Mama Rocks the Empty Cradle Read Free Page B

that, to keep on my father’s good side, Cliff acted like he enjoyed these stories. Every time my father stopped talking, Cliff would pop a beer and ask him another question.
    By seven o’clock, my father seemed satisfied with Cliff’s attentiveness. (Besides that, all of the beer was gone.) Mama suggested that Daddy lie down for a while but, of course, he wouldn’t consider that. Hesaid he had to make a trip to his buddy Coal’s house. Coal lived in the town of Darien, a fifteen-minute drive from Otis.
    Mama went to her room to, as she said, make a few phone calls. (I suspected to call Coal to tell him to keep an eye out for my father, although she’d never admit to it.)
    My parents had remodeled the back of their home the past spring. A wall had been torn out and double-hung floor-to-ceiling windows had been installed; the new look gave the kitchen and the adjoining family room the illusion that they were completely glass. Both rooms now opened into a backyard garden of herbaceous borders, fragrant roses, and gardenias. Azaleas thrived under the limbs of a big oak tree, and a new chain-link fence was bordered with bright annuals.
    Cliff and I sat outside in the garden. Daddy’s dog, Midnight, stretched out at our feet. I’d told Cliff that my visit to Otis would last a week because of Mama’s surgery. Cliff had news for me, too. He would be going to L.A. His stay would be a minimum of two weeks. His most vocal client, Mrs. Campbell, wanted him near while she inventoried one of the houses that were being sold as part of her divorce settlement.
    We sat and talked and watched the summer sun set over peaceful Otis until nine o’clock, when Cliff headed back to Atlanta.

    My parents’ bedroom had a freshness to it, like linen that had been washed in bleach and hung outside to dry. Sunlight from a skylight overhead streaked across the floor, illuminating a cherry TV/VCR armoire. It had glass knobs and a bottom pull-down door. Mama loved that armoire—she’d bought it for herself in celebration of obtaining her bachelor’s degree from the University of the State of New York Regents External Degree program.
    Their bed was a four-poster, cherry, like the armoire. The windows were draped in white Priscilla curtains with tiebacks. On the floor was a Persian rug, something that my father had gotten on the black market during one of his tours near the Persian Gulf.
    It was Tuesday morning, nine-thirty A.M . to be exact. Twenty-four hours had passed since Mama had her bunions removed. She lay in the four-poster bed, her feet propped up on a stack of large pillows. The doctor had told me to make sure her feet stayed elevated above her heart. Mama had a concerned expression on her face, like something was on her mind. I surmised it was because she was so helpless, something
very
rare.
    I’d cooked her breakfast, nothing as elaborate as she would have fixed for me had it been I who was incapacitated—whole wheat toast, jelly, coffee, and two scrambled eggs. I suspected the eggs were a little runny but I didn’t want to overcook them. Mama had chided me more than once for scrambling eggs too hard.
    Now she looked down at her plate and smiled. The glint in her eyes told me that she was wondering whether she could live through a week of my cooking. Still, she said in a voice that sounded genuinely grateful, “Thanks, honey.” I told her it was no problem and went to call my office.
    Minutes after I’d gotten off the telephone after touching base with Sidney’s secretary, Shirley, the phone rang. Back in Mama’s room, I answered it, thinking that maybe Shirley had forgotten to tell me something.
    “Candi?” a familiar voice on the other end asked.
    “No,” I answered. “This is Simone.”
    “Is Candi able to talk on the phone?” the voice asked.
    “Just a minute,” I said, putting the phone down and reaching for Mama’s tray. “Sheriff Abe wants to talk to you,” I told her.
    Mama nodded, then reached over and