by Debra Dixon
Li had no intention of doing that. She cried and refused everything but the rice formula she’d been accustomed to, fought the clothing I’d brought for her. That I could understand for I’d badly misjudged her size. We used our bonding time to shop for food and souvenirs that we would put away for her as memories as an adult. The local shop women alternated between admonishing us for not bundling up our child in the layers the local children wore and patting Li on the head as they murmured, lucky girl.
It was me who couldn’t sleep then. Me who swung herself into her chair and rolled herself to the window where I watched the movement and sound of the traffic die for the night. Me who cried silently at the sight of Hank’s big hand stretched through the slats of the crib furnished by the hotel so that our daughter could touch him. I was jealous. I hurt. But I kept it to myself, telling Hank that it would change when we got home. The literature had warned us about this, so I tried not to let it bother me.
A week later we were back in Mossy Creek but nothing changed. Li cried for Hank every time he left the room. I fed her, changed her, sang to her. I talked to her. I showed her every musical toy and stuffed animal we’d bought. Eventually she’d stop crying, but I could tell she was simply waiting.
Finally Hannah came to visit, bringing her six-year-old daughter, Rachel. Rachel had always looked on me as her second mama and when she was rebuffed by Li, she crawled up into my lap and stared at this strange cold child who was nothing like Choco, the bird who’d been looking for his mother.
“What’s wrong with her?” Rachel asked.
“She’s just afraid,” Hannah answered. “She doesn’t understand English. We’re all strangers. We have to be patient.”
It was then that I realized it was up to me. I couldn’t force Li to love me, but I could make her want to. If she wouldn’t let me show her my love, I’d show her that someone else would take it.
“Rachel, Hank’s Tree and Walker Hound, Belle, has a new litter of puppies in the kennel. Do you want to see them?”
Eagerly she agreed. With a nod, Hannah watched her daughter, Rachel, and me head for the clinic. Rachel chattered all the way down the sidewalk, laughing at the antics of Ed Brady’s hound, Possum, who’d come to visit. Inside the kennel, Hank had set up a play area for his boarders. Belle and the puppies were sleeping on a mat in the middle. In no time, Rachel was sitting inside with the pups crawling all over her. And I was inside the play area in my chair.
In the house behind me, I heard Li began to cry, but I didn’t respond as I’d done for the three weeks. It hurt, but I stayed with Rachel. Soon, I heard footsteps and Hannah’s voice. “Look, Li. Puppies. Do you want to play with the puppies, Li?”
Hannah was answered by a loud wail. Hannah didn’t respond and neither did I. If Li wanted to join us, it was up to her. Rachel picked up one of the babies and held it out to Li. When Li made no move to respond, Rachel shrugged and offered it to me. I took the pup and arranged him in my lap, where he rolled over on his back and closed his eyes.
Rachel laughed and started singing her own version of Old McDonald Had a Farm.
Except it became Doctor Hank’s farm and the animal became a dog. By the second chorus of with a woof, woof here and a woof, woof there, I sensed movement. Hannah stepped inside the play area, lowering Li to the floor near my wheelchair. The pull of the puppies and perhaps a tinge of jealousy finally reached Li. I held out my arms and she tottered to me.
I was overjoyed. Tears streamed down my cheeks. Li sat on my lap. The pup licked her cheek and she looked up at me and laughed.
“Come, Rachel,” Hannah said. “We have to get back to town.”
“No, don’t go,” I panicked.
“You can do this, Casey. You went around the world to get your baby and you’ll manage. Mighty Casey won’t strike out.”
“But . . . but suppose she gets away from me. She’s already walking.”
“Just pretend she’s Possum,” Hannah said, snapping the hook of a leash into the clip on Li’s suspenders and handing the handle to me.
“Look, Li,” I said. “Babies.”
Suddenly Toes, the clinic cat, so named because he had only two toes on one foot, hopped onto the rail and into the pen. He jumped up on my knees, sniffed Li’s face, then rubbed against her. Finally, the cat jumped back over the rail and headed to the house, stopping to turn back and meow. Belle gave him a lazy look, eyed the open door to the pen and lumbered to her feet. I started to call her back then, thought better of it and fell in line.
