“I said I don’t need your help.”
“Fine. No problem.” I back away, not wanting to agitate her further. “How about if we examine the pictures. You’re in them.” I remove a handful of the photographs from my backpack. “May I show you?”
Honoree squints. “No, you may not. Why would I talk to you about my life? I don’t know you, and even if I did, I don’t tell my story to just any long-haired boy—who probably smokes reefer cigarettes and tells lies. You wanna hear about me? You gotta tell me something about you to make this worth my while.”
“I don’t lie, or smoke weed—not in Illinois—weed is illegal in this state.” I’m holding the photos she won’t look at, wondering how I can focus on changing her mind with Azizi’s ghost staring at me. “Miss Honoree, please, just one photo.” Yes, I’m begging, but if it works . . .
“In this photo, you are with Oscar Micheaux, the legendary Black filmmaker, and in another”—I pull from the stack—“you’re with Louis Armstrong, the world’s greatest trumpet player, and in this one—” I break my word and show her another and then another. “Here you’re with Lil Hardin Armstrong and the blues singer Alberta Hunter.”
Honoree rocks back against the pillows, eyeing me with a piercing glare.
“What happened in 1925 and why it happened is my business.”
Something behind me moves, and I turn. Lula is standing in the archway. Has she come to check on Honoree or me?
“Would you like Sawyer to leave, Miss Honoree?” Lula says, walking by me without a glance. “He can come back another time—or not.”
Honoree smiles. “Don’t you worry about him, honey. I can handle eager young men with little boy minds in my sleep.”
Lula adjusts Honoree’s pillows. “Are you thirsty?”
“I could use a swallow.”
Lula holds a glass of water with a straw, and Honoree takes a sip, but her gaze is locked on me. “I already told him if he wants to hear my story, he’ll have to tell me his first, and not some silly made-up shit. Make it worth my while.”
I stretch my neck to the side. The way this woman throws jabs and blocks punches, I think she used to be a prizefighter, not a chorus girl. “What would you like to find out about me?”
“Tell me about your mama and daddy. Do you have any brothers or sisters? How about your grandmother’s husband, Mr. Hendrickson? Tell me about him. Tell me everything. That’s the only way you’ll hear my story.”
Damn. Quid pro quo? She’s serious. I shove the photos into my backpack. “My dad is a historian who works in Paris, and my mother died when I was twelve.”
“Mighty young to lose your mama.” Honoree makes atsk-tsksound like my grandmother Maggie makes when she disapproves of something. In this instance, that makes no sense, since we’re talking about my dead mother.
“You got anything else to tell me?”
“Sorry,” I say. “I’m better at telling other people’s stories than I am at telling my own. It’s why I make films.”
Honoree lifts her shoulder into a lazy shrug. “You came all this way for my stories but don’t have any stories to tell me. I shoulda guessed when I saw you in the doorway—too afraid to walk inside.”
I cock my head. “Should have guessed what?”
“You’re a coward, Sawyer Hayes. Too much of a coward to tell me your story.”
“I’m not a coward.” I clench my jaw.
Honoree eases the back of her head into the pillows. “Cowardice runs in your family.”
“You don’t even know my family.”
“You’re the one who said I knew Maggie White. She’s your family.”
I bite my tongue because I don’t want to argue with a bedridden centenarian. Why am I letting her bother me?
“I’m sorry I’ve upset you. I’m sure you don’t mean to call anyone a coward. I’ll come back later this afternoon. I have a few more hours before I am due at the airport.”
Another nasty cough erupts from Honoree, and she closes her eyes. “I am tired and need to rest. I’ll feel like talking tomorrow, I swear. So come back tomorrow.”
“What?” I don’t disguise my surprise, and my temper escalates, but Lula intervenes.
