issue, spit it out. All this”—she swirls the hammer like it’s a plastic dinner fork—“squirrel trailing around is a waste of time. Something needs to be said, just say it. That’s how I operate. Other people don’t like it, that’s their problem.” A chin wag gives weight to the words. I’m immediately reminded of LaJuna. Tough shells must run in the family.
“The money.” She’s right, it does feel good to just put it out there. I motion to the nails and the shingles and so forth. “I can’t afford all this. I thought we were going to patch it a little until I could get in touch with the landlord,” which may not be anytime soon. Finding Nathan Gossett is like chasing down a ghost. I’ve also tried to reach his two uncles via the offices of Gossett Industries. The Gossetts and Gossett Industries have a thinly veiled aversion to outreach from school personnel, as such communications usually involve requests for grants, donations, and sponsorship money.
Sarge nods, then goes back to work. “Already taken care of.”
“I don’t want you to do it without getting paid.”
“Tracked down your landlord. Got the money out of him.”
“What? Who? Nathan Gossett?”
“That’s right.”
“You talked to Nathan Gossett? Today? Is he here?” A hopeful pitter-patter rises in my throat. “I’ve been trying to contact him—or either of his uncles at Gossett Industries—all week.”
“You’re not rich enough for Will and Manford Gossett to bother with, trust me.” There’s a chill in the summer air all of a sudden. She relents a little when she adds, “Nathan’s not so much of a jerk. He’s just…not into the whole Goswood thing.”
“Do you know where I can find him?”
“Not right now. But, like I said, roof’s taken care of.”
“How did you find him?” Good news about the roof, but I want the man. The book hoarder.
“I caught up with him at the farmers market. Goes there first thing on Thursdays. Brings a load of shrimp from his boat. Uncle Gable sells it for him.”
“Every Thursday?” Now we’re getting somewhere. “If I went next week, I could find him there? Talk to him?”
“Possible…I guess.” She pounds a nail, swipes another out of the box in one smooth motion, sinks it as well. Blam, blam, blam, whack. The sound echoes off toward the cemetery and the levee. My gaze and my train of thought follow it.
Silence draws me back. When I return to Aunt Sarge, she’s squinting at me. “My advice…leave it be. Less he’s bothered by it, less he’ll be thinking about kicking you out. Enjoy the fixed-up roof. Lay low.” She returns to her work. “You’re welcome.”
“Thank you.” I mean it with all sincerity. “Although, I’m going to miss the drip bucket thing. I was getting pretty good at timing it.”
A couple of nails escape the box and roll my way after her next grab. I stop them and drop them back into the box.
“He’s not going to give you a donation for…whatever it is you’re raising money for. Gossett family policy is that all requests go through public affairs at Gossett Industries.” Again, that sharp edge.
“I’ve heard. I’m not after money, though.” Just books. Books that are locked away in a closed-up house, decaying. Books nobody seems to want. Books that need a new home. And love. I’d tell that to Aunt Sarge, but I can’t take the risk of anyone warning Nathan Gossett about me. The best chance for victory is a surprise attack. “I only want to talk to him.”
“Suit yourself.” Her tone adds, Your funeral. She shifts another asphalt square into place. “Need to finish this up now. Got kids to watch again tonight while their mama’s gone to work.”
Blam, blam, blam, whack.
“Still sick?”
“Seems like it goes from one to the other.”
“That’s terrible. And right at the beginning of the school year, too.” I butt-scoot downward a bit to indicate that I really do plan to leave her to her work. I have a trek to make before dark, and with a possible line on Nathan