Dear Daddy,
I have to believe this letter will somehow find you. I am now twenty-seven years old. Although I was very small when you and I were parted I have thought of you often. Mama (Miss Lucille) always says when you think of somebody you should say a little prayer for them. So I have said a lot of prayers for you. During the Christmas season I even think of you more and wonder where you are and what you are doing.
I want to thank you for choosing Thomas and Lucille Hardin to leave me with. She is a fine Christian woman and has loved me and treated me like her own child. When I was ten Papa Thomas died and we moved to Topeka, Kansas. I went to school there and graduated from Sumner High School. Even though I am only one quarter Negro I was not allowed into the white public schools. This is not a complaint because I enjoyed my years at Sumner very much. I planned to attend college but life seems to have gotten in my way.
I am married to a wonderful man named Henry Walker Thompson III. He is very proud of his “III” and always signs with it. He hopes for us to have a “IV” soon. Hank is a truck mechanic. He learned his trade in the Army in Korea. He works hard and is a good provider. You would be proud of my choice.
I want you know I do not feel any anger toward you for never coming to get me. Those were hard times and hard things had to be done. It does hurt sometimes that I have never heard from you or my sister. I like to think it is because we moved to Topeka and you couldn’t find us. I would have written you sooner but I didn’t know where you were. Your daughter Paula was asking after my mama Mattie’s kin when she was in Orvin. I learned through the grapevine you were in California. Please do not take this as a scolding, but lately I have had a deep longing to see you or talk to you. Mama says that you were a good man and loved my mother very much. She has told me all my life how much you two were in love.
You must have been very brave to have loved a Negro woman in those days. Sometimes in the silence of the night I lie awake and think of how she died because of your love and I cry. Maudie says that you are a hero to the black folks in the country around Orvin for what you did to the man who killed her, although no one could ever prove it.
I am writing now to tell you that you have a granddaughter, Matilda Georgia Thompson, we call her Mattie. I try to imagine what it would be like to have to give her up. So I know the pain you must have felt.
If you get this letter and have any desire to see me again I would love to see you. If not, at least I have said what is in my heart and what I want you to know. Please know I love you and I have a wonderful life. Please do not feel bad for leaving me behind because God has a plan for all of us and the life I have is what He had planned for me.
Merry Christmas,
Your Loving Daughter,
Lottie
Cole turned the sheets over. There was no address. He went back to the bookcase but had no idea which notebook the letter fell out of. One by one he began picking up the six notebooks and flipping through the pages looking for an envelope or something, anything with a connection to the letter. Pushed deep into the pages of the third notebook Cole found another piece of powder blue paper. He missed it on the first pass through the notebook, but the second time through he caught a glimpse of the small scrap of paper.
Mrs. Lottie Thompson
Route 2 Box 3968
Topeka, Kansas
The scrap of paper was the return address torn from the envelope. Cole looked at his watch. It was a little past eight. That made it after ten in San Francisco; he would have to wait until morning to call Randy Callen at the Chronicle.
TWENTY-TWO
Cole sat on the front porch until long after the sun went down. He counted six cars that drove by, two shooting stars and a flock of bats that at first he thought were birds. He teetered back and forth on the back legs of his chair, feet firmly planted on the rail. He slapped the letter repeatedly in a slow steady beat against his thigh. The Oldies station was nearly inaudible as it made its way through the house from the kitchen radio. Tomorrow his days would be down to single digits; his stay was almost over.
Occasionally sipping a Diet Coke, Cole imagined what it would be like to meet Lottie. The letter was fifty years old. That would make her seventy-seven years old. She could be in Timbuktu. She could be dead. That’s not that old, he thought, dismissing any negative or rational expectations sneaking into his fantasy. He wanted her to be alive. She was family, an aunt, something he had never known.
