Jack went back to the States and to St. Louis for an extended visit in March 1957. Sailor, Sheela, Opari, and I stayed on in Switzerland. Cardinal communicated with us regularly from Washington. We used the house at the “école dans l’ombre” as a base of operations, and traveled throughout Europe exploring our own means of obtaining information. At one point, in West Berlin, we did uncover a rumored address for the Beekeeper. It turned out to be just a rumor, and yet we kept returning to West Berlin when we could, thinking every time we might get lucky. Cardinal always provided one of his “chaperones” to ease our way in and out of countries with tight security. Ray and Nova came for a visit in late November and stayed through the New Year. He said Geaxi, Mowsel, and Zeru-Meq were still living in the vicinity of San Sebastian. He also said that everyone was feeling the same frustration as I. Meanwhile, the clock was ticking and the Remembering loomed in the distance. Opari told me, “Do not worry, my love. I believe you were meant to read this sphere. And you will.”
There is no preparation for bad news, especially the worst kind of bad news. It knocks you over with its suddenness, its sadness, and its finality. On December 12 we received a telephone call from Jack in St. Louis. He told me that Oliver “Biscuit” Bookbinder, the orphan Carolina had saved, named, and raised as her own child, had been killed two days earlier in Las Villas Province in Cuba, somewhere in the Escambray Mountains. He had been fighting with Comandante Juan (“El Mejicano”) Abrahantes and his revolutionary forces against the Cuban dictator Fulgencio Batista. He had also been working undercover for Cardinal and Jack. Jack said his last report contained some unexpected information that may have had something to do with his death. Biscuit had reported that he had seen Blaine Harrington twice, one time in the company of Comandante Abrahantes and another time in the company of Comandante Rolando Cubela. He said Harrington was carrying significant amounts of cash, guns, and ammunition. Biscuit also reported that “Colonel” Harrington, as he was being called, recognized him and asked him about several Latin baseball players. Biscuit reported that the conversation was innocent, but Blaine Harrington also knew that Biscuit worked for Jack. Biscuit said he was “concerned” about what “Colonel” Harrington might do with that knowledge and information. Exactly one day after Biscuit filed his report, he was found dead, shot twice in the back of the head. Jack was convinced it was no coincidence. I asked how long Blaine Harrington had been a colonel and Jack said, “Beats me, Z. The Army claims he doesn’t exist. They’ve erased him from their records.” Jack added that Carolina was deeply saddened and moved by Biscuit’s death. He was worried about her and said a visit from me might help cheer her up.
I didn’t even have to think about it. It was a good idea. I had been gone too long, and we were getting nowhere in our search for the sphere. I probably needed to see St. Louis and Carolina more than she needed to see me. I told Jack I would be there by Christmas if he could make the arrangements. He said that would not be a problem. I assumed Opari would go with me, but she decided she would stay in Europe, saying, “This visit should be yours, my love. At this time it is you Carolina needs to see, not me.” Ray, on the other hand, practically begged to go along, saying, “Damn, Z! I got to admit it, I’m just plain homesick.” Nova agreed with him and on December 14, the three of us left Switzerland for London, where we boarded a TWA Constellation and flew to New York, then changed planes and flew on to St. Louis and Lambert Field, arriving late in the day on December 18. Since the three of us were traveling on our own, the stewardess asked if we had family waiting for us. Ray spoke up. “You bet we do,” he said, “we just don’t call ’em that.” The stewardess stared at Ray for a moment, then laughed, sort of, and we walked off the plane to meet Jack.
Jack was waiting for us in the baggage claim area and he was not alone. He stood next to a man with a full white beard wearing a bright red cap, red pants, and a big red coat with white fur trim around the collar and cuffs. A white belt held the coat together and wrapped around his enormous, inflated belly. “Damn!” Ray exclaimed. It was Santa Claus, only this Santa Claus was black. As we got closer, the man smiled and said, “Ho, ho, ho, Z! Welcome back, man.”
The man was in his mid-sixties and I knew his smile and his smiling brown eyes well. He was my old friend Mitchell Ithaca Coates.
“Hello, Mitch,” I said. “You probably make the best Santa Claus I’ve ever seen.”
“Why, thank you, son. Maybe I’ll let you sit on my knee and tell me if you’ve been good or bad.”
Nova laughed out loud and the rest of us joined in, then we walked out of the terminal, causing a general stir all the way to the parking lot. We got into a long, pale yellow DeSoto sedan, and on the way to Carolina’s house Mitch explained that he was in costume for a Christmas pageant he and Mercy had presented that afternoon for the kids in his neighborhood. He said they’d been doing it for three years, and he was proud to be the only black Santa Claus in St. Louis.
I asked Jack about the DeSoto. It was a beautiful car and looked and smelled brand-new. Jack was driving and he laughed and shook his head. He verified that it was new and told me the car was Carolina’s idea. He said as soon as he told her I was coming back, her mood elevated and she insisted on purchasing a new automobile. When Jack asked her the reason why, she smiled and said Solomon had come to her in a dream and told her, “Zis is good business.” I laughed to myself and remembered Carolina barreling through traffic behind the wheel of her first automobile, the huge, bright yellow Stanley Steamer. I stared out the window at the passing cars — so many more than before. I felt excited and anxious to see Carolina, see the gold flecks dancing in her blue-gray eyes and hear her laugh. I especially wanted to hear her laugh. That was all I wanted. She was now eighty-eight years old, and I couldn’t wait to hear her laugh again.
Jack pulled into the long driveway of Carolina’s house just after the sun had set. Every window in the big house was glowing with burning candles and a string of Christmas lights — blues, reds, greens, and golds — circled the doors and stretched across the roofline, finally fanning out and around the stone archway all the way to the ground. It looked like Fort Christmas.
“My, oh, my,” Ray said.
Jack didn’t wait for me to comment. He brought the DeSoto to a stop under the archway and said, “We sort of went crazy because of Georgie.”
“Georgie?” Nova asked.
“Georgie, that’s what we call her. Caine and Antoinette’s little girl. She’s only four years old and … well … what can I say? We went overboard.”
I never said a word, but I did walk inside with a wide grin on my face. Santa Claus stepped out of the car and simply said, “Merrrrry Christmas!”
We entered through the kitchen door, as always, and were welcomed by Star, Mercy, Antoinette, and Caine. They were in the middle of preparing dinner, and the kitchen smelled like a dozen wonderful things. Star, now in her late fifties, looked radiant. She was dressed in a sweater and slacks and wore little makeup or jewelry — a touch of red lipstick and two small gold loop earrings. Her hair was a mix of strawberry blond and silver. It was cut short and brushed back from her face. Time had been good to Star. When she smiled, she was still the same eighteen-year-old I had escorted out of Africa. Mercy was also in her fifties. Her close-cropped, reddish-brown hair had turned mostly white. Nevertheless, she looked extremely healthy and happy. She was dressed in a sweatshirt and huge, puffed-out brown woolen pants, which were actually part of her costume from the Christmas pageant earlier that afternoon. She had played Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. I gave her a long embrace, and Star as well, then turned to Antoinette, who was making dinner rolls from scratch. Her hands were covered with dough and flour, so I leaned in and kissed her on both cheeks. She was a thirty-one-year-old mother now. Her dark hair hung down past her shoulders, and her dark eyes were shining. She was in the prime of her life. Caine sat at the kitchen table peeling potatoes. At forty years old, he was a tenured college professor at Washington University and looked the part. He’d grown a neatly trimmed beard and wore wire-rimmed glasses.