A woman who looks closer to fifty than the sixty she must be rises from the front pew and walks to the lectern while the Baldwin men vacate it. As Caitlin told me, the daughter of Albert Norris is indeed beautiful. Her face is lined at the corners of her eyes but otherwise smooth as polished wood, and her high cheekbones and forehead give her an aristocratic mien. Wearing a simple black dress, Swan gazes out over the congregation like a dark angel who long ago left the mortal world but has returned to bring comfort to those who remain.
“Accompanying Swan on the piano,” says the younger Reverend Baldwin, “will be James Revels Argento.”
A handsome, light-skinned man of twenty rises and walks to the piano with the unself-conscious manner of a natural painter walking to a canvas.
“James is the grandson of Swan Norris and Jimmy Revels, who was tragically lost to us in 1968.”
This time the response is electric. A symphonic cascade of piano notes cuts through the awestruck buzz that follows, silencing all conversation. Gradually the notes diminish in volume until they settle into a slow, rhythmic undercurrent. Then, out onto that current, like a sleek canoe of rough-hewn timber, sails the voice of Swan Norris.
I was born by the river, in a little tent . . .
Oh, and just like the river I’ve been runnin’ ever since . . .
Sam Cooke’s immortal anthem is one of those songs that few singers are really up to, but the restrained power of Swan’s voice brings chills to the back of my neck. One senses that, like a dammed river, it could break loose at any moment and wash away all before it. Swan doesn’t ruin the song with exhibitionist melismas, the way so many modern singers do, yet her sinuous phrasing easily matches Cooke’s original. When she pauses after the second verse, her grandson’s piano fills the space like an eddy of water. Then she goes on, catching the main current again.
In the third verse her timbre changes, morphing into a more angelic tone, one reminiscent of a boys’ choir. Then I realize that Swan is no longer singing; she’s watching her grandson carry on what she started. As James Revels sings of being denied help from his brother, his voice seems to float above the crowd, into the high spaces of the church. But just as it seems in danger of drifting away, Swan’s rich, earthy alto fills the building from the floorboards to the apex of the ceiling.
It’s been a long, a long time coming,
But I know a change is gonna come.
Oh, yes it will.
When the last resonant echoes of the piano fade into silence, awe fills the church. For the natives of this area, a prodigal has returned—two, in this case—one a daughter, and the other the descendant of a man they believed martyred long ago, and without children. All I can think of is how profoundly moved Caitlin would have been to know that Jimmy Revels left a child in the world, and by Swan Norris. Then a piercing question comes to me: Did Henry ever know?
As Swan returns to her seat, the elder Reverend Baldwin rises once more, presumably to dismiss the mourners. But when he reaches the podium, he looks out and says, “Brothers and sisters, our final guest today was asked to speak by Henry’s mother. Almost all of you know him, and I ask that you remain seated and give him the courtesy of silence.”
In the front pew, John Kaiser gets to his feet. Several FBI agents do the same. When the door behind the altar opens, I half expect a black celebrity to walk to the podium, but to my surprise the man who appears is white—with white hair, a clean-shaven face, and piercing eyes.
“My God,” whispers my mother, clutching my arm so hard it hurts.
“Brothers and sisters,” says Reverend Baldwin, “Dr. Thomas Cage.”
I start to get to my feet, but a strong pair of hands presses me back down. When I turn, I find Walt Garrity’s face only inches from my own, his eyes filled with empathy.
“Just sit tight,” he says softly. “Hear him out. Then decide what you want to do.”
CHAPTER 87
AS MY FATHER walks to the lectern, obviously bent with pain, Walt keeps one hand on my shoulder. The whispers in the church rise like a wind before a storm, but Dad looks unfazed. My mother is blinking in openmouthed shock, but Annie is smiling broadly, Caitlin’s cell phone still held tight in her hand.
“What the hell is he doing, Walt?” I whisper.
“You’ll see. Just wait.”
I quickly scan the pews behind me. “A hundred people are using their cell phones. Forrest Knox will have men here in ten minutes, and we’ll have a war on our hands.”
“No, he won’t. Check your phone.”
I slip my mobile from my inside coat pocket. The LCD reads NO SERVICE.
“Jammed,” Walt says with satisfaction. “Courtesy of the FBI. Your father’s turning himself in, Penn. But he’s doing it in his own way.”
“To who? Kaiser?”
“That’s right.”
“Jesus. Does the FBI know you’re here?”
“Officially? No. In reality, yes.”
A flood of confused emotions is surging through me. Dad stands silently at the lectern, a gray pinstripe suit with high, wide lapels hanging off his frame. He looks as though he barely has the strength to hold himself upright.
“I don’t believe this.”
“Penn—”
“What the hell is he wearing?”
“A suit that belonged to Pithy Nolan’s husband,” Walt hisses. “It was made in 1940.”
Pithy Nolan, I think, stunned by my stupidity. Of course! Where else would they be hiding?
“He’s lost his mind, Walt. This is insane.”
“Just listen, for God’s sake.”
Dad looks down at the lectern, but he has no notes. He seems to be considering what he wants to say. When at last he begins speaking, his usually strong voice sounds weak, but his words are clearly audible.
“I know some of you are surprised to see me here,” he says. “I haven’t come to disturb this service. I’ve come to pay my respects to Henry, and to the cause for which he worked so hard.”