6

It was unseasonably warm the morning of Pace’s 80th birthday. This was July weather, not October’s. Marnie Kowalski had called at six a.m. from New Orleans to wish him a happy birthday. She was sixty-four and already up and baking; in fact, she told Pace, she was about to open a second bakery, in Uptown, near Tulane, called Magdalena’s, in honor of her mother, whose cake and pie recipes were the foundation of Kowalski Cake & Pie Company in the French Quarter.

Pace was on his second cup of coffee, reading a revised translation of Proust’s La Prisonnière, and was in mid-passage wherein Morel is being excoriated for his detestable behavior, when the sound of tires crunching gravel in his driveway forced him to stop. An old Ford pick-up truck parked between the house and the cottage, and a tall, slender, teenaged girl got out of the passenger side.

“This is it, Daddy!” she shouted.

A well-built black man of average height came around from the driver’s side and stood beside the girl. Their mutual resemblance was unmistakable. Pace went out to greet them.

As soon as the girl saw Pace, she smiled and said, “Mister, do you remember me? I’m Gagool Angola, and this is my daddy.”

Pace walked over to her, nodded his head, and said, “I most certainly do, Gagool. You’re all grown up now.”

“I’m seventeen.”

The man came forward and extended a hand.

“I’m Rangoon Angola.”

“Ray-Ray,” said Pace, and shook hands. “My name is Pace Ripley.”

“Gagool has told me many times how kind you were to her when she run off.”

“He made me grilled cheese sandwiches and hot chocolate.”

“I been in a correctional institution, sir, been out now six months, and she be after me to find this place and thank you for your help in her difficult time.”

“I didn’t really help your daughter so much, Mr. Angola. I did feed her, though.”

“A couple times,” said Gagool.

“Would you like to come inside?”

“No, thank you. We’re on our way to Atlanta.”

Pace looked over at the old pick-up.

“You sure that truck will make it to Atlanta?”

“Drives better than it looks. I got a job waitin’ on me there.”

“Daddy’s a minister in the First Ethiopian Church of the Queen of Sheba. He’s gonna preach and I’m gonna sing in the Daughters of Zion choir. I’m a good singer, good as Beyoncé. After I finish high school in Atlanta, I’m goin’ to New York or Hollywood, get on a talent show, make records and perform all over the world.”

“I hope you do, Gagool. As I recall, Ray-Ray, you were up at Pee Dee.”

“Yes, sir, for ten years.”

“My daddy did time there, too.”

Rangoon Angola shook his head and said, “It’s a painful place to be. If it ain’t been for me findin’ the path taken by the Queen of Sheba followin’ her hook-up with King Solomon, I might still be lost in the desert.”

“Daddy’s a Son of Sheba.”

“Sheba had a son by Solomon,” said Ray-Ray, “therefore, we who spread the words she heard from Solomon are also sons.”

“Probably better these days to be in Atlanta than in Ethiopia.”

“The founder of First Ethiopian, the Reverend Doctor Mandrake Ammanadib, handed down my instructions when I was a captive. My destiny is written, as is yours.”

“Mr. Ripley,” Gagool said, stepping toward him, “do you mind if I give you a hug?”

“Of course not.”

She embraced Pace and kissed him on the top of his head. Gagool was now taller than he was.

“Thank you, Gagool. Today is my birthday, and I couldn’t imagine receiving a better gift than seeing you happy and reunited with your father.”

She pointed over at the porch on Dalceda’s house and said, “Remember when we sat on the swing and my legs were too short to make it go, so you did it?”

Pace laughed and nodded.

“That was the last time I was happy for a long time,” she said.

Rangoon Angola and Pace shook hands again.

“I’m glad you’ve found your way,” Pace said to him.

“We all of us hold swords,” said the soon-to-be minister of the First Ethiopian Church of the Queen of Sheba in Atlanta, Georgia.

As Gagool and her father drove away, it occurred to Pace that Ray-Ray had referred to himself when he’d been in Pee Dee as a captive, which, of course, was the title in English of the story of Proust’s that he had been reading when they arrived. Pace was reminded of a confusing movie he had seen many years before, Orpheus Looks Back, in which a detective investigating a murder says to his partner, “There’s no such thing as a bad coincidence.”

A bluebird landed a few feet away and looked at him.

“I guess this is as good a day as any to be eighty years old,” Pace said. “Isn’t it, Daddy?”