I watched as she pulled out a bag of flour, some sugar, and bananas.
“Banana bread,” she said, smiling at me. “That will be okay.”
I helped her make two loaves of bread. When they were in the oven, she said, “Go ahead and get your homework started.”
Then she called Resa to get Mrs. Rigby’s address.
Just before dinner, we got into the car and drove to another part of town where the houses were fancier than ours and the yards bigger. We pulled into a driveway behind several other cars, got out, and walked up to the porch. Before we could ring the bell, the door opened and Mrs. Rigby reached out to hug Emma.
“We are so sorry for your loss,” Emma said, handing her the loaves of banana bread.
“Thank you, Emma. You’re such a sweetheart. Come on in.”
We followed her into the living room, where more than a dozen people stood around talking softly. Resa saw us and came over to hug Emma.
“It’s real good of you to come,” she said. “I know you don’t really know Shirley, and you didn’t much like Damon. But she needs all the help she can get right now.”
I looked around the crowded room, but I didn’t see Jasper.
“Are you looking for Jasper, hon?” Mrs. Rigby touched my shoulder. “He’s out back. I’m sure he’d love to see you.”
I swallowed hard. I didn’t want to see Jasper, actually. But Mrs. Rigby smiled at me like she was grateful and pointed down the hallway toward the back door.
“Go on,” she said. “Don’t be shy. I’m sure he’ll be glad to see a friend.”
Emma nodded at me and Resa smiled. So I took a deep breath and walked down the hallway to the door. When I opened it, I saw him sitting on a tire swing that hung from a huge oak tree. His shoulders slumped and his head was lowered, so his hair hung down over his eyes. He didn’t look up as I approached.
“Hey,” I said softly.
He raised his head to glare at me.
“What do you want?”
“I just . . . I don’t know, I guess I just wanted to say I’m sorry about your dad.”
He said nothing. He only lowered his head again.
“My mom died,” I said. “It was a long time ago, when I was little.”
He raised his head and looked at me.
“You have a mom,” he said.
“Emma is my stepmom. My real mom died when I was three. I know it’s hard. And I’m sorry.”
I started to walk back to the house.
“Hey,” he called.
I turned and was surprised to see his face soften.
“What did you do? After she died, I mean.”
I thought for a minute.
“I cried a lot. And then I got really mad. I was so mad at her for going away.”
He nodded.
“It gets easier after a while.”
He wiped a hand across his eyes, climbed out of the swing, and sat down on the grass.
“Everyone hated my dad,” he said.
I sat down and waited.
“Everyone thought he was such a jerk. But he wasn’t always that way, you know?”
I nodded.
“Like sometimes when I was little, he took me fishing on his boat. And he came to all my baseball games. And . . . sometimes he was really nice.”
He looked up at me and stared for a minute, like he was seeing me for the first time.
“What was your mom like?” he asked.
“I don’t know, really. I was little when she died. I remember she had blond hair. And she used to sing to me. That’s all, I guess.”
“That sucks.”
I nodded again.
“At least you’ll always remember your dad,” I said. “That’s something.”
“I guess.” He sighed heavily.
“I better go.” I rose, wiping grass from my jeans.
“Hey,” he said. “What’s your name, anyway?”
“I’m Jenny,” I said. “Jenny Bohner.”
“I’m Jasper,” he said.
“I know.”
“You’re the one with the nigger friend.”
“She’s not a nigger!” My voice rose. “Her name is Lashaundra, and she’s the nicest person I know.”
I turned and walked quickly back into the house. This time he didn’t stop me.
“Can we go now?” I asked.
Emma looked down at me and smiled.
“Sure,” she said. “Let’s go make dinner.”
26
Emma
“Are we doing okay?”
Brannon sat at the table, writing checks for our bills. His forehead furrowed deep.
“It’s tight,” he said, not looking up at me. “It’s always tight.”
He sighed.
“I could ask Harlan for more hours.”
