The Book of Lost Friends

by Lisa Wingate

  I stand up, straighten my sore neck, and try to take my courage in hand. “I know what you done for us, and—”

  “My work.” He stops me before I can go on. “I’ve done my work. Not as well as I would’ve liked.” He nods toward Missy in a way that says he takes blame for the shape she’s in now. “I didn’t know of this until after the thing was done. The fellow you followed here, William Gossett, had entangled himself in some way with the Marston Men, and it was for that reason they took his daughters. I’d understood that they meant to hold them at the river landing in Louisiana. I’d left a man there to free them after the Genesee Star departed upriver, but when he attempted it, they were nowhere to be found.”

  “What’d they want from him…Old Gossett?” I try to imagine the man I knew tied up in such a thing, except I can’t.

  “Money, property, or if he was already an ally, perhaps just to ensure his further and complete cooperation. It’s by those methods they’ve fattened the finances for their cause. They often make use of young folk from well-provisioned families. Some are hostages. Some are volunteers. Some begin as one and become the other once they’ve caught a case of Honduras Fever. There’s temptation in the idea of free land in Central America.”

  I turn my eyes downward. I think of Missy’s troubles, of the baby she’s carrying. Heat comes into my face. I stare at the cream-colored dust covering his boots. “That was how Missy Lavinia got tangled up with these people? Thinking to serve her own purposes at first, but then it went wrong?” Should I tell him about Missy’s brother? Or does he know already, and he’s testing me out? I watch him sidewards, see his thumb and finger smooth his mustache, then stay there pinched over his chin, like he’s waiting for me to speak, but I don’t.

  “Quite likely so. The Marston Men devote themselves to the cause in all manner of thought and deed. This idea of returning to old times and cotton kingdoms—of new land to rule as they see fit—gives them something to believe in, a hope that the days of the grand houses and the slave gangs aren’t over. Marston demands absolute loyalty. Wife against husband, father against son, brother against brother, the only importance being that they serve Marston, remain devoted to his purpose. The more bounty they hand over, the more willingly they betray their families, their townsfolk, their neighbors, the higher they rise in the ranks and the more land they are promised in their imagined Honduras colony.”

  His gaze fastens on me to see how I take that in.

  A deep, hard shiver goes through my bones. “Mister William Gossett, he wouldn’t be party to something like this. Not if he knew what it was. I’m sure of it.” But in the back of my mind, I wonder, was there more to Old Mister’s trip to Texas than I knew? Is that why all the books with the sharecrop papers are gone? Did he plan to cheat us out of our contracts and sell his lands and go to Honduras, too?

  I shake my head. That can’t be. He must’ve been trying to save Lyle, that’s all. “He wasn’t a bad man, mostly, but blind when it came to his son. Foolish blind. He’d do anything for that boy. He sent Lyle here to Texas to get him away from a difficulty in Louisiana that ended in a dead man. Then Lyle found trouble here some months ago. That’s why Old Mister come all this way. Seeking after his son, and that’s the only reason.”

  Elam Salter looks through me like I’m thin as a lace curtain.

  “I ain’t lying,” I say and straighten myself.

  We face each other, Elam Salter and me. I’m a tall gal, but I have to turn my head up to him like a child. Some snip of lightning crackles between us. I feel its stings all up and down my skin, like he’s touching me, right through the air between us.

  “I know you are not, Miss Gossett.” His saying my name that gentlemanly way sets me back a bit. Always been just plain Hannie. “Lyle Gossett had a State of Texas bounty on his head for crimes committed in Comanche, Hill, and Marion Counties. He was reported delivered, dead, six weeks ago to Company A, Texas Rangers, in Comanche County, and the bounty paid.”

  Of a sudden, I am cold down deep, the chill of a bad spirit passing by.

  Lyle is dead. His daddy’s been chasing a soul that already belonged to the devil.

  “I want no part in this. None of it. Only reason I come here…only reason I did all I did…was…was because…” Any words I say will sound wrong to a man like Elam Salter. A man who ran from his owner and found his way to freedom when he was no more than a boy. A man who’s made hisself somebody that even the white men speak of in a revering way.

