But when Charley stepped out of her bedroom into the living room, she saw Micah on the sofa. Micah's back was turned, her bare feet drawn up under her so that when she moved, the plastic slipcovers crackled. Micah pressed her ear to Miss Honey’s phone, wrapped the cord around her finger, and at first Charley thought she was talking to a friend back home. But then she heard Micah say, “Hello, Lorna? Are you there?” Charley froze.
“It’s me,” Micah said. “Please pick up…” She waited, and when no one answered, her shoulders slumped with disappointment. “I’m just calling to tell you we made it. It’s okay so far. Miss Honey says I can have a Coke anytime I want. She gave me Grandpa Ernest’s old camera and is teaching me how to cook.” Another pause. Thinking. “Mom went a little psycho the other day, but it wasn’t her fault.” Micah stopped talking, pushed the prongs on the cradle. “Merde.” Hung up and redialed.
Charley held still. Last night after she bid Micah good night, her breath caught when the phone rang. She thought it might be Lorna. She waited for Miss Honey to call, heard Miss Honey’s voice over the canned television laughter followed by the sound of the receiver being returned to the cradle. Charley had not spoken to her mother in two months, not since she stopped by her mother’s house to outline her final plans, and the fact of not having her mother to consult felt like losing a limb.
“But it’s the South,” Lorna had said, as though moving to Louisiana were the same as moving to Siberia.
They stood in Lorna’s newly remodeled kitchen. Charley looked around at the glistening travertine floors and polished marble countertops, the imported Italian tiles arranged in a swirling pattern behind the stove, the refrigerator large enough to store a whole side of beef, and she thought it was a kitchen she could never cook in. She took a sterling spoon from the drawer, stared into its silvery bowl at her upside-down face. “What’s wrong with the South?” Her mother gave a little laugh that made Charley feel stupid for asking. Of course, she knew what was wrong. She had followed news coverage of the man dragged to his death behind a pickup truck in Texas, and the six black teenagers jailed in Louisiana on trumped-up charges.
“Come home,” her mother had said. “Micah can take your old room. She can go to your old school. Fine, if you insist on circling around that hellhole, but it’s not fair to Micah.”
“It’s not a hellhole, Mother. It’s an art program. And if I didn’t work with those kids, no one would.”
“I’m touched, but I’m not amused. I know your father thought it was noble, but I don’t see anything noble about it. You’ve wasted enough time doing good for other people at your own expense.”
“We’re fine.”
“You’re not fine,” her mother said. “You’re a tenant. A tenant with a disconnected phone — don’t even bother, I heard the recording. You drive a car I can hear two blocks away. How late is your rent? One month? Two? Fine, don’t answer. But send Micah to me. I’ll pay off those loans. I’ll even buy you a new car. But only if she lives here.”
Charley considered what Lorna could show Micah — the Louvre, the Met, safaris in Kenya. She considered the one thing, perhaps the only thing, she could now give her daughter, who was aching to stay in Los Angeles: the chance to see that even a woman in desperate straits could pull her own survival out of the ruddy earth.
“It’s a generous offer, Mother, but we’re going to Saint Josephine. I’m not changing my mind.”
“How can you be so selfish?” Lorna grabbed the spoon from Charley and returned it to the drawer.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s time to grow up, Charlotte. The child has been scarred once. Why drag her away from everyone she loves? Why drag her down to Louisiana, where she’ll only suffer again?”
“That’s not fair.”
Now Charley waited to see if Lorna would answer the telephone.
“It’s me again,” Micah said. “I’d send you an e-mail, but Miss Honey doesn’t have a computer. Anyway, I just wanted to say hi. I miss you. I don’t have any friends yet. Okay, I think that’s all. I love you.” She replaced the receiver.
Part of Charley wanted to pounce on Micah for reporting back, wanted to grab her by the collar and shake her. But part of her understood how her daughter felt, so far from home. So, instead of scolding Micah about the call, Charley stepped into the room, said, “Hey there,” brightly, as though she’d just ridden in on a Carolina breeze. She cleared a space next to Micah on the couch. “You get enough to eat? Because I can fix you something if you’re hungry.”
“I’m okay.”
Miss Honey’s couch was cluttered with cheap plush stuffed animals, the kind you won at a carnival. Charley picked up Tweety Bird, whose orange feet had faded and whose yellow plush rubbed off on her fingers. “I look at you sometimes and I can’t believe how much you’ve grown,” she said.
Micah shrugged.
For a minute, Charley struggled to think of more to say. Then, thankfully, she heard steps on the porch, the screen door squeaking open.
“Mother? Is anybody there?”
It was Violet, Charley’s aunt, her father’s only sister. Charley hadn’t seen Violet since her dad’s funeral.
“Well, it’s about time,” Charley said, going to the door. “I’d started thinking you were avoiding me.”
Taller than Miss Honey, though not by much, hair slicked back into a cluster of lacquered curls more glamorous than Miss Honey’s well-oiled ringlets; the same full figure and smooth butterscotch complexion. There was no mistaking Violet was Miss Honey’s daughter.
“I’ve been helping out with Vacation Bible School,” Violet said. She kicked off her shoes. “Rev’s been working overtime since we got the new church. It’s been all hands on deck. I haven’t gotten a full night’s sleep in weeks.” She took a breath. “But look at you! Turn around, girl. Let me get a good look.”
Charley spun in a small circle, happy to let Violet examine every inch of her. For the last ten months, she had lived almost entirely in her head, making plans, weighing her options, without anyone to act as a sounding board or confidante.
They embraced, and when they parted, Violet took Charley’s face in her hands. “And your hair,” she said, turning Charley’s head to the side. “Girl, I love it.”
“Miss Honey hates it,” Micah said from the sofa.
“Well, I think it’s wonderful. I say, good for you.” Violet fingered her curls self-consciously. “I’d cut mine off if I had the face for it.”
“God, I’m glad you’re here,” Charley said.
“And you,” Violet said, pulling Micah to her feet. “Like a little woman. I think you’ve grown a foot taller. You like Saint Josephine so far?”
“I like Miss Honey’s movies.”
There were plenty of modern conveniences Miss Honey didn’t have. She didn’t have a computer. She didn’t have a cell phone, or call waiting, or caller ID. She didn’t have a coffeemaker or a blender, or cable or a satellite dish. But she did have a DVD player and enough old movies to fill the Library of Congress: war pictures (The Bridge on the River Kwai, Battle of the Bulge), westerns (Escape from Fort Bravo, Saddle in the Wind, The Alamo), and the deluxe twelve-pack box set of Shirley Temple classics.
Violet winked at Micah. “Well, she’s got enough of them, that’s for sure. But you can’t stay inside all the time. Why don’t you come to Vacation Bible School with me next week?”
Micah glanced at Charley. “No, thanks. I’m making a garden.”
“A garden?” said Charley, and thought, This from the kid who didn’t like the feeling of Play-Doh between her fingers in preschool. This from the kid who won’t squeeze toothpaste from the middle of the tube. “Where did you get that idea?