CHAPTER 9

SUNDAY, JUNE 30

Marti didn’t wake up Sunday morning until the alarm went off. Something about that made her feel uneasy. Waiting for the other shoe to drop, Momma would call it. Ben was alone in the kitchen. She gave him a long, slow kiss, then poured a cup of his “fireman’s brew,” the only coffee she had ever tasted that was better than Cowboy’s.

“Where’s Momma?” she asked.

“Having breakfast in bed.”

“Ben, are you serious? Momma has never done that.” Her uneasiness returned. “She isn’t sick, is she?”

Ben laughed. “Actually, she is sitting in the chair by her window having her morning coffee and reading the Sunday Tribune.”

Marti could not ever remember her mother doing that. “You have worked a miracle,” she said, pleased.

Joanna was the first one downstairs.

“Ummm,” Joanna answered when Ben said good morning; then, “Are you using canola oil?”

“Water’s hot if you’re ready for tea,” Ben told her. “And these don’t taste right without real butter on them.”

“Guess so,” Joanna agreed, still half asleep.

Ben caught Marti’s eye and winked. He flipped a pancake big enough to cover a plate.

“Bacon?” Joanna said when she came to the table. “Again?” She rubbed her eyes and yawned. “You just cooked bacon on Thursday. I thought we agreed once a week.”

“I’m going to your make-up game this afternoon,” Marti said, hoping to distract her. It was softball season. She enjoyed watching Joanna play softball even if it seemed to take forever for something interesting to happen. Maybe that was why. The action was slow enough for her to keep up. And, unlike volleyball, she understood the scoring system.

“Church this morning and my game this afternoon,” Joanna said. “Christmas in June?”

“Something like that.” Marti thought about what they had found in Ms. Channon’s closet yesterday afternoon. Maybe they would know more about it by tomorrow. They were out of leads now and that worried her. The Linski case was getting colder. She and Vik had agreed to take the day off in the hope that getting their mind off the case would help them come up with a few leads or ideas by Monday.

Marti was working on her second pancake when the boys came in.

“You don’t have all the syrup out,” Mike said.

Theo opened the cabinet. “I want butterscotch!”

“And chocolate,” Mike added.

“What is this, pancakes or ice cream sundaes?” Joanna grouched. She had omitted the butter and poured honey on hers. Marti thought honey and most food and drink were mutually exclusive, but it was Joanna’s sweetener of choice.

When Momma came downstairs she was still in her bathrobe and slippers.

“Are you okay?” Marti asked.

“Never better. And hungry, too. I don’t think I’ll ever reach the point where I can sleep in, or have breakfast in bed, but I could get used to coffee and the morning paper before I come downstairs.”

Momma sat next to Joanna and Marti looked at them, so alike in profile with Momma’s auburn braid pinned to her head like a crown and Joanna’s auburn braid almost reaching her waist. They had the same full, generous features and hazel eyes. Marti looked up, caught Ben smiling at them. Her hair was cut short, but otherwise all three of them looked alike.

*   *   *

Harry drove the backhoe between the oak trees until he reached the place where they were planted in circles. The leaves were turned the way they did when it was going to rain. It was hot, muggy. Harry felt the sweat trickling down his chest and soaking into his T-shirt. He shifted gears and maneuvered around the trees, scraping some, until he reached the center. Mr. Smith was waiting for him. Mr. Smith never came to the places where he worked, at least not while he was there. Harry thought of the collar he had found. Did the old man know? Would he be fired for keeping it? For a moment, he wanted to jump down and run. Instead he remained on the backhoe and looked away as the old man came closer.

“You know where I want you to dig.”

“Yes, sir.” Harry didn’t look at him.

“If you find something you will tell me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You will be … compensated … rewarded … if you do.”

Harry swallowed hard. Compensated? The old man must know about the collar, but how? “I don’t understand, sir.”

“I want to give you something. You’ve worked for us for a number of years. What do you think would be fair?”

Harry gripped the steering wheel. He just wanted to stay here, have a job, a safe place. No, what he really wanted was to go home, go back where Zoe was, where he could visit her grave every day. It had been so long since he had been there.

