Part 10 (1/2)

”This? This is what you wanted to show me? The creek? You know I've only seen this a few hundred times already,” Adelaide puffed, sounding confused and slightly irritated. I put my finger to my mouth and motioned for her to hush. Then I sat down on the ground and gazed up at the stars and said a little prayer to anyone who might be listening, to anyone who might know what I should do when morning came pus.h.i.+ng itself up and over those old trees. And then I picked up a handful of mud and started shaping a ball. I smashed it with my right hand and set it on the ground and started making another.

Adelaide looked at me. Her eyes were wide open, like two beautiful little moons set right in the middle of her face. I motioned for her to sit down. And this time, without question or reservation, she dutifully lowered herself to the ground and picked up a handful of mud. And there we sat, shaping pies and sharing stories, neither one of us keeping track of the time.

”Remember when Samuel made you a crown, a crown of clover? Do you, Bezellia? You didn't like being a princess. Remember that?”

”Yes. I do remember that. And do you remember wis.h.i.+ng that Samuel was your big brother?”

”Yes. But I still wish that,” Adelaide said in a hushed tone, allowing her wish to float away into the still summer night. She made another mud pie and set it down on the ground next to mine. ”When do you think Samuel's coming home?”

”I don't know for sure. Nathaniel is hoping by Christmas.”

”Is he your boyfriend?”

”No,” I said, but my answer was so slow and deliberate that even Adelaide seemed to understand I wished he was. She stood up with her back to the creek and her hands on her hips, looking just like Maizelle for a moment, and admired our collection of freshly made pies. She smiled and then started giggling.

”You know Mother told me if I ever made another mud pie she would rub my face in it. Kind of wish she had, always thought that sounded like fun,” my little sister said, and then she scooped up some mud in both hands and rubbed it on her cheeks. ”Feels pretty good,” she oozed and started laughing again.

When Adelaide was a tiny girl and would stomp her feet and snort and squeal, Maizelle would beg me to be patient with her. ”Just like a fuzzy little caterpillar,” she'd say, ”someday your sister will bloom into a beautiful b.u.t.terfly.” I was never so sure if she was telling the truth. But tonight, admiring my beautiful little sister with mud streaked all over her face, I knew she was right.

I have no idea how long we sat there or how many mud pies we made. Finally, we realized we had made enough, so we picked ourselves up and walked back to the house. Every so often we just stopped to look at each other, with mud on our faces and in our hair, and laugh out loud. By the time we got back to the house, Maizelle was standing outside the kitchen door, her hands resting on her hips. She didn't see a b.u.t.terfly like I did.

”Where you two been? Lord, I knew something wasn't right in this house. You girls came to me in a dream. You were drowning in that creek, holding on to each other and hollering for help. I could hear you but couldn't get to you.” She squinted her eyes and moved a step closer. ”Is that mud? Oh, my Lord, your mama's gonna have a fit. What in the world has got into you, Bezellia? Lord, child.” Maizelle was no longer worried about us drowning.

”Your mama's gonna hit the ceiling when she finds out you had Adelaide out in the middle of the night playing in that mud. Oh, dear, precious Jesus.”

”Maizelle, calm down,” I said as I smacked my hand over Adelaide's mouth to keep her from laughing right in Maizelle's face.

”Don't tell me to calm down, child. Your mama's gonna wear your hide out. And mine too. She's already on edge. Lord have mercy! Get the garden hose and get yourself washed off. And then your sister. Take them clothes off and put 'em here on the porch. Don't you bring one speck of mud in this house. Your mama will find it. Those eyes of hers have magnifiers on them. Lord, Bezellia, you know your mama don't like your sister playing in the mud.” Maizelle groaned and rubbed her hands together and then walked back into the house mumbling something about Jesus and mud and a miracle.

