Like Sweet Potato Pie

by Spinola, Jennifer Rogers

  Tim jumped out of the driver’s seat, beaming, and waved to all of us as he rushed around to the backseat. “Here she is, y’all!” he hollered, not even cracking his usual goofy jokes.

  He swung open the door for Becky, and both of them bent over a car seat then carefully lifted out a lacy, bunny-patterned bundle wrapped in a blanket. Adjusting the blankets around her head to keep out the harsh winter wind.

  And Becky walked up the front steps like a Virginia Gourd Festival queen, minus the tiara and green sash. Chin proudly held high. Tucking Macy carefully in her arms and beaming down at the little brown face.

  Everybody started to talk at once:

  “Atta girl!” said Pastor Davis, patting her on the back.

  “Oh my lands!” Jeanette bawled into a tissue. “My li’l granddaughter!”

  Gordon brayed and howled, license tags clinking, and I wrapped my arms around him to keep him still as we all made way for the newest Donaldson. Tim barged up the steps, slapping backs and stuffing everybody’s pockets with Slim Jim sausage sticks in lieu of cigars.

  Macy sucked a finger, curious, taking it all in.

  They pushed their way into the living room, all loaded with presents and banners and flickering candles, and the crowd of faces parted, hushed, for the big moment.

  “Well, welcome home, gal!” said Becky, teary-eyed, giving Macy a big smile.

  To everyone’s astonishment, Macy gave a cute little toothless grin right back, and everyone clapped and laughed.

  “It’s meant to be!” Tim put his arm around Becky, looking weepy.

  Pastor Davis came forward with Tim and Becky’s parents, all surrounding them with loving hands, and he led us in a prayer of blessing for little Macy and the entire Donaldson family as they raised her in the Lord. We mopped our faces, necessitating the quick redneck no-tissue substitute: rolls of Charmin toilet paper. Adam sniffled, standing next to me, and Tim Sr. wept unabashed.

  As Macy settled in at the Donaldson house, I stopped by almost every day—bringing discount baby formula or a pacifier, hauling in another box of diapers bought with drug-store points, or just hanging around to hold her and brag about how cute she was. She slept deeply in my arms, silent, lashes closed, little curls tousled and pretty.

  “Sleep well, love,” I whispered, gently rocking her in the distinct way she liked. “I’m the aunt who’s going to buy you all those loud, messy toys your parents will hate—complete with extra batteries. You’ll love me. But your parents won’t.”

  Macy didn’t know it, but she’d changed me already. I’d spent hours—days, probably—scouring discount clearance racks and thrift stores for cute socks and onesies, baby rattles and teething rings that even I, Coupon Clipper of the Century, could afford. Scouring JCPenney for that perfect baby gift, fingering the gift card in my pocket.

  Becky and Tim changed a little, too, turning overnight from carefree twenty-somethings to gentle and cautious caretakers, always on the listen for a whimper or a cry. Going back and forth about where to find the pacifier and passing each other bottles and burp cloths, tagteam style as always.

  Becky’s eyes wore dark circles from night feedings, and Tim looked pretty terrible. But I’d never seen them more full of joy and energy.

  “Yer bringin’ an awful lot of stuff, Yankee!” said Tim as I dumped another package of diapers on the living room floor. “Not that I mind! But ya ain’t gonna hafta hock that house fer all this, is ya?”

  Macy had just finished a bottle and was dozing in her crib, a sheep-shaped chew toy in her limp hand. Tim raked his hand through his hair, making it stand on end. His chin bristled with unshaven grizzle, making him look like his Civil War reenactment persona on a bad day.

  “Nope. The house is still mine, especially after I turned down that last offer,” I whispered as Becky carefully closed the nursery door.

  “Ya got another offer?” Both heads looked up at me.

  “Two, but one retracted the offer and bought somewhere else,” I said, sitting on the sofa and hauling Gordon up in my lap. “I almost took the second one, but Lowell found out they have a lot of debt and not very good credit, so we said no.”

  “That’s the right thing, gal.” Tim nodded his affirmation. “No sense rushin’ things. Hang in there!”

  “Yeah, well, I’ve got about one more month to hang, and then it’s a moot point.” I patted Gordon, avoiding their eyes. “I’ve accepted it now. I just … didn’t think things would end this way.”

