Saving Lucas Biggs (22 page)

“Am I people, too?” I called back. I hoped so. Mrs. Garrett was making chicken and dumplings. I’d been smelling it for an hour.

“Of course!” called Mrs. Garrett. “Who else would you be?”

The next day was Saturday. Saturday morning was pancake morning at my house. On this particular morning there were two kinds: caramelized banana with maple syrup and peach with crème fraîche. It definitely did not stink having a pastry chef mom. Charlie agreed and showed up the way he did almost every Saturday morning, but sadly, we were in too much of a hurry to get to the library and research George Fox and the Quakers to give the pancakes the attention they deserved. Still, Charlie managed to gobble a truly disgusting number of them, and I wasn’t far behind. We were still chewing when we jumped on our bikes and headed to the Victory Public Library.

Sure, we could’ve just researched online, but full disclosure (and we didn’t exactly go around broadcasting this, not that anyone would’ve been that surprised, since our nerdiness was a fairly well-established fact): Charlie and I flat-out loved the library. It was the first place we’d ever walked to alone together, without any adults, so maybe we got used to it feeling like an adventure. What I think we loved best about it was the sense of possibility: the sight of all those books just lined up, one after the other after the other, with whole worlds clapped between their covers.

When we found the section with books on Quakerism, we did what we always did: plopped down at the end of the aisle, onto the old, worn, sand-colored library rug, our backs against the wall and with stacks of books on either side of us. More than once, when we were a lot younger, we’d stayed so long that the librarian, Mrs. Goldshine, had found us slumped against each other, fast asleep.

Our only plan—mainly because we couldn’t think of anything else to do—was to read about George Fox and his Religious Society of Friends and see where it took us. So we read, and every now and then, we’d library-voice each other bits and pieces of information, anything that seemed useful or just plain interesting.

As far as Charlie and I could tell, most of what George and the Friends believed seemed to stem from one idea: God was everywhere and lived like a light inside every single person. So if a person wanted to hear God, all they had to do was listen to what was right there inside them.

What this also meant, at least to Fox and many other Friends, was that you couldn’t justify killing, hurting, or mistreating other people, because they had just as much light in them as you did. So most of the Quakers ended up being pacifists, meaning they refused to fight in wars because they didn’t believe in killing other people no matter what.

What I liked best, though, was that “pacifist” didn’t mean passive. It wasn’t enough to just refuse to hurt people; you had to get out there and
work
, do whatever you could think of to make the world a better place, not just for yourself or people like you, but for everyone. So there was a bunch of Quakers who spent their lives trying to help people, feed them, heal them, give them rights.

“Susan B. Anthony!” I whispered to Charlie, “And Lucretia Mott.”

“William Penn, the guy who founded Pennsylvania,” whispered Charlie. “Listen to what he said, ‘Force may subdue, but love gains, and he that forgives first wins the laurel.’”

There it was again, that word, right there between me and Charlie.
Love.
I tried to will myself not to blush, which is obviously impossible, so I settled for blushing and then feeling really stupid about it.

“Oh yeah. That’s right up Aristotle’s alley,” I said.

And a few minutes later, Charlie said, “The Society of Friends was the first group in the country to officially call for abolishing slavery.”

“Yeah, I just read that, too. A lot of the families who worked the Underground Railroad were Quakers,” I said. “Like Nathan and Polly Johnson, who helped Frederick Douglass get free.”

“Peaceful activism. Fighting injustice without literally fighting. That’s total Aristotle. No wonder his motto was from a Quaker guy,” said Charlie.

Then we made two big discoveries. Actually, it was kind of nice, how we each got to make one. Charlie’s was first. He found it in a book about prominent Quaker families.

“Look!” he almost yelled.

From somewhere nearby, an invisible person hissed, “Shh!”

“Look,” he whispered.

He was pointing to something in the book. A name:
Mendenhall
.

