Chapter Two

It was nearly noon when the heat broke with a fierce, brief thunderstorm. The streets were deserted, the wiser residents waiting until they saw more blue in the dark grey sky before venturing out. I was impatient, though. After Leo had gone to bed for the day, I set out toward Lucky Town.

Leo and I quibbled about a good many things, like any couple of 5 years might, but we only ever fought about my patients. Leo protested that it was too dangerous. He said it as though he meant to protect my physical person, but I could tell he was more concerned about my reputation, and his. What would the boys at the station think, if they knew? What would their wives would say? I could practically hear the old cats... ‘Leo and his haughty wife…”

My brooding was interrupted by a wave of muddy water splashing onto the sidewalk just in front of me, and I just pulled my skirts out of the way in time to avoid getting soaked. The driver of the passing taxi was yelling an incoherent rebuke to pay attention, and I waved back in acknowledgement and apology. It turned out the cab had done me a service. Without that interruption to my thoughts, I would have stomped right past the beauty of the growing Lucky Town market square. 

The new buildings that would house shops and apartments had been bare skeletons the last time I had passed this way. Now they were getting their first coat of paint. Glancing down the side streets as I made my way to the First United Church, I saw a few structures that were the makings of modest, yet fashionable homes. Bricks and shingles were neatly stacked out front in yards where gardens might soon grow. 

Lucky Town was not the official moniker for this mixed-use area of the city. On an official map, and in the minds of most of my neighbors in Uptown, this place was West Harbor. East Harbor was the main maritime lifeline to the other big cities on the coast; Providence, New York, and places farther South. West Harbor, smaller and with more shallow water, catered to altogether different clientele. The independent fisherman, the small-scale trader, and the occasional pirate found slips in West Harbor. It was also a sanctuary for people ‘brought here on the tide,’ as folks liked to say. Before the war, this was a place where those who had escaped slavery could rely on faulty memories and blind eyes. It consisted of the busy docks, the free mill on the river, silos for various crops and catches, warehouses that stored the treasures and secrets of the captains who used the slips. Farther down a short dirt road inland along the river, Lucky Town turned to Riverside, where small houses sprouted like mushrooms on a log, neat and small and tidy, their small chimneys smoking merrily, an occasional set of barefoot, brown children running between them laughing. 

The heart and soul of Lucky Town was the market that sprawled on the sidewalks and spilled into the allies between the docs and Uptown. The market was alive with smells and colors. New immigrants and freedmen made their way here to sell their wares, or the street food that they cooked over open fires and on hot plates across the city. I saw one old woman, wielding a set of long chopsticks with a flourish, as she tossed noodles and vegetables in a giant wok for a waiting customer. 

I loved Lucky Town. So vibrant, so...alive! With Leo working the night shift, he slept most of the day. He was a light sleeper, so I had grown accustomed to fixing him a meal when he returned from home in the morning, and then leaving him to the quiet of our empty house. I would wander the markets of Lucky Town, marvel at the fine craftsmanship of the goods I found there, and taste the tantalizing flavors that came from the convergence of Caribbean, African, European, and Asian cultures.

That day, however, I took no time to stroll the stalls, but headed straight to the Church. First Unity Church simple and white, with a tall elegant steeple. Before and during the war, the Church had served as a stop along the Underground Railroad, and runaway slaves had always found shelter in it’s sanctuary. That’s where Lucky Town had gotten its nickname. Once you got to Pastor Lestrade’s church, you were among the lucky, and could start a new, free life. While the threat of being discovered and sold South was gone, the sanctuary was still as busy as ever, as freed black families came North to escape the bleak, burned aftermath, and needed that first safe place to land.

I found the good Pastor as I expected, at the back of his sanctuary, checking on the latest residents of the small safe room. I waited at the foot of the stairs leading up to the altar. I tried not to fidget in my discomfort.

