Ya-Yas in Bloom

by Rebecca Wells

  One night while I tossed and turned in bed, burning for my baby, Jesus climbed down from the cross and told me I could have a baby girl. So I can be patient. Patience obtains everything. Saint Teresa of Avila said so.

  All I want is one little baby girl of my own. I don’t want a boy. I don’t want the boy with his little tallywhacker hanging between his legs that will grow up with him, and pretty soon he’s swinging it all over the place like a king. Like Larry Reidheimer. Like my father got to be after I went to high school. Mama told me.

  Once I went to my father and told him what I thought of him. He was not ugly or angry. He said, “Edythe, there are things you do not understand. There are parts of marriage that your mother wants no part of. Those are the only parts I go elsewhere for. I love your mother. I love you.”

  But he was damned as far as I was concerned. No, I don’t want a boy child. As far as I’m concerned, when they clip them at birth, they should just cut the whole damn thing off.

  I want a little girl. Like me. One I could love. A little daughter of God.

  And I am ready. I got a two-bedroom apartment, which does not come cheap. But I have been paying the extra just so I can be prepared when the sign comes. God will not give me a sign from the little one if I’m living in a one-bedroom. Of course, I will not move my baby into her own room until she is ready to stop sleeping in the same room with me. That could take years, but I need to be ready. God is counting on me being ready.

  When I quit at the Veteran’s Hospital, Miss Honansson in Personnel, who was from Chicago (you could tell), was the only one asked me why. “Why are you leaving, Edythe?” she said. “You are so effective at your job, why do you want to resign?”

  I told her, “The only way I could stay was if Larry Reidheimer was to have his pecker removed. If they would just leave it to me, I would put that thing in between a car door and the car and slam it off. That is what I would do, with no hesitating.”

  Miss Honansson was the one I had liked, the one who brought me a Valentine card that one year. She’s so cute with that smile and those shoes. But then she had to go and say to me, “Edythe, have you ever thought about getting some professional help?”

  Getting some help. I do not need help, thank you. God is my help. The Holy Mother Roman Catholic Church is my help. What I need is my child.

  My baby girl is revealed to me at Video Schmideo, the little video shop in the Garden District, as they call it. On Wednesday, just before three in the afternoon, I am standing there looking, always looking, acting like I’m reading the back of The Magnificent Ambersons. My baby girl toddles in with her mother, who is none other than Joanie Hammond, who insists on being called Joanie Ogden Hammond. The nerve and disrespect of that woman to insist on using her maiden name like that after she found a perfectly good husband! I refuse to say it. I have seen Joanie Hammond with her baby girl before. I seem to recall that they call the baby Rosalyn.

  She looks about three years old, with blond hair and hazel eyes and a little pair of overalls. Wearing a tiny chubby jacket with her clothes all bunched up underneath at the shoulders so that she almost looks deformed. But that is only an illusion because without the clothes she is perfect. She looks at me, straight at me. I can see in her eyes that she is ready to come to me. She starts flirting with me, rolling her beautiful eyes and playing peekaboo. I give only a tiny smile. Like she is not God’s gift to me on earth. I must not draw attention to myself.

  Her mother is standing over there jingling the car keys, her hands on her hip. So busy with a friend she ran into, making fun of that actress Melanie Griffith’s voice. She is Ms. Joanie Petite Ya-Ya, all dressed to the tee. Like she does not have a child, like she is still free on her own. Oh, Joanie, you’re so modern you can’t keep your eye on the little precious one. You won’t be so modern when you lose your baby. Will you, Joanie, popular girl with Siddalee Walker and the other princesses? Your heartache will be so strong and last so long that all your popularity will be drained dry. The phone will not ring. Your husband will walk out on you. But you will happily remarry. You will have another little baby or two or three, and still you will not know what you have.

  I know you and your type: Siddalee and her gang—you included—laughing at me all the way through school, the way the Ya-Yas laughed at Mama when they were in high school. Mama told me. Mama tells me everything. But you will be just fine. You people always are.

