of young women’s arms. I teach black chirren to love themselves and I give old women a place to feel like they make a difference. I work hard and I get tired sometimes.”
“Was Etheline a rest stop?” I asked.
“I loved her.” His voice lost its power. I almost believed him. “She was like a gift from God. At first it was just a physical thing. She had learned how to make men melt and holler. Some days she would come up into my rooms and I’d tell her to leave. But she would push my protests aside and grab hold of my spirit. She would stay with me deep into the night, listenin’ to all the weak things that I could never say to anyone in the congregation. I had to be strong for them, but with her I could let down. I could be that country boy.”
“Are you married, Reverend Winters?”
“Yes, son. Yes I am.”
“So all that love was secret and stolen,” I said. “Dangerous for a man in your position.”
“What you gettin’ at?”
“Did she take a snapshot of you, Reverend? Did she have a picture of the two’a you together?”
“What if she did?”
“Well,” I said. “Some might say that a picture like that would be like Joshua at Jericho: It could bring down these walls.”
“And you think I would hurt that girl from fear of somebody findin’ out about us?”
“It wouldn’t be the first time somethin’ like that happened. Did you write to her?”
He didn’t answer the question, but his face admitted the indiscretion.
“It’s like I said in the beginning, Reverend Winters. I didn’t know the girl. She’s not my concern. But I need to see that photograph. And I will have it. So if you know where I should look, it might be very helpful to your cause.”
The minister took a seat then. He looked down at his old comfortable shoes for succor, but even they couldn’t help him.
“You’re wrong in this, Mr. Rawlins. I had nothing to do with that girl’s death. I loved her. And even though she broke it off with me, I would have never hurt her. Never.”
“She broke up with you too?”
He nodded and held his head the same way Cedric had done.
“When?” I asked.
“On Sunday, right after service. She left me a note, said that she would only bring me grief, that she had to make a new life where no one knew her and no one could hurt the ones she loved.”
The minister lowered his head and grieved. I stayed quiet for a minute or two.
“Did she have any friends other than Cedric?” I asked.
“My secretary,” Winters whispered. “Lena McCoy. Lena helped Etheline to get on her feet when she came to us. She got her a job at Douglas where her husband works.”
“If you tell me how to get in touch with her, maybe I can figure this stuff out without causing you grief.”
“You okay, Reverend Winters?” Bumpy asked. He and the fat man had come to investigate their pastor’s obvious dismay.
“Okay, Reggie,” Winters said. He stood up to meet his followers. “Mr. Rawlins is gonna need Lena’s phone number. Call her up and tell her to help him all she can.”
Bumpy didn’t like it, but he was a soldier in the army of the Lord. The commander and chief had spoken, so all he could do was heed and obey.
ON MY DRIVE HOME I wondered at the sequence of recent events. Etheline broke up with Reverend Winters the same Sunday that she heard from me. If she had read my note first, then it could have been the reason she was getting ready to leave. She wrote to Winters, she called me—maybe she got in touch with somebody else. And if my note was the reason she was burning her bridges, then it could have also been the cause of her death.
That is, if the minister was telling the truth. There was no way for me to know what Medgar Winters really felt or knew. The only thing that I was sure of was that if I had caused that girl’s death, I would make sure that the killer didn’t have a happy ending either.
JESUS HAD MADE DINNER and eaten with Feather by the time I’d gotten home. He made hamburger patties with tomato soup and baked potatoes. She was asleep and he was in the backyard, under electric light, working on his small boat.
Moths of all shapes and sizes flitted around in the halo of light. Jesus was working a plane across a plank of wood that he intended for one of the benches of his boat. I came up to him, took the other plank, and began work on it. After forty-five minutes we’d finished leveling the seats. Then we stained and sealed them. No more than a dozen words passed between us in two and a half hours. We had the kind of kinship that didn’t need many words.
THE NEXT MORNING I made Feather’s lunchbox and drove her to school. She was happy to spend the time with me, and it was joy in my heart to talk to her. She was missing Bonnie, and so was I.
“How come you miss Bonnie, Daddy?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Lots of reasons, I guess. Mostly I just like seeing her in the morning. Why do you miss her?”
“Because,” she said, “because when Bonnie’s home it’s two boys and two girls.”
* * *