I disliked churches. Religion did not provide the comfort to me that it did to many people. Piety had been the excuse my parents, God rest their souls, had given to discourage my ambitions to be a doctor. Then the war had come. Oh, I sat beside Leo in our little Uptown church every Sunday, where the other police officer’s and their families attended, but it was an exercise of duty to Leo, not an expression of faith. It was just easier to comply and go through the motions. Somehow, in Pastor Lestrade’s church, I felt even more the fraud.

“Mrs. Watson, what a pleasure to see you. If you’re here for the Soup Kitchen, I’m afraid to say you’re too early. Mother Lois does not let anyone in the kitchen. Says it messes with her rhythm. You do not want to interfere with that woman’s rhythm.”

Pastor Lestrade greeted me with a wide, bright smile. If he had wanted to be, he could have been an intimidating man. He was tall, broad chested, with a deep voice that seemed to resonate from the depths of the earth. His parishioners like to say that when he got a head of steam going at the pulpit, he could make the very devils blush. 

“I would not dream of interfering with Mother Lois. Though I would love to know what she puts in her greens,” I replied, returning his smile and shaking his hand.

“She says it’s love, but I suspect it’s lard.” he said with a wink. “What brings you to the Church today, then Mrs. Watson. Finally decided to join my congregation?”

“I’m afraid not, Pastor. But I do have concerns regarding a certain congregant. Nathan.”

The Pastor’s face fell, concern creasing his wide forehead. 

“Yes. I know. I was just on my way to the police station to see him.”

“My husband only told me an hour ago! How did you come to find out so fast?” I exclaimed.

A sly version of his smile spread across his face. “Oh, you’d be surprised how much I find out and how quickly. But forgive me for asking, Mrs. Watson, what does Nathan’s arrest mean to you? I’m surprised to see you take such an interest.”

“You had me see him about his leg, remember? He’s my patient, and a sweet soul.”

“That’s kind of you, Mrs. Watson.”

There was something in his tone, the softness of it, the extra kindness in it, that irked me. It was the tone of a man that wasn’t taking me seriously, and that sharpened the edges of my words.

“It’s not mere kindness. In my professional opinion, as a doctor, Nathan is not capable of committing such a crime. He could not physically overpower a fit man, nor would he be capable, mentally, of conceiving of such a thing.” 

I deflated a bit, realizing that my irritation was misdirected. 

“Not that it will matter, the police are not going to listen to me, and as far as Detective Gates is concerned, Nathan is guilty.”

“There are good, honest men on that police force. Your husband is one of them. We must give them a chance.” 

I ignored the Pastor’s admonishments, and pulled the scrap of handkerchief out of my bag.

“Leo took this from the scene. He thought it might be important. Does this mean anything to you?”

Lestrade took the handkerchief. It looked tiny in his large, capable hands, but I noticed he held it gently, even perhaps timidly.

“That looks like blood.” Pastor Lestrade said, and he seemed to blanche at the idea.

“Are you squeamish, Pastor?” These men and their weak constitutions around blood, I thought.

“No, ma’am, but as a spiritual man, I don’t take symbols written in blood lightly, and neither should you. There’s power in blood. But I don’t recognize this symbol. It’s not from my church or any practices that I know about it, and around here, you run into quite a few.”

The Pastor handed me the handkerchief, and I put it back in the pocket of my skirts feeling dejected, my frustration growing.

“I know that Nathan did not commit this crime, Pastor. Can you say something to the police on Nathan’s behalf? They might listen to you. I saw your picture in the paper with the mayor.”

“Me? I’m a poor black preacher. The mayor is a good man. Lord knows we have made progress. But I also know his alliance with Lucky Town has cost him in his own community.”

Despite his words, I could see Pastor Lestrade turning the question over in his mind, and he turned away from me toward the altar, and gave it a long look before turning back to me.

“‘You shall know the truth, and the truth shall set you free.’ If I had proof that Nathan is innocent... Are you sure you want to get involved in this, Mrs. Watson?”

I straightened my spine. “My patient’s well-being is at stake. I am involved.”

The Pastor’s eyes twinkled with something that might have been mischief.

“Then there is someone you should meet, who might be able to help.”