Mama Rocks the Empty Cradle (11 page)

We stopped by the hardware store. Ellie Barker was on vacation; she wouldn’t be back in town for a week.

Mama went into the family room when we got back home. She sat there for a long time, looking out into her garden. She had the same perplexed gaze. I glanced around, deciding that this was my favorite room in the house. The windows looking out into
the garden, the comfortable furniture, the subtle shimmering of sunlight that fused the color of the room with the outdoors was almost magical.

Midnight was stretched out under his favorite tree in the backyard. For a second, he opened an eye, then he went back to sleep.

I hugged Mama. “What’s on your mind, pretty lady?” I asked.

“So many things,” she replied, with a slight sigh.

“Would a cup of coffee help?”

“Vanilla chocolate,” she said promptly. But she kept staring thoughtfully out into the garden, her look troubled.

When the coffee was ready, I poured Mama a cup. Finally, in an effort to get her to become more talkative, I said, “If we can find that creep who came here this morning, we’ll find Morgan Childs!”

“If ‘the creep,’ as you keep calling him, Simone, knows anything about that poor child, James will find out. But I don’t think it’s that simple.”

Her voice was a little stern. I knew now that she was adamant that the man I was so sure was a villain was simply a misunderstood soul who had mistakenly frightened me.

I poured myself a cup of coffee and decided that sometimes Mama could be wrong in her judgment of people. That guy in the blue Ford was a villain, no matter what Mama—and Midnight—might think of him.

“I can’t stop thinking about that little cemetery in the back of Rose’s trailer,” Mama said.

“We know Cricket’s grandmother, Miss Lucy Bell Childs, started the graves.”

“I got a hunch. Let’s go, Simone.”

“Where are we heading?” I asked.

“To the community center,” Mama answered. “That’s where we’ll find
my
‘sources,’ this time of day.”

The Otis Community Center is on Oak Street. A lot of community activities take place there, but every afternoon between three and four, senior citizens get together and sew, or work some kind of arts and crafts.

“This is where we can find Sarah, Annie Mae, and Carrie this time of day,” Mama told me, stepping into the center.

The big room was filled with folding tables. About twenty gray-headed women were sitting on folding chairs, working with brightly colored swatches of cloth. The smell of lavender air freshener hung heavy in the air.

“They’re working on a community quilt,” Mama told me, looking around until she spotted Sarah, Carrie, and Annie Mae sitting in the far corner of the room. They were so busy talking, they were barely touching the pieces of cloth in their hands.

I followed Mama to where they were seated. The three women were surprised to see us. “My Lord, Candi!” Sarah exclaimed. “What are you doing strutting around on those feet like a teenager?
You ain’t got no business out and about for at least six weeks.”

Mama smiled. “I’m doing okay,” she said. “But you’re right, Sarah, I’m going to take it easy.”

“What you doing here?” Carrie asked. “You ain’t here to help us with the quilt, are you?”

“No,” Mama replied. “I’m here because I want to ask you ladies a question.”

All three women folded their hands in their laps, sat back in their chairs, and looked as if they were ready and willing to dispense any information Mama needed.

“Lucy Bell Childs,” Mama began. “Is she still living?”

Sarah laughed. “That old woman died twenty years ago.”

Mama’s eyes twinkled.

“Lucy Bell was the county’s only midwife. She worked with old Dr. Fields,” Annie Mae volunteered.

“Problem was, Miss Lucy Bell didn’t cotton to her special calling,” Carrie Smalls said.

I didn’t understand. “Calling?” I asked.

Mama chuckled. “Being a midwife was considered a calling back then, Simone. It was special, like being a preacher.”

“Trouble was,” Sarah Jenkins said, “Lucy Bell didn’t like delivering babies. She scorned the women whenever they called on her. She didn’t keep her feelings to herself either. While the women were having their babies, they would be hearing Lucy Bell’s sermon against getting pregnant in the first
place. Added to that, after Lucy Bell delivered the baby, she’d threaten to strangle it.”

“You’re kidding!” I exclaimed, horrified.

Annie Mae Gregory took up the report. “The women of Otis County were willing to put up with Lucy Bell’s insolence until the latter part of 1970. That’s when the babies Lucy Bell delivered began contracting a fever a few days after they were born. Those poor children didn’t live long after that. From birth to death was about six months for each child.”

Sarah Jenkins continued the story. “Lucy Bell delivered an infant to Nadie Wright. Nadie already had ten children, so when Nadie’s baby caught the fever, she couldn’t take care of it. Somebody told her that since she’d endured Lucy’s wrath during her delivery, and since Lucy Bell had threatened harm to the child, Lucy Bell was to blame for the child’s sickness. Somehow, Nadie talked Lucy Bell into taking that sick child to care for it until it recovered. After Nadie left her baby, every other baby that Lucy Bell delivered who contracted the fever ended up in Lucy Bell’s care.”

“The children all died?” I asked.

The three women nodded.

“Why the graveyard?” Mama asked.

Carrie Smalls answered. “I suppose Lucy Bell thought it right to bury the poor little things herself right there in the field behind her house rather than take their bodies back to their parents.”

“After a while,” Annie Mae told us, “the women stopped calling Lucy Bell when they got in labor.
They crossed the county line and got another midwife.”

“And the fever?” Mama asked.

“It stopped,” Sarah replied.

“So, Lucy Bell Childs was the carrier?” Mama asked.

“That’s what people say,” Carrie said, shaking her head sorrowfully.

I felt a pinch of sorrow, thinking of those twelve gravestones in the grass behind Rose Childs’s trailer.

