Mama Rocks the Empty Cradle Read online

  I nodded. “You know me. I don’t talk other people’s business.”

  Mama’s gaze stuck to mine but she didn’t say a word.

  “Then you don’t think these papers mean anything?” Rose asked Mama.

  “I didn’t say that,” Mama told her. “Let me think about this for a few days.”

  Rose stood up, smoothing her long dress with her hand. “We’d better get back to the house,” she told Nightmare.

  “May I keep this note? And this list?” Mama asked.

  Rose stared at her. “Long as they don’t fall into the wrong hands.”

  “They won’t leave this house,” Mama promised.

  Rose motioned to Nightmare. “Like I told the rest of my people,” she said as she headed for the door, “Timber can’t expect no Christian burial ’cause he ain’t bound for heaven, the way he took both Cricket and Morgan away from us.”

  Nightmare mumbled something that sounded like an agreement. Then he said, very clearly, “Timber better not bother with Grandma Lucy Bell’s babies. I promised her I’d take care of them babies, and nobody better not mess with them.”

  CHAPTER

  SEVENTEEN

  The photographs I’d taken at the Childs cemetery lay spread neatly on Mama’s kitchen table. I checked the birth and death dates on each tombstone against the names on the list that Rose had entrusted to Mama.

  There were fourteen names on Miss Lucy Bell’s list: Eyelet Combs, Tony Tabard, Ruby Ayer, Viola Anderson, Cora Bailey, Archie Bamberg, Billy Capers, Joe Ponds, Rick Ponds, Mickey Culler, Irene Folk, Julia James, Daniel Holland, and Pearl Johnson.

  “Miss Lucy Bell must have delivered all fourteen babies although she buried only twelve in her private cemetery,” I told Mama. “Except for two names, the names on Rose’s list matches the names on all the tombstones.”

  “Which babies don’t have a tombstone?” Mama asked.

  “Joe and Rick Ponds,” I answered.

  Mama picked up the list and studied it.

  I glanced at my watch.

  “What time are you expecting Yasmine?” she asked, without looking up from the list.

  “Any minute,” I answered.

  “Tell me again, Simone, why did you invite Yasmine to come down from Atlanta and spend the night with you?”

  I smiled. I knew that Mama wanted me to spill my guts about what was going on in Yasmine’s life. “She needs to get out of the city,” I answered, trying to avoid the subject, even though I knew I couldn’t.

  Mama, who was still looking down at the list of names Rose had given her, lifted her head and stared at me. Her expression told me that she wasn’t buying my story.

  “Is that the only reason she’s coming all the way from Atlanta just to turn around and go back tomorrow?” she asked.

  “Yasmine and I need to talk,” I told Mama.

  Mama’s eyes raised above her gold-rimmed eyeglasses. “Is there something wrong between you two?”

  I shrugged. “Nothing that a little girl-talk won’t straighten out,” I said, matter-of-factly.

  There was an awkward moment until the doorbell rang. “It’s Yasmine,” I said, gathering the photographs and tossing them in a drawer.

  Mama got up as quickly as she could. “Give me a second to get to the couch,” she said. The bell rang again.

  “Just a minute!” I hollered toward the door as the bell sounded a third time.

  Yasmine looked beautiful. Her makeup was perfect, her hair flawless. She wore a midcalf short-sleeved yellow cotton dashiki that softly draped her shapely body; it had swirling bold prints of brown, red, black, and green. She smelled sweet, and her easy smile made her look younger than her twenty-five years. The only flaw in her appearance was the thinly veiled uneasiness in her lovely eyes.

  “You know,” I said, “you’re one beautiful young black woman.”

  Yasmine gave me a dead-eyed stare. I’d clearly said the wrong thing. “You look nice,” I added hastily, realizing that my girlfriend had read something in what I’d just said that she didn’t like. The misgiving in her eyes deepened, but this wasn’t the time for me to try to explain or apologize. I reached for her overnight bag.

  Yasmine picked up her own case. “I can carry my own bag,” she said. “Just tell me where to drop it.”

