“Daddy found him,” I said. “But you’re saying it was really Mama?”
Jim nods. “We looked for half a day. Finally Reuben went home to your mother, carrying Jefferson’s favorite blanket, and begged her to use her gift, just this once. And forgive me, Leah, I don’t know the details of how it all worked; your mama and daddy didn’t like to talk about that sort of thing, even with me. All I know is that blanket helped her somehow, and she sent Reuben off with specific directions on how to find the boy.”
“Well, I’ll be.” I knew. Somehow I had always known there was more to my mother than met the eye. Her final words make a lot more sense now. Trust someone. Not good to be alone as we’ve been. Your daddy and I were wrong. . . .
She wasn’t just talking about my gift; she was talking about hers, too. About feeling so alone with a certain bright, screaming knowledge you think you might die of it. About being so full of fear that you never dared trust anyone with that knowledge, not even your own daughter.
But I’ve dared. I’ve dared a lot. Even in my darkest days, hemmed in on all sides by awful people like Hiram and Hardwick, I’m surrounded by people I can trust.
That was Mama’s final wish for me.
I put my hand to her locket, dangling at my throat. I did it, Mama. Just like you hoped.
The proprietor clears his throat. It’s definitely time to go. I pull out some coins to pay for our meal, and Jim tells me when I’ve counted out enough. “Let’s go,” he says, rising from the table.
I squint at the light when we step from the building. The sky has cleared, and the air has warmed. Large and Larger are still keeping watch from across the street.
“It appears your caution in choosing our establishment for lunch was well founded,” I say.
“Friends of yours?” he asks.
“Friends of Hardwick. Or maybe just employees. I don’t think Hardwick has friends.”
“That’s as sure as heaven. Most of his friends would turn on him in a second if he couldn’t pay them. Let’s head to the waterfront.”
Eyes bore into my back as we amble along the shore. I know this part of the city better than any other. Ships on one side. Warehouses on the other. Streets turning into docks as they stretch out into the bay. We stroll down Battery as far as California Street, Large and Larger continuing to trail casually behind.
“Sorry to bring my troubles your way,” I say.
“What? Oh, you mean them. Negros are followed all the time, everywhere we go. White folks just assume we’re up to no good.”
How have I never noticed that before?
“You all right, Miss Leah?” he says. “That was an awful lot to take in back there.”
“I . . .” I reckon it was an awful lot. “I’m fine. Better than fine.” And it’s true. It almost feels like a weight has lifted from my shoulders. I make sure Large and Larger remain a safe distance behind us before adding, “I’m eager to get back to the business of figuring out Hardwick.”
He shrugs. “In that case, what are we standing on?”
I glance at my feet. “I don’t know. Land that used to be water?”
“Exactly. We’re standing on the most valuable property in all of San Francisco. This is where all the business happens. It’s flat and easy to build on. If I could open a store anywhere, I’d do it here.” A sweep of his arm indicates the water. “And all of that?”
“Future land.”
“Yep. And here’s the thing—Hardwick doesn’t have to wait for it to be land in order to sell it. The whole thing is marked out in a grid several blocks into the bay. There’s an auction every month—”
“Let me guess. Next Tuesday.”
“That’s right. A sheriff’s auction.”
We had made inquiries about the auctions when we were thinking about buying Becky’s house. “Cash only, paid in full up front.”
“In the morning, right before the auction starts, one of Hardwick’s men passes out maps showing available lots. Prices vary widely month to month, depending on how much cash he thinks people have.”
“How do you know all this?”
“I thought future land might be cheaper than real property, so I went to a couple auctions thinking maybe I’d buy a lot to build my general store. I had my eye on a particular corner at Market Street and Drumm.” He points to a spot on the water, which is, I’m guessing, the future intersection of Market and Drumm.
A man is rowing a small boat out in the bay. Jim waves at him, and the man waves back. Jim beckons him in our direction.
“That’s going to be the heart of the business district someday,” Jim says. “Now, if you were Hardwick, and you didn’t plan to stick around long, what might you do?”
It takes a few seconds for my mind to put the pieces together and find the answer. “Sell the same piece of future property to a bunch of different buyers.”
“Last two months, I watched the corner of Market Street and Drumm get auctioned off twice.”
“Cash in full, up front, both times.”
“You got it.”
I rub my forehead. “So Hardwick is planning to leave. He’s not going to wait around for the courts to settle this.”
“That’s my guess. You want to go visit Hampton?”
The man in the rowboat has pulled up to the edge of the dock. “Whoa. We can do that?” I say.
Jim grins, saying, “Sometimes it’s better to ask forgiveness than permission.” He helps me into the boat, which wobbles precariously as I settle onto the bench. The sailor pulls away from the shore, and I wave merrily to Large and Larger, who stand on the dock with their hands on their hips, watching us go.
Wind whips my hair, and salt spray stings my face and chills my fingers. Fortunately, it’s only a short paddle across choppy water to the sheriff’s floating jail. I assume we’ll climb up and go inside, but the sailor rows us around to the far side of the brig, out of sight of shore. The water is rougher out here, and our little rowboat rocks unsteadily as Jim raps hard on the side of the jail ship. A small round porthole opens just above, and a dirty white face peers down.
Jim calls out, “We’re looking for a fellow by the name of Hampton!” A moment later, Hampton’s face appears in the porthole, and I think, Surely this is the strangest visitor calling I’ve ever done.
I cup my hands to my mouth. “How’re you doing?”
His forced smile doesn’t fool me even a little bit. “The quarters are small and the meals are smaller, but at least nobody’s working me to death.”
“Hang in there,” Jim says. “We’re working on your situation.”
“Does my friend Tom know about this?” Hampton asks. “He could set it to rights.”
I hesitate, and the waves bump our rowboat against the side of the brig. I start to grab the edge of the boat, but think better of it. If we hit the side of the ship again, I could lose those fingers.
Finally I shout, “Tom had to a take a job in one of the law offices.”
“I trust Tom,” Hampton says. “He’ll help, regardless of where he’s working.”
“You need anything?” Jim calls up.
There’s shouting inside, and Hampton glances away from the porthole. “Gotta run,” he says. The porthole slams shut.