Hush Little Baby (19 page)

She takes a seat beside me, and a moment later, the room goes dark except for the flicker of a candle in the middle of the table. Ceremoniously, the man and Drew carry the plates to the table and set them in front of us; Drew and I are sharing the largest fish, and each of the others has a smaller whole trout to themselves. Addie wrinkles her nose at the headless fish in front of her, but my firm squeeze of her knee straightens the expression from her face.

Drew’s proud as a peacock as he sits down, and he should be. The scent is magnificent, and the fish glisten with garlic and lemon and char. The man demonstrates the art of deboning, and even Addie gives it a try, though the man takes over when it looks like half the bones are being left behind.

The tails are set aside, and we dig in.

“This is magnificent,” I say without the least bit of embellishment. It’s the best fish I’ve had in my life—salty and garlicky and it melts on my tongue.

“Nothing like fresh river trout you caught yourself,” the man says.

I slide my eyes to Addie’s plate, concerned that fish not shaped like stars or sticks or dinosaurs and without a thick coating of bread crumbs, grease, and ketchup won’t make it to her mouth, and am stunned to see her spooning the white meat in along with the grits. “I like the potatoes,” she says between mouthfuls.

“It’s grits, stupid,” Drew says.

I’m about to reprimand him, but the man’s laughter interrupts. “And you thought it was rice, so what’s that make you, Einstein?”

Drew’s face goes slightly pink.

Goat speaks for the first time. “Makes him smarter than you, Skutm. First time you saw grits, you thought they was white beans, insisted on it even when I told you different. Skutm.”

I’m stunned at how perfect her English is—no accent or intonation—perfect, insulting, American English.

“Hag.”

“Stma.”

“Old Goat.”

“That I am.” And they both smile.

Addie’s head goes back and forth following the insults. “What awre gwrits made of if theywre not potatoes?” she asks.

“What difference does it make so long as you like them?” the man says. “I like them and couldn’t care a hill of beans where they come from.”

Goat smiles. She has no teeth on the right side of her mouth and only a few on the left.

The meal is mostly quiet, and I’m surprised and happy the pair doesn’t ask questions. They’re content and peaceful as they eat. Outside the river runs, and inside, the sagging house creaks with the breeze. Goat and I share red wine from a jug that has no label, and I wonder where it came from. The man drinks a can of Coors, and the kids drink milk.

When we’re done, Goat pushes to her feet and hobbles away without a word. I think she’s leaving, but I’m wrong. A moment later she returns, and in her hand are three familiar brown bags—chocolate macaroons. Addie’s face lights up.

“You’ll stay in the room beside the kitchen. Paul will show you,” she says. “Toilet sticks so hold it down when you flush.”

I open my mouth to protest, but she’s already turned and begun to shuffle toward a dark stairwell in the corner.

I turn instead to Paul. “We should be getting back on the road,” I say.

Addie yawns.

He shakes his head. “If you’re still heading in the direction you were heading when you got here, you’re an hour from the nearest hotel, and if that one’s full, it’s three hours to the next one. Goat’s right. Stay here tonight, and if in the morning you decide to move on, then you will.”

43

T
he room has a single bed and a red futon wedged between it and the wall that you need to climb over to get to the bathroom. On the floor is a New England hook rug several generations old, and I marvel that something so beautiful and well crafted ended up where it did. In the bathroom, there’s a tub and a sink with faucets that deliver cold and hot water. The bathroom’s old and small, but clean.

I tuck the kids in on the futon, lie down on the bed, and fall into a fitful sleep.

The sound of the river.

Water running slow, then fast.

Addie thrashing away from me.

My lungs fill with water as I sink.

Gordon’s arm around my throat.

Blackness.

Smashing glass.

Shards of porcelain.

Jeffrey kissing me.

A shotgun blast.

I wake with a start.

For a moment, I forget I’m not in Laguna Beach, not in my handcrafted ash bed surrounded by my priceless porcelain statues and collection of rare modern furniture.

I blink into focus my new life—the rough twin mattress, the flickering neon light of a beer sign blinking through the curtainless window, the sagging floor, and the Farmer’s Almanac calendar from three years ago pinned to the wall beside the door.

