THIRTY-TWO

July 30, 1872

Nat had told Ezra he went to the Mantern School. A quick check of the city directory in Mrs. Kelvin’s parlor yielded the street and number. Ezra had meant to go there at the end of the school day but, after a night of restless dozing, felt too keyed up to wait. A dashed-off note to John Jones in Tuesday’s early post, claiming a stomach complaint, and he was on his way. When Nat arrived, they could go somewhere and talk. It wouldn’t hurt the boy to miss schooling this once. He sidestepped all thought of Ada’s reaction if she learned about it. They were only talking, he and Nat. The boy was old enough to make up his own mind about his future.

The walk from the boardinghouse was long and hot. His mind on his son, Ezra paid scant heed to the passing city blocks. A cooling puff of breeze, a second’s break in the heat, briefly caught his attention. Clouds were building in the southwest, promising a storm later. With the baked-wood smell of the boardwalk and the pungent odor of horse manure filling his lungs, he longed for the clean, clear scent of rain. The night-dark bayou flashed through his mind, and his breathing quickened. No matter what, he had to stay safe. Keep Nat safe, too.

The school came in sight, a low-slung building of pine boards with a tin roof and a small side yard, packed dirt dotted with beaten grass. The yard was full of boys and girls, all Negro or mulatto. Several boys were playing a scratch-up ball game, while girls played tag and jumped rope. Still more students were coming down the boardwalk, on their own or accompanied by their mothers or elder siblings. As he drew nearer, Ezra scanned the arriving students’ faces. Maybe Nat was part of the ball game. Ezra stopped at the far edge of the yard and watched for a few minutes, but none of the ball-throwing players was his boy. His boy. Even unspoken, he savored those words.

He eyed the street again and stiffened. There was Nat, striding down the boardwalk, swinging his books and a small sack. Talking easily, comfortably, with a tall man at his side. A white man.

Cold shock washed through Ezra. Abruptly, he felt like a fool. The short walk on Saturday to where Ada lived, instead of a horsecar ride south to the Negro part of town. The white faces of all the people they’d passed on the way. Of course her husband was one of them. “‘Papa Aaron…’” Only when a sturdy youngster playing outfield gave him a puzzled look did he realize he’d spoken.

He moved away from the ball game, his pulse thudding in his temples. He wasn’t ready to meet this man, say so much as a word to him. That he was white felt like a betrayal of what Ezra and Ada had once been to each other, years gone though it was. He breathed deep, pressing a hand to his forehead. This man had never done him harm, had been good to his son…dear God, Nat. Had the boy seen him yet? Muted thunder muttered from the far-off wall of cloud. He could walk away, come back later and find Nat alone. Or go up to him right now, right in front of the white man, stake his claim—

Too late. Nat was staring at him from the middle of the boardwalk. Ada’s husband had stopped also. Ezra drew himself up, tall and proud. Let Papa Aaron see who Nat’s father was.

A grim look came over the white man’s face. “Go inside, Nat.”

“But—”

“Do as I say. I will come for you later.” He talked like he was born someplace foreign. He brushed Nat’s shoulder with one hand, then moved forward. Nat followed. Not obeying orders, Ezra thought with approval. He sized the man up as the fellow drew nearer. Broad shouldered but lanky, likely not so strong as Ezra was. Some younger, not much. Plain homespun clothes, a small round black cap on his dark hair. No yielding in his face, just that icy look. Arrogant, like he was in charge.

The man drew breath to speak, but Ezra beat him to it. “That’s my son you’re walking to school.”

“So I understand.” The man clipped his words, as though each one cost him. “You are Ezra Hayes?”

To answer felt like surrender. Ezra gave a brusque nod.

“I am Aaron Kelmansky. Ada’s husband.”

“I figured.” Ezra glanced past him to Nat. The boy caught his eye with a pleading look that twisted Ezra’s heart. What was he doing, with his son right there, confronting this man who’d been a father to Nat for nearly half his life?

Fresh anger flared. He, Ezra, should have done that. He should have been able to stay with Ada, help her raise their boy, not been sold away. He clenched his fists. White men like this one had cost him his family. They’d cost him his freedom. They’d cost him everything.

“—know you wrote to Nat,” Aaron was saying. “I ask you not to do it again. He is my son now, mine and Ada’s, and we—”

“The hell he is.” Harsh and loud, the words escaped before Ezra could bite them back. With effort, he reined in his temper and spoke to Nat. “I’d have been a father to you all along if I could…if I’d known about you, if I’d known where you and your mother were. Now I can be. You’re old enough to choose. That’s all I’m asking.”

Aaron stepped forward. “No. You will not do this to him, or to Ada. Keep away, or I will make sure you do.”

Pent-up fury burst its bounds. A low cry escaped Ezra as he drove his fist hard into the white man’s gut.

Aaron doubled over. The whuff of his breath and Nat’s shocked cry brought Ezra to his senses. He saw confusion on his son’s face, pain on Aaron’s. Then rage as the white man met his gaze again. Aaron coughed and drew a ragged breath as Nat hurried to him. He draped an arm around Nat’s shoulders and pulled the boy close. “Stay away from us. Or you’ll wish you had.”

“Nat. Son.” Nat wouldn’t look at him. Passersby were staring, wide eyed. The ball game had halted. Ezra felt hot, hotter than the air alone could make him. Unbearable to leave, useless to stay. He lingered another moment, hoping Nat would catch his eye. Instead, the boy and his stepfather showed him their backs as they moved toward the school.

Sick with anger and regret, Ezra turned and strode away.