“He came to the diner tonight, too,” I said.
“I guess he has to look at everything,” she said. “But then he asked Michael where he was that night.”
My stomach lurched. “Why?” I asked, my voice choking in my throat.
“Because we’re black,” she said flatly. “It’s always the black man, you know. No matter what happens, they always come for the black man.”
“But he didn’t have any reason to think that Michael would . . . hurt Damon Rigby.”
“No, except that Michael’s black.”
I could tell she was working hard to keep her voice steady and calm.
“Anyway, thank God, Michael was working that night. He’d pulled an extra shift at the warehouse, and about a hundred people can vouch for the fact that he was at work all night.”
I nodded and reached for her hand.
“I’m so sorry, Angel,” I said.
“You’ve got nothing to apologize for,” she said. “It’s the way of the world, I guess. But the girls were here when the sheriff came. So Jenny might have some questions. I just wanted to give you a heads-up.”
“Thanks, Angel. And thanks for keeping Jenny today. Brannon was up to his eyeballs in stuff when I left, and I think he really was glad Jenny wasn’t home all day.”
Angel smiled. “Jenny said he’d gone to get all of their stuff out of storage. That’s good. That means he finally feels at home.”
I nodded and smiled back at her.
“Yep,” I said. “We are finally at home.”
Jenny started talking as soon as we got into the car.
“The sheriff came to ask Mr. Johnson a bunch of questions,” she said.
“I know,” I said. “He came to the diner, too. He has to cover all the bases, I guess.”
“But I thought Mr. Rigby was driving drunk and had an accident.”
“That’s exactly what happened,” I said. “But the sheriff has to fill out all the paperwork, and that means talking to everyone who might have any information.”
“But Mr. Johnson didn’t have any information.”
“I know, honey. It’s just procedure.”
“Because Mr. Johnson is black?”
I sighed and shook my head. “There’s a lot of prejudice in the world, Jenny. I know that. But I think the sheriff was just asking questions because of the way Mr. Rigby was to you and Lashaundra that night in the diner. That’s all.”
I pulled into the driveway and parked.
“It’s okay,” I said. “The sheriff said Mr. Rigby’s crash was an accident. It’s over and done with now.”
Please, God, let that be true.
I unlocked the front door and stopped to stare. The room was cleared of boxes and bags. The rocker sat by the hearth, where a fire burned brightly. And above the mantel hung a huge painting of white and yellow daisies against a brilliant blue sky.
“Welcome home,” Brannon said, emerging from the kitchen with a cup of tea in his hand. “It looks good, doesn’t it?”
“I can’t believe you got everything put away,” I said, sinking into the rocker and taking the tea from him. “Where did you put it all?”
“Most of it’s up in the attic,” he said.
“Where did that come from?” Jenny pointed at the painting of daisies.
“I’ve had that a long time,” he said. “But there wasn’t any place for it in the trailer. Do you like it?”
“It’s pretty,” she said.
“Your mother painted it.”
Jenny stood with her mouth open, staring at the picture.
“My mother painted?” she finally asked. “How come I didn’t know that?”
“I guess it never came up.”
“Well, it’s beautiful.” I rose and touched the frame lightly. “She was very talented.”
“Yeah,” he said. “She did some nice stuff. That one was my favorite.”
“Are there any more?” Jenny asked.
“In your bedroom.”
Jenny ran down the hall and shrieked.
“Oh my God! It’s so pretty!”
Brannon and I followed her into the room, where another big painting dominated the wall above Jenny’s futon. A single tree covered in white blossoms stood in a field of tiny yellow flowers. It really was beautiful.
“There was a field behind the apartment building where we lived,” Brannon said, his arm around Jenny’s shoulder. “Your mom liked to carry her canvas and paints out there and do her thing. That’s spring. She did one for each season.”
“Where are the others?” Jenny turned to look at him, her eyes sparkling.
“I’m sorry, honey,” he said. “I sold the others. After your mom died, we really needed the money. I hated to do it, but I had to.”
“Oh,” Jenny said, her voice soft.
“But I saved this one for you.”
“And it’s beautiful,” I said. “Maybe we can buy a bedspread and curtains to match the colors. Would you like that?”
Jenny nodded. “I wish we still had the others,” she whispered. Her eyes were bright with tears.
“I know, honey. But how wonderful that you have this one, and the one in the living room. You must be really proud to know that your mom painted those,” I said.
She nodded again.
“Thank you, Daddy,” she said in a small voice, wrapping her arms around him. “I love them both.”
“You’re welcome, honey. I love you.”
“That chicken smells good,” I said. “Who’s ready to eat?”
29
Jenny
I stared at the painting above my bed for a long time that night. My mom was an artist, a painter, and I never even knew it.
I thought about the candle I’d painted for Emma. Maybe I had inherited some of my mother’s talent. What would that be like?
There was so much I didn’t know about my mother. Daddy didn’t like to talk about her. It made him sad, so I didn’t ask him too many questions. But now I knew she was an artist. And I couldn’t stop wondering what else there was to know about her. Maybe now that Daddy had Emma in his life and was happy, he would tell me more about my mom.