“They were Friends!” I said. “That’s how he learned all that stuff.”

“It says here that the family was part of a big Quaker settlement that did a bunch of good things, including feeding the kids of coal miners in West Virginia when they were starving, and making sure they had medicine.”

My discovery came maybe half an hour later. I was reading about how during World War I, Quakers formed a group that didn’t go to battle but that worked for the country in other ways: driving ambulances, nursing the injured, and staying in Europe after the war to help people rebuild their towns. And there it was, at the bottom of the page. For a few seconds, I didn’t even recognize it because it was so sharp-edged and clear, with bold black and red points: Aristotle’s talisman, a symbol of serving your community without using violence.

I’m almost positive I stopped breathing; it’s also possible that my heart stopped beating. But as soon as everything clicked back on, I turned the book to face Charlie, who also froze for a moment, then touched the picture with one finger.

“There it is,” he whispered.

He scooted over until our shoulders were touching, and we sat like that for a while, staring at the star. Then something happened.

“Do you feel it?” asked Charlie slowly, his voice full of wonderment.

“Maybe,” I said. “What do you mean?”

“The tug,” said Charlie. “Pieces of the past and pieces of the present pulling toward each other and stitching themselves together.”

There was something wonderful about Charlie just then, wonderful and almost spooky, and you know what? As soon as he’d said that strange thing, I
did
feel it.

“Like a quilt?” I said.

“Yeah.”

“Can you see what the pieces are making?” I asked, carefully. “The pattern?”

Charlie shook his head.

“But I know what it is,” he said, looking up from the book and right at me with intense eyes. “So do you. It’s history. Not the past, not the kind that resists. I mean it’s the history we’re making right now.”

I shut the book with a bang and stood up.

“Let’s go get the talisman,” I said. “And Grandpa Joshua!”

Charlie

2014

WE COULDN’T WAIT TO TELL Grandpa Joshua everything we’d found out, so I called him from the library and blurted, “We know what the talisman is and we’ll tell you when we get home.”

And I guess he was as impatient as we were, so he said, “How about if I meet you halfway. At The Octagon?”

As Margaret and I rode, I realized that even though it felt like The Octagon had been mine and hers forever, it must mean something special to Grandpa Joshua, too. Back when it was a whole gazebo, it had brought Margaret to him, and it had taken her away. Before long, we were all three kneeling on the smooth old boards staring at Aristotle’s talisman in the stark, water-clear afternoon sunlight.

And maybe because I knew now that the star stood for so much, and I looked at it with new eyes and deeper expectations, I saw something I’d missed: marks in three of the pink points.

“A number?” I whispered. “In the bottom point. A number ten. And a dash.”

“And a two,” added Margaret right away. “And a seven. Twenty-seven.”

“Ten twenty-seven nineteen thirty-eight,” said Grandpa Joshua. He was sitting up, not even looking at the square.

“The date of the meeting in the hunting lodge!” Margaret said.

“Aristotle always did like to be precise about things,” replied Grandpa Joshua.

“About what, though?” I wondered.

“AA,” Margaret said, her eyes on the square. “And the writing on this other point is really hard to read, but I bet it says—”

“TR,” said Grandpa Joshua, finally looking at the square again. “Theodore Ratliff. Aristotle brought his old pen to that meeting. It would write on anything. Aristotle and Mr. Ratliff used it to sign Aristotle’s talisman.”

“And date it,” I said, feeling all the pieces of history fall together with a clunk like a drawbridge dropping into place. “Aristotle brought the talisman to commemorate the moment!”

“The moment when his ideals, the Quaker star ideals, worked,” said Margaret, “when words and respect beat out armored cars and guns.”

“And don’t forget the ‘For Luke’ on the back,” I said.

“He was going to give the star to Luke,” said Grandpa Joshua, “to show him how powerful peace can be. Because that’s what he’d been trying to show Luke all along. And this would’ve been the proof. His memento.”

