Mama Rocks the Empty Cradle (16 page)

“I don’t have to be a Philadelphia lawyer to know that your only interest in my pregnancy is to satisfy your own self-righteousness,” my girlfriend shot back, her voice cold, harsh.

I was dumbfounded. “Girl,” I said, “you’re really tripping now. I want a husband, a house, children, and—”

“And I want grandchildren,” Mama interrupted calmly, motioning me back into my seat. “But I don’t have the right to make those demands on you, Simone, now do I?” she asked me.

“What do you mean?”

“You have no right to impose your feelings on Yasmine,” Mama told me, her voice low, direct.

Yasmine’s angry expression changed. “Simone, girl, I don’t want you to
tell
me what to do. I just want you to go with me to the clinic to give me support.”

Mama looked at Yasmine. “It’s not right that you should ask Simone to do that,” she told her.

Yasmine’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. I guess Mama had surprised both of us, Yasmine and I.

“Listen, you two,” Mama continued. “Yasmine, you’ve got the right to decide what to do with your body, and Simone doesn’t have any recourse but to accept that decision.”

Yasmine nodded.

“On the other hand,” Mama added, “you’ve got to understand, Yasmine, that Simone has got the right to refuse to support you in doing something that she’s against.”

We both stared at Mama.

“The solution to this is acceptance, pure and simple,” Mama concluded, leaning back in the sofa. “Accept how each other feels, and allow your friendship to go from there.”

Yasmine looked at me, her eyes wide and still
angry. “How can you call a person your friend if she won’t stick with you through thick and thin?”

“A friend is a person who will tell you things straight,” Mama said with a little edge in her voice, like she was impatient with Yasmine and me for being so childlike. “A person who won’t bend simply to satisfy your feelings. The fact that Simone is sticking to her guns on this, even though she knows it’s hurting you, means that you can trust her, Yasmine. The next time an issue comes up that you need honest feedback on, you know Simone is the one friend who won’t play games with you. She’s a shooter from the hip, not one that aims behind your back.”

I fiddled with one of the rings I wore, thinking that Mama was making me sound uncomfortably noble.

“On the other hand, Simone …” Mama continued to me. I suppose I should have known better than to think I’d get away with just a compliment. Mama tapped her temple with her index finger. “Simone, think,” she said. “Suppose you wanted to do something that Yasmine was against. How would you feel if she tried to block you, tried to take away your right to make a decision that affects your life?”

I nodded; Mama was making me understand.

“The important thing is that Yasmine decides what she wants to do without imposing that decision on anybody else. Whatever the results, it’s Yasmine who will bear it alone.”

Yasmine shifted in her chair, her expression suddenly tinged with uncertainty. “Do
you
think I should tell Ernest about this baby?” she asked Mama.

“Yes!” I blurted.

Mama took a deep breath, then shook her head. “I don’t think either of you heard a word I said.”

“Yes, we did,” I said. “And I agree with you, Mama. But I can’t help but make at least one more effort to keep Yasmine from doing something that will hurt her.”

Yasmine’s face tightened.

“Yasmine, you accused me of not wanting a husband, children,” I said. “The fact is that I do want those things.”

Yasmine stared silently at me while I stopped and thought once more about what I was about to say. Mama watched me thoughtfully. I continued, “I know now that the truth is that I’ve been repressing my so-called maternal feelings because I was scared. Scared that I couldn’t measure up to being as good of a mother as Mama has been to Will, Rodney, and me.

“Yasmine, I guess what I’m saying is that I do know how the thought of being a parent can be overwhelming—”

“I’m not scared of being a good mother,” Yasmine interrupted. “I
know
I can bring this kid up right. It’s just that—” She stopped and looked nervously between me and Mama. “Do you think I should tell Ernest that I’m pregnant?” she asked Mama again.

Mama smiled reassuringly. “It’s your decision, honey. Yours alone.”

Yasmine still looked doubtful. “If Ernest walks, I’m having an abortion.”

“He won’t walk,” I told her. “I just know he’ll want you. And your baby.”

“Whether you go with me to the clinic or not, Simone, I’m not bringing this kid into the world without a husband.”

Mama smiled and nodded. “It’s not easy being a single parent, but it is possible to raise kids alone.”

Yasmine’s eyes hardened. “I don’t want to raise my kid without a husband.”

