Page from a Tennessee Journal (AmazonEncore Edition)

arm. As John gave her a final boost, she turned to look out at the platform. Other than her husband handing up Lottie and Henry, and the four or five other people boarding the cars ahead, she didn’t see a white-hooded man in sight.
    As John boarded the train with Becky and Doug trailing him, Annalaura tried to pick the words out of her confusion. Her husband brushed right past her and settled next to Cleveland. As the porter called out his “All Aboard,” John turned his face to the window. Only Aunt Becky had words for her, “Gal, thank yo’ Jesus fo’ this day.”
     
     
    “They say Chicago’s three or fo’ times bigger’n Nashville.” John stood over her in the train aisle of the Chicago-bound train. “Lots mo’ people livin’ up there, but ain’t many of them colored.” John looked through the window at the Cairo sign.
    Annalaura’s shoulders shuddered at her husband’s ramblings. What did he want?
    “Too easy to find colored folks livin’ up there.” In the semi-darkness of the train car, John shifted his eyes to the top of her head. “Like pickin’ out raisins in a bowl of milk.”
    Annalaura tucked the shawl tighter around Dolly, and eased the baby closer to her breast.
    “This night air…” John pushed a hand toward the shawl.
    The move sent a sudden shiver through Annalaura. Could she believe her husband? Did Alex still live?
    John lifted his head. His eyes roamed across Annalaura’s face. She watched him work his lips but no words came. A burst of steam belched from underneath the train. She heard her husband’s loud swallow as he aimed a finger toward the shawl-wrapped bundle.
    “Night air can be bad for little ones, the old folks say.” He stared down at his spread fingers.
    Annalaura stared back at him. Something was new. His eyes swam with eye-brimming water. “Night air bad,” she managed.
    The bulge in her husband’s throat bobbed up and down. His nostrils flared.
    “She all right?” He whispered as he looked at the shawl.
    “She’s just fine.” Annalaura kept her eyes on John.
    “Annalaura…” The word came out strained. “I’m not wantin’ Chicago…but…if you think it be best fo’ you and the chil’ren, then I…I mean that I won’t…be stoppin’ you.” He parceled out the words.
    Annalaura shook her head. What was her husband saying?
    “McNaughton…If he took a notion to look…” John thrust a hand in his pant pocket and pulled out a balled-up wad of paper. “If you got yo’ mind set on Chicago, then I reckon there’s not much I can do to change it. But I wants you to know…” he shifted his eyes to Dolly, “I ain’t never leavin’ you again, Annalaura…not lessen you tells me to go.” John pushed the wad between the folds of the shawl. “Becky says you callin’ her Dolly.” He settled his eyes somewhere between Annalaura’s neck and chin. “Dolly…Dolly Welles. That’ll set just fine with me.”
    John jumped to his feet, took a step toward the front of the railcar, stopped, and stared straight ahead just as the train began its slow roll forward. “Becky let me know who pulled that baby out of you. Snatched you away from the angel of death, she say.” He started to move. John called over his shoulder as he began his way up the aisle. “You pick.”
    Annalaura shook her head in confusion. Her hand fingered the wadded paper. She smoothed out the wrinkles just as Lottie stirred. Annalaura stroked her daughter’s shoulder, and offered up a silent prayer that her firstborn girl would never know the pain of being torn in two. She let her eyes rest on the paper. Her husband had given her the train schedule.
    She stared at the printed sheet now lying open on Dolly’s shawl. On the creased paper, she saw the names of unfamiliar towns lining the state of Illinois from Cairo, all the way north, to the end of the line. John had put a pencil scratch through the black letters of the last town listed—Chicago. Annalaura raised the shawl and stared down at her sleeping youngest daughter. Had her ears heard right? Did John tell her to pick? Pick what?
    “Raisins in a bowl of milk.” She murmured out loud. She let her fingers travel down the schedule, touching the strange names—Carbondale, Urbana, Danville, Bloomington. Strange towns. Unknown towns. If Alex cared to search for her, and in her heart, she knew he would, he would think only Chicago. Never Urbana. Never Bloomington.
    Annalaura patted Lottie’s shoulder. Across the