Call Your Daughter Home

by Deb Spera

  “You hot?”

  She shakes her head no.

  “You don’t want to get dressed?”

  Again, a no. I reckon she’s got a right to go out of this world the way she came in. I pull the sheet to her chin.

  “You change your mind, you let me know,” I say.

  She’s asleep by the time I hang the dress in the closet.

  Across the road Retta oversees a whole hog cooking in the pit that was dug when we first got here. She’s been short-tempered as a nest of hornets this morning. Alma and Mary are minding their business, cracking a bushel of pecans for pies.

  “You need anything?” I yell out.

  “Not right yet,” she says.

  “All right if I go to church?”

  “Why wouldn’t it be?” she asks coming back across the road.

  “Ain’t we the help?”

  “Don’t nobody out there know you’re help. Go get right with yourself.”

  “I wanna go,” Alma says.

  “You get your work done,” Retta tells her, “then you can go.”

  Folks mill about the yard and visit with one another. Quilts are laid out across the grass and young mothers lie on them with their babies. One young girl in yellow, no older than Edna, sits up on her elbows talking to friends. Her young’un pulls at her hair, and she slaps him away. He crawls off the blanket, but she pays him no mind. He’s got a number attached to him, so I guess he can’t get far.

  I come up through the back of the tabernacle to listen. I’m told it’s a privilege to preach at Camp. Every minister who’s come through here is famous and from somewhere else. I read the schedule that’s put up on the chalkboard outside the tabernacle every day—who’s preaching and where they’re from. The Reverend today is fat with a big bushy mustache and beard. He’s from right here in St. George, but I never heard of him before. I guess I thought you had to be from somewhere else to get famous. I am late to the sermon and don’t want to be a bother, but an old Deacon insists on taking me by the elbow and leading me to a middle row. I got no choice but to follow. The Reverend is in the middle of prayer, so I’m careful to keep my head bowed while I take my seat. A family scoots over to make room for me at the end of the aisle, and I sneak a look up once I’m seated. The morning service is as crowded as the night one. Eddie sits midway up on the same side I’m on, but I don’t see Mr. Coles. When he’s done praying, the Reverend wipes the sweat from his brow and talks to us like we are his own kin sitting around the kitchen table.

  “I want to talk about one of my little boyhood experiences I had ’round about the age of nine or ten,” he says. “My mama and daddy had some chickens. I was a mischievous boy at that age, and they had a hen that I loved to chase. I’d run her ’round the yard and every now and then I would catch her and do some bad things to her.”

  Everybody laughs. We remember being children.

  “I didn’t draw blood, I wasn’t that bad.” He laughs like maybe we think he was. “But she was like a little pet. I’d carry her ’round by the legs or tucked up under one arm where she couldn’t get loose. But then she had some eggs in a nest she hid away from me. She sat on the nest for a while, and when she was done she had some biddies. She got up from that nest and I come to chase her ’round like I always did. She was docile before but now she had babies, but I didn’t know the difference. I went ’bout my same usual way like when she was a little thing, but now that she had some young chicks, God changed the nature inside her. And when I started running after her she thought I was running after her babies.

  “Ya’ll know where I’m going with this?” he asks.

  All across the congregation heads nod and people laugh. I do, too. Sitting between all these folks makes me feel like there’s an army around me.

  “There was gonna be a reckoning. She wasn’t no little chicken anymore. She became a mama hen. And she thought you can do it to me, but I’m not gonna allow you to do it to my little chickens. Can I get a witness?”

  Folks clap and yell out, “Yes, sir.”

  “That same mama hen flew up, and with her claws she scratched my face but good.”

  The Reverend laughs from the memory and runs a handkerchief over his wet brow. He’s got stains of sweat under his arms and all along his back. He’s got a lot of energy for such a fat man.

