The Book of Lost Friends - Lisa Wingate Page 0,120
Nathan’s father and the judge, reach skyward, far above our heads, denoting wealth, importance, power.
Nathan’s sister is not buried there, I’ve noticed, but I haven’t asked why or where she is. Maybe in Asheville where they grew up? I suspect that the pomp of the Gossett family plot wouldn’t have suited Robin, from what little I know of her. Everything about that place is meant to provide some sort of immortality here on earth. And yet the Gossetts of old have not altered the terminal nature of human life. Like the enslaved people, the sharecroppers, the bayou dwellers, and the ordinary workingmen and women in the potter’s field, they’ve all come to the same end. They are dust beneath the soil. All that is left behind lies in the people who remain. And the stories.
I wonder, sometimes, as we wander that graveyard, what will remain of me someday. Am I creating a legacy that matters, that will last? Will someone stand at my grave one day, wondering who I was?
During our walks, Nathan and I have fallen off into deep conversations about the broader meanings of it all—in the hypothetical sense. As long as we don’t stray too near the topic of his sister, or the possibility of his visiting Goswood Grove House, he’s relaxed and easy to talk to. He tells me what he knows about the community, what he remembers about the judge, what little he recalls about his father. There isn’t much. He speaks of the Gossett family in a distant way, as if he is not part of it.
Mostly, I keep my history to myself. It’s so much easier to talk in the more abstract, less personal sphere. Even so, I look forward to our Thursday evening get-togethers more than I want to admit.
And now, here he is in the middle of a workday—a time when he would normally be out with his boat—to see for himself the topic I talk about most when we’re together. These kids, my job, the history. I’m afraid he is partially motivated by a need to learn more, in case this whole thing becomes a battleground with the rest of the Gossett clan, as he has repeatedly warned me it might. At that point, he’ll run interference or try to mitigate the damage or something. I’m not sure what.
“I don’t want to get in your way. I had to be in town today to sign some paperwork.” He pushes his hands into his pockets and glances toward the student horde, which is bunching up behind me like a marching band with a fallen majorette at the fore.
Lil’ Ray swivels to get a better view. LaJuna does, too. They’re like two plastic pink flamingos with necks curving in opposite directions, a question mark and a mirror image.
“I’ve been hoping you’d stop by sometime. To…see us in action.” I restart the forward momentum. “The kids have sifted out even more amazing information this week, not only through the books and papers from Goswood but from the city library and the courthouse. We even have boxes of family photos and old letters and scrapbooks. Some of the students are doing interviews with older people in the community, using oral histories. Anyway, we can’t wait to share a little bit of it with you.”
“Sounds impressive.” His praise warms me.
“I’ll show him round if you want,” Lil’ Ray is quick to offer. “My stuff is good. My stuff is boss, like me.”
“You ain’t boss,” LaJuna grumbles.
“You best just shut your big, nasty mouth,” Lil’ Ray protests. “You’re gonna get the Nativity Rule evoked on you, huh, Miss Silva? I think we should do some evoking right now. It’s been two times LaJuna’s disrespected me. Article Six—Nativity Rule. Times two. Right, Miss Pooh?”
LaJuna answers before I can. “Whatever. It’s Negativity Rule, and invoked, idjut.”
“Oh! Oh!” Lil’ Ray bounds three feet in the air, lands in a knee-down half split, pops up, snaps his fingers, and points at her. “And that’s Article Three, Civility Rule. You just call me idjut. Dished out an insult instead of gave a civil argument. That’s against the Article Three. Right? Huh? Huh?”