By the time Cole was old enough to wonder why he didn’t have aunts and uncles like other kids bragged about, all of his father’s sisters were dead. Cole smiled and almost laughed out loud. What a strange journey life is. He spent years not knowing he had a daughter. He spent a lifetime thinking he had no relatives. Yet here he sits, about to find a blood relative that a month ago he didn’t know existed. What next? He shook his head at the wonder of life.
In the morning he would call the Chronicle. Randy Callen could find anybody. He’d done it in the past. He tracked down people who made a life’s work of not being found. It had been almost two years since they met in the basement of the Daily Record. The kid had a gift for research the likes of which Cole had never seen. People, companies, organizations, if they had ever had their name on a piece of paper, he would ferret them out. The Feds lost a valuable resource when they turned down the application of a kid with a withered hand. Since he came to the Chronicle his mission was to out hack and out snoop everybody. His total disregard for privacy issues and his willingness once on the hunt to hack, sack and dissect the computers of private and government sources were the stuff of legends, but also a secret as closely guarded as The Colonel’s eleven herbs and spices. Cole liked to think Randy helped everyone at the paper as much as him, but deep down he knew that the extra mile was for the man who encouraged him to come to San Francisco.
At around ten-thirty Cole’s head bobbed and woke him up. He gave in to his heavy eyelids and had been napping for over an hour. As he made his way to bed, he set the letter from Lottie on the table next to the bed and turned off the light.
* * *
At 7:01 Cole placed a call to Randy Callen’s direct line at the Chronicle.
“Mr. Sage?” Randy said, on the third ring.
“That’s me. How you doin’ Randy?”
“Great. How am I so honored? I heard you were gone for a month.”
“Nine days to go,” Cole said brightly. “Can’t wait to get home though. I need a favor, its personal.”
“Oh good,” Randy replied.
“Good?”
“Yeah, you always have cool stuff for me to do, like finding the college grades of the manager of the Water Abatement District in Fresno or something. You always got the weird ones.”
“You’re going to love this one then. Ready?”
“Shoot.”
“I have learned that I have an aunt that I have never met. Never knew she existed until I came back here. Her name is Lottie Thompson. Last known address is fifty years old.”
“Cool,” Randy interrupted.
“Route 2 Box 3968, Topeka, Kansas. Her husband’s name was Henry Walker Thompson III.”
“Stop, stop! You’re making this too easy. Leave me a little somethin’ would you?”
“Fine. Dead or alive, I want anything and everything you can find. Kids, other spouses, whatever you can dig up.”
“Would you like me to make verbal confirmation if I find her?”
“Is that part of the fun?” Cole asked hoping it wasn’t.
“Not really,” Randy answered.
“Then no, I’ll do that part myself. Do you have anything else pressing?”
“Of course, but you get the priority treatment. They can wait.”
“Thanks. Dinner on me when I get home?” Cole offered.
“You got it. I’ll get back to you as soon as I find something,” Randy said hanging up.
Cole went to the refrigerator and got one of Ernie’s sandwiches that were left from the trip to Tulsa
. He unwrapped the cellophane and gave the sandwich a sniff. It smelled wonderful, so he laid it on the counter and made a half pot of coffee. His mug was still on the counter next to the sink so he tore open a package of sugar free instant cocoa and poured it in the mug along with a heaping spoonful of Dairy Delight creamer and a small amount of artificial sweetener.
Before the coffee stopped gurgling in the pot the cell phone rang.
“You’ve got to get more challenging, Mr. Sage, you’re losing your edge,” Randy said before Cole could say hello. He could see Randy’s crooked grin. Cole figured he was pushing his glasses up on his nose the way he did when he was particularly proud of an accomplishment.
“You found her? Already?” Cole offered in praise.
“She wasn’t lost. Ever hear of directory assistance?”
“You’re kidding,” Cole said sheepishly.
“Nope. Lottie Thompson, 144413 Chestnut Street Northeast. Got a pencil?”
“Hold on.” Cole fumbled to get a pencil and paper from a drawer.
