The Book of Lost Friends(64)

“No further word arrived from Papa’s solicitor, a Mr. Washburn, or from Papa. Papa’s agent in New Orleans now puts forth that the letter in my mother’s possession is invalid and perhaps fraudulent, and until corroborating documents or Papa might be found, nothing more will be proceeded with.”

“It was that Mr. Washburn Missy was taking you to see in the building at the river landing, ain’t that so?” I try to line it all up in my mind, but with Lyle’s name in it, there’s no good way. “You remembering any more about that, yet?” Every time I ask her that, she just shakes her head.

She does that same thing again, but a little quake goes ’cross her shoulders, and her eyes skitter away. She’s remembering more than she wants to say. “I believe Lavinia knows no more of Mr. Washburn than I, and that the man has remained the entire time in Texas, even as she claimed he would be present to speak with us at the river landing.” Her eyes go cold and turn Missy’s way. “She bandied his name so as to lure me to the place and to have me waylaid there, but her arrangements went awry, and she was betrayed, as well.”

My stomach turns over. Would Missy do such a thing to her own half sister? Her blood kin?

Juneau Jane goes back to chopping hair. Scraps of afternoon sunshine flick off the knife blade and skim the tree roots and the moss and the palmetto leaves. “I will ask in Jefferson Port of Papa and pay a call to the office of Mr. Washburn and then discern what I must do next. I pray that Mr. Washburn be found an honest man, unaware that Lavinia had bandied his name. I pray also that I find Papa, and he is well.”

That girl hadn’t got the first idea what she’s saying, I tell myself and stand up. Best to quit talking, now. Need to move along. Still a few hours left before dark.

Don’t know why I stop or why I turn round. “So, how you plan on getting to Texas?” Don’t know why I say that, either. “You got money? Because I learned my lesson about stealing away on them boats. They’ll drown you for that.”

“I have the gray horse.”

“You’d sell your horse?” She loves that horse and it loves her.

“If I must. For Papa.” She chokes on the last words, then swallows hard and stiffens up her mouth.

Comes to me then that, of the three children, this is the only one that maybe loves Old Gossett, instead of just looking to gain from the man.

We go quiet awhile. I feel my blood rushing through the muscles and flesh, hear it beat in my ears, wanting to be heard. Calling out.

“I think I might just take myself to Texas.” The words come in my own voice, but I don’t know who spoke them. One more sharecrop season, Hannie. One. And that patch of ground at Goswood is yours. Yours and Tati’s and Jason’s and John’s. You can’t leave them like this, shorthanded with a crop to make. Nobody to help with the sewing and the knitting for extra money. How they gonna pay the note?

But I think of the squares on the paper. Mama. My people.

Juneau Jane stops cutting and runs the blade along her palm, not hard enough to draw blood, but it marks her. “Perhaps…we might make the journey together.”

I nod and she nods. We sit that way, tangled in the idea.

Missy Lavinia lets out a big ol’ snort. I glance her way, and she’s slumped over in the soft, wet moss, sound asleep. Juneau Jane and me look at each other, both thinking the same thing.

What’re we gonna do about her?





CHAPTER 16


BENNY SILVA—AUGUSTINE, LOUISIANA, 1987

I have a sense of déjà vu as I stand in the farmers market parking lot, watching Nathan Gossett’s truck pull in. Except I am exponentially more nervous this time. After a long confab with Sarge last night at my house and a few phone calls, incredible plans are falling into place, but most of them depend on Nathan’s cooperation.

Was it only a week ago that I ambushed him, seeking permission to enter Goswood Grove House? He couldn’t possibly know what that key has led to. I hope I can do a coherent job of sharing the vision with him.

In hindsight, a good night’s sleep might have been a wise idea, but nerves and caffeine will have to do. Sarge and I were up late, scheming and arranging for a few volunteers.

I clench and unclench my fingers, then shake out my hands like a sprinter about to run the hundred-yard dash. This is for all the marbles. I’m ready to put forth a sound argument, and, if necessary, grovel. Although I must be quick about it. I need to have my act together at school this morning. A very special guest speaker has been arranged for my freshmen, sophomore, and combination junior/senior classes today, courtesy of my new friend Sarge.

If all that goes well, we’ll have the speaker come back another day to talk with my first and second period seventh and eighth graders. With some luck, my students are about to embark on a journey that none of us could’ve imagined two weeks ago. One that the dreamer in me truly believes has the potential to plant seeds. Sarge is not nearly so optimistic about it, but she is at least willing to come along for the ride.

Nathan stiffens defensively when he spots me crossing the parking lot on an intercept course. His lips circle around an exhale of air and sound. The muscles in his cheek tighten, momentarily obliterating the little cleft in his chin. He’s sporting a five o’clock shadow, which, I am suddenly aware, does not look bad on him.

The observation hits me by surprise, and I find myself blushing when first we speak.