Sweetsmoke (53 page)

    He
reached out, but she backed away, shaking her head no, her palms out to keep
him from touching her. He knew her resolve was shaky, but he also knew that it
would return if he touched her, so he dropped his hands to his side.

    She
turned and walked out of the trees into the open, back to the big house and her
day's work. He moved to the edge of the trees to watch her go.

    He
saw the bantam rooster flit across the yard, come to a sudden halt at Quashee's
approach, lift up on his toes, and flee in the other direction. He saw Pet pass
by a second-story window carrying pillows. He saw Old Hoke come outside with a
blanket, walking uncertainly, stopping to look in both directions, then
deciding to approach a chair near what had been the vegetable garden during the
spring and summer. He watched Hoke sit, then fidget in the chair, finally
drawing his legs up under him and covering himself with the blanket, curled up
like a child.

    She
left the backyard, entering the big house without looking back, and he saw her
no more.

    He wanted
to stay there for the rest of the day, to watch for glimpses of her, anything
to fill the well of emptiness inside him. He vowed that he would come back,
somehow, someday, for her.

    He
watched Hoke for a time, saw his body relax and knew that he had fallen asleep
under the blanket. Cassius thought of all that had happened between them, and
the small flame of his anger started. But then something came over him, quickly
and in a surprise: He smelled that sweet smell of the curing tobacco, and it was
good and rich, warm with captured sunlight, and the aroma was intoxicating for
him again. The younger Hoke Howard returned to him, the man who had taught him,
who had even cared for him. Now he looked across the open ground at the big
house and Cassius saw only an old man fallen asleep. Finally, for a moment, he
let go of his disgust and acknowledged the fact that Hoke was the only father
he had ever known. He wished him a silent good-bye, turned away, and walked
deeper into the woods, to wait for dark, when he would begin his journey to the
North.

    He
was glad to know the rooster was not yet made into a meal.

    To
acknowledge every source would require an extensive bibliography, and would
need to include documentaries, films, and Internet sources. Particular thanks
must go to Eugene D. Genovese, Harriet Jacobs, Frederick Douglass, Zora Neale
Hurston, John Hope Franklin, Loren Schweninger, Peter Kolchin, Kenneth M.
Stampp, Ira Berlin, Charles Johnson, Patricia Smith, James D. Russell, Ervin L.
Jordan, Jr., The Virginia WPA, Paul Erickson, Anne Kamma, Ellen Levine, Kay
Moore, Jason Goodwin, Iain Gately, Webb Garrison, Edwin C. Fishel, Joseph L.
Harsh, John Michael Priest, Stephen W. Sears, Douglas S. Freeman, Shelby Foote,
James McPherson, and Bruce Catton. These were my primary sources. Finally, to
Patrick O'Brian, from whom I borrowed the occasional word that helped keep me
in the nineteenth century.

    Grateful
acknowledgment is made to my family at Hyperion, especially Ellen Archer for
her contagious enthusiasm; and Leslie Wells, who made both novel and writer
better.

    To
Deborah Schneider, fierce and wonderful.

    To
the long line of Fuller writers, including my father, John G. Fuller; and to my
mother, Joyce V. Fuller.

    Liz
Sayre is my patient supporter, co-conspirator, and true companion. This book
would not exist without her. Our sons, Tom and Mark, were born shortly before
the idea for this novel was hatched. As they have lived with it their entire
lives, it truly belongs to them.

    DAVID
FULLER has been a screenwriter for 25 years and is a VP for Twentieth Century
Fox. He lives in Los Angeles. This is his first novel.