Saving Cicadas (17 page)

He rocked and rocked and I followed, pushing my toes off the porch boards. A nice breeze flowed through us, and I watched as two yellow butterflies danced in a circle, turning and tussling. Then they flew off to find the bushy lantana. Poppy looked over at me. “You got some hair in your eyes, sweetie. Why don't you put it back so I can see that pretty face?”

I didn't budge, but then after he'd said it, it was starting to bug me. Sly-like, I tucked my hair behind my ears. I pulled my knees up to my chest, held my bare feet, and rocked.

“Your mama's hair's getting longer, don't you think?” he said. “Maybe she's letting it grow out. You know she used to have these long blonde pigtails when she was little. You wanna know how long?”

I didn't feel like talking, but I didn't want to disrespect him so I murmured a faint “Hmm.”

“They were so long she had to flop 'em up over her shoulders when she was on the commode, otherwise they'd dunk right in.”

I tried not to smile, but I couldn't help it.

“Oh yes, your mother was known for her hair. Everybody always remarked on it—how pretty it was, how lucky she was to have it. Then we moved to Yuma.”

“What happened in Yuma?”

“She was about fifteen or so. She chopped her hair off, real close to her head, almost like a boy. To this day I don't know why she did it.”

“Maybe she was hot,” I said.

“Maybe so. But I mourned that hair.”

“You mourned over hair?”

“Not the hair exactly, but what it stood for. For what I lost along with that hair, my sweet little girl who called me Daddy, who would sit on my lap at every meal . . .” He cleared his throat and said, “Anyway, next thing you know my little girl's coming home, announcing she's having a baby. Your grandma and I didn't handle it well. We were just . . . caught off guard, I guess. And then off she went.”

I looked at him to see if he was crying or anything. He wasn't, but nearly rubbed the arms of that rocking chair plumb off. “ 'Course, all that's over. I'm here with her now and things seem to be going just fine.”

“They do?” I had to say it. After the library, the baby photos, screaming, and passing out, I thought for sure things weren't going fine at all. “She doesn't seem to talk to you much.”

“Maybe she's still upset with me,” he said.

“She doesn't talk to me much, neither. Not since we left town. You think she's upset with me too?”

“She's got a lot on her mind.”

“Yeah, I reckon.” Just that second I remembered the change purse I'd taken from Mama and felt like I needed to get it back to her. Like maybe I never should have taken it at all. It was only adding to her troubles. I was ashamed all of a sudden and excused myself to the upstairs. I'd hidden it in this secret pocket in the corner of the white hard suitcase, worn in because the seam was coming loose. Mama never would have thought to look there.

I went down to the kitchen to find Mama. I wondered if I should tell her I took her money and apologize or if I should just say, “Look what I found!” That felt a lot like lying, so I figured I just needed to fess up and take whatever came my way.

She wasn't in the kitchen. The stove was cold, with little towels hanging off the handle, nice and neat. They had orange teapots embroidered on the front. On the table there was a glass pitcher of iced tea, dripping sweat on another teapot towel. There were two glasses set out. All of a sudden I remembered Uncle Fritz.

Sure enough, the front door creaked open and I heard Mama say, “So glad you could make it. I know you're busy.”

“I was coming over anyway. You look . . . you all right?”

I heard footsteps padding to the kitchen, and my eyes lit up, wanting a way out. I headed for the back door, but there was no time. I slid to the side of the refrigerator and hid behind a little curtain made especially for covering a food pantry. There wasn't much in there except a big old tub of grits and some cans of pickled beets and corn. “Aagh!” Mama squealed. “My goodness, would you look at this?” My breath was much too loud for somebody trying to hide, and I hoped nobody could hear me. “I lost my change purse back at the hotel! I lost it, I looked everywhere, and here it is?!”

My heart pounded in my chest.
Be still, be still,
I told it. I could hear Mama counting the money I'd accidentally left on the table. Fritz murmured something, but it was so low I couldn't understand. “I must be losing my mind,” Mama said, stunned. “I just—”

“Maybe it was old Gertrude, playing a little trick.”

“Huh, yeah . . . imagine that. I guess Rainey had it? I can't imagine she would have taken it and not told me when I asked. That's not like her.” I hoped to goodness Mama wouldn't suspect me next.

“Maybe she's upset about all this travel and such,” Fritz said. “Is she holding up all right? I've got a few children like her in church. They have certain needs when it comes to stability and—oh, now, please don't. I didn't mean anything by it.”

“It's not you, Fritz.” Mama was crying now. “It's me. I just . . .” I peeked out the slit in the curtain and saw Fritz sitting at the head of the breakfast table. He saw Mama struggling and said in a gentle voice, “It's all right, you can tell me anything you want, anytime you want. Trust me, nothing could shock me.” He poured two glasses of tea and pushed one to Mama. I couldn't see her face, but her back hunched over as she sipped.

“Thanks,” she said. She set her glass down and seemed to be looking straight at Fritz. His face was kind and attentive. I longed for him to look at me that way.

“Sometimes I forget how much she's affected by my life . . . what happens with me and . . . Oh Fritz, I'm pregnant,” Mama said.

“So I gathered from supper,” he said.

“I don't know why I'm telling you this, it's just . . .”

“It's okay. Go on.”

“I just don't know what I'm going to do. I thought if I got out of town, I could think more clearly. But then today at the library, there was this—oh gosh—big to-do, you just wouldn't believe, and now I'm afraid I've really messed things up . . .”

Fritz didn't speak but drank his tea. The ice in his glass clinked, and the noise was good. A helpful noise. I looked down at my foot, and a spider was walking by. Luckily it was a bitty little thing, so I didn't scream or holler. Or squash him. It walked right past me out onto the floor for a better look at Mama and Fritz.

