Finders Keepers
Prologue
It was the evening of April 7, 1932, almost midnight. The air was still and thick and stifling hot. The black clothing that Joe Wordell wore for his covert work had been drenched in sweat and stuck to his skin with the humidity. But he pushed through, struggling to move each of the remaining heavy bags and lift them into the bed of the truck. He briefly leaned against the side of the dusty vehicle, gasping for air, to mop his face and forehead with an equally drenched hand towel, confiscated from the first-floor guest bathroom of his employer’s home.
Joe looked behind him, back to the dark, locked-up house, while listening for any sound around him that might indicate anyone was aware of his presence and what he was doing. His timing was tight, and he couldn’t afford to hesitate. He’d grabbed the unexpected opportunity that his boss had presented him by casually telling him that he and his family would be away for the weekend to attend a funeral in Nevada. This window of time would be all Joe had to execute his plan. It was sudden and quickly thrown together. This was it.
The big house was at least a mile from the next nearest homestead, so he pushed aside his paranoia that someone could hear the thudding of his heartbeat. Then he pushed himself straight to finish the job. Just two more of the bags to be loaded and he’d be done. He’d get in the truck and drive home to Helen. They’d leave Central Valley at first light and the fruitless promise of a better life that he now knew was never going to happen. They could start over somewhere else—south, maybe LA—thanks to the unexpected benevolence of his employer’s loose lips.
Joe climbed into the cab and carefully closed the door. He turned over the engine and let the sudden rumble of the motor be absorbed into the night. He finally let out his breath as he released the emergency brake. The truck made a starting jolt and began to roll in the reverse, out of the service entrance driveway and down the pavement. He sat for a moment longer to hear if the rattling of the truck body had drawn any attention. He turned the truck toward the path and steered in the direction of the country road. He did not turn on his headlights. He did not speed. He took advantage of the gentle incline of the path that gave the big house the impression of sitting on a low hill lined with identical stately trees. This was not the kind of house that Joe ever had any hope of living in with Helen and raising a family. But he now knew that he had been extraordinarily lucky to have been hired by Leland Sanford to be his groundkeeper, just because he’d saved the beloved family dog from drowning in a rapidly running creek on the property that ran parallel to a public back road. He hadn’t been paid well at all, barely enough to rent a shack in town to live in. But there had been other benefits, and he’d been alert enough to find them. Like now.
It was only as the truck finally hit the public road that Joe sighed deeply and checked off the second hurdle of his night’s work. He shifted in his seat, letting his left arm hang out the driver’s window. The night air offered no relief, but Joe began to feel a rush of freedom such as he’d never known before. Certainly not since leaving home at fifteen, unsure how he would find work to support himself. Not since he met Helen and fell in love and was determined to make a living to take care of both of them, to have a real house of their own. And children. But it was not until he got wind of his boss’s plans to steal a lot of money from the farm association’s coffers, where he was president and treasurer, that Joe found the courage and wherewithal to take some of the money his boss was planning to take for himself. But Joe changed his mind. What the hell. He took it all.
The beauty of his plan, Joe thought with satisfaction, was that his boss would have no idea what had happened to his ill-gained riches or what had happened to his employee. Such were the sometimes benefits of being a Black man treated like he was invisible while his white boss discussed, in his presence, the intricate details of nefarious plans to steal.
Joe felt no guilt for what he’d just done. The country was a mess and it was every man for himself, especially if he was Black. He picked up a little speed in the silent dark of the night, anxious to get home. He’d told Helen not to wait up because he had no idea when he’d be returning…if at all. There was always that possibility. He made a slow turn onto the dirt road that led through the center of his neighborhood of attached wooden houses that were only thirty feet wide and identical in design. There were stray dogs roaming or sleeping on empty, narrow porches. Joe went two blocks to the very end and then turned left to approach the back of the line of houses and into a narrow alley that was only two feet wider than the truck. He stopped in front of a recessed door at the back of one of the houses, with just enough room for him to get the door open and squeeze out. The back door opened, and a slender woman gasped, “Joe,” and propelled herself into his arms.
He held and squeezed Helen briefly, feeling the hard, round bump of her pregnancy pushing into him. He indicated that she was to be quiet and pushed her back toward the house. Then he made sure the bed and cab were secure, removing one small bag to carry into the house with him. It was filled with a scattering of bills in small denominations that he would use to pay their way when he and Helen left before dawn and drove south. He hadn’t told her where they were going. He still had no final destination. And the less she knew the better.
Joe was confident that he’d know when they were to stop, when they’d found someplace where they would be safe and could call home.
The day Joe finished constructing the second of two secret crawl spaces disguised as utility closets, Helen went into labor. They’d only been in the house a few months, Joe working mysteriously at night and not explaining anything to his wife about why he was adding the spaces, like small, deep, but narrow closets, one at each end of the house. She only knew that they now had a house to live in. It had been trashed and abandoned by previous owners, and Joe made a convincing argument to the local municipal government for buying it on the cheap and promising to repair and fix up the eyesore. But they made it difficult. They weren’t giving anything away to some stranger who’d arrived from nowhere. Why should they accommodate an itinerant Black man who’d driven into town one day claiming he was forced out of Central Valley, where he’d worked in farming, by the long never-ending droughts and ruined crops? Fine. Pay $500 and not a penny less. Joe calmly said he could do it if they gave him a month to earn the money.
The deal was set. The die was cast. He waited out the month and returned with $500, all the bills carefully soiled and abused to give the look of use and constant exchange. Joe took his receipt and immediately went to the land office to obtain an official deed of ownership. No matter what happened in the future, the house would always belong to him and Helen. And no matter what changes came about in the neighborhood, he would always have money to pay the property taxes, make improvements, live quietly, and mind his own business, trying to prevent Helen from making too many friends…and sticking to their fabricated history. Staying within the law of the city, quickly forgetting his illegal activity of the past that made this future possible.
There was a Black hospital two miles from their house, but Joe didn’t want his wife to give birth there. He was afraid of having to give their names or any information to the authorities, but there was no question of Helen giving birth at home. She was in pain, screaming for help, and Joe had no idea how to help her except to get her to a doctor. Their daughter, Katherine, was born a few weeks premature. But they brought her home anyway, and Helen devoted herself for a year to doing anything and everything to help her survive. And she did. Joe and Helen doted on her.
“Isn’t she beautiful, Joe?” Helen frequently cooed, as she ran the back of her fingers across the infant’s soft smooth skin, the color of sweet potato custard, ready filling for a pie.
Joe stared down at his daughter, his heart catching at her beauty, her innocence. But secretly he couldn’t control the sense of doom that tempered his joy in Katherine, his happiness with Helen. This was his family now. It was all he had. And then he remembered that he and Helen were rich. She didn’t know that, but Joe checked often on the hidden money, allowing the piles of heavy canvas bags stuffed into two hidden spaces to calm him. Joe Wordell took good care of his family, found a railroad job that justified the money he could spend on Helen and his daughter. He grew complacent and, eventually, convinced that life was going to be very good to them. He’d already considered dozens of possibilities and convinced himself that nothing could go wrong.
Life was perfect.