Sycamore Row

Lettie had come to believe her birth mother was Lois Rinds, the daughter of Sylvester, and she was anxious to prove it. She asked, “Sylvester owned some land, didn’t he?”
    The usual nod, then a smile. “Seem like he did. Believe so.”
    “Did you and your family ever live on his land?”
    He scratched his forehead. “Believe so. Yes, when I was a little boy. I remember it now, pickin’ cotton on my uncle’s land. Remember now. And there was a fight over payin’ us for the cotton.” He rubbed his lips and mumbled something.
    “So there was a disagreement, and what happened?” Lettie asked gently.
    “We left there and went to another farm, don’t know where. We worked so many.”
    “Do you remember if Sylvester had any children?”
    “Ever’body had kids.”
    “Do you remember any of Sylvester’s?”
    Boaz scratched and thought so hard he eventually nodded off. When they realized he was napping, Lettie gently shook his arm and said, “Boaz, do you remember any of Sylvester’s kids?”
    “Push me over there, in the sun,” he said, pointing to a spot on the deck that wasn’t shaded. They rolled him over and rearranged their lawn chairs. He sat as straight as possible, looked up at the sun, and closed his eyes. They waited. Finally, he said, “Don’t know ’bout that. Benson.”
    “Who was Benson?”
    “The man who beat us.”
    “Do you remember a little girl named Lois? Lois Rinds?”
    He jerked his head toward Lettie and said, quickly and clearly, “I do. Now I remember her. She was Sylvester’s little girl, and they owned the land. Lois. Little Lois. It won’t common, you know, for colored folk to own land, but I remember now. At first it was good, then they had a fight.”
    Lettie said, “I think Lois was my mother.”
    “You don’t know?”
    “No, I don’t. She died when I was three and somebody else adopted me. But I’m a Rinds.”
    “Me too. Always have been,” he said, and they laughed. Then he looked sad and said, “Not much of a family now. Ever’body’s so scattered.”
    “What happened to Sylvester?” Lettie asked.
    He grimaced and shifted weight as if in great pain. He breathed heavily for a few minutes and seemed to forget the question. He looked at the two women as if he’d never seen them before, and wiped his nose on a sleeve. Then he returned to the moment and said, “We left. Don’t know. Heard later that somethin’ bad happened.”
    “Any idea what?” Portia’s pen was not moving.
    “They killed him.”
    “Who killed him?”
    “White men.”
    “Why did they kill him?”
    Another drifting away as if the question had not been heard. Then, “Don’t know. We were gone. I remember Lois now. A sweet little girl. Benson was the man who beat us.”
    Portia was wondering if they could believe anything at this point. His eyes were closed and his ears were twitching as if gripped by a seizure. He repeated, “Benson, Benson.”
    “And Benson married your mother?” Lettie asked gently.
    “All we heard was some white men got him.”

34
    Jake was in the middle of a fairly productive morning when he heard the unmistakable sound of Harry Rex’s size 13s clomping up his already battered wooden staircase. He took a deep breath, waited, then watched as the door burst open without the slightest trace of a polite knock. “Good morning, Harry Rex,” he said.
    “You ever heard of the Whiteside clan from over by the lake?” he asked, huffing as he fell into a chair.
    “Distantly. Why do—”
    “Craziest bunch of lunatics I’ve ever run across. Last weekend Mr. Whiteside caught his wife in bed with one of their sons-in-law, so that makes two divorces all of a sudden. Before that, one of their daughters had filed and I got that one. So now I got—”
    “Harry Rex, please, I really don’t care.” Jake knew the stories could go on forever.
    “Well, excuse me. I’m here because they’re all in my office right now, kicking and scratching, and we just had to call the law. I’m so sick of my clients, all of them.” He wiped his forehead with a sleeve. “You got a Bud Light?”
    “No. I have some coffee.”
    “The last thing I need. I talked to the insurance company this morning and they’re offering one thirty-five. Take it, okay? Now.”
    Jake thought he was joking and almost laughed. The insurance company had been stuck on $100,000 for two years. “You’re serious?”
    “Yes, I’m serious dear client. Take the money. My secretary is typing