Songbird

by Lisa Samson

  “Hello, Mama. Whatcha doin’?”

  “Digging.”

  A paper bag of bulbs rests beside her. “You going to plant these?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are they lilies? Tulips?”

  “Irises. Mother brought them for me.”

  She turns back and continues her task. I am watching a robot, I think. A blood-pumping, nerve-shooting robot. She is here, but she is not.

  “It’s almost Easter, Mama.”

  “Did you get an Easter dress, Myrtle?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. A girl should always get a new dress for Easter.”

  “Why, Mama?”

  She continues digging.

  “Do you like it here?”

  “They’re nice.”

  “I’m glad.”

  I want so badly to ask her who wasn’t nice to her in the past, but I cannot. I’m scared she’ll descend further into the bowels of her mind.

  Where are you, Isla Whitehead?

  Don’t even ask, Myrtle.

  “Mama, what happened to that snazzy man from Washington, D.C.?”

  There is quiet in the garden. A swelling silence that fills my heart with emptiness

  “Don’t even ask, Myrtle.”

  But the words are not Mama’s. They are my own.

  I should have known better.

  Maybe Mama’s just ill. Maybe nothing bad really happened to her. Maybe she’s just a hapless victim.

  Maybe it doesn’t really matter in the end. At least not to me.

  I stop at a pay phone on the way home and call Ruby. “Well?”

  “It was positive!”

  “That’s great, Ruby!”

  “Girl, I am so excited.”

  “Congratulations. To Henry, too. I’ll bet he’s on cloud nine.”

  “I told him an hour ago, and he’s already looking at car seats.”

  “So let’s see. Your last period was a month ago and it’s the end of April—”

  “I’m due near the end of December.”

  “A Christmas baby!”

  “Isn’t that exciting? You know, I sing about Jesus, but I have a hard time emoting like you do about Him, Char. But it’s fitting isn’t it? A new life for me. A healed life. And then this gift from Jesus. This baby. And around Christmas, too.”

  “I guess He wanted to make sure you got the message.”

  Ruby laughs.

  “You deserve a little baby of your own, Ruby. You really do. Hey, gotta get back on the road.” I don’t want to provide a downer moment for her by calling attention to my own barrenness here on the phone. I was hoping the weight gain would be the answer. “I’m taking you to Bill D’s for a butterscotch milk shake tomorrow night at seven o’clock!”

  “I’ll be there!”

  Oh, Ruby. Your own little baby. It will be a beautiful baby.

  It’s eight P.M. as I pull onto our little street. Cherry Tree Lane. Isn’t that the cutest thing? I love my neighbors. There are several with children around the ages of Leo and Hope and some older ladies for Grandma to associate with. They’ve started a club that meets every Tuesday for supper and cards. Life is good here on our street. It’s quiet for the most part and lined with regular folks. We have a welder, a town policeman, three brothers who run the hardware store over on the town square, a hostess down at Josef’s, the only gourmet restaurant in town. And then there are the card ladies and us.

  I can’t believe we’ve lived here for over a year and a half! Even when we moved in, I figured we’d be here a year, tops. Harlan surprised me with this one.

  The neighbors have been wonderful during these hard times, keeping a watch on our house. We haven’t had any vandalism for a while and every time a negative letter to the editor appears, someone always cooks a meal.

  Tonight our house hovers there in the plum twilight, but it seems to be growing out of a huddle of cars bleeding from my lawn onto the street. People drink coffee and lean against bumpers. Some lady sits in a folding chair.

  Something is very wrong. I honk my horn. The crunch of my tires on the gravel street warns their ears of my approach. All snap to attention.

  There are vans from TV stations, too.

  Let me through.

  Something is very wrong. Something more newsworthy than my hair.

  TV cameras focus their unblinking eye on me.

  Had the vandals gone too far this time? Did they throw more than eggs? Did they harm someone?

  Harlan? Leo? Hope?

  They flock around my car like black fowl. And I honk my horn again.

  NBC, CBS, ABC.

  Where are my babies?

