Mt. Vernon

Journal Entry – April 9, 1871

Fate has a funny way of slowing us down just long enough to sharpen the blade.

A tree had the nerve to collapse across the tracks outside Mt. Vernon this evening—nature’s little act of sabotage. The conductor cursed the delay while Ma clutched her stomach and muttered something in German. She’s been pale since Louisville. I left her tucked into the boarding house cot with her Bible on her chest like armor. She didn’t argue.

I wore my hair down for dinner.

The tavern was nothing special—wooden booths, lantern light, and a roomful of bored men pretending to be interesting. But one of them was. He wore a navy coat with worn brass buttons and fingers that fidgeted when he lied. Said he was headed to St. Louis on “business.” Told me he had no wife, no children, no obligations.

He did, however, have gold.

He let me see it—coins he shouldn’t have shown, and a grin with a gold-capped tooth that flashed when he laughed. I let him buy the meal. Let him talk. Let him follow me to the dark room behind the tavern.

He died, gasping my name with disbelief on his lips.

I took the coins. And the tooth.

Ma always said waste not.

He’ll be found by sunrise. Maybe not. Men like him vanish easy. And a woman like me? I vanish even easier.

The train departs at dawn.

— K