  And here I am, just Hannie. Hannie Gossett, still called by the name I was given by somebody who owned me. Hadn’t even picked out a new name for myself, because that might vex Old Missus. Just Hannie, still living in a cropper cabin, scratching a piece of ground to make my means. A mule. A ox. Only a beast of the field and hadn’t done a thing about it. Can’t read but a few words. Can’t write. Come all the way to Texas, looking after white folk, same as in the old times.

  Been nothing. Am nothing.

  What must a man like Elam Salter think of me?

  I clench my hands over the rumpled calico. Push my bottom lip into the top one and try to stand square, at least.

  “You’ve done a brave thing, Miss Gossett.” His eyes slide toward Missy, singing to herself there on the bench while she picks them wilted wildflowers clean, petal by petal, and watches the colors fall on the parchment-dry ground. “They’d be dead if not for you.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t my trouble to worry over. Maybe I should’ve let it happen, that’s all.”

  “You’re not the sort.” His words melt over my skin like sweet butter. Does he truly think that of me? I try to see, but he’s got his face turned toward Missy.

  “For whatsoever he soweth, that shall he also reap,” he says in his deep voice. “Are you a churchgoing woman, Miss Gossett?”

  “Be not deceived. God is not mocked.” I know the verse. Old Missus used that one all the time to let us know, if she punished us, it was our own fault, not hers. God wanted us to get whipped. “I am a churchgoing woman, Mr. Salter. But you can call me Hannie, if it suits. I reckon at this point, we know each other pretty close up.” I think of that moment on the boat, when he grabbed me up in the familiarest way to toss me off. Must’ve been about then he figured I wasn’t a boy.

  The corner of his mouth twitches up just a hint, and maybe he’s thinking of that, too, but he stays watching Missy.

  “I ought to take her back inside, I guess,” I tell him. “Doctor says it’s to be over with her daddy any time.”

  Elam nods, but stays where he is. “Do you have a notion of where you’ll go when it’s done?” He’s stroking that mustache again, rubbing his chin.

  “Not sure.” That’s the truth. The only thing I know right now is that I don’t know. “Got some business to see to in Austin City.”

  I pull Grandmama’s blue beads from under the collar of the dress, tell him about Juneau Jane and me and The Book of Lost Friends. I finish up with the Irishman’s story about the white girl in the café. “Don’t imagine it means a thing. Could be she found them beads, or maybe the story ain’t even true—I did hear it from a horse-thief Irishman. But I can’t leave, not without knowing for sure. I need to see about that, before I go from Texas. Thought earlier on that I’d stay in this country, keep making my way round with the book, look for my own people, spread the names of Lost Friends, take in more names, ask after folks for other folks and for myself.” I don’t tell him I hadn’t been the one to write in the book and can’t read but a little of it. Elam is an up-spoken man. Dignified and proud. Don’t want him to see me as less than.

  I think again about The Book of Lost Friends, about all the names in it and the promises we made. “Might be, I’ll come back to Texas in a year or two, go round with the book then. I know the way, now.” I look at Missy, feel her like a full-up field sack strapped over my shoulders. Who in the world will look
after her? “Even with all she’s done, I can’t just leave her to wander, such as she is. Can’t leave Juneau Jane with the burden, either. She’s still a child and has the grief of losing her papa. And I don’t want her cheated from her inheritance. We had hopes to find her daddy’s papers and prove what was meant to go to her, but the doctor said Old Gossett was brought here to the fort with nothing.”

  “I’ll write the jailhouse in Mason and see what I can learn of his saddle and gear and ask after someone to see you to Austin for the train east. We’re close to Marston and his men now, and they know it. They’ll do all they can to keep their cause alive, and they’ll want no witnesses left behind who might testify against them, if they’re caught and tried. The girls could corroborate the identity of the Lieutenant and perhaps others, and for that matter, you could as well. You’ll be better off out of Texas.”

