Rachel gasped. “No . . .”
“Yes, indeed. Come to find out, the very same morning Louie had argued with his daddy about taking the car; then later that night he shot him. Claimed he mistook his daddy for a burglar, but everybody knew different, even Alma.”
“What’d she do?”
“Throughout the trial she sat there sobbing, and most people figured it was because of Saul being killed, but when Louie was sentenced to twenty years in the state penitentiary, she up and moved to Reidsville so she’d be close enough to visit him once a week.”
“I can’t believe it!”
“Well, it’s true. So you see what I mean, don’t you?”
Looking more puzzled than not, Rachel shook her head.
“Alma had every reason to turn her back on that boy and forget about him, but she couldn’t do it. That just goes to show a mama’s baby is her baby forever, no matter what happens.”
When Rachel didn’t argue the point, Mama Dixon leaned back in her chair and downed the last of her coffee. With a bit of melancholy woven through the thought, she said, “I know a mama never forgets, because even after all these years I can close my eyes and picture Tommy’s sweet little face.”
“You sure that’s not George’s face you’re seeing?”
“I’m positive. George has dark eyes like his daddy, but Tommy, he had my eyes: blue as the sky on the first day of spring.”
Rachel could feel the truth of what Mama Dixon said. The image of Emily’s precious smile would be with her forever. Even if she lived to be a very old woman, she would still be able to picture that innocent baby face and eyes as blue as her own. It was a thought that on cold nights would bring a measure of warmth.
In August, when the sun was blistering hot and they’d moved inside to sit in front of the fan, Rachel finally let go of the one worry she’d kept to herself. It happened an hour into the afternoon as they sat across from one another crocheting. Mama Dixon pushed aside the basket of yarn and swiped at the line of perspiration trickling down the valley of her bosom.
She stood and said, “It’s too darn hot to be doing this. I’m going home and setting myself in a cool tub of water.”
Rachel jumped up. “Don’t go yet; I was just about to fix us a glass of sweet tea.”
Mama Dixon raised a suspicious eyebrow. “Is there something special you want to talk about?”
“Why would you think that?”
“Because that crochet hook of yours hasn’t moved in nearly an hour. So either you’re feeling the heat as much as I am, or there’s something on your mind.”
“I guess it’s a little of both,” Rachel replied sheepishly.
The two women settled at the table with their tea, and Rachel told Mama Dixon something she’d carried around for almost two years without admitting it to herself.
“I didn’t realize it at first, but I’m a lot like you were,” she said. “Afraid of loving and losing another baby. Okay, I’ll never leave the door unlocked again, but what if this time something else happens? Something I’m not prepared for?”
Mama Dixon wiped the condensation from beneath her glass and took her time in answering.
“Things will happen,” she finally said. “That’s life. You spend each day living, loving, and learning. The learning, that’s the hard part. You might think you’re ready to be a mama, but then something happens and you start doubting yourself.”
“But I thought you got over being afraid.”
Mama Dixon laughed. “You never truly get over being afraid. Fear settles in your heart the day you learn you’re gonna be a mama, but somehow you stumble through doing the best you can, always hoping it’s good enough.”
That afternoon they talked for hours, Rachel giving voice to her fears and Mama Dixon telling of how she’d suffered through the very same misgivings. When she finally stood to leave, it was near suppertime, and the heat of the afternoon had begun to dissipate.
“Feels like it’s getting cooler,” Rachel said.
Mama Dixon nodded. “Yes, it does.”
“George will be home soon, so why don’t you stay for supper? Afterward we can sit on the porch and catch up on our crocheting.”
A smile creased Mama Dixon’s wrinkled face. “That sounds like a fine idea, a very fine idea.”
That evening the three of them sat on the porch long after the lamp was lit and the moon high in the sky. As Rachel watched George reading his newspaper and Mama Dixon nodding off, she thought back on the day’s conversation. After so many months of heartache and fear she’d thought she’d never have the courage to love again, but she was wrong. She loved George as much as ever, and now she’d also come to love Mama Dixon.
COMES THE FALL
Hesterville, 1973
In late September, when apples were at their peak of flavor and the smell of fall was in the air, Mama Dixon suggested she and Rachel pay a visit to the Penny Lane Orchard. It was said that Penny Lane had the sweetest apples in the state of Georgia, and during picking season people drove for miles to line up at the door and buy a bushel basket. The orchard was a two-hour drive away, but considering how fond George was of his mama’s apple turnovers, Rachel agreed.
“It’ll take us a while to get there,” she said, “so maybe you should sleep over tonight so we can get an early start in the morning.”
“I sleep better in my own bed,” Mama Dixon replied. “And besides, I need to copy down my turnover recipe for you. When we get back, I’ll teach you the secret to a crispy crust.”
A short while later, she left. Before getting into her car and driving off, Mama Dixon said she’d pick Rachel up by nine so they’d be back in time to bake the turnovers.
For Mama Dixon, by nine meant closer to eight, but the next morning nine came and went without any sign of her. Figuring it to be nothing more than a slow-going start, Rachel poured a second cup of coffee and sat down to wait. Two days earlier, the mailman had delivered the new issue of Good Housekeeping, the one that boasted eighteen pages of recipes from their cookbook; she glanced at her watch, then began to leaf through the magazine.
