Mama Rocks the Empty Cradle

by Nora Deloach

  Once Midnight was healthy again, however, he began to bark. Continuously. It took my father only a few days and noisy nights to realize that his new dog was a rambler, an explorer, unaccustomed to and very unhappy about being in lock-down.

  Reluctantly, Daddy let him run free, fretting silently that the dog wouldn’t return. The first night Midnight came home dragging our neighbor Mr. Banks’s smelly work boots, boots that Mrs. Banks wouldn’t let inside of their house. Mr. Banks took his boots off on his back porch every evening, then, the next morning, he’d put them on again. Midnight changed all that. I think that Daddy was so glad that the dog came back home that he didn’t realize Midnight felt his retrieving efforts had been rewarded when my father patted him on the head. When, the next day, Midnight brought Daddy Mr. Banks’s boots again, Daddy just bought Mr. Banks another pair of boots. After that, Mr. Banks took off his new boots inside his garage, not on his back porch.

  Midnight brought home sheets, towels, underwear. Each time my father cheerfully compensated the owners for their losses. Once, when I suggested to Daddy that he was training Midnight to steal, he laughed and told me, “Simone, a Labrador retriever is supposed to retrieve!”

  But now, the tables had turned. Midnight had brought home two tiny skulls, the first of which had already been sent to the state forensic lab for examination. The look in my father’s eyes suggested that his feelings about his dog’s thieving habit were changing.

  This hot summer morning, Mama had decided to wear a brown cotton skirt and a yellow blouse that complemented her candied brown complexion. Her beauty was marred by the pained intake of breath she made when I helped her into the passenger’s side of the Honda.

  Our first stop was to take this latest skull to Sheriff Abe’s office. Mama had already telephoned Abe to arrange for the skull to be sent to the same laboratory in Columbia where he’d sent the first one.

  As for me, no matter what was going on with Midnight’s skulls, Morgan, Cricket, or Timber, thoughts of Yasmine kept meandering through my mind like a lovesick song. I still didn’t know what I was going to say that would make her change her mind.

  When Mama and I got to the sheriff’s office, a cloud of cigarette smoke hung heavily in the air. The ashtray on the desktop in front of Abe was full.

  “That Timber is as slippery as a catfish,” he told us.

  As usual, Sheriff Abe fumbled out a cigarette and stuck it between his lips, but he didn’t light it.

  “Have you heard anything about the whereabouts of little Morgan?” Mama asked as she sat in one of the wooden chairs.

  Abe shook his head. “No, I’m afraid I haven’t.”

  “Not one of Timber’s kin has got the child?”

  “I had Timber’s mother, Dollie, call every one of her relatives all over the United States. Nobody owned up to seeing or hearing about Timber or Morgan in the past two weeks.”

  Mama took a deep breath. “What about Cricket’s murder?” she asked. “Have you learned any more?”

  “Cricket’s fingerprints were on one of the glasses in the apartment. We know for a fact that Timber’s prints are on the other glass because I had Timber in my jail a couple of weeks ago. He got drunk and I had to haul him in for trying to beat Cricket. Rick had the smarts to take his fingerprints then. We got a match off one of the glasses.”

  “So Timber and Cricket were in the room, but we still don’t know if they were there at the same time. What about the blood?”

  “Most of it was Cricket’s blood. But there was somebody else’s blood, too, although we haven’t identified who that person is as yet. Once we get a chance to talk to Timber, we’ll have a better chance of knowing whether it was his blood.”

  Mama reached into her purse and handed Abe a piece of paper. “I’ve got three other names I want you to look at.”

  The sheriff read the names of Joe Blake, Sonny Clay, and Les Demps. He leaned forward.

  “These are just names,” Mama contended, “nothing more. It would be good if you could talk to these men, see what you can learn from each. Please, Abe, be discreet.”

  Abe’s eyebrows rose. “How did their names come to you? What these fellers got to do with Cricket or her missing baby?”

  “Cricket knew these men well,” Mama answered. “Perhaps too well. By the way, did you find out who owned the blue Ford that you chased with Timber and friend inside of it?”

  “The car was registered to Koot Rawlins,” Abe said, “but she ain’t seen it in almost six months. Her sister’s boy, JC Bates, sold it to a feller named Warren for five hundred dollars. Koot showed me a receipt. She said she signed the title over to this Warren, but I suspect he never bothered to change the tags. From Root’s description of this feller Warren, along with what Rick and I saw of him, we’ve concluded that he is the one we spotted with Timber driving through town.”

  “I’m going to visit Rose, Cricket’s sister, to see what she knows about Timber and his other women,” Mama told Abe. “It might be that one of them has got Morgan holed up at her place.”

  “If you find that baby, you let me know right away,” Abe said. “As for that Timber, I’ve got an APB out all over the Southeast for him and his buddy Warren.”

  “Have you gotten the report from Columbia on that first baby’s skull that James’s dog brought to our house?”

  “Yeah,” Abe nodded. “It’s right here.” He pulled a paper from the stack in front of him and handed it to Mama. “Course I ain’t had a chance to do anything with it. Ain’t even had a chance to alert people to Midnight digging in their cemeteries.”

  I smiled, but Mama wasn’t amused. “Midnight didn’t get that skull from any cemetery,” she snapped, then opened the small box and unwrapped its contents, carefully placing it on Abe’s desk.

  Abe stared down at the second skull. “Lord, where is that dog digging?”

