Chapter1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23

Ernetta had never slept in such a tall bed as the one at Tom McLeesh's house. To get out of it, you had to point your toes at the floor and then slide forward carefully, holding onto one of the big mahogany posts until your feet touched the floor. There were other antiques in the room: a dressing table and a Japanese screen that reminded her of fancy things she'd seen at her uncle's house when she was just a girl. No house of her own had ever been fancy: not the one she'd grown up in (twelve miles south of the Florida line), nor the one she'd moved into with Arvin after their wedding, nor the current one, a single–wide trailer with furniture built right into the walls.

She felt much too shabby for this beautiful bedroom and beautiful bed, and Tom agreed with her, at least in his heart. When he'd called to place her at the Y, a recorded message said that the building was closed for Internet wiring. He started to call a homeless shelter, but stopped before dialing: it would be so very easy to lose track of Stannie's real mother if he simply sloughed her off to the streets. No: this kind of thing took personal commitment and personal sacrifice. Whatever his own discomfort at bringing a dirty, ignorant person into his home, the thrill of seeing Stannie Colfax humiliated would more than reward it. And with that idea in mind, Tom called his wife Bobbi at her law firm and told her he had a nice, elderly homeless woman to bring home for a few nights.

Bobbi listened and then said in a very thoughtful voice, "Well, I've been meaning to do something like this for a long time and I suppose there's no time like the present. It'll be good for the girls."

So Tom drove Ernetta home, smiling to himself, and asking her questions on the way that only a journalist could feel comfortable asking.

"Ernetta, what exactly makes you think you're Stannie's real mother?"

"Well, he says he's adopted, and he's got webbed toes. And I had a baby with webbed toes, and I give it up for adoption."

"Are you married?"

She hesitated for a second. "Yes."

"Will your husband want to meet Stannie, too?"

"No."

"Are you divorced?"

"No."

"When you found out you were pregnant, were you … was that your first marriage?"

"I weren't married to him yet. We got married right after."

"Right after what?"

"Right after. This seatbelt sure is confusing—I got it wrapped all around my neck here."

Ernetta ignored the rest of his questions. It came natural to her to say few words—just to grunt in a way that might mean yes or no to any of people's wheedling, prying questions about her former life. She kept her eyes on the dark view outside, on the vast rows of buildings and parking lots laid down on this wide road that seemed to go on forever, but her mind was on Stannie and the awful things he might say to her when she found him. Sometimes in her dreams she had a picture of him cursing her. In the Bible it said "And her children will rise up to bless her," but Ernetta always envisioned Arvin's son pointing his finger right at her womb and saying, "A curse upon you woman; you'd have spilled my innocent blood upon the ground if there hadn't been a prophet sent to set me free."

Tom realized she wasn't answering any longer and stopped asking questions. But in his mind he created his own version of Stannie's origins—hustler meets country girl in small Southern town … she's sexually frustrated and desperate to escape grinding poverty … he gets her pregnant … she runs away to have the baby, gives it up for adoption … now she's learned her kid's grown up to be sort of famous and she's back to share some of his good fortune. Ernetta looked to him like a product of some trailer park down in the sticks; he couldn't tell how old she was: she could be any age between fifty and sixty–five. She smelled like mothballs and old potato chips and her face was sprinkled with tiny black moles—probably melanoma spots. Maybe Bobbi could take her to the dermatologist as an act of charity, but not until after she'd met Stannie.

By the time they pulled up in the driveway, it was 8:45. Tom pressed the garage door opener and then called Bobbi on his cell phone as he helped Ernetta undo her seatbelt. "We're home. We're in the garage. Yep, she's with me. Just wanted you to know that's my key in the door."

Bobbi met them in the doorway: she was a blonde, round–faced woman with trembling hands. Maybe she had a palsy condition, Ernetta thought, and felt sorry for her. Ernetta was too tired to be hungry anymore, but she agreed to eat a sandwich at the kitchen table. "Oh my goodness," she said, drinking the sweet tea Bobbi brought her. "That tastes so good on my parched throat. I ain't had much decent to eat or drink since last night."

The little girls drew pictures for Ernetta and presented them at the table. She smiled and made a fuss. These didn't seem much different from children back home, except for their earrings and fancy school uniforms. After her sandwich, Ernetta played "peep–eye" with the three year–old on the huge bed in her room until Tom came to the doorway with his hands in his pockets and said, "Mrs. Duckworth, do you need to wash or anything?" His voice sounded a little nervous. He looked at the children and back at her. "Did Bobbi show you where the washing things are?"

"Thank you," Ernetta said, still smiling at the little girl with her hands over her eyes. "Peep–eye! I reckon I could just take a spit bath before bed, Mr. McLeesh."

Tom cleared his throat and held his hand out to the little girl. He was thinking about communicative diseases and pediatric bills. "Emily Rose, come with daddy, honey. Right now. It's time to get ready for night–night."

A few minutes later, Bobbi appeared with a pile of thick, green towels, enough green towels to fill a whole shelf at Wal–Mart. "Here you go," she said sweetly. "And here's a toothbrush and paste." Her hands shook when she held out the things. "Could I get you a glass of wine or anything before bed?"

"Oh no," Ernetta said, "I don't need no drink tonight, thank you. I'm tired. But in the morning, I'd kindly like to see a picture of Stanley Colfax."