  I pointed toward the end of the foyer. “Put your bag over there, I’ll take it to your room later.” She dropped her bag to the floor, then walked into the family room and greeted Mama. “Miss Candi, I’m sorry about your feet,” she said.

  Mama smiled warmly. “Yasmine, don’t ever grow old,” she teased. “First your eyes go, then your teeth, your feet, and before you know it, every part of your body has been overhauled. Getting old ain’t for sissies.”

  Yasmine’s grin looked like a grimace. “Getting old ain’t what you’re about, Miss Candi.”

  Mama pointed to the chair that Rose had sat in the night before. It stood close enough to the couch for her to reach out and touch whoever sat in it. “Sit down,” she told Yasmine. “I get jealous when I see others standing on feet that aren’t gift-wrapped like mine.”

  Surprisingly, Yasmine looked bewildered, like she didn’t want to sit near Mama.

  Mama waved her hand in the air. “Sit down, girl, and rest yourself.”

  Yasmine hesitated. She glanced at me in resignation, then she dropped heavily into the armchair. I dumped myself into my favorite seat, the leather chair near the sliding glass door.

  Mama studied Yasmine. “You look like you don’t feel good,” she said. “Do you want something to eat, honey?”

  Yasmine touched her hair, shook her head. “No, I’m not hungry.”

  But Mama ignored her. “Simone, get up and fix Yasmine a plate of that beef Stroganoff we had for supper.”

  “Girl,” I told Yasmine, “Mama showed me her secret—the only thing that’s missing is her hands blessing the ingredients.”

  Mama was pleased. “Simone followed my instructions, and the beef Stroganoff turned out pretty good.”

  Yasmine made a face. “No,” she said, her voice choked. “I don’t want anything to eat.”

  I flopped down in my chair, stunned. Yasmine’s eyes looked teary. I realized that since we’d talked her problem had festered.

  Mama nodded in acceptance rather than agreement. “Is it as hot in Atlanta as it is here?” she asked, her voice concerned.

  Yasmine slumped in her chair. “I believe it’s hotter in Atlanta than it is here,” she answered, with even less control.

  I didn’t like the way my girlfriend was acting. Her body language flashed like a neon light. If she didn’t get a grip, Mama would be all over her with questions. Mama had that look, like she’d picked up that something was a lot more serious than I’d led her to believe it was. I tried to give Yasmine a reassuring look.

  But Yasmine stared beyond me, into the backyard, into Mama’s garden. I tried to redirect her mood. “Girl, I know how hot Atlanta can be in the middle of the summer. One of the reasons I’m glad Mama and Daddy live within a few hours’ drive is that it gives me a chance to get some cool country air.”

  “Yes,” Yasmine said, as if she wasn’t talking to me or Mama.

  Mama shifted. She’d made a decision and I knew what it was. She was going to find out exactly what Yasmine and I were trying to put over on her. “Is everything okay in Atlanta?” she asked Yasmine.

  I was right. Mama was setting Yasmine up. She’d expected Yasmine to say no to the question she asked. But Yasmine was supposed to also complain about whatever it was that was wrong in Atlanta, and at the same time cover what was really on her mind, her own personal problem.

  When Yasmine waited a while before answering, I released a relieved breath. She wasn’t going to take Mama’s bait. Then tears began to seep out of the corners of Yasmine’s eyes, dropping down her pretty face. “Nothing has changed, nothing will ever change—”

  “Everything changes,” I cut in, my last-ditch effort to pull my frie
nd through Mama’s interrogation. “Life is continuous change,” I added lightly, “don’t you think so, Mama?”

  Mama looked at me, then suddenly pulled herself up to her feet.

  Yasmine glanced over at me, then wiped her wet cheeks with the back of her hand.

  “I know that you and Simone want to be alone,” Mama said. “I’ll just go to my room.”

  “Miss Candi,” Yasmine whispered, “you don’t have to leave.”

  But Mama spoke quickly, as if she expected Yasmine to say that. “I want you to know that I respect your privacy, Yasmine. Besides, I’ve got a book I want to finish reading.”

  There was a brief silence, Mama giving us time to think. I cranked my neck to try to signal Yasmine not to say anything more so that Mama would go to her room, but now Mama stood between us, blocking my view.

  Mama moved with such slow deliberation that there was a certain majesty in her motion. She passed Yasmine, walked toward the hall that led out of the family room into the foyer. She was in the doorway when Yasmine whispered softly, “Miss Candi, please don’t go.”

  I stared at Yasmine, not knowing what to say.

  Mama turned and looked as if she’d just come to some decision. Her expression hadn’t changed except that maybe her eyes seemed wider at their corners. Her voice was quiet. “You want to talk to me and Simone together?” she asked Yasmine.

  “I—I think so,” my girlfriend whispered.

  I rubbed my forehead and wondered what to do. Make an effort, I thought, to lighten up the situation. I decided to make a joke out of Mama’s exodus. “There’s no reason for you to go to your room just ’cause I’ve got company,” I said.

  Mama didn’t find my remark funny. She frowned.

  “I could really use something to drink,” Yasmine said. Her tone suggested that she was trying to regain her composure.

  I hopped up and headed for the kitchen. The thought occurred to me that it might be good that Mama had cleverly manipulated Yasmine into letting her be a part of our talk. I was struggling to make sense of Yasmine’s situation, and I still didn’t know what I was going to say to her. I just knew that I wanted to talk her into changing her mind.

  Mama looked satisfied. She eased back on the couch, stretched out again, smoothed the long black skirt she wore. In a few seconds, her feet were propped back up on her stack of pillows.

  “What about you, lady?” I asked Mama. “Would you like something to drink?”

  Mama looked at Yasmine. Then she said, “Fix me and Yasmine a cup of that fresh-perked Irish cream coffee.”

  Yasmine fumbled in her purse, pulled out a handkerchief, and wiped her eyes.

  “And,” Mama continued, “cut us a piece of that red velvet cake you found in the freezer this morning, Simone.” She flashed a smile that both Yasmine and I understood—Mama was very glad that she’d been invited to share our secret.

  CHAPTER

  EIGHTEEN

  Yasmine’s tears were gone now. A little voice in the back of my mind suggested that they had been deliberate. Maybe she really wanted Mama to be a part of this all along. Anyway, she barely touched her cake. Her hand gripped the handle of her coffee mug but she didn’t touch that, either.

  Mama sipped her coffee slowly, every now and again giving Yasmine a long look, one that said we were very willing to wait until Yasmine wanted to talk to us.

  I took a sip of my coffee, put down the cup, and tasted my red velvet cake. It was soft, rich, like cotton candy melting in my mouth. I ate half, took a breath, and finished the rest.

  My eyes rested on Yasmine’s face. This warm, witty, bright, fun-loving black woman looked utterly miserable. I couldn’t believe that she was the girlfriend I’d go to whenever I wanted to have fun, whenever I needed to lighten up. “Yasmine,” I said, “tell Mama what this is all about.”

  Yasmine put her cup down. “I don’t want Miss Candi to think bad of me.”

  “I’m not going to judge you,” Mama told Yasmine quietly, and I knew she meant it.

  Yasmine thought for a moment before answering. “Miss Candi, I’m pregnant.”

  Mama didn’t flinch. “I suspected you were,” she said. “It’s not an uncommon occurrence.”

  “I don’t want to have a baby, so I’ve decided to terminate the pregnancy,” Yasmine said.

  I felt a shiver down my spine, but I knew better than to interrupt. Mama would be furious if I did that. Mama didn’t make any movement; she didn’t react at all. “Is that what you really want to do?” she asked.

  Yasmine hesitated, long enough for me to begin to hope that she really was having second thoughts. “I’ve got to do it,” she finally said, her voice low She refused to make eye contact with either me or Mama, choosing instead to look out into the garden where twilight cast eerie shadows. The foyer clock chimed eight.

  “As I understand it, Yasmine, you’re pregnant and you’re going to have an abortion?” Mama asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “It’s not something you want to do, but it’s something you feel you have to do?”

  Yasmine started to answer, but decided not to. Instead, she nodded.

