Taking Care of Moses

by Barbara O'Connor

  “Says who, Charlotte?” she was saying.

  Randall looked over to where a group of women huddled around a playpen.

  “Come on.” He motioned for Jaybird to follow him.

  The two boys made their way over to where the women were. Moses kicked and gurgled on a rainbow-colored quilt in the playpen.

  “It seems fairly obvious, Lottie,” Mrs. Jennings said to Jaybird’s mother. “This church was chosen to take care of Moses.” She gestured toward the gurgling baby. Her shiny gold charm bracelet jangled up and down her arm.

  Several of the women nodded at one another. A few mumbled, “That’s right.”

  Mrs. Gilley looked down at Moses, then back up at Mrs. Jennings.

  “All I’m saying, Charlotte,” she said, “is that Miss Frieda has much more experience with this sort of thing. And she’s licensed for foster care.”

  Moses started to whimper. Mrs. Jennings scooped him up and held him against her, jiggling him and smiling at Mrs. Gilley.

  “I appreciate your concern, Lottie, really I do. But whoever the troubled soul is who gave us this child knew what she was doing.”

  “How do you know it was a woman that left him?” Mrs. Gilley said. “Maybe a man left that baby.”

  Mrs. Jennings kept jiggling Moses. “Well, one thing I do know is that this child wasn’t left on Miss Frieda’s front steps,” she said.

  The other women nodded at one another.

  “Besides,” Mrs. Jennings went on, “maybe whoever left him figured Miss Frieda had about all the children she could handle.”

  Mrs. Gilley kept her calm gaze on Mrs. Jennings.

  “Maybe,” she said. “I guess we’ll know for sure when the police find whoever it was that left him.”

  With that, Mrs. Gilley turned and walked out of the Fellowship Hall.

  The women stared after her. One of them said, “Well!”

  “Let’s go.” Jaybird pulled Randall’s elbow, but Randall stayed rooted to the floor. He watched Mrs. Jennings’s face getting red and splotchy.

  “Are the police really trying to find his mama?” Randall asked.

  The women all turned in surprise, as if they’d never seen Randall Mackey before.

  “Well, yes, Randall,” Mrs. Jennings said. “I imagine they are.”

  “Do you think anybody knows who she is?” Randall kept his hands in his pockets and tried to look like he wasn’t all that interested in the answer to that question.

  Mrs. Jennings rocked Moses back and forth, smiling down at him. She ran her hand over his hair. “Well, Randall, think about it. If somebody knew who this child’s mama is, they would tell us, now, wouldn’t they?”

  Randall struggled to keep looking like somebody who didn’t know who left the baby in the cardboard box. He nodded. “Yes, ma’am, I suppose so,” he said.

  “Come on.” Jaybird yanked Randall’s arm again. “I got to go.”

  Randall followed Jaybird out of the Fellowship Hall. As they headed down the sidewalk toward Woodmont Street, Jaybird chattered away about a cat he’d been feeding and maybe his daddy would let him keep it and they could make a bed for it down in the fort.

  But Randall wasn’t listening. He was thinking. His mama was all the time saying, “Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive.” But he hadn’t exactly deceived anybody, had he? Naw. Not a single person.

  Then how come his web was feeling so tangled?

  8

  “That preacher man is gonna get in trouble,” T.J. said.

  Randall wiggled a stick around in the dirt, leaving squiggly lines in Miss Frieda’s dusty yard. “How come?” he said.

  “For keeping that baby.”

  Randall stopped wiggling the stick and looked at T.J.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Them church people can’t keep Moses. They ain’t licensed to have foster kids.”

  “How do you know?” Jaybird asked. He fiddled with the dial of a beat-up radio on the porch. Every now and then a crackly, static noise spewed out of it.

  “Miss Frieda said so,” T.J. said.

  Randall tossed the stick into the street. “Maybe they got a license and Miss Frieda doesn’t know about it.”

  T.J. shook his head. “Naw,” he said. “She knows. She went over to Spartanburg to the foster care office.” T.J. threw a rock up onto the roof of the house. It rolled down and dropped onto the porch beside Jaybird.

  “Why’d she do that?” Jaybird asked.

