A Slant of Light

by Jeffrey Lent

“I was jesting you, son. Now get on.”

  “I know you was.” Then he hauled back on his reins and backed the mules around and went on. But going away he gripped the reins in one hand and raised the other in a flat salute. A proud boy, stoic and strong.

  August turned his own team and headed back to work. The hawks were gone and the air was just enough to flip young beech and mulberry leaves to show their undersides, the silvery sheen of coming rain.

  The next afternoon they were all in the kitchen, with a good fire going, rain against the windows but the upper half of the Dutch door open for relief against the heat; the overhang of the entry porch kept the rain from the door. Lined up on the hearth were half a dozen plain pottery crocks, filled with beans—green, yellow wax, and purple runner—also small whole cucumbers, sliced beets and cut-up cauliflower. Becca had filled the washtub with cider vinegar and mace, nutmeg, black peppercorns, cloves and allspice and was stirring this to cover the vegetables, while on the crane over the fire a large kettle heated water and sugar and lemon peel, a smaller one melted beeswax. These for the rows of brown glass jars on the table that would soon be packed with pitted cherries, filled with the syrup and sealed tight with hot wax.

  August was tending the fire, squatting to push and prod the flames to keep even heat under the two kettles. Harlan sat at the table, milk pails of cherries on the floor to his right, a single pail to his left for pits and a bowl before him as he used his pocketknife to slice round the cherries, pop the pit into the pail, then the halves into the bowl. The mound of ready fruit was growing, slowly.

  He said, “This is a job.”

  August said, “You’ll be happy, come a January day. Maybe eating the pudding or pie, whatever gets made that cold day, you’ll also recall the heat of summer and get warmed twice that way.”

  “At Hopeton’s there was some of this. Wheeler would make biscuits sometimes and we spread jelly or fruit on em. After that it was taters, parsnips, carrots and squashes that come fall I’d haul down to the root cellar for the winter.”

  Mildly and without looking up from his fire duty, August said, “Mrs. Hopeton did not cook?”

  Harlan paused before answering. Then he said, “When Mr. Hopeton first took me on she set a good table. Hearty and plenty of it. She was a hand with pies and baking also. Mr. Hopeton always had a compliment for her, saying he didn’t know how he’d survived himself until he found her, words like that. There was a fancy iron stove in the kitchen and she worked it like a wizard. She kept it up when he went off to the war, for Wheeler and me. But there was a slow change there, I seen looking back. Amos Wheeler lived in a shack he’d built in the woods; well, it was a snug-enough-looking place the couple times I seen it. And he liked his food too, I can tell you. But he had a taste for wild food, squirrel stew or a mess of sunfish fillets floured and fried, things his brothers or cousins brought him. They were some bunch. And Amos, he sort of elbowed Mrs. Hopeton aside, there. In her kitchen I mean. There was something strange about how he done that, as if it was only natural for him to do so but also I got the idea she was a little afraid of him. Then quick as a flash he’d have her laughing at his jokes; he was quick with words and sometimes I wasn’t sure what he was saying but she’d get all red-faced. The second Christmas he tried to roast a haunch of a young beef he slaughtered just for the occasion but I guess he had the oven too hot; it was crusted black but raw inside. When he sawed into that meat and the juice shot out she got up and walked out of the room and upstairs. A hour later they drove off, to the Elmwood Hotel I heard, where they sat to roast goose and what not. Which was the beginning of all that. At the time all I did was jimmy around with that stove a bit and got a skillet hot and sliced those slabs of raw meat into bacon grease and ate good. If I’d had any sense I’d of sliced the rest of that beef thin and laid it in the oven and had meat for a while. But I didn’t have that sort of sense yet; I was most caught up with worry over Wheeler killing that young steer before his prime. As if Mr. Hopeton would somehow learn of that. Well, I was a fool and remained one.”

  Becca said, “This syrup’s about ready. How many jars of cherries you have?”

  “I don’t have the first idea. Some.”

  “You could work more and talk less. None of us are the least bit interested in what happened with Hopeton’s wife and that man. August, I’m ready to turn the pickle brine into the crocks. It’s heavy, can you help?”

