Reparations

by Stephen Kimber

  J. J. the Younger had tried to get his mother into detox but Jaina wasn’t interested, and the drug rehabilitation centre wasn’t interested in someone who wasn’t interested in getting help, so J. J. threw himself into helping others who might be more open to it. He volunteered as a drug counsellor at his church. And, of course, generously donated City funds to a variety of drug education and prevention programs.

  “J. J. turned out okay,” Uhuru answered, and meant it. He’d come around, slowly and almost reluctantly to be sure, to the belief that J. J. was telling the truth about why he’d taken the money and what he’d done with it. But would the judge let him use that in his defence? Perhaps he should call J. J.’s parents as witnesses. That would, at the very least, gain his client some sympathy.

  Uhuru remembered J. J.’s parents, but not well. He had known his client’s grandparents better. Jeremiah Joseph Howe—J. J. the Eldest?—never held a steady job in his life, but his wife, Bea, kept the family going by working as a maid for a rich south-end family. Jaina, whose name meant “Jehovah has been gracious,” was the daughter of one of Africville’s most religious families. Her father, Caleb, was a janitor who had been fired by the School Board for proselytizing students in his white elementary school.

  Both sets of grandparents were dead now, so they wouldn’t be able to testify about the impact relocation had on their children, and on all the little J. J.s and Jainas yet to be born.

  “If you’re going to try to bring up the reparations angle,” Calvin said, “you really should talk to our lawyer. We did some research on that ourselves.”

  “I tried. I called Davis, but he never returns my calls.”

  “Oh, we dropped him,” Calvin answered. “I think his firm only took it on in the first place as penance for what that Eagleson character did to your father. Besides, we decided the optics were just wrong, having a white law firm speaking for a black community.”

  “So who’s doing it now?” Uhuru made a quick mental checklist of the few black lawyers he knew in private practice and wondered why no one had contacted him.

  “Oh, a real pistol, a woman who teaches at the law school. You probably know her. Shondelle Adams is her name.”

  Wonderful, Uhuru thought. The snotty bitch from that night at the Shoe Shop.

  “She’s something else, that one. And doing it all pro bono. Already got the City’s lawyers racing around like a bunch of chickens with their heads cut off. The Mayor told me just this morning they’re working on a new offer right now. Look, Ray, she’s real interested in this reparations stuff. I’m sure she’d be willing to help with J. J.’s case.”

  “W-e-l-l,” Uhuru stalled for time again. “maybe I’ll give her a call.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to do that,” Calvin said brightly. “She’s here. For the reunion. Invited her myself. I was going to introduce her around. It seems like she already knows half the old folks from out home. She’s been interviewing them all for our case. I can introduce you if you want—”

  “No, no, that’s fine,” Uhuru said quickly. “We met already. Maybe I’ll run into her over the weekend.”

  “Whatever you say, Ray.” He stopped. “Oh my. I am sorry. I keep forgetting you changed your name. What is it now? I’ve seen it in the papers but I know I’ll mispronounce it if I try. How do you say it?”

  “Uhuru. Oo-who-ru.”

  “Ray’s easier.” He laughed. “Just kidding, Ray—I mean Uhuru. Some habits are hard to break . . . Well, must go see if I can track down the old ball-and-chain. We’re expecting a few grandkids this afternoon. You got any kids?”

  “No, not me,” Uhuru answered quickly. Too quickly. He looked carefully at Calvin. Nothing. “Uh, Calvin . . . just wondering. What’s your sister up to?”

  “Rosa?” Calvin let out a sigh. “Sad, really. I don’t know where she is or if she’s even still alive. She took off, after, you know, after that thing with her son. And she never told a soul where she was going. Dad wouldn’t even let us speak her name around him. My brother Gerry and I, we tried to track her down a bunch of different times over the years but it was like she’d just vanished. After Dad died, we tried again to find her to let her know, you know, but there wasn’t anything to go on and we finally gave up.” He paused, lost in some private thought. “Well, look Ray—sorry, Uhuru, it’s great to see you again. I’m glad you finally made it to another reunion. And don’t forget what I said about Shondelle. She’d be a real help on your case, I’m sure of it.”

