Mama Rocks the Empty Cradle (9 page)

Mama looked doubtful. “From what I hear,
Cricket’s kin ain’t owning up to having Morgan. And it just doesn’t make sense for anybody to hide the fact that they’ve got the child.”

Koot’s eyes narrowed. “Why would anybody else but Cricket’s people want that hollering child? I don’t see no reason for all the fuss about a child—some of Cricket’s people got her stored away someplace so that people can make a fuss over her gone missing.” Her voice was very, very angry.

Nobody spoke.

Koot cleared her throat. She shook her head as if to get her thoughts in order. “I—I don’t know,” she said, folding her arms under her breast, and sticking out her chin. “Tell Abe that little Morgan is with some of Cricket’s people, and that will be the end of that!” Koot opened her mouth as if she was going to say more. She looked at Birdie and decided against it. For a few moments, there was nothing but the sound of the crows to break the stillness.

“Are you ready to get out of here?” I asked Mama.

But Mama had a curious glint in her eyes. “I promise you one thing,” she said softly, looking into Koot’s eyes. “I’m not going to stop until I personally see that little baby with Cricket’s people.”

Koot belched, but didn’t respond. The silence was becoming uncomfortable so I slid into the driver’s seat and said to Mama, “Let’s go.”

Mama nodded, closed her door, and said good-bye to the two women politely. I turned the key in the ignition, patted the gas, and eased onto the road.
We were finally going to Sugar Hill to visit the dead woman’s sister, Rose. Birdie and Koot stood by the side of the road, staring and silent.

The air conditioner had somewhat cooled the car when I asked Mama, “You don’t buy Koot’s theory that Morgan is with Cricket’s people, do you?”

Mama shrugged.

“My money is on that goon who was driving the car on Cypress Creek road. And he wasn’t any kin to Cricket,” I continued.

“How do you know that?” Mama asked.

“Mama, be for real!” I snapped, not wanting to believe that Koot was right that Cricket’s people had Morgan hidden away.

“Simone, calm down,” Mama said. “I’m not saying that Morgan is with any of Cricket’s people.”

“It doesn’t make sense for Cricket’s relatives to be hiding Morgan. If, for instance, that baby saw her mother being killed, she wouldn’t be able to identify the murderer,” I pointed out.

Mama nodded thoughtfully. “I’m thinking about Carrie Smalls’s suggestion that Rose is holding something back.” She paused. “If that is true, we can’t leave Rose’s house until we’ve found out if what she’s not telling us has anything to do with Cricket Childs’s death or Morgan’s whereabouts.”

T
he fresh pork was seasoned with onion, garlic, and green pepper.… I knew, because its smell reminded me of how Mama cooked fresh neck bones for an hour before she added cleaned, cut collard greens.

The aroma of what Rose was cooking sashayed through the door of her little kitchen, meandered to the front of the mobile home, and drifted on the wind until it passed the huge oak tree, the rosebush with red blossoms that had been planted in the middle of the swept yard, and the hedge of wild-flowers that stood between the trailers. The scent of the pork landed at my Honda’s window.

I don’t know how this area became known as Sugar Hill. Brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, and a few
cousins live in the fifteen mobile homes that sit together in a semicircle. The first trailer, the green-and-white double-wide, belonged to Rose Childs.

Rose’s unpaved driveway arched at the left and ended at the rear of her mobile home. Mama pointed toward a small area surrounded by a chain-link fence in the field directly behind the trailer. “I’ve never noticed that cemetery before,” she admitted. “Take a look at it before I call Rose.”

I got out of the car and walked up to the compact enclosure. The cemetery site was tidy. The grass had been recently mowed. There were no flowers. The gate opened easily. When I stepped inside the fence, I got the feeling that I’d entered a sanctuary. There was the normal stillness of death here, but there was something else, too.

Each of the twelve small headstones carried the name of a child, an infant who had died within nine months of its birth.

“Mama!” I cried out. “This is a babies’ graveyard—It might be where Midnight has been digging.”

“Does it look like a dog has been digging about?” she called back. She sounded skeptical.

She was right. The grass was undisturbed. There was nothing to suggest Midnight had been digging here. “I guess this is not the cemetery where Midnight got his skulls,” I admitted, disappointed. I fanned at the swarm of gnats that my perspiration had attracted.