Mama looked as if Yasmine’s decision was satisfactory. “It’s your life,” she said, in a tone that made me conscious of the important lesson I’d just come to understand about myself. Facing my fear of not being as good a mother as my mama was something that would change my life and my relationship with Cliff.

T
he next afternoon, we breathed the sweetness of magnolia blossoms from the enormous tree that stood on the opposite side of the gravel driveway as we waved good-bye to Yasmine. It was close to three o’clock.

I was very drained and a little depressed. After Mama had left the room the night before, Yasmine and I talked for hours. We paced the room and spoke about the things that frightened us, the things that were important to us. We talked about my father and I shared glimpses of memories I had of him, times when I was glad he was there for me, times when I felt his presence in quiet and wise ways.

Yasmine told me that her parents had never
married, that she’d only heard bad things about her dad from her mother’s people. She recalled, with a deep chill in her voice, that she’d spent most of her life fantasizing about him. “Imagine having a relationship with an illusion,” she said. She shook her head. “I don’t want my child to feel that pain,” she whispered.

Hours later, at dawn, it struck us that we had to do more than sit and talk about our feelings. Mama was right: we had to accept our fears; we had to move on.

“It’s easier to say that I’ll give Ernest up than to actually do it,” Yasmine had said about her decision to give Ernest an ultimatum about her need for marriage, children, family.

Her words reminded me of what Mama had said to me time and again over the years. I repeated them just the way she’d said them. “No matter how hard it may be, there are times when we’ve got to go beyond our emotions and do what’s right, for ourselves, for our children, for our families—”

Neither of us spoke after that. We fell asleep, and five hours later we jumped up, ate something, and kept talking until Yasmine had to drive back to Atlanta.

No sooner had Yasmine driven out of sight than a familiar blue sedan drove up into our driveway.

I groaned. The very sight of Nightmare made me uneasy. But Mama watched him without expression as he jumped out of his battered old car.

His face and powerful upper body glistened with sweat. His clothes were streaked with what I hoped
was animal blood. The wind shifted; his odor was nauseating. I stiffened.

Just for a moment, Nightmare’s eyes found mine and grabbed hold. I gave him a cold stare, determined not to show fear.

Nightmare grinned. He mopped his sweaty face and asked, “Mr. James home?”

Mama leaned back on the porch rail and flashed Nightmare an easy smile. “We expect James soon,” she answered. “You want to come in and wait for him?”

I almost fainted. She couldn’t seriously expect this man to sit in our house waiting for my father!

Nightmare’s smile widened. Yellow, crooked teeth showed through his straggly beard. He shook his head. “Tell Mr. James that Nightmare just dropped off cleaned venison, rabbit, and squirrel at Mr. Coal’s house—half be his and half be Mr. Coal’s.”

As Mama’s mouth opened to thank him, Midnight came running from the backyard, barking wildly. The dog shot forward, leaping at Nightmare and then, standing on his hind legs, his body wriggling, he pawed and licked his face so hard that he pushed Nightmare back two unsteady steps. He nearly knocked the big man over.

Mama’s brows went up. “Seems like Midnight knows you,” she said.

As Midnight yapped, Nightmare grinned and rubbed the dog’s ears. “Good dog,” he told Midnight. To Mama, he said, “I was there the day this dog’s mama dragged him from underneath old man
Ponds’s back porch. He used to follow me around as a puppy.”

Mama’s eyes widened like something had suddenly worked across her mind. She cocked her head. “You mean the old man Buck Ponds that died about six months ago?” she asked.

Nightmare kept stroking Midnight with his right hand. He wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his left arm. “Yessmm,” he answered.

Mama’s brow wrinkled. “Didn’t he live about two miles from here?”

“About that far,” Nightmare responded.

Mama turned to me. Her eyes were bright. “Could it be that I was wrong,” she mouthed, then stopped as a red ten-year-old Buick swung into our driveway. Carrie Smalls parked beside Nightmare’s car. Still playing with Daddy’s dog Midnight, Nightmare paid her no mind.

“More company,” I grumbled under my breath. Oddly, Mama looked pleased.

But Nightmare’s face had clouded. He nudged Midnight away, then strode toward his car.

Midnight glanced at the three women, then lumbered underneath the magnolia tree and flopped down on the grass, his muzzle tucked between his front paws. He kept his eyes expectantly on Nightmare.

