The woman’s eyes tightened a little, trying to divine if there was some kind of threat in my words.
“But,” I continued, “I have a serious problem. I’m very upset. You see, my cousin, Raymond, moved up to Oakland last year to work for these people clearin’ forest up north of San Francisco. Nine months ago his mother gets a letter sayin’ that there was an accident, that Raymond fell into the Russian River where they were movin’ logs, and he was lost. You can imagine the grief she must have felt. Here some white man writes her a letter sayin’ that her blood was gone and there wasn’t even a body for her to cry over and put in the ground with a few words from her minister.”
The woman behind the desk gave a little. Maybe she had a son or nephew.
“A few weeks ago I found out that a woman here in your congregation had seen Raymond at some services up in Richmond. She might know him, something about how he died. You know my auntie would love to hear anything.”
“I’m sorry—” the church bureaucrat said, but I cut her off.
“Now I know you can’t break the rules, but maybe you could give her a note from me. Then if she wants to she can give me a call.”
“I guess that would be okay. I mean it wouldn’t be breaking any rules.”
“Can I use a piece of your note paper?”
My note was simple. I told her my name and number, saying that I needed some information, that my friend Jackson Blue suggested I talk to her. I also added that I didn’t want to bother her at church and that I would pay her expenses if there was trouble with making time to meet me. The church lady frowned momentarily when she read it over, but then she seemed to accept it.
“I’ll try and get it to her by Sunday, Mr. Rawlins,” she said. “I sure will.”
I COOKED DINNER that night. Fried chicken, macaroni with real yellow cheddar, collard greens, and unsweetened lemonade. The lemonade was for Jesus, who didn’t like anything sweet. Feather put sugar in hers and mixed it happily as we sat at the dinette table.
“When Bonnie comin’ home, Daddy?” she asked.
“Two or three weeks still. You know she got a heavy schedule for a month and then she can stay with us for a long time.”
“Then can we go to Knott’s Berry Farm?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And, and the tar pits again?”
“You bet.”
“I wish she was home already so we could go this weekend,” Feather said.
“I’ll take you Saturday if you want, baby sister,” Jesus said.
He was working on his fourth piece of chicken. I didn’t use a batter on my chicken the way many Southerners did. I just dredged it in flour seasoned with salt, pepper, and garlic powder. That way the skin got crispy and you didn’t have to feel like you had to eat through bread to get to the meat.
“We can all go,” I said. “I mean, Bonnie’s fun, but the three of us can still have fun together too.”
“Oh boy!” Feather shouted.
Jesus, who rarely smiled, always did so when his little sister was happy. He’d gotten a haircut that day. The straight black hairs stood up like bristles on his tea-brown head.
“How’s the boat comin’?” I asked my adopted son.
“Good.”
“You work on it today?”
“Yeah.”
“How much did you get done?”
“I don’t know.”
Jesus was seventeen. He’d dropped out that school year and spent his days building a single-mast sailboat. I asked him many times what he planned to do with that boat, but he didn’t seem to know.
“How was work today?” I asked him.
“Okay. They need you to sign a letter saying that I can work when I’m supposed to be in school.”
“Okay. You go down to Santa Monica?”
“I saw this guy,” Jesus said, his voice suddenly full of emotion. “He was fixing a sail. Sewin’ it. He told me that a long time ago people from Europe and Africa on the sea in between them had big colored sails with pictures on them.”
“The Phoenicians,” I said. “The Athenians too, I bet.”
“Are there pictures?” Jesus asked.
“In the library.”
The light dimmed a little in his eyes. Jesus was always adrift around too many books.
“That’s okay, honey,” I said. “I’ll go with you. I’ll find the book and sit there while you read it to me. That’ll be our lessons for the next couple’a weeks.”