*  *  *

When I wake again, the room is bright and full of noise. Goat’s voice, Paul’s voice, and the clanging and banging of pots and silverware and pans. The cacophony sounds through smells of gravy and grease and something cinnamon.

As I sit up my brain throbs so hard I expect to see it pulsing when I look in the small mirror that hangs beside the door. My head remains intact, but my eyes are etched with lines and shadowed with blue.

I reach for the door, but it opens before I touch it.

“Morning,” Paul says. He carries a tray with a plate of eggs and biscuits and coffee. My mouth and stomach respond simultaneously. He sets it on the table beside the bed and hustles back out the door. Before it closes, I witness the fray past the threshold. The restaurant is full beyond the kitchen. The skinny server grabs several plates Goat throws in the window and hustles away. Steam and smoke sizzle, rise, and crackle everywhere.

The door closes, and ravenously, I eat like I’ve not eaten in a week.

Only when I’m done do I think about the whereabouts of Addie and Drew, and the tardiness of my maternal concern fills me with guilt.

I carry my tray into the kitchen, careful to avoid the spatula-wielding Goat, who works the grill, and the less frenzied Paul who works the pantry. Through the back door, Addie and Drew play with two children and a young woman who’s the spitting image of the skinny server, but half the age.

Plates are backed up on the counter, and through the pickup window, I see the skinny server is caught up in starting a new pot of coffee. I glance at the tickets, deduce the logical numbering of the tables, and grab two plates and carry them to their respective spots.

I served at my dad’s restaurants from the time I was twelve until I left for college, and like riding a bike, it comes back with only a slight wobbling in the beginning.

Without words, the skinny server, whose name is Sissy, and I move through the room filling waters and iced teas, delivering full plates and clearing empty ones. Breakfast ends at ten, and lunch starts at eleven. Today’s lunch is chicken-fried steak, mashed potatoes, and collard greens, and there’s hardly a scrap left on any plate I clear. The sweet departing gift given to the guests as they leave are cinnamon bonbons dipped in white chocolate.

Abruptly at two o’clock, the bell of the cuckoo clock that no longer has a cuckoo chimes twice, and though the restaurant is packed and customers still crowd the entrance waiting for seats, Sitting Bull rises and turns the closed sign in the window. “We’re closed.” Her voice is unmistakably feminine and surprisingly high.

It’s another hour before the final customer leaves and an hour more before the side work and cleanup are done.

Sissy holds a handful of bills toward me.

I shake my head. “I just wanted to help.”

“We share the tips,” she says. “That’s how it works.” There’s nothing friendly in her face—a chiseled carving of unsmiling cedar—and she almost sounds angry at my refusal. Yet I’ve worked beside her for hours, and I know she’s kind. For a customer whose left hand was mangled, she cut his steak at the counter before setting it down. For another, she deftly removed a piece of toilet paper that clung to the woman’s pant leg when she returned from the restroom.

The bills remain in her outstretched hand.

“It’s my way of thanking everyone for helping me,” I say.

“It gets split evenly,” she answers as though I said nothing. “Two dollars per plate, one for you and one for me. Then we tip Isi for hostessing and because she makes the cookies, twenty dollars each.”

I glance to the hostess desk where Isi, aka Sitting Bull, is tallying up the day’s customers based on the number of bags of cookies she has left.

“I didn’t even work the whole shift.”

“I didn’t give you money for what you didn’t work.”

Sissy is two inches shorter than me and thin as Gandhi. Her black hair is tied at the nape of her neck and hangs to her waist. There’s a tribal band tattoo on her ring finger that serves as a wedding ring. She’s about my age, and judging by the stiffness and exhaustion in her posture, I’m guessing her worries are as heavy.

I don’t want her money, but to refuse seems to be more of an insult, so I take the extended bills with a thank-you.

“No thanks. You did the work, the money is yours.” And she walks away.