Fifteen minutes later she closed the magazine and started considering whether or not to call. Twice she picked up the receiver, began to dial, then hung up. Mama Dixon’s arthritis had been acting up, and there was no need to rush her if she’d had a bad night.
A half hour ticked by as Rachel sat there letting her coffee grow cold, and by ten she decided she’d waited long enough. Dumping the last bit of coffee down the drain, she dialed the number and listened as the phone rang a dozen or more times.
No answer—that’s odd.
Thinking maybe she’d made a mistake, she redialed the number. Still no answer.
Rachel replaced the receiver and stood there thinking. It wasn’t like Mama Dixon to make plans and not follow through. If she was sick or having car trouble, she would have called. Suddenly another thought hit: perhaps her car broke down somewhere along the road.
The notion of Mama Dixon alone and stranded was somewhat daunting. Rachel stepped out onto the front porch and leaned over the rail, hoping to see the old Ford chugging down the road. There was no sign of either Mama Dixon or the car.
She stood there for a few minutes on her tiptoes, craning her neck to see beyond the bend, but to no avail. The road was as quiet and lifeless as a church on Saturday night.
Returning to the house, she dialed the hardware store.
“George,” she said, “I was expecting your mama this morning, and she should have been here by now. Have you heard from her?”
“No, but you know how Mama is. She may have stopped by the library or decided to run an errand on the way.”
“I don’t think so. We were planning to—”
“Honey, I’ve got to go,” he cut in. “There are two customers in the store, and the guy from Black and Decker is waiting for me to approve an order.”
Seconds later there was a click, and he was gone.
Rachel pe
ered out the window. George had driven the good car this morning, so she was left with the troublesome Buick that sometimes turned over and sometimes didn’t. She eyed the car sitting in the driveway. He knew how to jump-start it, but she didn’t. All she could do was hope that today was one of its better days.
She grabbed her purse, hurried across the lawn, and climbed in. As she slid the key into the ignition, she muttered, “Start. Please start.”
The Buick just sat there. When she turned the key, a click-click-click sounded, then nothing.
“Don’t do this,” she moaned, then turned the key again. Not even a click this time.
She pushed back from the steering wheel, trying to remember how it was that George got the car started. She closed her eyes and pictured him behind the wheel.
If you flood the engine, it won’t start, he’d said. You’ve got to be patient.
He’d switched the key back and forth several times, turning it from “Off” to “Start,” then with one foot on the brake and the other on the clutch, he’d shifted from “Park” to first gear, second gear, third gear, then neutral.
She slid the seat forward and tried again, this time doing everything just as she remembered. After shifting back into neutral, she pumped the accelerator and turned the key. The engine groaned, choked, and sputtered, then turned over, but before she could slide the gearshift into “Reverse,” it died. Leaving her purse on the seat, she hurried back into the house and called George.
Before he’d finished his hello, she said, “I can’t get the car started!”
“Rachel? Is that you?”
“Of course it’s me,” she snapped. “This god-awful Buick won’t start.”
“Did you floor the accelerator and hold it?”
“Floor it? I thought you said pump it.”
“No, that’ll flood the engine. When you tried to start the car, did you smell gasoline?”
“Yes, a little bit.”
“Okay, wait five minutes, then try it with the accelerator floored. Why didn’t you tell me you needed the car today? I could have taken the Buick.”
“I wasn’t planning on it. Your mama was supposed to pick me up, but she never showed. She hasn’t called, and I’m concerned that she might have had car trouble on the way. I’m going to drive out and look for her.”
“I’m sure she’s okay,” George said. “Mama keeps that Ford in pretty good shape. If you want, I can go look for her after I finish up with this guy from Black and Decker.”
Rachel thought about it for a moment. “I’d just as soon do it myself. But if I still can’t get the car started, I’ll call you back.”
The smell of gasoline was less pungent when she returned to the car. Sliding behind the wheel, she pressed the accelerator to the floor, held it for a good thirty seconds, then turned the key. The engine sputtered to life and kept chugging.
The trip to town was less than twenty minutes. As Rachel drove, she scanned both sides of the road searching for Mama Dixon or the broken-down car. There was no sign of either until she pulled into the driveway. The black Ford was parked back by the garage.
Her back stiffened, and the acid reminder of coffee rose in her throat.
Crossing the lawn rather than following the walkway, she hurried around, took the front steps two at a time, then stood on the porch ding-donging the bell. Standing where she was, she could hear the echo of the doorbell inside the house, but that was it. There was no shuffling of footsteps, no calling out, “Just a minute,” nothing. She tried twisting the doorknob, but it didn’t budge. Locked.
Suddenly Rachel felt the same sense of panic she’d felt the morning she looked down and saw an empty crib. She began banging on the door with both fists.
“Mama Dixon!” she yelled. “Are you in there?”
Nothing. Not even the smallest sound.
“Mama Dixon!” she screamed again and again.
A key. There has to be a spare key hidden somewhere.