  August rose up from the fire and glanced at the boy as he said, “Of course.” Harlan’s face was stricken, as if his feet had broken through ice and dropped him into frigid water. And August recalled the vague movements overheard the past nights, when all should’ve been exhausted to sleep, quiet footsteps as she left her own new room and went down the hall to her brother’s, then sometime later back again. He’d thought she was only checking on him, making sure he was comfortable, perhaps reassuring him about this new place he had landed in. Now he was wondering if it was she who had been listening. And to what. And why had he not made some greater effort himself? Thinking he was not so very much ready to be any sort of father to the boy. But he must and so he would.

  “I’m ready. Just steady the crocks,” Becca said as she turned with the big tub held tight to her chest. She went on, “Pack those cherries into the jars but not too tight and leave a good two inches. Here we go, now.”

  Just then at the Dutch door a man spoke. “Ah, industry! my brothers and sister. May I intrude?” He unlatched the door and stepped in.

  August nodded greeting, slightly guarded, wondering what this was all about. He said, “Let yourself in, Attorney, and welcome. A wet day to travel.”

  Enoch Stone’s grandfather had been one of the trusted scouts sent into what then was the Phelps and Gorham Tract, to look it over and, if the rumors of the land’s plenty were borne out, then purchase sufficient acreage for the Public Friend and the close to two hundred souls dedicated to a community built upon the teachings and tenets of The Friend. Enoch had barely been in his teens when The Friend died, but it was said that The Friend had seen something in him, at the least had singled him out and urged him to step away from the agrarian life, saying that the community would need someone more versed in the workings of the larger world. At fourteen he had begun to read law with Ansel Gordon, not yet a judge but clearly an up and comer. At sixteen Stone had been admitted to the bar and the next year Gordon had been appointed judge of the newly minted county of Yates, carved off with others from the unmanageably huge Ontario County. For another year Enoch Stone clerked for the judge, and then left his work with the county, married, and settled in a pleasant, well-appointed cottage just beyond the crossroad hamlet of Jerusalem, eight miles up from the Four Corners. He had declared himself a simple country lawyer, intent on serving the members of his community as they navigated the legal waters of deeds, land transfers, wills, property disputes and such. By all lights fulfilling the burden The Friend had placed upon him.

  A dozen years older than August, with two children, the daughter married and the son yet single, Stone had prematurely gray hair, which he lightly oiled and swept back from his forehead down to his shoulders, the glowing complexion of a man freshly shaven, and all of his teeth in milk-white rows that he displayed in wide smiles between thin lips. This day, as most days, he wore a collarless white shirt and a black vest under a charcoal swallowtail coat, having already removed his overcoat of waxed linen on the stoop; the coat was folded over his free arm, and he was holding his broad-brimmed felt hat, both these items dripping from the rain.

  The hat resembled those favored in all seasons by the Public Friend—appearing plain, as was the rest of his wardrobe. Near-ordinary clothes that one such as he would be expected to wear. The almost miniscule golden links that crossed the front of his vest from fob to watch pocket were but a thread—what a man who must know the time of day would resort to. As was the neatly pressed and folded linen handkerchief poking its snout from the breast pocket of his coat. Ready to be offered if neede
d.

  Enoch Stone seemed to be smoothly moving several directions all at once as he stepped and hung his wet overcoat and hat on pegs beside the hearth and greeted August by name, leaning to shake his hand, then turned and caught up the fingertips of Becca’s free hand as he spoke her name also and kissed her cheek before kneeling beside Harlan’s chair, and placed an arm about Harlan’s shoulders and said, “Lad, I beg your forgiveness; I can’t help but feel if I’d only come to visit you when the stories first began to circulate much of this tragedy might’ve been averted. And ignorance is no excuse, although it’s true I can’t swear I heard your name spoken. And might’ve not thought of you as the man you’ve become, recalling only the small boy at your mother’s side or later years with your lovely sister, here, and Albert Ruddle.”

