by ANDREA SMITH
“What if I cain’t find a place for Wynn?”
“Wynn?” Naz asked. “You done named the boy?”
“Thora named him.”
“Ain’t no wonder his name is some damn Wynn,” Naz blustered.
“S’pose I cain’t find a home for him,” Bonnie pressed.
“You will.”
“But s’pose I cain’t,” she insisted.
“Then we’ll have to take ’im to Pine,” Naz said.
“Ain’t no way—”
Naz looked over his shoulder. For the first time since finding out about the child, Bonnie saw anger flash in his eyes.
“I’ll come to something,” she said quickly.
Without another word, Naz’s attention went back to the TV. Bonnie lay the screaming Wynn in the basket and carried him to the kitchen. She placed the basket on the counter, then took a can of milk from the back of the fridge, poured it into one of the bottles that the mama had left and set it in a pan of water. Bonnie quickly lit the stove. She had done this more than a few times when she sat for Jenna Dixon and Delphine, but never was she filled with such indecision and uncertainty. Wynn was totally in her care—there would be no mama coming to collect him. After a few minutes, Bonnie saw that tiny bubbles had begun to form at the bottom of the pan. She removed the bottle, tested it on the back of her wrist, then placed the nipple to his mouth. Wynn pulled so furiously that his sucking sounded throughout the quiet kitchen. In just these few hours, she had grown used to his own kind of talk and even his cry. His helplessness was irresistible, his innocence addictive. The thought of taking the baby to anyone made her feel empty. But Bonnie would get over it. She had to.
The Pertwell County Home for Children rested in an old farmhouse on top of Lorden Hill, sixteen miles north of Canaan Creek. Bonnie had only passed the forlorn dwelling a few times, and once she had actually stopped by when the Ladies of the Blessed Harvest had delivered donated clothes around the holidays. She’d never actually gone inside. Tilde Monroe insisted on quickly dropping off the gifts and the woman swooped in like Santa Claus with a box of good cheer while Bonnie and Miss Idella had waited outside.
Over the years, it seemed that no improvements had been made to the house. Shingles on the roof had come loose and the tall splintery beams were covered in chipped green paint. Weeds and dead grass jutted from the crawl space. The porch had a visible dip in the center, where a big woman sat in a rocker reading the paper. About a half-dozen kids played on a tire swing and a small wooden jungle gym in the front yard.
Bonnie pulled her sweater around her shoulders and made her way up the bush-lined path. The woman on the porch lay her paper in her lap.
“Auntie!” a dark brown boy of about nine dashed across the yard and grabbed one of Bonnie hands. He had shiny long hair that brushed his cheeks.
“Hi, Auntie!” A little girl with a chipped tooth and knobby knees tugged at her skirt.
Soon all the children were clamoring around her, excitedly touching her clothes and gripping her hands like a relative they hadn’t seen in months. None appeared older than ten and their clothes were ill fitting but appeared to be clean. Two little girls began to fight as they both tried to hug Bonnie around the waist.
The big woman leaned forward in her chair. “Mae-Wanda,” she called. “Ya’ll stop that mess!”
The smaller of the two girls scuttled up from the dusty ground. The other lay there crying.
“Get up, Molly,” the woman went on. “Get up and get on yo’ way.”
The woman heaved herself up from the chair. She was as large a woman as Bonnie had ever seen. Her bright yellow housedress had to be especially made, and the wooden chair that she sat in looked to be reinforced under each armrest with an extra two-by-four. As Bonnie approached, the woman smiled warmly, and her face, the color of chestnuts, appeared open and friendly.
“Y’all go’n ’bout yo’ business,” the woman said, trying to scatter the kids.
“I wanna talk to Auntie,” a boy said, refusing to release Bonnie’s hand.
“Me too,” one of the taller girls yelled.
“Ain’t nobody gon’ ha’ no oxtails if you don’t take yo’ lil’ asses on ’way from here,” the woman scolded.
The children reluctantly returned to the yard.
“Love themselves some oxtails,” the big woman said. “’Specially the way Grandmama make it.” She trod down the first step. The wood groaned. “I’m Connie Blanton,” she said, offering a hand.
“How do,” Bonnie returned. She looked back at the kids, now waving from the yard. “Who in the world do they think I am?” Bonnie asked the woman.
“A nice lady,” Connie said. “Any nice lady.”
