Valentine(32)

Bless your hearts, Mrs. Shepard says.

Mrs. Nunally frowns and turns toward Suzanne. How are you feeling?

The pregnancy didn’t take, she says, her cheeks flushing red. But I’m fine! We’ll try again in a few months.

Oh no, Mrs. Nunally says.

You have lots of time, says Mrs. Shepard. You are only twenty-six years old.

Thank you, Corrine, but I’m thirty-four.

Really? Because you don’t look a day over twenty-six—Mrs. Shepard pauses and glances at Mrs. Nunally—Do y’all mind if I smoke?

I’m sorry, I say to Suzanne.

Don’t be sorry, she says. I have a beautiful, talented, and smart daughter. And look here, at what else I have! She reaches into her tote bag and pulls out a handful of Avon samples—perfume and face cream, eye shadows, even tiny lipsticks—and hands them to us.

Mrs. Shepard passes hers to Mrs. Nunally without looking at it and pulls a cigarette from the pocket of her blouse. When she exhales, the smell is so warm and rich that I want to pluck it from between her fingers and suck with all my might.

Are you still preparing for the trial? she asks me.

Yes, I am. I shift the baby again from one side to the other and glance over at Aimee. She and Debra Ann are sitting under the dead tree, talking intensely and looking over at us from time to time.

Suzanne leans forward a bit and swats at the cigarette smoke. I’ve heard that the girl’s uncle is attempting to blackmail Mr. Strickland’s family.

That is absolutely slanderous, I say before I can stop myself. That is just a terrible thing for anybody to say.

I didn’t say it was true, Suzanne reminds us. Y’all know how rumors spread.

We sure do! Mrs. Shepard laughs out loud, a big, off-key, honking sound that reminds me of the homely sand hill cranes I left behind at the ranch. She arches eyebrows that, thankfully, she remembered to draw on this morning and takes several steps back from the group to blow her cigarette smoke away from the baby.

That does indeed sound slanderous, Mrs. Shepard says, but what do you expect from a bunch of bigots?

Suzanne rucks up her lips and sucks in some air. Well, you can speak for yourself, Corrine, because I’m no bigot, but— She stops for a few seconds and looks around the group for some acknowledgment that her statement is true—Suzanne Ledbetter is no bigot. But Mrs. Shepard and I are silent, and Mrs. Nunally has already started walking toward her car, saying, You ladies have a nice afternoon. Suzanne excuses herself and begins to walk slowly, as if a little lost, down the street. Upon arriving at her house, she makes a big show of checking her mail and yanking a couple of dandelions that had the nerve to make a home in her St. Augustine. Finally, she grabs a broom off the porch and swipes at the sidewalk.

Mrs. Shepard, who apparently has nowhere else to be and nothing better to do, watches me nuzzle my son. He is new enough that I still want to sniff at him from time to time, just to know he’s mine.

New baby, Mrs. Shepard says. Only thing that smells better is a brand-new Lincoln Continental. Let me have a little sniff? She holds the cigarette behind her back, leans forward, and breathes my son in. Girl, she says, I don’t miss the dirty diapers, and I sure don’t miss the sleepless nights, but I miss this smell.

I tuck the blanket under the baby’s chin and look at her. You should have seen Gloria Ramírez. He beat the living daylights out of her. The baby jerks in his sleep, his mouth opening and closing. I lean closer and lower my voice. Mrs. Shepard, it was like an animal had got at her.

Please, call me Corrine.

Corrine, I say, Dale Strickland is no better than a feral hog. Worse, actually. They can’t help themselves. I wish they would put him in the electric chair, I really do.

She drops her cigarette butt onto the sidewalk and nudges it off the curb with her foot. We both watch the smoke rise off the filter while she immediately lights another and considers her words. She smiles and tickles the baby’s chin. I know it, honey. Let’s just hope they get a half-decent judge. You going to testify?

Yes, I am. I can’t wait to tell them what I saw.

Well, that’s good. That’s all you can do. Let me ask you something, Mary Rose. You getting enough sleep?

I jerk my head up from the baby, ready to tell her that I’m fine, my kids are fine, we don’t need anything from anybody, but Corrine is eyeing me like a blackjack dealer watches a card counter.

I could tell her the truth, that some nights I dream Gloria is knocking on my front door again, but I don’t answer it. I stay in my bed with my head under the pillow as the knocking grows louder and louder and when I can’t stand listening to it anymore, I get out of bed and walk down the hall of my new house. When I pull the heavy door open, my Aimee is standing on the porch, beaten and torn up, her feet bare and bleeding. Mama, she cries, why didn’t you help me?

I could tell her about the phone calls I’ve been getting, almost since the day the phone company turned on our new line, and I could say that some nights I can’t tell the difference between being tired and being afraid.

Instead I say, I’m just fine. Thank you for asking.

Corrine starts digging through her pack for another cigarette, her third, but finding it empty, she crumples the package and shoves it in her pantsuit pocket. I could have sworn I had at least a half pack of cigarettes left, she says. Since Potter died, I can’t remember a damned thing. Last week, I lost a blanket. A blanket! She looks longingly across the street at her garage door. Well, I better go move the sprinkler and fix myself another iced tea. Going to see a hundred degrees today. In June!