The Book of Lost Friends(110)

The corner of his mouth twitches up just a hint, and maybe he’s thinking of that, too, but he stays watching Missy.

“I ought to take her back inside, I guess,” I tell him. “Doctor says it’s to be over with her daddy any time.”

Elam nods, but stays where he is. “Do you have a notion of where you’ll go when it’s done?” He’s stroking that mustache again, rubbing his chin.

“Not sure.” That’s the truth. The only thing I know right now is that I don’t know. “Got some business to see to in Austin City.”

I pull Grandmama’s blue beads from under the collar of the dress, tell him about Juneau Jane and me and The Book of Lost Friends. I finish up with the Irishman’s story about the white girl in the café. “Don’t imagine it means a thing. Could be she found them beads, or maybe the story ain’t even true—I did hear it from a horse-thief Irishman. But I can’t leave, not without knowing for sure. I need to see about that, before I go from Texas. Thought earlier on that I’d stay in this country, keep making my way round with the book, look for my own people, spread the names of Lost Friends, take in more names, ask after folks for other folks and for myself.” I don’t tell him I hadn’t been the one to write in the book and can’t read but a little of it. Elam is an up-spoken man. Dignified and proud. Don’t want him to see me as less than.

I think again about The Book of Lost Friends, about all the names in it and the promises we made. “Might be, I’ll come back to Texas in a year or two, go round with the book then. I know the way, now.” I look at Missy, feel her like a full-up field sack strapped over my shoulders. Who in the world will look after her? “Even with all she’s done, I can’t just leave her to wander, such as she is. Can’t leave Juneau Jane with the burden, either. She’s still a child and has the grief of losing her papa. And I don’t want her cheated from her inheritance. We had hopes to find her daddy’s papers and prove what was meant to go to her, but the doctor said Old Gossett was brought here to the fort with nothing.”

“I’ll write the jailhouse in Mason and see what I can learn of his saddle and gear and ask after someone to see you to Austin for the train east. We’re close to Marston and his men now, and they know it. They’ll do all they can to keep their cause alive, and they’ll want no witnesses left behind who might testify against them, if they’re caught and tried. The girls could corroborate the identity of the Lieutenant and perhaps others, and for that matter, you could as well. You’ll be better off out of Texas.”

“We’d be grateful to you.” Wind stirs the leaves overhead, and sun speckles turn his skin dark and light, his eyes soft brown, then gold again. I lose all the sounds of the fort. Everything flies away a minute. “You be careful after them men, Elam Salter. You be mighty careful.”

“I can’t be shot. That’s what they say.” He smiles a bit and lays a hand on my arm. That one touch shoots though me and lands deep in my belly, in some place I didn’t know was there. I sway a little, blink, see the shadows swirl and spin. I part my mouth to say something, but my tongue stays pinned. I don’t even know what to say.

Does he feel it, too, this wind that circles us in the summer heat?

“Don’t fear,” he whispers, and then he turns and disappears down the alleyway on the long, even strides of a man who’s made his place in the world.

Don’t fear, I think.

But I do.





CHAPTER 26


BENNY SILVA—AUGUSTINE, LOUISIANA, 1987

I turn in to the driveway at Goswood Grove. The lawn is freshly mown, indicating that Ben Rideout has been here and done his work earlier today. I slow down to pilot the Bug through the left gate, which hangs open most of the way, swaying a little in the breeze. The right one has fallen closed, as if it’s not sure it wants me here. The hinges squeal as it quavers undecided.

I should get out and prop it open, but instead I gun the engine and squeeze past. I’m too ginned up to stop, and I can’t quite get past the feeling that, before we’re able to accomplish what we’ve come here to do, someone will show up and try to stop us—Nathan’s uncles, a delegation of school board members, Principal Pevoto on a mission to bring me back in line, Redd Fontaine in his police car, conducting surveillance. This town is an old dog with a bad temper. We have rubbed its hair the wrong way and stirred up fleas. If allowed to return to its slumber, it might let me stay, but it’s made sure I know that if not, it’s ready to bite.

The phone calls haven’t slowed down. Fontaine has continued his drive-bys. This morning, four men in a Suburban arrived at the cemetery and tromped around, talking and nodding and pointing toward property lines, including those surrounding my house and the orchard out back.

I’m anticipating a bulldozer and an eviction notice to come next…except that the property belongs to Nathan, and he told me he wasn’t selling. Is it possible that the land deal has already progressed to the point that he can’t stop it? I have no way of knowing. He’s spent over twenty-four hours fighting flight delays and airport closures due to a tornado outbreak in the middle of the country. He finally rented a car to get home and hasn’t found a minute to stop at a pay phone and call me with an update.

I’m relieved when I see his car, a little blue Honda, in the driveway—at least, I assume it’s his rental. I drive past it and park my Bug behind the big house where no one can see it from the road. I’m on my third day of involuntary furlough from school. My kids have been told I’ve got the flu. I know that because Granny T and the New Century ladies, as well as Sarge, have called to check on me. I’ve been letting the recorder answer the phone, as I don’t know what to say. I am sick, but just heartsick.