The Sisterhood of Blackberry Corner

by ANDREA SMITH

  “A sho’ nuff, by-the-law kinda guy, yo’ man is,” Dewey went on. “Even the officials didn’t catch some of the things ole ‘Mr. Justice’ caught. I ’member this one time—”

  “Mr. Justice?” Bonnie repeated.

  “He gon’ bring up that old call again,” Naz jumped in.

  “Ole Naz was actually arguing a call against his own damned team!”

  “You’s a lie!” Naz laughed.

  “You know I ain’t,” Dewey insisted. “You ask C. C. Baker, Wyndam, Jet Jackson—any of them guys—and they’ll tell you.”

  Mr. Justice. Bonnie could hear the old man in the Big Buy mistaking Naz for Mr. Justice. She could still see the woman standing in her living room pointing to the photo of Naz and calling him “Mr. Justice.” And now Dewey Bradshaw.

  “’Scuse me,” she said, rising.

  “You okay there, Bonnie?” Naz asked.

  “I’m fine,” she said, walking toward the bathroom. “Jes’ got a touch of the heartburn.”

  “Want I should get you some of them tablets from the medicine cabinet?” Naz asked.

  “No, no,” she said. “I’m gon’ splash some water on my face.”

  Bonnie’s legs felt numb as she walked into the bathroom. She turned on the tap and leaned into the sink. The possibility that the incidents were related was remote, but somehow she couldn’t ignore them. She recalled when the young woman from Taliliga had mentioned the name Lucinda Justice. Bonnie took a pink hand towel that hung from the inside door with the word “Wilders” embroidered across the bottom edge. She sat on the closed toilet seat and lowered her face into her toweled hands. “Yo’ man look jes’ like Mr. Justice. Same face.” Bonnie’s stomach was in knots. But this was nothing, she kept repeating to herself. It was just a name—a name that confronted her, once, twice and now again.

  THIRTEEN

  Naz stood at the stove slicing a second helping of roast pork. He draped it across his plate, dug into the pot of lukewarm mashed potatoes and slung some on top of the sliced meat.

  “Mo’ potatoes?” he asked over his shoulder.

  Bonnie shook her head no. She lifted a string bean onto her fork.

  “Thin as a rail these days,” he said, pulling his chair out and sitting down.

  “Ain’t had much of an appetite.”

  It had been a couple of weeks since Dewey Bradshaw’s visit. Life had been quiet. Not a single baby had come along for almost two months. Even the mewling of a stray cat was enough to send Bonnie out to check her sewing basket and milk bins. She needed a child. Not just for the feel of young life, but to take her mind away from her silly suspicions. As many times as she had tried to push the name Justice from her mind, it edged its way back. Like a dare, it taunted her. Mainly because she had no idea how it connected to her, to Naz or to their lives.

  “I’m ’bout to head on out,” he said, wiping his mouth with a paper napkin.

  “Where?”

  “Horace’s. Gon’ listen to a ball game on the radio.”

  “How long you stayin’?”

  Naz looked at her curiously. Bonnie rarely questioned him about his comings and goings. “Ever how long it take,” he said, carrying his plate to the counter. He emptied the scraps into Godfrey’s dish and set the plate in the sink. “You wanna come?”

  She suddenly felt silly. “No.”

  “Thora be glad fo’ yo’ company.”

  “Got some things to do ’round here,” she said. “Tell Thora I’ll see her tomorrow.”

  Naz kissed her on the cheek. Then he left her sitting at the kitchen table.

  Bonnie set the half-empty pots in the refrigerator. She washed and dried the dinner dishes and cleaned the table. She swept and mopped the floor until the pattern of orange roosters preened in the old linoleum.

  “Yo’ man look jes’ like Mr. Justice.”

  The best parts of the day were the ones that required a lot of work. Bonnie had tidied the closets and even scrubbed the shed out back. But it wasn’t enough. She went into her bedroom, stood at the door and looked for anything undusted, unfluffed or out of place. There was nothing. So she stripped the bed of its linen and tossed the day-old white sheets into the empty hamper. Then she stood before the fragrant linen closet. Soft green sheets this time. She unfolded the crisp cotton with one strong snap and watched it billow across the queen-sized bed—her and Naz’s bed. He had carved the headboard himself from birch wood he had bought in Raleigh many years ago.

