Tomato Girl (28 page)

I expected her to ask me why I'd run off this afternoon without saying thank you or good-bye, but she didn't. She didn't say anything to me at first.

Clara walked past Sheriff Rhodes and me and went straight to Mama. “Miss Julia,” she said, “I'm so glad you came to my home.” Clara held onto Mama's hands while she spoke, her dark thumbs rubbing Mama's palms. “I hoped I'd see you again. Remember I read for you once, when you were feeling poorly?”

Mama's skin paled as she nodded.

“I fell ill myself for a spell, then had to go back to Georgia and look after my mother until she passed,” Clara said.

Even as Mama's eyes darted around the room and her shoulders twitched, Clara held onto her hands and kept talking.

Just as Jericho somehow knew about my dying chick even when I couldn't get the words out, I knew not to interrupt Clara.

“Me and Jericho haven't been back here long, Julia.” Clara led Mama to a chair by the window. “Here, you sit.”

Mama sat down and opened her mouth to speak. Clara touched Mama's lips with her finger. “Hush now, let me finish.” Clara stood beside Mama's chair and continued talking. “I stopped in the store a few times. I saw your girl a time or two. I asked your husband about you. He said you were doing fine, but you know, I like to see things for my own self. I kept hoping I'd run into you, but he said you didn't come to the store much. I sure am glad you came to me now.” Clara rubbed Mama's arm.

Mama's eyes grew watery and her lips trembled. She started to speak again, but Clara stopped her again.

Clara pinched a small green leaf from a plant in the window.
“Hush now. You don't need to tell me a thing. I know you remember things you don't want to. Not now. You don't need to speak now. Here, put this under your tongue.”

Mama opened her mouth like an obedient child.

“Now don't chew or swallow, just leave it under your tongue, and be still.”

Mama did as Clara said.

“Now then, seems I got a sick bird to mend.” Clara walked to me and took the can from my hands.

How did she know? Had she heard Jericho and me talking on the front porch?

“Follow me,” she said as she walked toward the next room. She stopped in front of Sheriff Rhodes. “Jericho can see these two ladies back to Grace Street. Why don't you go on home? Millie's wondering where you been.”

Sheriff Rhodes shifted on his feet. “I reckon you saw that in your crystal ball?”

Clara laughed at Sheriff Rhodes. “Don't need no crystal ball to know a man's wife got to wonder why her husband's car been parked outside another woman's house all evening. You do as I say, and go on home.”

Jericho laughed, rose from his seat, and walked toward Sheriff Rhodes. “You best quit while you is ahead. Come on now, let's you and me go have a smoke.” Jericho placed his hand on Sheriff Rhodes's shoulder and led him out the front door.

I thought Mama would put up a fuss when he left. Instead, she leaned against the back of her chair. Her eyelids flickered, but didn't open.

I followed Clara into the kitchen. A large black stove sat in one corner and in the center of the room was a narrow table.

Clara handed the can back to me. “Hold this,” she said. While I held the can, Clara untied the scarf from her head and smoothed it flat on the table. “Now you watch,” Clara said, “but do not cry or speak unless I ask you a question, understand?”

I nodded.

Clara reached inside the can and lifted the little green chick. “And his name?”

“Easter,” I said, careful not to let my voice quiver.

Clara laid Easter on the center of her scarf. He didn't move, so I thought he must be dead, but Clara held up her hand to warn me not to speak.

As she moved about the room and gathered items from a cabinet by the sink, Clara spoke directly to Easter. “You are a fine bird, Easter. All green like a lime, with a nice layer of baby fat. I knew a chicken like you, only he was yellow.” Clara sat down. She reached into a white bag and pulled out a handful of yellow powder. She moved her hand around Easter, sprinkling what looked like cornmeal. When she was done, a thin yellow line circled Easter's body.

“Put this away.” Clara handed me the bag without looking at me, and I returned it to the cabinet, making as little noise as possible. Goosebumps rose along my arms.

She lit a green candle and placed it outside the circle. “Yes, Yellow Bird used to follow me around the yard when I was a girl. Anybody come near to bother me, Yellow Bird pecked their feet. He saved my backside many a switching, yes he did. Now here you are with a girl of your own to look after. You can't let her down, you hear me?” Clara put her ear to his beak as if to listen for his answer.