  “It ain’t gonna!” Becky protested. “We’re prayin’, Shah-loh! I know God’s gonna come through fer ya!”

  Tim waved his finger at me. “God does stuff when ya least expect it,” he said, eyes boring into mine. “An’ how ya least expect it. Don’t ya ferget it, Shah-loh Jacobs! He don’t always work on our time, but He’s gotcha covered. Mark my words!”

  “Ya got that right.” Becky’s voice sounded choked, and she glanced around at the baby decorations and toys still scattered around the living room. “Jest cain’t believe it’s fer real, ya know?”

  The old me would have envied their good fortune, but not now. They’d waited years for this moment, and I wanted us all to savor it, like a faint whiff of Macy’s baby powder fragrance. I felt almost like Macy belonged to me, too, the way I swelled up with pride when they held her.

  “Well, thank ya fer the presents.” Tim, as usual, abruptly jumped from sentimental and spiritual as easily as changing socks. He rubbed his tired face and looked at his watch. “Say, what’n the sam hill ya doin’ here at nine in the mornin’ on a weekday anyway? Ain’t ya got work?”

  “Off on some excitin’ story!” Becky picked baby bottles and gift wrapping off the carpet. “Off ta interview the governer’r somethin’. Ain’t that right, Shah-loh?”

  “Nope. I’m going to Winchester.”

  “Winchester?” they both cried.

  I stared at them. “The trial? Remember? Assault and battery? Getting beat up by a skinhead?”

  Tim smacked his cheek. “Aw, man! Is that today?”

  “Relax.” I patted him on the shoulder. “I hold no grudges. You guys have a baby now.”

  Tim shook his head, running his fingers through his messy hair. “You been workin’ out a deal or somethin’ with yer lawyer?”

  “The prosecutor? Yes.”

  “You gotta pay fer all that?” Becky looked up, horrified.

  “No, thank goodness. The police filed the charges out of interest in public safety, so someone represents me. We’re asking for jail time plus damages.”

  “I don’t blame ya. I’d a hung the suckers.” Tim scowled. “Bunch a boneheads if I ever seen ‘em. Shucks! I really feel fer ya. So sorry ya hafta go through this, and us not bein’ able to do a thing about it.” He glanced toward the nursery. “I reckon we could take Macy an’ ride up there with ya, if she don’t—”

  “No way!” I snapped, jerking the lid off a glass candy jar and snitching a miniature Reese’s Cup. “Don’t even think about it! I’ll be fine.”

  “Ya ain’t goin’ alone, are ya?” Becky dropped the baby blanket in midfold. “I mean, it’s our fault fer takin’ ya to the reenactment, an’…” Her face started to turn all blotchy, eyes spilling over.

  “Now, don’t you start!” I put the lid back on the jar. “I’ll have you know I have a pretty impressive escort to Winchester all lined up.”

  “Who, Adam?”

  I accidentally banged the lid, clinking glass. “Well, yes. He witnessed the crime, so he has to testify.”

  “The most important witness, of course,” Becky added, picking the baby blanket off the carpet and shaking it out. Eyes falling from mine. “Although it seems like mebbe somethin’s not going so well in that department these days.”

  I avoided her gaze. “Well, not like we thought. But … we’ll be okay.”

  Becky sighed. “So y’all are really done then? Over?”

  “Well, we weren’t dating anyway. He just said he wanted to get to know me b
etter, and all this stuff about marriage and not kissing and … What?” I looked up as Becky and Tim exchanged round-eyed glances.

  “Yer kiddin’.” Becky’s face had gone white. “The talk about gittin’ ta know each other, proper-like, without all the hoopla? You serious?”

  My fingers halted on the chocolate-scented foil. “Why? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothin’. It’s jest … wow. He must’ve been awful serious about doin’ things right with ya. Adam’s pretty particular. Always has been with the gals—since he was a kid.”

  I couldn’t answer. Just ate my Reese’s Cup in silence, wishing Becky hadn’t brought him up.

  “Yeah.” I chuckled, trying to blow the whole thing off. “He’s kind of weird. Not necessarily in a bad way, but …” My smile melted a bit. “Listen, guys. I don’t know how to tell you this, but I’m leaving Staunton. For good.”

