by Rene Denfeld
The Bethel First Baptist Church was on a street corner that gentrification had overlooked—for the moment. Its rickety whitewashed porch looked as if it would blow down in a storm. All around the ramshackle church grew the barbed wire of commerce: cafés and brassy new apartments. The church looked like a little old man, huddled at the feet of his brash son.
Naomi walked—slowly—up the steps with Violet in the early morning sun, feeling instantly at home. She knew these people, poor and hopeful. They lined up in their Sunday best: bright cloth and straw hats festooned with flowers. The women had shoes dyed to match their dresses, stoles woven with wormholes, ancient fur stoles that looked like they might get up and run.
Naomi remembered Mrs. Cottle, sitting around Sunday after service with her few remaining church friends: Nancy of the dyed-blue hair, Ophelia of the ice milk fetish. Not ice cream, she always instructed Jerome before he ran to the store in town. Ice milk. She and Jerome would joke about it. She didn’t even know if anyone made ice milk anymore.
The parishioners greeted Violet with warmth, with love, and extended the same welcoming hands to Naomi.
The inside of the church was a plain box, reminding Naomi of rough-hewn Quaker churches. The pews were simple, the stage made of plywood, the pulpit covered in a cheap cloth. Everywhere she could see the signs of poverty shining through, and strangely this comforted her.
“This isn’t about Danita, is it?” she whispered to Violet, who turned around, splendid in a flowing blue dress with a hat to match, a beautiful crease of peacock over her crêpe eyelids.
“It’s about you,” Violet said, and Naomi’s stomach sank.
They lined up in pews, rows of the town’s vanishing black population, and not for the first time Naomi dipped her head in prayer. She had never known what to say to God. Come dig a hole with me, she wanted to invite. Come let us tunnel into my past.
The prayer finished, she lifted her head, looked around. There, across the way, a familiar face turning towards her. A brief bright smile.
Detective Winfield.
He was next to his mother, ancient and shrunken with a huge hat that dwarfed her. He was lifting the Bible in front of them, preparing to listen. His eyes returned to Naomi, saw Violet next to her, and nodded with something like relief.
“Let us sing,” the pastor said, and they did.
Towards the end of the service the pastor asked the congregation to pray for Naomi, to give her strength in her search. This she accepted, head down, Violet’s eyes glowing.
The service was followed by an early lunch in the patchy green yard in the back, where a single metal swing was set up for the kids. The tables were laid with food, and the men joshed one another about putting sideboards on their plates. Naomi ate little, waiting for a respectful time to leave.
“You aren’t hungry?” Violet asked, chiding.
“Usually I am.” Naomi smiled. “I’m eager to get back to work.”
Violet looked over Naomi’s shoulder, her blue hat trembling. “Lucius.”
Detective Winfield looked turned out in an overly large suit, his shoes freshly shined. He had left his mother, hands shaking over her cane, sitting in a seat of honor near the picnic table.
“Child finder,” he nodded.
“You always call her that?” Violet asked. “Have some manners, Lucius.” She turned to Naomi. “I’ve known Lucius here since he was in diapers. I used to babysit him right here in this church, as a matter of fact, during Sunday school.”
“Back when we still had Sunday school,” he said.
His gaze met Violet. “I hope you are helping this young lady.”
“I am,” she announced smartly. “I’m not sorry that attorney won’t let you talk to Danita anymore. Since you arrested her.”
“I’m sorry about that, I truly am,” he said, and nodded respectfully at the two of them before turning away. He looked lonely, Naomi thought, walking back to his mother, the sun glistening on his hair.
“Did Lucius know Danita, when she was growing up?” Naomi asked.
“Why, yes, he did,” Violet answered. “Lucius has always been good about his community—a person someone can call, in a pinch. He’s the one who told me about the autism clinic. He was all up in arms about the way the school was treating Danita. Said it wasn’t right.”
“How come you didn’t tell me?”
“Why would I? I didn’t know you knew the man. Look, we both know it isn’t up to him. There’s a higher power at work in his life, and it isn’t the Lord. It’s a guy in a three-piece suit sitting behind a desk worth more than my house.”
Lucius looked over, from where he was gathering his mother, helping her stand with her cane. “I don’t blame him,” Violet concluded. She got a devilish look in her eye. “He’s good to his mother. I bet he’d be good to you.”
“He’s old enough to be my father.”
“Well, at least you know he isn’t, and that’s a start.”
Naomi couldn’t help it: she cracked up. Her bright laugh echoed around the small yard, and the parishioners turned, happy to hear it. She wiped tears of laughter from her eyes.
Violet’s voice dropped, and she leaned close. Naomi saw the fluttering blue dress, the cracked but polished shoes, and the thick hose. “I know about what happened to you,” she said. “That attorney told me. That’s why I kept telling her to call you, and call you, and call you some more. You know why? Because Moses didn’t lead people to the promised land because he had some fancy degree. No, he was born of them. He was hidden in an ark.”
“I guess you could say that about me.”
“I can and I will. You’re going to leave this church right now and go find out what happened to my great-grandbaby. I can feel it in my bones. And when you do I am going to cry a river of tears. So will Lucius. So will you.”
Naomi felt her skin softening, there in the sun. “Will that be the promised land?”
Violet touched her, and she smelled of bathwater and lavender. “Yes, as a matter of fact, it will.”
Naomi walked to her car outside and saw a flapping flag over a house. She saw a bright café awning moving in an increasing breeze. A smoke shop showed Rastafarian colors: green, yellow, and red.
It reminded Naomi of being in school. Of being forced to sit at a hard wooden table and cut out strips of cheap color to weave into some meaningless loops to string around the classroom for a stuffy holiday party.
It was something she and Madison had in common, she knew. They didn’t like to be inside. They would rather be outside, running in the fields, looking at flowers.
Green, yellow, red. She started driving towards the town center where the jail stood. The colors repeated in her mind, like a simple song anyone could understand. It had only been a month since Baby Danforth went missing.
Only a month, she thought. So much can happen—or not happen—in just one month. She passed a clanging city bus, watched in the mirror as it passed a crowded bus stop because it was too full. The budget cuts had led to reduced service.
She would find a store on the way to the jail. She needed supplies.
“Danita, I brought you colors.”
The young woman perked up. The professional visiting rooms were empty on a Sunday. Danita looked deflated, sitting in the jail visiting room without her child. Naomi could only imagine: your heart gone up and walked away.
She felt it herself, a stirring.
The colors were strips of bright paper. Naomi had bought the construction paper on the way, and now arranged the strips across the table.
“Play this game and maybe Baby comes home,” Naomi said.
Danita was all eyes. Naomi could see the maternal instinct rise. Danita would use every last inch of her ability at this game.
“Red, red, your name is Monday,” Naomi suddenly sang, laying the strips down on the table.
“Yellow, yellow, what a strange fellow! You are Tuesday.”
Danita’s lips followed, watched the strips l
ine up.
“Orange, what a silly girl. I could eat you, but you are Wednesday.”
Danita giggled.
“Oh, green, so serene. I am glad it is my usual day off—Thursday.”
Danita stopped.
“And look at you, blue, so sad to go. Here I am back to work on Friday.”
Naomi looked up. The strips were laid out. She put a hand over green.
Danita’s eyes widened. “Green,” she said.
“Yes. You took Baby to the doctor.”
“It was green. Like the bus seat. My day off. But—” Danita frowned.
Naomi waited.
“The doctor gave her the shots. We went home and ate soup. We cuddled in the bed and it was so nice, Baby and me. And then—”
“You fell asleep, but you woke up. Because someone was calling.”
Danita sprang with memory. “The boss! It was time to go!”
“And Baby?”
“I put Baby in the stroller.” It came out in a rush. “I took her to work with me. Grammy was gone to Bible study. I can’t leave Baby alone.”
The feeling of horror crept in the room.
Ever so slowly, Naomi moved her hand to blue: Friday. Danita gasped.
“Look at you, blue, so sad to go. Here I am,” Naomi sang.
“Back to work it is Friday.”
That afternoon air had blown in from spring storms down at the coast, hundreds of miles away. The air had a salty tang and seagulls pitched overhead, throwing fits.
The town bus garage was a monstrous affair, crossing two lots. The large buildings reminded Naomi of airplane hangars. In the shadows of the open doors, she could see the lines of dim buses, parked like large horses slumbering in stalls.
At the far end of the lot was a refueling station, and next to it was a disreputable-looking mechanic’s garage. The lot behind it was filled with broken-down buses, as far as the eye could see. She had looked it up: the town budget crisis had led to a backlog of repairs for months. Cyclone fencing with spools of barbed wire surrounded the yards.
The graveyard driver of the number four bus stood before her, a burly man with blue eyes peering through a face rimmed with red beard. He was nervous, eager to be of help.
“Do you remember this woman?” Naomi asked, showing him a photo of Danita that the attorney had given her. “She was a regular.”
“Yeah, I do. I pick her up most mornings at the stop outside the school. I think she works there. Sometimes she has a baby with her, in a stroller. Come to think it, I haven’t seen her for a while. She okay?”
“How often did she have the baby?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe a few times a month? Quiet baby.” The man paused, his eyes remembering. “She always sits in the far back. Sometimes I have to yell at her, to wake her up. I know her stop by heart. You know how it is, you fall asleep tired on the bus, especially after working all night. She does that a lot. She jumps like crazy, though! Sometimes she runs out the doors like I was chasing her. I think she might—you know—have challenges. But you can tell she loves that baby.”
“How long from when you drop off this woman to the end of your shift?”
“It’s at the end of my shift. I turn the bus in after that.”
“Do you keep any sort of log or anything?” Naomi asked.
“Sure do,” he said, pulling a beaten notebook from his back pocket. “We’re required to keep incident logs.”
“I’m curious about February ninth,” Naomi said quietly. “A little over a month ago.”
He thumbed through the notebook, his thumb darkened with grease, keeping it pinned down. “Yeah! I knew that sounded familiar. My bus had been having lots of trouble. I called dispatch and told them when I was done with my route I was bringing it in. When I got back I parked it in the repair lot. Got a new bus the next day. Still waiting on repairs, but that’s nothing new.”
A cold chill went through Naomi. An image rose in her mind: a baby dancing upside down on the inside roof of a bus.
“You said the woman always sat in the back. Did she pull the stroller someplace you couldn’t see, like behind a seat?”
The man’s face changed. It was hard to say how, but it was a face she had seen before, when people realize. The color slowly drained out of his ruddy cheeks, leaving lips purple with sickness.
“I—I’m supposed to check all the seats at the end of the shift, but the windows would have been closed, and it wasn’t far to the garage, and if the baby was sleeping—”
“Where is the bus now?” Naomi asked softly.
He swallowed. “I’ll take you.”
They walked past the open garages to the back of the lots, where the broken-down buses waited their turns for repair, sentinels of yellow in a gray cold dawn. Overhead the seagulls cried, wanting food, and Naomi had to wipe away the tears she felt on her cheeks.
At the number four bus the driver stopped, unable to go farther. All the windows were shut, the doors closed.
Naomi pressed the outside red button.
The accordion doors opened with a slow hiss. Already, Naomi could smell it. It was the smell of fear and longing and the place on the other side. It was a smell that said mud and dirt and the saddest cry of all: Mother.
Naomi took a breath and stepped on board.
The child finder met the defense attorney outside the jail visiting room. Through the glass they could see Danita, back to them, hands clasped in waiting. Her body was still, as if in hope it waited to be filled.
In the lobby outside Detective Winfield waited. He had a crime team processing the bus. Whether it would be determined an accident or neglect was up to the courts.
Baby Danforth had been found.
“I’ll tell her,” Naomi told the attorney.
She straightened her shoulders and quietly opened the door.
Outside the concrete room the attorney heard a piercing scream. It echoed all around the building and sent the pigeons on the roof to flight. Everywhere someone heard they stopped, knowing there was no other sound like it in the entire world: mother grief.
The attorney dropped her head in her hands.
In the concrete room Naomi comforted Danita the best she could, whispering in her heaving ear, “She was yours, she was yours.”
On her own wet cheeks she felt the realization. Yes, she wanted a child of her own. Yes, she would even take this risk, if she could feel the love that poured like a river out from under the anguish of this woman, collapsed in her arms.
“Naomi.”
It was Jerome, waiting for her in the motel lobby when she finally dragged in late that evening, feeling as if she had left a trail of tears, like the passage of a psychic slug, all the way from the city to the clean mountains.
Jerome was relaxed in one of the frayed chairs, his sheriff hat on his lap.
Despite everything that had happened that day—or maybe because—Naomi’s heart let down with relief at the very sight of him.
“I’m sorry I haven’t answered your letter,” she said. “I’m a coward.”
“No, just a confused woman,” he said, smiling. “And hopefully a hungry one.”
“Not really this time.” She paused. “But I know a place.”
They ate in the restaurant Ranger Dave had taken her to—Naomi felt a tinge of guilt for that, and was glad the owner took it in stride.
As always, Naomi marveled at how relaxed she felt with Jerome. No matter how she felt—sad, despairing, happy—Jerome seemed okay with it.
She told him, quietly, what had happened with Baby Danforth. She refrained from saying what she had seen on that bus, but knew the image would stay with her forever. A tiny infant strapped for eternity in her stroller. Naomi refused to think about what it was like to face death, because she already knew.
Jerome comforted her, and then told her how he had sold off and gotten rid of Mrs. Cottle’s belongings, and how empty that made him feel. He said that going through her vanity he had found a drawer filled w
ith nothing but stained handkerchiefs, each one with lipstick blooms: mauve and peach and red. What was that all about? Naomi smiled a little, remembering the line of Mary Kay lipsticks on the vanity, the feeling of Mrs. Cottle’s hands on her shoulders.
Next Jerome was going to put the house on the market, he said. And then? He had been offered a job. A full-time job in a sheriff’s office, he said. Good pay, benefits—a future. It meant leaving Oregon.
Naomi felt a stab of fear.
“Are you taking it?” she asked.
“That depends on you,” he said. “I’d like to help you instead.”
Naomi thought of Jerome, sitting in her car, next to her. How comfortable that would feel.
“I kept this for you,” Jerome said, putting his glass down so he could take a small box from his pocket. Inside was Mrs. Cottle’s wedding ring. “I found it under her pillow. She must have worried she would lose it at the end. I didn’t even see it missing.”
He paused. “I’m hopeful you’ll wear it for me, but it’s your ring to do with as you please.”
Naomi stared at him.
He dug into the food. “This is good,” he said, signaling at her plate.
After dinner he drove her back to the motel and walked her through the parking lot, where a dazzling white snow was falling. At her door he leaned against the jamb, waiting.
She could see the desire in his eyes.
“You going to make me drive back through the snow?” he asked.
“I have to decide,” she said.
“There’s nothing to decide, between hope and death.”
“You can sleep on the floor,” Naomi said.
“Saving yourself for me, aren’t you?” Jerome joked later, lying in a nest of blankets on the floor. Outside dark windows, a spring squall howled.
“Ha.” Naomi smiled a little in the dark. She had scrubbed her face and was wearing what passed as pajamas for her—a set of soft cotton exercise pants and an old T-shirt. She liked being able to think she could run at will.
“You ever had a boyfriend, Naomi?” he asked later, his voice quiet. “Or are you just into punishing me by making me sleep on this damn floor?”