Connie Blanton led Bonnie to one of the wooden chairs on the porch. A thin red cushion actually made the splintery seat comfortable.
“Can I get you somethin’, Auntie?” Connie asked.
Bonnie looked curiously at the woman’s huge, dark face. Deep dimples in both cheeks gave her a look of sincerity. “I’m fine,” Bonnie replied. “And my name is Bonnie Wilder.”
Connie plucked her newspaper from her chair. Without hurrying, she folded it, then settled into the rocker again. Her bare feet looked almost white from the ash. And though she appeared no older than forty, her ankles were as fat as her calves.
“They calls me Big Mama,” she said. “And Edie-Grace…she the woman who run the place with me, they calls her Lil’ Mama—they also calls her Spot sometimes.” Connie laughed heartily. “But that’s a whole ’nother story. Miss Thompson,” Connie went on, “she do the cookin’ fo’ the kids, and they calls her Grandmama…and Sarah Mae, she teach the kids they lessons, they calls her Sister Mama. And whosoever happen to come this way…and believe me when I tell you, baby,” Connie said, shaking her head, “there ain’t many folks wander our way…well, the kids call ’em Auntie…sometimes Uncle.”
“I see.”
“We likes to treat folks like family,” Connie explained. “Lil’ Mama started that years ago. She figure that if you treats folk like family, they cain’t stay away too long.”
“What about their parents,” Bonnie asked. “I mean…what do they call them?”
“Call ’em gone,” Connie said simply. She sat back and silently rocked. Surprisingly, her chair swayed without a single sound. “What can we do fo’ you, Auntie?”
Bonnie placed her handbag flat on her lap. She wasn’t sure what she’d ask here at the county home, or what they’d ask her. “I…have a chile,” she started. “And I might need to put him up fo’ adoption.”
“He yo’ natural chile?”
Bonnie tucked her lips together. She didn’t expect Connie Blanton to be so direct, so soon. And Bonnie knew that if she told the truth, there would be too many other questions. “Yes,” she replied.
“And why a nice lady like you wanna gi’ up this chile?”
“Circumstances.”
She could feel Connie’s eyes sweep over her crisp linen dress and brown shoes with a matching purse. She could feel Connie asking, in her mind, “What circumstances?” But the woman only said, “I s’pose that’s what brings most of these children to us.”
“Ma’am?”
“Circumstances,” she said. All at once, Connie lifted herself out of the chair. With the quickness of a woman half her size, she bound down the stairs. “Henry,” she shouted. “Don’t you stand on that chile’s back like that! What in the world’s wrong wit’ you?”
The boy with long hair threw a handful of dirt at a tall, wiry boy with dusty brown hair.
Connie yelled, “Don’t let me tell Lil’ Mama that you out here makin’ trouble.”
Bonnie glanced at the property. She could tell that it had once been a working farm. A chicken coop with tangled wires was now as barren as the small hog pens across from it. Bonnie spied a garden with several patches of collard greens and tiny green squash. She felt relieved to see vegetables growing. In all of this ruin, their presence hinted a
t life.
Connie made her way back to her chair. Before she sat, she took a packet of chewing tobacco from the pocket of her housedress. Then she settled in again, leaning her thick arms on the rests.
“May I ask how many children live here?” Bonnie asked.
“We got ten now. Twelve is capacity.”
“Do you get…a lot of babies,” Bonnie asked.
“Hardly never. Mostly older kids,” Connie replied. “Rainey,” she said, pointing to a small girl of about eight, “she the youngest chile we got. Come to us at two years old.”
“And she’s still here?” Bonnie couldn’t hide the shock and sadness in her voice.
Connie shrugged her heavy shoulders. “The chile got some medical problems. And families ’round here are mostly po’,” she explained. “Cain’t afford the healthy kids they got already. So there ain’t much adoptin’ goin’ on ’round these parts.”
“I see,” Bonnie said.
“Don’t mean to piss on the picnic, but you know I cain’t abide raisin’ nobody else’s chile. You know that.”
“Me and Lil’ Mama,” Connie went on, “we do what we can.” Connie pulled the foil wrapper down the sides of a chunk of tobacco. “But the county cut back on our funds like you wouldn’t believe. Sometimes I think they forgets us altogether.”
