I had to agree. And so I did. I didn’t know why I’d asked them to come. But somehow things had worked out for me. The same could not be said for Sister Irenaeus. Neither could it be said for the unfortunate young man in the freezer who may or may not have been me.
The sun burst through the dingy steel gray sky and made everything bright. For whatever reason the power line appeared to discharge and then after a few last pops lay there quietly, unmoving. The Chief and I stepped forward toward the bodies. Except for the twisted metal and carnage on the road, the sun had made it a beautiful day. It was pretty clear once we were close that both Sister Irenaeus and Scrunchy were quite dead. All four eyes were wide open and staring into what I believed the sisters would have called the afterlife — into what my mother would have called nothing.
The Chief pointed to the satchel. It had been tossed clear of the truck and was lying in the tall brown grass at the side of the highway. “There it is. Take it. It’s your money.”
“It’s not evidence?” I said.
He gave me a get-real look.
I picked up the bag. “I’ll give this to the sisters.” I walked back over to Everett and Ted.
Everett handed me the money he’d collected in the woods. “What do I need with money? I’ll just gamble it away.”
“You have a gambling problem?” I asked.
“Not yet.” He looked at my face. “What now?”
“Why don’t you just fly to Los Angeles?” Ted said.
CHAPTER 7
I flew to LAX. Podgy told me he’d arranged a car for me. For a while at least I would live the way my money allowed. I called it a kind of vacation after Alabama. At the bottom of the escalator at baggage claim I saw several black-suited drivers holding signs with names. There was one with a placard that read Sidney Poitier. I stood in front of him.
He said with a British accent, “Are you not Sidney Poitier?”
“I am,” I said.
“I’m Gilbert. Do you have any luggage, Mr. Poitier?”
“This is it, Gilbert,” I said.
He took my small bag from me, and I followed him out and across the lanes of traffic to the dusty parking garage.
I sat in the back of the black sedan as he paid the Somali attendant and might have flirted with her, I couldn’t tell. I looked out at Los Angeles as he curved around onto Sepulveda. He took me on a slow drive to the Beverly Hills Hotel. Stale glitz and money conspired to make me feel comfortable. Everyone there knew me — the men outside the door, the men inside the door. Mr. Poitier this and Mr. Poitier that, welcome back, long time no see. The driver left me at the desk, told me that he would be back to collect me at fifteen past seven. I did not tip him, and this seemed to make him happy. I turned to face the desk clerk.
“Mr. Poitier, so good to see you,” the young woman said.
“It’s good to see you, too.”
She was pleased that I had perhaps remembered her.
“May I say that you’re looking younger?”
“You may,” I said. “And thank you.”
I accepted my key, with a graze of her soft hand, and was led up to my suite by a quiet little man. I showered for a long time, put on a robe, and ordered a sandwich from room service. I then sat on the sofa and watched a man who looked for the world like me in a movie called For the Love of Ivy.
At six thirty, a valet delivered black dress pants, a white shirt, and a dinner jacket to my room. At seven, I was dressed. I walked through the lobby, and a young woman came up to me and asked for my autograph. She said, “I just love you, Mr. Poitier.” I didn’t know why. I asked her name. She said it was Evelyn.
I wrote: For Evelyn, All the best, Not Sidney Poitier.
She was puzzled as she read. “You’re not Sidney Poitier?”
“I am.”
Gilbert was entering the lobby as I approached the door. He seemed upset that I was there before him.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Poitier.”
“That’s okay, Gilbert.”
“We’ll be there in no time.”
“Very well, Gilbert.”
“Good to be back?” Gilbert asked.
“I suppose.”
“Big night,” the driver said.
“If you say so, Gilbert.” I noticed that he was taking me toward the middle of the city, toward my old neighborhood of West Adams. “Gilbert, could you turn here please?”
“Certainly, sir.”
“And a left here,” I said. I was feeling my way through a place that had changed and that I didn’t remember all that well.
“Yes, sir. This is a rather, shall I say, rough neighborhood.”
“It’s okay, Gilbert.”
“May I ask what we’re looking for, sir?”
“We’re looking for my home,” I said.
Gilbert said nothing.
We were a source of interest to the people on the street. My window was down, and everyone could see my face. Some women seemed to recognize me. They didn’t wave, they pointed.
We wended through the streets.
And there was the house I’d lived in with my mother. Other children played in the yard now. A fat man rocked on the porch. It was less profound for me than I had imagined. I wanted to hear my mother’s voice, but it never came. I stared at the same front door through which I had passed so many times. I could smell my mother’s cookies, cookies that were always just okay, she would say, and she was correct. I could see the flow of her open housecoat as she crossed the yard. But I couldn’t hear her voice.
“Drive on, Gilbert,” I said.
Gilbert did, and he took me to the Shrine Auditorium. Hundreds of people cheered and applauded as I stepped out onto the red carpet. Cameras flashed and flashed and flashed. People called my name. A woman with dyed blond hair, too skinny for her own good, and who looked just like the woman walking several yards behind her, came to me and said, “This way.”
I followed her to a room with champagne and caviar and well-dressed people who welcomed me with raised glasses. I drank wine and ate cheese. I was hugged by Elizabeth Taylor and kissed on the cheek by Harry Belafonte.
“I love your dress,” I said to Liz.
She twirled. “Thank you, Sidney.”
Harry handed me a glass of champagne. “Big night,” he said.
“The world is my oyster,” I said.
And then I didn’t understand a word that was said to me. But of course I was there. Was I Not Sidney Poitier or was I not Sidney Poitier? The emaciated blond or one like her came, took me by the arm, and showed me to my seat in the second row, near the left aisle.
After award after award in categories I didn’t know and didn’t care to know, I found myself squirming in my seat. The emcee made a joke about Jack Nicholson and everyone laughed, mouths open, heads tossed back. He then became solemn, almost sedate. He looked at me. “And now,” he said, “to present the next, special award, Harry Belafonte and Elizabeth Taylor.”
“A tribute tonight to an icon of American character,” said Liz Taylor.
“To a man that sets the standard,” said Harry. “This special award for Most Dignified Figure in American Culture.”
“Goes to none other than Sidney Poitier,” Liz said.
Applause erupted. I was pushed to standing by the people beside and behind me. I walked down the aisle and then up the stairs to the podium. I was handed an award — a statue of a standing man, gold in color, his arms bent and his hands disappearing in front of him.
I faced the microphone. “Thank you,” I said. “I came back to this place to find something, to connect with something lost, to reunite if not with my whole self, then with a piece of it. What I’ve discovered is that this thing is not here. In fact, it is nowhere. I have learned that my name is not my name. It seems you all know me and nothing could be further from the truth and yet you know me better than I know myself, perhaps better than I can know myself. My mother is buried not far from this auditorium, and there are no words on her headstone. As I glance out now, as I feel the weight of this trophy in my hands, as I stand like a specimen before these strangely unstrange faces, I know finally what should be written on that stone. It should say what mine will say: