When Bailey smiled, it warmed me like the delicious appearance of the sun on an overcast day. “What would you do?”
“Tickle her ribs and sing with my karaoke machine. Sometimes she would sing with me, but when Josiah came home, we stopped singing and laughing.” And just like the sun on an overcast day, her smile ducked behind the clouds. “He would hit the table with his fist.” Bailey cringed as she reenacted his behavior. “And he’d say, ‘What the world’s so funny till I come home? Come on make me laugh, too.’ But he was mad and didn’t want to laugh so Mom would just say, ‘Not now, Josiah’ and we’d turn off karaoke.” Her tiny brow furrowed. “He’d only make her laugh sometime. He made her cry the most times. She said he didn’t hit her, but I think he did. Her face swolled sometime, like ugly-colored too. My mom didn’t lie no matter what my dad or Jillian or my grandpa says. She just didn’t want me to be sad.” She peeked up at me as if to make sure I believed her mom was good.
“My mom always tells the truth too.” I smiled, encouraging her to continue. The dam had opened a little. Enough …
“I asked her before if we could leave and go someplace else.”
“What’d she say?”
“She said too much water under the bridge. We had no other place to go. I checked under bridges; you know the ones you drive under when you go to shop at Sam’s?”
“Yes. I know the exact underpass you are talking about.”
“Sometimes cars can’t drive under there when it rains a lot. But lots of times it’s dry, and I never knew why we couldn’t drive under there and go someplace where Josiah wouldn’t live with us anymore. Do you know how much sin he had in his heart?”
“No.”
She looked at me as if I’d been the one telling her story. That I had stopped, and she needed me to continue.
“I don’t know, Bailey.”
“Well, I don’t either,” she cried in an agitated voice. She hit the table with an angry fist, this time, her own. Ketchup splattered us both in a blood-soaked pattern.
Gauging her nervous system with lightning accuracy, I grabbed her in my arms and whisked her outside.
Thank God, it was a school day for children whose mothers hadn’t been killed by Josiah, and we were alone on the playground.
Powerless to take away the pain, I sat at one of the outdoor tables and pulled Bailey close. “Bailey, it’s ketchup. Bailey, this is ketchup.” I held her, but only God could comfort her.
Her body trembled again against mine.
Lord, please help me know what to say.
“I want my mama.”
I stroked her hair and back. “Yes, you do.”
“But she’s dead.”
I had no reply.
“I said she’s dead.”
“Yes, she is.” I swayed. I prayed.
“She’s never coming back.”
“No, she’s not.”
“I want her right now.”
“I want you to have her right now.”
“I told you she’s dead.”
“Yes. You did, and she is.” I continued to rock until her body started to settle.
She turned around in my lap. “Aren’t you going to tell me she’s in heaven? That I can see her in heaven?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t want to see her in heaven. Right now, I mean. I want to see her here at McDonald’s.” She clenched and unclenched her fist. “I askeded Grandma if she’s in heaven. She said yes. I askeded my dad, and he said yes, but Jillian coughed real loud and said, ‘Thomas, I wouldn’t promise that kid anything I couldn’t deliber on.’” Her green eyes rolled. “I don’t know what it means ’cept Jillian won’t say my mom’s in heaven.” She smirked. “My dad says, ‘For, God’s sake, Jillian. Leave the kid alone. She’s my kid.’” Bailey looked confused. “I don’t know where I live. Has anyone told you where I live?”
My heart twisted. I could hardly speak. “Where do you want to live?”
“Not in heaven. Not yet.” Her eyes match-stemmed. “Josiah may be there. Do you think Josiah is in heaven?”
“No.”
“What if the preacher at his funeral said he is with his new family of angels in heaven, in a better place, like at my mom’s funeral?”
“I don’t believe Josiah is in heaven.”
“Where do you think Josiah is?” Bailey trembled. “I’m afraid he’s in the closet at my grandma’s.”
“Your grandma’s clothes are most likely in her closet. Nothing in Grandma’s closet can hurt you, Bailey.”
“Something hurt my mom. Josiah killed her, and now she’s dead.”
“Yes, but her closet didn’t hurt her. Josiah did. Would you like for me to go to your grandma’s house with you and look in the closet and make sure nothing is inside to remind you of Josiah?”
“No, my grandma can if you ask her.”
“I can do that.”
“Do you believe my mom is in heaven?” She turned further so she could peer into my face with her wet puffy eyes. Her nose dripped.
I pulled the tail of my long skirt up to her nose, and she blew.
“Yes, I believe your mom is in heaven.” I didn’t flinch. I didn’t know whether it was true or not. I hoped so but left all that posturing to the seemingly large group of religious people in her circle who love God but hated each other. And who failed their big and little girls miserably.
When Bailey seemed better, she made an announcement. “I want to go to the graveyard now, please.”
“Oh … okay. To your mom’s grave?”
“No, Josiah’s.”
Mercy.
Chapter 7
She tilted her head to one side, arched her brows over the world’s sweetest green eyes. “Well, can we?”