Forty-five minutes later, when we were sitting in our garden, Mama said to me, “Knowing the good folks here in Otis, they probably stopped fooling with Lucy Bell altogether. I imagined the poor woman spent many nights alone, sitting, holding a sick baby.”

“She probably grew to love those babies,” I said.

“It’s hard to imagine taking care of an infant, sick or well, and not getting attached to it,” Mama said.

“Her love for the babies must be what I felt in that cemetery.”

“What?” Mama asked.

“When I was standing in Lucy Bell’s cemetery, I got a funny feeling. It was something more than just being among the dead.”

Her face brightened. “ ‘The way to love anything is to realize that it might be lost,’ ” she quoted.

“What?”

The look in Mama’s eyes told me that something had just clicked. She nodded, like she’d just made an important decision. “Simone, first thing tomorrow
morning I want you to go out to Lucy Bell’s cemetery. I want you to carefully take a picture of each headstone.”

“Rose will kill me.” I balked, remembering Rose and the fierce way she protected her family secrets.

Mama gestured me into the house. She picked up the phone and dialed a number. “Rose,” she began. Her voice was gentle but there was no mistaking its air of command. “This is Candi. How are you today? … Listen, I have a little money I’d like to give you to help with Cricket’s burial expenses.… I meant to give it to you the other day when I visited.… Do me a favor, and stop by in the morning … around nine is fine … Give me a few minutes to get to the door, it’s not easy walking on stitched-up feet.… Okay, I’ll see you tomorrow morning around nine o’clock.” She put the phone back on its receiver.

I stood beside her, still not impressed. “Mama, Cricket’s whole family lives on that land,” I protested. “The place is like a commune. If I go there snooping around with a camera, somebody is bound to see me and feel obliged to shoot me for trespassing.”

“If anybody questions what you’re doing, just tell them that Rose gave you permission to take the pictures.”

“That wouldn’t be true,” I pointed out.

Mama raised an eyebrow, exasperated. “Simone, little Morgan’s life is on the line. We’ve got to find that child.”

I recalled the beguiling eyes of the beautiful baby,
the eyes that had so captivated me and changed my feelings about children and becoming a mother.

“Don’t worry,” Mama reassured me. “I’ll fix it with Rose. I need to look at the names on those headstones.”

“Then I’ll take the pictures while you entertain Rose,” I agreed, frowning at Mama, but still thinking of Morgan. “I just hope your need to see those names don’t cause you to end up attending my funeral,” I muttered drily.

A flicker of a smile touched Mama’s lips—she thought I was overreacting again. Then, abruptly, her look changed. I followed her gaze. She was staring at Midnight. In the yard outside the window, the dog had sat up and yawned.

“What are you trying to tell me, Midnight?” Mama murmured
.
“What do you want me to do about those babies’ skulls you’ve dug up and brought home to James?”

M
ama’s face lights up whenever one of my brothers calls. Today was no different. My youngest brother, Will, phoned from Orlando. No sooner had she put the phone back on its receiver than Rodney called from New York.

Minutes after that, Daddy phoned to say that he had to work late; he wouldn’t be home until after six. Around three, the florist delivered roses from both my brothers.

After the flowers were arranged in vases, Mama said, “Simone, let me tell you how to make a lasagna.” Once it was pulled together and inside the oven, I joined Mama in the family room. She was stretched out on the sofa, her feet propped up on three pillows.

“Yasmine is coming on Sunday evening,” I told her, trying to sound casual.

Mama’s eyebrow rose.

“I’ve asked her to stay until Monday afternoon.”

“I suggest you cook something simple, like baked chicken. What we don’t eat Sunday, we can have for Monday’s lunch. And there are blanched vegetables in the freezer. It’ll be easy to prepare a nice casserole.”

I shuddered. By now the aroma of my lasagna was beginning to tantalize, but that same scent poignantly reminded me of how much I missed Mama’s cooking.

To my relief, Mama didn’t ask why I’d invited Yasmine. But she had a look that told me she suspected something: I guess she was so busy with her own mysteries that she decided to let what was going on between me and Yasmine slip past.

When Daddy came home that night, Mama didn’t broach the subject of the creep’s visit until well after he’d eaten his supper. He was sitting in his favorite chair, drinking a beer. “James, a young man came by the house today,” she began nonchalantly.

Daddy swallowed deeply from his bottle.

“Simone, tell your father about the young man.”

I started describing the creep and how threatening he looked when my father broke out into a loud laugh. “Simone, baby, you’re talking about Nightmare.”

Mama sat straight up. “James, what’s the boy’s
real
name?” she asked.

“I don’t know, baby,” he answered. “People have
been calling that boy Nightmare all his life. I reckon only his mama knows Nightmare’s given name.”

“Who are his people?” Mama asked.

“His mama was a Givens. His daddy’s name was Leman Childs.”

Mama’s eyes widened. “That boy is kin to Cricket Childs?”

Daddy took another draught from his beer. “Nightmare and Cricket are first cousins, brothers’ children.”

“I was right,” I said, excited. “I did see Morgan in the backseat of Nightmare’s car!”

Mama held up a hand to quiet me. “Wait a minute, Simone,” she said. “Why would that boy come
here?”

Daddy’s eyes were still laughing. “ ’Cause I asked him to.”

“You did
what
?”

“Nightmare is the best hunter around,” Daddy answered. “When he’s not trying to scare people, he catches all kinds of wild game. I saw him in town this morning and told him to bring me a slab of that venison he said he had in his freezer.”