  “Midnight is trying to tell us something,” Mama insisted. “Nobody seems interested in listening to him but me.” She read the report Abe had given her. After a few moments, she looked up. “The baby was about four months old when it died!”

  “How can they tell that?” Abe asked.

  I answered him. “I know from working with the forensics who help my boss get ready for his trials that they can tell from bones a victim’s age, sex, race, and height. Sometimes, they can even tell the type of diet.”

  Mama frowned.

  “Was there trauma to it?” I asked.

  Mama looked down at the report again. “No, no trauma … Abe, there’s something very wrong going on. I know you’ve got your hands full with Cricket’s murder, and poor Morgan missing, but I need your help on this, too. Please, get the message out about these skulls. See if anybody knows where Midnight might be digging.”

  Abe sighed. “I’ll get to it soon as I can,” he promised Mama.

  CHAPTER

  EIGHT

  An hour later, we were near the Coosahatchie River bridge, three miles south of Otis. Mama touched my arm, then motioned for me to stop the car just before we crossed the bridge. I tapped the brakes and pulled to the shoulder.

  “Why do you want me to stop?” I asked.

  “Those two women on the bridge,” she replied. “One is Birdie Smiley. I haven’t talked to her since that incident in Winn Dixie. I need to see how she is feeling.”

  Thick pines stretched their branches on each side of the highway. On the other side of the bridge, parked a few yards away from the two women, was a tan Chevrolet station wagon. To our right, directly across the highway, was a plowed soybean field with an oasis of woods behind it. Except for the sound of birds in the trees, the area was quiet, idyllic.

  The driver of a green pickup truck stared at us as he drove by. No doubt he was wondering why we were parked. Mama waved, nodding in assurance that we didn’t need help.

  The sound of two crows who sat on the rail in front of the bridge’s precipice drew my attention. The larger shuffled toward the road, then took to flight, its plumage
shining in the sunlight. The other lifted its wings, as if it felt threatened. It moved its dark head from side to side, then stretched its neck and cawed. The ugly sound ricocheted off the trees. But before it died away, the second bird flew away, too.

  The two women who stood on the bridge seemed oblivious to us. “What’s Birdie and that other woman doing on the bridge?” I asked.

  “Fishing,” Mama answered. “James tells me that good-size fish flow from the river into this creek.”

  “Why don’t we talk to Birdie later?” I suggested. “I want to get on to Rose’s house. I’m anxious to find out what other women Timber was going with.”

  “I want to know if one of them is hiding poor Morgan, too,” Mama said. “But give me a minute to speak to Birdie, Simone. Get out and ask her to come over here.”

  I nodded. Outside the car, the smell of grain was heavy in the summer air. As I walked up to Birdie, I recognized her companion as Koot Rawlins. A look passed between them, something said without being said. I told them that Mama was sitting in my car, and because of her foot surgery, she couldn’t come down. She wanted to speak to Birdie, I said.

  Birdie Smiley looked toward the tan station wagon before she spoke. “I suppose we should speak to Candi,” she said placidly. She pulled in her fishing pole. Koot Rawlins whispered something underneath her breath, then belched and pulled her pole up, too.

  When we reached the car, Mama had opened her door. Tiny beads of sweat stood on Root’s forehead. She leaned on the passenger’s side of the Honda. Birdie stood directly behind her.

  “Candi, how are you doing?” Koot asked, glancing down at Mama’s feet.

  “Pretty fair,” Mama replied, fanning. “Course I never thought that it would be so hard for me to get around,” she admitted.

  Koot swiped at a fly, her eyes fixed on Mama’s face. “Fact is, I didn’t know you had had your feet cut on until Sarah, Annie Mae, and Carrie told me.”

  Mama looked surprised.

  “Don’t you remember? Soon after you and that daughter of yours drove up to the apartments yesterday, they came to see where Cricket got killed, too,” Koot explained. “Sarah told me that you wouldn’t be getting around for quite a while.”

  “Sarah is right,” Mama admitted. “The fact is that I wouldn’t be able to get out at all if it wasn’t for Simone. I talked her into driving me to Cricket’s sister’s house.”

  Birdie grimaced. “If you were heading to Rose’s house, what you doing out here?” she asked, staring down at Mama.

  “I wanted to ask you how you are feeling. I hadn’t seen you since Saturday. You know, when you were holding little Morgan.”

  “I’ve learned my lesson,” Birdie answered. “I ain’t got no business taking care of a baby.”

  “So, you are feeling better?” Mama asked, her voice concerned.

  Birdie’s eyelids fluttered. She seemed very careful not to look at Koot. “Isaiah promised Abe he’d make sure I take my pills like I’m supposed to.”

  Koot belched.

  When Mama spoke again, she’d changed the subject. “What happened to Cricket,” she said thoughtfully, squinting into the sunlight, “is horrible, and I aim to find out who killed that young woman so spitefully. But what concerns me more is what’s happened to her little girl, Morgan.… ”

  Koot’s eyes widened. She looked from Mama to Birdie.

  Birdie Smiley made a tiny sound in her throat. The look on her face was nothing like the disoriented expression she’d had in the grocery store five days ago, before Cricket’s murder—today, Birdie wasn’t confused at all. “Ain’t nothing happened to that child. Some of Cricket’s people probably got that baby,” she said, politely but firmly.

  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.”

  CHAPTER

  NINE

  The 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.”