“Area code (785) 386–4251. I tell you what, that was so easy I’m only going to hold you to lunch.”
“Deal. Thanks Randy, this means a lot.”
“Hope you like her!” Randy’s response was touched with a hint of irony.
“Me too,” Cole said, as he hung up.
Cole drew a box around the number on the paper. His excitement was mixed with a slight feeling of dread. He poured coffee into the mug. He ate slowly and waited for the clock to hit eight. Finally after a second mug of mocha and forty-five minutes of tracing circles on the top of the table in the coffee rings, the clock above the stove read 8:03.
He suddenly ran through a litany of “what ifs”. The only thing that would answer his questions, fill his heart with joy or embarrass the hell out of him, was to call the number. He flipped his phone open and punched in the numbers. He stood looking at the digits on the screen for a long moment, then hit send.
It rang. Once, twice, three times Cole was almost relieved that no one was answering.
“Hello.” The voice on the other end was as clear as if coming from the other room.
“Hello,” Cole said smiling.
“Who is this?” The voice was strong but had the unmistakable sound of age.
“My name is Cole Sage.”
The silence was explosive. Cole felt almost like he was floating. What should he say next?
“Say that again,” the voice said slowly.
“My name is Cole Sage. Who am I speaking to?”
“Sweet Jesus,” the voice whispered in a soft prayer. “My name is Lottie Thompson.” She spoke as if feeling her way through the dark.
“Well,” Cole began, “I am your nephew.” He paused, not knowing what to say next.
“How can that be?” Lottie said in disbelief.
“Your father was my grandfather.”
“George? George Sage?”
“That’s right.”
“Who was your daddy?” Lottie asked, still seeking clarification.
“George Coleman Sage.”
Cole and Lottie each were moving every slowly through this emotionally charged exchange. Cole was at a complete loss for direction. Lottie was feeling light headed and in a state of near shock.
A woman’s voice came from in the background, “What is it Mama? Are you alright?”
“Yes honey, I’m fine,” Lottie said softly. “Well Mr. Sage, I am surely surprised by this call. How did you... that is...Oh Lord I just don’t know what to say, I am sorry. That is one of the things I hate about getting old, my old brain sputters sometimes.”
“That is quite all right. I’m as surprised as you are, I think. Let me tell you a bit about myself and how this all came about. Have you got a minute?”
“My Lord yes, I have all day if you need it. Please talk. I am dying to hear this out.”
“OK, where do I start? I live in San Francisco. I am a newspaperman, a writer. It seems that you and I are the last of the Mohicans.”
“Cherokees,” Lottie said softly.
“Right you are!” Cole smiled. He liked this woman already. “I inherited a house in Orvin, Oklahoma. Actually it is the property where you were born. After the fire the house was rebuilt. Anyway, in the attic of this house was a trunk. The trunk was full of notebooks, diaries really, written by your father. I found the letter you wrote to him nearly fifty years ago and here we are.”
“My head is just spinning! Can you explain this to my daughter?”
“With pleasure.”
“Hello?” a woman with a no nonsense tone said into the phone. “We don’t need to buy anything, we love our church and we give to the United Way, anything else we buy as we need it. So whatever you’re selling we are not interested.”
Cole couldn’t help but laugh. “Hi, my name is Cole Sage, we’re cousins.”
“Excuse me?” the woman said sharply.
“Your mother is my aunt. Her father was my grandfather. That makes us cousins, right?” Cole tried to sound friendly and upbeat.
“So...?”
“So I just found out you existed.”
“I have been existing for nearly fifty years. You better start at the beginning.”
Cole recounted the same basic story he told Lottie. The woman made an occasional “uh-huh” and “yeah...” but listened mostly in silence.
“So where are you now?” She made no effort to mask her skepticism.
Cole explained the Oklahoma occupancy laws and said he would be in Orvin for nine more days. “I would really like to meet you and your mother.”