I move toward the hostess desk to pay Isi. She sings softly to herself, and as I get closer, the words become clear, “…coming for to carry me home, swing low, sweet chariot…” When she notices me, she stops, but I wish she wouldn’t. Her voice is beautiful, and the song transports me back to my childhood and the Sunday choral concerts at St. Catherine’s. I look for a gold cross around her neck, some common ground, but her collar is adorned with turquoise beads that hold a mosaic amulet of a flower within a circle.

“Your voice is beautiful, and I love that song,” I say.

“You know that song?”

“Every Christian knows that song.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s a song about the Bible.”

And for the first time since I’ve met her, Isi smiles. It’s only the slightest spread of her lips, but there’s definite humor in the expression.

“It’s not about the Bible,” she says. “It’s a Choctaw song.”

Her large head shakes like I’m an imbecile, and she rises from her seat and stares at me.

It takes a second, but then I remember why I’m standing there. I count out twenty dollars from my tips. “Thank you.”

She gives a slight nod, then raises her head to look past me. “One-oh-six today,” she sings in her pretty voice.

I turn to see who she’s talking to and Paul walks toward us, his crooked grin filling his face and part of my heart.

“See, Isi, I told you it would work out.”

“You did,” she chirps. “See you in the morning.”

“So what do you think?” Paul asks. “Looking for work?”

Isi’s voice trails after her. “…sometimes I’m up, and sometimes I’m down, coming for to carry me home…”

“She says that song’s not about Elijah being taken to heaven.”

“It’s not. So what do you think—free room and board, built-in babysitting, and charming company while you work—namely me?”

“What’s the song about then?”

“It’s a slave song, written by a black man who went to live with the Choctaw after he escaped. He’s singing about being sold as a young boy and missing his home and praying for his family to come and get him. It’s incredibly sad.”

“No, it’s not. It’s about the Bible.”

Paul gives the same patronizing smile Isi gave me, and it riles me. “It even says, ‘I looked over Jordan,’” I defend.

“The Choctaw live along the Red River in Oklahoma, but because he was talking to Jesus, he referred to it as Jordan.”

The song plays forward in my mind:…
but still my soul feels heavenly bound, coming for to carry me home…

“It talks about going to heaven?”

Paul nods. “The man’s struggling with whether he’s a good man because of the bad things he’s done to survive and whether he’ll be forgiven.”

I crinkle my brow, wondering about the explanation.

“Isi’s uncle taught it to us when we were kids. He learned it working on the railroad.”

“Somebody should tell the pope,” I say, surprised how easily I accept an explanation different from the one I learned in Christian summer camp.

He smiles. “I don’t think he’d listen. So what do you say? Want a job?”

I think of my dwindling funds and do the math. If the restaurant consistently does 106 covers, my pay, if I work a whole shift, would be eighty-six dollars. My prospects for employment, considering I’m a fugitive on the run from the law with two kidnapped kids, no social security number, and no references, are fairly limited.

“What are the terms?”

“Shift is from seven to four. You get room and board, child care, and there’s no taxes. We’re not real big on government around here.”

I’m not real big on government right now, either
, I think.
Eighty-six dollars for nine hours of work.
At Harris I made more than that in half an hour.

Addie bursts through the door like a marathon runner through the ribbon. “Drew caught a snake,” she says.

Drew lopes in behind her holding a cardboard lettuce box. I peel back the lid to see a green garden snake slithering among a bed of romaine and cabbage. Both kids are red cheeked and dirty and the happiest I’ve ever seen them.

I look up at Paul. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

44

I
walk to the backyard to see the kids, and my face catches in a mirror advertising Budweiser and I laugh. Saturday morning I woke up a highfalutin architect, orchestrating groundbreaking projects and negotiating multimillion-dollar deals. Now it’s Wednesday, and I’m a fugitive from the law on the run with my two children, working as a waitress at a bootlegging backwoods grill and living in a room behind the kitchen.

Feeling rich with my newly earned tips, I offer to take the kids into town for a treat.

We march down the wide street that leads to the heart of the little town of Elmer City, small brick houses and spiraling pines watching us. In one window, a woman passes behind lace curtains followed by a boy a few years older than Drew. I imagine them moving to crowd around a coffee table surrounded by a husband and perhaps other children for a game of Scrabble or a late-night movie and popcorn.