Mama Stalks the Past Read online

  Mama refolded the map and slipped it back into the Bible. “I’m taking this with me,” she said. Tucking the Bible under her arm, she motioned me to follow her out of the room.

  Daddy was leaning against the front door, waiting for us. “No envelope?” he asked.

  Mama shook her head. “Nothing but this Bible.”

  Daddy walked to the front door and held it open. He yawned. Daddy never found Mama’s sleuthing very exciting.

  When we stepped out of Miss Hannah’s house, I had the sudden odd sensation that someone was watching us. To my left, toward the back of the Mixon’s house, I thought I saw a flicker of movement, a shadow. I turned quickly to look. Nothing.

  But as we walked across the darkness of the yard, the feeling that we were being observed intensified. Again, I looked around. Nothing, nothing at all! The street was empty. No loose dogs. No cars. Not even a winter breeze rustled the trees. Still, I felt my hair rising up along my scalp.

  I touched Mama’s arm. “Do you feel like we’re being watched?” I whispered.

  Mama’s eyes were scanning the area. She nodded.

  “You do?” I exclaimed, satisfied that for once I wasn’t being paranoid about dogs.

  “Yeah,” she answered, softly. And from out of nowhere, a chill swept down the empty street.

  Ahead of us, Daddy kept walking home, but Mama and I stopped and stared out into the darkness. There were no signs of life. The widely spaced streetlights created shallow pools of wan illumination that served only to heighten the impenetrable shadows in between. Ever so faintly in the darkness I thought I picked up a sharp tap, but neither Daddy nor Mama seem to notice.

  Daddy motioned us forward, impatient with our nervousness. We hurried after him. Still, when I closed our front door safely behind us, I could feel the unseen presence outside like a cold wave, something chilly and secretive.

  I headed for the kitchen immediately. Coffee was definitely in order. The message light on the answering machine was blinking. Daddy pressed the playback button.

  “James, Candi, this is Agatha,” an anxious voice stammered. “Uncle Chester is sick. The ambulance has taken him to Otis General Hospital!”

  CHAPTER

  FIVE

  “Where is Hannah’s Bible?” Mama shouted.

  My eyes snapped open. I jerked upright.

  “I put it on the desk in the kitchen,” Mama continued loudly. “Simone, did you move it?” My mother was standing at my bedroom door, her face stern, her hands folded across her chest like a drill sergeant. I was groggy, but I could see that she was fully dressed. She had on a calf-length skirt, a sweater, and her fuzzy pink bedroom slippers.

  I closed my eyes and swore.

  “Simone!” Mama hollered in a tone intended to do more than grab my attention.

  I yawned, then reluctantly reopened my eyes. “After last night, I can’t believe you’re up looking for an old Bible!” I grumbled. I had slept badly and I was certain my parents had, too. We’d only gotten home from the hospital three hours earlier. Uncle Chester’s doctor had told us that Uncle Chester had had a heart attack, a mild one. His condition had become stable and he probably would be leaving the hospital sometime later in the week.

  “I’ve got to find that Bible,” Mama insisted.

  “Mama, I don’t know where you put it,” I murmured.

  “Simone, I need to find it—now,” she snapped.

  I burrowed back under the covers. What I really needed was six more hours of sleep: There was no way I was going to get out of bed and hunt for an old Bible belonging to a dead woman at this time of the morning. “Why don’t you go to bed and look for it when it gets daylight?” I muttered into the soft warmth of my pillow.

  “Get up and help me find it,” Mama insisted.

  “If I get up now, I’m going straight back to Atlanta,” I threatened.

  “Get—up!” Mama roared.

  I tried thinking of something to say that would get her out of my room. I couldn’t.

  “Now!” Mama snapped, then swung out of the room and sashayed down the hall toward her kitchen.

  I fell back down and pulled the covers up to my chin. Ignore her, I thought. Pretend that she’s still asleep. I enjoyed a very few minutes of this fantasy before Mama bellowed: “Simone!”

  I sat up again and glanced at the bedside clock. It was six-fifteen A.M., still dark outside. The clock ticked. I watched the hands move. I could hear Mama pushing and pulling things in the kitchen, I could smell the Irish-cream coffee. The dial moved to six-nineteen. I rolled over, picked up the phone, and called Cliff at his hotel in New York City.

  “Something the matter?” he asked once he was sure it was me and not some lunatic making a crank call at the crack of dawn.

  “Are you coming home today?” I asked.

  “Sorry, baby,” he said between yawns. “Not only are things not getting better, they are getting worse!”

  I groaned. Why did Cliff always get the crazy clients? “What is Mrs. Zwig up to now?” I asked.

  “The Zwigs are determined to destroy each other.” He sighed. “I’m going to meet with Mr. Zwig’s lawyer this afternoon, try to bring some reasonableness into this mess.”

  “I might as well stay here in Otis another day,” I said, but I can’t say that I said it too cheerfully.

  “How are things going there?”

  “Mama is trying to get rid of two hundred and fifty acres of land one of her neighbors willed her.”

  “Must be nice,” Cliff said.

  “Not if the neighbor who left it to her was murdered.”

  “Don’t tell me Miss Candi has got another murder to investigate,” Cliff said.

  “Yeah,” I grumbled, “and she woke me up ten minutes ago hollering about some Bible we found at the dead woman’s house.”

  “Then you’re not lonely,” Cliff said. “Miss Candi’s keeping you busy and I don’t believe you miss me at all—”

  “Don’t even try it!”

  “Simone!” Mama’s voice blasted again.

  I cringed. “Can you hear her calling me?” I asked Cliff.

  He laughed. “Yes, but I bet she’d die if she knew it.”

  I put my hand over the telephone receiver. “Mama, Cliff said he heard your voice and he wants me to tell you good morning!” I shouted.

  Nothing.

  “She knows now,” I told him, smugly.

  “That was mean,” he said.

  “Mean is waking me up at six o’clock A.M. when I got only in bed three hours earlier.”

  “What on earth were you doing up at three o’clock in the morning?”

  “Daddy’s uncle got sick. We had to go to the hospital.”

  “Anything serious?”

  “For a ninety-nine-year-old man, everything is serious. But Uncle Chester is no ordinary old man. He’s going to be fine.”

  “You’d better help Miss Candi. Sounds like she’s got her hands full!”

  “Mama can handle it,” I replied. “When she’s doing her thing, she positively thrives on three hours of sleep.”

  “Still …” he said.

  I stretched. “Oh, I’ll help her. But believe me, she’ll pay.”

  Cliff chuckled. “Blackmail?”

  “She’ll have to make my favorite breakfast.… ”

  “Now, Simone, don’t be naughty.”

  “You don’t know what naughty is,” I said, flirting. “If you ever break away from your vengeful client and get back to Atlanta, you’ll see how naughty your Simone can be.”

  “Is that a threat or a promise?”

  “Both.”

  “In that case, I’ll do everything I can to get to Atlanta. And you’d better believe I’m holding you to your threat. And your promise.”

  Minutes later, I reluctantly put the phone on its receiver, wrapped my white terry-cloth robe loosely around me, and padded barefoot into Mama’s kitchen.

  “Cliff said to tell you hello,” I said.

  Ma
ma was wiping her hands on her apron and leaning back against the counter. She’d just poured herself a cup of coffee. There was a troubled look in her eyes.

  She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have waked you like that. But it concerns me that I can’t find Hannah’s Bible!”

  I moved closer to my mother. Or should I say closer to the coffeepot that sat on the counter beside her? The scent of coffee was tantalizing, even in my groggy condition. I gave Mama a hug. “Do you have to have that Bible this minute?” I asked.

  “James says he didn’t move it. If you haven’t touched it, Simone, it means that …”

  I yawned, reached for a mug, and poured myself a cup of coffee. Mama found mysteries everywhere. “It means that it’s where you put it!”

  Mama pulled out a chair and sat down at the table. “Simone, that Bible is no place in this house!”

  I joined her at the table. After a few hot, rich sips from my cup, I felt strong enough to speak. “Mama, I’m tired and you should be, too. Can’t Miss Hannah’s Bible wait?”

  Her eyes stayed obstinate.

