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  Just you wait. Her nose wrinkles up and her mouth scrunches tight. Whipping through the house, she takes a scalding hot shower and puts on her favorite blue dress. She bangs into the living room closet and rummages around an old hat box full of scarves. She seems to have a million, all of them gray or blue. Exasperated, she grabs one.

  She tries to calm her hair, tries to tie the scarf at her neck. She hears the nasty little man next door piddling around in his driveway, pulling at weeds, chasing off her squirrels, shooing away her cats. He makes her blood boil, she feels hot and fierce. No. Her shaky fingers cannot tie the slippery, silky ends just right. Growling, she pulls off the scarf, her hair falling like a struggling nest of snakes.

  Keep touching my things, Mr. Baldacci, and I’ll give you a good what for. She rushes into the bedroom, pulls her big brown shoebox from under the bed. Twelve pairs of black flats, a few with shiny buckles. These she only wore near the holidays, if ever. They were all just a size too small, for she had always been embarrassed to buy shoes in her big size. She could not entertain the idea of the narrow, pinching shoes today.

  Her tall black wellies lean in the corner. She had pulled them out from the closet a week ago, after four full days of rain. One size too big, they are soft and rubbery inside. She pulls them on and they feel perfect. She turns and looks for her pocketbook.

  Crash! Hips brush against her small, nook desk. She inhales sharply, twists to right herself, bowls over a delicate, white porcelain figurine of the Virgin Mary. The day she left Saint Mary’s school, the sisters had given her the statue, something to remind her of God’s love. Now the Mother lies broken on the scarred hardwood floor.

  Seven years after Sheriff Riddle dropped her off at her Aunt’s house, he returned and carried her away again. In a whirlwind, they came and arrested her uncle. There were flashing lights, officers in hats, and finally she was safe in the back of the sheriff’s patrol car. This time, he promised her, no one would ever get to her again. By the time he settled her in the arms of Saint Mary’s Reformatory for Girls, she was already seven months along with a baby.

  It was thirteen hours of agony and screaming. Elderly Sister Nell stayed by Naomi’s side, telling her it was going to be all right. She was so tired. Exhausted, near to giving up, she could barely keep her eyes open. Then he came, in a wave of pain and blood. Release. He was there. He was hers. All she wanted to do was hold him close, so close that he might become part of her again.

  Her boy did not move. He never took a breath. They whisked him away in a stained, blue blanket, tapping on his chest and breathing in his nose.

  “Oh, Naomi. God help me, I am so sorry.” Sister Nell, smelling of baby powder, patted her hand and stared at her with wrinkled, wet eyes.

  “Where’s he going? Where’s he going?” Naomi had asked. “No. Just a little more time.”

  “Where are you going?” She hears a voice in the hall, at the front door of her apartment. “Can’t you stay a little bit?”

  The memory slips away. She is in her little duplex.

  “My ass’ll be chapped if I’m late for work again, sugar.” The man’s voice fades and the door closes. The Mimms woman lingers in the hall, her footsteps dejectedly move up the stairs. Naomi waits for a minute or two, listening, her hair wild, fists on her hips, tall in her heavy, black boots. She slips into the dusty foyer.

  Creak! Behind her, from the top of the stairs in front of the Mimms place, the first step groans, breaking the silence. She turns around slow, still lurched over, as if she is a sneaky thief.

  Standing at the bannister, leaning precariously over the stairs, is two-year-old Oggie Mimms. His face is red and crusted with funny colored mucus. His diaper is sagging down to his knees. One little bare foot extends over empty space as he stares at Naomi, sucking on one finger.

  “Oh no, you. No. No.” He watches her, eyes big and sleepy.

  “Wait for me.” She rushes up to him, scoops him up and holds him at arm’s length, not wanting any of his business smearing on her. She walks awkwardly into the Mimms apartment, holding him out and looking for his crib. She steps into his small room and sets him down.

  “Now, you wait. Where’s your momma?”

  “More.”

  “No. Momma.” She shakes her head and turns away. When she does, he starts to trill a bit, gurgling in the back of his throat. One more step and he cries nervous, sad tears.