People always said I looked like Daddy, and I guess I did. My hair was dark like his and our noses looked pretty much the same. But his eyes were dark, dark brown, and mine were blue. He used to tell me I got my eyes from my mom.
I stood up for probably the twentieth time since going to bed just to touch the painting, feeling the texture of the brushstrokes. My mother made those strokes. It felt funny to touch something she had touched . . . funny, but nice in a weird kind of way.
My mother had painted in the field behind the apartment where she lived with my dad. I lay back down again and closed my eyes, trying hard to remember that apartment, where we had all lived together when I was so little. But the only thing I could remember was her voice, singing to me.
“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine . . .”
She was brushing my hair and singing. I think it was a sunny day. I think I remember feeling the sun on my face, but I could just be making that up. I know she was brushing my hair, though, and singing. I think she sang to me a lot. I hoped so, anyway.
I opened my eyes and looked around my room. I had a real bedroom for the first time I could remember, my very own room. And now I had a painting from my mother. But instead of feeling happy, I felt restless and kind of nervous, like I couldn’t settle down.
Why hadn’t Daddy ever told me that my mother was a painter? Why hadn’t he ever told me anything about her?
As soon as the thought formed in my head, I felt guilty. Daddy was the one who had raised me and loved me. He cooked for me sometimes, not very well, but at least he tried. He made sure I did my schoolwork. He tucked me into bed every night and kissed me good night. He was Daddy. And if he couldn’t bring himself to talk about my mother, maybe it was just because he loved her and missed her so much.
At least he’d kept the paintings.
>
I rose yet again and padded softly into the living room, where the picture of the daisies hung above the mantle. I turned on a lamp and stood, just staring at those daisies. My mother painted those daisies.
“Jenny?”
Emma’s voice was low. I turned to see her rubbing the back of her hand across her eyes. She looked really tired.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m okay,” I said. “I just wanted to see the picture again.”
She smiled and sat down on the couch.
“Your mom was a pretty amazing artist,” she said. “I mean, that is just beautiful. And the one in your room, God, that’s gorgeous.”
I sat down beside her and she put her arm around me.
“I’m sorry she died,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry you didn’t get the chance to know her.”
“I didn’t even know she painted,” I said. “I don’t know much about her at all.”
“Well, maybe we can ask your dad to tell us about her.”
“Really?” I stared at her. I guess I was surprised that she would want to know about my mother.
“Yes, really,” she said. “She was your mom, and your dad loved her. And he’s been so sad for so long. And now, well, now maybe he’ll be ready to talk about her.”
I leaned into her and she squeezed me tight.
“Thanks, Emma.”
“Oh, Jenny,” she said, and I heard a catch in her voice. “You don’t have to thank me. I’m the one who should be thanking you. I mean, I haven’t known you for very long, and you could have been really mad at your dad and at me when I moved in. But instead, you’ve been . . . well, you’ve been wonderful. I feel so lucky to be your stepmom. You are the best stepdaughter ever.”
“I love you,” I whispered.
“I love you, too,” she whispered back. “I love you so much, and I love your dad, and we’re all going to love this baby.” She patted her stomach and kissed my head.
“We are probably the luckiest family in the world.”
30
Emma
The next day, while Jenny was at school, I drove to the Walmart and bought some fabric to make curtains and a cover for her comforter. We didn’t really have the money for it, but I wanted her room to be pretty. I really wanted her to feel at home in the house.
Standing in line waiting to pay for my things, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to see Shirley Rigby in line behind me.
“Hello, Emma,” she said, smiling. “I just wanted to say thank you again for coming by the house last week and bringing the banana bread. It was delicious. I think Jasper ate an entire loaf all on his own.”
“You’re welcome,” I said. “How are you doing, Shirley?”
“I’m all right. Tired, mostly. And relieved that the funeral is over.”
“Resa said it was a lovely service. I’m sorry we didn’t come.”
“That’s okay.” She paused and cleared her throat.
“I heard what Damon said to your daughter and her friend, and I want you to know that I’m so sorry.”
“It’s all right, Shirley. He’d had too much to drink and he was angry.”
“He was always angry,” she said softly. “I like to believe that wherever he is now, he’s not angry anymore.”
I nodded.
“I also wanted to tell you that your little girl was a real help to Jasper at the house that day.”
“Jenny?” I asked, surprised.
“She told Jasper she had lost her mom when she was little. I think it helped him to know he’s not the only person in the world to lose a parent.”
“I’m glad she was helpful,” I said.
“I know Jasper hasn’t been very nice to Jenny, or to her friend.”
I nodded. I wasn’t sure what to say.
“Anyway, it was sweet of her to talk with him that day. You and your husband have done a wonderful job of raising her.”
“Oh, I can’t take any credit,” I said, smiling. “Brannon raised her alone for most of her life.”
“Well, he must be a very good father to have raised such a thoughtful young lady.”
“He’s a good dad,” I agreed.
“Ma’am?” The cashier was waiting for me.
“Oh, sorry,” I said. I pulled cash from my wallet and paid for my things.
