Valentine(31)

One week later, there were two letters to the editor on the subject. The Reverend and Mrs. Paul Donnelly of First Methodist wrote of their sorrow and disgust at the way this was being handled, both in the newspaper and in town. They prayed we would all do better and they asked, What if this had been your daughter?

In the second letter, a fine, upstanding citizen reminded all of us that the alleged victim was a fourteen-year-old Mexican girl who had been hanging around the drive-in by herself on a Saturday night. Witnesses swore the girl had climbed willingly into that boy’s truck. Nobody held a gun to her head. We ought to think about that, this person wrote, before we ruin a boy’s life. Innocent until proven guilty. At that, I had thrown the newspaper across the kitchen, a wholly unsatisfying gesture since the pages traveled about two feet and then fell to the linoleum with a sad little rustle.

In the weeks after we moved into town, in the parking lot at Furr’s Cafeteria, on the telephone with Aimee’s school, and in line at the DMV while I waited to have the address changed on my driver’s license, I found myself saying, I beg your pardon? Or, I’m sorry but I don’t think that is true at all. Mrs. Bobby Ray Price wanted to chat about what she called this ugly business while we waited together in the Piggly Wiggly checkout line. Aimee was whining for some new candy she said was going to explode in her mouth. I listened to Mrs. Price talk for a few seconds and shook my head. Bullshit, I was thinking. But I didn’t say anything.

By noon, we have iced Aimee’s goose egg and gone outside for some air. While I stand in the front yard with the baby asleep in my arms, Aimee sulks and draws numbers on the sidewalk with a stick of chalk. The baby sighs and paws at my right breast, but the pain is sudden and stark, so I shift him to the other side, thankful when he settles down and stays asleep. We see Suzanne Ledbetter first. She wears a pair of thin white sandals and white shorts that fall to the middle of her thighs. A straw tote bag is slung over her bare shoulder, and a sleeveless white blouse shows off her red hair and pale, freckled shoulders. She looks like she got a shower this morning, I think wistfully. When Suzanne spots Aimee and me, she waves and pats her tote bag. Ding Dong, Avon calling!

Mrs. Nunally pulls up in her old Chevy and joins us. Depending on which job she is going to, Mrs. Nunally usually wears a smock or an apron over her clothes, but today she wears a long black skirt and a light green blouse with sleeves that fall to her narrow wrist. A small name tag is pinned just above her left breast. She is on her way to Beall’s department store, where she works two afternoons a week. Mrs. Shepard told me that Mrs. Nunally stopped putting on makeup when she became an Adventist, but today she wears pale-pink lipstick and eye shadow that matches her blouse.

Well, look at you, Suzanne tells her. You look real pretty.

Goodness, Mrs. Nunally says, look at that baby’s hands. That’s a football player. The two women hover over the baby for a few seconds, making goo-goo eyes and blowing kisses. Suzanne plucks him from my arms and pulls him to her chest. Eyes closed, she sways back and forth for a few seconds before gently handing him to me. I think of my burning nipple and sleepless nights, and for a few seconds, I think about giving him back to her. Hang on, I would like to say. I’ll go fetch his diaper bag.

Where’s Lauralee? Aimee whines from the sidewalk, where she has been drawing a hopscotch board in a desultory way.

Swim lessons, Suzanne says. I’m picking her up in a little while to take her to dance school.

Mrs. Shepard stands in her front yard holding a water hose that is not turned on.

Is she okay? I ask Mrs. Nunally.

Suzanne leans in and lowers her voice. I heard Potter killed himself.

What? I say. Oh my God, no. It was a hunting accident. The baby sighs in his sleep and tries again to nuzzle, but the pain radiates from my nipple to my arm and I shift him to the other side.

Potter never hunted a day in his life, Suzanne says. That man couldn’t shoot an animal if he was starving to death.

Mrs. Nunally purses her lips and frowns a bit. I hope that’s not true, she says, for both their sakes.

When Mrs. Shepard starts across the street with her mason jar full of iced tea, Ginny’s girl appears from behind a long hedge that runs along the front of Mrs. Shepard’s house.

Debra Ann and Aimee stand in the front yard sizing each other up for a minute or two, then Debra Ann, who has scratched a mosquito bite so much her arm is bleeding, asks if Aimee wants to go ride bikes with her. No, I say. Y’all stay right here in the yard, please.

Oh, hell, Mrs. Shepard says. They’ll be fine.

No, I say sharply. Mrs. Shepard takes a long sip of iced tea and smacks her lips.

I have already thanked Suzanne for the casserole and Mrs. Nunally for the lemon cake. Now I thank Mrs. Shepard for her casserole, which, I noticed as I scraped it into the trash, still has a sticker with Suzanne’s name on it.

Oh, it’s my pleasure, honey. Ladies, she tells us, I know a little gal who’s looking for some babysitting jobs. She feels around in her pocket and pulls out three slips of paper, handing one to each of us. Here’s her phone number. Karla Sibley. I highly recommend her.

Suzanne looks at the piece of paper and frowns. And from where do you know this girl?

Church, Mrs. Shepard says without hesitation.

Oh? Suzanne says. Have you returned to church, Corrine?

I sure have, Suzanne! It’s such a comfort, since Potter’s accident.

I see. Suzanne narrows her eyes and shifts her tote bag to the other shoulder. Well, we are all praying for you at Crescent Park Baptist.