“No,” he said, smiling at me, his brow relaxing a bit. “You work too many hours as it is. We just need to cut back on our spending a little.”
“What’s that one?” I asked, pointing at the bill he held in his hand.
“It’s for the storage unit.”
“How much is it?”
“Not much.” He put down his pen and stretched, yawning.
“How much is not much?”
He sighed again.
“It’s sixty bucks a month,” he said finally.
My eyes widened. “That’s a lot of money.”
He shrugged.
“Seriously, Brannon, that’s almost an entire week’s worth of groceries every month, every single month.”
He raised an eyebrow at me but said nothing.
“Okay,” I said. “Now that we have a house, why don’t we go get the stuff from the unit? We’ve got the space for it.”
He shook his head. “It’s a four-hour drive each way, babe. I don’t want to waste an entire day on it.”
“I’ll go with you.”
He didn’t say anything.
“Seriously, honey, we can go this weekend. It’ll be fun . . . a mini–road trip.”
He shook his head again.
“Brannon.” I heard my voice rise, even as I tried to stay calm. “Honey, that’s sixty dollars a month out of the budget. That’s worth a day of driving, isn’t it?”
“We’ll manage.”
I sat down across from him at the table.
“Look,” I said, keeping my voice flat. “Jenny has grown an inch just since October. Her winter clothes are getting too small, and you know the things she wore last summer aren’t going to fit her come spring. She needs some new clothes, honey. And pretty soon I’m going to be needing some fat-lady clothes.”
He laughed and took my hands. “You are not going to be a fat lady. You’re going to be a pregnant lady.”
“Well, this pregnant lady is going to need some maternity clothes. And I’m thinking I’m going to need them sooner than I’d like. I’m already gaining weight. And sixty dollars a month, honey, that will go a long way toward our bills.”
He looked at me in silence and then sighed heavily.
“Okay, fine,” he said. “I’ll go on Saturday. Maybe I’ll get the truck washed before I go. Don’t want to put all of that stuff in it as dirty as it is.”
“Jenny and I will come with you. We’ll make a day of it. Maybe we can have lunch in Louisville . . . or dinner on the way home.”
“Jenny has that thing at the library on Saturday,” he said. “I’ll go, and you can stay here and hold down the fort.”
“Okay, that’s a deal.”
Brannon left early on Saturday morning, right after breakfast. Not long after he left, Jenny called to me from the living room.
“Emma, there’s a dog on our front porch.”
I looked out the window and saw a beagle scratching at the door, whimpering pitifully.
“I think he belongs next door,” I said. “I’ve seen him in the yard.”
I opened the door and the beagle ran into the house, sniffing me and then Jenny and then the furniture, his tail wa
gging frantically.
“Hey, buddy,” I crooned, reaching out my hand for him to sniff. “What are you doing here?”
The dog licked my hand and then my face as I knelt to scratch his ears.
“Should we take him home?” Jenny sat down on the floor and began stroking the dog’s head as he licked her face.
“That’s probably a good idea.”
I scooped up the dog in my arms, and we walked to the house next door and knocked on the door.
A face appeared in the window—a very old, wrinkled face with very blue eyes.
The door opened and a tiny woman stood before us, smiling, those blue eyes boring straight into me.
“Beauregard!” she cried, reaching for the beagle. “How did you get out of the yard again?”
The beagle wriggled into her arms and she looked up to smile at me.
“He’s a bad one for digging, he is,” she said. “Seems like I’m always chasing him all over the neighborhood.”
“He was scratching on our door,” Jenny said. “We live there.”
She pointed to our house.
“He was great friends with the little boy who lived there before you. Thank you for bringing him home.”
“I’m Emma,” I said. “And this is Jenny.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet the both of you.” The woman shook my hand and then Jenny’s.
“I’m Lilah,” she said. “Lilah Figg. Won’t you come in?”
She held the door open.
Jenny looked up at me and I smiled and nodded.