“I would like to go home, sir.”

But where would he live? How would he survive? Compensation. A reward. The old man was talking about money. He had just asked him how much money he wanted and he didn’t even know what he had found.

“Sir.” His throat felt dry. “Sir.” His voice sounded raspy. “A … a … trailer, maybe. Just a small one, secondhand.” But how would he live? He didn’t have much of anything paid into Social Security. “And some jobs give you a pension. I wouldn’t need nothing much. Just enough to get by on if I couldn’t find work.” Maybe he was asking for too much. “Of course, if you couldn’t, sir.” Maybe working here for twelve years wasn’t long enough. “I … I … I would…” He cleared his throat. “I’m getting old. I would like to be home with my Zoe.”

“Why, of course,” Mr. Smith said.

Harry looked at him. This was the first time he had seen Mr. Smith smile. From the looks of it, he didn’t do that very often.

“You had better get to digging. Get the job done. Rain is forecast for later today. You just get this job done, and I’ll see to it that you go home.”

“Why … thank you, sir. Thank you.”

He expected Mr. Smith to ask for what he had found, or even ask what it was, but he just turned and walked away. Maybe he was just guessing and didn’t know for sure that he had found anything. Harry watched the old man’s back until he couldn’t see him anymore. Home. He was going to go back to Idaho, back to the forests this place reminded him of, back to the mountains he missed, back to Zoe. There was a trailer park not much more than a mile from the cemetery. Her grave was on the hill that overlooked the river. He had planted a spruce tree there because she loved Christmas when she was a little girl, and every December she picked out a Douglas spruce. He was humming as he lowered the backhoe.

*   *   *

Just as Isaiah spent Shabbat honoring God and his ancestors, he spent Sunday afternoon in the company of his children, alternating his visits among the three of them. Today had been a special day. His grandson, Omari, who always asked about his research, had asked if he could help with it. One day this week, Isaiah would begin teaching him. Even better, Omari was eighteen now and old enough to visit those places he could not travel to and collect more information.

Floyd came into the kitchen as Isaiah was measuring some Arabian coffee his daughter-in-law had given them. Floyd visited his children and grandchildren too. Every Sunday by late afternoon they were home, Isaiah feeling content, Floyd ornery and disgruntled.

“All that searching you’re doing,” Floyd said. “Be something if you found someone who had some money back then instead of being some poor, barefoot sharecropper.” He began putting together a sandwich with a thick slice of smoked ham.

“Poor folk maybe, most of them,” Isaiah agreed. “But none that I’ve found have ever caused a scandal.”

Even though Floyd knew that in every generation Isaiah had uncovered, he had found military records for someone in the family who had served with honor and even distinction during wartime, even though he had not discovered any criminals or dishonorable men, Floyd still feared that there was a lynching out there somewhere in their past.

“Them living righteous but poor might be enough for you, but neither of us is gonna be here forever. I’d like to do a little living before I die. Be nice to take a real vacation, go someplace other than Forrest City, Arkansas, every two years for a family reunion.” He cut a slice of cheddar cheese. “Be nice to go to Vegas, maybe, or get a nice little sports car. A red one. Convertible. Never have had a brand-new car, neither of us. Even your boy got himself a new car, Irwin.”

“Isaiah.”

“Right. I keep forgetting. Want some cheese? Can’t have no pork now, can you? My Cindy fixes it just like Grandma used to.”

“We don’t need no car no more, Floyd,” Isaiah said, ignoring the jab about pork. “It’s getting hard for both of us to get in and out of one with these knees.”

“We could be like white folks, get us a stretch limo and a chauffeur.”

“How many white folks you know got that?”

Floyd had built a very carefully constructed house of sticks where the white man was concerned. Even though he played checkers and chess with Bill Davis almost every day, Floyd did not like most white men, but all that he had—job, pension, even his name—came from them, and all that he wanted, the white man already possessed. So Floyd pretended a respect that stopped short of deference, and tried to sidestep anything that might destroy that pretense of mutual respect and equality.

“No need carrying all that anger in your heart, Floyd. Life is what it is.”

