Tomato Girl (21 page)

“Maybe you and your mother could move to another house.”

“I don't think it's that easy, Mary. Mama doesn't have any money.”

Mary nodded. “I forgot about that.” She paused a moment, then said, “What about the money in your jar under the bed?”

“It wouldn't be enough.” Sometimes I thought Mary Roberts knew everything. Other times I found myself amazed by the things she didn't know. My sewing money would maybe pay for one night in a motel or maybe one week in a run-down boarding house. That's it. There wouldn't be enough for food or coffee or even bars of soap.

“Okay,” Mary agreed. She sighed, as if trying to solve the problem wore her out. I knew that feeling. I carried it with me all the time.

Mary moved onto a problem she could handle. “Will we need a bigger jar? My mother only had this one and a pickle jar, but if I go back and look in my father's garage, I bet I could find something bigger.”

“No, that will be big enough. It's a small baby. Nowhere near the size a baby is supposed to be.”

I walked over to the freezer and forced open the lid. I quickly took the little packet from the ice vault, then let the freezer lid slam shut. The Reynolds Wrap felt cold in my hand, stinging my fingers. “I need to lay the baby down,” I told Mary.

She knelt on the floor and motioned to me, “Here, sit.” She patted the cement.

I sat on the floor and faced Mary, then placed the wrapped baby between us. We both stared at the frosted package as if we expected the silvery paper to open like petals.

Mary twisted off the lid and sat the jar beside the wrapped baby.

“Should we wait for the baby to thaw?” I asked.

“No, I don't think so.” Mary's eyes darted from the tinfoil to the jar.

“What if its skin peels off when I unwrap it?”

“It won't.” Mary didn't sound as certain as she usually did, and her words gave me little comfort.

“How do you know?” I wanted proof or at least some explanation.

“Well, I don't know for sure, but I don't think it will because skin comes in layers. When you get a sunburn, and peel off skin, there is more skin under it. So even if some of its skin peels off, there will be another layer beneath it.”

Reassured, I picked up the tinfoil and, bit by bit, I unwrapped the baby from its shiny blanket.

Mary gasped when the baby's pale blue skin was exposed. “It's so small,” she said.

“It wasn't done growing,” I explained, pulling away the last layers of foil.

We stared at the frozen baby lying on the floor, tiny ice crystals glistening on its skin.

I waited for Mary to say something, but she only stared. I tried to think of something to say myself. “It doesn't look much like a real baby, does it?”

Mary shook her head no. I hoped seeing the baby wouldn't make her stutter worse.

We couldn't sit there forever. Mama could still be outside alone, and I didn't know if Daddy would return for her. I wasn't even sure how long I'd been asleep before Mary returned with the formaldehyde. “Well, let's just put the baby in the jar,” I said, picking up the little corpse with both hands. It felt stiff and cold, and fit easily into my hands. The baby was no more than six inches long, with a large head and small body. It had eyes, but they weren't open, and looked more like black seeds wedged under chalky blue skin. The mouth was a slit like a papercut, and the nose, just a tiny bump. The baby had arms and legs, but there were short stubs with little webbed nubs where fingers and toes belonged. A thin, dark piece of ropelike tissue hung from its belly. Some of Mama's blood had dried on its bluish skin.

“It needs a bath,” Mary said.

“I don't want to wash it,” I said. I remembered Mama in the bathtub the night the baby died, how the water turned pink with blood.

“Well, the formaldehyde should clean it some,” Mary offered.

“Right.”

She held the open jar out to me. The sharp smell of the chemical burned my nose and eyes, and I blinked to keep back tears. I tilted the baby so he'd go into the jar feet first. Even though small, he took up most of the room in the jar and caused some of the formaldehyde to spill over the edge and wet Mary's hands. She screwed the lid back in place, put the jar on the floor, and wiped her hands on her dress. Mrs. Roberts would scold her if she got her dress dirty. I hoped Mary had the sense not to tell her mother what we'd done. We needed to keep this our secret. Forever.

As Mary had guessed, the formaldehyde washed some of the blood from the baby's skin. Soon, the liquid inside the jar turned pink and little red flecks settled to the bottom. The baby in the jar reminded me of the snow globe I'd gotten for Christmas.

