Mama Rocks the Empty Cradle

by Nora Deloach

Mama shook her head. “Simone, tomorrow morning when you take those pictures, Rose will be here with me, and this time she is going to tell me what’s behind all this secrecy!”

  It was dawn, Saturday morning. I was awakened from a sound sleep by Midnight’s deep-throated woof and my father’s voice. I enjoy waking up to the fragrance of summer flowers and the chirping of sparrows in Mama’s yard. But this morning, instead of being gently prodded to get out of my bed, I was snatched up by the serious argument going on in our backyard between my father and his best friend.

  Even though my mind wasn’t clear, I knew that what was going down had to do with Midnight’s not wanting to be tied up.

  “Boy,” my father was saying, “you can’t keep bringing home things that don’t belong to us.”

  I couldn’t tell by his frantic barks whether Midnight understood my father’s reasoning or not.

  I yawned.

  Midnight’s yelps grew louder. “Quiet down, boy,” I heard Daddy say. “You’re going to wake Candi and she needs her rest.”

  Then my father said, “I want you back in this yard in an hour, you hear?”

  Midnight stopped barking; there wasn’t even a small whimper. I wondered whether he understood his curfew.

  I headed to the kitchen toward the rich smell of French vanilla coffee.

  “Sounds like you and Midnight had a fight,” I said when Daddy came inside.

  Daddy’s expression was sour. “Yeah,” he admitted, then poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down.

  I walked behind his chair and put my hands on his shoulders and began rubbing them. “Sounds like you lost.”

  Daddy’s smile was a thin grin of embarrassment. “It’s not Midnight’s style to be tied to a tree.”

  “I can believe that,” I said. I poured myself a cup of coffee, then joined my father.

  Daddy frowned. “Baby, your mama’s right—The thing to do is not to chain Midnight but to find where he’s been digging. Folks in this town don’t cater to desecrating their dead.”

  I lifted my cup and breathed in the wonderful scent of the coffee. “Did Mama tell you that Abe is expecting a report from SLED’s lab on Monday?”

  Daddy sipped his coffee. “Yeah,” he said. “I sure wish Midnight would go back to dragging home things that I can pay for, like boots from back porches. There’s something unholy about disturbing the dead.”

  “Especially dead babies,” I whispered, thinking about Morgan Childs.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTEEN

  The sun was bright. Swarms of mosquitoes, like tiny black snowflakes, floated in the humid air.

  As I had done the day before, I parked my Honda behind Rose Childs’s trailer. Then I waited for somebody else in the family to come out and throw me off their property.

  Instead, all was quiet. Too quiet. Mama’s plan to draw Rose away from the cemetery by getting her to come over to our house for money to help with the funeral expenses was clever. Except that Rose lived on what I considered the Childses’ commune. Lots more family would be around to hinder me from taking pictures. On my drive here, I’d decided to deal with their resistance up front, before I was down on my hands and knees taking snapshots of the tiny, old graves.

  Now, however, there wasn’t a stir from any of the mobile homes. Only the smell of green peppers and onions cooking.

  There wasn’t a sound, not even a barking dog or a television set.

  I stood for a moment gazing down the road at the rows of neat mobile homes, swatting mosquitoes away from my face. Then I walked over, unlatched the gate, and stepped inside the graveyard.

  Out of a natural reverence for the dead, I stopped for a moment. I studied the well-groomed graveyard, the little headstones. The only sign of life was a brown spider scurrying over the headstone of Eyelet Combs, born June 1, 1969, died December 25, 1969.

  I stood there, imagining Miss Lucy Bell Childs holding tiny Eyelet, who would have been wrapped in some sort of handmade clothes. Lucy Bell probably sewed something special for Eyelet’s final moments aboveground. I wondered how Eyelet looked, what uniqueness she had brought into the world. Then the thought of how short and tragic the lives of all twelve of these babies were made me shiver in sadness.

  Miss Lucy Bell’s helplessness as she nursed poor, dying Eyelet and each of the other eleven infants while watching their lives slip away must have been overwhelming. I remembered Annie Mae Gregory’s remark that Miss Lucy Bell hated being called a midwife.

