The Book of Lost Friends(16)

It’d seem oddly resourceful if it weren’t book abuse, which is wrong on so many levels.

The cemetery visitor looks like a book character himself. Paddington Bear, in his long blue raincoat and yellow hat. He walks with a stiff-legged limp that tells me he’s not Principal Pevoto. Stopping at a grave, he feels for the edge of the concrete crypt without looking, then slowly bends at the waist, the umbrella descending with him until he gently places a kiss on the stone.

The sweetness of his longing dives to a tender, bruised place in me. My eyes prickle, and I absently touch my bottom lip, taste rainwater and moss and damp concrete and the passage of time. Who’s buried there? A sweetheart? A child? A brother or sister? A parent or grandparent long lost?

I’ll find out once he’s gone. I’ll visit the stone.

I withdraw from his private moment and empty the drip pot, eat, dress, empty what’s in the pot again, just for safety’s sake. Finally I rustle up my keys, purse, and rain gear for a trip to town.

The humidity-swollen front door and I do battle when I try to close it after myself. The antique lock is especially cantankerous today. “Stupid thing. Just…if you would…just…go in there….”

When I turn around, the man with the dog is halfway up my front walk. Umbrella tipped against the wind, he’s hidden from view until he makes his way to the leaning cement steps. He feels for the porch rail hesitantly, and then I realize the golden retriever is wearing a harness and handle, not a leash. It’s a service dog.

A russet-brown hand skims the rail as owner and dog navigate the steps easily.

“May I help you?” I ask over the patter of the rain on the tin roof.

Wagging its tail, the dog peers up at me. Then the man does as well.

“Thought I’d come by and look in on Miss Retta while I was in the area. Miss Retta and I both worked in the courthouse with the judge years ago, so we’ve had acquaintance a long time.” He nods over his shoulder toward the graveyard. “That’s my grandmother, over there, Maria Walker. I’m Councilman Walker…well, former councilman, these days. Still a little hard to get used to that.” He offers a handshake, and, leaning in, I see cloud-rimmed eyes behind his thick glasses. He cranes to one side, trying to make me out. “How is Miss Retta getting on these days? You one of her helpers?”

“I…just moved in last week.” I glance past him, looking for a car in the driveway, someone he’s with. “I’m new in town.”

“You buy the place?” He chuckles. “Because you know what they say about Augustine, Louisiana. ‘You purchase a house here, you’ll be the last one who ever owns it.’?”

I laugh at the joke. “I’m just renting.”

“Oh…well, good for you, then. You’re likely too smart for that kind of thing.”

We chuckle again. The dog participates with a soft, happy yip.

“Miss Retta move into town?” Councilman Walker wants to know.

“I don’t…I leased this place through a rental agent. I was just headed into Augustine in hopes of finding out how to get a roof leak repaired.” I check the driveway again, lean around my visitor, and look toward the cemetery. How did this man get here?

The dog moves a step closer, seeking to make friends. I know it’s against protocol to touch service animals, but I can’t help myself. I succumb. Among all the other familiar things I miss about California are Raven and Poe, the tabby cats who kept me in their employ before I moved. They, along with various human helpers, maintained the new and used books store where I worked for a little extra money, which mostly went back into books, anyway.

“Can I give you a ride to town?” I ask, although I’m not sure where I’d put Mr. Walker and his rather hefty sidekick in the Bug.

“Sunshine and I’ll sit here and wait for my grandson. He’s gone on over to pick us up some Cluck and Oink barbecue for the drive back to Birmingham. That’s where Sunshine and I make our place, these days.” He pauses to ruffle the dog’s ears and receives a wag of supreme adoration. “Had my grandson drop me here, so I could pay respects to my grandmother.”

He nods toward the graveyard. “Thought I’d walk over here and give my regards to Miss Retta, too. She was sure a friend to me after I stumbled in my ways—the judge was, too. Told me, ‘Louis, you better go be a lawyer or a preacher, because you like to argue your case.’ Miss Retta was the judge’s helper, you know. Many a wayward youngster, they took under wing. I spent a great deal of time on this porch, in my earlier years. Miss Retta helped me with my studies, and I helped her keep up the garden and the orchard. That garden saint still there by the steps? Nearly broke my back getting that thing in here for her. But Miss Retta said that statue needed a home after the library took it down. She never could turn her back on a need.”

I cross the porch and look into the oleander bushes and, indeed, encased in overgrown ivy and leaning against the wall, rests some sort of statue. “There it is, I think.” A sense of wonder strikes me, unexpectedly. My flower bed holds a sweet little secret. Garden saints are good luck. I’ll trim back the oleander when I get a chance, fix things up a bit for the old fellow.

I make plans in my head as Councilman Walker tells me that if I want to know anything about anything in Augustine, including how and where to secure help with a leaky roof on a Sunday, I should proceed forthwith to the Cluck and Oink and speak with Granny T, who will be at the counter now that church has let out. My rental house, he says, is most likely owned by someone in the Gossett clan. This land was part of the original Goswood Grove plantation, which once stretched almost all the way to the Old River Road. Miss Retta sold the land back to Judge Gossett years ago to finance her retirement, but was allowed to live out her days in the house. Now that the judge has passed away, someone will have inherited this particular parcel.