Into the Free

by Julie Cantrell

  Mama doesn’t answer. She doesn’t open her eyes.

  “Mrs. Reynolds? I advise you to cooperate. We need to evaluate you. The only way we can give you a fair assessment is if you answer the questions.” He holds the drawing closer to Mama’s face. Then he says brusquely, “Tell me what you see in this image.”

  Mama turns toward the wall, her eyes still closed. Then she starts mumbling Psalm 22. Her voice is weak. I can barely understand her, but the verses are familiar.

  “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me? why art thou so far from helping me, and from the words of my roaring?”

  Dr. Drimble clears his throat again with agitation and says, “Mrs. Reynolds, we came all the way down here today to help you. We can only help you if you agree to help us.”

  Mama continues. “O my God, I cry in the day time, but thou hearest not; and in the night season, and am not silent.”

  Dr. Drimble looks at his assistant and nods. That’s all it takes for him to leave the room. Mama pauses, listens to the commotion around her. She keeps her eyes closed, skips a few verses, and continues. “All they that see me laugh me to scorn: they shoot out the lip, they shake the head, saying, He trusted on the LORD that he would deliver him: let him deliver him, seeing he delighted in him.”

  “Mrs. Reynolds?” Dr. Drimble says, with an urgent insistence in his voice. He looks at his pocket watch, snaps it shut, and sighs.

  “Be not far from me; for trouble is near; for there is none to help.”

  He turns to me and commands, “Tell her to stop.”

  I laugh out loud at the absurdity of it all, the idea that I can control Mama and her irrational mumblings. There is nothing I can do to make Mama hush. Even if I could, nothing at this point would prove her sanity. Dr. Drimble has already made up his mind. So I stand up big and tall and stare right into his beady eyes. Then I join Mama, reciting the familiar verses.

  “I am poured out like water, and all my bones are out of joint.”

  “Are you finished?” Dr. Drimble asks, looking down at his paper.

  He doesn’t know Mama. She can recite verses for hours. Like singing. Or breathing. And this is her favorite passage.

  “Have it your way, Mrs. Reynolds,” Dr. Drimble says. The men leave the room, letting the door slam behind them.

  CHAPTER 21

  I am a fool to have thought Dr. Drimble would leave us alone. In reality, he left Mama’s room only long enough to sign discharge orders for her to be transferred to East. Now he and his partner have returned with a wheelchair and a syringe, and I am overcome by the terrifying fact that they really are going to take Mama away from me. “Where’s Diana?” I say. “I need to see Diana.”

  The doctor ignores me and injects Mama with another drug. “We’ll take her to East and give her time to heal. You need to go on home now.”

  “Home? Home?” I raise my voice. “All I have is Mama. If you take her, I won’t have a home! We’ve got to plan Jack’s funeral. I can’t do that by myself. All she needs is some sleep. She does this sometimes. It’s no big deal. She’ll be back to normal in a day or two. I know her. I can do this. Let us go.”

  But no one will listen. They keep going through the motions, ignoring everything I am saying, determined to haul Mama off in their ratty black car, like in my nightmares.

  The young blonde nurse with the slow stutter reappears. “It’ll … it’ll be okay, Millie,” she says. “They’ll keep her safe there. Make sure she c-can’t hurt herself. Then, when she’s all better, she’ll come back home. It won’t be long. I p-promise.”

  “They don’t ever let anybody out of that place,” I say.

  “No, Millie. It’s not like that. People understand your mother’s just very sad right now. She needs t-time to feel better.”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to say!” I yell even louder, “She’s not nuts. She’s grieving.” But before I can stop them, they are strapping Mama’s arms down on the stretcher and wheeling her out the door.

  I scream. “Mama! Mama!” But no one listens. They just keep right on rolling Mama down the hall.

  I stand helpless in the hospital entrance as they take Mama away from me. I have been ordered to keep a fair distance from the car. I don’t cry. I am too angry for that. The young nurse, her arm clamped tightly around my waist, says, “Who can I c-call to get you?”

  “I told you. There’s only Mama and me.”

