What Momma Left Behind

by Cindy K. Sproles

  It was startin to make sense what Calvin was after. Them red stones had some value, and he’d be the first one in line with his hand out if he thought they was a dollar to be made. Momma tried so hard to soften his heart, but they was no softenin. And he was never kind to Justice. I still think a good part of Justice’s drinkin is Calvin’s fault.

  The train bumped and jarred as it climbed the steep hill toward Chattanooga. The pastor said what would be a four-day ride on horseback would be two days on the iron beast.

  I closed my eyes as the sway of the train drawed me into sleep. I wrapped the strings of my bag tight around my wrist, my hand clutchin the small Mason jar inside. Them words I read from Momma’s Bible crawled around my mind like a mouse huntin for corn kernels.

  But Jesus said, Suffer little children, and forbid them not, to come unto me: for of such is the kingdom of heaven.

  I reckon what did the good Lord mean by that? Suffer? Why?

  The train squalled like a trapped coon as it bumped and banged to a stop. I guessed it was just reflex, but I come outta that seat like I’d been prodded with a hot iron.

  “Ain’t nothin, Worie,” the pastor said. “The train stops at ever station, and they’s a lot of them from Hartsboro to Chattanooga.”

  I eased against the side of the train to peer out. The whistle squalled, and ash and cinder rushed inside the car. When the train come to a rest, a dozen or so children stepped in. Ever child that passed got my eye over them. Could one of them be Farrell? T. J.?

  “Pastor, where’s these children headin?” I asked.

  He took his hat and rested it on his chest. I could tell by the look on his face he didn’t want to tell me nothin. He hesitated a spell before he spoke. Like he was ponderin just what to say.

  “Worie, these children are orphans. More than likely headed toward St. Louis to catch a train out west and find a home.”

  St. Louis. I’d never heard of sucha place, and who in their right mind would load a bunch of children onto a train to fend for themselves? My heart bled as them children, dirty and broken, lined past me and set on the benches in the back. I saw right then and there that the pastor was respected since we was able to sit in one of the leather seats and not the bench that stretched across the car.

  They was nothin I could do for them children. Not a thing. So I got up from my seat and walked to one of the benches. A boy, reckon to be about eleven or so, held a small girl on his lap. Her face was streaked with tear trails, her fingers nasty. The dirt under her nails didn’t stop her from shoving them fingers into her mouth. I squeezed my eyes tight to keep the wellin tears from fallin. Them youngins was pitiful.

  I dug into my bag, searchin for the last of the biscuit Bess give me. The train whistle howled, and once again the cars shifted and knocked against each other. I took a few steps and the car jolted, sendin me off balance, but I caught myself.

  “Scooch over,” I said.

  The boy inched to one side, his sister clingin tight to his neck.

  I broke a bite of biscuit loose and gently pulled the girl’s hand from her mouth. “Here, honey, chew this over them fingers. At least it has some taste.”

  The girl stared hard at the bread, then easy as a mouse stealin corn, she wrapped them wet fingers around it.

  “Say thank ye, Delta.” The boy pointed toward me.

  “Wanna sit on my lap?” I held out my hands. She eyed me for a minute, then reached. She didn’t weigh nothin. Tiny as could be. When she settled into my lap, she leaned her head against my chest.

  “Oh Lord. I don’t understand this. I just don’t understand.”

  Another boy wiggled into the small space between me and the side of the car. Then one come to my feet and inched closer. And another. The train picked up speed and locked into its rhythm. Ever child that could got close enough to touch me. And at that moment, I understood what Momma meant when she said she was called by the good Lord. It was clear to me, even in my doubtin Him, even sparrin or cussin Him, what my plight would be. I didn’t feel like we was on good speakin terms yet, the good Lord and me, but now I understood what Momma meant, and the tug on my own mind.

