The Book of Lost Friends

by Lisa Wingate

  Except for fire, this is the thing that’s worried us most. Cotton don’t get freighted all the way to Texas; it gets brought out of Texas and south Louisiana and carried north to cloth mills. Sometime before Texas, our cotton palace is bound for an offload. We just don’t know when.

  First night in our hiding place, we slept in shifts, so’s to keep an eye out, but we’ve turned lazy. Water’s been smooth, and the weather’s clear, and the boat passes by the towns and the plantations that have their own river landings along the way. Don’t even stop for folk that come out to their docks and try to wave her down to catch a berth upwater. The Genesee Star is loaded for the long haul. Just eats boiler wood, stops for reload here and there, and steams right on. Ain’t the normal way of the river, but it’s the way of the Genesee Star. She ain’t sociable and she don’t want to be troubled with new folks.

  There’s something peculiar about this boat, Gus says. Something wrong. Folks talk in whispers if they talk at all, and the Genesee creeps along like a ghost not wanting to be seen by the living.

  “We ain’t movin’,” I whisper to Gus.

  “Wooding, I bet. Must be we come in at another farm landin’. Don’t hear no town sounds.”

  “Me neither.” Ain’t unusual for a boat to stop off no place particular to take on fuel. Swamp folk and farmers make their living woodcutting for the riverboats. White folk doing what used to be the work of gangs of slaves.

  The cotton bales shift like something’s shoved them hard. The palace sways over our heads, two bales falling together, wedged shoulder to shoulder. “What if they’re taking on more than just wood, or bringing goods off the boat?” I whisper.

  Gus casts a nervous look. “Hope they ain’t.” He wiggles to a stand, whispers, “We best git.” Then he’s headed down the tunnel.

  I snatch up my hat, dig out Missy’s reticule, shove it in my pants, and start pushing and wiggling like a burrow rabbit with a camp dog at the door. Shucks and twigs pull at my clothes and slice ribbons in my skin while I struggle toward the clear, trying to hold up the walls as I go. Dust and cotton fills the air, falls in my eyes till I can’t see, clogs my nose so I can’t breathe. My lungs squeeze and I keep pushing on. It’s that or die.

  Men outside holler and shout orders. Wood hits wood. Metal rings on metal. The floor lists sidewards underfoot. The cotton walls lean.

  I hit the end of the tunnel and fall out onto the deck, half-blind and choking on the dust. I’m too turned round to even worry if anybody saw. Getting air again is all that matters.

  The light outside is barely gray, the hanging lamps still burning. Men run everyplace, and passengers in deck camps scramble from their bedrolls and tents to grab buckets and carpet bags, smoking pipes and skillet pans that’re sliding downhill as the Genesee Star leans in the water. There’s too much fracas for anybody to notice me. Roustabouts and white men scurry with bundles, crates, and barrels on their backs. Bringing on a new load of cordwood, they’ve got the boat too overweighted on one side. On account of her shallow hull, she’s started to roll. She groans as she ticks another notch sidewards. The main deck goes anthill crazy, men and women snatching up pokes and dogs and children, screaming and yelling, livestock carrying on. Chickens flap in their cages. Cows bellow loud and long and slide against the cow pens. Horses and mules dig for footing on the deck boards and thrash the stalls and whinny. Their calls carry off into blue-white fog so thick you could scoop it with a spoon.

  Wood splinters. A woman screams, “My baby! Where’s my baby?”

  A boatman hurries by with a load of wood. I figure I’d best get out of here before he has a good look at me.

  I move toward the stock pens at the middle of the main deck, thinking I’ll slip closer by the stalls where Old Ginger and Juneau Jane’s gray still are, and pretend I been sent there to calm the horses. But there’s so much commotion, I can’t even get near. I end up pushing myself against the rails on the shoreward side, figuring if the boat goes over, at least I’ll jump. I hope Gus is where he can do the same.

  Just as quick as she started leaning, the Genesee lets out a heavy moan and rolls back upright in the water. Goods and people slide and clatter. Horses and cattle clomp and fuss. Folks rush to set the mess right.

