Death On Friendly Road by Hannah S. Wiseheart On that Saturday in early August of 1894, Jacob sat on the wagon seat, waiting as his dad fetched Salina’s detailed shopping list. They could not afford to buy mistakes. He watched his dad descend the front steps, hair slicked down under the small dark fedora he always wore, in contrast to the broad brimmed hats of other farmers in the New Garden Friends Community here in North Carolina. Robert had never felt one of them, had joined only to legitimize his marriage to Salina. That was years ago, just after their first child Phebe had been born. The sequence had caused quite a stir in the strict spiritual community, and had consequences for the family’s standing. It was all down to his resentment of how they had treated his mother. But that was a long time ago. Robert’s slight stoop and jerky gait from early arthritis gave the impression of age, but he was strong from years of manual labor on this land. As a twelveyear-old orphan he’d been brought here to help out Salina’s grandparents. Now forty-six, his dark hair and moustache were still full, his eyes a clear intense blue, with a little fire in them that could signal humor or a flash of temper. Jacob had those same eyes. This morning Robert climbed up next to his son. Behind them on the vegetables boxes was a carefully packaged blue and green quilt in a Log Cabin pattern. Salina and the girls had labored many hours on it, piecing and stitching. Wrapped in a bed sheet that would come back home with them tonight after market, it should fetch enough for a new pig. “Jacob, hop down to check once more that everything is tied down and put up the back slats to keep everything from slipping off the back, would you, son? There’s that steep hill after we turn onto Friendly Road toward the market. Things could easily slip off the back.” Jacob said nothing, but thought to himself, “He says this every time we go to market.” Half an hour later, they passed Guilford College where Jacob and his sister Phebe had gone together for one year. After that his own labor was needed at the farm, but Phebe stayed on as a teaching assistant in exchange for tuition. She’d always had a thirst for learning and was not robust after her bout with typhoid. Suddenly Robert said: “Son, if anything ever happens to me, take care to look after Phebe, will you? I hope she’ll marry, but if not, make sure she has a safe place to live. She may look
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Santa Fe Literary Review