“I worry a little bit about—” Uncle Clyde stopped himself from speaking by slipping the fatty sliver into his mouth. He chewed like a gentleman—lips closed, jaw moving up and down with delicate little movements, not a tooth or a crumb exposed—and his clean-shaven tidiness and upper-middle-class politeness irked me no end that afternoon. I wanted to shake him by the lapels of his gray coat and scream at him to tell me whether Joe had lied to me.
“What do you worry about?” I asked, my stomach tightening.
He dabbed at the corners of his mouth with his napkin. “I don’t mean to offend either of you by saying this, but I have to wonder how Joe is doing—physically. I’d like to be able to examine him. Prison isn’t known for its hygiene or freedom from diseases.” He spread the ivory cloth back across his lap. “Do you know where he’s staying, Hanalee?”
My heart stopped. “Why would I know that?”
“I just wondered, since you brought him up.”
Mama took a sip of water without a sound.
“He might be armed,” I said, just to see how Uncle Clyde would react.
He gave a start, and I’d swear, his pupils swelled.
“Why do you say that?” he asked.
“He’s a jailbird. A wayward youth prone to drinking and recklessness in this noble age of Prohibition.” I kept an eye on his every blink and facial twitch. “It just seems like he might be armed. And angry.”
Uncle Clyde shifted in his seat and made something pop in his back. “Well . . . let’s”—he downed a gulp of water, then dabbed at his face again—“let’s end the subject of Joe Adder for the rest of the meal, if you don’t mind. I’d like to enjoy this delicious ham.”
I did mind, but I kept my mouth shut.
AROUND SEVEN O’CLOCK THAT SAME EVENING, WITH Mama and Uncle Clyde’s somewhat hesitant permission, I packed the old brown canvas valise Mama had purchased when she worked as a telephone operator in downtown Portland and Daddy served food at the swanky Portland Hotel. My father had lived near the hotel with other Negroes, and my mother resided in a Salmon Street boardinghouse for young, unmarried white women. They met while crossing paths to their respective places of employment, even though everyone around them told them that the paths of a black man and a white woman should never, ever cross.
With the valise swinging by my side and my feet squelching inside my damp Keds, which I’d fetched from the edge of the woods after dinner, I walked up the highway to Fleur’s house. I puckered my lips and whistled “Toot, Toot, Tootsie, Goo’Bye” in a desperate attempt to forget Uncle Clyde’s squirmy dinnertime behavior. The sun wouldn’t set until close to ten o’clock, but I opted not to travel by forest trail.
Up ahead, Mildred Marks, a girl my age—just turned sixteen—with thick red hair shoved beneath a gray fedora, pedaled toward me on a squeaky green bicycle. She rode at such a snail’s pace, I could have ducked into the trees to avoid her if I had wanted to. She and her eight younger siblings, along with their widowed mama, lived in a farmhouse less than a mile west of mine. They were known for pumping out large batches of moonshine and reaping quite a profit, while the sheriff looked the other way.
“Hanalee! I’ve been wanting to talk to you all day,” called Mildred, bicycling closer, her vehicle chirping and groaning with each labored pedal. “How serendipitous that I decided to take a ride this evening.” Mildred used words like serendipitous to show off the brain sitting inside that big old head of hers, even though she’d had to quit school after the seventh grade to help her mama.
I clutched the handle of my valise. “Hello, Mildred.”
She slowed to a stop and planted the soles of her brown boots on the road. “I saw your father in our house last night.”
My stomach dropped. I nearly bent over and threw up on the road, right in front of her.
“He walked through the front door,” she continued, her pale brown eyes expanding, “and just stared at me, as clearly as I’m looking at you.”
“You . . .” I swallowed down a foul taste that reminded me of coffee grounds. “You must be talking about my stepfather, Dr. Koning.”
“I’m talking about your real father—Hank Denney.” She leaned her freckled face forward. “He seemed confused and upset, as if he were trying to reach you but couldn’t find his way. I saw urgency in those big dark eyes of his.”
I shrank back, my skin cold.
She rolled her bicycle closer, crunching stones beneath her wheels. “I think he’s trying to find you. I’ve seen his spirit roaming the road before, but I—”
“No, you haven’t seen my father.” I inched backward. “It’s bad enough I hear little kids telling ghost tales about him, but a girl my own age . . .”
“He wouldn’t speak to me, but if he’s got something on his mind, I’m sure he’d say it to his own child, especially if she was equipped with a tonic that would allow for spirit communication.”
“I need to go.” I turned and continued up the road.