Toes marched down the walk between the clinic and the house, leading his procession, me in the wheelchair holding Li and two of the pups, Belle and the other three babies through the kitchen and into the bedroom. Once there, Toes jumped into Li’s crib and turned back to me with a curt meow. I didn’t have to speak cat to know he was asking me what I was waiting for. I let down the side of the crib and lifted Li inside, then piled the pups around her. Belle stood watching. But that wasn’t enough. Toes continued to call. It was obvious there was no room for me and Belle in the crib. I backed my chair away and pulled the baby bed from the wall. From behind, I pushed the crib toward our bed until they touched.
I wheeled my chair close but neither Li nor Toes was having any part of that. I had to get on the bed. Finally, I loosened the braces on my legs and moved my feet to the floor. With awkward movements, I managed to stand and throw myself to the bed where Li, Toes and the pups were tumbling against the pillows. Belle lay down with a deep sigh, content to let the cat look after her litter.
My mind went back to that day at the library when I read the story of the baby bird looking for a mother. Choco found his place with outsiders, just as the pups were accepted by a cat. Li, the pups, the cat and I were laughing so loudly that we didn’t hear the outside door open.
“Casey?”
At the sound of Hank’s voice, Li turned and laughed. “BeBe?”
Hank sat on the bed beside me. “No,” he said, shook his head and pulled Li between us. He put Li’s hand over his heart. “BaBa.” He put her hand over my heart. “Ma,” he said. And finally, he took Li’s hand and my hand and laid them on her heart. “Li.”
Then he let go. Li touched Hank. Hank watched, not responding until a puppy crawled into my lap and licked my chin. Li smiled and copied the pup, then whispered shyly, “BaMa.”
That was the beginning. Between Belle, Possum, Toes and the litter of pups which we still have, I’ve learned to use my crutches and my braces. But I still prefer the chair when dealing with Li. I’ve started a new exercise regime. I’m going to have to learn to cope, either that or hitch my children up to a buggy and let them pull me along. Hank doesn’t know it yet but we’re going back to China. This time, the shopkeepers may pat Li on the head, but I’ll know that I’m the lucky girl.
Chapter 14
Some blessings will turn you every which way but loose.
Amos & Ida Have a Moment
Chapter 14
Being the son of Battle Royden meant I’d spent most of my life between a rock and a hard case. By turns he was a law enforcement legend, a good ol’ boy, a philanderer, an unrepentant practical joker, trustworthy (outside marriage), forgiving (if you weren’t his son or on the wrong side of his badge that day), and predictable. In life and in death. That’s why I carried a battered green umbrella as I trekked out to Battle’s grave for another of my dutiful-son visits. The temperature was chilly; there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, but before today’s visit was done, I’d need the umbrella. Always did.
The consistently ill-timed rain during my visits to my parents’ graves felt a lot like one of Battle’s little practical jokes, except that I liked rain. Always had. I couldn’t quite see Battle providing rain as reward. That just wasn’t his style.
Well, son, they say death changes a person.
I heard Battle’s voice so clearly I almost laughed aloud. I’d forgotten he could be genuinely funny and completely pragmatic in the same sentence. Bits and pieces
of Battle wisdom kept floating through my mind these days as I followed in his footsteps as chief. I found myself wishing we’d had the time to forgive each other. For what I wasn’t sure.
But since I didn’t have a therapist, I didn’t have to dwell on that little revelation. Dwelling would mean I’d have to consider whether I’d been as much to blame as my father for our strained relationship. Why on earth would I want to dwell? Nope. Better to let sleeping dogs lie.
Besides, I had places to go, a parakeet to feed, and law breakers to catch. Even without the threat of rain, I had a full day and a fair-sized hike up the hillside to the old Baptist cemetery. Most of the founding families of Mossy Creek had kinfolk planted there. You’d be hard pressed to find a plastic flower or fancy stone angel.
Below was a smorgasbord of slick granite, fake flowers and statues, but not here on the big hill. The big hill took death seriously. Big hill families believed in the legacy you left behind, not in monuments. If you went far enough into the woods you’d find headstones that had long since lost their lettering. Some aren’t much more than a round-cornered brick sunk into the ground next to a tree you knew good-an’-well hadn’t been there when the grave was dug.
