Sycamore Row - John Grisham

was napping, Lettie gently shook his arm and said, “Boaz, do you remember any of
Sylvester’s kids?”
“Push me over there, in the sun,” he said, pointing to a spot on the deck that wasn’t
shaded. They rolled him over and rearranged their lawn chairs. He sat as straight as
possible, looked up at the sun, and closed his eyes. They waited. Finally, he said, “Don’t
know ’bout that. Benson.”
“Who was Benson?”
“The man who beat us.”
“Do you remember a little girl named Lois? Lois Rinds?”
He jerked his head toward Lettie and said, quickly and clearly, “I do. Now I remember
her. She was Sylvester’s little girl, and they owned the land. Lois. Little Lois. It won’t
common, you know, for colored folk to own land, but I remember now. At first it was
good, then they had a fight.”
Lettie said, “I think Lois was my mother.”
“You don’t know?”
“No, I don’t. She died when I was three and somebody else adopted me. But I’m a
Rinds.”
“Me too. Always have been,” he said, and they laughed. Then he looked sad and said,
“Not much of a family now. Ever’body’s so scattered.”
“What happened to Sylvester?” Lettie asked.
He grimaced and shifted weight as if in great pain. He breathed heavily for a few
minutes and seemed to forget the question. He looked at the two women as if he’d never
seen them before, and wiped his nose on a sleeve. Then he returned to the moment and
said, “We left. Don’t know. Heard later that somethin’ bad happened.”
“Any idea what?” Portia’s pen was not moving.
“They killed him.”
“Who killed him?”
“White men.”
“Why did they kill him?”
Another drifting away as if the question had not been heard. Then, “Don’t know. We
were gone. I remember Lois now. A sweet little girl. Benson was the man who beat us.”
Portia was wondering if they could believe anything at this point. His eyes were
closed and his ears were twitching as if gripped by a seizure. He repeated, “Benson,
Benson.”
“And Benson married your mother?” Lettie asked gently.
“All we heard was some white men got him.”