundown.”
“I’ll clean up and be there.”
Wilhelmina nodded briskly, turned, and headed south. Newton watched her disappear around the bend. Tough life, orphaned and abandoned, but the child seemed to have weathered it well enough.
He finished his day’s work, greasing and sharpening the plows for tomorrow’s labor, then went home to wash up. He tried to remember the last time anyone had invited him out for dinner. Since everyone in Daybreak ate in common unless there was sickness, the notion of dining with strangers at someone else’s home was foreign. Yet when he reached Masterson’s farm, he was surprised to find that a table for only two had been set in the front room; everyone else was in the kitchen. “I thought we should have some quiet time to visit,” Braswell said, his wide face solemn. “The gals occupy a lot of air with their conversation, so they’ll be eating in the kitchen.”
Two bowls of squirrel stew steamed on the table, with a loaf of bread in between. Newton sat down and was about to spoon up a bite when Braswell bowed his head and launched into a long blessing that covered most of the ills of the world before ending at the gift of the squirrel, which God had helpfully led into a snare they had placed in the woods behind the barn.
They ate in silence for a little while. Braswell didn’t appear much older than him—ten years at the most—but he bore an air of gravity that made him seem like an elder. Although Newton was accustomed to leadership, Braswell’s demeanor made him feel juvenile by comparison. Braswell tore off a chunk of the bread and handed him the loaf.
“Don’t forget to sop the juices,” he said. “That’s the best part.”
Newton obeyed.
“I have learned through years of experience, moving from city to city and profession to profession, sometimes of my own free will and sometimes not,” Braswell intoned, “never to miss an opportunity to keep my belly full.” He swiped his bowl with the bread. “Just when you think your life is settled and content, a sudden turning may occur and you have no clue where your next meal is coming from.” He wiped his face with a large towel that hung from the back of his chair. “Some religious men are ascetics and deniers. I am not among them.”
With that he turned abruptly toward Newton and fixed him with his gaze. “But more on that later. I did not ask you here to talk about my religious opinions.”
Newton breathed an inward sigh of relief but tried not to let it show. “Very well,” he said. “Why did you invite me here?”
Braswell tented his hands as if in prayer and touched his lips with the tips of his middle fingers. “Before I came here, I had read of the Daybreak community, but that was some years back, and I had no idea you were still in existence. Many communities such as yours begin in enthusiasm but end in acrimony within a few years. But here you are, thirty years in existence and as strong as ever.” He waved off Newton’s demurral. “It’s true, sir,” he said. “And it is a testament to something about your group, either your philosophy, your leadership, or both.”
“The philosophy is my father’s,” Newton said.
“And the leadership is yours, so I commend the both of you,” Braswell said with tilt of his head. “Those who are nearest to an accomplishment are often the least aware of its magnitude.”
“Well, I appreciate that,” Newton said.
“Much of my life has been spent learning about and experimenting with groups that have taken different paths. In fact, our little band was on its way to a community called Mutual Aid, west of here somewhere, when we chanced across Mr. Masterson’s farm and your town. For the past few months we have been debating whether to stay here or move on.”
“I wasn’t aware that we were being evaluated,” said Newton.
“More that we were evaluating ourselves, and our fitness,” Braswell said. “Tell me, if one were to apply for membership in your community, how would that be done? What would it take?”
“You are in earnest, then.”
“In dead earnest.”
“Very well, then.” Newton felt a little strange about this request. They hadn’t gotten any requests for membership in a while, although he remembered the procedure well enough from years past. “Applicants must demonstrate a sincere desire to become a part of our community, and they must show enough financial responsibility to convince us they are not merely vagabonds looking for some free meals. There’s a six-month trial period, after which the community votes whether to accept the provisional applicant into full membership. If the vote is positive, an invitation is extended and the applicant may choose to become a full voting member of the Daybreak community.”
Braswell pursed his lips. “Financial responsibility—what’s that mean?”
“For a family, three hundred dollars. For a workman, a full set of tools.”
Braswell gave a rueful laugh. “So it costs money to join the commune.”
“It does,” Newton said, a little peevish. “The community is a place for idealists, but it has to be practical as well.”
“Oh, I understand completely, and the entry fee is not an issue. Just reflecting on the ironies of life. So what happens if someone chooses to leave?”
“We calculate the man’s share of the community assets and return that to him. We don’t send a man away penniless.”
“And if those assets have grown or shrunk--”
“The share is adjusted accordingly. We rise or fall together.”
