familiarity making him comfortable and our attentiveness bringing out detail. His own grandfather had been the youngest of Cyrus Mayes’s three sons, too young to join the others in their attempt in the early part of the century to find work and earn their family a way out of the poverty of the recovering South. Stories told by his grandmother and subsequently by his own mother depicted homes dominated by women. Little, he recalled, was ever revealed of the habits or working talents of the men of the Mayes clan. Even his own reticent father, the lone male son of the lone male survivor of the Mayes family, had died of a heart attack at the relatively early age of forty-eight.
Mayes repeated Billy’s explanation of his great-grandmother’s hope chest, found in the attic of the family home in Atlanta after she had died. A young man who’d never been told the history of the men in his family now had a handful of history before him—but it was filled with more questions than answers.
“So, you’ve seen the letters, what do you think?” Mayes said. The directness of the question was the boldest statement he’d made since first coming through the door. “What do you think happened? All of a sudden, I’ve got this religious grandfather trying to do right by his family and then what? Did they die out there in the Everglades? By accident? Did they just give up? What can I take away from what the letters say about them, if I don’t know what happened?”
There was desperation in the kid’s voice, and it made both Billy and me hesitate.
“Like I told you, Mr. Manchester, I’m not even sure where to look to find out. I did some library searches up at Emory. I even came down to Tampa and looked at some old microfiche of the newspapers at the time for names or some story of the men who worked on the roadway. Professor Martin up at school was able to get some Florida state records from the Department of Transportation, but this all happened before the state took over the Tamiami Trail project. He said that if I needed to see corporate records from the private companies that worked on the roadway, forget it. That’s why he gave me your name, Mr. Manchester. He said you were the best.”
I watched Billy’s face. Professor Martin had been a client. Billy had helped him through a Florida stock swindle that he said had probably saved the guy’s university tenure. But the compliment had passed completely over his head. He was concentrating on sometiling more important to him.
“Corporate r-responsibility can follow a company around for a l-long time,” Billy finally said. “Even the h-hint that your great- grandfadier’s l-letters seemed to indicate that workers d-died unaccountably or w-were forced like slaves to s-stay on the job would not be something any corporation would l-like to see come back from the p-past.”
Though the words seemed to be rhetorical, I watched the uneasy effect they had on the young Mayes. His eyes had gone off to some point beyond the glass, and I watched his fingers go to a necklace just inside of his collar.
“Well, sir, I already wrote to a couple of them,” he said. “After I met with you and you seemed, you know, to believe me. I was just asking, you know, if there were any employee records from the time.”
“And?” Billy said.
“They sent sort of a form letter back, saying it was private information and I’d have to contact their legal department.”
“And?” Billy said again. I could tell this was new information, and not exactly welcomed.
“I, uh, told them we’d get back to them.”
“We?”
“Uh, you, sir. You.”
Billy stood and stepped across to the window, his profile stark against the bright light of the sky. Mayes looked at me and I tried to keep my face neutral. He still had his hand unconsciously at his throat, the same kind of gesture I’d long tried to break after the Philadelphia bullet had left its scar on me. Finally Billy turned.
“Mark. M-Maybe
Mayes repeated Billy’s explanation of his great-grandmother’s hope chest, found in the attic of the family home in Atlanta after she had died. A young man who’d never been told the history of the men in his family now had a handful of history before him—but it was filled with more questions than answers.
“So, you’ve seen the letters, what do you think?” Mayes said. The directness of the question was the boldest statement he’d made since first coming through the door. “What do you think happened? All of a sudden, I’ve got this religious grandfather trying to do right by his family and then what? Did they die out there in the Everglades? By accident? Did they just give up? What can I take away from what the letters say about them, if I don’t know what happened?”
There was desperation in the kid’s voice, and it made both Billy and me hesitate.
“Like I told you, Mr. Manchester, I’m not even sure where to look to find out. I did some library searches up at Emory. I even came down to Tampa and looked at some old microfiche of the newspapers at the time for names or some story of the men who worked on the roadway. Professor Martin up at school was able to get some Florida state records from the Department of Transportation, but this all happened before the state took over the Tamiami Trail project. He said that if I needed to see corporate records from the private companies that worked on the roadway, forget it. That’s why he gave me your name, Mr. Manchester. He said you were the best.”
I watched Billy’s face. Professor Martin had been a client. Billy had helped him through a Florida stock swindle that he said had probably saved the guy’s university tenure. But the compliment had passed completely over his head. He was concentrating on sometiling more important to him.
“Corporate r-responsibility can follow a company around for a l-long time,” Billy finally said. “Even the h-hint that your great- grandfadier’s l-letters seemed to indicate that workers d-died unaccountably or w-were forced like slaves to s-stay on the job would not be something any corporation would l-like to see come back from the p-past.”
Though the words seemed to be rhetorical, I watched the uneasy effect they had on the young Mayes. His eyes had gone off to some point beyond the glass, and I watched his fingers go to a necklace just inside of his collar.
“Well, sir, I already wrote to a couple of them,” he said. “After I met with you and you seemed, you know, to believe me. I was just asking, you know, if there were any employee records from the time.”
“And?” Billy said.
“They sent sort of a form letter back, saying it was private information and I’d have to contact their legal department.”
“And?” Billy said again. I could tell this was new information, and not exactly welcomed.
“I, uh, told them we’d get back to them.”
“We?”
“Uh, you, sir. You.”
Billy stood and stepped across to the window, his profile stark against the bright light of the sky. Mayes looked at me and I tried to keep my face neutral. He still had his hand unconsciously at his throat, the same kind of gesture I’d long tried to break after the Philadelphia bullet had left its scar on me. Finally Billy turned.
“Mark. M-Maybe
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