  Harlan?

  Let me through.

  Unable to gain even two feet of progress, I stop the car and get out. They enfold me like piranhas on a carcass suddenly thrown to the depths.

  “Let me through!”

  A microphone is stuffed in my face. “Mrs. Hopewell—”

  “Let me through!” I push my way into the mass, slapping away microphones. “Harlan!” I scream. “Harlan!”

  The front door opens. “Shug!”

  “What’s happening?”

  Harlan flies off the porch, pushing reporters and camera people aside like they are pickup sticks. “Shug!”

  “Harlan!”

  “Reverend Hopewell, do you know where the monies from your wife’s record deals have gone?”

  He advances toward me and Harlan shoves him away. He rocks off his heels, falling backward.

  I feel his hand grab my arm and he pulls me through the throng. “Get back! Get back!” he hollers. “Get away from my wife!”

  A Washington Post is shoved into my face.

  “What do you have to say about this article, Mrs. Hopewell?”

  “Come on, Shug. Let’s get you inside.”

  After that shove, the crowd parts and there’s Grandma Min holding open the screen door. “Come on in, sweetie.”

  “Where are the kids?”

  “They’re fine. They’re in my bedroom watching a video.”

  Harlan shuts the door behind him.

  “What’s going on, Harlan?”

  “Oh, Shug. That reporter friend of yours from the Post.”

  “Richard Lewellyn?”

  He nods, looking out between the blinds. “None other. He’s betrayed us.”

  “No!”

  “Yes. I have no idea how he found out these things but it’s all there in black-and-white. Your mother, Broughton, your record money going to pay for her care. And of course, my ‘What’s Really Eating You’ message to make us look like hypocrites.”

  Grandma Min ushers me to the kitchen. “Let me get you a soda.”

  I nod. “I was hungry before I got home. But not anymore.”

  Harlan enters. “They’re not going away. I thought surely they would leave once they realized you wouldn’t talk to them.”

  “You have a copy of the article?”

  “Yep. It was delivered by courier this morning.”

  “Can I read it?”

  “I think you’d better.”

  “But he seemed so nice, Harlan. Didn’t he?”

  “You think everybody’s nice, Charmaine.” He turns to go into the living room.

  “Harlan? Are you mad at me?”

  “Of course not! We’re in this together, Shug.”

  I turn to Grandma Min. “Did you read it?”

  She nods.

  Harlan comes back in, handing me the paper. “Here you go.”

  “Will you sit here with me while I read it?”

  “I will. Let me put on the kettle. I could use a cup of tea right now.”

  It starts out so nice, telling of our humble little house, the quaint meal from the Crock-Pot, kids playing outside on the swing set.

  In fact there’s a picture of Hope and Leo right there. Naturally I signed a consent form, thinking surely, after the fun time we’d had, that the article would be all good. I didn’t even mind his barb ab
out all the antiques so much. After all, they are Grandma’s, not mine.

  Then he continued on, talking about The Port of Peace Hour, Harlan’s hard-line stance on psychology. There is a cute picture of the singers on the show and uplifting quotes from people who we’ve ministered to.

  “I stopped blaming my past and going to every shrink in town for answers. And I started reading my Bible and my life has been healed. Just ask my family.”

  “Prayer! Talking to Jesus in prayer has been the greatest therapy I’ve ever had!”

  “The Hopewells saved my life!”

  And then the other quotes begin. Things we’d never heard about.

  “My son went off his medication due to the Hopewells’ advice and he eventually committed suicide.”

  “My daughter and her husband stopped marriage counseling and she ended up in the hospital from his abuse. She’s planning on going back with him once she’s released.”

  “If the Bible didn’t say we shouldn’t sue a brother in Christ, I’d do it.”

  I feel twice as much air fill my mouth as it drops open at the next bit of my life. “The fifty thousand dollars Ms. Hopewell has received in royalties is nowhere to be found in the family accounts. The money has been traced to a mental hospital in Broughton, North Carolina, where Ms. Hopewell’s mother, Isla Whitehead, is institutionalized for a disturbing mental illness. Although the fact is not well known, Ms. Hopewell has been undergoing treatment for depression for many years.”

