It took hotel security and the Chicago police five hours to find me. Where was I? Where did I spend those hours alone in a big city a week before Christmas, a month after my mother died?
Lincoln Park Zoo.
Grandma was livid. I had never seen her that mad, never seen anyone that mad in my life. She made it clear she didn’t mind missing her event. She hated worrying about me.
I got an earful right in front of the cops.
“So, now you’re a man and can walk off and not tell your grandmother where you’re going? Don’t you care about my feelings?” She didn’t wait for me to answer. Not that I had anything to say in my defense. “Well, if that’s the kind of boy you are, then that’s the kind of man you’ll grow up to be.” She inhaled. “From now on, you call me Maggie.”
I didn’t protest. From then on, she was Maggie, which shouldn’t have changed what we meant to each other. But, somehow, it did.
* * *
“She doesn’t want to see you, Sawyer.”
“I thought it was okay, Lula. Your email said—”
“I can tell what kind of man you are. Impatient. In a hurry, and you don’t read carefully, do you?”
“Ouch.” I wince a smile. “That smarted.”
“I don’t mean to be rude. I just know what I wrote.”
I remove my phone from my pocket and scroll through my emails, not a time-consuming task. I don’t receive that many.
“Look.” I show Lula her email.
“It says—mightsee you.” She taps my phone for emphasis. “Stop by when you can, but no promises.” Her nail polish is red, and her fingers are long, tapered, and elegant. “That’s what I wrote.”
Could be I believe what I want to believe rather than what’s actually there. “Miss Honoree is mad because I had to be in Paris and had a plane to catch and a job to do—but I’m back and here now.”
“It doesn’t work like that, Sawyer. Her world is smaller than yours or mine. Things we think are reasonable aren’t that way for her.”
We are at the reception desk on the fifth floor of the senior-care facility. I stop talking, distracted by the general absence of color everywhere. The walls are pale, the furniture gray, the drapes a lighter shade of gray, and the metal carts a dull chrome in need of a polish. The only splashes of color are the uniforms worn by the staff: green, red, purple, and Lula’s pretty blue scrubs against her dark brown skin.
“Did you hear me, Sawyer?”
“I do. I did. Sorry. I know what you mean.” I know what I need. “Come on. She can’t be that mad at me.”
Lula holds a clipboard to her chest. “Yes, she can be that mad.”
Hands shoved into my pockets, I wish I could come up with something to change their minds. Not that I need their permission. The threat of Maggie, although exaggerated, is alive and well. I don’t want to play that card again—
“Oscar Micheaux had an office in Chicago in the 1920s, run by his brother Swan.”
“What does that have to do with Miss Honoree?” Lula steps away from the counter with an irritating little stomp. “She admitted knowing Micheaux the day you left. What more do you need from her?”
“She never looked at the photos.” I raise my hand in a friendly gesture. I don’t want her to leave. “Micheaux made countless films. Many of them, the early ones, are gone, lost forever. But I think I found a lost Micheaux in my grandmother’s attic.” I pick my words. I don’t want to jinx it. “I’ll know for sure in a few days. The restoration company in LA has the reel now. If things pan out and the film is a lost Micheaux, it’s a big deal, and Miss Honoree, this nursing home, you, and everyone, could be part of it.”
“Part of what?”
“The documentary film I’m making on Micheaux.”
“Isn’t she already part of it?”
“Because of the photos, she is. And if she’s also in the film—that puts a spotlight on her story, too. Perhaps, even more of a light than on Micheaux’s. For sure, I’ll record our conversations, taping an oral history.”
Lula raises an eyebrow, which I take as a good sign and continue.