  “We’d be grateful to you.” Wind stirs the leaves overhead, and sun speckles turn his skin dark and light, his eyes soft brown, then gold again. I lose all the sounds of the fort. Everything flies away a minute. “You be careful after them men, Elam Salter. You be mighty careful.”

  “I can’t be shot. That’s what they say.” He smiles a bit and lays a hand on my arm. That one touch shoots though me and lands deep in my belly, in some place I didn’t know was there. I sway a little, blink, see the shadows swirl and spin. I part my mouth to say something, but my tongue stays pinned. I don’t even know what to say.

  Does he feel it, too, this wind that circles us in the summer heat?

  “Don’t fear,” he whispers, and then he turns and disappears down the alleyway on the long, even strides of a man who’s made his place in the world.

  Don’t fear, I think.

  But I do.

  CHAPTER 26

  BENNY SILVA—AUGUSTINE, LOUISIANA, 1987

  I turn in to the driveway at Goswood Grove. The lawn is freshly mown, indicating that Ben Rideout has been here and done his work earlier today. I slow down to pilot the Bug through the left gate, which hangs open most of the way, swaying a little in the breeze. The right one has fallen closed, as if it’s not sure it wants me here. The hinges squeal as it quavers undecided.

  I should get out and prop it open, but instead I gun the engine and squeeze past. I’m too ginned up to stop, and I can’t quite get past the feeling that, before we’re able to accomplish what we’ve come here to do, someone will show up and try to stop us—Nathan’s uncles, a delegation of school board members, Principal Pevoto on a mission to bring me back in line, Redd Fontaine in his police car, conducting surveillance. This town is an old dog with a bad temper. We have rubbed its hair the wrong way and stirred up fleas. If allowed to return to its slumber, it might let me stay, but it’s made sure I know that if not, it’s ready to bite.

  The phone calls haven’t slowed down. Fontaine has continued his drive-bys. This morning, four men in a Suburban arrived at the cemetery and tromped around, talking and nodding and pointing toward property lines, including those surrounding my house and the orchard out back.

  I’m anticipating a bulldozer and an eviction notice to come next…except that the property belongs to Nathan, and he told me he wasn’t selling. Is it possible that the land deal has already progressed to the point that he can’t stop it? I have no way of knowing. He’s spent over twenty-four hours fighting flight delays and airport closures due to a tornado outbreak in the middle of the country. He finally rented a car to get home and hasn’t found a minute to stop at a pay phone and call me with an update.

  I’m relieved when I see his car, a little blue Honda, in the driveway—at least, I assume it’s his rental. I drive past it and park my Bug behind the big house where no one can see it from the road. I’m on my third day of involuntary furlough from school. My kids have been told I’ve got the flu. I know that because Granny T and the New Century ladies, as well as Sarge, have called to check on me. I’ve been letting the recorder answer the phone, as I don’t know what to say. I am sick, but just heartsick.

  I hope whatever Nathan’s newly discovered information is, it has the power to move mountains, because that’s what we need—some sort of Hail Mary pass that saves the game in the final seconds. My students deserve a win, to see their hard work and smarts pay off.

  “Well, here we are,” I tell the Bug and sit there a moment in solidarity. We’ve both come a long way since leaving the hallowed halls of the university English department. I’m not the same person anymore. Whatever happens next, this place, this experience, has changed me. But I can’t support a system that tells students they are nothing, they’ll never be anything—that views keeping kids in their desks as the major accomplishment for the day. They deserve the same chance friends and mentors gave me, to see that the life you create for yourself can be entirely different from the one you came from. I have to find a way. I’m not a quitter. Quitters don’t build great things. Quitters don’t win this kind of war. You’re not defeated until you give up the fight, I tell myself.

  Nathan is sound asleep in the driver’s seat of the little Honda with the windows rolled down. He’s wearing what I have mentally cataloged as the blue, blue outfit—blue jeans with blue chambray shirt. His hair is disheveled, but in his sleep, he has the look of a man who has made peace with everything. I know that’s not the case. It’s incredibly hard for him to be here. The last time he was in this house was the last time he saw his sister alive. But we both understand that this visit can’t wait.

