Blonde Faith er-11 Read online

  This thought came to me as I rested on the bed of the son of my heart. The words I knew had only the slightest relationship to the same words in the white American lexicon. It’s not that I felt more or deeper, it was that I thought differently. I had another knowledge.

  Following this esoteric line of thinking, I came upon Leafa: little, brown, ugly, loving child of a man with too much of a good thing.

  Leafa had told me that her father was a survivor, that he would be able to stay safe among men bent upon his demolition.

  I had another knowledge, and most children did too. Adults liked to think that they knew the world better because children didn’t have the words to express their visions and because they were fearless. But I knew that young people always saw the world more clearly and closely than I. They smelled things and saw the tiniest variations. They thought without preformed conclusions and listened with their hearts.

  Pericles Tarr was not in debt to Mouse, not in the ordinary way. Raymond took on friends now and again, hung out with them, made clandestine plans with them. Mouse was a criminal, a master criminal. He was also an active member of an outcast community. Whatever it was that made Tarr disappear, it had something to do with Mouse’s business. Pericles might have been dead, but it wasn’t because Mouse had lent him money.

  And where was Raymond? He wasn’t the type to kill a man and run. Mouse ran after things, not away from them.

  The effort of thought was making me tired. I was falling asleep when I remembered the bill of sale that Tourmaline had stolen for me. Why had she done that? Was it because she was a poor college student who could use the money for books? But then she just handed it over, refusing the money.

  As I got older, my profession began to take center stage in my life. I wanted to know why things happened, but not like when I was a young man. In my early life, I wanted money and women, success and respect, not for what I did but for who I was. Now I was interested in Tourmaline because I couldn’t quite understand her motivations; I didn’t know what she saw in me, and that was very unusual.

  It was also beside the point.

  Easter Dawn was sleeping in Feather’s room, dreaming about the man she called father. One day he would hand her a pistol and tell her that he’d murdered her parents, aunts, uncles, cousins, and all their friends — but until that day her love for him would be bigger than the sky.

  These thoughts comforted me. In the morning I’d go looking for Christmas again. Maybe I could help him. Maybe he would help me find Ray.

  Ray: the closest friend in my life before Bonnie came on the scene.

  Thinking of Bonnie was the turn that guaranteed me another sleepless night. Once Bonnie entered my mind, there was no possibility for repose. She was the book I couldn’t put down, the life savings I had lost, the question I could not answer.

  And it wasn’t only her. I had a blood daughter somewhere, lost to me, and parents who had died before I was eight.

  I remembered a woman — Celestine. She was a distant cousin of my mother’s who took me in when I was orphaned. Her house was so clean that I was afraid to walk across the floor. Because no matter where I went, there was dust and lint, crusts and detritus of all kinds cascading off me. Celestine’s life was perfectly ordered and spotless. I didn’t belong in her world, though I longed for it.

  At the age of nine I ran away after breaking a jar of strawberry jam that clotted her perfect kitchen floor. I didn’t know how to clean up the sticky red disaster and so I ran away and never returned.

  I grew up and went to war. The red stains there were taken away by explosions, flies, and dogs getting a taste of their onetime masters. Cleaning up in Europe was killing. I could do that.

  I kept a list in my head of every human being I had slaughtered. The roll was far too long. And even though I had never actually murdered anyone, there were many innocents who died by my hand: white men and blacks, young and old. I once shot a German sniper who turned out to be a nine-year-old boy chained to his post by a teenage superior.

  THE LONG DARK MORNING passed like that, an interminable chain of associations among the things lost to me or the crimes I’d committed. Just before the sun began to rise, I came to understand that my mind was a deep chasm, a fault of culpability. Before I threw her out, Bonnie would call to me when I began that inevitable fall into myself.

  I had other realizations, but they didn’t mean anything. I was like a pothead solving the problems of the world with a hash pipe and too much time on my hands.