“It was nice seeing you, Shirley,” I said, taking my receipt.
“You too,” she said.
I started to walk away.
“Emma?”
I turned back to her. She smiled at me.
“I know you’re new in Campbellsville. So if there’s anything you need, anything I can do to help get you settled in, you let me know. Okay?”
“Thanks, Shirley.”
“Maybe we could get a cup of coffee sometime?”
She looked so anxious, like she almost expected me to say no.
“I’d like that.” I wrote my phone number on a slip of paper and handed it to her.
“I’ll talk to you soon,” she said, smiling as she took the paper.
“I look forward to it.”
I walked to my car, wondering how such a lovely woman could have ended up with a man like Damon Rigby.
I spent the morning stitching curtains, wishing I still had my old sewing machine. After lunch, I started on the coverlet. The fabric was yellow and white. It matched the daisies in the painting perfectly. I was just getting ready to hang the curtains when I heard a soft knock at the door. I opened it to find Mrs. Figg standing on the porch.
“Hello, dear,” she said. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I wonder if you could help me with something?”
“Sure,” I said. “What do you need?”
“Well, I’ve been trying to bathe the kitties today. They surely do need bathing. And I’ve got most of them done. But Little Bit, well, bathing her is a two-person job. She’s tiny, but she’s got a fierce will, you know.”
“You’re giving the cats baths?”
“Yes, dear. Every couple of months they get their baths. They roam around in the basement, you see. And there’s an old coal bin down there, from way back in the day. And oh, don’t they just love that old thing. They get that coal dust all over themselves. So, they have to take their baths.”
I laughed, picturing tiny Mrs. Figg wrangling all those cats into the sink.
“Let me just get my jacket,” I said, then followed her to her house.
From a corner in the living room a large orange cat stared balefully at us, his wet fur clinging to his skin. Another cat streaked by as we walked in, leaving a trail of water droplets behind.
“That’s fine, McGuffy,” Mrs. Figg crooned. “You run off some of that energy and you’ll feel better in no time.”
She hung our coats on a coat tree by the door and looked around, hands on her hips.
“Now where do you suppose Little Bit is?” she asked. “She’s hiding somewhere here. Can’t be in the basement, because I closed the door.”
“Little Bit?” I called. “Here, kitty, kitty, kitty.”
“Don’t do no good to call her,” Mrs. Figg said. “She’s deaf as a doorknob. She’s white, you see, with blue eyes. Those are always deaf.”
“Then how do you find her?”
“We’ll start in here.” Mrs. Figg got down on her knees and looked under the sofa. I watched for a second, trying not to laugh, then got on my knees and began looking under tables. Little Bit was not in the living room, so we headed into the kitchen. She wasn’t there, either.
Finally, I spotted her in the dining room, under the buffet.
“Here she is,” I called, reaching for the small white cat.
“Oh no, dear,” Mrs. Figg said. “You can’t just pull her out. She’ll scratch you to pieces. She knows it’s bath time. She doesn’t want to come out.”
The old lady lay down on the floor in front of the buffet.
“Now here’s what we’ll do,” she said. “You take that broom and shoo her toward me, and I’ll catch
her with this.”
She held out a bath towel.
I nodded, not convinced the plan would work. Then I took the broom and stuck it under the hutch. The cat hissed.
“All right, Little Bit,” Mrs. Figg said softly. “Just come to Mama. Come on, sweet girl.”
Finally, the cat had enough of my prodding and made a run for it. With surprising speed Mrs. Figg lunged at her, covering her with the towel, then scooping the cat and towel into her arms. Inside the towel, the cat was clawing frantically and meowing.
“She’s the loudest cat I ever had,” Mrs. Figg said, smiling fondly at the moving bundle in her arms. “I reckon that’s because she can’t hear herself. Now then, come along. I’ve got the bath ready.”
I followed her up the stairs and into a bathroom.
“Close the door,” she said. “We don’t want her getting out.”
The tub was partly filled with water.
“Now,” she said, “I’ll put her in, and then the real fun begins. You stand there.” She pointed and I moved to stand just behind her. “There’s the shampoo. You hand it to me when I say so, okay?”
I nodded.
“Here,” she said, shoving the wriggling bundle into my arms. “Hold her for a second so I can get ready.”
I stared as the old lady pulled on long rubber gloves.
“This way she can’t scratch me,” she said, winking.
“Okay, here we go.”
She dropped the cat into the water and it immediately began clawing at Mrs. Figg, trying to get out.
“There you go, darling,” she said, scooping water into a cup and pouring it over the cat. The cat was screaming now. I’d never heard anything like it.
“Shampoo, please.”
I handed her the shampoo and watched as she poured it onto the cat’s white fur.
The cat yowled and hissed and jerked and twisted every which way, but Mrs. Figg never let go.
“Almost done now,” she said, pouring more water onto the angry cat.
“Now, dear, if you could just pick her up with that towel, we’ll be done.”
I stared at her in disbelief. There was no way I was going to try touching that cat. It was screaming like a mental patient.
The Seventh Mother Page 16