  T.J. shrugged. “I don’t know. But she said just ’cause Preacher Ron and Mrs. Jennings are church folks don’t mean they can break the law.” He threw another rock. This one went clear over the top of the house and landed with a clatter on the garbage cans in the alley. “She said anybody else in Foley would’ve been made to give that baby up to her and Earlene.” He scratched in the dirt for another rock. “Besides,” he added, “she says he belongs with his own kind.”

  “How come?” Randall said.

  T.J. shrugged. “Just does, that’s all.”

  They all looked up at the sound of feet slapping against the sidewalk. Althea was running toward them. She was wearing a bathing suit and shiny black church shoes with ruffly pink socks. Instead of her usual braids, her hair stood out in a fluffy black halo around her head.

  “Guess what?” she said.

  Randall, Jaybird, and T.J. waited.

  “There’s a policeman over at the church,” Althea said, taking big gulps of air to catch her breath.

  Randall’s heart began to thump hard inside his chest. “What for?” he said.

  Althea swatted gnats away from her face. “I bet Mrs. Jennings is going to prison.”

  “Prison!” Randall’s heart had gone from a trot to a gallop.

  Althea nodded, her eyes wide with excitement. “I bet she is.”

  Jaybird got up off the porch and came down into the yard. “Althea, get your dogmeat face on out of here.” He tossed a rock at Althea, hitting her in the knee.

  She grabbed her knee and hopped around the yard, yelling, “OWWWWW!” Then she picked up a bigger rock and hurled it at Jaybird. It whizzed past him and onto the porch, hitting T.J.’s radio.

  “Now look what you done,” Jaybird hollered.

  “You’re paying for that,” T.J. said, jabbing a finger at Althea.

  “Y’all hush up,” Randall said. He turned to Althea. “What’s the policeman doing?”

  “Taking Mrs. Jennings to prison,” Althea said with a grin.

  Jaybird kicked dirt at Althea. “You better go weed your garden, booger brain, ’cause you got some big ole LIES growing in there.”

  “I don’t care what you think, Jaybird Gilley.” Althea turned to Randall. “Your mama said you got to go over to Mr. Avery’s and pick up some dirty sheets and stuff.” She held her nose in a pee-yew kind of way. Then she tossed her head and skipped off down the sidewalk. Even after she had disappeared around the corner, they could still hear her singing.

  “This little light of mine,

  I’m gonna let it shine …”

  Randall knocked on Mr. Avery’s door. He could hear the television playing loudly inside. Probably Queenie watching soap operas. Sometimes she talked to the ladies all dressed up in their furs and diamonds and stuff.

  “He’s lying to you, you bimbo,” she’d say. “Can’t you tell a cheater when you see one?”

  When Mr. Avery opened the door, Randall was surprised at how old and tired he looked.

  “Hey, Mr. Avery,” Randall said. “I came to get the laundry.”

  “Aw, now, I don’t want your mama doing my laundry,” he said.

  “She wants to.”

  “Well, I admit it sure is a help.” Mr. Avery motioned for Randall to come in. Queenie didn’t look up from the television. She leaned way out of her chair, pushing her face up close to the screen. Randall could see her pink scalp through her thin gray hair.

  “Ha!” she yelled at the handsome soap opera man in the
black tuxedo. “Serves you right!”

  Mr. Avery sank into his beat-up easy chair with a sigh. He ran his hands through his greasy hair. “It’s been a long day, Randall.”

  “I brought this,” Randall said, handing Mr. Avery his sketchbook.

  Mr. Avery’s face brightened. He took the book from Randall and began turning the pages.

  “Well, look at this,” he said. “A hermit thrush.”

  “Actually, that’s a wood thrush,” Randall said. “You can tell ’cause it has more red on its head and the spots are rounder.”

  “That’s real nice, Randall,” Mr. Avery said. “Shoot, I think you know more about birds than me now.”

  Randall shook his head. “Naw,” he said, “I just get all that from my bird book.”

  Mr. Avery turned another page. “This is the finest bird nest I ever saw. Look at this, Queenie.”

  Queenie glanced at the sketchbook, then flapped her hand and said, “Be quiet, mister.”

  “It’s an oriole’s nest,” Randall said.

  “Now, what’s this?” Mr. Avery asked, turning to another page.

  Randall leaned forward to look at the page. His stomach balled up into a knot when he saw the drawing of the floppy straw hat.

  “Oh, that’s just an ole junky picture I drew one time,” Randall said. “I thought I tore that out of there.”

  “Look at this, Queenie.” Mr. Avery pushed the sketchbook in front of Queenie. She flapped her hand again, but her eyes darted to the drawing.

  Her mouth opened into an “O.” She narrowed her eyes and leaned down so close to the drawing that her nose nearly touched the paper. She pushed her hair out of her eyes and jabbed a finger at the drawing.

  “Not her again!” she said. “What’s she doing here?”

  Mr. Avery chuckled. “What you talkin’ about, Queenie?”

  Queenie traced the drawing with her finger and nodded. “I know her,” she said.

  Randall’s stomach flopped. He reached for the sketchbook, but Queenie clutched it against her.

  “I want this,” she said.

  “I’ll draw a better one,” Randall said. “That one’s no good.”

  “I like this hat.” Queenie smiled at Randall. “I remember this hat.”

  Randall tugged at the sketchbook, but Queenie slapped his hand and said, “Stop it, Monroe!”

  Mr. Avery put his hand on Queenie’s knee. “That ain’t nice, Queenie,” he said. “You give Randall his book.”

  Queenie tossed the book at Randall and stomped into the bedroom. Mr. Avery turned his sad eyes toward Randall. “Sorry about that, son,” he said.

  “That’s okay.”

  “It’s a nice hat,” Mr. Avery said.

  Randall tore the page out of the sketchbook. He folded it and tucked it into his pocket.

  “Mr. Avery,” Randall said, “what would you do if some bad stuff started happening and you could make it stop if you told a secret? Only, if you told the secret, then something else bad might happen?”

  Now, why had he gone and said that, Randall wondered. He sure never meant to. He watched Mr. Avery’s bushy gray eyebrows arch up and a look of pure puzzlement come on his face.

  Randall looked down at the faded green carpet. On the television, some woman was singing about how clean her clothes were.

  Mr. Avery scratched his whiskery chin. Finally he said, “Hmmm, that’s a hard one.” He scratched his chin some more. “A bad thing happening if you don’t tell, and a bad thing happening if you do. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “Hmmmmmm.” Mr. Avery kept scratching his chin. “First off, I’d remind myself to be careful about tellin’ stuff.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, son, lettin’ the cat out of the bag is a whole lot easier than puttin’ it back in.” Mr. Avery leaned toward Randall. “You know what I mean?”

  “I think so.”

  “Next,” Mr. Avery went on, “I’d ask myself a question.”

  “What question?”

  “I’d ask myself which would be worse, telling the secret or not telling the secret. And then …”

  Mr. Avery sat back in his easy chair and folded his hands in his lap.

  “Yeah?” Randall said. “And then what?”

  “And then I’d do the right thing.”

  Randall felt a big lump of disappointment plop down inside him.

  “But how would you know what the right thing was?”

  Mr. Avery looked at Randall with his sad, watery eyes. “I’m afraid I ain’t got an answer for that,” he said.

  Randall took the long way home. The heavy basket of laundry bumped against his knees as he walked. By the time he got home, he had a picture in his head. He went straight back to his bedroom and pulled the drawing of the straw hat out of his pocket. He smoothed it out on his desk and opened his tattered box of colored pencils. He turned the paper over and drew a lady with a blond French twist.

  He sat back to examine it. “Yep,” he thought, “that looks just like Mrs. Charlotte Jennings.” He used his ruler to draw a thick black square around her. He made up-and-down lines from the top of the box to the bottom, right over Mrs. Jennings. Like prison bars.

  He sat back and looked at Mrs. Jennings in prison. Then he laid his head down on his desk and thought and thought about doing the right thing. But no matter how hard he tried, he just couldn’t figure out what the right thing was.

  9

  Before long, it seemed like Foley, South Carolina, was split right down the middle. One side made no bones about the fact that they thought Moses should most definitely be with Miss Frieda. The other side was of the strong opinion that Mrs. Charlotte Jennings was the one who should be taking care of Moses.