  “Every now and then when the devil tries to destroy and hurt you, you got to remember—God is my protector, God is my savior. That’s enough. God tells the devil, that’s enough. That’s enough hate. I saw you pick on her. I see how you try to rob, kill and destroy, but that’s enough now. Because when I come down to fight for My loved ones, Devil, I ain’t gonna show you no mercy. I see what you’re doing to My children. I see the sickness you try to put on them. I see the burden, the hurt and the pain you cause. But that’s enough now.”

  He stops, then leans in like he’s letting us in on a secret.

  “God tells us, there is a place that you can come to. I am that place, He says. I am the refuge. I am the strength that can give you a new day.”

  A breeze blows through the church, and the pine trees sway and groan. The Reverend gives a nod to the back of the church, and four men with offering plates come up the center to be blessed before tithing begins. I’m sorry to be at the end of the service. I feel like I’ve just swallowed medicine I didn’t know I needed. The Reverend holds his palms to the sky and looks out to us. He meets each eye he falls upon. And I wonder if he can see me.

  “I want to pray for you. I want to help you on your journey, ’cause somebody prayed for me before I came here today. Somebody helped me, so I want to help you. I want to plant a seed in your spirit,” he tells us, “so when that seed sprouts up inside you, you will grow up and out with it. Let us bow our heads.”

  I close my eyes and pray along with this man who speaks a simple truth.

  “Lord, as we place the seed of faith inside our spirit today, we ask that You would increase its power. Increase our faith so that tiny little mustard seed that You allow to grow in our lives will remind us that You will forever be our protector and our provider. Amen.”

  When I raise my face, the choir stands and the old upright piano plunks out the tune “Trusting Jesus.” Angelic voices carry out to the yard, and people stop what they are doing to listen—even the babies quiet. The men with offering plates turn and make their way down each side of the aisle. The plates are passed from one end to the next. One man is familiar. I can’t place how I know him until he is almost upon me, and then I remember. I didn’t recognize the sheriff without his uniform. When he gets to my row I take the plate from his hand and pass it to the family next to me. They place a dollar in the offering, and when it comes back to me, he holds it for just a moment in front of me, but I got no money to give. Not even a penny. I am forced to look up and shake my head to let him know to move along. He recognizes me but he’s got a job to do, so he moves on to get the money the next row’s got to offer. In the final verse, the Reverend makes his way to the back of the church and waits to say goodbye to each parishioner. I want to run but there ain’t nowhere to go, so I stay seated and watch as the crowd leaves. Across the church the sheriff stands talking with two women. He’s got his arm around one, and she keeps a hand on his belly while talking to the other. They got to be mother and daughter. You can tell by the way they stand. Though they are ages apart they are alike, separate but the same. The sheriff don’t listen to what’s being said. He looks around like he’s lost something he can’t find. When his eyes come to rest on me I know who it is he’s looking for, and I do what I should have done the last time. I gather my courage and stand.

  He whispers something to his woman, and she looks up at his eyes and then in my direction. When she finds me she turns back to him and nods. Whatever he’s got to say, she knows of it. He stretches out his hand as he draws near and I take it and give it a shake.


  “Mrs. Pardee,” he says.

  “Sheriff.”

  I don’t give him a chance to go first.

  “My neighbors say you come by the house to see me.”

  “That’s right,” he says. “I did.”

  “Here I am.”

  “I didn’t expect to find you all the way out here,” he says, smiling.

  I’m taken aback at how lighthearted he sounds. His manner changes when he sees I am surprised.

  “I’m sorry, this isn’t a joking matter. I came to tell you that Otto and his wife died of diphtheria.”

  “When?”

  “Just before the storm,” he tells me. “Otherwise I’d have come sooner.”

  “What about the baby?” I ask.

  “It was never born.”

  So that’s it then. Otto’s gone. He’s mortal like the rest of us. Life comes and life goes, but I don’t feel nothing. Sheriff scrapes the ground with the toe of his boot, and grass comes up by the roots. He’s got something on his mind. I grit my teeth and wait.