  After some time had passed, the sun came up and I climbed out of Jesus’s lumpy bed. I showered and shaved, put on the same charcoal suit I’d worn on my date.

  I tried for a moment to think about what I’d feel like if I’d had sex with Tourmaline, but I couldn’t wrap my mind around the notion.

  I took out the folder Gara had given me from her research on the medals and started going through the names and their sketchy descriptions.

  I rejected Xian Lo first off. The man I had met wasn’t Asian, and though it was possible for an Occidental to have an Asian name, the probability just wasn’t there. Morton, Heatherton, and Lamieux were all too short for my guy.

  It also wasn’t Charles Maxwell Bob because he was a Negro. It said so at the bottom of his sheet: Rc. Neg. It was the only indication of race in any of the files. This didn’t surprise me; it wouldn’t have surprised two people out of two million in America at that time. I noted the bias, but that was just another case.

  It was a good morning’s work. I’d cut down my suspects from eight to two.

  Either Glen Thorn or Tomas Hight was my man. Tourmaline wouldn’t have liked the first one: not enough syllables for her.

  I went through my Southern California phone books and found addresses for both men. Life wasn’t good, but at least it kept moving forward.

  17

  I was sitting at the kitchenette table a few minutes shy of 6:30 when the baby cried. I was considering which problem I should tackle first. I had Christmas’s most recent address from the bill of sale that Tourmaline had provided and two soldiers I could look up. I knew that Pericles Tarr had a girlfriend somewhere. Each of these potential paths had equal weight in my mind.

  If I had had a clue about the whereabouts of Mouse, that’s the direction I would have taken.

  I was missing Ray, not because he could help me through this violent period but for his sense of humor. He liked to laugh and tell a good story. Added to that, Mouse didn’t understand guilt or broken hearts — that was just the kind of ignorance I craved.

  “Hi, Dad.”

  Jesus was standing in the kitchen with Essie in his arms. I reached out for her without thinking about it. She cried and then cooed. After getting used to my smell, she practiced kicking and turning her head from side to side.

  Jesus went about making coffee.

  I had had almost fifteen years of that boy brewing me coffee and bringing me the gifts of life. He’d been brutally abused when he was little older than his daughter, but somehow that had not twisted him. I would have liked to say that it was my firm hand and loving home that saved the boy, but he was the one who saved me more often than not. It was Jesus that emptied all my liquor bottles when my first wife left. It was Jesus made me coffee and dinner more times than I could count.

  And now he had brought me a granddaughter. Here we couldn’t have a gene in common going back more than twenty thousand years, but that boy was my blood.

  He brought two mugs to the table and took Essie from me. The way he cradled that baby made me think of the few years he spent with my friend Primo before coming to me. Maybe the Mexican and his Panamanian wife, Flower, had saved Jesus’s soul.

  “Feather said that you’re mad at her,” my son said.

  “I’m not.”

  “She said that she gave you a hard time about the wedding and that, and that you got mad.”

  Essie grabbed his lip and pulled, just a little.

  “You remember when you were
a boy?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “You remember when you didn’t talk those first years, never spoke a word?”

  Jesus looked at me, mute as he was back in those days.

  “Why?” I asked. “Why didn’t you talk for all that time?”

  “I did,” he said in a voice reminiscent of his first whispering years of conversation. “I did with my mind. I was thinking answers and I thought you could hear me. And you did, Dad. You knew everything I wanted to say.”

  “So why ever talk, then?” I asked.

  “One day when Feather was little and you were at work, she was about to knock over a hot pot, and I wasn’t close enough so I told her no.”

  The look on my son’s face was one of fascination. He was remembering that word.

  “It surprised both of us,” he said. “Feather’s jaw dropped and her eyes got real big. It felt like I opened my mouth and a bird, a big bird flew out. I wondered if there were any more inside of me, and then Feather ran up and hugged me and told me to read her a story.”

  I had never asked about Juice’s first word. I was afraid that to question his speech would have returned him to silence.