“His ideals
did
work!” I shouted, surprised at how angry I felt. “Theodore Ratliff was going to do the right thing! He signed the agreement
and
initialed the star. But then . . .” I pointed to the remaining points, all blank.

“There’s no EB. Elijah Biggs never signed the star,” Margaret said, bitterly.

“Because of this,” said Grandpa Joshua sadly, pointing to the big, brown stain.

“This is Aristotle speaking to Luke, even from beyond the grave,” I said, picking up the square. “Telling him that his father wasn’t weak or a liar or a murderer. Telling him that peace can be as strong and brave as anything.”

“If only he could’ve gotten his message to Luke,” lamented Margaret.

“Arisotle couldn’t. But we will!” I cried. “We’ll save Lucas Biggs, and we’ll save your dad!”

Grandpa Joshua smiled. “We just might,” he said.

I guess Margaret and I should’ve seen what was coming next, since Judge Biggs had such a long and distinguished history of ignoring evidence. But we didn’t. We foolishly thought he’d be as anxious to get Aristotle’s message as we were to deliver it. So we ran home and dialed the courthouse.

Of course, a guy like the Honorable Judge Lucas Biggs doesn’t answer his own telephone.

We asked the voice on the other end if we could make an appointment to see the judge.

Were we a colleague in the judiciary? wondered the voice.

No, Margaret and I had to admit. We weren’t. But we had something really important to tell Judge Biggs.

Were we a municipal, county, state, or federal official?

No. But this was information he’d definitely want to hear.

Were we an attorney?

No. But this had to do with one of his cases.

Were we with the newspaper?

Not exactly. But in addition to affecting one of his cases, the case of John O’Malley, no less, what we had to say was going to change the judge’s entire life.

Not
exactly
with the newspaper? Then
exactly
who were we with?

Uh. Actually one of us was John O’Malley’s daughter and the other one was her friend Charlie. Oh. And we also had Charlie’s grandfather on standby—he used to be the judge’s best friend back when they were thirteen; he was sitting on the bed folding his laundry and listening. And he said—

Click. BZZZZZZZZZ . . .

Grandpa Joshua said we’d have a better chance of cornering the judge if he didn’t come with us. So Margaret and I took the Quaker star, hiked downtown, and parked ourselves by the courthouse door.

It wasn’t until three hours later, after the sun had set, that the judge came out. Margaret hollered his name.

At first, I thought he was playing a game, which seemed odd, since the guy was nearly ninety and not exactly known for his sense of humor. “Who said that?” demanded Judge Biggs, staring through Margaret and me like we were ghosts.

“Judge Biggs,” panted Margaret excitedly. “Look!” She fumbled in her pockets for the star, but she was nervous.

“I have no time to waste,” roared Judge Biggs, focusing his eyes on her at last, “on the children of criminals.”

Carefully removing his gaze from Margaret and her trembling hands, he strode toward a colossal black car waiting at the curb. I took a deep breath and jumped in his way. And to my horror, the judge looked at me. His eyes searched my face curiously as if I’d just stepped out of a forest to bring him news from a faraway civilization. But abruptly, he changed his mind about hearing my news and turned away.

“If they come near the courthouse again,” snarled Judge Biggs to a bailiff hurrying up, “arrest them.” And he folded himself up behind the wheel of his black Cadillac and drove off.

“Lucas Biggs,” explained Grandpa Joshua when we told him what’d happened, “has been dealing in lies so long that he’s lost faith in the power of truth, lost it so long ago that he’s forgotten how to see the truth even when it’s right in front of him.”

“But we’ll restore his faith,” said Margaret matter-of-factly, smoothing the Quaker star on her knee, “when we show him this.”

I reached out, and she handed it to me. “But,” I mused, “if Grandpa’s right, he won’t look until he gets his faith back, and if Margaret’s right, he won’t get his faith back until he looks!”