Finding My Thunder (35 page)

"Where's Lonnie?" Naomi asked.

But
Renata
doesn't
know. He stepped out. The baby….his feet so little.
Renata
said they had to save him…from Lonnie.

And Naomi got the mother up and into the
shower upstairs. It took a long time to get her in there. And while that one
stood listless under the water Naomi hurried back down, down to the cellar, and
that one there…and she put him on the towel and wrapped him up. She held him
for a moment. The door to the furnace was open and she moved toward that. Then
she reached and pushed the heavy metal door closed.

And she carried this one up…to the garden…where
Eugene put the Cannas. She got the shovel, dug a hole, and laid that child in
there. She filled it in, she tamped it down, then she returned to the house.
And the woman rolled into a ball, sitting lifeless under the cold water,
rocking on the balls of her feet and singing, "When the Roll is Called Up
Yonder."

Naomi helped her out of the water. She
helped her into her clothes and tucked her into her bed and covered her to her
chin.

"When Mister Lonnie comes home,"
Naomi said to my mama, "we do not speak of this. We tell him I took you to
Corning and you miscarried. We tell him you must stay in bed and recover. Do
you hear me
Renata
?"

Renata
looked at Naomi and nodded, but she did not
speak.

"You do not tell of this child,"
Naomi said.

"Did you save him?" Mama asked in
her little girl voice.

"Yes. He is safe," my grandmother
said.

And after that, it was different. They were
different. Loss had bound them, cut them and deep in their wounds they held the
secret, the dark baby, the dark…hidden…and no one able to save him.

Later
that evening, Danny found me sitting on the front porch. He had bathed our
children and put them to bed. He maneuvered his leg to sit beside me. I knew he'd
been on it too much. I knew he pushed himself almost as far as he could go each
day, and he felt it was never enough. He was so glad to be alive.

 
 
He
pulled me to him close and kissed my cheek, then I turned to him and we kissed
on the lips. "What are you thinking," he said. "Did you talk to
her about the garden?"

"Yes.
She doesn't want it disturbed."

He
waited. He knew there was more. So choosing my words with the care of a craftsman,
I told him the story that had come together in me.

And
after, we are quiet as we sit there. He started with holding my hand, but soon,
he held me.

"When
we're born," I said, "we enter on…maybe page two hundred and
forty-five of many other people's stories. No wonder she's watched over
me…protected me.

She
said my mother was never the same after losing Eugene and that baby. She said that's
when she changed."

I
always admired his comfort with silence. His warm kiss on my temple was what I needed.

"It's
eerie to think that's a grave," he said.

"I'm
putting a ground cover there. And a bench for her. It's not right that it looks
like a weed patch. I guess…she couldn't fix it. What could she do? How hard for
her to let my mother have another baby...me. That's why she got so much access
to me. Mama was repenting to her. And Mama was sick."

"I'm
grateful she kept you safe," Danny said.

"She
kept Mama safe too. Always. Can you imagine if Lonnie would have seen Eugene's
baby? I wouldn't be here. Lonnie would have killed her. But it's like he knew things
weren't right. He knew something. He didn't want anything to do with me…or her
either. He only stayed to get this house, I think, then he didn't live long enough…."

More
long silence.

"Danny…we
don't have any secrets, do we?"

He
shook his head. "I've told you pretty much everything. Even most of
Vietnam."

"There
is one thing that bothers me sometimes. I know I asked this before…a long time
ago…but that oil spill on the stairs at Lonnie's old shop…that grease…you can
tell me…did you ever have anything to do with that?"

He
leaned and put his forehead on mine. He was so handsome now that he'd been home
and grown strong over the years again, and he was happy. He didn't have to tell
me, but I could see it on him. He was never shy in telling me what I meant to him.
Our love only grew stronger. I was so in love with him I still got excited the minute
I knew he was home or in my proximity. He told me a million times in a million
ways it was the same for him. I knew it was uncommon. But still…did he have a
hand in what happened to Lonnie?

"I
wasn’t even around,” he said.

"It
was Robert," I said.

He
looked at me, his eyes even darker in this inky light.

"I
just want to know," I said.

"Like
you tell me…what good will it do?" He breathed out. "Lonnie went down
there sometimes. We been through this. Robert said he was pissed off over the
will. Robert called down before he left the shop and Lonnie wouldn’t’ come up
so Robert left him in his stinky hidey-hole and went home.

“I
know all that,” I said.

"It's
the past," he said pulling me to him and squeezing me. “Some things you
just say….thank you.”

I
put my hand on his face. “That’s a little harsh.”

“He
was harsh. I’m just telling the truth.”

He
held me for a minute. I guess I’d never know for sure. I guess it didn’t
matter. If he admitted to sneaking back and pushing him I’d find a way to
understand. But that’s not how it was. I just never believed Robert would have
the guts to do it without a stronger man’s encouragement. Now I’m just telling
the truth.

"Hilly,"
Danny said, "I haven't told you lately…but the best thing that ever happened
to me was the night I went under the streetlight to hear that pretty little girl
who lived up the street tell stories. As for Lonnie…best thing I did after that
was to walk in his shop that day and get the wind knocked out of me when I saw
you."

I
was a crier. And a pregnant crier. I loved the way he said this. He made me
feel shy. He could do that still. "Yeah," I whispered, "it was
the same for me."

For
all the pain and grief around us, it's like we were always meant. He was my
Danny. This was my home. And all of those who had met inside
of me, laying down their stories, laying down their brokenness and their love,
they were the thunder in my heart. And now…in this life…for my time on this earth…I
was theirs.

About the Author

Living
comfortably in the heart of America, a fake extrovert who is genuinely
introverted. Lots of good story tellers in my small world, then I started first
grade. They put me in the middle reading group (probably based on my math
scores) and after one class moved me up to group A. That was the conscious
beginning of loving story.