I didn’t go into the woods. I stopped beside the familiar graves just inside the boundary of the big hill, beside two rose granite stones with crisp lettering, and wondered what my parents thought of their legacy. Silence suddenly surrounded me. I wasn’t sure how one part of a cemetery could be quieter than another, but the old part was. A quiet so loud you could hear it.
Momma had always preferred the quiet. So why she had married a man who filled a room and boomed his sentences was something of a mystery. Battle’s voice had been a lot like a distant roll of thunder. He’d ask Momma to pass the salt, and you could hear him from the other end of the house.
Sara Elizabeth Royden Battle Samuel Royden
Beloved wife and mother Mossy Creek’s Finest
Funny how Momma’s epitaph was private and Battle’s was public. Fitting, though. Momma belonged to us and Battle belonged to everyone else — a true public servant, like Mayor Ida Hamilton Walker. Although Ida somehow managed to hold her family closer than the town. Certainly closer than Battle had.
The second and closer grumble of thunder jolted me out of my thoughts because it came accompanied by a female voice. “Neither rain nor sleet nor snow nor dark of night shall stay our police chief from his appointed rounds.”
The mayor was smiling at her own humor when I turned around. I’d been so wrapped up in the past, I hadn’t heard her. That bothered me. I usually had special radar for the woman, but she’d slipped past today. Seemed mighty pleased about it, too. Ida is never scarier than when she’s pleased. Makes for an interesting working relationship.
“Afternoon, Ida.”
“Afternoon, Amos.”
She looked like she’d just come from a bout of gardening — plain red sweater, her jeans faintly grass-stained at the knees, her auburn hair pulled back in a haphazard fashion as if she didn’t mind offering up her face to the scrutiny of the world. Lots of people in Mossy Creek envied Ida’s strong sense of self. Women mostly envied the fact that a woman with a long-grown child could still wear a real bathing suit in public if she chose. The men mostly envied the power and influence Ida seemed to accumulate naturally.
Me . . . I enjoy the whole package. Not that I’ve told her, not in so many words. She is the mayor, my boss, an older woman and dating someone else. Any one reason was more than enough to make a man pause before saying something stupid. Hell, Ida’d give any man with half a brain pause just because she’s Ida.
Today, even scruffy, she managed to look like a woman who could take on the world. That always set off some warning lights in the back of my mind. I had personal experience with the crusading side of Ida’s personality. I’d had to arrest her once or twice for taking on the world without a permit. Not that she held it against me. Ida enjoys a good argument now and then. She hates to lose, but she doesn’t expect to win them all either. She’s fair-minded.
And closed-mouthed. We’d fallen into the habit of trying to out-wait each other in conversation. Ida was just beginning to realize I wasn’t the tame town chief, but she wasn’t sure how she felt about that. So, we waited. She carried a cluster of flowers in her hand — red and sort of fluffy. I didn’t recognize the variety, but I knew for whom the tribute was intended. Jeb. The husband she’d lost years ago. Even in death, he was a lucky man.
I nodded toward the flowers and spoke first. “Special occasion?”
She hesitated a moment too long and looked a bit too caught. “Not . . . really.”
My cop intuition kicked in, and when that happens my eyebrow lifts all on its own. I can’t control it. My eyebrow lifts. So, I stared. Ida caved.
“All right, I can see I’ve got about as much chance of skirting the truth with you as I did with Battle. What is it about you Royden men?” She adjusted the flowers gently, holding them up for a better inspection. “This is a peace offering. Anytime Jeb wanted to get around me about something, he always brought flowers.”
“Flowers never hurt.”
Ida smiled, memories obviously tugging at her. “That was his philosophy. So anytime I’d like his blessing, I bring flowers.”
Blessing?
I gritted my teeth and stared again. Staring is more polite than swearing. Jeb Walker’s blessing? My mind immediately focused on Del Jackson, the man the whole town watched at Ida’s side on a regular basis. The man I thought she’d been casually dating. My competition. And Ida wanted Jeb’s blessing.