  She had a good marriage. Still, she couldn’t reconcile the feelings. Suspicions loomed in her mind. Bonnie sat on the side of the half-covered mattress. She had even snooped through Naz’s pockets, under the guise of laundry, searching for anything that might tell her that something was wrong.

  “He and his wife, Miss Lucinda, live in Taliliga.”

  Bonnie looked at the clock on her night table, then dialed Thora’s number.

  “Hey, missy!” Thora’s voice was bright.

  “Naz there?”

  “He and Horace listenin’ to the game. Hold on, sweetie, and I’ll call him.”

  “No,” Bonnie said quickly. “I jes’ wanted to know if he was there.”

  Thora paused. “This the second time you called me like this, Bonnie,” she said. “Why in the world you call and…”

  Bonnie hung up the receiver. After a beat, the phone rang. She knew it was Thora, and probably spitting mad. Bonnie left it ringing and went out to the porch. She sat in her usual chair that looked down the road. This used to be the time of day she enjoyed most but now the shadows were mottled with strange forms and the trees were filled with whispers. Her mind ached with irresolution. She had thought about going to Taliliga, but realized how crazy the idea was. And where would she go? Where was this Justice house? Taliliga was half the size of Canaan Creek, but she’d still have to find the place. Aside from a few people that had visited the Piney Grove church, Bonnie didn’t know many folks in Taliliga. Then she thought about Miss Minnie. An old woman who delivered more than two hundred babies would know everyone and where they lived. Bonnie tried to piece together Miss Minnie’s directions. She hadn’t grasped the information at the time because she never thought she’d need to go to Taliliga. Only now could she recall that the old woman lived past Main Street. She had mentioned something about a covered bridge about fifteen miles past the center of town.

  Bonnie jumped when the phone rang again. She thought about letting it ring, but then rushed in to answer.

  “What the hell is wrong with you!” Thora barked.

  “Just…not feeling like myself today,” Bonnie replied.

  “Who the hell are you, then?” Thora snapped. After a beat, Thora excitedly said, “Girl, maybe you pregnant.”

  “I’m not pregnant.”

  “Well, you actin’ crazy as hell! Something got to be up—”

  “I have to go,” Bonnie cut in.

  “Why?”

  “I jes’ do.”

  “You startin’ to worry me.”

  “I’ll explain it all soon,” Bonnie said.

  “Explain what? Girl, what is wrong wit’ you?”

  “I have to go.”

  “Where in God’s name you goin’?”

  Bonnie hung up the receiver. She looked out the screen door at her yard as the afternoon slowly turned to twilight. Her arms locked across her chest as if to anchor herself in place. She couldn’t go. She wouldn’t go. Bonnie’s arms suddenly fell to her sides. She slipped on her sweater, snatched her car keys from the table and headed out the door.

  Taliliga was at least an hour from Canaan Creek—an hour straight into the bush where acres of farmland flourished with cotton, peaches and tobacco leaves the size of elephant ears. Bonnie soon hit the outskirts of Canaan County. She drove a tree-lined path enlivened with lush spring green, then turned onto Helgar Trail, the only road that extended through all three counties. Orange and pink lines marked the sky above the dry land. God’s breathtaking landscape should be enough to
wipe doubt from anyone, she thought. Suddenly, Bonnie felt like a fool, on her way to find some woman named Justice for no good reason. “Same face.” Bonnie plodded on.

  Ten miles beyond the center of Taliliga, the scent of Walla Walla Sweets wafted from the onion fields that lined both sides of the road. Five miles more was a short, dilapidated bridge. Only half of the rickety wooden scaffold still bore a steel overlay. This had to be the covered bridge that Miss Minnie had mentioned. Bonnie slowed to a crawl as she crossed over, the wood moaning with the weight of her car. She took a long and thankful breath when she reached the other side.

  Three miles past the bridge rested a modest cabin with a putty thatched roof. Full-sized logs made up the walls. Surrounded on two sides by willowy oaks, the house looked like it was straight out of a fairy tale.

  Bonnie parked just yards away from the door. She rapped lightly, praying that this was indeed Minnie Nesby’s house. There hadn’t been a baby left in months, so perhaps business was slow for Miss Minnie too. Bonnie knocked again. Miss Minnie was nearly ninety, she thought, and surely it took time for her to get up from her chair.

