Seeing Red (32 page)

I got up and walked over to the doorway. I looked inside and saw her bed. It was one of those high ones that you could fit a lot of stuff under. I went in and knelt down by the bed. At first I couldn’t see anything, but I reached under and felt around until I bumped something. A box. I reached my other hand in and pulled it out.

It was half the size of a shoebox and a whole lot more beautiful. Made out of orangey wood, it had different patterns running through it from the knots and rings that were in the tree. It looked like somebody oiled it every day to be so shiny that it glowed like a pool of golden light.

I brought it over to Miss Georgia and handed it to her, but she said, “Open it.”

When I lifted the lid, a whiff of cedar rose out of the box. It smelled sweet, like it had been saving itself up to make the whole room smell nice. The inside wood of the box was beautiful, too. There was only one thing inside. It was about the size of a baseball, a ball of some kind of white cloth.

I looked up at Miss Georgia and she nodded.

Slowly, I picked up the ball and a piece of the cloth fell away and I saw it was a long strip, so I started unwrapping it. Somehow I knew that what was inside was sacred.

When I got to the end of the cloth, there was a rock, grey with splotches of black and white. The firelight made the white sparkle and the black stand out sharp and strong.

“It’s a piece of the Freedom Church altar,” Miss Georgia whispered.

I stared at it. “I figured it was just granite. That’s what I was looking for.”

“This here’s the rock you lookin’ for, Red. It’s granite, all right. Speckled granite.”

“I never knew it was so beautiful.” I picked it up out of the box. “How did you get this?”

“My daddy chipped that piece off himself.” The flames in the fireplace surged and I swear it felt like the rock was burning my hand. I dropped the stone on the floor but Miss Georgia didn’t seem to notice. She kept on talking. “I showed it to your daddy. Now I’m givin’ it to you.”

I picked up the rock again. “I’m going to find Freedom Church, Miss Georgia, I swear.”

“It would sure mean a lot to me if you did, Red.”

After we sat in silence for a while, she said she wanted to look at her porch again, so I pushed her wheelchair out there. She looked up at the ceiling. “I like what you done out here. So far.”

“So far?”

“I don’t see that peace symbol you were talking about painting for me.” She tried raising an eyebrow but it only went up halfway. Still, I smiled back at her.

Sitting on the steps, I tried not to peel the paint like I used to. It was warm for November. The sun had burned through the mist and the sky was blue and cloudless.

“Feels like I can see all the way to Freedom,” she said, and looked out towards our property, struggling to sit up in her wheelchair. She was squinting and leaning her head out so far it looked like she was trying to find someone in particular. Finally she sat back with a sigh.

“I’ll find it, Miss Georgia. Don’t worry. I’ll keep looking.”

“You’re a good friend, Red.”

I didn’t know about that. I didn’t feel like I’d been a good friend to Thomas. And I sure didn’t feel like us Porters had been good friends to Miss Georgia’s family.

She sighed again, looking over towards our place. “I sure do like to think that the good souls are the ones who’ll win in the end.”

I looked out at our land, too – even though some of it wasn’t our land. And even though I wasn’t convinced of it, I said, “They will, Miss Georgia.”

She made a sound like the sheriff’s Kiss of Death. “Who is
they
, Red?”

I turned to look at her. She was bent forward, her eyes peering into mine. “Who you callin’
they
, huh?
They
,” she said, “is you.”

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

The Stone

As soon as I left Miss Georgia’s I started combing our property line looking for where Freedom Church might’ve been. I searched for hours until I heard Mama calling. Something in her voice made me run to her as fast as I could.

Mama stood by the shop, her eyes so full of water she looked like she was drowning. She kept lacing her fingers together, then pulling them apart.

Beau had reached her, too, lumbering over from the What-U-Want. “What is it, Miz Porter?”

“It’s…Miss Georgia.”

I felt my heart pounding. “What happened? Is she all right?”

Mama shook her head. “She’s…dead.”

There was a silence and then a gasping sigh that might’ve been me or Mama or Beau, but it sounded like it came out of the shop itself.

Miss Georgia’s son asked me to be a pallbearer at the funeral, along with family members, including his grandson – who I’d met before but I’d never really gotten to know because he was four years older than me – and Thomas. Even though I saw him at the service, me and Thomas didn’t talk to each other. Mostly what I remember of the funeral was my black shoes, either plodding along as I was holding the casket, or stiff on the floor between the pews. I remember hearing singing and crying, and feeling bodies around me, but not seeing anything at all except my black shoes.

After the service and burial, we went back to Miss Georgia’s house and my eyes started seeing everything again. I looked for Thomas but could only see his grandparents. I saw Mrs Reed, Miss Georgia’s grandaughter, and Anthony, her great-grandson. I saw exactly where Miss Georgia had been sitting just a few days before, and what she looked like, and what she said and did. And I knew what I had to do.

I found Mr Jones out on the porch. I sat on the railing, waiting for him to finish talking to Mr Reynolds, and rubbed my hand against the smooth paint feel of the porch posts. I could still catch a little whiff of that new-paint smell. I thought about all the times I’d sat there talking to Miss Georgia, or even just sitting there saying nothing, sometimes in the light, sometimes in the dark, sometimes when it was cold and sometimes when it was so hot you could barely breathe.

“Hey, Red.”

I looked up and it was Mr Jones, his face looking more wrinkly and his hair greyer than I’d remembered.

“Hey,” I said, sliding off the railing. I pulled the piece of the altar stone out of my pocket and fingered it for a moment. “Your mama gave this to me. It belonged to her daddy.” I sighed before handing it over. “I think it should stay in your family.”