  Tim’s head jerked up, and Becky staggered, banging into the TV. She dripped down into the empty rocking chair as if her knees had given out. “No,” she whispered. “On account a Adam?”

  “On account of me not having any place to live in about a month.” I balled up the foil, not looking at her. “I’ve applied for a reporting position in Japan, and the office called me last night to confirm my acceptance. As soon as they get the housing situation settled, we’ll discuss ticket dates.”

  Nobody moved.

  “I’ll miss you both so much. You have no idea. I’ll miss Faye. I’ll miss … well, everybody.” I swallowed, looking for something to divert my attention before I started crying.

  “Well, I’ll be.” Tim sank his chin into his hands. “But that’s what ya wanted, ain’t it?”

  Why did everybody have to ask me that? “Sure,” I said, trying to keep my voice bright. “Then I’ll finally be back in the place I loved.”

  The words sounded so hollow suddenly, after so many months of waiting and longing. I reached for my purse and fumbled with my keys. “How’s Rick doing?” I asked, quickly changing the subject. “Any news on him lately?”

  “Oh, he ate Vanna’s slippers again.” Becky shrugged, sniffling. “He makes such a ruckus runnin’ around the house, tearin’ things up an’ messin’ everywhere. I’m surprised they don’t give the doggone fella away.”

  My purse sank to the floor, along with my jaw. “Excuse me? Rick Carter?”

  “Oh, him?” Becky gasped. “Shucks, I was talkin’ about Todd’s new gerbil! Ain’t he told ya about him? His name’s Richard—after Richard Petty, that racecar driver—and Todd calls him Ricky.” She glanced up at me sheepishly. “I reckon Rick’s doin’ okay. Ain’t heard nothin’ else.”

  Wait a second. Didn’t Stella say …? My hands slipped nervously to my cell phone, wondering if I should call and demand some explanation, when Tim suddenly sat up straighter.

  “Now, wait a second, honey bun. I heard somethin’ about a rehab scholarship for Rick somewhere in … I forgit where. Somethin’ that they’s gonna send a representative to talk to ‘em all about it this comin’ week. Didn’t ya hear that?”

  “Naw! For who?”

  “For Rick. Somethin’…” He rubbed his forehead. “I fergit the details, but it sounded like he hit the jackpot.”

  “Who told you?” My words surged out before I could stop them. “Adam?”

  “Nah. I don’t think he knows yet. I heard it from my friend down at the DMV. Got a cousin or somethin’ who really wanted that scholarship bad, but his buddy told him they’d chose Rick Carter.” He glanced up at Becky. “Don’t say nothin’ ta Adam yet.”

  “Oh, I won’t. But gracious, wouldn’t that be good fer Rick?” She teared up again. “Lands, all this good an’ bad news at once! I dunno how much I can take!”

  “Hey, how’d ya know?” Tim suddenly swiveled his head to me.

  “Me? I didn’t say I knew anything. I just asked about Rick.” I checked my watch. “I’d better go, huh? Your parents are picking me up, Tim.”

  “Oh, right. Pop was there at the reenactment when them clowns—”

  “Don’t say it.” I stood up and dug another Reese’s Cup out of the jar for the road. “I’m trying to forget until I get to Winchester.”

  “Don’t fergit,” said Tim sternly. “Tell the truth. We’ll be prayin’ fer ya. Here. Let’s pray right now. Whaddaya say, sweetie?” He reached for Becky’s hand, and she reached for mine.

  We prayed for protection and fearlessness, Becky wiping her eyes with a tissue as Tim said the “amen.” And I blew them a kiss on my way out the door.

  We arrived in Winchester to a sky spitting flurries, noon traffic, and patchy white cloud cover. Lunchtime came, and while I would normally be starving, my stomach had coiled itself into a tight ball. Food, for once, was the furthest thing from my mind.

  Cold ice-blue skinhead eyes bored into my memory, searing me with a boot kick to the side. I pressed my hand protectively over my ribs, wondering what might have happened if Adam and the others hadn’t reached me in time.

  “Yankee scum.” I sipped my iced tea and felt seriously ill, looking nervously around the restaurant where we stopped for lunch and wondering who lurked among the booths. If a touch of my Brooklyn accent gave me away. If Jimmy and his posse waited in the shadows to jump us as soon as we paid our bill.

