Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 74450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
“I found a bunch of things I figured you could use for your article, but uh, I ran across somethin’. I actually saw it a while ago, before you even called and asked to interview me, but I wasn’t certain if I wanted anyone else to see it.”
“Mmm hmm.” He sat up straight and rested his hands on his knees, giving an encouraging smile. The kind he’d worked on for years. The sort of smile he’d trained himself to offer in times when someone was afraid to give him what he wanted. One that puts folks at ease—even the most resistant to being pried open like a walnut. “Is it in this box?” He pointed down at it.
“No.”
They kept staring at one another, then the woman cleared her throat and took a seat across from him on a tan couch.
She crossed her leg and cocked her head to the side.
“My aunt was a special woman, Caspian. She practically raised me ’cause my mother had some personal issues I don’t care to get into.” She began massaging her neck. Tighter. Harder. “I remember her speakin’ of three boys… three best friends. Y’all must’ve been them. She said y’all was special ’cause you were like her.”
“Like her? How so?”
“She said y’all was some of the smartest children she eva seen. But y’all was troubled, too.”
He ran his hands along his knees and thighs, over and over again until the material of his pants felt hot to the touch.
“You remember that after all this time?”
“No. I remembered it after you called. I talked to Uncle Clifford and he remembered, too. So… what I had found was… uh, a folder of hers wedged in her old school plannin’ schedule. Auntie was real meticulous about her records. She kept everything. Every note, picture… But she kept them organized. She never had a bunch of mess lyin’ around. This was out of place. It was mighty strange for it to be there.”
She reached to her right and pulled a manila folder from under an Essence magazine, offering it to him. Caspian got up to take it from her grasp, then sat back down. He cleared his throat as he opened the folder. He heard Monica get up and exit the room without a word, leaving him alone.
First in the folder were newspaper articles relating to many of her achievements and accolades. Some still referred to her as ‘colored.’ How strange. Times had changed back then but apparently, not for some parts of Kentucky. Then, he ran across a photograph of Legend, Axel and him. He immediately blinked back tears. They were so young, much thinner, their eyes wide open, yet so full of pain. They all wore bright smiles. I forgot she took this picture of us… He set the photograph aside, and came across a black and white photograph of several children with two solemn-faced adults. One of the children looked to be Mrs. Florence, who wore an unhappy expression. No smile. The other children were grinning from ear to ear. He placed it aside and looked at more photos, which portrayed more of the same. He saw many of her scholastic achievements, others of her volunteering in the community, and photos of her and Clifford looking rather happy together.
In an adorable photo of her in the early teen years, she was hugging a German Shepherd around the neck. After sorting through the photos and documented laurels, he happened upon a newspaper article stuffed in the back. The paper was folded in half, dated 1979. The type was slightly faded in the areas where it had been folded, making it harder to decipher the words. It was an article about a local fire in which a man had perished. Suddenly, the room drew colder…
The flames in the hearth began to blow and shift about as if hit by a draft. He could feel a feathery touch across his knuckles and the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Still, he didn’t feel threatened but encouraged.
“…A fire of unknown origins engulfed Lamont Johnson’s home on 642 Eastpoint Drive… His family had been called to a church service, but he remained home. That service never happened. It is alleged that someone might have told a fabrication to draw the occupants from the house. Mr. Johnson was the only one home during the unfortunate event… house burned down… Nothing salvageable… Mr. Johnson succumbed to his injuries at the University of Louisville Hospital… no suspects at this time…”
He flipped the newspaper article over and saw an advertisement for canned tomatoes, then turned it back around. His heart sped up as he looked right under the black and white faded photo of a house in ruins, and in small font, in blue faded ink, the eloquent handwriting of a teacher he’d loved with all of his heart, which read: