Taking Care of Moses Read Free Page A

scuffed and worn. He tapped his toe when the Celebration Choir sang “Love Lifted Me.”
    After the service, Randall waited for Jaybird outside the Fellowship Hall behind the church.
    Jaybird limped toward Randall. “I don’t care what Mama says,” he said, “I’m taking these dang shoes off.” He untied his shiny brown oxfords and yanked them off.
    â€œI’m tellin’,” Althea sang out as she skipped up the sidewalk toward them.
    â€œLike I care, you creeping crud ball.” Jaybird wiggled his toes inside his socks. His skinny ankles stuck out from beneath the cuffs of his trousers.
    Althea stuck her chin in the air. “I’m going in to see the baby ’cause Mrs. Jennings said I could baby-sit.”
    â€œBabies can’t baby-sit babies,” Jaybird said. “Right, Randall?”
    Althea turned her cool gaze to Randall.

    â€œRight,” he said, bracing for whatever pain Althea was about to inflict on him.
    She stomped the heel of her patent leather shoe on his foot. Then she skipped off down the sidewalk and into the Fellowship Hall.
    Randall and Jaybird followed her into the cinder block building. Inside, it was hot and noisy and smelled like coffee and after-shave. Grownups stood in clusters or sat on folding metal chairs and talked while kids darted in and out, snatching brownies and pound cake from the tables that lined the walls.
    Randall followed Jaybird through the crowd to where a group of women huddled. Right in the middle of the huddle sat Althea, holding a tiny baby.
    â€œLook,” she said, pushing back the pale yellow blanket to reveal the dark brown face of the sleeping baby. “His name is Moses. Ain’t that perfect?” she said. “Like in the bulrushes and all?”
    â€œSays who?” Jaybird snapped.
    â€œSays me,” a voice behind them said.
    Randall and Jaybird looked up at the smiling face of Mrs. Charlotte Jennings, the preacher’s wife.
    â€œA baby’s got to have a name, right, boys?” she said.
    Althea rocked the baby back and forth. Her petticoat made a swish-swish noise against the metal chair.
    â€œWhat are you going to do with it?” Jaybird asked.

    â€œHim,” Mrs. Jennings said. “The baby is a him . And I’m going to swaddle him in the brotherly love of the church until such time as the troubled soul who has forsaken him comes forward to reclaim him. Like a lost LAMB, he has come to us.”
    Jaybird looked at Randall and Randall looked at Jaybird. Mrs. Jennings was as good at preaching as her husband, sprinkling her conversation with those loud words like that.
    â€œHow are you going to find the troubled soul?” Jaybird asked.
    Randall’s heart beat fast inside his stiff Sunday shirt. He wondered if his secret showed on his face because the voice inside his head kept hollering, “I know who the troubled soul is.”
    Mrs. Jennings smiled down at the baby in Althea’s lap. “We will BIDE our time and hope that LOVE shows the way,” she said.
    Randall tugged on the sleeve of Jaybird’s jacket. “Let’s go get some pound cake,” he said.
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    That night, Randall tore a page out of his sketchbook, crumpled it into a ball, and tossed it into his wastebasket. Babies were hard to draw. Randall could draw just about anything. But babies were hard to draw.
    Instead of a baby, Randall drew a wagon. Then he drew a cardboard box inside the wagon. Then he drew
a tall woman with wild black hair looking into the box. He tried to draw a floppy straw hat on her head, but it looked funny. He erased so much the picture was beginning to smudge. Instead of a hat, Randall put a bow in her wild black hair. He carefully tore the page out of his sketchbook. Usually he saved his drawings for Mr. Avery and Queenie. But not this one. This one he folded into a small square. Then he opened his underwear drawer and pushed the square of folded