A moment later, Clara reached into her apron pocket and pulled out four flat black stones. She placed one at Easter's feet, one at his head, and one on either side of his body. Speaking to me, she rested her hands over Easter's body. “Go into my backyard and find a feather from the right wing of a bird.”

“But it's dark outside. How will I find a bird?” I wondered, too, how Clara expected me to make a bird hold still while I took a feather.

“You came here for me to raise this bird, right?”

“Yes, but …”

“If you believe I can raise this bird, then you have to believe I can call a bird to you for its feather. Now, go out back, look in the lilac bush. There will be your bird.”

I did as Clara told me. Just outside her back door, a lilac bush grew against her house. Although it was dark, a street lamp shone bright enough for me to see the small clusters of blooms. I heard a cooing sound, then saw small gray wings flutter in the middle of the bush. When I reached out to touch the bird, she flew away. As she lifted into the sky, I held my hands up to try and grab her. Her wings beat faster, and she flew out of reach. She called out once more, and then, a single pale feather floated into my hands.

My fingers felt its warmth, like a soothing ointment.

Back inside the house, I handed Clara the feather.

Taking deep breaths, Clara blew across Easter's body and waved the feather in circles around him, her hand moving faster and faster. Seconds later, Easter's wings twitched. At first, just one sudden twitch, barely noticeable, but then the twitches grew stronger, until his tiny green wings fluttered and he rose up on his feet.

“Welcome back,” Clara said, then laughed. She turned toward me. “Well, girl, are you going to pick up this bird or not?”

I hugged Clara's neck, then scooped up Easter with both hands. His soft body felt warm and alive. His tiny heart thumped against my palm.

Clara pinched some cornmeal from the table and sprinkled it into the palm of her hand. She spit on the yellow powder and made a paste. Little by little, she fed Easter the damp cornmeal.

“He sleeps in my oven tonight to keep his blood warm,” Clara said.

Clara's words confused me. “But I want to take Easter home.”

“No!” Clara snapped. “You cannot take him home yet. There
is a dead spirit in your house, no? I can see it, but not clear. It's trapped somehow, behind water, or mirror, or maybe a glass.” Clara squinted as if trying to make out what she saw. She rose from her chair and opened her oven door. She looked at me. “An unsettled spirit might take his life away. Your chick cannot go back there until the dead thing rests.”

C
LARA PACKED A BASKET
of butter cookies and jars of dark red jellies. She wrapped a gray knitted shawl around Mama's shoulders and brushed the hair away from her face. “Spit,” she said, and put her hand under Mama's mouth to catch the leaf she'd placed under her tongue when we first arrived. After Mama spat, Clara shoved the wet leaf into her apron pocket. She looked into Mama's eyes. “If you need anything, Julia, you send the girl, and Jericho or I will come, do you hear? Don't care if it be day or night. Don't care how bad a thing is, if you need me, send the girl.”

Mama nodded and licked her lips.

“I forgot to cover these cookies,” Clara said. She took the basket from Jericho and carried it toward the kitchen. “Come with me,” Clara motioned to me.

Once there, Clara turned to me. “I know you want to take the chick with you, but he's better left with me for a time. He's too weak to handle the pull of a restless spirit.”

“When the spirit finds rest, can Easter come home?”

“Yes.” Clara wiped her hands on her apron and covered the basket of cookies with a checkered cloth.

“But how does a dead spirit find rest, Clara?”

“Different ways, child. Depends on why the spirit don't rest. Sometimes, it's because the spirit don't want to leave what it knows. Sometimes the living won't let the dead go. Either way, the chick needs to stay here to be safe.”

I knelt by the stove and kissed Easter's soft head. The oven's heat warmed my face and hands. “He won't get too warm here, will he?”

“I'll watch him, don't worry. I ain't going to cook no bird I brought back from the grave.” Clara laughed and patted my head.

“Can I visit him while he's here?”

“Yes, you come, you hear? You come every day after school. If you don't come, I'll know something's wrong and send Jericho. You come every day, rain or shine, you understand?”

“Yes, I'll come. I promise.”

Clara smiled. “That's my girl.”

“Clara?”

“Yes, child?”

“Will Daddy come home again?”