“You want to be like them Jews wandering in the desert all them years, like Job sitting on a pile of shit. That’s fine for you, not me. You can spend the rest of your life trying to figure out where you come from. Me, I’d rather look where I’m going. And that ain’t never been nowhere. Ain’t never been nowhere at all.”

Isaiah didn’t have an answer for that. They were poor men, both of them, came from poor folk, would die poor, but not as poor as a lot of people who had much less.

“We ain’t got nothing to complain about, Floyd.”

“So you say. Your Martin will be moving into that new house he’s building before the summer’s over. I don’t care what nobody says, it ain’t right that a child outdoes his father, not even when that’s what we want for them.” He considered some mustard, then shook his head. “Nah, just spoil the taste of the ham.”

“We got—”

“And don’t bother saying we got food and a roof over our head. We didn’t even buy this house, neither of us. House belonged to Grandma. She worked all her life for a white family to get what little she had. Brought their cast-offs home like she had gone to the store and picked them out herself. She gave it to you all bought and paid for.”

“Only because you and Sylvie had a place and me and Juanita and the kids were already living here and taking care of her. Place is yours much as mine.”

“Well, you just keep lookin’ for them ancestors, bro. See if you can find us a rich one.” He laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Fat chance of that. Got to give it to you, though. You’ve stuck with being a Jew and kept looking for some slave relative for years longer than I expected you would.”

“I might be on to something.” As reluctant as he was to say anything to Floyd, last night’s speaker had asked him a lot of questions and given him some good suggestions.

“What else is new? You been on to something for years now.”

“I might have found Samuel.”

“We talking about a field slave, or a house nigger?” Floyd asked.

“Runaway if he’s the right one.”

Floyd gave him an unexpected grin. “Now that wouldn’t be so bad, bro. Better to have one in the family who at least tried to get away.” Floyd thought for a moment, then said, “No, that wouldn’t be so bad at all. A fighter. So, how’d you happen upon old Samuel?”

“I think he might have been a Thatcher.”

“You mean you think his owner’s name might have been Thatcher. Samuel didn’t have no last name. Didn’t have nothin’ that couldn’t be taken away from him.”

“Right.”

“What was so hard about finding him? Great-Grandma Reba was a Thatcher. If you didn’t spend so much time going over every little detail and finding every cousin twice removed, you would have found out about old Samuel ten, fifteen years ago. Whatcha gonna do now, spend the next three years making sure he’s the right one?”

“I just might.”

“Never did understand you bookish folk. Always going to night school, getting a diploma. Taking them college courses. History. Philosophy. Hah! Never done you much good, has it?” Floyd bit into his sandwich. “Ummm-umm. Sure you won’t have some? Nothing beats a good piece of smoked pork.” A few bites later he said, “You know, bro, I used to worry that you’d be on your deathbed like Grandma and still wondering who you were. Now I think it’s what’s keeping you alive. So don’t pay no mind to me. You just take all the time you need. The kids will appreciate it, even if I don’t. Your kids and mine.”

Isaiah realized that Floyd meant that and was surprised. He wondered about Floyd’s kids appreciating anything. Floyd’s two boys had inherited their father’s disdain for most things that were non-material and a craving for things that implied status. The difference was that both of Floyd’s kids got enough education to have the things Floyd would never be able to afford. Now if they would just stop being so selfish and share some of it with their father, like his kids shared with him.

“So what about slave owner Thatcher?” Floyd asked.

“The one I’m looking at owned property near Jefferson City, Missouri. Four men who were trusted slaves, and given an identification tag to allow them safe passage within the city limits, were listed on a runaway notice. One was named Samuel.”

He had spent almost four years getting here and still could not be certain that he had arrived at the right place.

“Don’t tell me that nobody in the family has traveled further than Forrest City and Battle Creek since we was in chains.”

“We got cousins in Chattanooga.”

“Well, that’s one hell of a long way from here now, ain’t it?”

Isaiah hadn’t found anything yet to indicate that this Samuel had been caught. That was one possibility that Floyd hadn’t thought of yet. Isaiah decided not to mention it. He was going to have Omari help him find out if this was even the right Samuel before he looked into that.