  “Are you mad at Feather?” he asked.

  “No. I just can’t understand when she stopped being a child and started bein’ a woman. That’s what’s got me.”

  “I don’t think Bonnie wants to marry him,” Jesus said, as if it were the logical extension of our talk.

  “No? She don’t love him?”

  “No,” the boy-sage replied. “She loves him. He loves her and needs her, and so she can see them together. But if you had ever called her, she would have come back here to us.”

  “So then let me ask you, Juice,” I said. “Are you mad at me?”

  Essie made a sound akin to a laugh. Jesus stared at me like the man he’d always been.

  “No,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m with Benita and off on my boat half the time. Feather talks to Bonnie every other day. Bonnie has Joguye, and even though she wants you, that’s something.”

  It felt as if each declarative phrase was a nail driven into my coffin. I wanted to tell him to stop talking, but I had asked the question.

  “Mr. Rawlins?”

  Easter Dawn was my savior. She wore a plaid skirt that Feather had outgrown years before and a white silk T-shirt. Her black hair was tied back with a yellow ribbon, also of silk. Her shoes were black, her socks white, and there was a pink Cracker Jack plastic ring on the forefinger of her right hand. On her shoulder was hung the fancy briefcase-like satchel.

  “Aren’t we dressed up,” I said, lifting the tiny eight-year-old and putting her on my lap.

  “Feather said I could wear her old clothes,” Easter confessed, the hint of guilt in her voice.

  “And you look beautiful in them.”

  The child smiled at me and clasped her hands.

  “I want to go to school,” she said.

  “You do? Don’t you like being on vacation?”

  “No. And I want to be in school. My daddy says that school is bad, that it makes people bad, but Feather and Juice are nice and they went to school. And anyway, Feather has to stay home every day to take care of me and she’s missing her tests.”

  “Hm. Yeah. I guess you’re right. Okay. Go get your sister, and I’ll take you off to school at about eight.”

  As E.D. ran toward the back of the house, I thought about calling Feather her sister. I suppose I was preparing for the worst. I had been training for disaster as far back as I could remember.

  I DROVE the girls to school. Feather went off to the library to study, and I brought E.D. to the office. There I encountered Mrs. Canfield.

  She had a decade on me, all of it traveled on a rutted, hardscrabble road. She was a white woman, but her coloring had some liver to it. Her mouth hadn’t known mirth, maybe ever, and her eyes gave you the impression that you were the most worthless person in the world.

  After I told her my name and she told me hers, I said, “I’m Feather’s father.”

  “Oh,” she said haughtily. “Feather called in days ago. She said that there was a family emergency and that you would call. But my records show no such call.”

  “I was dealing with the emergency,” I said.

  “Education is the most important part of a child’s life, Mr. Rawlins. If you cannot take that seriously, how can your children hope to make it in this world?”

  It was the wrong morning for us to meet. I was an American Negro. And while not being a Rochester stereotype or a white-lipped minstrel clown, I was quite aware of how to deal with people like Mrs. Canfield. Don’t get me wrong: she wasn’t looking down on me because of race. She was in her seat of power and would have lectured Lyndon Baines Johnson had he wandered into her court. And Lyndon could have learned something from my long experience. I could have told him that the way to deal with Canfield was to say, Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry, ma’am. You are right, ma’am.

  That’s what I should have said, but it wasn’t the day for it.

  “Really?” I replied. “It seems to me that health, food on the table, love, and shelter would come before a child could ever think about reading a book. I mean, how could you expect an ailing, hungry child to come in here and take your tests? Do you serve free lunches here, Mrs. Canfield?”

  The edge on her gaze could have cut diamonds.

  “What is it that you want of me, Mr. Rawlins?”

  “I want to enroll this child in school.”

  “She doesn’t look like your child.”

  After speaking, the school administrator sat back a little. Her sharp eyes had caught a hint of the violence in my posture.

