She put her elbows on her thighs and her hands over her face, and cried as if she’d carried a baby to full term, watched him play in the backyard, watched him grow into a young man, then held him as he slowly died in her arms.
Twenty minutes later, Jamal found her still crying. He tapped on the stall door. “Mrs. Morris, what’s wrong?”
“I-I g-got my period,” she blurted between gasps. She clamped her hand over her mouth as her eyes widened. The superintendent had been itching to fire her. He’d certainly do it now. How could she blurt such a thing out to a seven-year-old child?
Jamal smirked. “My mama always screams, ‘Thank You, Jesus’ when she gets her period. The only time I heard her cry was when Mr. Friendly—that’s what Mama calls it—came late one month.”
Although she hated to admit it, Jamal’s statement caused her to be upset with God. Women who didn’t want children seemed to spit them out, while she and Johnson remained childless.
She closed her eyes, blinking away the remnants of tears as she thought of her husband. The day they met, he’d overwhelmed her with his deep, dimpled smile. Scared her when he declared that he believed in destiny and she would be his wife. But the following week she was hooked, so into him that when he told her how many children he wanted, she couldn’t bring herself to tell him that two doctors had pronounced her infertile.
She should have told him. But he was all she’d ever wanted. Their love was so new, she’d been terrified of losing him. After the Lord saved her soul, she’d thought that if she charted her fertile periods and prayed . . .
“Mrs. Morris?”
Sniffling, Deidre wiped the tears from her face. “I-I’m sorry, Jamal. I’ll be out in a second.” She blew her nose, took the pad out of her purse, and lined her underwear with it. Flushing the toilet, she adjusted her clothes before opening the stall.
As if he were talking a lunatic down from a ledge, he asked, “Do you need me to get you anything?”
Washing and drying her hands, Deidre shook her head.
“When I’m sad, Mama holds my hand. That always makes me feel better.” He stretched out his hand. “Do you want to try it?”
Deidre’s heart swelled with love for this little boy who reached out to her when she needed it most. She grabbed his hand as they walked back to her office.
He squeezed her hand. “Feel better?”
A tear trickled down her cheek. “Much. Thank you, Jamal.”
Back in her office, Deidre put her files in her briefcase. “If you don’t mind, Jamal, I’d like to go home. I’ll call your mom and give her my telephone number and address.”
“That’s fine with me. Just as long as you let her know where I’ll be. I wouldn’t want her to worry.”
Deidre almost told him that she was sure his mother wasn’t all that concerned. If she were, she wouldn’t have forgotten to pick him up. That was the other beef she had with God.
She and Johnson would be great parents. They’d never leave their children to fend for themselves. But alas, the babies were gifted to the unfit, while she, Deidre Clark-Morris, babysat.
How Sweet the Sound Page 25
