Sycamore Row

some more Rinds took off for Chicago and never looked back.”
    Portia said, “That’s the same year the property of Sylvester Rinds was transferred to the Hubbard family.” The others heard this but it meant little. Portia was not even sure of the connection; there were too many missing details.
    “Don’t know about that,” Charley said. “But my mother remembers a cousin who she thinks was the only child of Sylvester Rinds. Asbest we can tell, this cousin was born around 1925. They lost touch after 1930 when the family scattered. But through the years there was the usual family gossip. This girl supposedly had a baby when she was real young, the daddy caught a train, and the family never knew what happened to the baby. My mother remembers her cousin’s name as Lois.”
    “I’ve heard that my mother’s name was Lois,” Lettie said cautiously.
    “Well, let’s look at your birth certificate,” Charley said, as if he had finally arrived at a critical moment.
    “Never had one,” Lettie said. “I know I was born in Monroe County in 1941, but there’s no official certificate.”
    “No listing of either parent,” Portia added. “We found this recently, down in Monroe County. The mother is listed as L. Rinds, age sixteen. The father is H. Johnson, but that’s the only mention of him.”
    Charley was instantly deflated. He had worked so hard and traveled so far to prove his lineage with his newfound cousin, only to hit a dead end. How can you be alive with no birth certificate?
    Portia continued, “My mother was sort of adopted by Cypress and her husband, and she was thirty years old before she knew the truth. By then so many of her relatives were dead and scattered it really didn’t matter anyway.”
    Lettie said, “I was married with three kids when I found out. I couldn’t exactly take off and go chase down a buncha dead kinfolk. Besides, I really didn’t care, still don’t. I was a Tayber. Clyde and Cypress were my parents. I had six brothers and sisters.” She was sounding a bit defensive and this irritated her. She owed no explanation to this stranger, cousin or not.
    Portia said, “So, under your theory, it looks like my mother might be a Rinds from Ford County, but there’s no way to prove it.”
    “Oh, I think she’s definitely a Rinds,” Charley said, hanging on in desperation. He thumped his paperwork as if it held the unquestioned truth. “We’re probably seventh or eighth cousins.”
    “Same as ever’ other black person in north Mississippi,” Lettie said, almost under her breath. The women backed away from the table. Shirley, a sister and one of Cypress’s daughters, arrived with the coffeepot and topped off their cups.
    Charley seemed undaunted and kept up his barrage of chatter as the conversation drifted away from bloodlines and shaky family histories. He was there looking for money, and he had done his homework.His sleuthing had brought Lettie as close to her true ancestors as any efforts so far, but there was simply not enough hard evidence to tie up the loose ends. There were still too many gaps, too many questions that could never be answered.
    Portia eased into the background and just listened. She was tiring of his diamonds and slickness, but she was enthralled by his research. She and Lucien, and now Lettie too, were laboring under the unfounded theory that Lettie was related to the Rindses who once owned the land the Hubbards took title to in 1930. If proven, this might help explain why Seth did what he did. And, it might not. It might also raise a hundred other questions, some of which could prove detrimental. Was any of it admissible in court? Probably not, in Lucien’s opinion, but it was worth their determined pursuit.
    “Where’s the best place for lunch?” Charley asked boldly. “I’m taking you ladies out for lunch. My treat.”
    Such a Chicago idea! Black folks in Clanton rarely ate out, and to do so on a Saturday for lunch with such a charming young man, and one picking up the tab, was irresistible. They quickly decided on Claude’s, the black-owned café on the square. Jake ate there every Friday and had even taken Portia. On Saturdays, Claude grilled pork chops and the place was packed.
    The last time Lettie rode in a late-model Cadillac was the morning she drove Seth to his office, the day before he killed himself. He’d made her drive and she’d been a wreck. She remembered it well as she sat up front with Charley. Her three daughters