Just then, the cellar door opened and let in a tunnel of light. “Ellie?” Daddy called. His boots made heavy thuds as he walked down the steps.

Mary and I looked at each other. “Hurry!” I whispered.

I wadded up the tinfoil and held it in my hand. Mary grabbed the jar and hid it behind the onion bin just as my father's legs came into view.

Daddy sat down on the bottom step. He nodded at Mary, then looked at me. His eyes were deep, sad pockets. “I want to know about the baby, Ellie. I need to see for myself.”

I
THOUGHT
D
ADDY WOULD
be mad about the baby, but he looked more sad than angry. He hadn't shaved in two days; black stubble darkened his face. Circles hung like half moons under his bloodshot eyes. His hair stood on end the way it did when he first woke in the morning.

Mary stood near the onion bin. From the way she looked at her feet and picked at the hem of her dress, I knew she was nervous. She didn't want to get in trouble for her idea about the formaldehyde.

I walked to the bin, dropped the wadded tinfoil I'd been holding, then picked up the jar. The glass felt cool and moist. Carefully, I took the few steps from the onion bin back to my father, then placed the jar in his hands. Something caught in his throat when his fingers touched the glass, causing him to make a sound like choking. He swallowed, then took a deep breath and slowly let it out. I sat close to him.

My father turned the jar to look at the baby from different angles, finally tilting it to stare at the baby's face. “Such a wee
thing,” he said, then repeated it. A tear slid down his unshaven cheek. He handed the jar back to me.

“Can I give it to Mama?” I asked.

“I don't know, Ellie,” he began, rubbing his face with both hands as he hunted for an answer, maybe many answers.

“Please, Daddy, this is all she has left.”

He nodded, swallowing again. His voice shook as he spoke, “Of course. Yes, you're right. Give her the baby, Ellie.”

Daddy stood, then walked back up the stairs, leaving open the cellar door.

“I d-don't want to come when you give the b-baby to your m-m-mother,” Mary said. She stepped out of the corner. “I want to g-go home.”

I walked over to Mary and hugged her. “It's okay, you don't have to come. Let's go.”

It felt good to leave the cellar. The day had turned overcast. Pale shadows softened the trees and turned the last few pansies in the garden a navy blue.

At the top of the stairs, Mary gave me a quick hug and took off running toward her house, where her mother would scold her for staining her good dress and her father would remind her that money doesn't grow on trees. For a moment, I wished that I could trade places with Mary Roberts. Being scolded for a soiled dress was easier than being a girl with a dead baby in her hands.

M
AMA WASN'T UNDER
the crab apple tree, so perhaps Daddy had helped her inside. I looked for Jellybean's body, but it was gone, too. His open grave still held the cardboard box we'd buried him in, but it was empty.

Overhead, Daddy's shovel still hung in the tree. Holding the Mason jar in one hand, I picked up a huge piece of sod in my other hand and threw it, knocking the shovel to the ground. A surge of anger swelled up in me, and I began hurling clump after
clump of sod, throwing as hard as I could, pulling my arm back so far my shoulder hurt. I needed to hear the thud of dirt against the tree, to see the clumps break apart and fall to the ground.

“Hey there, young lady,” a man yelled from the front of the house.

Startled, I dropped the last clump of dirt and turned around. The postman walking toward me. “Hi,” I said, quickly picking up the jar and hiding it behind my back.

The postman noticed the small grave under the tree. “Burying a pet, are you?”

“Yes, my baby chick died.”

“Well, I'm mighty sorry to hear that, Ellie. My girl lost her kitten last summer, and we buried it in our yard, too. I made her a real nice cross from tree limbs. Say, I got my pocketknife with me. I could whittle you up a cross for your chick in no time at all,” he offered.

“Uh, no, that's okay. We're going to put a stone marker on his grave.”

“I see.” He looked around the yard. “Somebody plowed up your mother's pansies? Well, goodness, I can't imagine that. To plant tomatoes?”

“The tomato girl is living with us now, and she needed a place for her plants.”

His eyebrows lifted, and he scratched his ear. My story didn't seem to make sense to him, but it was true and I couldn't think how to make it sound any better.

“The tomato girl? That would be Mason Reed's girl, I reckon?”

“Yes,” I said. I wanted to say no, she's my Daddy's girl now, but held my tongue.