  Harlan hitched his chair back and said, “If you or anybody else had come out there’d only have been trouble made. I did all right keeping my head low, the best I could. I forget your name.”

  Stone had both hands swiftly joined in his lap but did not otherwise move. He said, “Forgive me, I overstepped. I hold no presumption any of us could’ve altered the course of events, once set in motion. Such is the hand of the Lord.” He made a small smile and went on. “My name’s Enoch Stone, some call me Attorney, others simply Brother, while in truth I’m both of those. And forgive me also my trespass upon your peace as well as your daily efforts. My own wife has been steaming up the house with a great array of the same work, surprised I don’t reek of sweet berries. I’ll be brief as I can but I’m Malcolm Hopeton’s attorney and would ask a few questions, if you’d be so kind.”

  Harlan said, “Mr. Hopeton does not have an attorney. I know that for a fact. Ever since he walked back in from the end of the war he and I were working to get his farm back in shape. He claimed aloud he didn’t need a lawyer because he said it was only a matter of time before Missus Hopeton come to her senses and came home. That was what he was waiting for. He was certain of her.”

  “I suppose he was,” Stone said. “But with the events of this week the situation came clear to me and I spoke with the judge, who agreed to let me take on the role of representing Malcolm Hopeton. To speak bluntly, there’s little to keep Hopeton from hanging save Christian intervention. Which is what I believe I’ll help provide. The Lord willing but also the truth of the matter, best I can see. So I came to talk, knowing you can shed light, Harlan Davis. Will you do so?”

  As he spoke he’d slowly eased upright, his knees cracking, and he pressed a hand into the small of his back against the effort but stood looking down at Harlan.

  “I don’t understand much of what you’re saying,” Harlan said.

  “It’s mostly simple enough. For instance as I stood at the door I overheard you speaking of Amos Wheeler. He’s of great interest to me. Will you tell me what you know of him?”

  “Well, it wasn’t only him. There was a mess of em. Times they came and went and other times I’d not see much of em. But they were always around. And Amos, he was the king, least how he showed it to me and he did that plenty. I don’t know how I can help you.” As he finished speaking, Harlan looked to August.

  Who said, “Please sit, Enoch. Becca, is there coffee left from dinner?”

  Stone took the chair next to Harlan. “No coffee, thank you. It overstimulates my mind.” He sat with his feet apart, hands on his knees. He said to Harlan, “What can you tell me about Wheeler’s people?”

  “He called em his brothers and cousins. Except for maybe two there wasn’t much family resemblance except for the one name of Ellis, who had a gimp leg. There was a woman he called his sister but when she was around and Missus Hopeton wasn’t, she didn’t act much like a sister. Say, I’d rather not be thinking those folks know I’m talking about em.”

  “I’d not worry about that. The day after Hopeton was brought in, the judge sent the sheriff and his men down there along the Outlet Canal where they had their shacks. There wasn’t anybody there but an old woman and a one-eyed dog.”

  “That news don’t reassure me much. They’re all good at melting away and know every swamp and bed of reeds for thirty miles or so. And every bit of woods along the ravines and creeks. They could be anywhere. And I know that dog, too. He might have only one eye but he’s got a set a jaws on him. Surprised he didn’t get a chunk of that sheriff.”

  “I believe they did have to shoot the dog. Edward and Ellis are Amos Wheeler’s brothers. Ellis got his bad leg by shooting himself with an eight-gauge goose gun strapped to the front of a floating blind some years back while he was towing the blind around Reed’s Point, trying to sneak up on a raft of ducks. The woman you mentioned is one Alice Ann Labidee, who hails from Utica and has been arrested there on morals and other criminal charges. Fortunately for her, none of those charges ever landed her anywhere but back on the street.”

  “You said Utica?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Wheeler and Mrs. Hopeton traveled there often enough. Mostly, when they returned she was in low spirits and he was best avoided for a couple of days. He never was in a good humor, lest he wanted something done, but those times he was foul. I seen him beat on a cow just because it was there when his temper went.”

  “So those trips, those occurred when there was still livestock on the place?”

  “That time, yes.”

  “Did you ever get an idea of what those trips were for?”