The back door of the green-and-white trailer opened and the screen door slammed shut. “Yo-ho,
what you doing there!” Rose Childs protested loudly as she walked from the door of her trailer. She was a little woman, shorter than her dead sister Cricket. She wore a pale yellow dress, one that had been washed many times. Her hair was pulled back from her broad, moon-shaped face with a black elastic headband.

I headed back to Mama. Rose and I reached the car at the same time. Her thick lips pouted. “What you doing out there?” she asked, her angry eyes glaring at me.

Before I had a chance to answer, Mama replied, “I’ve come to pay my respects for the loss of your sister, Rose. You have to forgive me for not getting out sooner. You see, I’ve had an operation on my feet and I can’t get around—”

The look on Rose’s face changed instantly from annoyance to sympathy. “Lord, Miss Candi,” she exclaimed, “you don’t need to be out here with cut-up feet. Come on in and let me prop them up for you.”

Mama, who had taken a handkerchief from her purse, wiped the sweat from her face. “I appreciate that,” she said.

And so Rose Childs and I helped Mama inside the trailer.

“I’m sorry about Cricket’s death,” Mama began once she was comfortably sitting on the sofa inside the trailer and sipping from the glass of iced tea Rose had given her. “I can’t imagine who in Otis would have done such a terrible, terrible thing.”

Rose’s eyes brimmed with tears. “Cricket was
brazen and did things she ought not have done, but she didn’t deserve to die like that,” she told Mama.

“Do you have any idea who could have attacked her?” Mama asked.

“No.” Rose’s voice was so low and faint we almost didn’t hear her.

But Mama nodded thoughtfully. And once again she changed the subject. “I’ve never noticed that cemetery. Tell me about it.”

“It’s been there almost twenty-one years,” Rose answered, almost too quickly.

I could see that Rose’s reaction had an effect on Mama’s thoughts.

“Everyone who’s buried in that cemetery is a child, a baby,” I pointed out, thinking that this was the way Mama wanted the conversation to proceed.

Rose nodded. “My grandmother delivered all those babies herself.”

“It’s odd that they’re buried in her cemetery and not with their own families.”

Rose looked away. “I suppose …” she said. There was a slight tremor in her voice.

Mama smiled compassionately. “Is there a story behind that cemetery, Rose?” she asked in a tone I knew was meant to get Rose to feel close enough to share something that might be personal.

Rose didn’t answer. She sat as if mistrusting, now glaring at us. I couldn’t help but think that this young woman was smart. She’d quickly figured out that Sarah Jenkins, Annie Mae Gregory, and Carrie
Smalls were looking for information from her about her sister’s murder for distribution throughout the county. Now, she was trying to decide whether Mama and I had the same motive.

Mama leaned forward. She touched Rose’s clasped hands. “If there is a story behind your cemetery, I’d like to hear it,” she said, her voice low and gentle.

When Rose didn’t speak, I knew Mama’s next strategy. She’d want us to sit quietly and allow a feeling of trust to grow in the room without words. Rose’s body tightened like she was feeling something terrible. A painful look swept across her face. Finally, her shoulders relaxed a fraction and she said edgily, “My grandmother, Lucy Bell Childs, was a midwife. That’s all there is to that cemetery.”

I believe Mama and I reached the same conclusion at about the same time: Rose Childs wasn’t going to tell us any more.

But Mama gave Rose a long, serious look. “Rose, I’ve got to ask you this and I want you to be honest with me.”

Rose’s lips thinned.

Mama waited for a moment before she continued. “Does anybody in your family have little Morgan hidden away?” she asked frankly.

Rose didn’t blink. But she spoke in a confused voice, as if she couldn’t believe Mama’s question. “No! Nobody in my family knows what has happened to Morgan. But—” She stopped.

Mama pressed, “But what, Rose?”

Rose sighed. The sound seemed to come from somewhere deep inside of her little body. “Our whole family is praying for that baby—day and night, we’re praying that the Lord will keep that child safe.”

Mama frowned. When she did, it confirmed my own thoughts—something in Rose’s voice betrayed that she was scared. Did she suspect her family’s prayers
wouldn’t
be answered? Or did she know it?

Mama touched Rose’s hand again. “You sound like you know something more than you’re saying,” she said softly.

But again Rose stubbornly remained silent.