  As I stood thinking, I saw in my mind’s eye an old woman in a black dress that draped her from neck to ankles. Her snow-colored kinky hair would have been covered with a large white handkerchief, a custom of women in this area whenever they didn’t want to wear a hat to church. Her shoes would have been black, polished to a high gleam.

  Her scent would have been of lavender extract. Miss Lucy Bell would have given each dead child its last bath in spiced water so as to present it as a sweet-smelling odor to its Maker.

  I imagined her standing with tiny, lifeless Eyelet Combs in her arms. Lucy would quote a scripture, sing a song, pray.

  I imagined the deep sadness in her face. A surge of compassion swept through me. To Miss Lucy Bell, this pretty, quiet place was more than a cemetery; it was a shrine of her atonement for begrudging her mission of bringing these poor babies into the world. And perhaps for being the carrier of some germ that had cut their young lives so short.

  Something moved. I looked toward the trees. Nothing. “Oh, well,” I said to myself, “Mama sent me to take pictures. I’d better hop to it.” I swatted another mosquito on my neck, then pulled Mama’s Olympus camera from its case.

  It must have been a half hour later when I became aware of the sound of blowflies and the smell of fresh-killed flesh. This new, unpleasant scent came from the woods. Barely visible at the edge of the trees, I saw a figure. A large, hulking man with a straggly beard.

  And then, without warning, he was gone. For a second, I wasn’t quite sure I’d seen him at all. But I knew who it was.

  Nightmare was trying to scare me, getting his kicks again by provoking the same kind of fear in me that he’d aroused when I was driving to Cousin Agatha’s house. But this time I wasn’t going to be intimidated by some half-witted boogeyman.

  I was crouched, shooting angles of the final resting place of an infant who had died just three days before the death of Eyelet Combs. The name on the tombstone was Tony Tabard, born July 1, died December 22. Then I heard rustling in a nearby bush. I stood. But there was no sign of the hulking man who seemed to be shadowing me. I decided the sound I’d heard was just some small creature foraging in the underbrush. So I jumped and nearly dropped Mama’s camera when Nightmare said, very close to me: “What you doing in Grandma Lucy Bell’s graveyard? Who are you?”

  Even though I’d expected him to show up, I froze. I scanned the landscape as if I was searching for a place to hide. The seconds stretched out. My fingers tightened on Mama’s camera. Then I took a deep breath, filling my nostrils with Nightmare’s tangy scent, one of fresh blood and sweat.

  “I said, what you doing messing with some of Grandma Lucy Bell’s babies?” he repeated impatiently.

  I stood up and turned to face him. “It doesn’t matter who I am. I know who you are.”

  I was staring Nightmare square in the face. He did indeed look like somebody who’d been conjured up in a bad dream. He sneered, then moved toward me. A cynical grin twisted his lips. In his right hand was a knife, in his left the carcass of a fat rabbit whose abdomen had been slit. The dead animal dripped blood on Nightmare’s filthy boots.

  A gust of warm air stirred and a swarm of flies rose around him and his odor. I swallowed the lump in my throat, determined to speak a lot more confidently than I felt. “Just who do you think you are?” I demanded. “And where do you get off scaring women? Don’t you know that you could make a person hurt you or themselves when all you’re doing is having some stupid kind of fun?”

  Nightmar
e stared at me with flat brown eyes. Then he wiped his brow with his right hand, the hand with the knife. “I done ask you once, what you doing messing with Grandma Lucy Bell’s babies?” But his voice had moderated a little, as if he’d sensed my determination not to be frightened off.

  “I’m not doing anything that would interest you,” I snapped. I took a step toward the open gate.

  Nightmare’s dark eyes instantly filled with suspicion. He moved toward me. “Nobody suppose to be messing with these babies,” he said.

  I decided not to say anything. I’d just wait until he grabbed for me, then I’d give him a good jab directly into his stupid eyes. But then I had an idea. “Listen, you creep, I’m James Covington’s daughter,” I said.

  Nightmare stopped cold. He stared as if making up his mind whether I was telling him the truth. Then, lowering his knife, he stepped back. “Mr. James sent you for his venison, didn’t he?” he asked.

  “No, he did not,” I answered.

  He wiped his nose, then offered me the carcass. “He sent you for one of my rabbits?”

