The Book of Lost Friends(35)

“How did you find him?” Good news about the roof, but I want the man. The book hoarder.

“I caught up with him at the farmers market. Goes there first thing on Thursdays. Brings a load of shrimp from his boat. Uncle Gable sells it for him.”

“Every Thursday?” Now we’re getting somewhere. “If I went next week, I could find him there? Talk to him?”

“Possible…I guess.” She pounds a nail, swipes another out of the box in one smooth motion, sinks it as well. Blam, blam, blam, whack. The sound echoes off toward the cemetery and the levee. My gaze and my train of thought follow it.

Silence draws me back. When I return to Aunt Sarge, she’s squinting at me. “My advice…leave it be. Less he’s bothered by it, less he’ll be thinking about kicking you out. Enjoy the fixed-up roof. Lay low.” She returns to her work. “You’re welcome.”

“Thank you.” I mean it with all sincerity. “Although, I’m going to miss the drip bucket thing. I was getting pretty good at timing it.”

A couple of nails escape the box and roll my way after her next grab. I stop them and drop them back into the box.

“He’s not going to give you a donation for…whatever it is you’re raising money for. Gossett family policy is that all requests go through public affairs at Gossett Industries.” Again, that sharp edge.

“I’ve heard. I’m not after money, though.” Just books. Books that are locked away in a closed-up house, decaying. Books nobody seems to want. Books that need a new home. And love. I’d tell that to Aunt Sarge, but I can’t take the risk of anyone warning Nathan Gossett about me. The best chance for victory is a surprise attack. “I only want to talk to him.”

“Suit yourself.” Her tone adds, Your funeral. She shifts another asphalt square into place. “Need to finish this up now. Got kids to watch again tonight while their mama’s gone to work.”

Blam, blam, blam, whack.

“Still sick?”

“Seems like it goes from one to the other.”

“That’s terrible. And right at the beginning of the school year, too.” I butt-scoot downward a bit to indicate that I really do plan to leave her to her work. I have a trek to make before dark, and with a possible line on Nathan Gossett, I’m feeling fairly psyched. “Hey, that reminds me. LaJuna’s been absent from my class all week. Is she sick, too?”

“Not sure.” Her tone lets me know I’ve strayed into uncomfortable territory. “LaJuna’s mama is a cousin-in-law to me…well, ex-cousin-in-law. Has three little kids by two different daddies, plus LaJuna from my cousin she dated in high school. If the little kids are sick, they can’t go to the sitter’s. LaJuna’s probably been home watching the younger ones.”

I’m instantly frustrated. “LaJuna shouldn’t be kept out of school so she can provide childcare.” I think of seeing her with the copy of Animal Farm tucked in her back pocket. “She’s such a smart kid. And it’s the beginning of the year and she’s getting further and further behind.”

Aunt Sarge flicks a glance my way, jerks her head down again, hammers another nail with gusto. “You people are all the same,” she murmurs with just enough volume that I can catch it. And then more loudly, “You ever notice that lots of kids don’t get what they deserve? LaJuna’s mama makes $3.35 an hour, sweeping floors and cleaning bathrooms down there at Gossett Industries. That’s not even enough to cover food and a roof over their heads. You think LaJuna’s working at the Cluck so she can get money for the movies and popcorn? She has to help her mama pay the rent. All the daddies are long gone. There’s a lot of that around here. Black kids. White kids. Grow up the tough way, and then they start making it tough on themselves. Girls get pregnant young, looking for something they missed out on at home, end up left to raise babies on their own. I’m sure that’s not how it is where you come from, but that’s how it is for kids around here.”

My cheeks flame and my stomach turns inside out. “You don’t know a thing about where I come from. I understand a lot more than you think about what these kids are dealing with.”

But as I say it, I realize it’s my mother’s story I’m thinking of. I hate admitting that, even to myself, because it awakens old pain and tests the long-held resentments that have kept us apart for over a decade now. But the truth is, my mother conducted our lives the way she did because she grew up in a family that was like many of the families around here. No money for college, no expectation, no encouragement; neglect, abuse, parents with substance issues and not even a source of reliable transportation most of the time. She saw an ad for flight attendant positions. She’d observed that lifestyle on TV and thought it looked like fun. She packed a backpack and hitched a ride from a dying factory town in the hills of Virginia all the way to Norfolk, where she talked her way into a job.

The world she raised me in was light-years from the one she knew. Everything that went wrong between us, my own wounds and scars, and a dull haze of pain I habitually avoid looking into has blinded me to that fact for twenty-seven years. Now I can’t avoid the truth.

My mother changed her stars. And mine.

Sarge rolls a look at me. “I’m just guessing from the things you say.”

“Yeah, because we’ve had all these heart-to-heart conversations and whatnot,” I spit out. “You know all about me.” I crab-crawl to the edge of the roof. I’m done. She can take her crappy, judgmental attitude and stuff it.