at me. “Like mother, like daughter.”
I smile back a little grimly. “God, I hope not.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, I only meant—”
“I know. Thank you. That was ungracious of me. But that’s only a couple of questions, Deb. You’ve still got 999,998 to go.”
She laughs a little, looking embarrassed.
“Deb, it’s okay, really. This is helpful to me.”
“It is? It doesn’t, like, make you feel bad?”
“Not at all,” I lie. “What else?”
“I guess . . .” She spreads out her hands in a helpless gesture. “I guess it could all be summed up by just a few questions—what happened next, what happened to them, and where’s the rest of the book so I can finish reading it?”
“That’s all there is.”
“That’s all? You haven’t written the rest of it yet?”
“No, that’s all of the story there is. I don’t know any more.”
This is not entirely true. There is a little more that I’ve written down, but I’m not going to show it to her. I’m probably not going to show it to anybody. It’s too personal, there’s too much about me in it. Plus, some of it is so . . . sentimental . . . that it’s even hard for me to believe.
“You don’t ?” Deb exclaims, eyes wide. “What the tabloid said is true ?”
“I’m afraid so, if you mean—is it true that my parents were never seen again. If they were, whoever saw them has never said so. If you just want the basic facts about it, I can tell you in three sentences. That same night, June twelfth, I was left in Sebastion for my aunt and uncle to raise. My parents were apparently dropped off somewhere at a crossroads just out of town, by a friend who didn’t know what they were up to. And that’s the last that anybody has ever heard of them, as far as I know.”
“Marie! That’s awful! How old were you?”
“About seven months.” I smile at her. “But I’m bigger now.”
She looks across at me with so much sympathy and concern in her eyes that I have to avert my eyes; I look down at the slice of orange dangling from my fork. “What do you think happened to them, Marie?”
I take my time raising the fork to my mouth, eating the slice of orange, swallowing, dabbing at my mouth with a napkin. Then I finally look back at her. “Some say they were murdered bymembers of Hostel, out of revenge for the betrayal, but I don’t think I believe that. For one thing, the members of Hostel were otherwise occupied that night, to say the least. And for another, it would just be so antithetical to the very nature of people in the civil rights movement, or so it seems to me.” I take a breath. “Of course, I don’t actually know what every single one of those members of Hostel—the white ones—did after they were released from police headquarters. And I don’t know if there were any black members who escaped the net. So I can’t swear that’s wrong. But it just doesn’t feel right to me, for whatever that’s worth.”
“What else could have happened?” she asks me quietly.
“Maybe they were killed by somebody in law enforcement to keep it from coming out that there was any campaign against integration. Or maybe they just ran away, Deborah.”
She looks horrified. “And left you? A baby?”
I shrug. “They betrayed lots of people, not just me. If they escaped somewhere, I would have been an encumbrance, I would have slowed them down and made them more easily identifiable.” I laugh a little. “Hell, they could be living under a witness protection program. Maybe they’re your next-door neighbors. Maybe they’re mine.”
“So, you think they’re still alive somewhere?”
I look up, startled. “Oh, no. I don’t. I think they’re dead.”
Her eyes start to fill with tears on my behalf, and I can’t have that.
“How about some iced tea,” I suggest, getting up from the table, “and a bowl of frozen custard with sliced peaches?”
Like me, Deborah can almost always be distracted by food.
What I have, that I’m not
I smile back a little grimly. “God, I hope not.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, I only meant—”
“I know. Thank you. That was ungracious of me. But that’s only a couple of questions, Deb. You’ve still got 999,998 to go.”
She laughs a little, looking embarrassed.
“Deb, it’s okay, really. This is helpful to me.”
“It is? It doesn’t, like, make you feel bad?”
“Not at all,” I lie. “What else?”
“I guess . . .” She spreads out her hands in a helpless gesture. “I guess it could all be summed up by just a few questions—what happened next, what happened to them, and where’s the rest of the book so I can finish reading it?”
“That’s all there is.”
“That’s all? You haven’t written the rest of it yet?”
“No, that’s all of the story there is. I don’t know any more.”
This is not entirely true. There is a little more that I’ve written down, but I’m not going to show it to her. I’m probably not going to show it to anybody. It’s too personal, there’s too much about me in it. Plus, some of it is so . . . sentimental . . . that it’s even hard for me to believe.
“You don’t ?” Deb exclaims, eyes wide. “What the tabloid said is true ?”
“I’m afraid so, if you mean—is it true that my parents were never seen again. If they were, whoever saw them has never said so. If you just want the basic facts about it, I can tell you in three sentences. That same night, June twelfth, I was left in Sebastion for my aunt and uncle to raise. My parents were apparently dropped off somewhere at a crossroads just out of town, by a friend who didn’t know what they were up to. And that’s the last that anybody has ever heard of them, as far as I know.”
“Marie! That’s awful! How old were you?”
“About seven months.” I smile at her. “But I’m bigger now.”
She looks across at me with so much sympathy and concern in her eyes that I have to avert my eyes; I look down at the slice of orange dangling from my fork. “What do you think happened to them, Marie?”
I take my time raising the fork to my mouth, eating the slice of orange, swallowing, dabbing at my mouth with a napkin. Then I finally look back at her. “Some say they were murdered bymembers of Hostel, out of revenge for the betrayal, but I don’t think I believe that. For one thing, the members of Hostel were otherwise occupied that night, to say the least. And for another, it would just be so antithetical to the very nature of people in the civil rights movement, or so it seems to me.” I take a breath. “Of course, I don’t actually know what every single one of those members of Hostel—the white ones—did after they were released from police headquarters. And I don’t know if there were any black members who escaped the net. So I can’t swear that’s wrong. But it just doesn’t feel right to me, for whatever that’s worth.”
“What else could have happened?” she asks me quietly.
“Maybe they were killed by somebody in law enforcement to keep it from coming out that there was any campaign against integration. Or maybe they just ran away, Deborah.”
She looks horrified. “And left you? A baby?”
I shrug. “They betrayed lots of people, not just me. If they escaped somewhere, I would have been an encumbrance, I would have slowed them down and made them more easily identifiable.” I laugh a little. “Hell, they could be living under a witness protection program. Maybe they’re your next-door neighbors. Maybe they’re mine.”
“So, you think they’re still alive somewhere?”
I look up, startled. “Oh, no. I don’t. I think they’re dead.”
Her eyes start to fill with tears on my behalf, and I can’t have that.
“How about some iced tea,” I suggest, getting up from the table, “and a bowl of frozen custard with sliced peaches?”
Like me, Deborah can almost always be distracted by food.
What I have, that I’m not
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