  “No. My father didn’t send me for anything.” I put my hands on my hips. “Listen, you tried to scare me on the road to Cypress Creek the other day and I want you to know that I didn’t appreciate it. If you do that to me again, I’ll ram my tire jack down your throat.”

  A flicker of satisfaction crossed Nightmare’s ugly face. “You’re scared now, ain’t you?” he asked.

  “Hell, no!” I snapped, shaking my head. I turned and strolled out of the cemetery. Behind me, Nightmare laughed. “This creep is really crazy,” I muttered under my breath. But I kept walking.

  Through his laughter, Nightmare called out: “Mr. James’s gal, you’re scared right now. You can’t fool Nightmare, you’re scared right now!”

  I turned to face him, holding Mama’s camera tight. “If you ever try that again,” I warned, sickened at the pleasure in his eyes, “what I leave as your face in one piece, my father will cut up like that rabbit, do you hear me, creep?”

  Nightmare’s grin widened. He gestured with his left hand, the dead rabbit dangling in midair. “Nightmare can tell you be real scared right now,” he said smugly.

  By this time I’d gotten to my Honda, had opened the door, and was sitting behind the wheel. I tossed Mama’s camera on the passenger’s seat and switched on the ignition.

  Nightmare’s crazy laughter ricocheted through the still hot air. “Mr. James won’t do nothing to hurt Nightmare,” he shouted confidently. “Mr. James likes Nightmare’s venison!”

  CHAPTER

  FOURTEEN

  It was a little after eleven o’clock when I finally got the film to the drugstore. I asked for their one-hour developing. When I got back to the house, Mama was stretched out on the sofa. Rose Childs sat in an easy chair nearby. I said hello, then headed straight toward the kitchen to get a cold drink.

  “Sometimes, Rose,” I heard Mama say, “keeping things to yourself is the best thing to do.”

  When Rose answered, her voice was low and tense like she didn’t want anybody to hear. “I don’t like people getting into my business.”

  “I can understand how you feel,” Mama agreed. She sounded relaxed, gracious.

  “People always looking to say something bad, always trying to find fault.” Rose paused. “Lord knows, I did what I thought was right.”

  “Nobody can blame you for anything,” Mama said.

  I walked into the family room, tilting a glass of Coke up to my lips. “Simone,” Mama said curtly, “I’m surprised you didn’t offer Rose or me a cold drink.”

  I shrugged, turned, and headed back for the refrigerator. A few minutes later, I handed both Rose and Mama a glass of cola.

  “Still, Rose,” Mama was saying, “there are times when a burden becomes too heavy to bear alone. That’s when you need to talk with somebody you can trust.”

  Rose stopped the glass halfway to her lips. She gave Mama a quick, suspicious glance.

  “There are people who know how to keep a confidence,” Mama told her.

  Rose looked down into her glass.

  “There’s something heavy on your mind, isn’t there, Rose?” Mama asked.

  Rose looked into Mama’s eyes, her lips twitching.

  Mama said, “I believe it’s got something to do with poor Cricket’s murder.”

  Rose blinked. “I don’t want people saying bad things about me.”

  “I can’t imagine anybody thinking bad of you,” Mama told her. “But if what you’ve got on your mind is something you want me and Simone to keep to ourselves, I can understand that.”

  Rose nodded but still she said nothing.

  Mama eased back against the sofa cushions. “As long as what’s bothering you doesn’t have anything to do with breaking the law or hindering Abe from catching up with Cricket’s killer, I see no reason for me or Simone to repeat it. Your secret is our secret, isn’t that right, Simone?” Mama asked me.

  I nodded, placed my empty glass on the table, sat in the chair next to Rose, and waited.

  For a while, Rose didn’t speak. She sat, biting her lip and rubbing her half-empty glass with her fingertips. Finally, she said, “I reckoned I should have paid more attention—” She stopped.

  “To what?” Mama asked gently.

  Rose let out a breath that sounded like a sorrowful sigh. “To what Cricket said about somebody wanting to take little Morgan.”

  “Go on,” Mama said.

  “Six weeks ago, Cricket found a note on her car windshield,” Rose continued. “It said, Morgan is pretty enough to steal.”