An invisible Battle snorted with disgust. Your competition? Not hardly. Boy, you never got in the game. I did my level best to keep my features completely immobile and my jaw firmly clamped. As usual, Battle’s advice was a day late and a dollar short. The fact that he was probably right irritated me, but what I was supposed to have done about Ida was beyond me. I’m not quite sure of the proper etiquette for seducing your boss while she’s dating another man.
That uncertainty wouldn’t have been a problem for Battle. He ever let etiquette get in his way when he saw a woman he wanted.
“Amos? You okay?”
“What? Oh, yeah. Just great.” I lied well. Battle would be proud of that at least. “Flowers made me remember Sandy’s birthday. Day after next. She loves those.” I had no idea what those were.
“Come on by the house early that day and cut some out of the side flower bed before the frost gets them.”
“Will do.” They were red. Surely I could figure it out when I got there without having to ask. How many red flowers could she have in one bed?
We stood there for a moment, not much else to say unless one of us was willing to step over that line we’d drawn between us, the one that kept us safe from mistakes but didn’t rule out the possibility. If she’d sounded at all uncertain about asking for Jeb’s blessing I would have at least stepped on that line. But she hadn’t, and I didn’t.
Thunder rumbled closer. I checked the sky and offered the umbrella to her. She still had the trip to the graveside to make. “If I sprint, I can beat the rain to the car.”
“Thank you. I’ll take it. I’m not proud.” At my inelegant snort, she snatched the umbrella and amended, “At least not when it comes to umbrellas.”
I wisely said nothing and headed for the Jeep.
* * * *
Almost.
I almost had them. My messages. Sandy, our dispatch and newest fully accredited officer on the Mossy Creek police department, waved the pink slips at me as I came in the station’s front door. I swung instantly toward her, toward the counter that divides the public area from the dispatch and office sections. As soon as I extended my hand, she impaled the messages on one of those deadly spikes.
“Nothing worth your time, Chief.” She gave her badge a little cuff-shine. I’m not sure she was even aware of the proud motion or my urge to choke her.
“Opal called to see if we�
�d heard anything on those Hispanic kids she’s taken in. I’ve told her a dozen times, we’d call her the instant we heard anything. I swear, it’s like she doesn’t trust us.”
I shook my head. For once I had an explanation before Sandy. “I think she’s calling because the boy’s asking.”
Sandy’s mouth rounded. “Oh. You mean he hasn’t figured out yet that no one’s going to be able to trace his grandmother in Mexico.”
“Right. Soon enough, he’ll figure it out. The calls will stop.”
“Okay. Makes sense. Next — Dwight called and said that if Ida was too busy to come to the council meeting then he was just calling it off. Seemed a bit put out.”
I’d already started turning away, but that announcement swung me right back to her. Like a bird dog on point. Dwight Truman lived for his position as the chairman of the council. “Dwight is blowing off a council meeting? It’s budget time. He loves budget. Especially when he gets to pick apart my budget requests. Tonight’s my turn. I planned to spend the whole afternoon going over those numbers.”
“I know.” She smiled like someone offering a gift. “Now you’re saved. You can thank Miss Ida. It’s because of the bike the town gave him.”
Sometimes you just had to give your head a good shake to clear out the jumble and start over when talking to Sandy. “Ida can’t make the meeting and Dwight’s ticked off. But he really canceled because of the bike?”
Sandy nodded and settled down behind her desk with a dangerously full, brown bag lunch. “That’s right.”
I edged toward my office, never taking my eye off the brown bag. Since she’d been promoted to officer, Jess — her husband the writer — thought it a good idea to pack her a lunch and include a poem each day. Sometimes he sent two. Poems, that is. He heard that officers who have loved ones take fewer chances in dangerous situations.
Jess didn’t want Sandy forgetting she had a loved one.
No one who’d been a victim of those lunches could forget that Sandy had a loved one. You see, Sandy’s so proud of Jess, she wants to share the poems. Out loud. The boys and I try to get out of range before Sandy remembers to share. To say we scatter like doves in a belfry at Sunday noon is only a slight exaggeration.