The boy looked closely at Emily, as if memorizing her facial features, and back to Lucille Fletcher's unyielding expression. "Step aside, Miss Emily." His tone became curt, full of authority. With a sweep of his hand he pushed aside her items to clear s.p.a.ce. The lid from one of the tins of snuff loosened, and a dark sprinkling of brown tobacco spilled on the counter. "The order for Mrs. Fletcher is next."

Emily concentrated on the rich, sour smell of the snuff, wanting the potent comfort of it in her mouth, even thinking for a reckless moment of reaching out to take a pinch. She backed away from the counter, one small step, then two, and stood quietly while the boy retrieved the white woman's order.

The bell rang again, and a young woman with dark unruly hair came into the store. The woman stood by and waited patiently for her turn at the counter. When Mrs. Fletcher left, the boy turned his attention to the newest arrival.

"Something I can help you with?" he asked her politely.

She nodded toward Emily. "I think she was here first." Her words had a strange, flat tone.

"She knows her place. I can help you next. You from around here, ma'am?"

"I'm from Oklahoma, visiting my aunt. My name is Sarah Feraldo."

"How can I help you today, Miss Feraldo?"

Emily calculated the distance between the counter and the entryway, allowed herself one last look at the snuff tins, and eased toward the door. Careful not to make any sudden motions, she opened it slowly. The bell rang out as if she had yanked it.

"Hold on. What about these things you picked out?"

Emily gave a small weak smile as the old familiar queasiness gnawed. "I don't need them after all, thank you kindly."

She walked away from the store empty-handed, listening for angry steps in pursuit behind her, and began to breathe more regularly when there were none. The wind carried bits and pieces of the politician's words as they spread over the small crowd gathered around the grandstand.

"It's up to us to teach them how to accept with humility the limitations placed on them. They must always remember to accept with grace their inferiority. If you elect me, I'll protect our way...."

She didn't look back. She walked on, past the cafe to the bus stop, and settled herself to wait for the Montgomery local.

Cooking smells from the cafe wafted up as Emily waited for the bus, and her stomach complained in response. It had been a long time since breakfast. The sun beat hot directly overhead, and she felt a powerful need for food, water, or snuff. A tall white farmer in dirty overalls and a wide straw hat approached the cafe. From the shade of the cafe's doorway, the owner beckoned.

"Come on in out of the hot sun," the man said to the farmer. "We have a special that looks mighty good today, and a breeze to help you enjoy it."

The men disappeared into the cool of the cafe. It was the dinner hour, and while Emily waited, a pair and a few singles entered the diner. A man the color of strong coffee in a well-worn jacket and trousers went around to the back door and reappeared later with a brown bag. He found a thin patch of shade under an elm tree, sat on the ground, and began to eat.

I'll never be hungry enough to go to anyone's back door, Emily thought.

When the northbound bus finally came, emitting its noxious fumes as it slowed to a halt, Emily was the only pa.s.senger to get on. She shook off the dust of Colfax, raised her chin slightly, dropped her nickels into the driver's waiting palm, and walked deliberately to the front seat, composing herself for the ride home.

Emily died sept 13, 1936, She had $1,300.00 in Her Bed. Josephine and Mary both died Old Maids.--Cousin Gurtie Fredieu, written family history, 1975

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

I have been truly fortunate in having Jamie Raab of Warner Books as my editor. Her insightful editing and unruffled navigation through a world foreign to me has made the adventure productive and fun. Thanks to Donna Levin, both for suggestions in her Novel Writing Workshop at UC Berkeley Extension, and for leading me to my most amazing agent, Jillian Ma.n.u.s. Jillian has been exacting in her expectations and tireless in her efforts on the novel's behalf, a wonderful combination. have been truly fortunate in having Jamie Raab of Warner Books as my editor. Her insightful editing and unruffled navigation through a world foreign to me has made the adventure productive and fun. Thanks to Donna Levin, both for suggestions in her Novel Writing Workshop at UC Berkeley Extension, and for leading me to my most amazing agent, Jillian Ma.n.u.s. Jillian has been exacting in her expectations and tireless in her efforts on the novel's behalf, a wonderful combination.

I am grateful for the safety net woven by my own coterie of early supporters. They each started their long-haul work of encouragement when the novel was still fragile and unpredictable, keeping me moving forward more often than they knew, giving help in any form I asked. They read, critiqued, listened, suggested, hand held, strategized, but, most important, they believed. Thanks to Anne Adams, Randy Adams, Dori Ives, my sister Joan Tademy Lothery, Susan Orr, Judy Squier, Carole Straw, and big brother Lee Tademy.

From the moment she took me on my first tour down in the Louisiana countryside, helping to turn my research into real places and people, Vicky Martin has been invaluable as my personal "step-on" Natchitoches guide, providing local history and background for Cane River Cane River. Also thanks to Rachal Mills Lennon, a certified genealogist, for being both skilled and persistent enough to find the plantation records, in French, for all of my Cane River women.

My mother, Willie Dee Billes Tademy, deserves special thanks, for tolerating my constant questions and tests of her memory, even when my obsession with the past was baffling and unsettling to her. She indulged me in this as only a mother would, and was the gateway to the remarkable women of Cane River.

Lastly, I thank Elisabeth, Suzette, Philomene, and Emily. Getting to know each one of them has made me stronger.