The Baby Bump

The top west side cupboards were completely emptied out when she was interrupted by the sound of a motor—a lawn motor. She glanced outside, and then immediately climbed down and sprinted outside. A total stranger was driving a green lawn-mowing tractor. She’d never seen either the tractor or the man before, but once she chased after him—and finally won his attention—she could at least make out his features. He was an older black man, with a graying head of hair and soft eyes.

He shut off the mower when he spotted her.

“I don’t understand,” she started with. “Who are you and why are you here?”

“I’m Jed, ma’am.”

His voice was liquid sweet, but that explained precisely nothing. “You don’t work for my grandfather.”

“No, ma’am. I’m retired. Don’t work no more.”

When she started another question, he gently interrupted with a more thorough explanation. “I stopped working anything regular, but I’m sure not ready for a rocking chair yet, and I have time on my hands. Dr. Ike now, he delivered my grandchild, knowing ahead the family couldn’t pay him. So I’m paying it off this way. By doing things he finds for me to do. Not to worry. I’ll check the oil and the gas and the blades when I put the mower back in the shop. I know my way around tractors.”

She didn’t know what to say, and when she didn’t come up with anything fast enough, he just tipped his baseball cap and started the noisy motor again.

She stood there, hands on hips, and debated whether to call Ike immediately to give him what for … or to wait. Waiting seemed the wiser choice, because he’d be in the middle of his workday, likely seeing patients. So she went back toward the kitchen, thinking that the cleaning chore would give her time to think up what to say to him, besides.

She checked on Gramps and Cornelius, who’d turned on a radio to some station channeling rock and roll from the 1950s. But they were moving—at least until she showed up, and then they complained that they were too old to do this much exercise, that she was killing them, that she was cruel. She brewed everyone a fresh pot of Charleston’s Best—everybody’s favorite tea—then sent them back to work.

The kitchen looked as insurmountable as it had when she left it—but it wasn’t as if she had an option to give up. The job had to be done, so she hunkered back down. She had her head under the sink when she heard the front doorbell.

She waited, thinking that her guys would obviously answer it—but no. The bell rang. Then rang again. She stood up and yanked off her plastic gloves as she stomped down the hall. A lady was on the other side of the screen door. A plump lady, wearing an old calico dress, her thin brown hair tied up in a haphazard bun.

“I know who you are,” she said gruffly. “You’re Cashner’s granddaughter, Ginger Gautier. And I’m your new cook.”

Ginger frowned. “I don’t understand. We don’t have a cook.”

“Well, you do now. I don’t do tofu, I’m telling you right off. No sushi, either. You want something fancy, you need somebody else.”

Ginger started to speak, but the woman was downright belligerent, particularly for someone who’d shown up out of the blue. Without giving her any chance to answer, the lady pushed open the screen door and marched herself inside, aiming straight down the hall to the kitchen.

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