  It’s a while before everything quietens and the crew’s back to bringing wood up from the landing. Down on the riverbank, there ain’t much more than a little cleared spot along a wide sandy stretch. It’s piled high with cut wood. Colored roustabouts and even some passengers hurry up and down the ramp, moving the load onboard. Seems like they’re putting more weight on this boat than she oughta hold. They want her loaded down with as much fuel as she can carry. The Genesee ain’t planning on stopping till a ways upriver.

  Might be you’d do best to get off now, Hannie, I tell myself. Here, and then follow the river back home.

  Something hard and wet hits my ear so sudden, sparks bust out behind my eyes and my head rings like a church bell.

  “Get to work, boy.” A voice pushes through the sound. A knotted hank of rope skims down my shoulder and leg and lands on the deck. “Tote wood. You don’t get paid to stand lookin’.”

  Pulling my hat low, I scurry down the ramp and scrabble round with the others, tying bundles and toting them up on my back. I carry all I can. I don’t want to get whipped again.

  The deckhand hollers, “Haul that wood! Haul that wood!”

  Someplace above the ruckus, I hear Moses’s deep voice. “Even out the load! Step up, now, step up!”

  I keep my hat low and move in a line with all the others. Don’t look at anybody. Don’t talk. Make sure nobody sees me in the face.

  This’s a sign to you, Hannie, I tell myself as I work. You got yourself a way off this boat. Right now. You got a way to leave, go back home. Just duck into them trees.

  Every trip down, I think, Do it, now.

  Every trip up, I think, Next round. Next round, you do it.

  But I’m still there, back on the boat when all the wood’s loaded. The Genesee Star looks like a pregnant woman overdue for the birthing, but she’s level in the water, at least.

  I stand at the slats near the back, watch the men finish offloading sugar, flour, crates, and barrels of whiskey to pay for the wood. Last thing they do, before swinging in the ramp, is clear folks out of the way and lead two horses down. One sorrel, one silver-white.

  Old Ginger and Juneau Jane’s gray.

  Somebody’s decided not to carry them all the way to Texas, after all.

  Go, I tell myself. Go now.

  I stand there, froze up with the idea. No one’s round the shore that I can see. The only movement is the roustabouts, taking up the ramps. Might be, if I wait till the boat’s crawled her way off the sand, I can get a bucket or something to float me, slip into the water and kick hard toward land. The paddle wheel won’t be pulling so much while the Genesee’s building steam.

  Might be I’ll end up dead, chopped to bits for the gators to make a meal on.

  I try to decide while the Genesee Star works her way toward the channel. If I do it, will they just let me go or will they shoot me?

  Before I can make up my mind, a big hand clamps over my shirt collar, pulls it up tight. I feel the tall, hard body of a man against me, warm and wet with sweat.

  “You swim?” The voice is a brush of river mist against my ear, deep and moist, but I know it right off. Moses.

  I make a nod, just barely.

  “Then get off this boat.” Another hand comes up twixt my legs, and next I know, I’m sailing over the guards and through the air.

  Flying free, but not for long.

  CHAPTER 10

  BENNY SILVA—AUGUSTINE, LOUISIANA, 1987

  Just as my hopes wane, I spot what I’m looking for. Mr. Crump, who runs the Thursday morning farmers market, has already informed me that he can’t exactly pr
edict what time Nathan Gossett will show up here, but that I should watch for a blue pickup truck. A blue pickup truck has finally arrived, there are ice chests in the back, and the man driving is decades younger than the average vendor at the farmers market. I can’t believe my luck, and I need luck, because I am on a crunch timeline. I’ve begged the new science teacher across the hall to take my first-hour class in with his if I don’t quite make it to school before the first bell.

  It’s already seven twenty-five. I have just over thirty minutes to get there. Week three of my teaching career has been slightly better than weeks one and two, and even a slim gain is progress. The pooperoos help. Hungry kids like them just enough to eat them. Kids who are not famished would rather avoid them. As Granny T promised, the cookies are cheap to produce, and the Ding Dong budget is way down, since I am once again its only consumer.