“We’d love to,” I said.
We followed Mrs. Figg into the house, and Jenny suddenly stopped short just in front of me so that I walked right into her. She let out a startled yelp.
“Don’t mind the animals.” Mrs. Figg smiled, waving her hand toward the mantle.
Several cats perched on climbing towers. Beauregard barked at another beagle, wagging his tail.
“That’s Daisy.” Mrs. Figg pointed to the second beagle. “And those are Felix and Tabby and McGuffy and Little Bit. Ain’t she just the most beautiful cat you ever saw?”
One of the cats, I don’t know which one, sauntered over to rub itself against Jenny’s leg. But Jenny was staring toward the fireplace, where several more cats and two more dogs were posed, seemingly frozen.
“And those are my loves, the ones who’ve passed on,” Mrs. Figg said, smiling fondly at the stuffed animals. “I can’t bear to let them go. So . . . a friend embalms them for me. And here they are.”
She walked to the hearth and put her hand on the head of a large stuffed hound. “This here is Amos,” she said. “And that’s Tipper.” She pointed toward another dog, this one of undetermined breed, maybe a Labrador–golden retriever mix?
“And the kitties there are Jemimah, Clovis, Maeve, Picasso, Moses, and Piper.”
“They’re dead,” Jenny said breathlessly.
“Yes, dear. I know that.” Mrs. Figg moved one of the cats slightly, so that it faced more squarely into the room. “But they’re still my babies.”
“It’s beautiful work,” I said, staring closely at the hound. “I had an uncle who did taxidermy when I was a kid, but he mostly did wild animals . . . after people shot them. These are beautiful.”
“Yes, Horace does good work. And he don’t charge me a thing for it, either. I just make him a pie or some scones or muffins. He wants me to marry him, you see. He’s been after me to marry him for almost twenty years now, ever since my husband died.”
She shook her head.
“He’s persistent, Horace is. I’ll say that for him. Now, can I make you a cup of tea, dear? I’ve got some nice scones, fresh out of the oven.”
We walked into the kitchen and Jenny yelped again.
“That there’s Petunia,” Mrs. Figg said, smiling at the stuffed pig that sat by the back door, its snout pointed toward us. “She was such a good little pig. Vietnamese potbelly, she was. Sweet as sugar and smart as a whip. Smarter than most dogs, I’d bet. And oh my, she just loved to swing.”
“What?” Jenny stared at her with wide eyes.
“She loved to swing,” the old lady repeated. “We put a baby swing in the backyard, and Petunia loved to be in it and swing. Oh, she wasn’t afraid at all, Miss Petunia. She loved that swing.”
We sat down at the table and Mrs. Figg put a kettle on the stove.
“Do you have any children?” I asked, already certain of the answer.
“Oh no,” she said. “The Good Lord didn’t see fit to bless us with babies. I don’t know why. But we always had the animals. Jacob, that’s my late husband, well, he was as crazy about them as I am. He’s the one who put up the swing, you know.”
She set a plate of cranberry scones on the table. They smelled heavenly.
“I’ve been meaning to come by and introduce myself,” she said.
“And welcome you to the neighborhood. But I was feeling poorly for a while. Got the diabetes, you know.”
She held her leg up as some kind of proof. So I nodded.
“Sometimes it makes me poorly. But I’m better today, especially now that ya’ll are here.” She smiled at me and at Jenny, and slathered butter onto a scone.
We drank tea and ate scones while the beagles begged for bites and Mrs. Figg chattered away, telling us about the family who lived across the street—they weren’t friendly at all, she said. And they played their music too loud.
“How long have you lived here?” I asked when she paused to sip her tea.
“Oh, I been here ever since I married Jacob,” she said. “That was in 1951. We bought the house right after the wedding. He’d been saving, you know. Smart man, my Jacob was. We thought we’d fill it up with children, of course. But that didn’t happen.... Still, it’s a good house.”
