by Rae Richen
Grandma Willie reached into her oversized teaching bag and said, “Mr. Abu, go ahead and take the offered seat next to George Wilson. Here is paper and pen.”
The alliterative fellow in the back said, “I got it. Zulu zitherists and Irish incidentalists.”
“Good work, Mr. Artimus. And let’s be certain our alliteration doesn’t stretch so far that our reader cannot relate to our thoughts.”
“Yeah,” said George, the guy next to Leneld. “Them Zulus didn’t play the zither. More like some kind of stringed banjo.”
“A Kora,” Leneld said.
“You got one?” George asked.
“My dad plays one. Kind of hard to find a band to play with, though. Not too many Zulu or Mandika in Portland.”
“I play plastic-tub drums,” George said. “Get your dad to come live here. We could practice all the time.”
Leneld smiled. “I’ll tell him.”
“Well, at least a visit. Get him to come with Mrs. Stamps. I’d like to hear the Mandika Kora.”
“I got it!” Mr. Alliteration shouted out. “Mandika Kora. Inner alliteration, right, Mrs. Stamps?”
“I like the rhythm, and the repetition of the K,” Grandma Willie said. “Who has some writing to share today?”
Six out of ten hands raised. Leneld settled in.
What he learned over the next half hour was that the fellows inside came in all levels of self-doubt and self- confidence. The assignment had been chosen by them the week before, expressed as ‘What I’m going to do with myself while I’m in this joint.’
Some were focused on disproving the charges against them, which Grandma Willie said meant that they were going to learn a lot about how the law works.
Some were going to earn library privileges and study the classics.
Leneld asked, “What are the classics?”
George said, “That stuff we shoulda read in high school, and the stuff we might of got to read if we’d gone to college.”
One of the guys asked what the classics would do to improve their lives, and Mr. Alliteration said, “You’d learn a lot about how the suits think and how they justify themselves.”
“Aren’t there African classics?” one fellow asked.
“There are,” Willie said. “And modern writers who will be classics.”
George said, “African-American classics, too. Langston Hughes.”
“Yes,” Willie said, “Zora Neale Hurston.
“W.E.B. Dubois, Countee Cullen,” one of the fellows said.
Artimus Alliteration shouted, “Maya Angelou! Toni Morrison!”
“Yes!” George pumped his fist.
Grandma Willie smiled and repeated “Yes! Let’s read what we can, and who you suggest, and then write about what we read or about incidents that the reading brings to mind.”
“Library here is pretty thin,” pointed out one man.
“Maybe Leneld and I can bring in some good books, and books you could suggest.”
“How about PlayBoy?” suggested someone.
“That magazine died,” someone said.
“Not my old copies. They are still alive in my storage space back home,” another said.
Everybody roared at that one.
As the laughter died down, Grandma Willie said, “You know, I’ve never read anything in that magazine. I only look at the pictures.”
Leneld sat straight up and stared at her, as the whole class laughed. It seemed to him that these fellows were used to Grandma Willie saying the unexpected.
“Now, Gentlemen,” she said, calming them down with her hands. “I find your plans very interesting. Maybe some African instruments like Leneld’s dad’s. And let’s see if we can get a speaker in here to tell us a little more about how to study the law, and another time, let’s bring in someone to help us add to and build a library of helpful and interesting reading.”
“What we gonna write about for next week?” Alliteration asked.
“I’ve got a problem,” Grandma Willie said, “and I hope we can discuss it and then write about it.”
“What? You have problems?”
“I do. A young friend of mine has disappeared while standing on a street corner here in town. Another young friend disappeared while riding a bus between Portland and another town down the valley. Could we speculate on ways to track these missing people and restore them to safety?”
“Do they want to be found?” George asked.
Grandma Willie nodded. “Good question. I believe the person on the bus for sure wants to be found. The person from the street corner may be hiding from dangerous associates.”
“He owes somebody money or product, eh?”
“A distinct possibility.”
“Dead man walking,” said George.
“Better find him before they do,” said another man.
“Why would the bus kid want to be found?”
Grandma Willie answered, “The bus was taking that person to college, and they were looking forward to that experience.”
“Uh-oh.” Alliteration said, “Off to California.”
“Do you mean to the sex trade?” Grandma Willie asked.
Dead silence followed, as if the guys didn’t think their Mrs. Stamps could even guess about such things. Uncomfortable chairs scraped the linoleum floor. Finally, George spoke up.
“Girl, huh? I’d be chasing every bus and truck between here and the California border. Have you gone to the police?”
One of the guys snorted. “The police? What do they care? Specially if she’s not from money. For money they find heiresses that go missing.”
The noise next came from all sides.
“Look at the rape kit bit.”
“Yeah! Oregon be one thousand kits behind in testing them rape kits.”
“Does that show any sign of care for girls?”
The guard in the room stood away from where he’d been leaning.
Grandma Willie held up her hands, asking for quiet.
“Gentlemen, I appreciate your outrage.”
“Some of us have got daughters, too, you know. And sisters and...”