  “Thanks, Calvin. Good to see you, too.” Uhuru stood in the middle of the field for a moment, giving Calvin the chance to trundle off in the direction of the barbecue, before making his way to the Africville Memorial, a grey granite sundial with the names of Africville’s families etched into the sides of its north-pointing dial. For some reason he couldn’t explain, seeing his own family’s names—Carter and Jones, his mother’s maiden name—still gave him chills.

  He tried to get his bearings. Where in Africville was he now? Although everyone expected the City to establish some sort of industrial park on the site, nothing ever came of those early schemes. Years after reducing the houses to rubble, somebody got the bright idea to turn the ugly wasteland into a civic green space. They called it Seaview Park, theoretically in honour of the Seaview African United Baptist Church but mostly because they didn’t want to name it Africville Park. The City put out a few picnic tables, kept the grass mowed and otherwise ignored its existence until the Africville Descendants’ Association began holding reunions there in the eighties.

  These days, thanks in large part to the efforts of ADA, white liberal politicians were falling all over themselves just to get invited to the reunion. The night before, it had been Sheila Copps, the federal Heritage minister, breezing into town to anoint Seaview Park a National Historic Site and declare that she shared their pain—and hopes for a better future. “What we’re doing today is the beginning of a process I hope will place the name Africville on the lips of every Canadian,” she said. “If we can teach our children to avoid making the same mistakes, we can use this symbol as a way of changing Canada.”

  Uhuru had sat at home watching the speech on TV. “Way to go, Sheila, baby,” he’d shouted at the screen. Sheila wasn’t here this morning. Must be the Mayor’s turn in the black spotlight, he thought.

  Uhuru wandered back toward the parking lot, which had been transformed for the weekend into a country fairground. Dozens of youngsters careened down a huge, portable, plastic waterslide some adults had erected early in the morning. They screamed with joy and trepidation as their fathers or older brothers ambushed them with blasts of cold water from a garden hose just as they reached the bottom. Other teenage boys gathered around the dunk tank, taking turns drilling softballs as hard as they could at the tank’s trigger mechanism and then cheering loudly whenever the platform dropped and another adult plummeted into the water. Directly across from the dunk tank, in a cavernous white canvas tent that would serve as the dance hall for the adults that night, a gaggle of teenage girls did their best Destiny’s Child in a karaoke competition. Their mothers sat on blankets out on the grass behind the tent, loudly renewed old acquaintances and simultaneously supervised their husbands, most of whom were struggling manfully to light uncooperative charcoal briquettes for the hot dogs that would be lunch.

  Uhuru rarely missed having had a family of his own, probably because he’d been born so long after his brothers and was raised like an only child. But this morning, watching children with their parents, husbands with their wives, he couldn’t help but think again about . . . Uhuru missed her still. If only—

  “Hey, mister!” a laughing teenage boy called to him from beside the dunk tank. “Want to take a turn?”

  Uhuru was tempted. A quick plunge into icy water would be a refreshing escape from the stifling noontime heat. But his summer suit was still at the cleaners, so he’d need this one for wo
rk Monday morning.

  “No. Can’t,” Uhuru said, indicating his suit. “Another time.”

  The kid shrugged. “Okay, Ms. Adams. I guess it’s your turn then.”

  Unlike Uhuru, Shondelle Adams had come prepared. She was wearing a colourful sarong skirt over a blue, one-piece bathing suit. At the bottom of the ladder leading up to the dunk tank’s drop-down chair, she loosened the skirt at the waist and let it fall away, then picked it up and handed it to the teenage boy to hold. He looked as if he could use a cold shower himself. Uhuru felt the way the boy looked. This was not the woman Uhuru remembered from the Shoe Shop, that woman of indeterminate size and shape whose features had been hidden under the folds of a shapeless tent dress. Now she was all curves and angles, which the bathing suit did nothing to hide and everything to accentuate. She wasn’t wearing a turban today, either. Her Halle Berry hair was dyed a dark blond, giving her an almost regal look. A Caribbean queen, Uhuru thought.