Mother was asleep in the den by the time I got cleaned up. Her body, partly buried in the down-filled cus.h.i.+ons of the club chair by the large picture window, looked unusually small and frail in the soft moonlight. An open Bible was resting across her chest, and an almost empty gla.s.s was wedged under her hand. ”The Star-Spangled Banner” played quietly on the television set. Her head bobbed slightly up and down as the bombs began bursting in air. The black-and-white test pattern flickered on the screen, and the room went silent except for the hushed sound of my mother's breathing.

I carefully reached for the gla.s.s under her hand and lifted it to my nose. I wondered if Nathaniel had fixed her a drink with crushed ice and fresh mint from the garden, then left for the evening, tipping his hat as he walked through the back door. I wondered if Maizelle had covered her with a blanket before heading upstairs and if Adelaide had kissed her good night and, seeing the gla.s.s filled with ice and gin, simply whispered that tomorrow she would be a good girl and knit another sweater.

No one was more to blame than I was, hiding at school and ignoring her letters, not really wanting to know how she was doing. When Mother woke in the morning, she wouldn't remember much of this day. And maybe it was just as well.

MINISTER LEAVES METHODIST CHURCH IN DEAD OF NIGHT.

REV. EDWIN C. FOSTER ALLEGEDLY STEALS FROM CHURCH.

Church Members Report Suspicious Activities to Police Reverend Edwin C. Foster, senior pastor of Broadway United Methodist Church, is currently under police investigation, according to local authorities. Foster, who has led one of the city's oldest churches for the past seven years, left his Grove Park home late last night and has yet to be located.

Local Methodist church officials confirmed that several thousand dollars from the church's checking account are missing, and police are concerned that Foster may have been stealing from church funds for several months now. A review of the church's financial records is ongoing at this time.

Foster had recently encouraged his congregation to donate large sums of money for needed improvements to the existing church structure as well as to fund architectural plans for a new fellows.h.i.+p hall. The close relative of one prominent donor, who prefers to remain anonymous, said he became suspicious when none of the improvements discussed were implemented.

He said he confronted the senior pastor in a private meeting earlier in the week and then approached the board of deacons with his concerns yesterday afternoon. The police were contacted when the church secretary could not locate Foster for Wednesday night services.

The Nashville Register

final edition

AUGUST 5, 1970.

chapter thirteen.

Uncle Thad made a few phone calls to Minnesota and then to the bank. Mother urgently needed another special vacation, but unfortunately this time there was no money to pay for it. She had withdrawn thousands of dollars from her savings account during the last six months, each transaction paid directly to Reverend Foster. I imagine with each payment she had hoped for some peace, some comfort that surely would come to such a faithful and generous servant. Now she was nearly broke and drunk, and Reverend Foster was on the lam, probably hiding out in some plush hotel on the South Florida coast.

Uncle Thad said we had a tough decision to make, probably one Mother was not going to like. He'd found a hospital right outside Chattanooga, situated on the banks of the Tennessee River. Nothing fancy, he warned, owned by the state. But the doctors there thought they might be able to help. He said it was something we could afford. He hoped that we could convince Mother to go on her own. But one way or another, he said, she would be going. He wasn't going to leave us girls alone with her when she was drowning in a bottle of gin.

”Bezellia, honey, I called your grandparents last night,” Uncle Thad confessed as we sat at the kitchen table together. ”At first I thought maybe your mother could stay with them for a while. They said no. Practically hung up on me, to tell you the truth. I just don't see that we have many other options. You can think about it for a day or two if you want. But the hospital needs to know by Friday.”

Uncle Thad wrapped his hands around mine and scooted his chair a little closer. ”Cornelia's home for a few weeks before heading back to Boston, Bee. Why don't you give her a call, probably be good for the two of you to talk. I know she's real eager to see you.”

I smiled and felt a tear roll down my cheek. Just knowing my cousin was in town was a comfort.

Mother hid in her room, pretending to know nothing of our discussions, while Maizelle cooked one chicken noodle ca.s.serole after another, somehow hoping, I guess, that a full stomach would make everybody feel better. Nathaniel washed and waxed the car in case Mother needed to leave at a moment's notice. And Adelaide worked feverishly knitting a lightweight cotton sweater. She thought Mother might need it if she was going to be by the water.