“I see.” Braswell leaned across the table. “Mr. Turner, on behalf of myself and my wife, and on behalf of Lily Breeze and Rose Rain, I wish to make application to join Daybreak.”
Newton shifted uncomfortably. “I hope you realize, Mr. Braswell, that I have only one vote of many. It is not my decision to make alone.”
“Of course.”
“And—I feel compelled to state—”
“Yes?”
“Daybreak has always been a free community where religious practice is concerned. We would hope that you do not see it as an opportunity to seek converts.”
“All right. Thank you for that assurance. I just needed to be clear.”
Braswell gazed at him appraisingly. “Mr. Turner, I mentioned before that my preaching has not always been welcomed everywhere we have gone. I have been shown more than one township boundary and county line, sometimes not so gently. My beliefs are not orthodox and for that reason they sometimes draw disapproval. I need to be clear about that as well.”
“Perhaps you should tell me about them.”
Again the appraising look. “No. Not everything, anyway. I have studied the Bible, have studied the ancient languages, have searched through history, all for a greater understanding of God’s plan and our place in it. This knowledge is not something that can simply be blurted out at once. Even the most regular attendants at the Lord’s Barn know only a fraction. I have revealed all to Mattie, my wife, and much to Lily Breeze and Rose Rain. Mr. Masterson is a lower-level initiate. All will unfold in its proper time.”
With that he stood up and knocked on the table. The women appeared within seconds. “It is time for Mattie and I to retire,” he said. “We are rather regular in our habits. Rose Rain, would you be so kind as to clear the table. Lily Breeze, I ask you to accept the task of explaining a few basic principles of our denomination to Mr. Turner.”
“Yes, Brother,” Lily Breeze said. Newton saw a look pass between the two sisters but couldn’t tell which one had gotten the lesser assignment.
“Come with me, Mr. Turner,” Lily Breeze said, taking his hand. She led him to a back room where two beds were pushed against the wall and two small desks sat facing each other in the center. “This is where Rose Rain and I sleep and study,” she said. “We won’t be disturbed here. Sit.” She gestured to one of the beds and pulled a chair away from a desk for herself.
Newton felt uncomfortable being alone in the bedroom with Lily Breeze, who at nineteen was distractingly good-looking. “Is this proper?” he said.
Lily Breeze laughed in a bright tinkle. “That depends,” she said. “Is there anyone you have to ask permission from?”
“No.”
“Then we answer only to ourselves, and ‘proper’ depends only on us. As it should be. Tell me, are you familiar with the Bible?”
“Not especially. I was raised in a free-thinking family.”
“Good,” she said. “It’s easier for me to talk about Brother Braswell’s philosophy with someone who knows little about the Bible than with someone who thinks he knows a lot. Most of them know far less than they think.”
“You speak with great confidence for someone your age.”
“Some old people are wise, and some are fools,” she said. “I expect you know that. We fell in with Brother Braswell and Mattie a couple of years ago. I’ve been learning every day since. Here’s an easy question for you. How many wives did King Solomon have?”
“I have no idea.”
“Seven hundred. And three hundred concubines on top of that. King Solomon, wisest of men. Think they talk about that in your local church?”
Newton chuckled. “I doubt it.”
“I should say not. Because to talk about it, you’d have to think about it, and most people would rather not think about things that don’t fit into their storehouse of ready-made ideas. King Solomon makes those Utah Mormons look like pikers. Brother Braswell has thought about it and a thousand other mysteries of the Bible.”
“So what does he have to say about it?”
“That’s for another day. For now, I just need to give you the smallest introduction to our way of thinking.”
She shifted out of her chair and sat beside him on the bed. Newton glanced over his shoulder. The door was closed.
“No, we’re not going to be interrupted, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Lily Breeze said. “And Brother Braswell is not going to burst in with a shotgun and claim we’re in a compromising position, either. We are free people who answer to ourselves.”
She pressed her hand to his forehead. “We hold the belief that the human creature is built of three elements. If those elements are not in harmony, or if one is emphasized at the expense of the others, the being suffers.” She pressed a little harder, and Newton had to admit to himself that the touch of a woman’s hand on his brow felt good. “One of those elements is the intellect.”
She moved her hand over his heart. “Another element is the emotions. They must not be denied nor indulged, but like a powerful horse must be exercised yet kept under rein.”
“I can appreciate that,” Newton said.
“And the third element, which also must be exercised but not allowed to rule, is the life of the physical body.”