Clara's eyes narrowed. Her forehead wrinkled as if she felt pain. “He will come back, yes. But it will not be the way you picture it. It will be a darker thing, I'm afraid.”

Clara's words sent a chill through me.

“Don't ask no more, girl. Me and Jericho will look after you as best we can. Now, you have school in the morning. It's time for you to go home and get to bed.”

I nodded, then wrapped my arms around Clara's neck and kissed her soft, warm cheek.

A
FTER
J
ERICHO WALKED
us home, Mama stayed awake most of the night, pacing the kitchen floor with Baby Tom in her arms. I sat at the table and nibbled on Clara's butter cookies while trying to figure out how to make Mama settle down.

“God, why won't this child sleep?” she screamed. She grew angry and shook the jar. “Go to sleep, Tom! I can't take any more!”

Baby Tom bobbed up and down in his formaldehyde bath, his little body bumping against the glass. In a way, Baby Tom was lucky he'd been born dead. Otherwise, he'd surely end up retarded. I'd heard from Mary Roberts that if a baby is born fine and becomes retarded later, it's because their mothers shook them or dropped them on their heads.

Suddenly, I felt sorry for Baby Tom. “Let me hold him, Mama.” I held out my hands to take the jar.

Mama let go of the glass so suddenly, I nearly dropped it on the floor. My fingers shook as I wrapped them around the jar. Wet from Mama's sweaty palms, the sides felt slippery in my hands. I hurried to the chair by the window so Baby Tom could rest on my lap.

Mama paced and smoked. Sheriff Rhodes had left a full pack of cigarettes, but now, all but two of the cigarettes were gone. Somehow, I'd have to find her more tomorrow.

“He's just like you, you know?” Mama spoke to the wall. Her bare foot tapped the floor as if keeping time to music.

“Like me?” I asked, not sure who or what she meant.

“Yes,” she puffed the cigarette, then mashed the butt on a saucer. She used such force, the saucer rattled on the table, spilling ashes. “When you were a baby, you refused my milk, just like Tom.”

“Mama, Tom is …” I couldn't finish. I couldn't tell Mama that dead babies don't drink milk.

“Tom is what, Ellie?” Mama stepped closer.

“Nothing, Mama.”

“You don't believe me? Here, watch.” Mama unbuttoned her dress and pulled out her breast. She grabbed Baby Tom from my hands and pressed the jar against her pale flesh. She tried adjusting herself so that her nipple met Tom's face, but her movements were too rough. Baby Tom floated the other way.

Mama's eyes filled with tears. “See? He doesn't want me. You did the same thing. Why don't my babies want me? I knew it would be that way. See what kind of woman I am? Even my own children don't love me.”

“But I do love you, Mama. I do! And so does Baby Tom.”

Mama looked down at Baby Tom. When she moved the jar, his tiny face turned further from her breast.

She let out a sob that came from some place so deep it scared me. The veins in her neck rose like vines that might choke her. She fell on the floor, hunched over Tom, and cried, her body heaving as if she might throw up.

I quickly walked over to Mama, and knelt close to rub her shoulder. “Don't cry, Mama. Everything's going to be okay. Just give Baby Tom a chance. He'll learn. He came out of you too soon, so he doesn't know all the things a baby is supposed to know. Why, he doesn't even know how to suck his own thumb, Mama.”

Her sobs slowed and she breathed more evenly.

“Here, Mama. Sit up and let me show you.”

After she sat up on the floor, I placed my hands around the jar and slowly turned it until Baby Tom leaned toward Mama's breast. “See, Mama, he's doing a little better. Baby Tom loves you, just like I do.”

Once she saw the baby facing her breast, Mama quieted down. After a few minutes of holding the jar against her breast, she seemed calm again, and let me take her hand and lead her upstairs.

I tucked Mama and Baby Tom in bed, pulling the thick covers around them. I looked at Tom, wondered how his spirit would ever be free if he had to stay in a glass jar, cared for by a mother who could hardly look after herself.

Finally I went to my own room. Too tired to brush my teeth and get undressed, I kicked off my shoes and climbed into my bed. With my eyes closed, I listened to night sounds: the faraway bark of a dog; the house creaking as floorboards settled; water gurgling though the pipes.