I told Martel I’d call him back. We talked three more times before I got all the way through to him. I told him that it wasn’t worth it for me to bring her back if he couldn’t see her for what she was, if he couldn’t love her for what she was.
And all the time, I was thinking about Bonnie. I was thinking that I should call her and beg her to come home.
2
It only took me ten minutes or so to climb out of the car.
Walking across the lawn, I heard the little yellow dog barking. Frenchie hated me and loved Feather. We had something in common there. I was happy to hear his canine curses through the front door. It was the only welcome I deserved.
When I came into the house the seven-pound dog began screaming and snapping at my shoes. I squatted down to say hello. This gesture of truce always made Frenchie run away.
When I looked up to watch him scamper down the hall toward Feather’s room, I saw the little Vietnamese child Easter Dawn.
“Hello, Mr. Rawlins,” the petite eight-year-old said.
“E.D. Where’d you come from, girl?” I looked around the room for her village-killing father.
“Vietnam, originally,” the cogent child replied.
“Hi, Daddy,” Feather said, coming from around the corner.
She was only eleven but seemed much older. She’d grown a foot and a half in little more than a year and she had a lean, intelligent face. Feather and Jesus spoke to each other in fluent English, French, and Spanish, which somehow made her conversation seem more sophisticated.
“Where’s Juice?” I asked, using Jesus’s nickname.
“He and Benny went to get Essie from Benny’s mom.” She hesitated a moment and then added, “I stayed home with E.D. today because I didn’t know what else to do.”
I was trying to figure it all out while standing there.
My son had agreed to stay with Feather while I was out looking for Chevette. He and Benita didn’t make much money and had only a one-room studio apartment in Venice. When they babysat they could sleep in my big bed, watch TV, and cook on a real stove.
But Jesus had a life, and Feather was supposed to be in school. Easter Dawn Black had no business in my house at all.
The child wore black cotton pants and an unadorned red silk jacket cut in an Asian style. Her long black hair was tied with an orange bow and hung down the front, over her right shoulder.
“Daddy brought me,” Easter said, answering the question in my eyes.
“Why?”
“He told me to tell you that I had to stay here for a while visiting with Feather. . . .”
My daughter knelt down then and hugged the smaller child from behind.
“. . . He said that you would know how long I had to stay. Do you?”
“You want some coffee, Daddy?” Feather asked.
My adopted daughter had a creamy brown complexion that reflected her complicated racial heritage. Staring into her generous face, I realized for the twentieth time that I could no longer predict the caprice or depth of her heart.
It was with the sadness of this growing separation that I said, “Sure, baby. Sure.”
I picked up Easter and followed Feather into the kitchen. There I sat in a dinette chair with the doll-size child on my lap.
“You been having a good time with Feather?” I asked.
Easter nodded vehemently.
“Did she make you lunch?”
“Tuna fish and sweet potato pie.”
Looking up into my eyes, Easter relaxed and leaned against my chest. I hadn’t known her and her father, Christmas Black, for long, but the confidence he had in me had influenced the child’s trust.
“So you and your daddy drove here?” I asked.
“Uh-huh.”
“And was it just you and him in the car?”
“No,” she said. “There was a lady with yellow hair.”
“What was her name?”
“Miss . . . something. I don’t remember.”
“And was this lady up in your house in Riverside?”