  And then the little one walks straight to me. Smiling. Without hesitation. I bend down and pick her up like I know her, like I am her aunt or something. She makes a low little sound, not quite talking. I walk straight out the door. I am holding her, no one can stop us now. A straight line to my car, and she is in the seat next to me. I hate it that I don’t have time to buckle her into the baby seat I bought and strapped into the back of my car. But it is okay, I will drive so careful with my precious new daughter. My heart is beating fast, I am perspiring. But my head is clear. There is no room for doubt. I am sure-footed. The sign has been given.

  I start driving her back to the apartment. But after a few blocks, when we are out of danger, I know I must stop and put her in the baby seat. It is a way of my giving thanks, of not taking for granted the life that has been given to me. I know how to do it, and she is not scared or fussy. I have practiced this with a stuffed bear many times.

  I drive safely and slowly the rest of the way home. I take the baby girl inside, and I lock the door. We go into my room. I lie down next to her on the bed, strewn with the stuffed animals I have had ready for her, and I stroke her baby hair, her tender skin. I tell her everything about me, things I have never told anybody. And she listens. She understands. She is the one God has sent to me. She is like me. We lie next to each other, the sheets softly touching our skin. She has waited like I have waited. Outside, they have all been the bosses, but now our time has come. We are in the temple, the doors are closed. I have lived my life to come to this moment. I have been vigilant because I know: The daughter of God will not come unless you have the eagle eye.

  Laughing, Joanie Ogden glanced down to check on her daughter. But she did not spot Rosalyn. She interrupted her conversation with Anne Gautier by raising her hand slightly, then stepped away to peek around a cardboard video display. She walked back the other direction to look in the next aisle, saying, “Rosalyn,” in a happy singsong voice. “Rosalyn, honey? Rosalyn?” As she moved quickly to the next two aisles, she called in a louder voice: “Rosalyn?” A tingling of fear coursed through her body. Joanie tried not to panic, but she broke out in a cold sweat. She walked quickly from aisle to aisle, not realizing that her calls to her daughter were getting louder and more desperate. Her heart and her ears were pounding. Everyone’s attention was on her now, although no one was helping. They all looked at her with confused, concerned faces. They stood there dumbly blocking her way as she ran about the store.

  Her mind started to race. There was no other place Rosalyn could be. “God, help me, God help me,” she murmured without thinking. She felt frantic and faint. Joanie bumped into Anne and clutched the front of her friend’s blouse. “Call 911. Someone’s taken Rosalyn.” People began to move and help. They were looking under displays she had already checked twice. One woman went to check the parking lot.

  Joanie started to cry. She cried uncontrollably, and she knew it was true. She ran out the front door and joined other voices in shouting her daughter’s name. There was still hope. There was still time. People were trying to take her arm and comfort her or ask questions, but she pulled away—she had to keep moving and calling for her daughter. She could hear a siren now. Everything began to swirl and collapse. She could feel herself being sat in a chair that someone brought out.

  A police officer stood in front of her, holding her by the shoulders, trying to get her to focus on his voice, “Ma’am. Ma’am. Ma’am, tell us what happened.” She tried to tell them between sobs, but she could not.

  Finally someone nearby shouted, “Someone’s kidnapped h
er three-year-old!”

  Another police car arrived, and then a Garnet Parish sheriff ’s car. She heard an officer say, “It’s George Ogden’s granddaughter who’s gone missing.”

  Immediately George Ogden, the baby’s grandfather, and Necie Kelleher Ogden called on every connection they ever had. George was the Garnet Parish Court judge, and his reach was wide. He didn’t take no as an answer. Consequently not only did the Thornton Police Department become fully involved, but also the Sheriff ’s Department and the Garnet County Search and Rescue Division.

  The search was hard and fast, with all the stops pulled out. The Sheriff ’s Department flotilla was deployed to the small bayou behind the video store. Within two hours, officers and volunteers were combing the neighborhood. The parking lot of the video store was a zoo all afternoon. Small-town hysteria set in quickly. Squad cars blocked the street at either end, and detectives and officers did not let anyone leave. They made people go over their stories of what happened again and again. Someone remembered a strange man by himself who disappeared after the mother started screaming. Another person remembered an odd woman with a dog. Most people didn’t remember anything at all. “The child was just gone. Just disappeared—,” was the most common reply. And it was getting harder to concentrate with Cenla’s only news helicopter hovering overhead, and the newspaper and radio reporters who arrived, and the TV van with that blond woman from the local evening news.

