An Undisturbed Peace (12 page)

Alone together since his boyhood, they had always been confidants of a sort. He told her everything, or rather everything he thought prudent. There was the first time he came home with a fistful of coppers after guiding a stranger through the streets of the ghetto, for example. He took the visitor the long way around three times over as his mates had taught him to do for the sake of a larger tip. He'd given his mother all the proceeds but neglected to tell her the details of his earning them. On this occasion, he thought, maybe he should tell her everything. Like he said, he was a man now. His fate was his own. He didn't expect her to embrace every aspect of his plans straightaway. But he was pretty sure she'd have an open ear and listen to reason.

He had her attention. She leaned forward to hear him better. Her features were alert and open, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. “There's a woman,” he began, and her browned-butter eyes widened, her mouth grinned, her head nodded encouragement, and again the mantilla danced. “I love her. She is my destiny. She lives in the countryside, in the foothills, where she is alone, without male protection, although I'm not sure how much she needs it.” His mother's cheery expression slowly crumbled. Her brow creased. Abe regretted his description. Why had he expected his mother to consider a woman on her own in the wild without a father, brother, or husband with anything but suspicion? He pressed on, quickly. “My desire is to take her west, to start afresh, where memories of the past will lift from her soul. …” His mother leaned backward while a hand went to her mouth to pinch her lips. Damn his hide! Another misstep! He pushed on. “And I want you to come with us. Without a doubt, without a doubt. I was going to send for you once we were established, but no matter. Now you'll come along at the beginning. It will be an adventure, Mother. Think of it!”

By this time, Susanah's hand had formed a fist with which she beat her breast while her eyes rolled up toward the ceiling. “What fresh hell is this?” she implored the heavens. “Why have You done this to me?” Her son reached out to steady her, his features full of concern. What a fool he was! To think his mother, a woman of little imagination, would take his news calmly! He would have prepared her had Uncle Isadore not stolen that option from him. He would have written brilliant letters in which he revealed, bit by bit, his domestic ambitions. He would have created in her mind a wholesome image of Marian as a loving, accomplished daughter-to-be. Instead, under the pressure of his mother's physical presence and Uncle Isadore's presumption of authority over his life, he'd bungled everything. In the midst of his remorse, his mother shuddered beneath his grasp. Frustration erupted from her through clenched teeth, making her voice more serpent's hiss than human inquiry.

“I don't suppose there a chance on earth this shameless castoff from her people is Jewish?” she asked.

“Mother, she is neither castoff nor shameless,” he said firmly, although as soon as the words were out of his mouth, doubt flickered over his face as clearly as light at a breaking dawn. He considered, Marian had granted him her favors without trouble. There remained much he didn't know about her, including why she lived alone and the details of her relations with her people. For all he knew, she'd been driven from them by a band of angry wives. Aware how easily his mother could read the tenor of his thoughts, he took a deep, defensive breath. He shored up the only thing he did know: he loved Marian to distraction. His features acquired a madman's intensity. There was nothing to be done. He'd opened the subject, he'd got in the thick of it. Maybe it would be better if the whole truth were laid bare. Like pulling a tooth or ripping a soiled bandage off a wound, some things were better done quickly. Let the consequences be out in the open and then they could begin dealing with them. What was the worst that could happen? That his mother and uncle might banish him? Well, alright then. At least he could get back to Marian without further delay. He could write his mother letters. She'd come around over time rather than live without him. He was certain of that. Distressed, disappointed, yet undaunted, Abe went for broke.

“She is Indian,” he said, “a Cherokee.”

It was too much. His beloved mother puffed up. Her neck grew longer, her chest swelled, her nose, her mouth, her eyes somehow enlarged. She got up, covered her ears, then quit the room, slamming doors as she went.