A slight look of exasperation crossed Mama’s face, but it was brief—I really don’t think Rose saw it. “Rose,” Mama said, “I want to help you. I really want to help you.”

Rose’s hands trembled, but the rest of her body became rigid. It was as though if she moved, she feared she’d break. “There are wicked people in this world, Miss Candi,” she whispered. “People who do evil things to innocent little children.”

“You know those kinds of people?” Mama asked.

Rose didn’t answer.

“I want to find Morgan,” Mama said. “If you don’t have her, perhaps you can help me find her.”

Rose still didn’t say anything.

“I’m thinking,” Mama now said, “that Timber might have taken Morgan to stay with one of his other girlfriends. Did Cricket ever mention that she suspected Timber of messing with anybody else?”

Rose’s body loosened. “What?” she asked, as if she was coming out of a trance.

“Did Cricket ever tell you that she suspected that Timber might steal Morgan and give her to another one of his girlfriends?”

Rose shook her head. “Cricket never thought—” Rose’s voice trailed away. Then she sat fixed again, like she was determined that she wasn’t going to talk freely.

Compassion was clear in Mama’s face. I suspected since she was having her own pain, it was easier for her to identify with Rose’s. “I don’t think little Morgan is dead,” she said gently. “Somebody in Otis has kidnapped Morgan and is hiding her. And Timber knows that she’s here. It’s the only reasonable explanation for him to be still hanging around Otis if he did in fact kill Cricket.”

“Timber loved his baby, all right,” Rose whispered.

“We’ve got to find Morgan before it’s too late, before whoever has her takes her away from Otis,” Mama continued. “If you know anything that can help me, anything at all—”

Rose looked like a little girl, scared of a particular villain. “Miss Candi,” she said through choked tears, “I don’t know where Morgan is at.” She sounded confused, like she didn’t understand the connection between Cricket’s terrible murder and poor Morgan’s kidnapping.

Mama decided not to push for more information. She gestured for Rose to join her on the sofa. But instead, Rose kneeled on the floor beside her. She
threw her arms around Mama and began sobbing uncontrollably. “Don’t you worry yourself none,” Mama whispered, holding Rose gently in her arms. “We’ll find Morgan, I promise—we won’t stop until we find her!”

M
ama had to spend all day Thursday in bed—her poor feet were very sore and swollen. A complete day of total bedrest was absolutely necessary.

As Mama ate the breakfast I’d brought her the next morning, the look on her face was distant, like she’d spread pieces of some puzzle in front of her mind’s eye. The last thing she’d said before I left her to take her tray to the kitchen was, “Where
is
Morgan Childs?”

I shrugged and didn’t answer. I knew the creep who’d tried to scare me on Cypress Creek road had Morgan and I knew that his motives weren’t fatherly.

I cleared the table and stacked the dishwasher. The smell of Irish cream coffee, the second pot of the
morning, filled the sunny room. It was peaceful and I felt glad to be home, glad to be with Mama when she needed me. I jumped when I heard the doorbell ring. It was a long siren like somebody’s finger had gotten stuck on the bell. Once before I’d heard that kind of a desperate ring: That incident ended with Mama almost being killed. That memory made me swear to myself and peek through the door’s peephole before I swung it open.

He was standing on our doorstep. Thirty-five, woolly hair, long over his ears, combed back. Lips uneven, the top long and thin, the bottom fat and pulled down by a scraggly beard. His complexion was leathery like he’d spent a lot of time outdoors. He wore a pair of faded jeans, a dingy white T-shirt, and a pair of old Reebok sneakers. I didn’t need to see more. I remembered this creep’s every detail, especially his unblinking, cold stare. Out on the Cypress Creek road, it had almost scared me to death. I stiffened when he pressed the doorbell again.

This had an odd feel to it; it was like fate had given me a second chance to cop the creep.
You must be tripping if you think you’re going to get to this black woman
, I thought. I turned away from the peephole and headed for the kitchen. The instructor of a rape defense class I’d once attended told us that anything sprayed in an attacker’s eyes would stop him cold. I was looking for a can of aerosol spray. These were one pair of nasty eyes I wanted closed.

The bell rang a third time. I pushed cans around in the cupboard. Finally, I spotted the oven spray.
This
will end that cold stare
, I thought as I headed back for the door.