  A young, light brown woman opened the door. Her piercing dark eyes spied Bonnie from head to toe. “Ma’am?” she said.

  “I’m lookin’ fo’ Mrs. Nesby. Does she live here?”

  “You in a family way?” the young woman asked.

  “No. I’m a friend.”

  The young woman looked Bonnie over again. Her cotton blouse and starched tan skirts with perfect pleats must have sufficed, for the woman said, “Come in.”

  Bonnie entered the warm, neat house. It was filled with everything rustic and homey, which looked exactly like Minnie Nesby herself. When she sat on the overstuffed gingham couch, it felt like she’d sunk clean to the floor. A large mahogany bookshelf, containing perhaps a dozen books, held one of the oldest bibles that Bonnie had ever seen, as its soft leather cover seemed to be flaking away. The remainder of the wooden cabinet looked to be used more like a pantry. Broad jars and tall jars of every color sparkled like expensive stained glass. They were filled with beans, hominy, rice, preserves and pickled everything, including chicken feet, hogs’ snouts, fish heads and giblets.

  The young woman sat across from Bonnie in a pale green armchair. Bonnie could see her resemblance to Miss Minnie.

  “I was hopin’ that Miss Minnie could help me with a little matter,” Bonnie started. “Is she resting?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the girl answered. “Resting with the Lord.”

  “My word,” Bonnie whispered. “When?”

  “Just last month,” the girl answered. “I’m Alice, her granddaughter.”

  “She tole me ’bout you,” Bonnie said. “Tole me what a fine young woman you are and how proud she is of you.”

  “Thank you for saying.” Alice wasn’t a pretty girl but her attraction arrived from a calmness inside of her, a peace, which was rare for a young woman that looked to be no older than eighteen.

  Bonnie shook her head sadly. “I was wondering why no babies came to us in the last couple months.”

  Alice leaned forward in her chair. “You’re the lady?” she asked. “The one that finds homes for the babies? The one in Canaan Creek?”

  “Yes.”

  “Nana talked ’bout you.”

  “Have you been to Canaan Creek, sugar?” Bonnie asked.

  “Once or twice,” Alice answered. “But not in a long time. Nana been there since me,” she said with a smile. “Fo’ fact, in the last few years, the only time she left this place was to go see you. That old woman jes’ up and carried herself to Canaan Creek.” Alice chuckled. “Got on the bus all by herself. She like to scare me to death.” Alice’s eyes filled. “My Nana…jes’ as gutsy as the day is long.”

  Bonnie nodded respectfully.

  “Mrs. Wilder,” Alice said, “I know you came to see my grandmama, but is there anything I can do to help you?”

  The fact that Miss Minnie was gone must’ve been a sign. A sign that Bonnie needn’t be looking for this Justice house after all. “That’s okay, sweetie,” Bonnie said, rising. “I won’t take up no mo’ of yo’ time.”

  “It was a pleasure, ma’am.”

  “Pleasure’s all mine.” Bonnie embraced the girl, then walked toward the door. “What’s yo’ plans now that yo’ Nana’s past?”

  “I’m gon’ sell the house and use the money for school,” she replied. “I hope to get into Fisk…you know, in Tennessee. Then, God willing, Meharry.”

  “That another school?” Bonnie asked.

  “A medical school, ma’am.”

  “A doctor?”

  “I wanna do what Nana did,” the girl replied. “Only I want to learn the medical way.”

  “Isn’t that fine.” Bonnie walked onto the porch. “This is such a lovely house,” she said, looking at the stacked logs. “So much love. So much life. And jes’ like my house,” Bonnie said, looking toward the thick woods, “it’s plenty isolated.”

  “That’s why gals felt comfortable when they came here to have their babies. Don’t feel like eyes are watching them,” Alice said. “Next house, Percy Evans’s place, got to be five miles away. Miss Fletcher…she three or fo’ miles after that, and the Justices’ is ten miles past that, even.”

  “Justices?” Bonnie asked.

  “Miss Lucinda and her daughter, Tammy.”

  Bonnie stood at the bottom of the porch steps. She felt the hair on her arms rise. “Where exactly do they live?” she asked.

  “’Bout fifteen miles south of here, straight down 19.”

  “I see.” Bonnie walked toward her car. “Please come see me if you need anything. I’m on Blackberry Corner.”