”Bezellia,” she asked one afternoon while we were sitting on the front porch together, ”do you think Mother is going to get better this time? I mean stay that way?”

”I don't know. I sure hope so.”

We sat there for a long time, neither one of us saying another word. I think we both were trying to accept the fact that our mother was not well, again, and maybe imagining what it would be like to know a mother who was. Then Adelaide s.h.i.+fted her rocking chair closer to mine and pulled something out from underneath her s.h.i.+rt. She was holding a small knitted sack made of soft pink yarn. Bright pink flowers were delicately embroidered along the bottom edge, each flower connected to the next by a green, leafy vine. A deep pink ribbon was laced through the top of the sack and tied in a neat little bow.

”I made this for you-well, at least part of it. I wanted to give it to you the day you came home, but it just never felt like quite the right time, especially after everything that happened in the garden and all. I don't want you to be mad, at Mother I mean. I don't think she means to do such awful things.”

The real gift, she said, as she placed the knitted sack in my hands, was inside. With her eyes guiding my fingers toward the ribbon, I gently pulled one end and then the other, opening it just wide enough to glimpse an odd bundle of papers. Adelaide shook her head in excitement and silently clapped her hands together. They're letters, she gushed, letters from Samuel.

My mouth fell open, but nothing came out, not even a gasp or a moan. I held the letters next to my chest and looked at Adelaide for an explanation. She pulled her legs underneath her and sat a little taller. She was eager to tell me all she knew but wasn't sure where to start. She finally admitted that she had found them in Mother's room just a day or two before I came home. They were stuffed in a faded old pillowcase and tucked under her bathroom sink.

”I was looking for her dusting powder. You know the one that smells like gardenias? I just wanted to try a little. Cornelia gave me a subscription to Seventeen magazine for my birthday. And in the very first issue that came to the house, it said boys actually prefer the more subtle scent of a powder. Lucy said she bought some of that Jean Nate powder at the drugstore right before Easter and hasn't used a drop of perfume ever since.”

I held the papers out in front of my sister, begging her to tell me more about the letters. Adelaide shook her head and again concentrated on the little bundle in my hands. She said she grabbed the pillowcase and ran to her room. She emptied every envelope and then filled each one with a blank piece of paper so Mother wouldn't notice anything was missing. Then she put the envelopes back in the pillowcase and the pillowcase back under the sink. She hid the real letters with Baby Stella, who was still tucked in a cardboard box in the far corner of the attic. She knew good and well that n.o.body would dare look for them there.

She promised she hadn't read them, well, maybe only part of one. But just between her and me, it sure seemed like Samuel still wanted to be my boyfriend, even if his skin was a whole lot darker than mine. She said she'd leave me alone now, figuring I'd want some time to read without a little sister leaning over my shoulder. She sure hoped this made me feel better.

My fingers were clumsy and stiff, and the small stack of papers suddenly felt very heavy in my hands. The first letter had been mailed months ago, not long after Mother had written to tell me Samuel had left for Vietnam. The paper was tattered and worn, and I wondered how far these words had traveled to find me. My entire body started shaking, and my stomach felt sick. But Samuel told me not to worry. He said he wasn't afraid. He said he'd now seen evil in the eyes of an Alabama sheriff and a North Vietnamese soldier. And from where he was standing, it looked pretty much the same.

He missed me and even drew a little heart next to my name. He confessed that he thought of us down by the creek every single night. It was what got him through the h.e.l.l he'd found there on the other side of the world. Sometimes, in his dreams, he swore he could even smell my hair and the soapy scent of my skin. I started to cry and for a few moments allowed myself to fall back into Samuel's arms and feel the weight of his body on top of mine. I could feel his breath on my neck and his thigh pus.h.i.+ng its way between my legs before I unwillingly drifted back to the porch. Another tear fell on the paper, and I quickly dried it with my blouse for fear I might wash away even one word that belonged to Samuel Stephenson.