  “More.”

  “Shh, shh.” She tiptoes toward the front door, thinking it best she leave. As she walks out the door she sees Patsy sprawled on the couch, snoring. She’s a skinny thing, bony. Her long toes are painted bright pink, like her chipped fingernails. She has on a cheap silk robe and Naomi can see her sin. Revolted, Naomi leaves without closing the door behind her.

  “Shut up! Stupid. Fucking. Baby,” Patsy blurts from her sleep.

  Naomi is downstairs, about to lock up her front door and leave, when the baby begins to holler. The still drunk young woman groans from the couch. Naomi’s head sweats and she gets a knot in her backside. She grabs the heavy stone she stole from Mr. Baldacci’s garden, opens her door, and rumbles up the landing, taking two steps at a time.

  Patsy is snoring when Naomi enters the apartment. The woman’s head is propped on the arm of the couch. A full, black ashtray sits in the middle of the floor. One hand is across her chest and the other rests on the coffee table. She has red skin from an iodine tan and rough, jagged scars across her wrist. When she coughs, she spits phlegm on her chin. Naomi jumps, reactive, raises the rock over her head and breaks Patsy’s head against the wooden armrest. Patsy grunts, her arms shake slightly and her mouth falls open. Still spooked, Naomi brings the rock down again.

  From behind her, the child starts to whimper. Naomi hits the young mother again. She sees the bright red on the rock in her hand and the blood soaking into the cushion, flowing down the foot of the couch, pooling on the floor. She drops the rock so as not to get the sticky mess on her fingers. Naomi hates a mess.

  “Mama?” The boy clucks softly.

  Naomi looks at the scars on the dying woman’s wrists. She reaches over the body and closes her robe so no one will see what should be private. She turns away.

  “Let’s get you out of here.”

  Naomi leaves the two family duplex holding her crocheted bag to her chest and little Oggie Mimms, cozy in his new blue pajamas, tucked inside. She doesn’t know where she is going or what she plans to do. She passes by Mr. Baldacci’s house without a thought, forgetting all about her finicky neighbor.

  SHERRY

  SHERRY WAKES UP as they pull into the driveway for First Baptist Church. The truck is cramped and the seat takes every bounce and rut hard. Everything below her shoulders feels heavy and tender.

  Mr. Sheppard had awakened her in the predawn dark. She’s now so sleepy the day feels muddled, like a dream, and she’s dragging. Her stomach feels heavier somehow. Lower. Inside the church, she peers into the tall, dark office, following the old man.

  She feels nervous and exposed. Their shoes click along the black and white tiles. It sounds loud, unbearable. The receptionist, a shiny faced woman with a tight up hairdo, taps her painted fingernails on the front of her teeth, obviously bored.

  “Good morning, Miss Carrie.” Mr. Sheppard sounds strangely lighthearted.

  “Well hello, Deacon. You do look handsome today.” When she moves her hand, Sherry notices the woman’s red lipstick smudged across her front tooth.

  “Oh now Carrie, you’ll make an old man blush.”

  “Old man. Please, Mr. Sheppard.” The woman plays with her makeup-stained collar and giggles off his comment.

  “We’re here for the Pastor,” Mr. Sheppard says.

  “He’s expecting you.”

  “Aren’t you coming in?” Sherry says to Mr. Sheppard.

  “I don’t need to know any more than I already do. Now get in there.”

  Sherry steps toward the small corridor and the secretary looks her up and dow
n, grimaces, and sits back at her desk, exchanging a peculiar glance with Mr. Sheppard.

  The walls are dark. They seem close, getting tighter as she approaches Pastor Friend’s dim office. Shadowy photos of old people hang at eye level. Down some other hallway, she hears a door slam.

  “Hello, girl.” Pastor Friend is sitting behind an enormous desk. A slight breeze ruffles his papers. He has a glass of water to his right. He waves his hand toward the open seat in front of him. Sherry sits down. “Remind me of your name, dear.”

  “I’m Sherry.”

  “And Sherry, I hear you got yourself into a bit of trouble.” He stares into her eyes, holding her under his influence. “You need my help now, don’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.

