The Book of Lost Friends(85)
I wonder, sometimes, as we wander that graveyard, what will remain of me someday. Am I creating a legacy that matters, that will last? Will someone stand at my grave one day, wondering who I was?
During our walks, Nathan and I have fallen off into deep conversations about the broader meanings of it all—in the hypothetical sense. As long as we don’t stray too near the topic of his sister, or the possibility of his visiting Goswood Grove House, he’s relaxed and easy to talk to. He tells me what he knows about the community, what he remembers about the judge, what little he recalls about his father. There isn’t much. He speaks of the Gossett family in a distant way, as if he is not part of it.
Mostly, I keep my history to myself. It’s so much easier to talk in the more abstract, less personal sphere. Even so, I look forward to our Thursday evening get-togethers more than I want to admit.
And now, here he is in the middle of a workday—a time when he would normally be out with his boat—to see for himself the topic I talk about most when we’re together. These kids, my job, the history. I’m afraid he is partially motivated by a need to learn more, in case this whole thing becomes a battleground with the rest of the Gossett clan, as he has repeatedly warned me it might. At that point, he’ll run interference or try to mitigate the damage or something. I’m not sure what.
“I don’t want to get in your way. I had to be in town today to sign some paperwork.” He pushes his hands into his pockets and glances toward the student horde, which is bunching up behind me like a marching band with a fallen majorette at the fore.
Lil’ Ray swivels to get a better view. LaJuna does, too. They’re like two plastic pink flamingos with necks curving in opposite directions, a question mark and a mirror image.
“I’ve been hoping you’d stop by sometime. To…see us in action.” I restart the forward momentum. “The kids have sifted out even more amazing information this week, not only through the books and papers from Goswood but from the city library and the courthouse. We even have boxes of family photos and old letters and scrapbooks. Some of the students are doing interviews with older people in the community, using oral histories. Anyway, we can’t wait to share a little bit of it with you.”
“Sounds impressive.” His praise warms me.
“I’ll show him round if you want,” Lil’ Ray is quick to offer. “My stuff is good. My stuff is boss, like me.”
“You ain’t boss,” LaJuna grumbles.
“You best just shut your big, nasty mouth,” Lil’ Ray protests. “You’re gonna get the Nativity Rule evoked on you, huh, Miss Silva? I think we should do some evoking right now. It’s been two times LaJuna’s disrespected me. Article Six—Nativity Rule. Times two. Right, Miss Pooh?”
LaJuna answers before I can. “Whatever. It’s Negativity Rule, and invoked, idjut.”
“Oh! Oh!” Lil’ Ray bounds three feet in the air, lands in a knee-down half split, pops up, snaps his fingers, and points at her. “And that’s Article Three, Civility Rule. You just call me idjut. Dished out an insult instead of gave a civil argument. That’s against the Article Three. Right? Huh? Huh?”
“You dissed me, too. You said I had a big, nasty mouth. Which one of your lame rules is that breaking?”
“Time-out,” I snap, mortified that this is happening in front of Nathan. The thing about so many of the kids here—country kids, town kids, a sad majority of these kids—is that their norm is constant drama, constant escalation. Conversations start, grow louder, get ugly, get personal. Insults fly and then lead to pushing, shoving, hair pulling, scratching, throwing punches, you name it. Principal Pevoto and the school security officer break up multiple altercations daily. Broken homes, broken neighborhoods, financial stress, substance abuse, hunger, dysfunctional relationship patterns. All too often, children in Augustine grow up in a pressure cooker.
I think again about the world my mother came from in her rural hometown, the world she thought she’d left behind. But watching the young people here, I’m reminded of how much she unwittingly brought with her. My mother’s relationships with men were impulsive, careless, loud, and filled with volatility, manipulation, and verbal abuse that went both ways and sometimes turned physical. My interaction with her was the same way, a mixture of full-on love, habitual put-downs, crushing rejection, and threats that might or might not end up being carried out.
But now I realize that, even with the rocky, unpredictable home life I experienced, I was lucky. I had the benefit of growing up in places where people around me—teachers, surrogate grandparents, babysitters, friends’ parents—decided I was worthy of their time, their interest. They provided examples, role models, family meals at dinner tables, reprimands that didn’t come with a swat or a cutting remark or end in the questions Why don’t you ever listen, Benny? Why are you so stupid sometimes? People around me invited me into homes that operated on a schedule and where parents spoke encouraging words. They showed me what a stable life could look like. If they hadn’t bothered, how would I have even known there was another way to live? You can’t aspire to something you’ve never seen.
“Sixty-second quiet cooldown,” I say, because I need it as much as the class does at the moment. “Nobody say anything. Then we’ll analyze why this wasn’t a good conversation. We can also review the Articles of Negativity and Civility…if you want to.”