  Something about baking for the kids engenders an underlying sense of goodwill. They’re impressed that I care enough to do it, I think. Either that, or they are intimidated by the fact that I am in communication with Granny T. I’m guilty of splashing her name around as an occasional power play. Every kid in town knows her. She’s part nurturer, part mob boss, and as the granddame of the Carter family of Cluck and Oink fame, she controls the local pipeline of smoked meat, boudin balls, and fifteen kinds of pie. She is not a person to be trifled with.

  In fact, I wish she were standing here right now. She could probably accomplish this morning’s mission in five minutes or less. I ponder that as I watch Nathan Gossett unload a cooler and carry it in, exchanging a greeting along the way with an elderly man wearing a VFW jacket and overalls. The vendor, perhaps?

  Nathan isn’t quite what I expected. Nothing about him speaks of money. I don’t know if that is intentional, or if this is laundry day, but the old jeans, cowboy boots, faded restaurant T-shirt, and baseball cap make him look as if he’s dressed for a morning of hard work. After a week and a half of getting the Gossett Industries runaround, I was expecting someone uptight, unfriendly. Perhaps haughty and self-absorbed. But he looks…approachable. Jovial, even. Why does such a person abandon a place like Goswood Grove, buy a shrimp boat, and leave the family legacy to rot?

  Perhaps I’m about to find out.

  I psych myself up like a wrestler ready to jump into the ring, then I lie in wait by the door of the long open-air barn, hoping he’ll come out alone. Vendors pass by, carrying stock to their booths. Fresh produce. Jams, jellies, local honey. A few antiques. Handmade baskets, potholders, quilts, and fresh bread. My mouth waters as precious minutes tick away. I’m definitely coming back here when I have more time. I am a flea market ninja. Back in California, I furnished our entire apartment with secondhand finds.

  I’m antsy by the time my target emerges, then I’m annoyingly tongue-tied. “Nathan Gossett?” I sound as though I’m about to serve him with legal papers, so I stick out my hand by way of being friendly. He quirks a brow, but accepts the greeting with a grip that’s politely firm, yet not crushing. Calloused. I didn’t expect that.

  “I am so sorry to catch you when you’re in the middle of something else. I’ll make it quick, I promise. I’m the new English teacher at the high school here in Augustine. Benny Silva. I’m hoping my name rings a bell?” Surely, he’s picked up at least some of my answering machine messages, or seen my name on the rental contract, or the receptionist at Gossett Industries has relayed my request?

  He doesn’t respond, and I rush to fill the awkward pause. “I wanted to ask you about a couple things, but mostly the library books. I’m struggling to get the kids interested in reading at all. Or writing, for that matter. Less than forty percent of the students in this school read at grade level, and apologies to the late, great George Orwell, but one raggedy classroom set of Animal Farm paperbacks isn’t doing it. The school library won’t let the kids take the books out of the room, and the city library is only open three afternoons a week. So, I thought…if I could build a library in my classroom—a really outstanding, tempting, colorful, gorgeous library, now that would be a game changer. There’s power in allowing kids to choose a book, rather than having to take what’s handed to them.”

  I pause—I have to in order to catch a breath—but I receive no input other than a slight tilt of his head, which I can’t yet interpret. And so I continue the frenetic, impassioned sales pitch. “Kids need the opportunity to try different things and get interested, be drawn in by a story. Every success starts with reading, even the scores on those hideous new state standardized tests. If you can’t read, you can’t understand the story problems in the math section or the science section, so it doesn’t matter how talented you really might be at math or science. You’ll get held back a grade. You’ll think you’re stupid. And that’s not even mentioning things like the PSATs and SATs and ACTs. How are kids supposed to have a chance at college or scholarships without good reading skills?”

  It registers that he’s ducking his head, disappearing under the ball cap. I’m coming on too strong.

  I wipe sweaty palms on the straight skirt I carefully washed and ironed and combined with heels for a professional appearance and a little more height. I’ve raked my wavy Italian hair into a slick French twist, added my favorite jewelry…done everything I could think of to make a good first impression. But my nerves are getting the best of me.