Grandma Willie nodded. “Yes. I hear you caring about the women in your lives. That’s very important to them that you care. Since my friend is an immigrant, her family fears the police, so the help I need is ideas about how to find her. What’s the process for taking and hiding and ... and selling?”
Leneld hunched forward. He’d never thought anybody’s grandmother but his own could be this strong and face this much truth. He needed to take another look at all grandmothers.
The guys all looked sideways at each other. Some stared at the desks or their shoes. Some glanced at the guard.
Finally, Mr. Alliteration Artimus said, “This is all speculation, you know. And stuff we’ve heard on the street. But I think they gang them together before they take them anywhere.”
“That’s what I hear, too,” another man said. “Ten to twenty depending on the size of the truck they got.”
“So,” Grandma Willie said, “They might not have gone yet.”
“Trouble is,” George said, “You ... I mean they got to find a place big enough, or enough places they trust.”
Grandma Willie nodded. “Where might be good places to look?”
“Cheap hotels.”
“Guys apartments that want ...”
“Naw,” one guy said. “You don’t want ‘em used up before you sell them to the next guy.”
“Brings down the value.”
Grandma Willie said, “What about boys.”
“There’s a market,” Mr. Artimus said. “Least ways, I think there is.”
“Okay,” Grandma Willie said. “How about if we write. You don’t need to sign your name. But I sure could use any ideas you’ve got.”
The fidgeting went on for several minutes. The fellows folded and unfolded paper, clicked pens and finally got down to it.
Leneld began writing what they knew about Trace and Rosaria.
Tr
ace Owes money to Small Pants and his gang.
Small Pants (SP) knows Ancient Nation connection, so follows members to high school.
SP knows the home of De’Andre
Ask De’Andre more questions about how SP made his home.
SP works around Martin Luther King and Mississippi, Denver Ave and Killingsworth, but has been seen at skate park farther south
Skate Park ranger types banned SP from park for picking up and selling to kids
SP and gang take kids north on Second Ave. to get fake Yo-Plait and don’t return
SP’s guy tried to pick up kids from north-going bus on Grand Ave.
So, hunt for places along Second, Mississippi, MLK, Grand, Interstate (lots of motels) and nearby streets.
Give up looking under bridges
Speed up search of motel and cheap apartments that rent by the month along these places.
For Rosaria, spread around photo of Liza’s boyfriend and spread it around other rappers and friends.
Look at map and figure where along that bus route they may have a stash of girls
Check motels in Tigard or Tualitin and other small towns near Newberg.
**
At the end of the hour class, the guard started forward to whisper to Grandma Willie. She pulled out a large card and read it out loud to him.
“By order of the Director of the Federal Prison, Sheridan, Oregon, all writing that takes place in Mrs. Stamps’s classes is the property of the writers and of Mrs. Stamps. No one else may read or take possession of any of the written material produced in this class.”
The guys sat in their desks, statue silent, watching.
The guard’s face faded from red to white. Grandma Willie straightened from her walker and looked him in the eye.
“I understand that you believe you will learn something by reading these papers. We all understand that you also want to stop this business of selling children.
“We all appreciate that you care, along with all of us, about the women and children who are damaged in this way. But what you will learn from any paper here is only guesses and suggestions, not incriminating evidence. And believe me, you will also learn that this rule about writing ownership is sacred to the Director and to me. I would not be here, if I didn’t believe he would back me up in this.”
The guard leaned forward, “I don’t like this child stealing business. I want it stopped.”
“Then leave these men and their paper to me. They are helping to stop it. For their loved ones, they also want it stopped. They are helping by imagining how it might be done. They are not telling us how it is done.”
“Okay, Mrs. Stamps. But some of these...”
She whispered something to him. He nodded and backed off.
Everyone in the room relaxed. Leneld took a deep breath and put his name at the top of his paper, handing it in with everyone else.
“Thanks for the desk and chair, George,” he said.
“Anytime, Kid. But don’t be back for cause.”
“I’m working on it.”
George gave him the ‘got your back’ nod and they parted.
**
Leaving the correctional facility near Sheridan was a maze of slamming doors, friskings (especially of Leneld) and careful watchings. Back in the old red and white Buick, Grandma Willie put what she called her portmanteau in the red-vinyl back seat. The ‘portmanteau’ thing looked like a big bag to Leneld, but whatever.
He folded himself into the cushy driver’s seat, glad she trusted him to be careful in traffic, because this car was smooth.
He glanced at the dashboard where Mrs. Stamps’s husband once had glued a saying. “Believe in the Lord, and drive the speed limit. God cares for others.”
Leneld knew he would have liked her husband, Clifford. He’d seen Grandma Willie’s painting of the guy, laughing and happy. And, Leneld liked her. He was glad for his detail to chaperone her – like she needed chaperoning.
“What did you whisper to that guard?” he asked.
“Let those without sin cast the first stone.”
“Jesus, the year thirty-two or three. Somewhere in Mark or Matthew, I expect.”
“You been footnoting papers in high school?”
“Sure. Crandall lets no attribution go un-noted.”
“Good for him.”
