The Book of Lost Friends(123)

“Fully prepared?” I ask, angling a glance at her work, because I have a feeling she’s not. “You’ve practiced reading it aloud?”

Beside us, Lil’ Ray bends over his desk, distracting himself with a pearl-handled nib pen from the collection I’ve amassed over the years at estate sales and flea markets. He’s given up on pretending to write the “Lost Friends” letter he’ll soon recite for the audience.

If LaJuna doesn’t come through, I have the sinking sense that we’re headed for a train wreck. She should be fully confident, as she knows the ad she’ll be reading very well. We discovered it, neatly cut out and pasted inside the cover of The Book of Lost Friends, along with the date it was printed in the Southwestern. On either side of the ad, in carefully written letters, are the names of Hannie’s eight lost siblings, her mother, her aunt and three cousins, and when they were found again.

Mittie—my dearest Mama, a restaurant cook—1875

Hardy

Het—eldest and dear sister also with her children and husband—1887

Pratt—older dear brother, a timber train worker, with wife and child—1889

Epheme—beloved sister and always my special best, a teacher—1895

Addie

Easter

Ike—littlest brother, a fine and educated young man tradesman—1877

Baby Rose

Aunt Jenny—dear aunt and also her second husband, a preacher—1877

Azelle—cousin and child of Aunt Jenny, a washer woman with daughters—1881

Louisa

Martha

Mary—dear one and cousin, a restaurant cook—1875



It’s a story of the joy of reunion and the pain of absence, of perseverance and grit.

I see that same grit in LaJuna, passed down through the generations from her five times great-grandmother, Hannie, though at times LaJuna doubts that it’s there.

“I can’t do it.” She sags, defeated in her own mind. “Not…not with these people looking on.” Her young face casts miserably toward the bystanders, moneyed men in well-fitting suits and women in expensive dresses, petulantly waving off the afternoon heat with printed handbills and paper fans left over from the morning’s fiery political speeches. Just beyond them, a cameraman stands perched on a picnic table. Another crew member has stationed himself near the front of our classroom, poised with a microphone on a pole.

“You never know what you can do until you try.” I pat her arm, give it a squeeze, trying to brace her up. There’s so much I’d like to say: Don’t sell yourself short. You’re fine. You’re good enough. You’re more than good enough. You’re amazing. Can’t you see it?

It might be a long journey for her, I know. I’ve been there. But it’s possible to come out the other end better, stronger. Eventually you have to stop letting people define you and start defining yourself.

It’s a lesson I’m both teaching and learning. Name yourself. Claim yourself. Classroom Constitution, Article Twelve.

“I can’t,” she moans, clutching her stomach.

I bundle my cumbersome load of skirts and petticoats to keep them from the dust, then lower myself to catch her gaze. “Where will they hear the story if not from you—the story of being stolen away from family? Of writing an advertisement seeking any word of loved ones, and hoping to save up the fifty cents to have it printed in the Southwestern paper, so that it might travel through all the nearby states and territories? How will they understand the desperate need to finally know, Are my people out there, somewhere?”

Her thin shoulders lift, then wilt under the pressure. “These folks ain’t here because they care what I’ve got to say. It won’t change anything.”

“Perhaps it will.” Sometimes I wonder if I’m promising more than the world will ever be willing to deliver—if my mother might have been right about all my rainbow and unicorn ideas. What if I’m setting these kids up for an eventual blindsiding punch, especially LaJuna? This girl and I have spent hours and hours sorting books, moving books, dealing in the sale of antique books that turned out to be valuable, plotting and planning what sort of materials will be purchased for the Augustine Carnegie Library with the money that’s coming in. Eventually, it will provide local kids with the sort of state-of-the-art advantages students at Lakeland Prep have. And when the library’s new freestanding sign is erected, its original patron saint will be returned to his proper pedestal to watch over the place into the coming century and beyond. That old library now has a long life ahead of it. It’s Nathan’s intention that Robin’s estate be moved into a foundation that will support not only the library but also the preservation of Goswood Grove and its conversion into a genealogy and history center.

But can all of that, can any of that, change the world these television cameras, these politicians, all these onlookers will go back to when they leave this space under the trees? Can a library and a history center really accomplish anything?

“The most important endeavors require a risk,” I tell her. It’s the hardest piece of reality to accept. Striking off into the unknown is terrifying, but if we don’t begin the journey, we’ll never know where it could lead.

The realization grips my throat momentarily, holds me silent, makes me wonder, Will I ever have the courage to face my unknown, to take the risk? I straighten upward and smooth my gathered skirts, look past the classroom, see Nathan on the fringes of the crowd with the library’s new video camera on his shoulder. He gives me a thumbs-up and adds the sort of smile that says, I know you, Benny Silva. I know all that’s true about you, and I believe you’re capable of anything.