“Bailey, why do you want to go to Josiah’s grave?”
“What’s your name?” Bailey asked me.
I couldn’t believe my oversight, but I’d only said my name once. “Miss Catherine.” I smiled.
“Hi.” Bailey positioned herself in my lap so we could shake hands.
“Hi.” I felt like we were old friends.
“Ms. Caffrine—”
“Would you rather call me Miss Katie?”
“Oh, yes ma’am. Oh, I know what.” She beamed. “What about Miss Kat?”
“Whatever makes you happy. Some people call me Kat from time to time.”
“Miss Kat, please take me to be sure that Josiah is buried deep enough.” Bailey hopped off my lap and tugged at my hand. She guided me toward my car as though we had a done deal. “If he’s deep enough, he can’t get back out, so he can’t hurt me.”
My heart tried to escape my chest. “All right.” How deep was deep enough? I had read in the paper that Josiah and Bailey’s mom were buried in the same cemetery.
A few minutes later, we motored the short distance to Restful Acres. As we drove between the large gates of the stone fence surrounding the cemetery, I glimpsed Bailey’s reflection in the rearview mirror. She seemed amazingly calm. She smiled at the wrought-iron angels standing at the entrance and waved. “Thank you for watching my mommy.”
I also nodded at the angels. Thank you for watching my license.
Bailey looked out the window at the cemetery dotted with grave sites. The cemetery was huge—a spreading flat piece of land dotted with hundreds of gleaming headstones. The sun beat down on the granite and cast glints like diamonds. A couple of cobalt-blue tents with white lettering announcing different funeral homes stood, anchored to the ground. One brand new mound was covered with fresh flowers.
We arrived at the maintenance building to ask the location of the grave. I thought I’d go in alone, but before I could say so, Bailey released her seat belt and hopped outside the car, heading toward the old weather-beaten building.
The door opened with a groan, and I reached for Bailey’s hand to keep her from charging in. The building—which housed one large room ceiling-high with old metal file cabinets and a narrow door leading to wha
t I assumed a bathroom— smelled of musky papers, wet soil, and one old caretaker. He sat at the gunmetal desk, a slick girly magazine spread wide before him. He immediately closed it and shoved it into the middle drawer after looking up and seeing us there.
A window air-conditioner ground its motors on the other side of the room, but I kept the door open with my shoulder, and my grip on Bailey tightened. “Sir, we’re looking for the burial plot of Josiah …” I couldn’t remember his last name.
“Mendez,” Bailey said.
“Josiah Mendez,” I repeated.
“At feller ’at kilt ’at woman?”
Perfect. Just perfect. “Sir, would you please tell us where we can find the plot of Josiah Mendez.”
“The new ’un?”
“Yes, sir. He was buried Saturday.”
“’At would be ’at feller that kilt her all right.”
Each year, professional counselors are issued an updated license to be displayed in their primary place of practice. The state board also sends a wallet copy. Every year I wonder if I’ll ever really need it for anything. And then …
“Sir.” I opened my purse and flashed my license. “I work for the state of Texas.” Technically, that was the truth. “And,” I closed my purse with haste. “I need to make sure that Josiah Mendez is … is …”
“Buried deep enough,” Bailey said. She flashed large eyes at me, then turned to the gentleman and said, “Yes, sir, we need to make sure.”
“’at’s a first. I ain’t never.” He took a closer look at our ketchup-splattered clothes.
I didn’t even want to know what he thought. “Sir, show us the grave, please.”
“All right,” he said, standing. “Let’s go. Ain’t far.”
Bailey and I followed the weathered man walking ahead. When he stopped at a new grave, we did too.
“This is it,” the old man said pointing to the mound. “Sorry ’bout the mud. There ain’t nuttin’ much to show to the gov’ment cept ’is is it.”
When I didn’t reply, he walked away mumbling. Once he’d gone far enough, we approached Josiah’s grave. But I had no clue as to what would happen when Bailey looked upon the grave of the man who’d killed her mother.
Bailey walked around the fresh heap of dirt, periodically kicking at loose clumps. She stopped long enough to stare at the grave. “Josiah?” she whispered.
I watched her, my thumb looped in the strap of my shoulder purse. My clothes stuck to my clammy skin. I wondered how life could be so complicated for a child. Or how it was that God determined I would be the one to bring her here. Her father should have been the one. He should be the one assuring her that Josiah could never come back and hurt her again.
Bailey unhooked her thumb, then circled the grave mound a few more times, never taking her eyes off the dirt.
I never took my eyes off her.
“You have a bad heart. Please stay dead and don’t come back.” She circled the grave as she talked to him. “Are you in hell, Josiah?”
The cemetery held its breath while I prayed for her. Bailey craved something from this pile of dirt. She was just a baby. She had suffered horrors most adults couldn’t stomach. Josiah had taken so much.
Then she said a six-year-old thing. “Josiah, I hate you, and I guess I’ll miss you.” She spat on the mound, then looked at me as if to see if she was in trouble.
In answer, I approached his grave beside her and spat myself. Right into the heart of the dirt.