  I looked around at the passel of children around me, and my heart bled just like the blood that poured from Momma. I knew their pain. I understood the sufferin. Their snubbin stopped and a quiet fell over them. I knew how they felt cause I was one of ’em. Right there on that train, I took ahold of what I really was—and I took my place with the orphans.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-THREE

  It seemed ever time that train caught up some speed, it turned right around and slowed for the next station. Climbing its way around them steep mountains didn’t help the trip pass any faster. As we chugged into one more station, a man come round and roused them youngins. He herded them like sheep toward the door in the car, then come back for the little one on my lap. I wrapped my arms tighter around her and shook my head, but that didn’t stop him from tuggin her.

  The pastor gently loosened my grip. “Worie, let her go. Come on. Let her go so she don’t get separated from her brother.”

  My fingers was clasped tight together as I pulled her closer. “They can’t do this, Pastor. They can’t. Don’t let them take all these babies.”

  Pastor Jess worked the child out of my arms and handed her to the man. He wasn’t ugly to the children, instead he was right kind. “Come on, baby girl, let’s find your brother,” the man whispered, and kissed her head. He took a few steps and looked over his shoulder. “Thank ye kindly, miss. These youngins will remember your goodness.”

  The girl’s brother stepped from the group and took his sister. When I went to my knees sobbin, Pastor Jess just rubbed my shoulder.

  The train halted and the man ushered the children off. Just as her brother stepped onto the platform, the girl shouted, “Thank ye, lady.” She pressed her palm to her lips and kissed it.

  I couldn’t contain my grief no more, wonderin if Farrell and T. J. was alright. Had they kept them little ones together or tore them apart again? They was no guessin that Farrell couldn’t stand one more loss. And little T. J. All I could think of was the youngin didn’t have no clean britches and had he stopped messin in what he had.

  “Lord have mercy, I feel like my chest is gonna split wide open.” I let out a wail that beat all.

  They was no explainin why these children Momma had been carin for had grown into my heart. I’d only knowed them for a short time, but they was mine. They was ever one mine. Just like I’d birthed them myself.

  “Worie. It’ll be fine. Them youngins is safe. They’re goin to find homes.”

  Despite the pastor’s words, I reckon I just had pain inside that needed to pour free. “But Farrell and T. J. have a home. They got a home with me, Abeleen, Ely and Bess . . . and Doanie. Lordy, lordy, that little Doanie is heartbroke.”

  “You got to trust me, Worie. We’ll find them youngins. Trust me.”

  I looked right quick like at the pastor. There was that word again. The same one Justice had give me. Trust. I thought trust was something you could find, but I’m seein it ain’t found—it’s gived.

  The pastor helped me to my feet and guided me toward our seats. I pulled back toward the bench where I set holding that child.

  “Pastor Jess, I’ll set on the bench if it’s all the same to you.” And I did. I slid down and laid my arms in the window, pressin my face into the bend of my elbow. The wind rushed over me like a stream runnin down the summit, and night commenced to close in around us.

  Ely’s words swarmed my head like a bunch of angry bees. “Good Lord don’t turn His back on little ones. Lordy no. He knows them babies has suffered and He wants them brung to Him for peace, Miss Worie. Don’t you understand?”

  I’d be lyin if I uttered a yes to Ely, cause lettin any person suffer didn’t seem right. I just knew they was something I needed to do and I aimed to do it. “I don’t understand little children sufferin!”

  “Oh, Miss Worie, yo
u got it all wrong. It ain’t that the good Lord makes them youngins suffer, it’s that He wants them sufferin little ones brung to Him. I done said it once. Let it sink in.”

  The memory of my talk with Ely faded into the darkness.

  I moped a bit, then I took a handkerchief from my bag and blew my nose. I remembered how Momma used to say when things was pushin you down, the best way to plow through was to stand up and straighten your shoulders. She’d take me by the shoulders and lift me from a chair, press her hand betwixt my shoulder blades, and lift my chin. “There, you see!” she’d say. “When you stand tall and hold your head up you pull strength from your gut. Strength that you need to get things done.”

  I rubbed my hand on the bench where them children set. Splinters jutted up here and there. Then I did what Momma said. I stood and shoved my chest out, lifted my chin, and took in a good breath. “Pastor, how much longer to Chattanooga?”