  “There must be someone. A c-cousin? A friend?” she persists, blinking heavy when her words get stuck. She hugs me tighter and says, “Things will work out, honey. They always do.”

  Things always work out? I can’t believe people say such things. Nothing has worked out for me my entire life, and I am sure things aren’t going to change, with Jack dead and Mama gone and River nowhere near.

  The nurse helps me pack up the last of Jack’s and Mama’s things in a sack. The staff can’t allow me to leave the hospital alone since I am, in their eyes, still a child, so the receptionist calls around to the local churches. They think someone should be kind enough to give me a place to stay. I find this absurd. If my own grandparents don’t care, why would any other family want to take me in?

  In the meantime, I use the hospital phone and ask the operator to connect me to the number written on Mr. Tucker’s business card. A secretary answers, “Cauy Tucker Rodeo, this is Janine. May I help you?” Her voice sounds phony. I don’t trust her. But when she tells me Mr. Tucker isn’t available, I have to leave her more information than I had planned. “This is Millie Reynolds. Jack’s daughter.”

  She squeals, “I’m so sorry about your loss, Millie. We’ll all miss Jack around here.” She says it with a little too much drama, her voice cracking with tears.

  I roll my eyes, tired of hearing how everyone loved Jack. “Mr. Tucker said to call him if I need anything, and, well, I kind of do.”

  “Sure, Millie,” she peeps again. “What can we help you with, honey?”

  Her mousy voice annoys me. I’m tired of people treating me like a child. “Well,” I say, “Mama’s not going to be able to help me plan Jack’s funeral. And I don’t really know where to start. So I was wondering if, maybe, if it’s not too much to ask, if maybe Mr. Tucker could please help arrange the services.”

  I keep talking, quickly. “I know it’s not his responsibility or anything. But I figure he knew Jack a lot better than I ever did, and with him saying how much he cared about Jack and all, well, I guess I thought maybe he might actually be glad for the chance to plan things. The way Jack would have liked them. I know it will cost some money, so I was thinking maybe he could just have Jack’s truck, you know, to cover expenses.”

  Janine doesn’t make a peep.

  “Ma’am?” I ask, worried she may have hung up on me.

  “Yes, Millie,” her voice quivers. “Of course. I’ll give your message to Mr. Tucker. I’m sure he’ll give Jack the best funeral you can imagine. It’ll all be taken care of, honey. Don’t you worry about a thing.”

  I wish she would stop calling me honey.

  “But sweetie, do you need us to do anything else for you now? Does your mother need help? I’m sure Jack wouldn’t want you having any trouble.”

  I laugh. “Oh, no, ma’am. Jack would never want us to have any trouble.” Each syllable a bitter crunch.

  “We’ll take care of the arrangements, Millie. And if you need anything else, anything at all, you be sure and call us back. I mean that, sweetie. I really, really do. Okay, hon?”

  “’Kay,” I answer, imitating her sweet tone. Then I hang up.

  I have never in my life spoken disrespectfully to adults, other than Jack. But in the last few days I have yelled at many. I kick the wall and my foot stings with pain, but I kick it again. I keep thinking how Janine and Mr. Tucker think so highly of Jack. I am sick of hearing how much everybody admires him. For once, I wish somebody would stand up and admit that Jack may have won the big prizes at the rodeo, but when it came to being a father and a
husband, he was nothing but a loser. “Put your hands together now for the legendary Mr. Jack Reynolds of Iti Taloa, Mississippi! Local hero. Prized bull rider. King of the Rodeo. Wife abuser! Alcoholic! Worthless father!” And the crowd goes wild!

  But everyone will just go on believing Mama was the problem. And Jack the hero. And me? Just some ignorant little girl, in need of a fine Christian family to take care of me.

  But I am too tired to convince them otherwise. Tired of trying to figure out all this medical information and how to plan a funeral and how to get Mama home and how to pay the rent. Tired of nurse Hilda and the overanxious psychiatrist with his spineless sidekick. Tired of people like Diana who promise to be available and then conveniently disappear. Tired of Jack causing problems and then leaving me behind to clean up his mess. So I sit back down in the nurse’s chair and wait for my new “family” to arrive.