  Finally, Richard Lewellyn cast his net of doubt on one more area of my life. In the portion where he interviewed Bansy Pruitt, that lardy man who scouted me at Suds ‘N’ Strikes, I find out I’d engaged in sexual activity to further my career, which cast all manner of doubt on the conviction of Carl Bofa.

  Oh, Jesus.

  Harlan is in the living room, looking out the window. He turns around and walks back to the table. “They’re starting to leave now. Guess it’s getting too late to hang around.”

  “Harlan. It’s not true. I didn’t sleep with that man.”

  “I know you didn’t, Shug.”

  I stand up, put my arms around him, and rest my head his heart.

  5

  A registered letter arrives two days later as Grandma Min and I school the children. The words within sting me like a wave of pepper over my eyes and I drop the paper to the floor.

  “What is it?” Grandma asks.

  “It’s Grace’s parents. They’re suing for custody of Leo.”

  I see it all on the news that night. Grace, with her family all rallied around her, looks so vulnerable. “I just want my baby back is all,” she says. “I’ve always wanted to be a good mother to him and now I have the chance.”

  “Have you asked Ms. Hopewell to return your son?”

  “Repeatedly,” says Grace.

  “My daughter fell on hard times, sure,” says Mr. Underhill. “But we would have kept Leo with us. That Hopewell woman called every month for years and never even told us he existed.”

  And Grace remained mute. Crying and blubbering.

  I call the only lawyer I know, the prosecuting attorney who handled the Carl Bofa matter. He tells me I don’t have a chance, not against the biological relatives who are more than capable of handling Leo’s upbringing. “You can fight it, Charmaine, but I’ve got to be honest with you, I don’t think you’ll win but I’ll recommend someone up there for you if you want.”

  I can’t fight this battle. I pick up the phone and call the rehab home Grace was staying at. “Is Grace there?”

  “No, I’m sorry. We don’t have a Grace here.”

  “Grace Underhill?”

  “No, I’m sorry, we have no one by that name.”

  “Did you ever?”

  “No, I’m sorry.”

  “Well, if you hear from this nonexistent Grace, tell her Charmaine is trying to get in touch with her. Tell her I’ll fight for Leo with every last breath I have.”

  The kids and I pull into the driveway from a trip to the IGA.

  “Come on y’all. Let’s get inside and I’ll start supper.”

  “Okay, Mama,” says Leo and I look back at him and we smile into each other’s eyes like we always do. He winks. My lands, he’s a good winker.

  I grab two bags and hurry up the walk to unlock the door.

  “Hey!”

  Leo’s yell turns my head. And I see them there, Grace and her parents.

  “Stop that!” he yells.

  I drop my bags and run toward him. But they beat me to him, pulling him by his spindly arms. “No!” I yell, putting my arms around his waist.

  Mrs. Underhill pulls at my waist from behind but I hold tight. “No!” I cry. “No!”

  I’m holding fast. Poor Leo. “Hang on, baby,” I say. “Mama’s not going to let you go.”

  “You’re not his mama!” Grace shouts.

  I hold tight.

  “Hold tight, Grade,” Mr. Underhill says. “I’ll take care of her.”

  A second later his fist makes contact with my jaw. I cry out, my hands automatically seeking my face as they rip Leo from me and make for their van parked across the street as fast as they can. He screams and I cry and say, “I love you, son! I love you.”

  Grace shouts at him. “I’m your mama, Leo.”

  “Mama!” he wails again and she shoves him inside the van.

  Hope sobs beside me. “Leo! Leo!”

  Screaming, I run to the van and pound on the door with my fists as it pulls away. “Stop!”

  But Mr. Underhill steps on the gas and has turned the corner before my cry of despair rises from my heart and into my throat.

  Wailing and sobbing, I crumble in the middle of the street.

  When would enough heartache be enough?

  Hope sits next to me and crosses her legs. “Mama.”