She beamed at the kitchen, with its antiquated appliances and faded, peeling wallpaper.
“It’s a good house,” she repeated.
After we’d eaten our scones, I stood.
“We should probably be going,” I said. “Jenny has a craft party at the library today.”
“Oh, a craft party, that’s nice.” Mrs. Figg nodded enthusiastically. “And the library is nice, too. I just love those big stained-glass windows.”
We walked back into the living room, where Jenny eyed the animals on the hearth with suspicion.
“Before you go, let me show you one more thing!”
Mrs. Figg walked into the dining room, motioning for us to follow. “This here is my pride and joy,” she said, touching an old, dark, upright piano.
“Do you play?” I asked.
“Oh no, dear.” She smiled at me. “I don’t have to. This piano plays itself.”
She opened a wooden cabinet beside the piano and pulled out a roll of paper. Then she opened the front of the piano and put the roll inside. She flipped a switch, and the piano began playing on its own. Jenny stared at it, her eyes wide, as Mrs. Figg sang along to the tune, a song about sitting in the shade of an old apple tree.
When the song had finished, she beamed at us.
“That’s so cool!” Jenny said.
“It is, isn’t it?” I agreed.
Smiling, Mrs. Figg carefully removed the roll from the piano and placed it gently back into the case.
“Thank you so much,” I said, shaking her hand again. “The scones were wonderful.”
“Here,” she said, shuffling back into the kitchen. “Let me get you some to take home with you. Lord knows I can’t eat them all.”
She returned with several scones wrapped in a cloth napkin.
“You come back any time, you hear? You won’t bother me at all. I love company.”
She shook my hand yet again and put a gnarled palm on Jenny’s hair.
“You’re a beauty,” she sighed. “Like a young Elizabeth Taylor, you are.”
She watched from the porch as we walked back to our house.
“What a lovely lady,” I said.
“She’s kind of weir
d,” Jenny said. “I mean, all those dead animals would give me the creeps.”
I laughed. “Those are her babies, I guess. I think she’s probably just really lonely.”
“And a little bit crazy.”
Jenny ran to her room to gather her things for the library and I looked out the window at the house next door, where Mrs. Figg still stood on the porch smiling.
27
Jenny
“That’s really pretty,” Lashaundra said, watching me dab paint onto a candle.
We were making Valentine’s Day presents for our moms. I was kind of proud of mine. The lines were clean and straight. I hoped Emma would like it.
“Yours is good, too,” I said.
Lashaundra’s candle was sort of a mess.
She shook her head. “No, mine’s not near as pretty as yours.”
I smiled at her. “I think your mom will love it.”
She smiled back. It felt so good to have a friend.
“All right, ladies. It’s time to start putting things away.”
Mrs. Hensley walked from table to table, inspecting our work.
“Why, that’s beautiful, Jenny,” she said. “Just beautiful.”
She turned to look at Lashaundra’s. “Yours is nice, too, Lashaundra.”
We closed the paint cups and started washing the paintbrushes.
“Just leave your candles on the shelf here to dry. Next week we’ll make something for your fathers,” Mrs. Hensley said. “And then we’ll make wrapping paper for your gifts, just in time for Valentine’s Day!”
Mrs. Johnson was waiting outside the library for us.
“Did you have fun?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said.
“What did you make?”
“It’s a surprise,” Lashaundra said.
“I want a surprise!” Malcolm yelled.
“It’s not a surprise for you,” Lashaundra said. “It’s for Mama.” He stuck his tongue out at her.
“Well, I can’t wait to see it.” Mrs. Johnson smiled at us. “Jenny, are you having supper with us tonight?”
“No, thank you. I can’t,” I said. “I’m helping Emma make vegetable soup.”
Mrs. Johnson dropped me off in front of our house, and I ran inside to find Emma stretched out on the couch, fast asleep and snoring. She woke up when she heard me and smiled, sitting up and rubbing her eyes.
The Seventh Mother Page 14