  “I’ll make a deal with you,” I teased.

  “You’re being silly, and this isn’t the time for it!” she said.

  I grinned. “If you be a nice little mama and go to bed and let me get some sleep, I’ll help you search for that Bible when I wake up, I promise!”

  Mama frowned. “I’m not tired and I don’t expect to get much sleep until I’ve found why Hannah Mixon left me those two hundred and fifty acres.”

  I rubbed my forehead and sighed. I should have known better than to talk Mama out of something once she’d made her mind up.

  “Okay, okay,” I told her. “Since you’re not going to let me get any sleep, you’ll have to cook breakfast. After I’ve eaten, I promise to help you look for the Bible.”

  “I thought you were going home this morning. You can get breakfast at Hardee’s.”

  The thought of eating fast food when I could get Mama’s cooking was sickening. “Cliff can’t get back to Atlanta, so I’ll stay and help you find Miss Hannah’s Bible. But only if—”

  Mama cleared her throat. Then she pushed back her chair and stood up. “You think you’re smart, don’t you? How many times have I told you not to try to manipulate me into doing what you want me to do?”

  I grinned. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lied.

  “Yeah, right,” Mama grumbled, opening the refrigerator door and carefully choosing two large eggs.

  I took another sip from my cup. The coffee was heavenly and suddenly I was starving. “I want eggs, toast, grits, sausage,” I told her. Blackmail could be fun.

  Mama pulled an unopened package of Quaker Grits from the cupboard. She didn’t say another word. For the next twenty minutes, despite the tension in her face, she concentrated on doing her thing, turning food from the simple to the gourmet.

  I suppose I should feel guilty, eating Mama’s food and not offering to help her. The fact is that watching Mama cook gives me a special comfort. It takes me back to when I was six years old, sitting waiting for something special to come out of her oven. It’s a feeling that I only get when I’m in Mama’s kitchen, when she’s working her magic just for me!

  By the time Mama had finished cooking, Daddy had gotten out of bed, showered, and joined us. He was wearing a pair of old jeans, a long-sleeved cotton knit shirt, and a pair of brown leather boots that Cliff had picked out for him. He didn’t say a word about how early we were up. He was well into his breakfast, eating a second helping of sausage, when Mama asked him about what was really on her mind.

  “James, are you sure you didn’t move Hannah’s Bible?” she asked.

  Daddy shook his head, winced, and stuffed his mouth full of scrambled eggs all at about the same time. “Like I told you when we came in this morning,” he said after he swallowed and washed the whole thing down with orange juice, “the last time I laid eyes on that Bible was when I saw you put it on that table over there!” He pointed toward the small desk that held the telephone.

  “I know it was there when we left the house,” Mama insisted. She was pushing her food around her plate in some kind of pattern. “Still …”

  Daddy fixed his eyes on her, looking down his nose in a kind of “for God’s sake not now” manner that he uses when he doesn’t want Mama to lay anything heavy on him. “What’s on your mind, Candi?” he asked.

  Mama sat upright, folded her hands in her lap. Their eyes met. “James, is it possible that somebody came into this house last night when we went to the hospital to see about Uncle Chester?”

  “The alarm—” I began.

  Daddy started to say something, too. That’s when we all heard a noise at the back of the house. I looked toward the window. Outside, the dawn was gray and heavy. Then we heard the noise again. I think the realization that somebody was trying to break into our house hit all three of us at the same time.

  I started for the phone, but Daddy motioned me not to touch it. He pushed back his chair, walked to the hall closet, and pulled out his gun; he inserted a clip.

  Mama and I followed him down the hallway. I was amazed at his calmness. Without looking the least bit worried, he moved to the entrance of our darkened living room, his gun cocked. He cleared his throat as if to alert the intruder that he was approaching. Silence. He walked into the room and disappeared from view; the only sound I heard was the ticking of the antique clock on the mantel that had once belonged to Josiah Covington. Then Daddy switched on the lights; the living room was empty. Still holding his gun, he walked down the hall toward the bedrooms. Again Mama followed. And not wanting to be left alone, I hurried after her. Daddy stopped at their bedroom door and again cleared his throat. Silence. He nudged their door open, stepped inside and turned on the ceiling light; no one was there. He turned on their bathroom light. That room, too, was empty.