  What I never saw coming was that my new “family” would be my grandparents.

  CHAPTER 22

  The Reverend and his wife walk through the door wearing their shiny church shoes and their shiny church smiles. But I want nothing to do with their act.

  “You can’t make me go with them,” I say to a redheaded nurse. “They don’t care about Mama. They don’t care about me.”

  “That’s enough,” says the Reverend, a warning for me to shut my trap. The nurse has more freckles than sense. She cocks her hip and says, “Of course they care, Millie. They’re your grandparents, aren’t they?”

  There is no point arguing, so I grab the sack of Mama’s and Jack’s stuff and bolt out the door. The redhead chases after me, yelling, “You better get back here, you little twit! I’ll have the cops on your tail in no time flat!” I keep running. As fast as I can go. I don’t think about where I am headed. And I’m not surprised to see that my grandparents don’t try to catch me.

  I run all the way home before I realize where I am going. The air is so cold my teeth hurt. I stand on the front porch of Cabin Two and think about the empty house. Mama, no longer there waiting for me to bring her a fresh batch of library books or a new handful of yellow flowers. Jack, never coming back to share the prize money with Mama. Now, without his prize money, without Mama’s clients delivering linens, how will I survive?

  It is Wednesday. School is out for Christmas break. I have always done my homework and made good marks, but I have never felt like other kids. I have always felt more like the teachers. An adult. Grown up.

  “You’re an old soul, Millie.” That’s what Mama used to say. She’d read stories to me from her bed and tell me I was born with wisdom and strength beyond my years. What I wanted to say was how all I really wanted was to be a kid. To have someone take care of me. Of course, I didn’t tell her that.

  I consider my options: nearly six months left before high school graduation, no income, the rent due soon, no truck because I’ve promised that to Mr. Tucker. Hardly any groceries in the house, a winter garden barely hanging on, and Mama’s secret jar with only $5.64 left. That will not get me by for very long.

  Who would hire a sixteen-year-old? People are fighting over jobs, even in Iti Taloa, with the Depression lingering, and now with the war, more qualified women are looking for work.

  It’s been a while since I sought shelter in Sweetie, but that’s exactly what I do. I set the bag of my parents’ belongings down on the porch and climb my tree, up past my usual spot. The high, narrow branches yield to my weight. I let them sway me back and forth, more than thirty feet high, in the chilly afternoon breeze. The bare branches, cold and hard inside my hands, don’t hide me much, but most folks don’t think to look up in trees. I sit, watching the world below me. I stare out at Mr. Sutton’s land. He has thousands of acres of rolling hills, the prettiest in the county.

  A rusty plow sits next to his barn. Two paint mares relax in the pasture. For years I have dreamed of how it might feel to pull myself up onto one of his bareback ponies and gallop away. I’m thinking of doing just that, when the sound of the neighbors distracts me.

  Outside Cabin Three, the barefoot Reggio kids throw rocks at something in the dirt. Their scaly legs are covered with scabs and scars, and they keep scratching their heads. Lice from head to toe.

  One time, when the Reggios first moved in, I asked Mama, “How come they don’t even wash themselves?” Mama kind of got a sad look, like I had said something really mean. “People do the best they know to do, Millie. You have to believe that.”

  Mama never talked bad about anybody. She always taught me not to judge other people. Once, when I said my classmate Vera Tazman was an ugly old goat who smelled like rotten cheese, Mama made me wash my mouth out with soap every morning for a month. She made me write the entire passage of Matthew 25:42–45 over and over again. I must have written that passage ten thousand times. I still have a big bump on my middle finger from the force of the pencil.

  Mama said that the bump would be a way for me to remember what Jesus wanted me to know:

  For I was an hungred, and ye gave me no meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me no drink: I was a stranger, and ye took me not in: naked, and ye clothed me not: sick, and in prison, and ye visited me not.

  Then shall they also answer him, saying, Lord, when saw we thee an hungred, or athirst, or a stranger, or naked, or sick, or in prison, and did not minister unto thee?