  “Hey,” I say and startle him to the point that his elbow hits the steering wheel and the horn beeps. I slap a hand to my neck and look around nervously, but there’s no one else to hear.

  “Hey.” A lopsided smirk offers chagrin as he turns my way. “Sorry about that,” he says, and I’m struck by how much I’ve missed his voice. He opens the door and unfolds himself from the tiny car, and then I realize how much I’ve missed him.

  “You made it.” It’s tough to keep my emotions in check, but I know I need to. “You look tired.”

  “I took the long way home.” And just like that, he reaches out and pulls me into a hug. Not a shoulder hug, but the real thing, the kind you give to someone you thought of while you were away.

  I’m surprised at first. I wasn’t expecting…well…that. I was prepared for more of the uncertain off-and-on awkward dance we usually do. Friends…or two people who want something more? We’re never quite sure. But this feels different. I slip my arms under his and hang on.

  “Tough few days?” I whisper, and he rests his chin on my head. I listen to his heartbeat, feel the sultry warmth of skin against skin. My gaze lingers on the tangle of wisteria vines and crape myrtle branches hiding the ancient structures of Goswood Grove’s once spectacular gardens, concealing whatever secrets they know.

  “Tough few days all around, it sounds like,” Nathan says finally. “We should go in.” But he hangs on a minute longer.

  We part slowly, and the next step suddenly seems uncharted. I don’t know how to catalog it. One moment, we’re as natural as breathing. The next, we’re at arm’s length—or retreating to our separate safety zones.

  He stops halfway across the porch, turns, widens his stance a little like he’s about to pick up something heavy. Crossing his arms, he tilts his head and looks at me, one eye squeezing almost shut. “What are we to each other?”

  I stand there a moment with my mouth agape before words dribble out in a halting string. “In…in…what way?”

  I’m terrified, that’s why I don’t give a straight answer. Relationships require truth telling, and that requires risk. An old, insecure part of me says, You’re damaged goods, Benny Silva. Someone like Nathan would never understand. He’ll never see you in the same way again.

  “Just like it sounds,” he says. “I missed you, Benny, and I promised myself I’d just put it out there this time. Because…well…you’re hard to read.”

&
nbsp; “I’m hard to read?” Nathan has been largely a mystery I’ve pieced together in fragments. “Me?”

  He doesn’t fall for the turnabout, or he ignores it. “So, Benny Silva, are we…friends or are we…” The sentence shifts in the wind, unfinished—a fill-in-the-blank question. Those are harder than multiple-choice.

  “Friends…” I search for the right answer, one not too presumptuous, but accurate. “Going somewhere…at our own pace? I hope.”

  I feel naked standing there. Scared. Vulnerable. And potentially unworthy of his investment in me. I can’t make the same mistake I’ve made before. There are things he needs to know. It’s only fair, but this isn’t the right moment for it, or the right place.

  He braces his hands on his hips, lets his head rock forward, exhales a breath he seems to have been holding. “Okay,” he says with a note of approval. His cheek twitches, one corner of his mouth rising. I think he might be blushing a little. “I’ll take that.”

  “Me, too,” I agree.

  “Then we have an accord.” Nathan winks at me and turns and proceeds on to the house, satisfied. “We can talk details later.”

  I float after him, filled with an anticipation that has nothing to do with today’s plans. We’re entering a brave new world…in more ways than one. I’ve never been in the front door of Goswood Grove House. In fact, I’ve never been anywhere but the kitchen, the butler’s pantry, the dining room, the front parlor, and the library. Not that temptation hasn’t tugged during my visits, but I’ve been determined to remain respectful of the faith Nathan has shown in me. In other words, not to snoop.

  The entry is palatial and startling. I’ve seen it through the windows, but standing on the threadbare Persian carpet, we’re dwarfed by massive paneled walls and arched fresco ceilings. Nathan looks upward, his back stiff, hands resting on his waist. “I hardly ever came in this way,” he mutters. I’m not sure if he’s talking to me or just filling the silent air. “But I gave you the only key I had to the back door.”