  “Early mornin. You’re gonna want to rest a bit.”

  “You know, Pastor Jess, you keep naggin that I need to rest. Well, they ain’t no rest to be had. I might sleep a bit, but I don’t rest. And I won’t till Farrell and T. J. is back with me and Doanie.” I commenced to walk the aisle, pacin like a mountain lion. “They ain’t no rest to be had.”

  Pastor Jess lowered his head like he was ponderin something right hard. And when he lifted it, he stood, jutted out his chest, and went to pacin too.

  “Whatta ya doin?” I asked.

  “I figure a man that needs to out a plan does it better if he does a little pacin.”

  I smiled. Reckon he was doin his best to help, and if he was willin to pace, I was willin to rest—or try anyway.

  Pastor Jess stuck out his hand. “Can we shake on this? Pace awhile, rest awhile?”

  His grip was strong. Daddy used to say you could tell a man’s character by his handshake. “You want somebody to take you serious, then you shake their hand tight. None of this wishy-washy stuff. You take their hand and shake it good.” So I clamped his hand tight and shook it like I meant it.

  He motioned to the leather seat. “Rest?”

  “Alright. For a spell. But I need to figure a plan. I’m bringin them youngins home even if I have to steal them.”

  Pastor Jess raised a brow. “Ain’t sure the Lord would approve of stealin a youngin, but I think even in His eyes He might call this savin over stealin.”

  “Reckon we’ll find them?”

  “Dunno. But we’ll start with the Holtsclaws.” He took the scribbled paper from his coat pocket and unfolded it. “Yeah, we’ll start here.” He tapped the paper with his finger.

  “What about Sikes?”

  Pastor Jess pulled a quilt from a bar that hung behind the seat. He gingerly unfolded it and laid it over me, then tucked the sides around my arms. “These open cars get chilly at night. You’ll need a quilt.” He lifted my feet and wrapped the end of the blanket around them, and when he stepped back he looked right proud of his tuckin.

  “I ask you again . . .”

  “What about Sikes? I know. I heard you the first time.” He yanked another quilt from the bar and went to wrappin it around hisself. He set with a plop into the seat. “I’ve known Justice for several years. He’s a good man. Calvin, though . . . I only met him a handful of times, and I can’t say he ever once seemed to know the difference between truth and his lies. All that to say . . .”

  “Oh fiddle. Just say what’s on your mind. Quit draggin a dead dog through the mud.” My impatience seeped out.

  “All that to say, if a man never told the truth, what is they to say he’s tellin the truth about Sikes bein a uppity lawyer from Chattanooga.”

  The pastor had a fish on the line. My mind went to churnin. “You’re sayin Sikes probably ain’t no lawyer?”

  “It would make sense. Don’t you think? See, I went to putting things together when that banker give me this here name instead of information on Sikes. He was so shamed about them children, that’s the name he give us from the ledger.”

  My mind went to spinnin like a waterwheel. “That banker said he stamped the papers and they was legal.”

  “But legal for what? The land and your cabin, them children? What?”

  “The sheriff read that paper to me.” I scratched my knees whilst I pondered. Then it hit me. “Pastor Jess, that paper never said what property. Or who.” I come to my feet. The quilt dropped to the floor, and when I went to speak my voice climbed higher. “Best I remember, it said the land went to family.” I clapped my hands. “Family! Lands a goshin! It said family. It didn’t name no one single person.”

  Pastor Jess went to grinnin. “See, Calvin don’t know the truth, and this time the truth has set you free.”

  I went to whirlin around in circles on that train car, trippin and stumblin as the train moved. “I got the paper, Pastor. I still got the paper. I keep it right here with me.” I smacked my bag.

  For the first time in weeks, my heart had a taste of joy. Family. The paper said family. The breeze comin through the train windows was nippy, so I grabbed up that quilt and wrapped tight in it.

  “I might just be able to rest, Pastor. I might just.”

  All them times Calvin lied through the years led him to never know who he told the truth to. Momma always said ever spider’s web gets tore down, and I reckon she was right. Calvin’s web of lies was thick. It had caught a bunch of insects up in it, but I was comin with a broom.