  I take a breath. “I didn’t mean to run on. I was really hoping that, since the books are just sitting on the shelves—looking rather lonely, I might add—that you might consider donating them, some of them at least, to a great cause? I’d probably incorporate as many as possible into my classroom and perhaps exchange others with a book dealer I worked for in college. I’d be happy to do the sorting and consult you on everything as much as you’d like, either in person or over the phone. I understand that you don’t live here in town?”

  His shoulders stiffen. Biceps tighten under suntanned skin. “I don’t.”

  Mental note: Make no further mention of that.

  “I know it’s not the best approach to catch you off guard like this. I couldn’t figure out another way. I did try.”

  “So…you’re after a donation for the library?” He tips his head up as if he’s anticipating a right cross to the chin. I am momentarily distracted. He has the most interesting eyes, sort of a seawater color that could be green or hazel or gray-blue. Right now, they reflect the Louisiana morning sky. Murky. Slightly cloudy. Gray and troubled. “Donations from the family trust are handled through community relations over at the company. Books for classrooms seem like a valid cause. That’s the kind of thing my grandfather intended the trust to support.”

  “I’m so glad to hear you say that.” I sense two things. First, despite the town’s latent resentment toward the Gossetts, the youngest grandson comes across as a decent guy. Second, this conversation has darkened what was otherwise a perfectly good day for him. His demeanor has gone from cordial to cautious and somewhat broody. “But…I’ve tried to get a response from Gossett Industries. I’ve left messages until the receptionists know my voice. No response, other than ‘Fill out a form,’ which I did. But I can’t wait weeks or months. I have to figure out some way to teach these kids now. I’d buy books out of my own pocket if I could, but I’ve just paid for my move here, and I’m a first-year teacher, and I…well…I don’t have the extra cash.”

  A blush starts around my ears and travels into my cheeks, then slowly paints the rest of my body sticky and hot. This is humiliating. I shouldn’t have to resort to begging in order to do my job. “And that’s why I thought, since all those books are just sitting there in the library at Goswood Grove, why not put some of them to use?”

  He blinks, surprised, clenches his jaw at the mention of Goswood Grove. I realize he’s only now cueing in to what I’m asking. He’s probably wondering why I know about those books.

  How much should I confess? I have been trespassing, a
fter all. “One of my students told me about your grandfather’s library. Since I’m living basically next door, I did walk over and take a peek through the window. I didn’t mean to be invasive, but I’m a hopeless bibliophile.”

  “You’re living next door?”

  “I’m your renter.” He’s more detached from his holdings than I thought. “In the little house by the graveyard? Where Miss Retta used to live? I should have said that at the outset. I assumed you’d recognize my name. I’m the one Aunt Sa…I mean Donna took care of the roof emergency for.”

  He nods, as if I’m finally starting to make sense to him, but not in a good way. “Sorry. Yes. The place sat for quite a while after Miss Retta had her stroke. Her family must’ve finally gotten around to cleaning it out. I’m sure the agent thought she was doing me a favor by finding a renter, but the house wasn’t in any shape for someone to move in at this point.”

  “Oh, wait. I’m not complaining. I love it there. It’s perfect for me. I like being out of town a bit, and the neighbors are so quiet I never hear them at all.”

  He misses the graveyard joke at first, then his cheek twitches upward. “True.” But he’s fairly flat about it. “I want to make sure you’re aware it’s a short-term thing, though. The plans aren’t public knowledge yet, so I’d appreciate your not sharing the information, but you should know, since it affects you directly. The cemetery board wants to annex that piece of property. The sale won’t happen before Christmas, but after that, you’ll need to find a new place.”

  Stress hits me with tsunami force, drowning the pull of curiosity, books for the students, and everything else. Arrange for a move in the middle of the school year? Find a rental in a town that has barely anything available, especially at this price? Transfer utilities? I’m instantly overwhelmed.

  “It’s not possible for me to keep the house until the end of the school year?”