  Both Mama and I were so close behind him that when he turned quickly he knocked over a blue-and-white flowerpot that sat in the bathroom window. When I put the pot back, I glimpsed movement outside in the shadows. The next second, before I had time to warn Daddy, I heard the tap on the pane. Someone was standing outside of my bedroom window. I gasped.

  My father walked unhurriedly to my bedroom door. He motioned us to stand back. He opened the door once again and disappeared into the darkness. My heart pounded. Beside me, Mama stood absolutely still. Another tap. I heard Daddy inch forward.

  “Simone! Simone!” the person outside called in a raspy whisper. The voice was unmistakable; it belonged to Nat Mixon.

  Daddy turned on the light and moved quickly to the window. “For God’s sake, Nat, what are you doing out there in the freezing cold?” he demanded angrily. “What’s the matter with you?”

  “Help me!” Nat hollered.

  “Go to the kitchen door,” Daddy yelled back.

  Nat turned away.

  Moments later, Mama flung open the door. Then she gasped. The smell of the blood and salty sweat that was pouring into Nat’s eyes was strong.

  “My Lord,” Mama whispered, moving forward to help him inside. Mama can’t bear to see anything or anyone suffer.

  Daddy wasn’t so kindhearted. “Boy, are you crazy? What’s the matter with you, sneaking around Simone’s window this early in the morning?”

  “Somebody tried to kill me!” Nat cried.

  “I almost killed you,” Daddy pointed out gruffly, putting his gun back in the closet.

  “Somebody hit me on my head with a hammer!” Nat spoke as if the shock and horror suddenly dawned upon him. “He tried to kill me!” he insisted through bloody spit.

  “Are you dizzy?” Daddy asked. “Is your vision okay?”

  Nat gasped. Then, as if the pain in his head had lanced all the way into his body, he began gagging.

  “Get a bucket,” Daddy ordered me.

  I ran into the bathroom, grabbed Mama’s foot tub, and brought it back just in time.

  “You stron
g enough to make it to the hospital?” Daddy asked, when the last wrenching spasm had shuddered through Nat’s skinny body.

  Nat tried to nod. But the motion made him gag again. Blood dripped from his nose and mouth. He looked dreadful. “We can’t wait,” Daddy told us. “Candi, you’ll have to hold the bucket. Simone, take the keys from my pocket. You drive.”

  “I’m not dressed,” I protested.

  Daddy braced Nat against his shoulder and lifted him out of the chair as if he were a child. “Then it’s you and me, Candi,” he said. “We’ve got to get this boy to the hospital now!”

  Nat blinked. “I-I can’t see,” he choked. “I can’t.” He sounded like he couldn’t believe what was happening to him.

  “It’ll soon be all right, once we get you to the hospital,” Daddy told him.

  “Wait!” Mama put the bucket on the floor, ran to the hall closet, and brought out coats. She tucked one around Nat, one around Daddy. She threw her fuzzy pink slippers into a corner, trading them for a pair of boots.

  “M-my eyes hurt,” Nat whimpered.

  “Take it easy, boy,” Daddy told him. “We’ll have you to the hospital directly. There’s nothing to worry about, son!” He no longer sounded angry. Instead, he sounded very worried.

  I joined my parents in Otis General Hospital Emergency Room for the second time in less than twelve hours. When I walked in, Nat was in a bed, his bandaged head propped up higher than the rest of his body. He looked so defenseless. Now I understood what Mama had said earlier. Nat really was a lost child who needed someone to take care of him.

  Daddy was talking to Dr. Jamison, the same doctor who had examined Uncle Chester last night. The doctor’s thick black curly hair seemed to sparkle in the bright hospital light. “I’m going to have him admitted,” the doctor told Daddy. “He has a concussion, you know. You got him to the hospital quick, that’s good!”

  Daddy nodded grimly. “I did what I had to do.”

  The doctor took out a small white pad and pencil. “Tell me, what happened to the young man?” he asked.

  Daddy shook his head. “I don’t know. I didn’t take time to ask him.”