Chapters (33)
BUD STANSON
1 EVELYN ROAD
NASHVILLE, TN 37205
REX MARTIN
ST. LOUIS UNIVERSITY
1 NORTH GRAND BOULEVARD
ST. LOUIS, MISSOURI 63103
Dec 1, 1951
Bud,
I will continue to write you, even if you do not respond. This exercise may be more for me at this point. To detail this so there is no loss of memory. I have not been feeling well as of late.
It is horrible on my part that I do not remember their names. But they were clearly brother and sister. The boy answered almost immediately that he knew Antonio, his sister shaking her head, telling him to be quiet. I think the silver pesos from my pocket helped.
They wouldn’t get into the car, so it meant we had to walk. Even with my limited Spanish, I could understand the girl was chastising her brother. He ignored her, as all brothers do their older sisters. I asked him if he ever saw people show up on the beach. White people, like us. The boy nodded, saying two words over and over, pulling at his shirt.
Traje negro, traje negro. Over and over. I pulled out the Spanish dictionary.
Black suit.
CONTINUATION OF LETTER BY FREDA STANSON
I suppose it was the money, in the end, that got the children to take us to the house of the journalist. Bud didn’t like the idea of leaving the car parked at the beach, but he eagerly followed. For him, it was the first proof he’d seen for himself that at least something Dr. Martin had told us was true, that this Antonio Borges existed. I know Bud believed me that I’d spoken to Lynn. But it’s different, I know, when you see a grain of truth for yourself.
I wanted to run. I kept walking as close to the children as possible, hoping my urgency would propel them faster. But they walked slowly as all children do in the heat, even those who had known nothing all their lives other than the oppressive humidity.
When they finally took us to the house off a dirt road, I learned there are no limitations on how many ways your heart can break. All that was left was charred beams and a collapsed roof.
The boy had just pointed.
Dr. Martin had knelt down to him, shaking his head, saying no, not the house where Antonio lived before. I need his new house, where he lives now.
The boy continued to point and speak in Spanish.
The little girl then quietly responded, surprising us by speaking in broken English, telling us that this is where Antonio stayed. Like his first house, this one burned down too.
Dr. Martin asked her how she knew all this.
She’d said because it was her family’s home.
They’re closing my window now. They say it’s too hot in the room. Maybe they’re right. I don’t feel like writing any more.