“Oh, they went. But the cops, they were so ugly. It was like they did this work they hated, looking after Dr. King that summer—1966, I mean—and then couldn’t wait to take it out on any black person who crossed their path. I went with Sister Ella and Claudia to the station house, and the way those cops acted, you’d think those two women had shot the president. Pigs? My, yes, they were pigs.”

I felt the jolt that the insult always gave me.

“You think there’s any hope, any chance, you might find him?” She spoke in a soft, shy voice, as if afraid I might mock her deepest feelings.

I wanted to tell her something heartening, hope filled, something that would put life back in her voice. I wanted to spread some honey out for her, but I could only tell the truth, the fact that I thought Lamont Gadsden was either dead or so deeply hidden that no one would ever find him unless he chose to come forward himself.

“I’ll talk to Johnny Merton,” I found myself promising. “It’s been forty years, but maybe Johnny remembers what they talked about.”

“Don’t use my name,” she begged. “If Daddy hears about it, or the ladies at church …”

“You don’t have to go home to him, you know,” I said quietly. “Even now it’s not too late for you to start your own life. I have the phone number for—”

“Oh, once your spirit gets broke, it doesn’t matter where you lay your head at night.” Her voice had grown low again with weariness. “But if you learn anything, call me here at the hospital. My shift runs eleven to seven, Thursday through Monday.”

9 - UNCOVERING HISTORY

9

UNCOVERING HISTORY

AFTER SHE HUNG UP, I TRIED TO GO BACK TO SLEEP, BUT the conversation had been too unsettling. I lay on the bed, my body so rigid I couldn’t even keep my eyes closed. I walked out to the living room and sat cross-legged in my armchair. Peppy, who was spending the night in my apartment, got up from her post by the front door to join me.

Rose Hebert and Petra, both adult women, referred to their fathers as “Daddy.” When Daddy’s in your head, he’s the biggest thing there. He doesn’t have a first name, or a smaller identity like “my dad.” You think everyone knows who Daddy is. Did that mean my uncle was himself a bullying presence in Petra’s life or just that she was still very young?