  “Step right up, gents,” the middle-aged emcee shouted into the microphone as Shondelle Adams gingerly took her seat on the platform above the water tank. She smiled and waved to someone in the crowd. “So, gentlemen, do you have the balls try your luck at dunking the beautiful lady professor?” the emcee demanded. “You gotta have balls . . . Three balls for a dollar, ten for three dollars!” Everyone laughed. “Let’s show this fine lady a little Africville hospitality.” He recoiled theatrically then, as if he’d just thought of something. “Promise me you won’t sue!” More laughter.

  Uhuru raised his hand. “Give me a dollar’s worth.”

  “Oh, my, my,” the emcee said, looking at him in mock horror. “The lawyer versus the law professor.” He winked. “Must be some scores to settle here. Hey, Mr. Boo-Who-Roo—did I get the pronunciation right?” He turned back to the crowd. “I knew him way back when he was just plain old Ray.” Ray tried to place the face, couldn’t. “Now you need a law degree just to pronounce his name. Anyway; Mr. Who-You-Are-Today, you sure you don’t want ten balls? Just to give yourself a fighting chance? You’re not as young as you used to be, you know.”

  “Three’ll be more than enough,” he shouted back, loosening his tie and taking off his jacket. He was getting in the mood now. “I’ll dunk her in one, then do you for fun,” he said in his best Muhammad Ali.

  The crowd cheered. Shondelle laughed too.

  But he didn’t dunk her with one throw. The ball sailed over the target and into the netting behind.

  “Been a long time since Little League,” the emcee taunted. “Still not too late for the ten, Ray. We’ll give you a cut rate. Just three-fifty for the other seven.”

  Uhuru ignored him. Concentrated on the target instead. He didn’t want to miss this time. He stole a quick glance over at Shondelle Adams. She looked nervous. Good, he thought. He wound up and delivered a pitch that caught the target dead centre. The chair dropped away. Shondelle’s shrill, giddy scream was swallowed by the splash and the cheers from the onlookers. Uhuru raised his fist in salute. It had been a long time since he’d done that.

  Shondelle came sputtering to the surface. She was laughing and coughing at the same time. Uhuru watched her climb the ladder at the edge of the tank, the dripping wetness making the fabric cling even more deliciously to her curves. He felt a faint—and more than faintly pleasing—stirring. The teenage boy who’d been holding Shondelle’s sarong almost reluctantly handed it back to her.

  Uhuru waited for her to emerge from behind the tank. “Sorry.” He smiled. “I couldn’t help myself.”

  “Oh, that’s okay. It felt good to cool off. I wish I could return the favour.”

  “Me too,” he said. And almost meant it.

  “I’m surprised,” she said. “Are you really from Africville? I figured you for a come-from-away. Like me. Especially with a name like that.”

  “I was born and bred on this hallowed ground,” he answered, though he still wasn’t exactly sure just where on this hallowed ground he was standing. Ironic, he thought. Changing his name was supposed to bring him closer to his African roots. Instead, it had separated him from the only roots he had.

  “So how’s your case coming?” she asked.

  “I should ask you the same thing. I’m hearing rumours you’re close to a settlement with the City.”

  “Not that close. But I’ve got some research you might want to ask me about sometime.”

  “I might.” Sometime? Was she just suggesting an exchange of information? Or something more? A date?

  “Well, Lordy, Lordy, just look who it isn’t. How come you been such a stranger all these years? Something I did?”

  Aunt Annie! Uhuru instantly felt guilty. The last time he’d seen her was at his father’s funeral. He’d promised to visit but never had. Now she was in a wheelchair being pushed by a young man. But her voice was still strong.

  “Your lady friend here has been to see me plenty of times, haven’t you, sweet thing?” Annie seemed more amused than annoyed.

  Shondelle leaned over and gave her a peck on the cheek. “How you been, Aunt Annie?” Aunt Annie?

  “I could complain, I suppose, but no one listens. ’Sides, if I’m not complaining, I’m probably dead.”

  “You’re looking good,” Uhuru said, mostly to be part of the conversation. But it was also true. She was.

