Saving Cicadas (12 page)

“I wanna come,” said Rainey, cradling her baby doll in her arms. Her cicada was lying in a plastic sandwich box on the dresser, not much interested anymore in flying. Mama was fussing over the suitcase, emptying the clothes into the drawers. Don't know why she did it when she'd just pack them up again tomorrow or whenever we'd head to wherever we were going next.

“I got to talk to Poppy, Rainey. Just give us a minute.”

“Poppy?” Rainey was all fretful, so Poppy said, “Oh honey, it won't harm for her to hear. She doesn't care. Right, Rainey?”

Rainey grinned. There was a glob of sandwich bread stuck in her teeth. “Goodie,” she said, so the three of us paced back down the concrete sidewalk and out to a little fountain in the parking lot. It was an odd place for a fountain, and it gave the impression it'd been here long before the lot was paved, maybe back when the place was grander than it was now.

Rainey took her shoes off and dangled her feet in the black water. She leaned down and collected coins lying in the bottom, left over from desperate people's wishes. I was nervous about what I was going to say, so I was happy to have distractions. They came in all forms. An old yellow car about the size of a boat cruised in and around the parking lot, then bumped back onto the street. I heard a bird singing. Then another and another. When the songs were over, a single mockingbird flew out of a tree and dive-bombed us. Poppy saw me watching the bird and he said, “You know why they call them mockingbirds?”

“Huh-uh.”

“Because they mock other birds. They can listen to a birdsong, then copy it exactly. They sing over and over, then switch to another song. It can fool you sometimes.”

“I thought that was three birds.”

“That's what I mean,” he said.

“Are they making fun of them . . . of the other birds?” I asked.

“Not sure about that. What I do know is it has something to do with staking their territory. Protecting their young.”

“So . . . they pretend to be something they're not, so you can't see them coming when they dive-bomb you? Our next-door neighbor Miss Carson used to complain about mockingbirds attacking her cats.”

Poppy looked at me and said, “That's how it appears, yes. God has a way of providing every creature a way of surviving. Some are just more creative than others. Remember the magicicada? It protects itself by coming up out of the ground in great numbers. The mockingbird does it by changing its voice.”

I turned around and watched the trees for more mockingbirds.

“So what's all this about?” asked Poppy, his arms now crossed. His feet were shoulder width apart, hips tucked under like he was planting himself against a gale wind. “What did you need to talk to me about that was so important? I know it wasn't mockingbirds.”

“Well . . . I know I'm not supposed to listen in on conversations, but I promise, Mama said everything right there in front of me and Rainey. She was talking to Alisha on the telephone.”

“And what did she say?”

“She said she has three choices with this baby and none of 'em look good.”

Poppy's chest fell flat and he raised an arm to rub the back of his neck. “I see,” he said.

“But I don't see,” I whined. “See this?” I reached into my pocket and pulled out my list of pros and cons. There were a lot more pros listed for adoption already, like
Mama won't have to make any more money than she already does
and
We won't have to find a bigger house to move in
. Poppy stared at the list, his eyes flicking from
Keep the Baby
to
Give the Baby Away
. “There's only two options I know of,” I said.

Poppy scratched the top of his head. “That's a tough one, Janie. I'm not sure I'm . . . uh, Rainey, how 'bout you go on in and grab your grandmother for me. Tell her, her lovely presence is needed in the parking lot.”

“No!” I said.

“Please, Janie. I'm not so good at this sort of thing. Your Grandma Mona can tell it better than I can, being a woman and all.”

Woman things. I didn't think of that. I supposed Grandma Mona
was
a woman. “But she's so—”

“What?”

“Mean.”

“Yeah . . . sometimes she is.” Poppy touched my shoulder and turned me to him. He bent down on one knee, and I was thinking to myself,
My mama was the luckiest girl ever, having Poppy as her daddy
. In that second I wondered what in the world she could ever complain about. At least she had her daddy with her now. “See, some folks have a hard time telling you how they really feel,” he said. “Sometimes they put up a firm face, a sharp tongue, even, when really, they don't mean it.”

“So they're pretending . . . like the mockingbird?”

“Sort of. It's just their way of coping with things that hurt them.” “So everything hurts Grandma Mona?”

Poppy laughed, not at me, but in a nice way, and said, “Just about. But really, she's had a world of hurt in her lifetime.”

“Like what? Like you leaving for so long?” My face burned hot when I realized what'd come out of my mouth.

“Yes, like what?” said Grandma Mona, arms on hips, ears flaming and eyes angled crossways at Poppy. I'm betting he didn't know she was out here already. I sure as all get-out did not.

“Janie and I were just talking . . . about Priscilla.”

“Mm-hmm. That so?” she said.

“And Janie had a question for you. It stumped me.”

“This should be good.” Grandma Mona stood there a minute, but I was too afraid to speak. It wasn't at all like talking with Poppy. Grandma Mona reminded me of a snake up in the air, ready to strike. “Well what is it, child? Spit it out.”

“I don't know what the third choice is.” I blurted.

“The what?”

“She means . . . Janie overheard Priscilla talking on the telephone about three choices having to do with the new baby. She already knows two choices—keep the baby or give it up for adoption—but she doesn't know what a third choice might be.”

Grandma Mona's eyebrows rose like hot-air balloons, then they deflated and fell to her nose. “That so?” she said. “Well, I'm not sure this is appropriate talk for a young girl.”

“She's asking a question, Mona.”

“I know it, but she's an innocent child.”

“Innocence never protected anyone.” Poppy and Grandma Mona exchanged a look that spoke of things I knew nothing about.

“Oh, good heavens. I guess you'll learn this sooner or later.” She shook her head as if the thought was unpleasant and she was trying to squeeze it out. “The third choice is not to have the baby.”

“You mean give the baby away?”

“No, I mean
not
to have the baby.”

“But I don't understand,” I stammered. “The baby's in Mama's tummy. Right?”

“Technically, yes,” said Grandma Mona, “but your mother can choose to
not
let it be born if she wants to.”

I tried to let that sit a minute, but my mind was scrambling, imagining angels reaching into tummies and mamas making deals with God to take their babies back. “It doesn't make sense. Poppy?”

“Don't look at me honey, I don't make the rules.”

“Who does?” I asked.

“Well, the Supreme Court,” said Grandma Mona, “and everyday people like you and your sister, your mother, me. Just good people, trying to do what they think is right. Trying to survive.”

“I thought God made the rules.” I was so confused I could spit. I sat down next to Rainey and put my hand in the water, reaching for a coin. Then I remembered hearing something about God not liking lukewarm water. I didn't like it either, so I pulled it out and dried my hand off on my shirt.

“So how?” I asked. “How do you not be born?”

“There's a procedure,” said Grandma Mona. “With a doctor and all. Sort of like . . . being born, but the opposite of that.”

“What happens to the baby?” I asked.

“It just . . . doesn't exist, honey,” said Poppy. “It just—”

“Tell her what the procedure is called,” said Grandma Mona, grave, staring at the asphalt.

“I really don't want to,” he said.

“Remember why we're here. Why we needed to come along.”

“I can't,” he said.

“Fine. Abortion.” Grandma Mona's lips were shut tight and wrinkled like she ate a lemon, like the word tasted bitter on her tongue.

“Jesus the baby,” said Rainey, piping up. “He in Mama tummy . . . with that 'bortion. How you spell it?” Her eyes were working hard to picture the letters. She loved learning new words.

“Oh honey, don't you mind. Now run along. We'll be there in a minute.”

“A-b-o—““Mona! She might look it up!”

“I am aware of that. A-b-o-r—”

“Mona, please.”

“Grayson Macy,” said Grandma Mona, and I knew it wasn't good because she used his full name. “This is America. Rainey is a young woman in America. You are not. She may need to know this term someday, especially if her mother is considering it as an option.”

Grandma Mona's eyes meant business, so Poppy said, “Oh gracious, I suppose there's no way around it.” Then he spelled that word for us, the one that meant un-borning a baby, and we all headed inside to the damp, musty motel room, deadly quiet. No more words between us. I guess it was because that one new word we learned was quite enough to speak of for the night.

Chapter Seventeen
THE LITTLE THIEF

The next morning, I woke up in the motel room before anybody else did. I saw the darkness first, then a sliver of light coming in at the bottom of the curtains. I listened to the saws and snorts from Poppy and Grandma Mona, while Rainey kicked her feet.

I tried not to make a sound, but there was no way to go outdoors. Somebody would hear me. I was a captive of the room. I looked over at Mama sleeping. I couldn't see her face, just a long lump under the covers. Her hand was dangling off the bed onto the nightstand. It rested beside a digital clock.

I took a deep breath and closed my eyes again, pulling my knees up under my chin. I thought about Forest Pines and that pretty blue house. I thought about our house at home, and all I could remember was Mama wailing and making egg salad. I began to pray.
Lord, please give Mama some peace. Please help that baby in her tummy. Please help me know what to do to help.

I opened my eyes and the first thing I saw was that big brown purse of Mama's. I got a naughty idea, and I knew it was naughty, but at the same time, I knew it was what I had to do.

After Mama woke up, Rainey got up, then Poppy and Grandma Mona. I let them all do their morning things, getting ready, taking showers, the whole bit. I stayed quiet, invisible on the couch. I was excited because I knew we were headed for the blue house that morning. I felt like my mother's life had become a big mystery, and the key to her had something to do with that house.

When it was time to go, Mama reached in her pocketbook to find her lipstick. She screamed when she couldn't find her change purse. She looked and hollered and poured her purse out on the bed. Poppy was trying to reason with her, saying practical things like “Just think about where you had it last,” or “Try and retrace your steps.” Finally, Mama called the Piggly Wiggly and cried over the telephone. The manager said he'd keep an eye out for it. Mama said she didn't believe she'd ever see it again.

“I can't believe this,” she said. “I cannot believe.” She balled her fists and looked up at the cracked gray ceiling. “Why?” she said. “Truly. Why? We have nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

But really, I knew where her money was; it was safe. And I knew I was making her unhappy for a while, but deep down I felt I was supposed to do it. I don't know why. It's the first time I'd ever felt that way. It was strong and forceful. A knowing beyond knowing. I always figured if God asked me to do something it wouldn't involve stealing. But I was only eight and a half years old. Who was I to question the maker of the universe?

We went back to the grocery store and Mama talked to everyone there, asking had they seen her change purse. She even said there was a reward if somebody did find it. Not sure what the reward was, but nobody claimed it. After Mama gave up looking and finally stopped crying, we found ourselves standing on the porch of the blue gingerbread house on Vinca Lane, where the Macy family went back a hundred and forty-three years. Poppy was running his fingers over the railing and woodwork, admiring it, remembering it. Grandma Mona stood taut, clutching her red purse in her skinny fingers and clearing her throat every second or two. Rainey was looking at me with nervous eyes, petting the wings of her dying bug for good luck, and Mama was standing limp shouldered, hand over doorbell, waiting—for nerve or for somebody else to relieve her from her task.

“Just open it, for heaven's sake,” said Grandma Mona. “Ring it already. You're not getting any younger.”