The next few days were the most miserable he'd spent in America. Self-loathing suffused him. He recalled how he'd criticized Jacob's arrogance with his mother. Honor thy father and mother, he thought. What a hypocrite I am. He'd been an idiot to think Susanah, a greenhorn who could not know how the New World worked, the way it encouraged a man to break free of the chains of the Old, would support him. He'd completely ruined their reunion out of selfishness. How much better it would have been to move slowly with her, bit by bit! But no, his reckless stratagem had won out. What a disaster! His mother had gone cold on him. He trailed after her, pleading his case while she froze him with stony silence and frigid stares. He persisted. Her response was shivering fits and tears. As might be expected, she enlisted the aid of his uncle, spilling all the details of Abe's fixation to him. Without delay, Uncle Isadore cosseted him in his office, warning him that his amorous plans might kill his mother, and who could live a happy life with his mother's blood on his hands? “It's all doomed, you see, so best snap out of it, lad,” he advised. “Mind, I'm not entirely unsympathetic. I understand your predicament. What you've got is a good case of American fever. It's not a shameful thing. It happens to many new arrivals. They step off the boat, look around, and breathe the air of liberty. It intoxicates. It infects. A man believes he can divest himself of the past with nary a care and begin anew, however he likes, here in the native land of crackpot fantasies. Take it from an old hand, one who cherishes you as a son. Freedom comes at a price, always! When the fever breaks and the fantasy shatters, many a broken man is left. This Cherokee woman of yours. Believe me, she is using you and will dispose of you rudely when she is done.”

Abe resisted all argument. He made his rounds of the old peddlers and dispensed their commissions. Quietly, he bought up a few items he'd need for his new life in the wilderness and stored them away. At last there was nothing but familial obligation to hold him back. Up until his mother's arrival, such responsibilities seemed light and careless things. No longer. Daily, he suffered a barrage of his mother and uncle's criticisms and pleas. He chafed at their attempts to control him as mightily as Hart ever did against his. But with an honest son's devotion, he waited to leave the camp as long as he could bear, hoping they would notice his intransigence and give up. They did not. They redoubled their efforts.

One night he entered his uncle's office with new points of view he felt might convince him to support his chosen path. But from outside the living quarters he heard the two of them, uncle and mother, plot against him. Flattening himself against a wall just outside the entry, he eavesdropped on Susanah Naggar Sassaporta's latest ploy. “We should bring young Ariella Levy here as his bride. A good Jewish girl who's not married yet. He always liked her. He told me once the joy of his life was the day she consented to hold his hand. I know my son. He won't be able to resist. Nor could he hurt such a darling creature by disappointing her.” Uncle Isadore agreed. “Yes, yes! For all his faults, he's a gentle soul. He would not break a young girl's heart. It could work! We'll tell him in the morning.”

Abe withdrew, stunned by this most unexpected twist of fate. How could they do this to Ariella, an innocent girl? How could they do this to him? He sat as long as he needed to recover himself, then, after obtaining a paper and pen from Uncle Isadore's desk, he wrote the following note:

“My most beloved mother,”
it read,
“I think it best to allow you a little more time to consider everything we've discussed. I remind you again that when I left London, I was a boy satisfying his mother's wishes for his future. But here in this new, bold country, which struggles to discover its identity and purpose under the Eye of heaven, I have discovered myself. I am a man in love, Mother, and the last days have changed nothing. I will do everything and anything to preserve and protect the object of my affections. I am off now to speak to her and, hopefully, to bring her back here, to your side, where you two will be, if not mother and daughter, sisters. Yes, sisters. Why not? When you meet her, Mother, you will find her much like yourself, yes, yes, in industry, in independence, for have you not both survived a hostile world on your own? After you have so bonded, we'll talk about where we three shall live.”

The letter went on like this for some pages. Abe grasped a thousand straws inventing fresh persuasions for the future comity between Marian and Susanah Naggar Sassaporta while justifying his immediate withdrawal from the camp. After a warm and loving conclusion, he encouraged her to make herself comfortable in Greensborough until his return. As an afterthought, he scribbled an additional note to his uncle informing him that he was not abandoning his responsibilities toward his mother or his new debt, merely delaying both. He wished him well on his new retail venture in the town and suggested that his mother might be of some use in the store as well as in the old bachelor's home. He stopped short of reminding him that he'd got his mother over the sea without consulting her son and, without consulting that son further, he'd figure out what to do with her now she'd arrived. But he thought it.