  I barely heard Tim Sr. pay and Jeanette put her arm around me as we walked out to the car, but I saw the concern in Adam’s eyes as he glanced up at me from across the car, pencil in hand. His lap full of clipboards and ledgers and work stuff, the pale light from the clouds and telephone-pole-lined streets flickering across his sober face as he worked.

  The way he’d looked at me at the edge of the battlefield, asking if I’d found Mom’s precious keychain I’d gone looking for. Which is what started the whole thing.

  Like Faye, Adam had always been there for me.

  Loved me. The kind of love Faye’d talked about over her amethyst ring—a love that served, cared, and quietly walked by my side. Painted my kitchen. Lent me his phone. Repaired Mom’s roses. And came with me now, when I needed someone the most.

  “You’re going to be okay, Shiloh,” he said with a smile, briefly touching my arm. “Don’t worry.”

  And deep inside, welling up, I felt something … something almost like …

  We were getting out of the car. Walking up the street, cold wind ruffling my unfeeling skin and interrupting my thoughts. I took a deep, shaky breath and gazed up at the imposing courthouse, trembling under my trim navy-blue peacoat that was supposed to mean business.

  Inside smarted with cold, with hard lines and stark white paint. Echoing footsteps and a frightening smell of wood, varnish, and nervous whispers. A distant cough reverberated from one of the closed rooms.

  Commonwealth’s Attorney Clyde Argenbright strode toward me, dressed in a dark gray pin-striped suit. He shook hands and spoke in low tones about something. I don’t know what; he might as well have recited the Farmer’s Almanac from 1872.

  “Two of them are brothers—Jimmy and Beauregard Hooton. Goes by Bo,” Clyde was saying, and I tried to tune him in.

  “Beauregard? Like the Confederate general?”

  The fact that I knew that stunned even me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Adam hide a smile.

  “Uh … yes. Probably.” A flicker of mirth darted across Clyde’s unsmiling gray eyes. “Jimmy has a record already, and since he’d failed to show up for a larceny hearing a few months before your incident, he went to jail. They scrounged up some bail from somewhere on the condition that he show up today. The other guy’s a local. Name on his records is—”

  “Travis.”

  “How did you know?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Lucky guess. He’s the one missing a tooth?”

  “That’s him. Travis Truxell.”

  “What about the skinhead?” My hands twined together, fingers suddenly stiff.

  “Jeb Tucker. He’s got a record in another county.”

  I found myself se
ated in a chilly courtroom on a hard bench, shivering despite my best efforts. Turning to see the judge on her bench, graying hair cut in an attractive style but hard, steely eyes that did not smile back.

  I remembered the taste of dusty bandana in my mouth.

  And then the courtroom door squeaked open.

  Chapter 37

  The skinhead didn’t show?” demanded Trinity, setting down her tea mug so hard it nearly sloshed.

  “Nope. Just the other cronies, who didn’t have much of a defense.”

  “That’s nuts! You mean he’s still out there somewhere?” Trinity frowned, glancing around the Starbucks where I used to work. With its familiar stacks of mugs and teas and the tables and chairs I used to scrub.

  Now I sipped a hazelnut mocha like any other customer, hair pinned up in a messy bun. Sleek brown boots and emerald-green belted sweater, nice jeans. Not an apron in sight.

  “Yeah, the creepo.” I stirred my coffee, resting my spoon on the edge of my dish. “But the judge swore out a warrant for his arrest, so when they do get him, he’ll probably do longer jail time. Since he’s the one who actually kicked me.”

  “Good! He deserves it.” Trinity squeezed my arm. “How about the others?”

  “Jail. Fifteen days each. The skinhead is supposed to reimburse me for my emergency-room visit, too, but since he didn’t show, I guess not.”

  “You’re a brave woman, Shiloh. Facing them down like that.”

  “Me? Be serious, Trinity. I only went because I had to. And if they pick up the skinhead at a traffic stop or something, that means I’ll have to go back to court again. But it’d be worth it.” I leaned my head on my hand, playing with a silver-drop earring. “I didn’t like seeing those guys again, though.”

  “Were you scared?”

  I shrugged. “A little.” My voice trailed off, remembering their stares of hate. Their formerly messy hair unnaturally sleeked and side-combed, the attempt at professional-looking suit jackets that failed completely. I almost felt sorry for them.