She laughed.
Payment enough for me.
She had stopped circling. She put one small white-and-blue-flower-shoed foot on his grave and said to Josiah, “Step on a crack.” She balled her tiny hand into a fist and shook it. “You broked my mother’s back.” She stomped at him again. She was hardly done.
I stomped a few times myself.
Bailey possessed endless energy.
I did not. My stomping energy flagged early. I found a nearby oak and leaned between its gnarled above-ground roots. A rare breeze ruffled my skirt and tickled my skin. I closed my eyes for only a moment when a thought struck me—Alicia surely expected me back at the office soon.
But no one expected Bailey anywhere.
How could that be? This child was precious. Beautiful. Perfect. My dream child. The one I would love and spoil and teach about the love of Jesus. The child who would fill the empty parts of my heart. How could life be so messed up that I could not have a child, and no one was calling to check on this grieving one? If Jillian or Thomas had called to check on Bailey, Alicia would have called my cell. Had I not answered, she’d come find me.
I watched Bailey’s every move, but I didn’t bother her. Many moments she didn’t seem to know I sat close by. But eventually, muddy and weary, she plopped beside me.
“Are you ready to go?” I asked.
She nodded. Exhausted and spotted with dried mud and ketchup, we got back into my car. Though we looked less than dignified, somehow, we felt better. I knew I did, and I could sense the same from Bailey.
After I parked the car, I slipped out, then walked around to the passenger’s back door. Bailey waited patiently. I helped her out and, hand in hand, we started toward my office …
… and walked smack into Jillian who stood on the back porch.
A little heavier, a little grayer, and somewhere she had taken on an angry look, but the woman standing on the back porch was definitely Jillian.
Bailey’s resurrected exuberance faded, and she stepped behind me.
“Have you been in an accident?” Jillian looked me up and down, but she didn’t appear worried at all about Bailey.
“No,” Bailey peeked from behind me. “We’ve been on-purpose. We spit and stomped Josiah.”
“You did what?” Jillian asked, still looking at me.
Neither of us answered.
I’m sure by then, Bailey and I stunk. Texas being unforgiving in that way. But if Superman watched us with his x-ray vision, he’d see that Bailey and I had dirty hair and clothes, but no sin in our hearts, while Jillian’s hair and clothes were clean.
Alicia arranged for Jillian and Thomas to see me the next afternoon while I took Bailey into the bathroom to get her cleaned up. She sat on the vanity with her feet dangling over the side. I sponged the ketchup and mud from her face, legs, and arms. Exhaustion hovered over us both. She yawned, leaned toward me, nearly falling from the sink. I bagged her clothes to take to my house for cleaning. Then I slipped a fresh tee shirt I kept for emergencies over her head. She looked …
Bailey looked loved. My arms circled her, and for the craziest moment, I wished I could put her in my car and take her home with me.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said.
She hugged me tightly. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure.” I lifted her from the vanity and carried her down the hallway where Jillian waited to drive Bailey back to Thomas’s mother’s. The closer we walked toward Jillian, the tighter Bailey snuggled into me.
When we reached her, I tried to hand her into Jillian’s arms, but the woman stiffened and leaned away from us. “She can walk.”
“I’ll carry her to your car. She’s exhausted, Ji—”
“Put her down, Catherine,” Jillian said.
Feeling ill at the thought of letting go, I let her slide down my right side to the tiled floor. Leaning down I hugged her again. “See you tomorrow, Bailey.”
“Okay,” she whispered.
Jillian walked out the front door without looking at Bailey, who followed behind her, casting wistful glances over her shoulder at me.
I watched them drive away through the little window in the old oak door.
Alicia looked at me after she locked the door behind Jillian and Bailey. Six o’clock. “You look awful, Kat.”
“My clothes or me?”
“You.”
Whatever paperwork I needed to do could wait. “I feel awful. Let’s go home.” We gathered our personal items and walked out the bac
k door together.
“Kat?” she said as we descended the back-porch steps.
“Yeah?”
“Can a person die from compassion?”
“We’ll know if we both wake up tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” she said and linked her arm with mine.
Once inside my car, I lay my forehead on my steering wheel. My head pounded, and my hands shook, but somehow I managed to push the start button. God, were You looking today? Did You see one of Your beautiful creatures bowed down with grief and sorrow? She’s a little girl, God … a baby.
I pounded my fist on the steering wheel. Did You notice I was the one left to take care of her? And can You tell me? Will she be all right? Will she recover from her mother’s death? Did You send Bailey to me for a reason? I paused long enough to hear an answer. Then, hearing none, I continued with the words I had prayed for far too many years. Can You whisper into my hearing Your reason for not giving me a child? Oh, I know. You’ve given me several—but not to keep. Will I live a lifetime of fixing other people’s children and sending them back into an environment where I don’t even know for sure they are safe? Or wanted?
I waited again. Still, no answer came.
I showered then crawled into bed reaching for the best part of being in love.
Jordan pulled me into his arms and held me.
The Children of Main Street Page 7