  He looks down at his desk. “Well, I think we can manage something. I’ve made a few calls.” Pastor clutches his hands together and leans over the desk. He looks at her again. “Now Sherry, we can help you this time. We’ve been able to find a very fine family willing to take your baby. But you’ll have to turn things around.”

  “Sorry?” She felt hot. Take?

  “It wasn’t easy. We have to be careful, you know. We can’t help just anyone.” He’s smiling. “I imagine you know how hard it is to get all this together. You owe Mr. Sheppard a great deal of gratitude.”

  “Well, yes. Of course.”

  “A girl in your position is very lucky to have this kind of help. I hope you won’t make this mistake again. Will you walk a better path?”

  “Yes, sir. I understand. I never meant for this, but…” She rests her arms around her constricting stomach, trying to be brave, not able to see her baby as a mistake. Sherry feels as though she had been waiting forever, in love forever.

  “We might not be able to help next time.”

  “You’re not keeping my baby, are you? I don’t really understand.”

  “You don’t think you can be a mother, do you? I mean, really?” He gives her a smirk. “You aren’t the type of girl to take care of a baby. It would be selfish to keep the child.”

  “No. No.” Her voice grows louder. “I can’t do this.” She shakes her head and stands. “I don’t think I really understood what you meant to do. I’m sorry.”

  “Well, hang on now.” He tightens his hands together. He looks busy inside. “I guess you didn’t understand.” He takes a moment. “That is what it is and we can’t do nothing about that now. But still, you can stay with us. We have a bed and all.” The pastor stands and walks closer to the door. “We can talk more later. No decisions have been made. But you’re awfully close to your time.”

  “I don’t think so.” Sherry is shaking. “I know I’m not much but I think I can do this.”

  “Carrie,” he calls out to his secretary. Down the foyer, the sound of the desk chair in the office scrapes across the floor.

  Sherry moves to the door and sees Carrie guiding a young colored girl, also scared and pregnant, to a back room. The girl’s skirt is too short, her suitcase a ripped up mess.

  “Don’t be hasty. Think about what’s best for the child.” He puts his hands in his pockets and his back is straight.

  “My child.”

  “Yes. Yes. Your child. You can leave once you’re better,” he says. “You and your baby can leave when you’re better, of course.”

  “Carrie?” He calls again and still there’s no answer. “Jennifer?” After calling for his nurse, he waits another moment. “Oh, never mind. I’ll show you to your room,” he says to Sherry.

  The pastor buttons his light linen jacket and walks out to the sitting area, leading Sherry. Mr. Sheppard stands when they enter and nods.

  “Good to see you, Vernon. Have a safe trip back. I’ll see you on Sunday, of course.”

  “Wait. You’re not staying?” Sherry asks.

  “Of course not, girl. I got you here. Now I’m going home.” Mr. Sheppard looks different, distant, not like the man she had known since forever. Pastor Friend hands him an envelope. “Thank you, Pastor.”

  “I’ll tell Ed you said Hi.”

  “You do that,” Mr. Sheppard says.

  “Ed?” Sherry asks.

  “He’s the doctor,” the pastor answers.

  She watches the old man walk to the hallway. She sees the colored girl has left her bag by the front desk.

  “Oh, no,” Sherry says.

  “What, what is it?” Mr. Sheppard turns to her, perturbed.

  “I left my bag back home. It has everything in it. I…can’t.” Her face is red and hot, tears of fear pool in her eyes.

  “Dammit all. You saying I got to go and come back?” She cannot recall him cursing ever.

  “Well, no.” She trips over her words. “It’s just that. I don’t have anything else.” Her stomach screws up hard and she is nearly sick.

  “I swear you’re a bigger pain than your mother ever was.”

  “Vernon,” the pastor says. “Go on now. She won’t need those things until tomorrow. Go home and come back in the morning. We can have lunch down at the Oak Hill. Sheriff Jackson brought in a load of catfish this week.”

  The old man stands, shaking his head.