Nightmare wasn’t watching the big black dog. Instead, he watched these three women, an odd timidity now in his expression. I suspected that he, like Rose and maybe the rest of his family, harbored
some deep emotion or fear of things they’d say about him. Anyway, he looked like he thought they got as much pleasure out of talking about everybody in the town as he enjoyed scaring women. “I reckon I’d better go,” he said curtly, and swung open his car door. Midnight raised his head, watching.

“Wait a minute. Wait,” Mama said. She had to raise her voice because Nightmare had turned on his engine. “I want to ask you a question before you leave.”

Nightmare squinted his eyes. Then he nodded bleakly and switched off his car.

The three women struggled out of their car and approached us. Mama turned to face her new guests. She adjusted her glasses. “Ladies,” she said, “it’s real nice to see you.”

“Candi,” Sarah Jenkins gasped, like she was out of breath, “we just had to come tell you—”

A look of impatience flitted across Annie Mae Gregory’s face as she cut in. “Rick Martin told us that they’ve picked up Timber.”

Carrie Smalls’s thin body was erect, her arms folded stoically across her breast. “Nabbed him in Rome right across the county line,” she contributed. “Darn fool was trying to rob Double B Feed & Seed store.”

I glanced at Mama, who still looked like the whiff of something she’d remembered nagged at her. “Simone, show these ladies inside the family room, give them a cold drink, a piece of that red velvet cake.”

“You stood at a stove and baked a cake with your feet ailing?” Sarah Jenkins asked, looking down at Mama’s bandaged feet. “When I had my feet worked on, I couldn’t get near a stove for at least three or four weeks.”

Mama’s smile was more with her eyes than her mouth. “I baked it before I had the surgery, Sarah. It’s one of those recipes that gets better after it’s been stored in the freezer for a while.”

Annie Mae’s eyes, buried in fat, shone greedily. “I could use a cold drink and a piece of that cake about now,” she admitted, with a laugh.

But Sarah Jenkins stared at Mama. “I tell you it’s so hot today that a body could get a heatstroke. Really, Candi, I don’t think it’s good for you to be out. If I remember right, the doctor warned me not to be out in this. Course he knows about my various ailments, knows the many medications I have to take.”

I shrugged. I wasn’t in the mood to hear Sarah Jenkins expound on her ailments or her many medications. I waved the women past me and Mama, up the steps, and into the house.

But Mama didn’t move to come inside. Instead, she looked thoughtfully at Nightmare. Once the women had entered into the foyer in front of me, out of hearing range, Mama spoke softly to Nightmare. “Dan, when was the last time that you was on the Pondses’ place?”

I glanced back at Nightmare. His jaw muscles
flexed, he gave a kind of a groan, but he didn’t say anything.

“Remember, Rose told us that he’s too stubborn to answer to any name except Nightmare,” I reminded Mama. I added, “It’s a good name for him ’cause he’s the closest thing to the boogeyman that I’ve ever seen.”

Mama didn’t say anything to either of us for a second or two. “Okay,” she said, her voice low, exasperated. “
Nightmare
, when was the last time you were on the Pondses’ place?”

“I
declare, Candi.” Annie Mae Gregory’s words were indistinct because her mouth was full. She was chewing on a piece of red velvet cake. “You should be paid good money for your baking.” Her big jaws, her double chin, and her greedy mouth made me wonder how many times she’d made this comment to somebody else.

Mama, who had settled on the couch, waved dismissively. “I do a fair job.”

I yawned, then sat in my favorite chair. It would be another two hours before Daddy would be home. I felt I needed at least half that time to recoup from Yasmine’s visit, but I was pretty sure that wouldn’t happen.

Carrie Smalls sat up straight, her neck like a crane, her narrow hands folded precisely in her lap. “I suppose they’ll bring Timber back to Otis County, don’t you think?” she asked Mama.

Sarah Jenkins coughed and suddenly all our eyes were on her. She smirked, like she was pleased at our attention, then cleared her throat. “I get that tickle every now and again. I told the doctor about it, but he didn’t think to give me a prescription.”

“What do you think, Candi?” Annie Mae Gregory asked, dabbing her mouth with a napkin. “You think, like Carrie, that Abe can get Sheriff Shaw of Rome to turn Warren and Timber over to him?”