  The moment she heard, Necie Ogden had started a Novena to the Blessed Virgin to find Rosalyn unharmed. So did Vivi and Teensy. Caro, who didn’t go in for Novenas, meditated and cursed.

  The Ya-Yas set up camp at Necie’s house before nightfall. Joanie went back and forth between her own house and her mother’s. She was afraid to stop moving. She felt if she stayed in motion, things would somehow be okay. Her husband, Grove, and three of her sisters kept vigil with her, driving her around, answering the phone, trying to shield her from the growing circus of media, concerned citizens, and nosy parkers. Her brother Frank, who was now called “Francis,” flew in from Atlanta.

  That first evening, the police kept the child’s identity out of the press, referring to Rosalyn only as “the three-year-old child of a prominent Thornton family.” But then big news broke, interrupting the scheduled programming later that night. A convicted felon had escaped from a prison roadwork crew twenty-six miles outside Thornton at approximately seven that same morning. While being transported to the work site where fifteen prisoners were clearing ditches because of drainage problems, one Doyle Dubro had made a run for it into the woods nearby. There were only two deputies to supervise fourteen remaining convicts, so the law enforcement officers on hand had not followed Dubro into the woods to try and find him. In fact, the prison had not reported the incident to local authorities until twelve hours later, hoping to find him themselves and avoid bad publicity.

  The Ya-Yas, even Caro, spent the night at Necie’s, spreading themselves among the numerous second-floor bedrooms kept in gracious condition as guest rooms. Caro slept in the downstairs den, oxygen tank at her side on the sleeper sofa, so she wouldn’t have to walk up the stairs.

  Vivi and Teensy, who were in the bedrooms upstairs, could hear raised voices coming from Necie and George’s bedroom suite. Silently they cheered her on each time they heard Necie speak back to him. She was not satisfied with his approach to the situation, and she let him know it.

  When they all woke up the next day, it was still not clear who had won the argument.

  On the steps of the Garnet Parish Courthouse at 10:00 A.M., George Ogden held a press conference. To the left of the podium was a blown-up mug shot of Doyle Dubro. To the right was a blown-up photo of Rosalyn on poster board, propped on an easel. George stood at the podium with his wife, Necie Kelleher Ogden, beside him, along with Joanie and her husband, Grove Hammond. Television cameras were taping as George looked directly into the camera and spoke. “As of fifteen hundred hours yesterday, November 5, 1994, a three-year-old girl is believed to have been kidnapped from Video Schmideo, a local business here in Thornton. The prime suspect at this time is an escaped convict, one Doyle Dubro. We have deployed all available law enforcement teams, including the Thornton Police Department—”

  At this point, Necie edged herself to the microphone and began to speak. George was so shocked, he did nothing at first.

  “The little girl is Rosalyn, my daughter Joanie’s child,” Necie said, speaking quickly in a wavering voice. “Please, she is a precious child. Even if she were not our own flesh and blood, she would still be precious, still a child of God. Please: become your own deputy. Give us your eyes, ears, and every gift God gave you to help find—”

  At this point, George edged Necie aside and commandeered the microphone.

  “As I was saying, in addition to the Thornton Police Department, we have also deployed the Garnet Parish Sheriff ’s Department, the Louisiana State Patrol, the Garnet Parish Search and Rescue Division, and specialized units from surrounding parishes. Dubro is believed to be armed and dangerous. If you see Dubro, do not attempt to approach him, but call 911 immediately. May God bless and keep us all in His protection and care. Thank you.”

  By this time, both Necie and Joanie were sobbing, leaning on Grove, who had his arms around both of them. Unaware that he could still be heard in the microphone, George said, “Necie and Joanie, I told you I would not have any female hysterics! I should have known better than to let you appear in public with me.”