  “Hopey.” I pick her up into my arms as we watch the empty street and weep.

  6

  Grandma Min pokes me. “Get up Charmaine.”

  “Grandma, I’m just so tired.”

  And I am. I haven’t felt this way in so many years.

  “Let me just sleep in for another fifteen minutes.”

  “It’s already noon.”

  What Grandma doesn’t know is that my medication ran out weeks ago. I thought I’d see if Harlan was right. If maybe I didn’t have enough faith. If maybe I could lick this depression thing on my own, just me and God.

  Not that God has been all that hot to me lately. I almost resent Him as much as I used to resent Mama. And the kicker is, I still believe and don’t doubt that He sent His Son, but boy am I doubting His ability to look out for His children.

  If God’s the only father I really have, I’d say He’s done a miserable job in sheltering His child. At least I did better by Hope and Leo, and they aren’t even my own.

  So why try? I think I’ll just follow God’s lead and let everybody I love suffer and wonder what the heck I’m doing. Hey, Hope will survive. And all these trials will make her stronger. Isn’t that right? Isn’t that what I’ve heard all of my life?

  Good then, Hope. Get strong. You’ll be all the greater for it someday. And hopefully you’ll be able to look at God and thank Him for the fact that I failed.

  Maybe I should just stay in bed for the rest of my life and let the world think the worst.

  I sit myself up just a tad, reach to the side of the bed, and grab my photo box and all the notes Leo ever wrote to me. I can’t even bring myself look at them, but holding them in my arms seems to be enough to get me back to sleep.

  Grandma stands at my bedroom door with her hands on her hips. “No more, Charmaine.”

  “No more what?”

  I hear the birds outside in the apple tree. It lost its blooms long ago and the leaves are no longer tender.

  “I’m not bringing your meals in here anymore, not that you eat them, and I’m not taking care of Hope, either. The summer’s here and she can walk over to the church and to Harlan if she needs som
ething.”

  “Where will you go?”

  “I’m going to Broughton. I found a retirement community there with all the stages. Apartment living through nursing care.”

  “I’m sorry, Grandma.”

  “I can’t live like this anymore, sweetie. Did you expect me to raise a crazy person then spend my last years caring for her daughter?”

  I don’t know what I was thinking, honestly. Not much. I’m so heavy on the chest. So full in the eyes.

  Grandma sighs and turns away from me.

  “God give me a little strength,” I whisper. “I’m not asking You to make it all better, or it all to go away, because I know better than to believe You’ll answer that prayer. Just help me to go after her now, just this time. Just this once.”

  I know she’s not leaving right now. I have just a few more days to gather the strength.

  Oh, Leo.

  Poor Harlan is trying so hard. He had my medication refilled and brings it to me every day but I refuse. “Just a few more days, honey, and I’ll go back on if I can’t kick it by then.”

  I stare at the wall. There is another way, I know. And lately I’ve been wondering which method would be the easiest. There are no pills left in the house to swallow. No guns. Only cooking knives and a bathtub. I think that’s truly my only option. I’ll have to make sure Hope isn’t the one to find me.

  Harlan enters the room. Daylight fades. “I’m taking Hope to Tanzel’s now, Charmaine.”

  That will make things easier.

  “I can’t keep Hope in this environment. Please Shug. Tell me what I need to do to make you better.”

  My world slips away before my eyes and in the end I see myself alongside Mama, making swirls in a garden that is a mirror image of hers.

  “Call Dr. Braselton. He’s been caring for me since I moved here to Mount Oak.”

  “I’ll get the phone book.”

  “I’ll have to go back on medication, Harlan.”

  “I wish you would.”

  “I couldn’t kick this thing on my own. I tried.”

  I did it for him. But I don’t tell him that.

  “Well, now you know, Shug. Now you know you’ve got to do this.”

  “Why did God make me like this?”

  “That I can’t answer. But if you want me to tell you about all the wonderful parts of you He also gave, well, I’ve got all day.”

  And he does just that, pill in one hand, water glass in the other.