Hauling over the wicker chair, she stood on the seat and ran her fingers along the top frame of the door. Nothing. No key atop the door or windows. She knocked over the flowerpots sitting along the rail; still nothing. As she searched she continued calling out for Mama Dixon, her heart now thudding against her chest harder than her fists had pounded on the door.
When Rachel ran out of places to search for a key, the thought of driving over to get George flashed through her head, but she dismissed it. It was a ten-minute drive to the store, and she had to do something right now.
Although she was small and not muscular, she hefted the wicker chair into her arms, then backed up and ran straight at the front window. The legs of the chair broke through, and the window shattered. She kept the seat in front of her face as chunks of glass exploded into the air. Most of the glass landed inside, but razor-sharp shards scattered across the porch. Stepping carefully, Rachel approached the window and leaned in.
“Mama Dixon,” she yelled, “are you okay?”
No answer.
Using the legs of the chair, she knocked out the remaining pieces of glass, then climbed through the frame. Pushing aside the curtains, she moved toward the hall. That was when she saw Mama Dixon’s body at the foot of the stairs.
Rachel heard herself scream. It was a shrill, ear-piercing sound that would linger in her head for months afterward. Although she did everything that was necessary, later on she would have almost no memory of it.
A PROMISE MADE
Glass from the window was everywhere, mostly in the living room but fanned out into the dining room and hallway as well. Instead of picking her way across the floor, Rachel rushed over and knelt beside the body. Brushing a piece of glass from the front of Mama Dixon’s blouse, she ran a hand across her chest trying to feel the thump of a heartbeat.
Don’t be dead. Please, please don’t be dead.
Mama Dixon was on her back, her right arm twisted at an odd angle, her left hand wedged between her thigh and the bottom step. With panic swelling inside her chest and her hand trembling, Rachel pushed the thigh aside and freed the left hand. She took the limp wrist between her fingers and waited to feel a pulse. At first, there was nothing; then she felt the thrum. Weak and erratic but there.
She jumped up, grabbed the phone, and called for an ambulance. After that she dialed the number for the store and did not wait for George’s hello.
“Your mama’s had an accident,” she shouted. “Get over here as quick as you can!”
“Rachel? Where are you?”
“At Mama’s house. I think she fell down the stairs.”
“Good Lord!” George exclaimed. “Is she okay?”
His question was so direct that for a moment her heart stopped beating. The realization that she couldn’t answer was like a slap in the face. She began to sob, and the words felt sharp in her throat.
“I don’t know.”
When she hung up the phone, Rachel returned to Mama Dixon’s side and knelt there, holding her hand and whispering a prayer for God to spare her life.
“Please don’t take Mama away from us,” she said through her tears. “You’ve already taken our baby. Isn’t that enough?”
The words came in spurts, first angry, then prayerful, then fragile and broken with pieces of her heart stuck to every syllable.
The ambulance arrived first, and George came moments later. He rushed over and squatted beside Rachel.
“Any change?”
She looked up, her eyes red-rimmed and sorrowful. “None.”
He reached in and pried her hand from his mama’s. “Honey, you’ve got to move back so these men can get Mama onto the stretcher.”
With his arm around her back and his hand lifting her elbow, he urged Rachel to her feet and stepped aside. The ambulance driver and attendant moved in. After they’d taken Mama Dixon’s vital signs and slipped an oxygen mask over her nose, they eased her onto a stretcher and carried her to the ambulance. George looked at his mama as she lay there motionless, one arm sw
ollen to twice the size of the other and her leg turned blue.
His voice cracked when he asked, “Is she going to be okay?”
The driver gave a helpless-looking shrug. “That’s a question for the doc. But first we’ve got to get her to the hospital.”
“Do you want to ride with Mama, and I’ll follow in the car?” George asked.
Rachel nodded, then climbed into the back of the ambulance and sat alongside the gurney, holding Mama Dixon’s hand. As the siren screamed through the quiet streets of Hesterville, she noticed the green blouse. The shoulder was ripped, and a button was missing, but it was the same one Mama Dixon had worn yesterday.
It happened last night, not this morning!
The ambulance took a sharp corner, and Rachel slid sideways, banging her arm against a metal rack as she braced herself. The radio squawked, the siren screamed, the attendant shouted numbers to the driver, but the only thing Rachel could think of was Mama Dixon lying there helpless and in pain throughout the night. She pictured her calling out over and over again when there was no one to answer.
If she or George had been there, it would have been different. They would have gotten help sooner or the accident would never have happened. Instead of lying on the floor with no one to answer her call for help, Mama Dixon would have been sitting across from her in the living room saying, “Rachel, would you be a dear and fetch my yarn basket from upstairs?”
Rachel would have done it in a heartbeat. She was young and could dash up the stairs and back down in less than a minute. But Mama Dixon, with her arthritic knee, was slower and less sure-footed, more likely to misjudge a step.
She was all but certain that if they’d been there, Mama Dixon would be sitting in a chair with a pile of crocheted squares in her lap instead of strapped to a stretcher with her eyes closed and her body broken.
Emily, Gone Page 18