  “Mrs. Pardee, we’ve got reason to believe your husband never left St. George. We’ve talked to everyone. Last anybody saw was him shit-faced drunk, pardon my language, down by the river.”

  “That ain’t no surprise.”

  “We have reason to believe he may have drowned. We’ve dragged the river, but I don’t need to tell you there are gators in that water.”

  “That all you needed to tell me?”

  He looks up at his wife who stands alone and off to the side waiting for him to come along. He turns back to me and says, “You realize your husband is entitled to all his father owned?”

  I can’t understand what he’s saying to me, why he’s still talking.

  “Mrs. Pardee, if your husband is dead as we presume, as Alvin’s next of kin, you and your children will inherit what was his father’s.”

  The sound goes out of my ears and in its place is a deep ringing that stays even when I try to shake it free. Otto, who never gave us nothing in life, gives us everything in death. Before I can say more, Edna comes running across the yard hollering for me. I excuse myself and go to meet her.

  “Alma’s run off and Retta’s fit to be tied. You better come.”

  In the kitchen Retta fusses at Mary who sits on the bench with her knees drawn up to her chest, crying.

  “Didn’t I tell you not to leave each other?” Retta yells. “Didn’t I?”

  Mary’s crying so hard she can’t hardly talk.

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  “I told these children to stay together,” Retta says. “How many times I got to say it?”

  “Where’d she go?” I ask Mary.

  “I told her not to,” Mary says, “but she wouldn’t listen.”

  Retta lets out a sigh and turns herself in a circle like she don’t know what to do next.

  “Which way?”

  Mary points to the woods, and though I can’t speak to why, I run.

  Past the edge of the wood, through the trees, between the boughs is my daughter in her blue dress standing next to Mr. Coles, who’s squatted down, talking. I slow to a fast walk and calm my breath. He points to something in the trees and when Alma looks up he slides his hand under the back of her skirt. She jumps back, but he laughs and holds out a nickel like he’s found it under the folds of her dress.

  I shout, “Alma!” She snatches the nickel and twirls around to find me.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  Mr. Coles stands and puts his hands in his pockets to adjust his manhood. I understand now why Mary didn’t want his money. Now I understand. Alma comes toward me red-faced, talking fast, a nickel raised in her fist.

  “There’s a raffle of turkeys over in the field yonder way,” she tells me. “Mr. Coles said there’s a big nest back here with upward of twenty eggs.”

  I take the nickel from her hand and yank her by the arm and give her a hard swat on the bottom. Her skirt is thick enough that I know my hand don’t sting, but I make my point. Her bottom lip’s out and she tries not to cry.

  “Retta told you not to wander off,” I tell her.

  “She didn’t mean any harm,” Mr. Coles says. “She was just excited to see the eggs.”

  “I thank you for your time, Mr. Coles, but she’s been told not to run off. She knows better.”

  “Get back to Camp,” I tell Alma, and she runs for home.

  “The girl has spirit and a lively mind, a sign of intelligence,” he tells me, like he’s the expert. “You should be glad for that.”

  “Yes, sir, I am glad. She’s smart about some things, but ain’t about others.”

  I hold that nickel so tight in my fist my fingernails dig into skin.

  “She’s a child,” he says. “She’ll learn.”

  Like Mary learned.

  “She will and I aim to be the one to teach her.”

  When it comes to my children, what I say, goes. I hold his coin between my fingers and hold it out for him to take.

  He gives me a long hard look and says, “Keep it.”

  I fold the money back into my fist, and with the change jangling in his pocket, Mr. Coles turns and walks down the footpath until he disappears from view.