“I've been trying to find the baby's father,” Mama said after a long while. “I don't know why, exactly. Except I used to be in love with him.”

“Used to?”

“He lived with us for five years. He was the only daddy we ever had in our house. Then he left.”

My daddy! They were talking about my daddy! My ears sharpened to fine points.

“I see,” said Fritz. “Well obviously, he came back.”

“Yes. About a month ago. I was getting off work, and I saw Marilyn in front of the drugstore.”

“Marilyn?”

“His motorcycle. He said it had curves like Marilyn Monroe. I was always so dang jealous of that motorcycle, you never forget a thing like that. Anyway, I waited to see if it was him, and sure enough, out he comes. After all that time.”

“How long had it been?”

“Four long years.”

I was trying to make sure I'd heard correctly. Daddy came back and I never saw him? My face grew hot, and I thought I might cry. But I didn't. Not yet.

“Goodness,” said Fritz.

“I was so angry with him, I just let him have it right there on the sidewalk! And he took it. Every little bit. He listened, and then he teared up some. He said he'd been passing through every couple weeks, just hoping to see me. Said he drove by the house some, but I wasn't sure if I could believe him or not. I mean, I'd know that cycle anywhere. The sound of it, even.”

“So, I imagine you two . . . made up.”

“Sort of. We cried . . . him, me. We got a motel. I thought he was coming back for good.”

“But he left again.” Fritz's voice fell flat.

“He left again,” Mama repeated. “Funny thing. You know, all that time, I'd imagined what it would be like to have him back. I told myself I'd never fall for it again, I'd never get hurt like that again. But I did. And now . . .”

“Now there's a baby.”

Mama put her head down, and Fritz put his hand on her arm. “I know I wasn't there for a lot of years, Priscilla, but for what it's worth, I'm here now. I'm not planning on going anywhere.”

“Thank you,” she said. “You can't imagine how alone I feel.”

I was next to those grits, my mind whirling and twirling like the loop-the-loop at Disney. I was thinking about my daddy being back and not coming to see me. I was thinking about him leaving my mama again. I was so hot I thought my teeth might pop right out! But the thing that hurt me worst of all was hearing Mama say how alone she was feeling. Here I was. I'd been there with her the whole time, from the minute she found out this baby was coming. I'd been right there with her! Helping her! Didn't she even care about that? Well, didn't she?

Chapter Twenty-five
HOT ENOUGH TO BOIL

Sitting there, hiding behind that curtain, listening to the truth about my mama and daddy, I was burning up mad. I felt like as soon as I got out, I didn't quite care if I ever saw them or any other member of the Macy family again. Well, except for Rainey. And Poppy. And well, okay, Mama too. Who was I kidding? They were all I had.

Fritz and Mama walked out on the front porch to talk some more. Frankly, I'd had enough eavesdropping for one day, so I crawled out of the pantry and quickly climbed the stairs, whizzing past the portraits of my ancestors. I rounded the corner and sneaked into Mama's room. I found my list. It appeared she hadn't even looked at it. I folded it carefully and put it in my pocket, then headed out back for a quiet place in the garden.

I had some serious thinking to do. For one, I wished Mama had never met my daddy. Things would have been a whole lot easier that way. But she did meet him, and then he came back again, and she kissed him, and now they were having another baby. Like it or not, there were decisions to be made.

I'd never sat before a list, ready to write, and nothing coming to me. I was finding it hard to keep my list of pros and cons about the baby. Writing what was good and bad about adoption had made me sad. So, so sad. But writing them about abortion nearly did me in. There was a little brother or sister growing inside my mama. Growing little arms, little legs, a little mouth. I kept having flashes of those horrible pictures in my mind. They were worse than anything I'd ever seen in a movie or the newspaper. Anything I could imagine. But they were real. My list was not so fun anymore.

I didn't know why my mother had choices anyway. She was having a baby, like it or not. Babies didn't come from lists or studying or planning. There was magic in making a baby. I may not have known all how it worked, but even I knew that.

There was God in having a baby.

My mother didn't seem to want my help anyway. She hardly looked my way anymore. She was so caught up with having this child, she'd all but forgotten the two she already had. Was this how life would be when she had even less time for us?

I wanted to go home. Now. Even though I loved this house and the garden and the sidewalks and the flowers and the trees, for the first time, I wanted to just leave this place and get back to how things were before.

“You ready to go home, sugar?” asked Poppy, touching my hand and squeezing. He had found me sitting by the strawberries. They climbed out of the ground and over my ankles and made me feel loved. Poppy had this smile on his face like he knew every single thought in my head. Made me wonder if he did.

“Yes, Poppy. Let's go hop on a bus and go on home.”

“It's not time to go yet, Grayson.” Grandma Mona and her supersonic ears came whirling up behind him. “Priscilla still needs us here. She needs all of us.”

“I'll say it again, who are you and what have you done with my wife?” teased Poppy.

Grandma Mona clucked her tongue and said, “Time away from you'll do that for a woman. Fine. You want mean? I'll go back to being mean.”

“No, no,” said Poppy. “I like it. You used to be that way. Before.”

“Before? Before what?” I ask.

“Never you mind, child,” said Grandma Mona. “Every family has a few secrets. Every single one.”

“But I don't know anything! Every single thing is a secret to me. Why does being eight years old not entitle a person to knowing a thing?” I was being sassy, but I'd been pushed. And they'd pushed me far enough.

Grandma Mona ignored my backtalk and said to Poppy, “She's almost ready anyway.”

“Yes, I am,” I said. “What am I ready for?”

“Are you sure?” asked Poppy.