  I took in a deep breath and filled my lungs. Even the smell of smoke from the engine was pleasant.

  “You know what else, Pastor?”

  “What’s that?”

  “You’re right. Nothin Calvin has ever said was truth. That means this Sikes was more than likely a wolf in sheep’s clothin.”

  Pastor Jess eased his hat over his face again. “Ever now and again, the Lord speaks to my heart. When He does, I tend to listen.”

  I eased back and rested my head against the window rail. The outline of the mountains raised high on one side of the tracks, and the dark sky harbored so many stars it was like lanterns lightin the night. We rounded a bend and the whistle eased out three quick notes. Over the noise of the steel wheels, I could hear the rush of the river as we passed by. A doe and her fawn perked their ears and inched deeper into the darkness.

  Daddy was right about these mountains. Even in the hardest of times their beauty speaks to you. Life is hard here. A body only has the simple things to keep them goin. A man closes his eyes at night and just prays to open them when the rooster crows.

  My eyes grew heavy, but in the midst of this mess I suddenly had a peace. I pulled my bag close to my body and hugged it. They was hope. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt sucha thing. My thoughts jumped to them early days on the farm when things was happier. As sleep edged in, I felt the edges of my mouth turnin up toward the heavens. Yes sir, they was hope.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-FOUR

  I had no mind how many times that train stopped and started through the night, but when I woke up the sun had painted the sky the colors of posies in a field. They was nothin I could do to ward off the stiffness from sittin on that train all night. The crick in my neck ached like whiz when I turned my head.

  My mouth felt like something had crawled inside it and died, so I took the edge of my sleeve and rubbed my teeth and tongue, hopin to wipe away some of the smell. The pastor was standin at the window, arm raised above his head, forehead on his wrist.

  “Pastor Jess?” I rolled my head, tryin to work out the crick. “Where we at?”

  He dropped his arm and turned. “Chattanooga.”

  “What?” I rushed to the window and leaned out. It was bigger than Hartsboro and even busier at the crack of dawn. The train slowed as it crossed a river wider than our Indian River. The water run quiet but deep. They was no wadin across this water like our river at home. Long flatboats loaded with crates floated alongside the river, tied to rails along the bank. I’d never seen the likes. Some wa
s bein unloaded. Lines of small houses crawled up the bank to the level road, and horses pulled wagons through the town.

  My heart raced. The sight of such things took my breath, and I edged behind the pastor. I’d be lyin if I said my knees wasn’t shakin. The noise alone made me think twice before I ever hollered again at the frogs and crickets singin in the night.

  He looked over his shoulder. “Worie, welcome to the big city. Ain’t it something?”

  They was no words for what I was takin in, other than my mountains was laid in the distance and I could tell I was a long way from home. I’d never seen the glory of the mountains from a way off. It didn’t take much to figure I didn’t belong here. I knew, though life was hard on the ridge, most folks scraped to get all they had. These folks here, they seemed to have everthing. On the mountain, a person was who they was, be it good or bad. Folks knew that, and though sometimes we was fooled, for the most part a body knew the heart of their neighbors.

  I glanced once more at the city in front of me, then back to the view of mountains that stretched as far as the eye could see. My innards was screamin, “Go back,” but my heart was sayin, “Find them youngins.”

  “I ain’t right impressed, Pastor. They ain’t no mountain river singin a sweet song, and I ain’t heard a bird yet, much less seen one.”

  He went to laughin. “There’s a whole different world off the mountain.”

  “I’ll thank you kindly to take me home as soon as we get our business done. This ain’t no place for me.”

  “Keep in mind what we’re here to do.”

  “I know, 1 Riding Road. Home for Lost Children. I reckon it’s burned in my mind, Pastor.”

  The train brakes squealed and it stopped. The pastor motioned me to the door and I stepped down onto the platform. A passel of folks passed around me to get on the iron beast, and I stepped to one side. That’s when I lost the pastor in the crowd.