“I thought so. I got a letter here from her father.”

Why would Tess's daddy write her? Was it because she'd taken the tomato plants? Or had Mama telephoned him like she planned? What could he want?

The postman continued. “Mr. Reed doesn't write too good,
and I wasn't sure about the address.” He dug in his bag, pulled out an envelope, and held the letter out to me.

I adjusted the jar behind my back, moving it so I could hold it with one hand and take the envelope in the other. “Thank you, I'll see she gets it,” I said, smiling. I hoped he would leave soon; I couldn't hold the jar for long, and if I dropped it, the postman would see the dead baby. Or worse, the jar might break and spill the baby on the ground.

“Well, I guess I'll be going. Here's the rest of your mail,” he said, holding up the newspaper.

“Thanks.” I didn't move.

“Seems you have your hands full,” he said when I didn't take the newspaper. “Want me to put the mail on your front porch?”

I nodded yes.

“That your chick behind your back?”

I nodded again, wondering if a nod was really a lie.

“You don't have to be afraid to let me see. Death is nothing to be ashamed of, Ellie.”

“I don't want to,” I said. The jar was beginning to slip. I couldn't hold onto it much longer.

He tipped his hat. “Okay then, Miss Ellie. I'll leave these on the porch. You make sure you deliver that letter,” he said, pointing to the envelope in my hand. “Give my best to your folks. And once again, I'm real sorry about your chick.”

“Thank you.” I waited for him to leave, then placed the jar on the ground beside my feet. Not wanting to be seen by anyone else, I quickly tucked the letter inside my sock, picked up the jar, and walked into the house to find Mama.

T
HE HOUSE WAS
so quiet I could hear the clock ticking on the kitchen wall. I checked all the rooms downstairs. No one was there. The house looked a little cleaner. Someone had swept the pansies and dirt from the kitchen floor and placed the furniture where it belonged. The dishes hadn't been washed, but
were piled into the sink. I knew that somebody had been smoking, because I could smell it in the room. At first I thought Mr. Morgan had visited while I slept, then remembered both my parents sometimes smoked when upset. Coffee cup rings darkened the counter where a pack of matches and ashtray rested.

Upstairs, the door to my room stood ajar. Carefully, I tiptoed closer and peeked through the crack. Daddy was lying in my bed, his arm wrapped around Tess. They faced the window, but Daddy's deep even breathing told me he was asleep. I started to place the letter on the bed beside Tess, but decided to wait. What if Daddy woke first and found the letter? Would he be angry that Mr. Reed wrote Tess?

I walked a little further down the hall and went into Mama's room. She rested in her bed, propped up against pillows. Mama's eyes were closed, her breathing so slow and shallow her chest barely moved. Her eyelids looked as milky blue and thin as the skin covering the dead baby, and suddenly I felt afraid. Is this the way people die, turning blue at the edges, in tiny places like eyelids and earlobes?

“Mama?” My voice came out sharper than I wanted, and surprised me.

She opened her eyes, blinking a few times as if to focus. “Ellie?”

“Yes, Mama, it's me.” I sat down on the edge of the bed and faced her, but left the jar in my lap with my hands covering it so she couldn't see it right away. “You're all clean,” I said, touching her gown.

“Daddy took care of me,” she said and smoothed the front of her bodice. “He bathed me and changed my gown, even put a bandage on my head.” She pointed to her forehead. “He still loves me, Ellie. Deep in his heart, he does. Even though he did a bad thing when he tore up my flowers and gave me the shot, he didn't mean it. It's the stress, you know. Stress can make a man do strange things. It's because of that girl. She puts lies in his head.
She's trying to turn him against me because she wants him for herself.”

I nodded, not knowing what else to do or say.

“Oh, I brought Jellybean back inside for you,” she said, pulling back the cover to show me. My chick lay on the pillow next to her, his green and yellow feathers speckled with dirt.

I didn't understand why God killed little things like Jellybean and Mama's baby. Mrs. Roberts once explained that God takes someone good when He needs an angel. But it seems so unfair. Why would God send little souls into the world just long enough to let somebody love them, then snatch them away? Didn't God know how much Mama needed her baby? Didn't He know how much I needed Jellybean? With His own hosts of angels, why take away those we love?