“You got something on that guard? Did he know what sins you referred to?”
“What he doesn’t know is what I don’t know. He has to assume I know something. After all, the guys are there writing twice a week.”
“You ask for dirt.”
“Never. Always ask advice, or pose a situation that has come up in our reading. What would their characters do?”
“Never ask what would they do themselves?”
“Better to let everyone write their best self and then live up to that imagined person.”
Leneld nodded, thinking about who his best self might be. After a moment, he said, “I narrowed the places that we need to look, if Trace is still in Portland.”
“And alive.”
Leneld swallowed hard. “We have to go forward on the assumption he is alive.”
“I agree,” Grandma Willie said.
As silence descended, they could both hear the flapping of the old Naugahyde fabric of the car’s top. The top was in the process of disintegrating on Mrs. Stamps’s ancient Buick. Since she didn’t drive, and evidently never had, he kind of wondered why she kept the thing. And then he looked again at the saying on the dashboard. She must have really loved that guy.
Then Leneld asked, “Back at the beginning of the class, you talked to the guard about somebody named Bailey. What was that about?”
“Officer Bailey failed my class and then discovered that passing it was necessary to getting a badge. He pays attention to the story of Geneva’s accusations because causing me trouble is easier than admitting he made a mistake.”
“Did he ever pass the class?”
“Third time’s the charm.”
“Was he charming?”
Willie laughed.
**
They drove into town from the south. On Grand Avenue, Leneld said, “Pull over. I’ve seen something.”
She pulled to the curb of Grand Avenue.
“What?” she asked.
“Don’t turn around,” he said. “I’m watching in the mirror. Your Granddaughter.”
“I see her too.”
“Name’s Arwain, right?”
“Yes.” Grandma Willie said, “What the deuce is she doing?”
Leneld tensed as he stared into the rearview mirror. “I think she’s following someone, and pretending to just be shopping.”
“It’s after school. Maybe she is shopping.”
Leneld shook his head. “He’s in front of us. He stops. She stops a block behind him. Skinny. Anorexia or drugs.”
“Never!” Grandma Willie said.
“Him, not her.”
“Okay. I see the guy you mean. If he notices her, she’s up a creek on this street.”
“Unless we stick close. Got anywhere to be?”
“Shall I move up a block?”
“Wait. It looks like he has a buddy who’s behind her. Let me get out”
“Len!” Grandma Willie said as he exited the right door.
“Gonna distract and maybe learn something,” he said. “Get your phone out.”
“Watch for knives.”
“Yes.”
Leneld crossed the street behind the first skinny guy, stood on the corner next to Andy and Bax Outdoor Store. He waited for Arwain to come by, shook his head at her and said, “Keep going. Don’t turn around. I’m watching the one who’s following you.”
“Thank you. I’m following a guy who keeps appearing near the high school. Mrs. Price, Glyn’s history teacher, pointed him out to me.”
“Watch, but don’t approach.”
“Right.” She kept walking as if she had no idea who Leneld might be.
&nb
sp; When the guy behind her came by, Leneld greeted him.
“Got a roll?” Leneld said.
“Outa my way.”
“Sure, but can’t you help out a fellow? I need something to take the edge off.”
The fellow stopped, glancing up the street toward Arwain. “I got some product,” he said. “How much you want?”
“Got five dollars in change,” Leneld said.
“That won’t get you much.”
Leneld nodded, “Whatever it gets that’s what I got.” He started pulling a bag of change out of his pocket. At the same time, he motioned Grandma Willie to move to watch Arwain.
She drove on down slowly, as if looking for something. Leneld saw her pull up behind Arwain, and get out, hauling her walker from the back seat.
As Leneld started counting out coins he saw Grandma Willie pushing her walker toward him. The way she was hunched over, she seemed to be just another tired old lady who might live in the upper reaches of any of these tired buildings.
Leneld started counting coins faster. His plan had been to stall this guy, but he didn’t want Grandma Willie coming anywhere near the man.
“Come on, come on,” the guy said. “I got places to be.”
Just at that moment, Grandma Willie walked past on the guy’s right, reached over and snapped handcuffs on the guy’s skinny wrists. “Sit down on the ground,” she said. “You’re under arrest for selling drugs.”
The guy stared at her.
“Down now,” she said, lifting her walker legs toward his chest.
He collapsed onto the sidewalk.
Grandma Willie handed Leneld a bigger pair of cuffs. “On his ankles and then you go up the street.”
“What right you got?” the guy sputtered.
She held out her billfold at the guy’s face. Leneld shackled him.
“Give me the baggy and get going,” she said.
So, he handed it to her and went. In a block, he caught up to Arwain, who stood outside a drug store.
“He in there?” Leneld asked.
“Upstairs. Used a key. His apartment or his office,” she said.
“Your grandma is back a block. Arrested the other guy for selling drugs.”
“Grandma?”
“Yup.”
Arwain held up her phone, saying, “Let’s go help her. I’ve got the address and photos of him and everyone he’s talked to on Grand Avenue since we got off the bus from Eisenhower High School.”
