The restaurant was the Gullah House, the woman who seated me big and dark black. She was brilliant in a flowing dress of tropical colors, and when she spoke over a counter to a waiter their language was musical and filled with strange words. The Gullah dialect is supposed to be a blend of West Indian and Elizabethan English. It was the spoken language of slaves.
I waited at my wooden table for iced tea and worried that no one who worked here could communicate to me where the Gaults lived.
'What else I get for you, honey?' My waitress returned with a glass jar of tea full of ice and lemons.
I pointed to Biddy een de Fiel because I could not say it. The translation promised a grilled chicken breast on Romaine lettuce.
'You want sweet-potato chips or maybe some crab frittas to start?' Her eyes roamed around the restaurant as she talked.
'No, thank you.'
Determined her customer would have more than a diet lunch, she showed me fried low-country shrimp on the back of the menu. 'We also got fresh fried shrimp today. It so good it'll make you tongue slap you brains out.'
I looked at her.
'Well, then I guess I'd better try a small side dish.'
'So you want all two of 'em.'
'Please.'
The service maintained its languid pace, and it was almost one o'clock when I paid my bill. The lady in the bright dress, who I decided was the manager, was outside in the parking lot talking to another dark woman who drove a van. The side of it read Gullah Tours.
'Excuse me,' I said to the manager.
Her eyes were like volcanic glass, suspicious but not unfriendly. 'You want a tour of the island?' she asked.
'Actually, I need directions,'1 said. 'Are you familiar with Live Oaks Plantation?'
'It's not on no tour. Not no more.'
'So I can't get there?' I asked.
The manager turned her face and looked askance at me. 'Some new folks is moved there. They don't take kindly to tours, you hear my meaning?'
'I hear you,' I said. 'But I need to get there. I don't want a tour. I just want directions.'
It occurred to me that the dialect I was speaking wasn't the one the manager — who no doubt owned Gullah Tours — wanted to hear.
'How about if I pay for a tour,' I said, 'and you get your van driver to lead me to Live Oaks?'
That seemed a good plan. I handed over twenty dollars and was on my way. The distance was not far, and soon the van slowed and an arm in a wildly colorful sleeve pointed out the window at acres of pecan trees behind a neat white fence. The gate was open at the end of a long, unpaved drive, and about half a mile back I caught a glimpse of white wood and an old copper roof. There was no sign to indicate the owner's name and not a clue that this was Live Oaks Plantation.
I turned left into the drive and scanned spaces between old pecan trees that had already been harvested. I passed a pond covered with duckweed where a blue heron walked at the water's edge. I did not see anyone, but when I got close to what was a magnificent antebellum house, I found a car and a pickup truck. An old barn with a tin roof was in back next to a silo built of tabby. The day had gotten dark and my jacket felt too thin as I climbed steep porch steps and rang the bell.
I could tell instantly by the expression on the man's face that the gate at the end of the driveway was not supposed to have been left open.
'This is private property,' he flatly stated.
If Temple Gault was his son, I saw no resemblance. This man was wiry with graying hair, and his face was long and weathered. He wore Top-Siders, khaki slacks and a plain gray sweatshirt with a hood.
'I'm looking for Peyton Gault,' I said, meeting his gaze as I gripped my briefcase.
'The gate's suppose to be shut. Didn't you see the No Trespassing signs? I've only got them nailed up every other fence post. What do you want Peyton Gault for?'
'I can only tell Peyton Gault what I want him for,' I said.
He studied me carefully, indecision in his eyes. 'You aren't some kind of reporter, are you?'
'No, sir, I most certainly am not. I'm the chief medical examiner of Virginia,' I handed him my card.. He leaned against the door frame as if he felt sick. 'Good God have mercy,' he muttered. 'Why can't you people leave us be?'
I could not imagine his private punishment for what he had created, for somewhere in his father's heart he still loved his son.
'Mr. Gault,' I said. 'Please let me talk to you.'
He dug his thumb and index fingers into the corners of his eyes to stop from crying. Wrinkles deepened in his tan brow, and a sudden blaze of sunlight through clouds turned stubble to sand.
'I'm not here out of curiosity,' I said. 'I'm not here doing research.
'I'm not here doing research. Please.'
'He's never been right from the day he was born,' Peyton Gault said, wiping his eyes.