Bobbi looked confused. She said goodnight and went to find her husband. Ernetta, left all alone, sighed and fell back on the bed exhausted. She took out her teeth, but couldn't find a cup to put them in. She laid them on the nightstand. She had no nightgown, either, so she pulled off her clothes and slept in her thick yellow brassiere and high–waist panties, with the door locked and the window open so she could smell the new spring flowers and hear the night noises—not LeCrane noises but still comforting: cars and cats and even a far–off freight train rumbling along a track. Better than the motel sounds last night in Chattanooga. She felt like a queen, slipping her tired, heavy body into the soft sheets and waiting for sleep.

And while she slept, Tom sat down on the couch with his wife and explained that the woman in the guestroom claimed to be Stan Colfax's mother, and that he planned to reunite the two of them in Florida in just a few days, if he could arrange to take a plane down to the Gulf. He didn't explain that it was all a joke—a way of twisting the knife with Stannie, who'd twisted it with everybody else so many times, and maybe wanted his job.

Bobbi frowned. "I think this a bad idea, Tom. It's an invasion of privacy, isn't it?"

"I'm not trying to invade anybody's privacy." Tom put on his most earnest face. "No, I really want to help this poor woman. Don't you think it's better to introduce them off–site, in a neutral place, rather than here in Washington?"

"Why introduce them at all?"

"What?"

"Don't you think it's Stannie's business whether he wants to meet his mother or not? Why not just call and tell him what's happened? Let him decide if he wants to see her."

Tom threw up his hands. "Well, honey, you know what he'd say. You know him—he'd just make a joke out of it. And would that be fair to her?"

"But you're throwing her to the wolves, Tom. How dare you talk about what's fair to her?"

He looked intently at his wife. He'd discovered that when he looked her straight in the eye, she couldn't tell he was lying. "Hey honey," he said, "this is what she wants. I'm just giving her a chance to follow her dream—and it's a dream I bet every birth mother has, Bobbi, who can't raise her child. A chance to look in the eyes of that child at least once. Can you imagine if we had never seen our daughters? Wouldn't you give anything for that chance—to see them at least once?"

She sat quietly for a moment, honestly trying to imagine life without her two little girls. Yes, it was unthinkable. She could get teary–eyed just talking about it, but in spite of her feelings, better judgment ruled against it.

"No," she said, "I really think it's a bad idea to surprise Stannie. I'm telling you now. Call him."

He sighed and shook his head.

The next day, Tom sent Ernetta on a bus tour of the Capitol. She was already exhausted from her walk the day before. In the evening she returned in a taxi with her feet blistered and her back aching. Bobbi ordered a pizza; after supper the family sat in the den watching CNN while the girls drew pictures with markers on aluminum foil.

"The things children do learn to do these days!" said Ernetta. "I think they're lots smarter since I was young. Doing that with tin foil! And all we ever did with it was make pellets to shoot through straws."

The older girl looked up. She had red hair like her father, but a round, serious face that matched her mother's. "Do you have any children?" she asked.

Ernetta looked blank. "What now, doll?"

"Do you have any children?"

"Melissa," said her mother, "that's a little bit too personal, I think."

"That's all right." Ernetta looked intently at the girl. "No," she said, "I didn't raise any children, sweetheart. I wished I had, though. I love little ones."

The girl nodded and then looked back at her artwork, satisfied. There was a pause, while a British voice shouted things from the TV set, filling the whole room with noise. Then came the sound of gunfire somewhere in Eastern Europe, then some nuns weeping in Burundi, and finally a commercial about buying life insurance right on the Net.

"Well," said Tom, turning away from the screen, "what did you think of the Capitol, Ernetta? Did you have a nice tour?"

Ernetta turned to him slowly. She looked as though she were still thinking about the child's question. But suddenly her face changed. "I did happen to notice a sign that says there's going to be some kind of big march next week."

"A huge march," said Bobbi. "United for Choice. It's for women who had to give up their—you know." She glanced at her little girls playing and put her hand over her stomach. Then she looked back at Ernetta and her face eyes widened. "Oh, I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking."

"About what?" Ernetta's eyes were blank.

Bobbi stammered. "I didn't mean—" She'd remembered, suddenly, that Ernetta had given up a baby. "I'm talking about really giving up their, you know, in a permanent way. Not like adoption or anything. Anyway, I usually get involved, but not this time, thanks to my husband."

Tom turned to her, half–smiling. "Nice, Bobs. Did I tell you, by the way, that Corbin's doing a story on the Womb Bomber? He's alive. Corbin wouldn't give me details."

Bobbi hesitated, still looking nervously at Ernetta, who seemed thoughtful and calm. Then she rolled her eyes. "Knowing Tops they'll probably give pages and pages to a terrorist and say nothing about the march."

"Oh," Tom said, "and I guess you don't think terrorism is a big threat to women's right to choose?"

"I think terrorism excites you men in some strange way, Tom." Her voice became harsh. "And it gives you an excuse to act paternalistic and patronizing—that's why you won't let me march. It's a power thing for you."

He nodded to Ernetta. "I'm kind of protective of my wife, excuse me very much for that. Which reminds me." His voice became loud and practical. He leaned far back on the couch with his legs crossed. "There'll be a huge crowd in town next week, Ernetta, but don't worry. You and I will be safe in the Gulf by the time all that starts. I'm going to charter a plane on Sunday. And you're welcome to stay here at the house with us until then."

Bobbi flashed Tom an angry look. She cleared her throat, but didn't say a word. Ernetta couldn't move. In her heart, she wondered if maybe she ought to stay in this city after all. Attend the march. She could search for Arvin in the crowd. What if she found him? What would she do?

Copyright © 2001 by the author or Christianity Today/Books & Culture Magazine.
Click here for reprint information on Books & Culture.