There was a long pause, then Lottie spoke again. “Georgia is a little suspicious of strangers.”
“I must sound pretty strange. I would love to meet you and your daughter.” Cole stopped short of calling his cousin by name.
“That would be nice. When?”
“I don’t go back to San Francisco for nine days. How far is Topeka from here? Do you know?”
“I would guess about 350 miles.”
“So, six or seven hours drive. I need to be here on Saturday for the Grand Opening of a friend of mine’s business. So, how about Sunday?”
“You would drive all the way here to see me?” Lottie said in amazement.
“You’re the only aunt I’ve got! I would drive to China if I had to.”
“Honey, I sure hope you’re not disappointed.” Lottie laughed.
“You either. I’ll see you Sunday.”
“Hold on just a second,” Lottie said.
Lottie put her hand over the mouthpiece of the phone but Cole could still hear Georgia in the background. “You tell him we don’t have any money!”
“We’ll see you Sunday, Mr. Sage.”
“Please Aunt Lottie, call me Cole.”
“See you Sunday.” Lottie hung up.
“Ha!” Cole blurted in delight as he laid the phone on the table. “Unbelievable!” he said out loud.
“Who the hell you talkin’ too?”
Cole looked up to find Ernie peering through the open kitchen window.
“Nobody.”
“The hell you say. You willing to give me some help today? I want to be ready for Saturday’s Grand Opening.”
“What’s left? We’ve polished every inch of the place twice. I have filled the salt and pepper shakers, napkin holders, got ketchup and hot sauce on every table, what have we missed?”
“Decorations. I was down there this morning and the place looks real nice but it hasn’t got personality, you know, no personal touch.”
“Ernie, listen to me, you can’t put up Playboy centerfolds on the walls!”
“Sage, sometimes your smartass California sense of humor is offensive. I have other stuff too. Drink up, let’s get rollin’.”
On the way to town Cole told Ernie all about the call to Lottie. Ernie listened intently. It wasn’t until Cole fell silent that he spoke.
“So the baby girl who escaped the fire is in Topeka. She
’s how old?”
“Seventy-seven.”
“My mom would be seventy-seven if she were still alive. Jesus and germs Cole, that cousin of yours is like our age, huh? I swear your life is like a damn fairy story or Twilight zone or some...” Ernie’s voice trailed off as his thoughts took over.
Cole smiled as he glanced over and watched Ernie try and process the story he just heard. When they arrived at the shop Cole was surprised to see a professionally painted “Grand Opening” sign on the front window.
“Grab a box, will ya?” Ernie said, as he hopped out of the truck.
Two large rectangular boxes lay under the cargo net in the back of the truck. Despite their size the boxes were fairly light.
“What’s in here?” Cole inquired.
“Pictures, posters, you know, decorations.”
Inside the shop everything was picture perfect. The colors were still not what Cole would have chosen but they were growing on him. Ernie plopped down his box on a table and tore the packing tape off of one end. From his vantage point Cole could see several dozen rolled tubes.
“So what is all this stuff?” Cole said, also putting his box on a table.
“Stuff I’ve collected. Some of it I’ve had since high school. Take a look.”
Cole peeled off the tape from the end of his box. It had about the same number of posters as Ernie’s but also contained several framed pictures. “Isn’t this your mother?” Cole asked holding up a framed photo.
“Sure is. Here, give me that one.” Ernie took the picture and walked toward the kitchen door. He pulled a small step stool out from the kitchen along with a hammer. From his shirt pocket he pulled out a small nail and centered it above the kitchen door. He slid the frame up and down on the wall until the wire on the back found the nail.
“What do you think?” Ernie said, standing back to admire his work.
“Looks good,” Cole replied.
The two men began unrolling posters. Dried, crumbling rubber bands dropped from the tubes as they opened poster after poster. Ernie walked toward the wall, poster in hand.
Cole Dust Cole Page 29