One of the little girls ventured toward the porch. It was the child who had held on to Bonnie’s skirt. Two frizzy red braids looked odd against her dark face. When she smiled, she was missing her two front teeth. She slowly eased toward Bonnie to sit on her lap.
“Lisette,” Connie said. “You know you ain’t s’posed to be up here where grown folks is talkin’.”
“I jes’ come to say hi,” she said.
“Git on yo’ way, lil’ gal.”
She scooted back down the steps.
“We better go on in the house, Auntie,” Connie said, standing. “Them kids’ll drive you crazy in a minute or two.”
Connie opened the screen door and Bonnie followed her into the house. It smelled like chicken soup, mixed with the rural scent of cut green grass and a tinge of backwoods skunk. Connie slipped into a pair of gray loafers that sat by the door. She proceeded to what would be the living room in most houses. Dim and stark, the room, surprisingly, had a fairly new black sofa. It was surrounded by a dozen or so aluminum chairs scattered throughout. One wooden chair sat by the window. Bits and pieces of toys were stacked in a splintery chest pushed off to the side, and an old TV sat in a corner of the room.
“That you, baby?” a woman’s voice yelled.
“Company come,” Connie yelled back.
“Company! What kinda company?”
“That be Edie-Grace,” Connie explained to Bonnie. “She help Grandmama with dinner. She be along directly.”
Bonnie nodded.
“Have a seat,” Connie said.
Bonnie was about to sit in the wooden chair by the window.
“That be my chair, Auntie,” Connie said. “Ain’t no offense, but you could sooner take any ole seat. That one made fo’ Big Mama…if you know what I mean.”
Bonnie could see that, like the rocker on the front porch, this chair was a bit larger and also reinforced. And Connie didn’t seem the slightest bit embarrassed. She sat down then lifted the dusty rose drape away from the window and peered out at the children. Bonnie sat on the couch.
“Where do the children sleep?” Bonnie asked.
“In the back,” Connie answered.
Just then, a short, wiry woman hurried in from the kitchen. She was as brown as Bonnie, but splotches of lighter skin stained her face and neck to the very top of her pink blouse. “Well, dern if we don’t ha’ ourselves a visitor,” she said, smoothing down her apron. “I’m Edie-Grace Guy,” she said, extending her hand. Her grip was strong and firm. “So glad you can visit, Auntie.”
Bonnie nodded politely. She understood why the kids sometimes called Edie-Grace Spot.
“I guess you and Connie already started talkin’?” Edie-Grace went through the room, pushing the chairs neatly against the walls.
“She got a chile…” Connie said. “Near as I can tell, a baby boy. That’s as far as we got.”
“As I mentioned to Mrs. Blanton,” Bonnie quickly put in, “I’m considerin’…I mean to say that I…might want to…”
“How old?” Edie-Grace asked.
“About two months.”
Edie-Grace nodded. “When children do get adopted from us, it’s usually the boys.”
“Why?”
“Farmers need boys to help out on the land,” Edie-Grace explained. “I guess boys pay off a lil’ better than gals.”
“She wanna see where the children sleep,” Connie said.
Edie-Grace Guy placed a few toys on top of the chest, then gestured for Bonnie to follow. Connie stayed seated, looking out of the window.
Bonnie trailed Edie-Grace through the house. From the outside, the place looked much smaller than it actually was. They walked down a hall, its walls painted a pea green, with about a half-dozen closed doors. Edie-Grace opened the first door, to a room with six identical cot-type beds. Threadbare pink blankets were folded on top of each. Bonnie stepped into the doorway and noticed the top cuff of stained white sheets, neatly folded beneath each blanket.
“This where the girls sleep.” Edie-Grace walked ahead and opened the next door as Bonnie followed her. This space had fewer beds. Each was topped with an old blue blanket. “Boys sleep here.”
“Girls and boys sleep so close together,” Bonnie said.
“Most times we don’t ha’ no troubles. But I cain’t say it ain’t never happened. Jes’ the nature of gals and boys, ain’t it?”
“I s’pose,” Bonnie said.
She followed Edie-Grace to the next door. “This where Grandmama and Sister sleep,” Edie-Grace said, opening the door. Inside, Bonnie spied two full-sized beds. “And this where me and Connie sleep,” she said, opening the door to the next room. Bonnie noticed only one king-sized bed. She paused for a moment. Bonnie suddenly recalled when Tilde had referred to the county home women as “a bit peculiar.”