“Oh, I remember that.” He reached out and touched the stone, then raised it and looked at it against the setting sun. He sat down on the porch step. “It’s part of that church.”

I sat down next to him. “Freedom Church. I’m going to find that church, you’ll see.” I stared at the stone in his hand. “I’m sorry about what my great-great-grandaddy did. And I think we should give you some of our land because—”

“It’s not so much a question of the land, but it was important to my mama to find out what happened and set things right.” He yanked at his tie, loosening it some with one hand while the other hand still held the rock. “That’s why I hired young Mr Reynolds for her.”

“What? You mean…
you’re
his client?”

“Me and my mama, that’s right.”

“So that’s why she liked him all along!”

“Yeah, she told me I had to find a good lawyer from Richmond, and the Reynolds family is good people.”

“What did he find out?”

“He’s still working on it. But I think that any claims my family had have been pretty well buried.”

“But Freedom Church is most likely on my property.”

He shrugged like it wasn’t news to him. “Even if you found it, I don’t know that my family can make a claim. Bill – Mr Reynolds – is having a hard time finding any paperwork.”

I swallowed. “Did he tell you about the map?”

“He did, but he said it’s circumstantial evidence and there’s no one around to attest to it.”

“What does that mean?”

Mr Jones smiled. “There’s no one who can prove what that document actually meant.”

“I think it’s pretty clear.”

“Maybe, but in a court of law? That’s different.”

“Shoot, what’s the point of being a lawyer if you can’t prove anything?”

Mr Jones chuckled. He tossed the stone up a few times, snatching it out of the air on its way down.

“We’d give your land back to you, anyway.”

“Well, that’s real kind of you, Red, but your mama’s got to take care of herself and her boys, too. She doesn’t have your daddy around any more.”

“But it wouldn’t be right if we kept what wasn’t ours to begin with.”

He shook his head. “It’s not like I’m moving back here, anyway.”

“But what about your daughter? And your grandson? Your mama thought she might like it here.”

“Oh, yes. Carolyn wants to go back to her roots. I swear, she would trace her roots all the way back to Africa, if she could.”

I felt kind of sick thinking about my own roots, and I put my face in my hands.

“Well, you got to remember, she’s the great-grandaughter of a slave, a freed slave, but still. I know that sounds like a long, long time ago to you, being so young and all.”

“No, sir,” I said, my voice muffled in my lap. It didn’t sound long ago at all. In fact, seeing as how I was the great-great-grandson of a racist murderer, it wasn’t nearly long enough.

“Son?”

I looked up and Mr Jones had one eyebrow raised, just like Miss Georgia. “I’m glad you were here for her. You were like one of her own. I think my mama wanted you to keep this.” He gave the stone back, closing my hand around it. He stood up and pointed his thumb into the darkness beyond Miss Georgia’s porch. “Looks like someone wants to talk to you.”

It was Thomas. I could barely make him out in the light coming from the front window. He stood a little away from the cars, his suit jacket thrown over his shoulder and his MIA bracelet reflecting the light. He was making marks in the dirt with his shoe. He eyed me but then looked away, like he couldn’t quite decide if he wanted to talk to me or not.

I took a deep breath, stood up, and walked over to him.

He didn’t look at me but tilted his head towards Miss Georgia’s house. “It looks good.”

I nodded. “She liked it. I left our
IMF
carving.”

He gave a hint of a smile as we went back to toeing the dirt. “I saw.”

Neither of us said anything for a while, but I figured one of us had to bring it up and maybe it was supposed to be me. “Did you get my letter?”

“Yeah, I got it.”

“I meant it. I’m real sorry.”

“I know,” he said quickly, giving the dirt a little kick.

“Are we…can we…still be friends?”

He put his foot down, staring at it. “I don’t know. Father Corbett said it’s okay for me to be angry.”

I went cold then, even though my armpits were prickly with sweat like it was hot as August. I guess I couldn’t blame Thomas for feeling that way, but I sure didn’t like hearing it. I looked at the ground. “Who’s Father Corbett?”

“My math teacher.” Thomas let his breath out with the same force as the air coming out of a tyre. “But I’m also supposed to forgive.”

I looked up, figuring that was a good sign. I still hoped we could be friends again. Someday. “I wish it had never happened,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said, “me, too.” He finally raised his head and stared into the distance like he was seeing far, far away. “But maybe it had to.”

I didn’t think I’d heard him right. “What?”

He shrugged. “Maybe we both had to grow up.”

“I don’t want to grow up like that!”

Thomas looked at me for the first time, the line between his eyebrows all creased. “How much choice have we got?”

His eyes were questioning, not like a teacher who already knows the answer and just wants to see if you’re listening, but like Thomas. The kid who asked me if Mr Dunlop always yelled at Rosie that way, the kid who wondered why Miss Georgia got mad when we made that Black Power salute, the kid who asked Daddy how come he respected Miss Georgia so much when other white people didn’t.

“Thomas!” It was his grandaddy’s voice. “It’s time to move along now.”

Mr and Mrs Jefferson were getting in their Chevelle. Thomas turned, walked slowly over to the car, and got in behind his grandaddy. I wasn’t sure, but it looked like he waved at me in the rear window, so I waved back, just in case. I was still watching them drive off when I realized I’d never given Thomas an answer to his question.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

What Are You Up To?

When I went back to school, Miss Miller was talking about our Foxfire project. “Finish these up tonight, class, and bring them in tomorrow.”

Bobby Benson groaned. “Tomorrow?”

“Yes, Bobby,” she said, giving him a tight smile, “because the next day is Thanksgiving, and unless you’re planning on coming to school on Thanksgiving, you’ll need to bring your paper in tomorrow.”