He went to the stables to fetch Hart. He found both horse and Irishman awake, the former as he never slept much, like the rest of his kind, and O'Hanlon because he was at hard labor caring for a poor mare plagued by dozens of hives from an allergic attack. He covered her hide in a mixture of mud and something that smelled sweet, like peppermint, swabbing the stuff over each lump while whispering in her ear, “Poor girl, poor girl. Help's here now. …” On seeing Abe, his voice went boisterous.

“Well, look who's arrived at last! The wanderin' hawker too busy to visit his mount days on end. It's much surprised I am the beast looks as well as he does despite you.”

Abe grunted in response, not in the mood to explain himself. He gathered his horse and belongings, brushed Hart down, and saddled him. The horse interrupted his efforts more than once to nibble lightly on the brim of Abe's cap.

“I see he likes you well enough,” O'Hanlon said.

At that moment, Abe felt the only friend or family he had in the world was the horse beneath his hand. “We like each other,” he said. He led the animal out the door and mounted up. “Thank you for caring for him, O'Hanlon. I was at family business and time got away.”

O'Hanlon grinned. “I've seen your family business. Your mam's a fine woman. She'll be tossin' the black soon enough, don't you worry. There's plenty in these parts be thrilled to have her.”

Abe regarded him as he might the most brainless twit. Imagine. Susanah Naggar Sassaporta snapped up by some American bumpkin! Never, thought Abe. Never! He dug his heels into Hart's side, giving O'Hanlon a tip of his hat as fare-thee-well. They trotted into the night, rode a few hours and rested, rode a few more hours and rested again. Unlike his last trip to Marian's side, there were no extraordinary events, neither screams nor scent of smoke nor blood in the air. When the daylight came, all was quiet and beautiful around him. The trees barely rustled. Birds sang sweetly without the piercing caws and death cries of predators and prey. Cicadas chirped. The sun rose red in a cloudless sky while dew glistened from the blossomed heads of wildflowers. The mountains in the distance were like a great gray cloak draped across the earth in folds of protection. It was the perfect setting for the fancies of a young man in love, on his way to his beloved, escaping the bondage of family. He imagined Marian tending her animals, shucking corn in the front yard. She'd jerk her head up at the slightest unfamiliar noise, scanning the horizon, hopeful of his approach. When she saw him, she would rush to him, her arms would enfold him. Unable to wait, they'd make love on the grass under the gaze of the sun. Such daydreams warmed him. His cheeks were always flushed.

At last he was but a few minutes from her cabin. His heart raced. His body tensed. He emerged from the woods and crashed immediately into one of the secret, protective barriers they'd erected together all around her home, setting off a loud clattering of bones and pieces of pottery as alarm. Hart spooked into a sidestep. His hooves found a second trap. A yet louder ruckus rang through the air coupled with a cry of equine panic. The horse reared, flailing at air with his front legs, struggling to free his rear hooves where the contraption's vines wound tight around his ankles. Abe held on to his neck to keep from sliding off his back while a barrage of arrows sped past his ears. “Marian!” he yelled. “Marian! It's me! Abe! Your peddler!”

Hart's legs crashed to the ground. Understanding that his movements only entrapped him more fiercely, he went still. Abe righted himself. Marian ran to their side and the two were reunited in a flurry of apology and excuse.

“I forgot about the traps,” he said.

“I wasn't expecting you. There've been more raids,” she explained.

“Hart's usually more steady,” he offered.

“I could have killed you!” she cried out.

All the while, they worked to free Hart. Once all was well, both quieted and regarded each other.

Marian seemed older to him. She wore her cares upon her brow, there was a gauntness to her cheeks and in her limbs that he'd not discerned before. Her breeches looked worn. There were new patches at the knees. Abe felt a keen desire to relieve her of all concern, to make her smile. He dismounted, took her hand. They led Hart to the place where her horse and goats grazed, removed his tack, and, for the time being, left it in a heap on dry ground nearby. Arm in arm, the couple proceeded to the cabin and once in it, embraced with the comfortable passion of old familiars. Abe was the more ardent lover of the two, but he did not notice. Afterward, they lay in her bed side by side, looking up at the rafters, when Marian confided her most recent troubles to him.