“Down there,” Edie-Grace said, pointing, “is where the kids do they lessons.”
Bonnie was still taken aback by the sight of one bed. She knew that Edie-Grace Guy could sense her apprehension, yet the small woman continued as if she’d allow Bonnie to make her own opinions, as everyone else surely had.
“This last room is the nursery,” Edie-Grace said, snapping Bonnie out of her thoughts. She opened the door. The small room, with yellow paint on the walls, contained only one wooden crib. It looked as lonely as everything else in the Pertwell County Home. Bonnie pictured Wynn sleeping in that room, so alone, so bare, and the thought horrified her.
“I ain’t gon’ lie to you, Auntie,” Edie-Grace said as they walked back into the living room. “An adoption is a rare happenin’.”
“When was the last?” Bonnie asked.
“Three, maybe fo’ years ago. Yes, folks are poor. But also, adoption is so much paper, so many questions, so much time.”
“At least…the kids seem happy,” Bonnie said, trying to find a silver lining.
“They are happy,” Edie-Grace said. “But these kids often come from bad situations. So jes’ ’bout anything after their homes would make them happy. That lil’ gal, Lisette,” Edie-Grace went on, “Lord my God, but the chile probably know mo’ ’bout servicin’ a man at nine years old then you and me both.”
Bonnie didn’t want to hear this.
“And the boy Henry,” she said, “you wouldn’t want to know what his mama put the po’ chile through.”
“No, I wouldn’t,” Bonnie whispered.
“We’re the last stop, Auntie,” Connie added. “That woman who put her chile in the creek…”
“Yes,” Bonnie said.
“If she anythin’ like some of the parents we done seen,” Connie went on, “I ’spect she did that chile a favor.”
&nbs
p; Bonnie gripped her purse until her hand felt numb. She wanted to run out of here, but of course she couldn’t. Though, one thing was clear, she could never bring Wynn here. Her feelings had little to do with the dilapidated house or even where Edie-Grace and Connie chose to sleep. It was the emptiness. The desperation. It was knowing that Wynn could possibly be here until it was time for him to go off into the world as a man. There was love here, but how much could these women give to ten or twelve kids, some of whom were so damaged that they surely took up most of the attention. And what about these kids? Would they, in turn, infect Wynn with a darker knowledge of life at such a young age?
“Thank you so much fo’ yo’ time, Miss Guy, Miss Blanton,” Bonnie said, heading for the door.
“When will you bring the chile?” Connie asked.
“I’m…still thinkin’ things through,” Bonnie said.
“Jes’ give us a call,” Connie said. “Party line three.”
“I will,” Bonnie said, hurrying out.
“Love to ha’ you stay fo’ dinner,” Edie-Grace offered.
“Thank you, ma’am, no.” Bonnie trotted down the steps and started up the path. The kids followed her. Again, they grabbed both her hands and two others yanked at her skirt.
“Y’all go’n back and play,” Edie-Grace yelled.
Bonnie got to her car and slipped in. She had to separate small fingers from her forearm before she closed the door.
“Bye, Auntie,” the kids called.
“You comin’ back?”
“You got any kids?”
Bonnie was so choked up that she couldn’t respond. She looked back at the porch of the house. Edie-Grace had gone back inside and Connie had returned to her rocker.
“You kids move ’way from the car,” Connie called as Bonnie pulled off. When she looked back, she saw thin brown legs in a fog of red dust. A dozen fluttering palms. Six kids, waiting.
Bonnie’s mind was so preoccupied with thoughts of the county home that at first she didn’t notice the old blue Dodge parked in her driveway beside Thora’s black Lincoln. The Dodge looked familiar but Bonnie couldn’t quite place the owner. She suddenly got a tense feeling in her stomach. Maybe leaving Thora at the house to babysit wasn’t such a great idea. She ran to the porch, and Wynn’s basket sat beside the door, his blanket draped over one of the chairs. Bonnie didn’t hear crying. Even when she rushed through the living room to the kitchen, all was quiet, and there was no sign of Thora. Two Carnation Milk cans had been opened, baby bottles were strewn on the counter and the sterilizing pot was still boiling. She charged toward the bedroom and stopped at the door when she saw Ruby-Pearl, Wynn sleeping in her arms. Thora lay stretched across the bed.