The Book of Lost Friends(41)

Old Ginger and Juneau Jane’s gray.

Somebody’s decided not to carry them all the way to Texas, after all.

Go, I tell myself. Go now.

I stand there, froze up with the idea. No one’s round the shore that I can see. The only movement is the roustabouts, taking up the ramps. Might be, if I wait till the boat’s crawled her way off the sand, I can get a bucket or something to float me, slip into the water and kick hard toward land. The paddle wheel won’t be pulling so much while the Genesee’s building steam.

Might be I’ll end up dead, chopped to bits for the gators to make a meal on.

I try to decide while the Genesee Star works her way toward the channel. If I do it, will they just let me go or will they shoot me?

Before I can make up my mind, a big hand clamps over my shirt collar, pulls it up tight. I feel the tall, hard body of a man against me, warm and wet with sweat.

“You swim?” The voice is a brush of river mist against my ear, deep and moist, but I know it right off. Moses.

I make a nod, just barely.

“Then get off this boat.” Another hand comes up twixt my legs, and next I know, I’m sailing over the guards and through the air.

Flying free, but not for long.





CHAPTER 10


BENNY SILVA—AUGUSTINE, LOUISIANA, 1987

Just as my hopes wane, I spot what I’m looking for. Mr. Crump, who runs the Thursday morning farmers market, has already informed me that he can’t exactly predict what time Nathan Gossett will show up here, but that I should watch for a blue pickup truck. A blue pickup truck has finally arrived, there are ice chests in the back, and the man driving is decades younger than the average vendor at the farmers market. I can’t believe my luck, and I need luck, because I am on a crunch timeline. I’ve begged the new science teacher across the hall to take my first-hour class in with his if I don’t quite make it to school before the first bell.

It’s already seven twenty-five. I have just over thirty minutes to get there. Week three of my teaching career has been slightly better than weeks one and two, and even a slim gain is progress. The pooperoos help. Hungry kids like them just enough to eat them. Kids who are not famished would rather avoid them. As Granny T promised, the cookies are cheap to produce, and the Ding Dong budget is way down, since I am once again its only consumer.

Something about baking for the kids engenders an underlying sense of goodwill. They’re impressed that I care enough to do it, I think. Either that, or they are intimidated by the fact that I am in communication with Granny T. I’m guilty of splashing her name around as an occasional power play. Every kid in town knows her. She’s part nurturer, part mob boss, and as the granddame of the Carter family of Cluck and Oink fame, she controls the local pipeline of smoked meat, boudin balls, and fifteen kinds of pie. She is not a person to be trifled with.

In fact, I wish she were standing here right now. She could probably accomplish this morning’s mission in five minutes or less. I ponder that as I watch Nathan Gossett unload a cooler and carry it in, exchanging a greeting along the way with an elderly man wearing a VFW jacket and overalls. The vendor, perhaps?

Nathan isn’t quite what I expected. Nothing about him speaks of money. I don’t know if that is intentional, or if this is laundry day, but the old jeans, cowboy boots, faded restaurant T-shirt, and baseball cap make him look as if he’s dressed for a morning of hard work. After a week and a half of getting the Gossett Industries runaround, I was expecting someone uptight, unfriendly. Perhaps haughty and self-absorbed. But he looks…approachable. Jovial, even. Why does such a person abandon a place like Goswood Grove, buy a shrimp boat, and leave the family legacy to rot?

Perhaps I’m about to find out.

I psych myself up like a wrestler ready to jump into the ring, then I lie in wait by the door of the long open-air barn, hoping he’ll come out alone. Vendors pass by, carrying stock to their booths. Fresh produce. Jams, jellies, local honey. A few antiques. Handmade baskets, potholders, quilts, and fresh bread. My mouth waters as precious minutes tick away. I’m definitely coming back here when I have more time. I am a flea market ninja. Back in California, I furnished our entire apartment with secondhand finds.

I’m antsy by the time my target emerges, then I’m annoyingly tongue-tied. “Nathan Gossett?” I sound as though I’m about to serve him with legal papers, so I stick out my hand by way of being friendly. He quirks a brow, but accepts the greeting with a grip that’s politely firm, yet not crushing. Calloused. I didn’t expect that.

“I am so sorry to catch you when you’re in the middle of something else. I’ll make it quick, I promise. I’m the new English teacher at the high school here in Augustine. Benny Silva. I’m hoping my name rings a bell?” Surely, he’s picked up at least some of my answering machine messages, or seen my name on the rental contract, or the receptionist at Gossett Industries has relayed my request?

He doesn’t respond, and I rush to fill the awkward pause. “I wanted to ask you about a couple things, but mostly the library books. I’m struggling to get the kids interested in reading at all. Or writing, for that matter. Less than forty percent of the students in this school read at grade level, and apologies to the late, great George Orwell, but one raggedy classroom set of Animal Farm paperbacks isn’t doing it. The school library won’t let the kids take the books out of the room, and the city library is only open three afternoons a week. So, I thought…if I could build a library in my classroom—a really outstanding, tempting, colorful, gorgeous library, now that would be a game changer. There’s power in allowing kids to choose a book, rather than having to take what’s handed to them.”