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the dirty water splattering onto the bottom of her dress. She turned away from Madge, hung the drawers on the line, carefully spreading them so the wind could pass through.
    Madge had expected the two sisters to stick their lips out at her, but Sarah Lou was her mother, and with all the optimism of a young woman her age, the daughter had expected something more than the back Sarah had shown her.

5
    I N LATE SUMMER 1865, S ADIE ’ S FATHER WROTE TO say that her mother was ailing and to come at once. It would be the first time Sadie had returned home since her marriage, and she longed to see the familiar sights of her town: Market Street, George Street, the courthouse, Centre Square. No canal ran through York, carrying with it the stench of sewage and dull sight of barges. She was full of expectations, so when the conductor walked through the car yelling York! she stared through the window, signaling frantically for him.
    â€œWhat happened to the station?”
    â€œThey burned it,” he answered. “Didn’t you know? But the people have built another one. A testament to their spirit, I’d say.”
    The old depot had been made of wood. The new one was brick. To steady herself, she recalled the feel of her mother’s fingers in her hair, the tilt of bacon from pan to plate, the plain dress sewn each year. When she saw her, Sadie would admit the letters had been lies. She would tell her all about James.
    But for the second time in her young life, Sadie arrived to the news of death. In front of her house, Sadie’s trunk still on the seat of the hired carriage, a neighbor woman reported her mother had died of fever. Sadie ran inside, anticipating her father’s face, but the rooms were empty. She sat in a chair, removed her hat, and placed it on her lap.
    The fact that the house had been spruced failed to cheer her. Freshly laundered linens covered the bed in her old room. Fennel sprayed from a jar on the kitchen table. She waited for the old man, but when he arrived, they said little to each other. The bookbinder’s hands were more curled than she remembered, fingers reaching toward palms. That night, he cooked supper for the two of them, dropped the spoon twice. She sat at the table watching and did not stoop to pick it up. He plated the food, and she tugged at the meat on her bone. Across from her, he studiously chewed. The kitchen was hot, close. He wiped his forehead. She remembered the small “mh” her mother would make as she ate, the soft grunts of satisfaction. Her father had cooked on occasion, her mother waiting patiently at the table, relieved of duty. Sadie put down her fork.
    â€œYou told me she was ailing. She’s been dead for months.”
    He did not wait to take his last bite, rushing into the story as if he had been burning to tell it for the past two years. His voice surprised her. It had grown thin. He did not stop until he had told it all. How the city leaders gave up, surrendering to the invaders so quickly and unconditionally that the townspeople had little time to think. By then, free coloreds had scattered, hurrying out of town on the winds of rumors that they would be captured and sent south into slavery. Confederates were cutting telegraph wires, destroying railroad depots, tearing up track, burning bridges. Even the neighbors gave in to the fright, shuttering their windows, keeping the children inside. With the absence of their daughter, Margaret and Andrew felt safe, their most valuable possession put away in another place, far from the battlegrounds of war and the looting hands of men. But by the timehundreds of wounded soldiers poured into the hospital buildings set up on Penn Common, Margaret was restless and eager to help. Each morning, she walked down the road carrying a bag full of things she thought might give the men comfort: a Bible, ink and paper for letters, bound magazines from her husband’s shop. After doing this for a little over a