  The camera moved off the family and onto the lovely, vacuous face of the onsite reporter, a blond woman in her twenties. “Judge Ogden,” she asked, “what assurance can you give us that the authorities are doing their job?”

  George looked solidly at the young woman. “Police and state patrol, as well as other units, are putting maximum effort into investigating the possible connection with the kidnapping.”

  “Are you saying that Doyle Dubro is now the prime suspect?” the reporter asked.

  “Yes, I’m afraid it looks that way,” said George, who then turned and grabbed Necie by the elbow and herded Joanie and her husband back into the courthouse.

  The blond reporter faced the camera as she wrapped up the news report: “And so continues the unthinkable odyssey as Thornton struggles to save one of its beloved children. In addition to the hotline set up by the city, we at K-Dixie-BS-TV have our own hotline. We will be flashing Doyle Dubro’s photo at the top of every hour, and we ask that you memorize his face. Help bring an end to the suffering of one of Thornton’s most prominent families.”

  Vivi, Teensy, and Caro were watching the press conference in the den, lying in the sofa bed. Caro was still in her pajamas.

  Caro flicked off the TV remote in disgust and threw it across the room.

  “Idiots!” Vivi spat out.

  “Goddammit,” Caro began in her raspy, deep voice, “Vivi, why after all these years are we still letting these numb-nutted good old boys run everything?! A felon escapes from a road crew. A felon who once—once—robbed a convenience store with a water pistol! No history of sexual abuse, kidnapping, or pedophilia. A onetime loser of an offender. He doesn’t disappear into the state forest across the road. Instead, he somehow manages to travel unseen along a state highway for twenty-six miles—wearing a bright orange prison jumpsuit, mind you—and has nothing better to do than walk into a video store in the center of Thornton, in the toniest part of Thornton, for Christ’s sake, and kidnap a three-year-old girl! There were only ten people in the store at the time. Granted, they probably had their heads up their asses, but no one sees the muddy, scraggly convict in his fucking bright orange prison jumpsuit walk through the door in broad daylight—”

  Caro began to cough, that deep cough that racked her whole body. One of the things she hated the most about emphysema was how it cut her off from fully speaking her mind.

  “Ease up, Dahlin,” Vivi said, “take a few slow, deep breaths.”

  Vivi sat still while she watched Caro
steady her breathing.

  Finally, Caro added: “I’m so proud of Necie for speaking up. That heinous ape of a husband of hers is worse now than he was when he tried to shut down the black music station in the sixties because it played what he called ‘race music.’ I should have cold-cocked him back then when he tried to get in between Dinah Washington and the Ya-Yas.”

  “You are right, of course, Caro,” Vivi said. “It’s time to take things into our own hands while there is still time.”

  When Necie got home with Joanie and Grove at her side, the Ya-Yas stationed her by the phone. Teensy, Vivi, and Caro would head out in Teensy’s convertible, Teensy at the wheel. Caro would stay in the car, taking notes and marking their city map with the highlighter pen. Vivi would get out and question people. Anyone they saw outside would be questioned about what they had seen the previous afternoon.

  “It’s a bit improvised,” said Vivi. “But we haven’t got time for perfection.”

  Then the Ya-Yas did something they hadn’t done in a long time. They put their arms around each other, forming a circle in Necie’s living room. Vivi called out the Ya-Ya tribal names they had given each other in their initiation ceremony decades ago.

  “Duchess Soaring Hawk?” Vivi asked.

  “Check,” said Caro.

  “Princess Naked-as-a-Jaybird?”

  “Check,” answered Teensy.

  “Countess Singing Cloud?”

  “Check,” said Necie.

  Then Necie softly chimed in, “Queen Dancing Creek?”

  “Check,” Vivi said in an even voice. “Let’s roll.”

  The Ya-Yas had ridden in countless convertibles during their long friendship, but never had they been as subdued and serious as they were that day. It was a beautiful November afternoon, but other than exchanges about what street should be next and Vivi’s reports from her interviews, nothing much was said. This was no Ya-Ya joyride. After about two hours they were getting discouraged. Caro sighed. “The word futile comes to mind.”