She moved her hand down and cupped his crotch.
The room suddenly felt large and small at the same time, dangerous and alluring.
“You find it strange that a woman could behave in a way the world thinks is improper,” she said. “A woman you praised as intelligent just moments ago. Yet in your own community you claim full rights of citizenship for women. I only extend those rights to all parts of the human spirit.”
Newton did not speak. His mouth was dry. Then with a flick of her fingers his trouser buttons were open, and her hand rested on the outside of his drawers.
“All elements, in balance, none neglected or overgrown,” she said. Newton felt himself growing under her palm. Lily Breeze smiled, meeting his gaze.
“Good,” she said. “You’re a normal man with natural sensations.” Then his drawer buttons were open and he was in her grip. She did not move, just held him with a light but firm pressure.
There was a woman on the north side of town who called herself Carnita, and who for fifty cents would take a man to her bed and let him work out his needs. She was small and dark, and no one knew if her name really was Carnita or whether she had taken it to seem exotic. A curtain hung above her front door. If the curtain was up she was open for company, but a lowered curtain was the sign to ride on past. Newton had stopped at Carnita’s from time to time on his trips to town, so despite his bachelorhood was not unfamiliar with the knowledge of a woman. But Carnita’s room was dark and the visits furtive, with Carnita usually stinking of whiskey and urging haste. To have a woman hold him so boldly, to look right into his eyes and smile while she was doing it—
And then he felt himself giving way, releasing, without the slightest motion on her part, and his face reddened with embarrassment. But Lily Breeze kept her hold, and her smile.
“That was quick,” she said. “But no matter. Like the mind, the body needs regular practice and training.” She removed her hand and wiped it on the quilt. “I need to go now. Till we meet again.”
Then she was out the door and gone, leaving Newton alone with the quiet room and the flickering lantern. It smoked; it was turned up too high. He adjusted the knob slightly until the wick stopped smoking and then waited a moment to gather his wits before buttoning up his trousers and stepping outside. The house was dark, but he found his way to the door. When he stepped out onto the porch, he thought he saw Masterson disappear around the corner of the house. It dawned on him why an old skinflint like Masterson had permitted this traveling band to stay and set up their church. Was the other sister his guide into Brother Braswell’s theology? And how much did he know?
These were questions he would have to consider later. For now, he would have to find his way home in the dark, with his thoughts confused and a sense that he had stepped off into a much deeper hole of water than he had initially imagined.
Chapter 15
Charley Pettibone had little use for the warm days of spring, as they brought out the wildness in men, and thus he was not surprised when word came that one of the Gill boys down at Twelvemile had been going around with a pistol. By the tim
e he arrived, everyone had calmed down, although one of the neighbors was nursing a shoulder wound and the young man had locked himself inside his house.
Two other Gill boys squatted behind an oak tree out front. “It’s Melvin,” one of them said as Charley approached. “He’s drunk. Again.”
“Drunk or not, he can’t shoot people,” Charley said. “What have you heard from him?”
“Ain’t heard nothing for a while,” the other one said. “I bet he’s gone to sleep.”
Charley studied the house. A room in the front, a room in the back, a beaten path to the barn and the shed. Pretty much like every other house in Twelvemile. “What was this all about?” he said.
The brothers exchanged glances. “Trouble over that fella’s sister,” the older one, Tommy, said at last.
“By ‘that fella,’ I take it you mean the one down the road with a hole in his shoulder?”
They both nodded. “That’s how drunk he is,” Tommy said. “Melvin ain’t that bad a shot.”
Charley took a breath. “Well, nothing to do but do it.” He handed Tommy his pistol and started for the house.
“You might need that handgun,” Tommy said.
Charley ignored him. If Melvin Gill watched from a window, the pistol would be seen as a provocation, and if he was passed out, the pistol would make no difference.
As Charley walked up the steps to the door, treading heavily to announce his presence, his thoughts turned to the old sheriff, Harley Willingham, gone a dozen years now, the man from whom he had learned the lawman’s trade. Harley used his weapon now and again, more often as a club than a firearm, but relied for the most part on being more focused and less distractable than the men he dealt with. Charley had started out breathing fire and confrontation, but he had learned from Harley that confrontation generally ended badly for someone. And there was a decent chance that that someone would be the lawman and not the wrongdoer.
He knocked. “Melvin, you in there?” he called.
No answer. He knocked again. “Melvin?”
Charley thought he heard a faint stirring, though it could have been a dog. He waited half a minute.
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