  “I guess that’s fine.” He’s always happy for a free meal. “That sounds fine. I’ll see you in the morning.” He goes, leaving Sherry standing in the office of this stranger.

  PASTOR FRIEND

  AFTER SEEING THE girl to her room, Pastor Friend finds the nurse, telling her they need to take the baby as soon as possible, then makes his way back to his office. All the while, he thinks of a girl he knew well over twenty years ago, a girl around the same age as the Sherry girl.

  Her name was Holly. She had come to his house one Sunday afternoon after church. His sermon had been a touchy one, difficult for most to take. He lectured in silky tones, speaking of avoidance, temperance, and sin. Scriptures and songs slipped from his coy mouth.

  He had known, even then, what he did to the girls in church, how they watched him. Caught under their dreamy attention he, at first, became excited, titillated. Soon he began to hate them, seeing the girls, the “followers” as pitiful and dirty.

  That evening, he and Holly had relaxed on the front porch, drinking tea brewed in the sun just that afternoon. Daniel had seen her often at church. She volunteered once a month in the nursery, her baby brother one of her charges, and every other Sunday she and her parents sat in the second pew. Soon, he asked if she wished to go for a walk.

  They stepped closely together, rounding the house, heading for the backyard and a path through the woods. Along the way, they brushed against blooming mulberry trees and passed behind a big oak, just on the edge of the wood. His warm hand brushed her bare arm.

  “I’m glad you came out tonight.”

  “Me too,” she answered, watching her step. He stared at her, a hungry hawk, anticipating.

  When he grabbed her arm violently she fell to the side, confused and startled by his transformation. Dazed, she lifted her chin, thinking he wished to kiss her and his manners simply awkward. For a moment, she was charmed.

  His left hand, wide and open, came across her cheek, cracking against her ear, leaving it ringing. The fine, rounded bone under her eye cracked and her head twisted to the side. Her breath hitched in her throat. Before she could cry he crushed her mouth with his hand and pushed her to the ground, behind the tree.

  He covered her with his full weight and pinned her head to the ground, both hands over her mouth, pushing down, and her teeth bending inward. Roughly, he pushed himself up, putting a knee on each of her small hands. He balled up his right fist and pounded her soft, exposed belly. She screamed behind his hand. Her legs kicked and thrashed.

  “Shut up. Just shut up.” He looked down on her, shaking her head with his angry hands, and cocked his head. “This is what you get.”

  The back porch light threw a spotlight across the yard and the back door clattered open.

  “Daniel?” His mother trudged from the house, pushing toward the old oak tree.
She could see a commotion in the dirt.

  “What is that girl doing here? Get outta here, you,” she croaked, getting closer.

  “Just look at you,” Daniel whispered, spitting with disgust, rolling off young Holly. She remained perfectly still on the ground sucking in air, desperate to breathe. Daniel reached under her wrinkled, dusty shirt, pinching her breast hard and scraping his nails across her skin, leaving small bloody marks.

  He stood. “Mother, it’s okay. She was just leaving.”

  “What kind of girl comes to a boy’s house? Alone?”

  “Don’t worry, mother. She couldn’t trick me. Let’s go. I wanna go in, now.”

  “Don’t think I won’t call her mother. I will. I swear I will.”

  Esther Rae did call Holly’s mother. Then she called every other woman in the congregation. Gossip flying like sparrows.

  The girl sat behind the tree, shaking and suffering, until the stars came out. When she was able to sneak up to her house, she heard her mother through the kitchen window, talking on the phone.

  “I’m sure I don’t know what has gotten into the girl, Esther,” her mother chattered. “Of course we’ll take care of it.”

  She sat under the porch until her folks went to bed; they would occasionally stand on the steps calling into the darkness for her. Her head hurt. Her chest and ribs felt broken. She knew her life was over.

  When her mother came for her in the morning, tired and scowling from the long, worrisome night, she didn’t find her daughter in bed. She didn’t find the girl in her house at all. After calling out several times, she found Holly in the shed. She lay in the deep soaking tub off to the right of the washer and dryer. The water in the basin, floating around the young girl, was a swirly cloud of red and pink. Her eyes were open.