*   *   *

Marti reached the ballpark just in time for Joanna’s softball game. Rain was forecast for early evening. The sun that had been shining when they left church was hidden behind the clouds. Joanna’s team was in transition, according to a quote by her coach in the News-Times. According to Joanna, that translated into “We suck.” Two key members from last year had graduated from high school and were too old to play, a third had got a concussion in a car accident, and a fourth had gone to Oregon for the summer.

As Marti watched, Theo and Mike took a cooler filled with Gatorade to the dugout. They had volunteered to be bat boys and gofers. Ben waved at her. He was filming the game.

“Remember,” Joanna had told him that morning, “get the shortstop and the girl playing first base. If they can see what they’re doing wrong and work on it, they’ll be straight.”

Marti knew most of the parents. She avoided those who yelled the loudest and complained the most about the umpire’s calls. That left a couple on the far end of the top bleacher. She had talked with them before. They seemed friendly enough, but based on the questions they asked, it was obvious that neither of them knew much about the game.

Marti returned the woman’s wave as she climbed to the top of the bleachers and sat on the wooden bench.

“We’re at bat, right?” the woman asked.

“Not yet,” Marti explained. “We’ve got the field.”

The woman looked confused. The man nodded and said, “That’s why our team is practicing throwing the ball and catching it.”

“The away team bats first, so that the home team gets to bat last,” Marti reminded her.

“Thanks.” The woman still looked confused, but the man gave Marti a thumbs-up.

One hour and three innings later, Joanna’s team was taking the field again. So far, the shortstop had not stopped anyone, and every line drive down first base was a base hit. They were behind six to nothing. There was an automatic seven-run advantage rule and the game was called half an hour later, with the score nine to two.

“That wasn’t bad,” Joanna said as they pulled out of the parking lot.

“It looked pretty bad to me,” Theo said.

“I know, but we did some things right this time. They were just a better team.”

“You planning on winning any this year?” Theo asked.

This was their sixth loss in six games.

The clouds that had been hovering in the distance began moving in. Watching them, Marti thought of the holes that had been dug on the Smiths’ property, the hole where Larissa Linski had died. It was a good thing they had gleaned what little information there was. The rain would obliterate everything. Tomorrow they could give the order to fill the holes. Too bad the rain wouldn’t stop them from wondering if there was anything they had missed.

*   *   *

Drops of rain began falling as Harry Buckner drove from the shelter of the trees. Dark clouds had gathered to the north and were moving in. He liked thunderstorms, but he was in a hurry to get back to the barn before this one broke. He had lived in Kansas and Tennessee, places where storms like this spawned tornadoes, but that wasn’t as likely to happen here. He would watch the lightning strikes from the window in the loft for a while, then warm up something for supper and listen to the rain bombarding the roof. Later, when the storm had passed, and the night was clear, and the moon came out, and the air smelled clean, he’d think about how Zoe used to wish on a star and believe that her wish would come true.

Thunder rumbled and big drops of rain began hitting his face as he reached the barn. He left the backhoe outside and ran for the door. It was dark inside but he didn’t need a light. He made his way to the stairs that led to the loft just as he had for the past twelve years. Tick, the old barn cat who had lived here longer than he had, greeted him with a yowl and ran along beside him, meowing. The mice stayed outside during the summer and were harder to catch. Harry took half a tuna-fish sandwich out of his lunch bag. That would hold Tick for now. Then he checked the shelf where he had put the lead collar. Gone. Nothing. That was why the old man hadn’t asked him what he had found. He already knew. For a moment Harry wondered why the old man had even bothered asking him about it. To pay him off. To find out his price. Old metal. Why was it even worth anything? No matter. It was worth something to them. Worth enough to get him back home, where he could be with his Zoe. He thought of the girl again. Larissa. He wondered what she had found, then reminded himself that her accident couldn’t have been his fault.

Harry went to the window, opened it, watched as lightning flashed across the dark sky and jumped down to the ground like the bony fingers of a giant hand. He took a step back as the rain blew in, then heard something behind him. Before he could turn, he was pushed forward. As he fell, he thought, “That bastard.” He didn’t think of Zoe at all.