  “I know, ma’am,” Alice said, waving. “And I will.”

  If Miss Minnie’s death was a message that Bonnie should stop looking, surely this was an even louder call to continue on. Bonnie pulled back onto the road and headed south. Somehow she felt calm as she drove toward the Justice home. Perhaps this was the real sign. One that Minnie Nesby had sent herself.

  Just twenty minutes later, Bonnie was standing behind high wild bushes across the road from a small house. Night was arriving quickly, but enough daylight remained to get a full view. The house looked frighteningly similar to her own on Blackberry Corner: the wraparound porch, the three rockers and even a sewing basket by the front door.

  Bonnie rested her shoulder against the thick trunk of a dying oak. This was all so ridiculous, yet she couldn’t walk away. Bonnie knew that if she saw this Lucinda woman, she would know immediately. But know what? She hadn’t even allowed herself to say the words.

  Loud squawking suddenly pierced the quiet as a hen attacked a rooster, trying to draw blood. Feathers flew and dirt kicked up in a large red cloud. Through the dust, Bonnie saw a woman come out onto the porch carrying a bucket.

  “Y’all need to hush,” she yelled as she splashed the unruly birds. Lucinda? Bonnie felt her heartbeat quicken. Maybe this wasn’t Lucinda. And if it was, who the hell was Lucinda anyway? The woman was tall—taller than she—and while Bonnie was as slender as a blade of grass, this woman was big-boned. Her shoulders were wide, her body was solid and her ample breasts bounced under a yellow cotton dress. The woman set the bucket on the porch. She took a hankie from the pocket of her housedress and dabbed her forehead, then sat on the top step. She smoothed her dress past her calves and leaned her forearms on her knees. Bonnie had to admit there was a raw prettiness to the woman. Her eyes were large and her face, red and shiny from sweat, was as angular as the Cherokees that lived up near Gaffney. Her dark hair, in two short, neat plaits, brushed the sides of her cheeks.

  Bonnie shut her eyes to get hold of her nerves. She knew she should make her presence known, but she could think of no words to even begin a conversation. This could all be nothing, she kept reminding herself. And surely she was standing in these bushes looking at a woman who didn’t have a thing to do with her. Bonnie took a breath and opened her eyes.
The woman now had a cigarette in her hand. That’s when Bonnie knew this couldn’t be Lucinda. That’s when she was certain that this was all a stupid mistake, because Naz would never be with a smoking woman. Bonnie cursed herself for even the slightest doubt.

  She started back to her car, when a hand suddenly clasped down on her wrist. It happened so quickly that Bonnie could only see the back of a wild woman dragging her from the bush. She tried to squirm from the woman’s grip, but the woman turned and flashed a look that warned that she would break Bonnie’s arm. It was then that Bonnie realized that this was a child, no older than fifteen. Her hair was in one large plait that jutted from the back of her thick neck like a hog’s tail. Her chest, beneath the dark T-shirt, was flat, dense and fleshy. Her thighs, in the denim pedal pushers, were like two stuffed sausages. But, young or no, the girl was determined to pull Bonnie from the bushes and never loosened her grip.

  “Mama,” the girl yelled. “Look a h’yere!” She pulled Bonnie out of the green.

  “What the hell…?” the woman called.

  “She was a-watchin’ you, Mama,” the girl said, yanking Bonnie toward the porch.

  The woman stood up on the top step. She looked at Bonnie like her daughter had dragged something foul from the woods.

  “She was a-starin’,” the girl said.

  “This ’bout that damn census?” the mother barked.

  “What?” Bonnie felt herself begin to panic. She yanked at the girl’s grip and the two tugged back and forth.

  “Don’t wanna hear nuthin’ ’bout that mess today,” the woman argued. “And you oughta be ashamed of yo’self,” she rebuked, “tryin’ to git in folk’s personal affairs.”

  “I’m not from the census,” Bonnie yelled back. She yanked away from the daughter so hard that Bonnie stumbled backwards and stopped just short of falling. Her chest trembled as she fought her tears. She was embarrassed and scared and her wrist throbbed from where the girl had grabbed her. Bonnie tried to collect herself but her voice quivered when she said, “I…didn’t mean to be lurkin’. I am…lookin’ fo’ the Justice house.”