  36

  Retta

  We had the first frost of the season in the night. The ground is stone hard, and the meadow is covered in hoarfrost. I can see my own breath. Everywhere I look colored folks run from one place to the next trying to outrun the cold. Didn’t none of us expect this, but if I learned one thing in all my days, it’s to expect things to go wrong on a big day. That’s the nature of the world. Ain’t nothing against you, just is. Anymore, seems I just count up Camp problems to see which year will win the prize for most things to go wrong on a big day. This cold snap is first on my list. Let’s see what’s coming next.

  I take two bundles from the woodpile to start the cookstove. Bobo huddles over the hog pit across the road warming his hands. He’s been standing watch through the night with his collar turned up against the cold. I give him a cup of coffee to warm his bones. His breath mixes with the steam of the hot drink.

  “What time did the weather turn?” I ask.

  “’Bout three in the mornin’.”

  “You reckon that’ll give them trouble coming home?”

  “Little cold never hurt nobody. Stop your worrying, Retta. Roy’ll get Odell home.”

  “Pull me off a taste,” I tell him, and he reaches his poker down in the pit and stabs me off a good piece of meat. I take it hot from the pit onto a dish towel and blow the steam. The skin is crunchy and the meat falls to pieces as I chew.

  “So tender it melts in the mouth,” I say.

  Bobo smiles. I tell him to pull the pig up and get him carved. If my math is right, Odell will be home tomorrow. Tomorrow, Lord willing, I see my husband again.

  When I get back to the tent, Edna’s got breakfast going. Alma and Mary sit on the bench wrapped together in a quilt. They watch two fat wooly worms crawl down and across their arms. These girls been stuck together since yesterday. In the dim light I can see they got color in their cheeks, and they’ve filled out some. Two weeks of steady food has done them good. Anybody with eyes can see the difference.

  I’ve got a piece of smoked alligator stripped and cubed, and the shrimp that was brought over from Edisto cleaned and peeled. I pour the lot into the Frogmore stew that simmers on the stove. Okra, tomatoes and onions float in the broth. This stew’s got to cook for two hours before all the juices run together just right, then I’ll add the potatoes and corn on the cob. The sun is rising through the woods behind us, and the first frost shines like glass in the light. For a minute the whole world looks make-believe. Then the sun disappears behind thick white clouds and the magic is gone.

  Edna fills the
breakfast plates with eggs and biscuits, then gives out a scream when she opens the ice chest. Gertrude and me jump so high you’d think a rat run over our feet. Alma and Mary give each other a quick look but keep playing like nothing’s wrong.

  “What is it?” Gertrude asks.

  “It’s gone,” Edna says, then busts into tears.

  “Calm down,” I say and she swallows her sobs. “What’s gone?”

  She turns, holding open the lid.

  “Somebody stole the pudding.”

  Sure enough it’s empty. I’ll be damned if pudding is going to be the thing that turns me crazy. I look at Alma and Mary, sitting so sweet and quiet, I got to wonder, but there’s no time for questions.

  “You two girls go to the left and ask every kitchen you come to if they got extra pudding they can spare for Oretta Bootles,” I tell them, “and ya’ll keep going down the row until you find some. Edna, you go next door and see if Hannah’s got any left.”

  “Who’d take Mr. Coles’s pudding?” Gertrude asks.

  “Somebody who knows how much he likes it,” I say. “Lord, there’s going to be hell to pay.”

  Gertrude looks up to the rafters of the roof and takes in a sharp breath.

  “Now what?”

  I turn to look at what she sees, and find the third problem of our day. Sitting in the eaves of the tent kitchen looking for a crumb sits a bright red cardinal.

  “Just a superstition,” Gertrude says. “Don’t mean nothing.”

  I take her hand and say, “Let’s do one thing at a time. You go see if you can talk Miss Annie into putting on some clothes, otherwise she’ll die from cold ’fore she dies of hunger.”

  After she goes I lift my dishcloth and wave it at the rafters.

  The bird flies off and sits in the oak tree across the road.

  “Not today,” I tell my Maker. “We ain’t doing this today.”

  37

  Gertrude