  And right in the middle of all that arguing was Randall Mackey, whose insides were flip-flopping around like a trout on a riverbank.

  Finally one day he just up and asked Miss Frieda, “What if somebody knows who left Moses at the church but isn’t telling?”

  He used all his willpower to keep his face looking calm and innocent, but he didn’t have enough willpower to stop himself from blushing. He could feel the red creeping up his neck, across his cheeks, and right on up to the top of his head.

  Miss Frieda didn’t seem to notice. She let out a snort.

  “I’d say that person sure in tarnation better have some grits and gumption,” she said.

  “How come?”

  “’Cause if somebody knows who that baby’s mama is but is just sitting back and watching us get all riled up like this …” Miss Frieda paused.

  Randall leaned toward her, waiting.

  “ … then it would take grits and gumption to do the right thing and fess up,” she said.

  There it was again. The right thing. Randall studied the dirty steps of Miss Frieda’s porch.

  “What if that person doesn’t have any grits and gumption?” he said.

  Miss Frieda fanned herself with a Reader’s Digest. “Then that person would be some kinda low-lying liver-bellied buzzard bait.” She squinted her eyes at Randall and added, “Don’t you think?”

  Randall shrugged. “I reckon.”

  Miss Frieda slapped her knee and laughed so loud her mangy old hound dog scurried out from under the shrubbery and stared at them. She put her arm around Randall and squeezed him against her. She smelled like bacon grease and talcum powder all mixed together.

  “I swannee, Randall Mackey,” she said, “you’re about the most serious child I’ve ever seen in all my born days.”

  Randall put a smile on his face and made himself let out a little chuckle.

  Miss Frieda jiggled his shoulder. “Seems to me like we need to get our lives back to the way they supposed to be instead of all fired up at each other every dang minute of the day. Maybe I ought not to be making such a fuss. I know Charlotte wants a child of her own. But that child’s not hers, and—”

  T.J. burst through the screen door and grinned at Miss Frieda. “Co
ra Lee spilled a whole bag of flour on the kitchen floor,” he said.

  “You think that’s funny, Tyrone Jamal?” she said, grunting as she pushed herself up off the steps.

  T.J. wiped the grin off his face real quick. “No, ma’am,” he said. “Can I go now? I finished them chores.”

  Miss Frieda flapped her hand at him and said, “Go on,” before disappearing through the screen door.

  “What you wanna do?” T.J. said to Randall.

  “Let’s go over to Jaybird’s.”

  They raced up the alley to the Gilleys’ house. Jaybird sat on the edge of the porch, dangling his legs over the side. Althea stood on top of two rusty tin cans with a long loop of string tied to each one. She held the strings and took high, jerky steps up and down the sidewalk. The cans came down with a clank.

  “What y’all doing?” Randall asked.

  “I got stilts,” Althea said. She held up a foot and showed Randall the can. “And Jaybird has to help me win the Bible drill.”

  Jaybird waved a piece of paper at Randall and T.J. “I’m asking Bible questions and then she’s gonna get me some more firecrackers.”

  “I might get firecrackers,” Althea said. She took a few stiff, jerky steps on her tin-can stilts. Clank, clank, clank.

  “Ask me another one,” she said to Jaybird.

  Jaybird studied the paper in his hand. “Okay, say that Proverbs verse you kept missing last night.”

  “Aw, that’s easy.” Althea jumped up and down on the tin-can stilts while she shouted, “‘He that spareth his rod hateth his son: but he that loveth him chasteneth him betimes.’”

  “Betimes?” T.J. said. “What’s that?”

  “Hush up, Tyrone Jamal,” Althea said.

  “Well, what is ‘betimes,’ Miss Bible Queen Genius?” Jaybird said. “You’re supposed to know what all the words mean.”

  “Be-TIMES,” Althea said, “means like there be-times when you want to chasteneth and there betimes when you don’t want to chasteneth.” She glared at T.J. “Any idiot knows that.”

  T.J. grinned and poked Randall.

  “Then what does ‘chasteneth’ mean?” Randall said.