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Authors: Sarah Shankman
Tags: Fiction
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with all the headaches and long hours attendant to running a business by herself, though the nightmares of the baby lingered.
And so it went, work and more work, and a few years later, just after that terrible Sunday and Mr. Roosevelt’s somber words on the radio telling the country about a place called Pearl Harbor, she had stood behind the counter enough hours, weighed enough potatoes, measured enough fabric, pumped enough kerosene, ground enough meat that the deed to the Norris Grocery and Dry Goods was her very own.
It was after that that the night terrors lifted and the dreams began, the dreams of her rolling a baby carriage down the sidewalk, of people stopping her and saying, “How beautiful, what a beautiful child.” There was no man in the dreams, or, if there was, he was a shadowy figure standing on the edges. He never had a face, not once.
But did she deserve a baby? Did she deserve that kind of happiness?
One Sunday she looked up from the sinkful of soapy dinner dishes she was helping Janey wash and asked, “What’s the most important thing in your life?”
Though this was not their usual kind of conversation, Janey didn’t hesitate a lick. “My kids,” she said. “They’re the only thing that makes it all worthwhile.” There was a pause and they listened to Janey’s husband, Cooter, snoring on the living-room sofa like a pig.
“Would you do it again?”
“With Cooter?” Janey laughed. “Next time I think I’d try to do better than that. But I wouldn’t give anything for my kids.”
“I’ve been dreaming about a baby girl.”
Janey gave her a look out of the corner of her eye, for she knew more than Rosalie suspected. Then she put her arm around her sister and gave her a hug. “Dreams can come true, Ro.”
* * *
Rosalie didn’t believe that for a minute. But Janey had put her up to answering that ad in the newspaper, and now a baby was on its way. Any minute now, Emma, with her china-blue eyes and rosebud mouth, would be hers.
Rosalie heard a heavy motor labor and shift gears. The headlights of a bus whipped the platform. She could recite the landmarks of its passage: New York, Washington, Richmond, Atlanta, across the widths of Alabama and Mississippi on Highway 80 and ninety miles into Louisiana, three days and nights of hard traveling, and here it was.
The bus door banged open, and off marched a fat old lady in a straw hat carrying a basket in her arms. Rosalie couldn’t control her twisting hands. Then a tall gray-haired man, stooped, with a cane. Was that him? Was Jake that old? Rosalie lurched forward one step. But he had no baby.
A colored woman was next, trailing three cranky children crying over their interrupted sleep.
That meant he wasn’t on the bus.
Rosalie’s shoulders drooped, her pounding heart slowed almost to a halt. Negroes sat at the back of the bus, always got off last. This nigger woman was the signal. Rosalie shouldn’t have gotten her hopes up. How could she have expected so much, especially from a stranger?
Rosalie turned and began to walk away, back to the turtlelike gray Chevy she’d parked under a streetlight.
“Rosalie…Miss N-N-Norris?”
She stopped and turned back, and there he was. He had to be Jake Fine, this slender big-nosed man in the dark-brown hat and tan suit. He had to be because in his arms, dressed in a long powder-blue coat edged at the neck and wrists with creamy lace, was her baby, her Emma.
4
1949
It was already hot when Emma got up. The heat usually starts in West Cypress by mid-June, already blistering when you open your eyes unless you do it before dawn. Before air-conditioning, ladies rose with the earliest sounds of bluebirds in the hydrangea bushes, to have a first cup of coffee with their maids in the kitchen and then get them started on the serious business of washing, scrubbing, polishing and cooking before the sun rose high in the sky. Then the pace would begin to slow, and, like mechanical toys winding down,
And so it went, work and more work, and a few years later, just after that terrible Sunday and Mr. Roosevelt’s somber words on the radio telling the country about a place called Pearl Harbor, she had stood behind the counter enough hours, weighed enough potatoes, measured enough fabric, pumped enough kerosene, ground enough meat that the deed to the Norris Grocery and Dry Goods was her very own.
It was after that that the night terrors lifted and the dreams began, the dreams of her rolling a baby carriage down the sidewalk, of people stopping her and saying, “How beautiful, what a beautiful child.” There was no man in the dreams, or, if there was, he was a shadowy figure standing on the edges. He never had a face, not once.
But did she deserve a baby? Did she deserve that kind of happiness?
One Sunday she looked up from the sinkful of soapy dinner dishes she was helping Janey wash and asked, “What’s the most important thing in your life?”
Though this was not their usual kind of conversation, Janey didn’t hesitate a lick. “My kids,” she said. “They’re the only thing that makes it all worthwhile.” There was a pause and they listened to Janey’s husband, Cooter, snoring on the living-room sofa like a pig.
“Would you do it again?”
“With Cooter?” Janey laughed. “Next time I think I’d try to do better than that. But I wouldn’t give anything for my kids.”
“I’ve been dreaming about a baby girl.”
Janey gave her a look out of the corner of her eye, for she knew more than Rosalie suspected. Then she put her arm around her sister and gave her a hug. “Dreams can come true, Ro.”
* * *
Rosalie didn’t believe that for a minute. But Janey had put her up to answering that ad in the newspaper, and now a baby was on its way. Any minute now, Emma, with her china-blue eyes and rosebud mouth, would be hers.
Rosalie heard a heavy motor labor and shift gears. The headlights of a bus whipped the platform. She could recite the landmarks of its passage: New York, Washington, Richmond, Atlanta, across the widths of Alabama and Mississippi on Highway 80 and ninety miles into Louisiana, three days and nights of hard traveling, and here it was.
The bus door banged open, and off marched a fat old lady in a straw hat carrying a basket in her arms. Rosalie couldn’t control her twisting hands. Then a tall gray-haired man, stooped, with a cane. Was that him? Was Jake that old? Rosalie lurched forward one step. But he had no baby.
A colored woman was next, trailing three cranky children crying over their interrupted sleep.
That meant he wasn’t on the bus.
Rosalie’s shoulders drooped, her pounding heart slowed almost to a halt. Negroes sat at the back of the bus, always got off last. This nigger woman was the signal. Rosalie shouldn’t have gotten her hopes up. How could she have expected so much, especially from a stranger?
Rosalie turned and began to walk away, back to the turtlelike gray Chevy she’d parked under a streetlight.
“Rosalie…Miss N-N-Norris?”
She stopped and turned back, and there he was. He had to be Jake Fine, this slender big-nosed man in the dark-brown hat and tan suit. He had to be because in his arms, dressed in a long powder-blue coat edged at the neck and wrists with creamy lace, was her baby, her Emma.
4
1949
It was already hot when Emma got up. The heat usually starts in West Cypress by mid-June, already blistering when you open your eyes unless you do it before dawn. Before air-conditioning, ladies rose with the earliest sounds of bluebirds in the hydrangea bushes, to have a first cup of coffee with their maids in the kitchen and then get them started on the serious business of washing, scrubbing, polishing and cooking before the sun rose high in the sky. Then the pace would begin to slow, and, like mechanical toys winding down,
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