  I couldn’t hold back any longer. “She doesn’t have to have an abortion,” I said. “She won’t be the only single parent—”

  Yasmine cut in. “I don’t want to be a single parent. I want a husband, a home—”

  Mama leaned forward. “Being pregnant doesn’t stop you from having those things,” she told us.

  “It does when the father of your baby doesn’t know you’re pregnant,” I snapped. “When you make a decision to have an abortion without bothering to tell him.”

  “I’m not making Ernest marry me just because I’m pregnant!” Yasmine exclaimed angrily.

  “Give him that right,” I said, my voice rising. “Give him the chance to stay or walk away before you do something you’ll regret the rest of your life.”

  “It’s easy for you,” Yasmine shouted at me. “You don’t want a husband, you don’t want babies.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “I don’t have to be a Philadelphia lawyer to know that your only interest in my pregnancy is to satisfy your own self-righteousness,” my girlfriend shot back, her voice cold, harsh.

  I was dumbfounded. “Girl,” I said, “you’re really tripping now. I want a husband, a house, children, and—”

  “And I want grandchildren,” Mama interrupted calmly, motioning me back into my seat. “But I don’t have the right to make those demands on you, Simone, now do I?” she asked me.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You have no right to impose your feelings on Yasmine,” Mama told me, her voice low, direct.

  Yasmine’s angry expression changed. “Simone, girl, I don’t want you to tell me what to do. I just want you to go with me to the clinic to give me support.”

  Mama looked at Yasmine. “It’s not right that you should ask Simone to do that,” she told her.

  Yasmine’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. I guess Mama had surprised both of us, Yasmine and I.

  “Listen, you two,” Mama continued. “Yasmine, you’ve got the right to decide what to do with your body, and Simone doesn’t have any recourse but to accept that decision.”

  Yasmine nodded.

  “On the other hand,” Mama added, “you’ve got to understand, Yasmine, that Simone has got the right to refuse to support you in doing something that she’s against.”

  We both stared at Mama.

  “The solution to this is acceptance, pure and simple,” Mama concluded, leaning back in the sofa. “Accept how each other feels, and allow your friendship to go from there.”

  Yasmine looked at me, her eyes wide and still angry. “How can you call a person your friend if she won’t stick with you through thick and thin?”

  “A friend is a person who will tell you things straight,” Mama said with a little edge in her voice, like she was impatient with Yasmine and me for being so childlike.
“A person who won’t bend simply to satisfy your feelings. The fact that Simone is sticking to her guns on this, even though she knows it’s hurting you, means that you can trust her, Yasmine. The next time an issue comes up that you need honest feedback on, you know Simone is the one friend who won’t play games with you. She’s a shooter from the hip, not one that aims behind your back.”

  I fiddled with one of the rings I wore, thinking that Mama was making me sound uncomfortably noble.

  “On the other hand, Simone …” Mama continued to me. I suppose I should have known better than to think I’d get away with just a compliment. Mama tapped her temple with her index finger. “Simone, think,” she said. “Suppose you wanted to do something that Yasmine was against. How would you feel if she tried to block you, tried to take away your right to make a decision that affects your life?”

  I nodded; Mama was making me understand.

  “The important thing is that Yasmine decides what she wants to do without imposing that decision on anybody else. Whatever the results, it’s Yasmine who will bear it alone.”

  Yasmine shifted in her chair, her expression suddenly tinged with uncertainty. “Do you think I should tell Ernest about this baby?” she asked Mama.

  “Yes!” I blurted.

  Mama took a deep breath, then shook her head. “I don’t think either of you heard a word I said.”

  “Yes, we did,” I said. “And I agree with you, Mama. But I can’t help but make at least one more effort to keep Yasmine from doing something that will hurt her.”

  Yasmine’s face tightened.

  “Yasmine, you accused me of not wanting a husband, children,” I said. “The fact is that I do want those things.”

  Yasmine stared silently at me while I stopped and thought once more about what I was about to say. Mama watched me thoughtfully. I continued, “I know now that the truth is that I’ve been repressing my so-called maternal feelings because I was scared. Scared that I couldn’t measure up to being as good of a mother as Mama has been to Will, Rodney, and me.