A scrap of a verse he’d learned in Sunday school when he was younger than Lashanda came to him. Something about a person standing apart.
But Love and I had the wit to win:
We drew a circle that took him in.
That image suddenly troubled him so much that he slipped out of the room as silently as he’d come. What did circles of love have to do with this anyhow? They loved Mama and Mama surely loved them.
Look at the way she took care of them, the way she cooked good food and kept the house so neat and clean. Not like Willie’s mom, who half the time sent him out for pizza or KFC and didn’t seem to care if dishes piled up in the kitchen or if people dropped clothes and toys and schoolbooks wherever they finished with them so that she couldn’t have vacuumed or dusted even if she’d wanted to.
Unbidden though came memories of the way Mrs. Parrish could throw back her head and roar with laughter over something Willie said, how Sister Jordan would reach out and suddenly crush her grandsons with big warm hugs for no reason at all, how old Brother Frank and Sister Hathy Smith still held hands when they walked across the churchyard despite their canes.
When did Mama quit laughing and hugging them? he wondered. Or holding Dad’s hand? Because she did use to.
Didn’t she?
He shook his head angrily, hating himself for these disloyal thoughts. Mama loves us, he told himself firmly, and we love her. She’s just busy doing good things for people. She sees that Sister Jordan’s grass is cut, sees that nobody at Balm of Gilead goes hungry, and even though she doesn’t like dealing with white people, she doesn’t let that stop her from driving over to Dobbs whenever some of the congregation need help signing up for benefits.
She makes sure all the shut-ins get their Meals on Wheels and that they have a ride to the clinic for their checkups.
And look how she loaned her car to Miss Rosa yesterday so Miss Rosa wouldn’t lose her job when her car broke down Friday.
Mama’s prayer partner was a cheerful person. Rough as she had it, she could always find things to laugh about when she came to visit, outrageous things white people did where she worked, things that made Mama shake her head and cluck her tongue.
Dad thought Miss Rosa was using her, but Mama just shrugged at that. “We’re here to be used, Ralph,” she reproached him. “How can I see your church members struggling and not try to help?”
As Stan entered the kitchen, he could see his mother and Rosa Edwards through the open door that led out to a screened porch. The two women sat facing each other across a small wicker table. The Bible was open between them, but their hands were clasped, their heads were close together and Miss Rosa was speaking with low urgency.
Both of Clara Freeman’s children knew better than to interrupt a parent’s conversation, so Stan went to the doorway and waited quietly until one of the women should notice him.
Miss Rosa saw him first and sat back abruptly, as if startled.
“What is it, Stanley?” his mother asked sharply.
“May I have a glass of lemonade, Mama?”
“Yes, but be sure and wipe up the counter if you spill any. I don’t want ants in my kitchen again. Lemonade for you, Rosa?”
“I shouldn’t. In fact, I probably ought to go.” The other woman shifted in her chair, but didn’t get up. “I’ve hindered you too long already.”
“You never hinder me,” said his mother with a smile for her friend. She closed her Bible and put it aside. “Stanley?”
Without spilling a drop, he brought a brimming glass out to the porch and set it down in front of Miss Rosa.
“Thank you, honey,” she said.
“You’re welcome.”
As he returned to the kitchen, he heard Miss Rosa say, “You’re raising you a fine young man, Sister Clara.”
“We’re real proud of him,” his mother said.
As she always said.
* * *
Sunday dinner long over, the kitchen restored to order, the chattering nieces and nephews and their noisy children now departed, Cyl DeGraffenried’s grandmother rested drowsily in her old oak rocking chair. The chair had a split willow seat that her own mother had woven half a century earlier and Mrs. Mitchiner kept it protected with a dark blue cushion. No one else ever sat there and the child who dared put his skinny little bottom on that cushion without being invited risked getting that bottom smacked.
Mrs. Mitchiner gave a dainty yawn and settled herself more comfortably in the chair.
Cyl nudged a small footstool closer and said, “Wouldn’t you rest better if you went and lay down for a while?”
“I’m not ready to take to my bed in the daytime yet,” Mrs. Mitchiner said tartly.
As Cyl had known she would. Unless she were sick, her grandmother never lay down until bedtime. If the sun was up, so was she. Her only concession to sloth was to lean back and let her spine actually rest against the cushion.
“See you next Sunday, then,” said Cyl as she bent to kiss that cool pale cheek. “Call me if you need anything.”
The older woman caught her hand. “Everything all right with you, child?”
“Sure,” Cyl said cautiously. “Why?”
“I don’t know. This last month, there’s something different. I look at you in church. One minute you be sad, next minute you be lit up all happy.”
Green eyes looked deep into Cyl’s brown.
“Oh, baby, you finally loving somebody?”
“You, Grandma,” she parried lightly. “Just you.”
“I may be old, but I’m not feeble-minded,” said Mrs. Mitchiner. “Just tell me this. Is he a good Christian man?”
“He tries to be,” Cyl whispered.
Satisfied, Mrs. Mitchiner leaned back in her chair. “That’s all God asks, baby. That’s all He asks.”
* * *
At the Orchid Motel, Marie O’Day was showing her newest employee the ropes. Mrs. O’Day didn’t speak much Spanish and if Consuela Flores understood much English, it wasn’t obvious. Nevertheless, they managed to communicate well enough that when they came to the last room at the back of the motel and found a Do Not Disturb sign on the door, Consuela pointed to the work sheet and made an inquisitive sound.
“Good!” said Mrs. O’Day with an encouraging nod and exaggerated pantomime. “Este guest no check out at noon, and it’s past three o’clock.” She tapped her watch and held up three fingers. “Qué más? What you do now?”
Confidently, the apprentice maid stepped up to the door and rapped smartly. “Housekeeping!” she called in a lilting accent.
Sunlight played on the low bushes that separated walkway from parking lot and a welcome breeze ruffled the younger woman’s long black hair as she listened for an answer. When no one responded, she used the master key to open the door, again announcing herself.
Inside, the drapes were tightly drawn, but enough sunlight spilled through the doorway to show that the king-sized bed had not been slept in. The near side pillow had been pulled up against the headboard and the coverlet was rumpled where someone had sat. Otherwise the bed was still made. An overnight case sat open on the luggage bench under the window and a cosmetic bag lay on the dresser next to a bottle of wine and two plastic goblets, familiar signs that this guest was still in residence even though the room had been booked for only one night.
Consuela Flores looked to the motel owner for instructions.
“Start with the bathroom,” Marie O’Day said briskly, pulling the curtains to let more light into the room, “then we’ll—”
“¡Cojones de Jesús!” Consuela shrieked. Crossing herself furiously, she recoiled from her path to the bathroom and slammed into Mrs. O’Day.
A torrent of Spanish poured from the terrified maid and she clung to her employer, who looked over her shoulder to the figure that sprawled on the floor between the bed and the far wall.