  “Sounds like a compliment to me. That child is real pretty.”

  “Cricket thought so, too. Then a week later she found another note. This one read, Tainted blood runs inside you.”

  Mama frowned.

  Rose continued. “Cricket asked me what to do. I told her not to put too much stock in it.”

  “What happened to the notes?” I asked.

  “I guess she threw them away,” Rose answered.

  “There was another note, wasn’t there?” Mama asked.

  Rose nodded, looking miserable. “The third note read, Morgan suppose to be mine.”

  I thought Mama was going to say something, but to my surprise she was silent. Rose took a stuttering breath. “It pains me that Cricket was going to take that note to the sheriff but I talked her out of it.”

  “For heaven’s sake, why?” I demanded. If Abe had known about those threats, maybe Cricket would be alive today.

  “I told her Timber wrote the notes. He had strong feelings for Morgan, and he hated that Cricket was working with Sabrina Miley. He’s jumped on Cricket to fight her more than once because he hated that Sabrina was taking money from men because she knew things that they wanted to keep secret. For the past few months, Timber has even been threatening to have the welfare take Morgan away from Cricket, but Cricket told him that she wasn’t scared of that—that the people at the welfare knew how much she loved Morgan and what good care she gave that child.”

  “And when Birdie snatched Morgan out of Cricket’s car?” I asked. “That day at the Winn Dixie?”

  “Cricket went ballistic on Birdie when she caught up with her. But she still believed that Timber was behind those notes.” Rose sighed. “Everybody knows that Birdie has a nerve problem and as long as she takes her medicine, she’s okay. But, whenever she misses a few doses, she gets confused.”

  Mama spoke. “Abe told me that he’s had a good talk with Isaiah, Birdie’s husband. Isaiah has promised to make sure that Birdie takes her medicine.” She turned to look at me. “Simone, you saw her on Wednesday fishing with Koot. She seemed okay, don’t you think?”

  I nodded.

  Rose rolled her eyes. “Timber …” Rose stopped, and started again. “I expect I should tell Abe that Timber wrote those notes and that he killed Cricket so that him and some woman could take the child.”

  Mama looked confused. “I don’t fol
low you.”

  Rose cocked her head and frowned. “Last Monday morning,” she said, “Timber came and told Cricket that he wanted to take Morgan to visit his mama. At first Cricket said no, but then she remembered she wanted to go off to Savannah with one of her men. And Timber swore that his mama had clothes and money for the child and she only wanted to keep the baby for a few hours. So, Cricket finally said okay. But when she got back home around nine o’clock that night and discovered that Timber hadn’t brought Morgan back, she called his mama’s house. Timber’s mama told Cricket that she hadn’t seen Timber or Morgan in weeks. Cricket called the sheriff but when she couldn’t reach him, she headed out to hunt for Timber herself.”

  “Did you talk to Cricket after that?” I asked.

  Rose’s voice rose. “No. The next day, Abe and that deputy of his, Rick Martin, came and told me that Cricket had been killed.”

  “And Morgan?” Mama asked. “Have you seen Morgan since Cricket died?”

  Rose said very softly, like she was in great misery, “I’ve talked to Timber’s mama. She swears that not she, nor anybody else in her family, knows Morgan’s whereabouts.”

  I held my hands up. “Wait a minute,” I protested. “I happen to know for a fact that somebody in your family is hiding Morgan.”

  Rose looked at me, surprised.

  “Daddy told me that big ugly guy who folks call Nightmare is your cousin, isn’t that right?” I asked, scowling at the memory of the big stinking man holding up his dead rabbit and laughing tauntingly at me.

  Rose nodded.

  “The same Nightmare who gets his kicks from scaring women.”

  “He’s a little touched in the head,” Rose conceded, “but he doesn’t mean no harm.”

  “Touched in the head or not, his little tricks could get him hurt,” I continued. “Especially if he tries to pull another one on me.”

  “When did you see Nightmare?” Rose asked.

  “On Tuesday afternoon,” I said, “I saw Morgan in Nightmare’s blue sedan.” I wasn’t about to tell Rose about my encounter with Nightmare a few hours ago in her grandmother’s graveyard.