  “Over and again he talked about a horse.” Harlan frowned as if deciding something. He said, “You know how people, when they think they’re more clever, will let on when they’re trying to hide something?”

  Now Stone paused. Finally he simply said, “I do.”

  Harlan nodded. “That’s how Amos Wheeler talked about the horse. Like it weren’t a horse at all. And like he didn’t care if I figured that out. As long as I didn’t understand what he truly meant.”

  “And you did?”

  “Not at first. But it came clear bit by bit, you might say.”

  “I hate to interrupt,” Becca said. “But this syrup’s going to candy if I don’t get it jarred.”

  August took away the bowl of cherries and began to ladle them into the jars. “You and I can get this done, Becca. Let them talk.”

  Harlan said, “It was clear some of em wanted to hang about, as if Wheeler had got a grand new headquarters for em. But he wouldn’t have it. At the time I thought he just didn’t really care for their company. Later I guessed he was afraid Missus Hopeton might figure some things out he might not want her to.”

  Stone removed a pencil from his inner vest pocket and began to turn it slowly about with his fingers, as if sighting different angles along it.

  Stone said, “You’re a thoughtful young man, Harlan.”

  “I had a lot to think about,” he said. “Especially the last year.”

  Stone bowed his head a bit and lifted his hands so the pencil lay along one side of his nose, almost a gesture of prayer. Or holding back the itch to employ the pencil, to make notes. Becca had sealed the jars and turned the crane out from the dying fire. She announced, “I’ll just carry the pickle crocks down cellar and the jars, too, when they cool.”

  “Thank you, Becca,” August said.

  “With all this, the work still has to get done,” she said, but without heat. She set a lid on a crock and went through the open cellar door and down the steps. It was quiet for a moment in the kitchen, save her thumped treads on the stairs, the hiss and snap of the coals, drops heavy off the overhang plashing down into muddy puddles; and beyond that the steady curtain of falling rain, less a sound than a muffle, as if the air had been sucked out of the day and distance had been collapsed, the world grown close.

  Stone tapped the pencil on the table, peering at it as if it held the answers he sought. Still tapping but a slower and lesser tattoo and without looking at Harlan, said, “So Wheeler had his people up some to the farm?”

  Harlan also had regathered. He said, “There was work need
ed to be done. More than I could do, or he wanted to.”

  “Can you elaborate?”

  Harlan looked at Stone. He said, “You ever worked at farming?”

  Good for you, thought August. Then, because he had a moment where he feared he’d said this aloud, he busied himself moving the freshly sealed jars to the counter beside the pump and sink. He lifted the kettles from the crane and placed them on the hearth to cool, pumped a new kettle of water, and swung the crane in and pokered up the fire, settling a tripod of dry sticks over the coals. Thinking a pot of mint tea might not be a bad idea.

  Stone said, “Many hands are needed to do the work at certain times. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “It is. From the fall when Mr. Hopeton went away to the war until a year ago, whenever there was hay or grain to be got in, there was a plenty of help to do it.”

  “That sounds neighborly.”

  “That’s how I saw it, too. At first. But there was another part to it, also.”

  “Which was?”

  Becca came and went with another crock. August had crumpled leaves out of a tin and dropped the handful into the teapot with its cracked and ancient glaze that Narcissa’s maternal grandparents had carried into the country. The kettle was close to a boil; the rain had been backed by a fresh wind and was beating against the north windows. The storm had almost worn itself out.

  Harlan said, “The first I noticed was, a week, a handful of days, after that help was given, a cow or heifer, a few calves, some shoats, even chickens, disappeared. It was real slow at first but toward the end was like pulling the drain on a sink.”

  “I see,” Stone said. He waited a moment, during which August set cups of tea swirled with honey down before both of them. Stone took his up, inclined his nose toward the steam, smiled and blew, then sipped. Harlan left his on the table, waiting.

  Stone sipped again and looked off toward the ceiling plaster. Then he said, “Anything else? That you noticed?”

  “What they helped with,” Harlan said. “Was meant for the farm. But was also cash crops. You know what I mean?”