The Book of Lost Friends(102)

He stops writing, and both he and the unfortunate driver—one of the grandparents who showed for parent-teacher night—look my way. His eighth-grade granddaughter slinks in the passenger door and melts into the seat while the officer’s attention is diverted.

“You tryin’ to argue with me?” Officer Fontaine shifts his bulk in my direction.

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“You gettin’ smart with me?”

“Absolutely not.” Who does this guy think he is? “Just making sure all my kids get to where they’re supposed to be.”

“Why don’t you make sure you clean up that field?” Fontaine grumbles, then goes back to his work. “And put out them candles before you set a grass fire and burn down the whole place.”

“I think, with all the rain, we’re pretty safe,” I bite out and give the grandparent an apologetic look. I’ve probably just made things worse for him. “But thanks for the warning. We’ll be extra careful.”

Sarge is waiting for me when I return to the sidewalk by the school building. LaJuna and Lil’ Ray frown in tandem nearby. “Well?” Sarge asks.

“I’m not sure,” I admit. “Really, I have no idea.”

“Doubt we’ve heard the last of it. Let me know if you need me.” Sarge nabs LaJuna to take her home. That’s one less thing to worry about, at least. Lil’ Ray wanders off into the night in his top hat, solo.

At home the house is too quiet. The windows seem dark and eerie for the first time ever. As I walk up to the porch, I reach through the oleander and touch the saint’s head, give it an extra rub for luck. “You’d better go to work, pal,” I tell him.

The phone is sounding off when I come in the door. It stops on the fourth ring, right as I grab the receiver from the cradle.

“Hello?” I say. No one’s there.

I dial Nathan’s number before I can rethink it. Maybe that was him. I hope that was him. But he doesn’t answer. I blurt out an abbreviated version of the evening’s story, the thrill of victory, the agony of Redd Fontaine, then I finish with, “Well…anyway…I was hoping to catch you. I just…really wanted to talk.”

Wandering through the house, I turn on all the lights, then stand on the back porch, watching fireflies and listening as a pair of whip-poor-wills call to one another across the distance.

Headlight beams strafe the backyard. I lean over in time to see the city police car circle the cemetery, then pull back onto the highway. An uneasy, off-centered feeling simmers inside me, as if I’m coming down with something but it just hasn’t hit yet. I’m wondering how bad it will get before it’s over.

Resting my head against a dry, crackled porch post that’s seen better days, I look at the orchard and the star-spattered sky blanketing the trees. I ponder how we can put a man on the moon, fly shuttles back and forth to outer space, send probes to Mars, and yet we can’t traverse the boundaries in the human heart, fix what’s wrong.

How can things still be this way?

That’s the reason for Tales from the Underground, I tell myself. Stories change people. History, real history, helps people understand each other, see each other from the inside out.

I spend the remainder of the weekend watching an increasing number of cemetery visits, not just by the police. Apparently, ordinary citizens feel the need to stop by and make sure the local youth, or I, have not disturbed the place. Redd Fontaine wanders through in his cruiser from time to time as well. And more hang-up calls ring my phone, until finally I quit answering and start letting the machine get it. At bedtime I turn off the ringer, but I lie awake on the sofa, watching for light to skim through the blinds, and tracking the fact that the calls and Fontaine’s graveyard drive-bys never happen at the same time. Surely a grown man, a police officer, couldn’t be that juvenile.

By Sunday afternoon, my nerves are shot, and I’m pretty sure that if my brain drums up one more gloomy scenario, I’m going to walk out into the rice field and throw myself to the alligator. Even though I’ve told myself I won’t and shouldn’t, I pick up the phone to call Nathan’s number once more. Then I put it back down.

I think about going over to Sarge’s house to talk to her and Aunt Dicey, and maybe Granny T as well, but I don’t want to alarm anyone. Maybe I’m overreacting. Maybe the cop is just trying to make a point because I picked a fight with him. Maybe the uptick in graveyard visits this weekend is mere coincidence, or maybe the kids’ interest has sparked others’ curiosity.

In desperation, I wander the grounds at Goswood Grove, searching for unicorns and rainbows…and, perhaps, Nathan, whom I do not find, of course. I watch for LaJuna, as well. She doesn’t show up. She is probably focused on her new romantic relationship. Hopefully she and Lil’ Ray are off somewhere rehearsing their performance for the Underground pageant.

Hopefully, there will be an Underground pageant.

There will be, I tell myself. There will. We’re doing this. Positive thoughts.

Unfortunately, despite all my efforts at staying upbeat, Monday is a unicorn killer. By ten A.M., I’m in the principal’s office. The summons showed up in my second-hour class, and so now this is how I get to spend my conference period, receiving a grilling about my activities with the kids and a dressing-down from Principal Pevoto, with the aid and supervision of two school board members. They’re positioned in the corner of the office like storm troopers on a raid. One of them is the blonde from the next booth at the Cluck and Oink. Nathan’s aunt-in-law, the second or third trophy wife of Manford Gossett.