  “You remember my nephew, Charles,” Aunt Annie said to him, nodding her head at the young man pushing her wheelchair. Uhuru didn’t. Annie saw. “Oh Lord, how you supposed to know Charles? He be born in Toronto. Only come down home for reunions to wheel his old aunt around. And you”—she looked accusingly at Uhuru—“I ain’t seen you at a reunion since your daddy died.”

  “I’m sorry, Aunt Annie.” Annie was good at guilt. “I’ll get over to see you. I will, promise.”

  But Aunt Annie had already moved on. “Speaking of your daddy reminds me . . .” She turned back to Shondelle. “Remember, Shondelle, honey, ’member when you came to ask me what it was like when the City came and took our land?” Shondelle nodded. I said there was something I wasn’t ’membering, but I couldn’t think what it was. Well, now I did.” She looked again at Ray. “I got your father’s diary. When he went into the nursing home, he asked me to keep it for him.” She looked at Ray, rebuke in her tone. “Said he didn’t guess you’d be much interested.” Would he have been? “So I kept it. Must be in the back of my closet at the home. I only just remembered when I seed Ray here. Ray, honey, you don’t mind I give the book to Shondelle? She’s working on a project.”

  “Uhu—Ray’s working on a very similar project,” Shondelle said quickly. “Maybe we could both look at it together.” She looked at Uhuru.

  “Sure.”

  “That’s settled then,” Annie cut in. “I’ll dig it out wherever it got to. So why don’t you two come over next week and I’ll make you some tea and show you what I got?” She looked at Ray. “I don’t keep licorice around these days . . .” Smiled. “But if I thought you was gonna come visit more . . .”

  “How about I bring the licorice?” Uhuru replied, laughing. He paused long enough to change the subject. “Hey, Aunt Annie, you happen to know whatever happened to Rosa, the Deacon’s daughter? Kind of thought she might be here this weekend.”

  Annie shook her head. “Nobody seen or heard of that girl in seems like forever. Wasn’t even at her own daddy’s funeral. You wasn’t there either, but that’s different. She’s blood. Not that they got along. Ever since, you know, since the baby.” She looked Ray in the eye then. “Sad it was, yes, very sad.”

  “Excuse me, excuse me everybody.” A scratchy, disembodied voice booming out of the sound system silenced their conversation. “Okay, people, why don’t you all join us here in the tent.” Uhuru recognized Calvin Johnstone’s voice. “Now that the Mayor and the TV cameras are gone, we’re going to have our own Africville Descendants’ Association welcoming ceremony. So
come join me in the big white tent up by the dunk tank and the waterslide. We’ll start in two minutes.” As he took the microphone away from in front of his mouth, the shrill whistle of feedback and the crackle of microphone brushing clothing filled the air.

  “So you see, Mrs. Justice, if you take this piece of the puzzle here and then combine it with this piece from over here, well, you could say it’s all just a coincidence, it doesn’t mean anything at all. But this”—David Astor’s voice rose then, triumphant, as he scooped a sepia-tinted photograph from the tabletop and held it out at arm’s length—“this changes things, makes all those other pieces seem less coincidental, if you see my point.”

  Victoria Justice saw his point.

  The man stopped himself, suddenly aware that his own glorious moment of archivist’s pride might not seem quite so glorious to the person on the other side of the table hearing the fruits of his deductive detective work for the first time. “Not that this is the definitive word, of course,” he added, almost apologetically. “It could all still be coincidence. It might mean nothing. But then again . . .”

  David Astor smiled. He couldn’t help himself. He was giddy with the sweet satisfaction of discovery. After years of sifting through the detritus of lives lived—microfilmed birth, marriage, divorce and death records, property transactions, account books, letters, diaries, brittle newspaper clippings, even random notes and drawings—he had finally found something . . . surprising, startling, stunning, important. Ah, yes, important. This discovery would matter to more than just the great-great-great-nephew. His discovery involved a public figure. It would be news in Nova Scotia, especially now with the Judge involved in that big trial.

  David Astor wasn’t sure what he would have done if she hadn’t showed up this time. She’d agreed to come see him twice before. Once, she’d called to cancel an hour before, but the second time he’d had to call her. She was terribly sorry, she’d forgotten. Forgotten! She was the one who’d come to him, looking. And he’d found what she was looking for.