  Before I could come up with the appropriate lie, Mrs. Canfield added, “In order to enroll a child in this school, you will need her birth certificate, inoculation history, and proof of guardianship.”

  “I can have all that by next week.”

  “Bring her back then.”

  Easter Dawn pulled on the sleeve of my dark gray jacket.

  “I thought you wanted all kids in school all the time?” I said.

  “This is not your child.”

  Easter pulled on my sleeve again.

  “We’re talking, honey,” I said.

  “Look in here, Mr. Rawlins.” She was handing me the ornate satchel.

  I took the crocheted case and flipped it open. In there was a paper file, among other things. The manila folder held the information that Canfield had asked for. Christmas had made me Easter’s legal guardian and he had the Riverside Board of Education’s homeschooling certification of her first- and second-grade evaluation exams. She’d had her smallpox, polio, and tetanus vaccines.

  I handed the papers over to Mrs. Canfield, and she studied them like a poker player in the biggest game of her life. Three minutes went by while Easter and I sat silently.

  “Everything seems to be in order,” the ogre said at last. “I’ll take Miss Black to her classroom.”

  “Have Feather walk her home, please,” I said, happy to be mannered and victorious with a single word.

  18

  I took Easter’s shoulder bag with me because it seemed a better idea than leaving it with her or taking out the two bound stacks of thousand-dollar bills inside.

  Thousand-dollar bills. Two hundred of them.

  Christmas was a soldier and he planned for almost every exigency. He knew that I would have to put Easter in school. He knew better than I did what the school would demand for her admittance. There was a sealed envelope in the satchel that had a list of names and addresses: his lawyer, Thelda Kim; Easter’s doctor, Martin Lewis; a bank officer in Riverside oddly named Bertrand Bill; and his parents. Each name had a phone number and an address beside it. The parents must have been separated. Christmas had told me that almost all the marriages in his family dissolved; something to do with military rigor among professional soldiers.

  In his mind Christmas was ready for everything — even what h
e’d left out of his typewritten catalog proved this.

  There was no letter or even a note to me. Not one detail about why he had gone to ground, passing his most precious possession into my hands. This negative space, this silence, was a clear message that I should work with what I was given — and sit tight.

  Christmas Black, despite his civilian status, thought of himself as my superior. He was the tactical commander, and I was just a grunt with a stripe or two.

  That’s what Christmas thought, but he didn’t know me all that well. I was a dog that got cut from the pack at an early age. I was no man’s soldier, no leader’s peon. The president of the United States stood on two feet and so did I.

  AND SO I DROVE out to Venice Beach to look up Glen Thorn on Orchard Lane, the first of the names I’d narrowed down from Gara’s list.

  It was a small cottagelike house behind three crab apple trees. There was a porch and a green front door that was solid and locked. I knocked with the butt of my pistol and called out in a raspy voice, hoping that would conceal my identity. No one attacked or answered me.

  The window was locked too, but the wood had become rather punky. I just pulled hard, ripping off a piece of the sill with the lock, and climbed in.

  I was sure that Glen Thorn was not my man from the state of that one-room hut. The sink was overflowing with dishes, and the floor was cluttered with clothes, fast-food bags and boxes, girlie magazines, and sensationalist rags. BABY WITH TWO HEADS BORN TO SECRET KENNEDY COUSIN. ALIENS CONTROL LADY BIRD’S MIND. BROKENHEARTED LOVER EMASCULATES SELF IN TIJUANA TOILET.

  There were no weapons or pictures of him in evidence or secreted away in any drawer or the closet. The war hero I had seen had nothing in common with this mess. Mentally I crossed him off my list, then went through the front door and out to my car.

  I WANTED MY QUARRY to be Glen Thorn because Tomas Hight lived all the way out in Bellflower; that was a long drive through enemy territory.

  It was very, very white out in Bellflower. Many of the people around those parts had southern accents, and even though I knew racists came in all dialects, I had experienced my worst bigotry accompanied by sneers and southern drawls.