  Then shall he answer them, saying, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye did it not to one of the least of these, ye did it not to me.

  I think of that verse now, as Mrs. Reggio waddles around the corner of her house holding a rusty bucket of slop for the hog she keeps pinned up in the back corner of their yard. Mrs. Reggio is all of five feet tall, but she has a voice that can reach the other side of town when she lets it go. “Get on over here and feed this hog!” she yells at her kids. They run to her side, fighting over who gets to carry the slop. “And don’t y’all be spilling it, neither!”

  I feel kind of sorry for the hog. He has gotten bigger and bigger. I figure they will butcher him for Christmas. Since I have no earthly idea where I’ll be for Christmas, I almost envy the Reggio family, lice and all.

  Carl Reggio, the youngest, looks up and spots me in the tree. He waves. I sit perfectly still, hoping he really hasn’t seen me. But he waves again, this time with a great big naive smile, like he has seen a secret fairy. I halfway grin and wave back. He returns to his rock throwing and waits for his brothers to rejoin him.

  Church bells ring. In the distance, the town’s streets fill with workers going home for lunch. Buggies. Babies. Mothers. Fathers. Cars and trucks. People spill out of office buildings and factories like a dropped can of marbles, scattering in every direction at once. They hurry off to their homes and restaurants, eager to carve the roast or slice the chicken.

  It’s clear that nothing is going to slow down for me. Not the people. Not the wind. Nothing seems to care that I am cold and hungry and afraid and alone. Jack is dead. Mama is gone. People just keep right on walking and eating and talking and feeding their hogs and living their lives as if nothing at all has happened. As if Jack is still king of the rodeo and Mama is still singing from her bedroom. But no matter how much I try to believe that things beneath me are intact, I can’t help feeling that the entire universe has been knocked absolutely out of whack.

  I am just about to climb down to grab a pickle and some cheese and make my way to East to check on Mama when my grandparents’ black sedan pulls onto the gravel lane. I freeze, hoping to heaven they won’t see me in the tree.

  The driver’s door creaks open, and my grandfather walks around to open the passenger door for my grandmother. “You think she’s here?” she asks.

  “Where else would she be?” he snaps.

  He slams the car door and leads the way up the rickety porch steps to the front of my house. Three solid knocks. Pause. Three more. Pause. I don’t dare breathe. The Reverend walks from one end of the porch to the other, peeking in windows and rattling the panes. “Living out here with dag
os and niggers.” He spits in the grass with disgust and then notices the hospital bag on the porch. “She’s been here all right.”

  My grandmother walks around to the back of the house, calling my name.

  The Reverend jiggles the knob and finds the door unlocked. He walks right on in. His voice booms, “Young lady? You come out here right now.” I hold back giggles, both from the absurdity of it all and from nervous jitters.

  Now my grandmother comes back around the yard and hollers for my grandfather, “She’s not here. Let’s go check the library. I’ve heard she spends a lot of time up there.”

  I haven’t even thought of turning to Miss Harper, the librarian, which is a good thing. Miss Harper has always been nice to Mama. After Mama stopped joining me on library outings, Miss Harper helped me choose books she’d enjoy, and she never once complained if Mama kept a book past its due date. If I had gone to Miss Harper, she would have let me sleep in the library and read all the books I wanted. She probably would have brought me home with her for supper.

  Thankfully, my grandparents leave to find Miss Harper, the timid librarian who probably doesn’t even know about Mama being taken away.

  No sooner have my grandparents gone when a big farm truck pulls into the drive. Out pops Mr. Cauy Tucker and his secretary, Janine, with her screech-owl voice. “I’m certain this is the house, Mr. Tucker. Jack showed it to me once.”

  This thought makes me sick. The very idea of Jack showing Janine our home. What else had he shown Janine is what I wonder.

  She and Mr. Tucker take their time examining the property, peering under the porch, peeking through the windows, traipsing through the yard, and finally exploring the house itself. I wonder why all these people think they have the right to just make themselves welcome in Mama’s home.