turning, and she cracked the door, peered at me across the chain, then stood back so I could enter.
I stepped into an old-fashioned parlor with spacious high ceilings and long, narrow windows that dropped to the floor. The corner fireplace boasted its original mantel, although the marble was stained and darkened with dust. Stacks of old newspapers and dank, dusty curtains gave the room an unpleasant musty smell, but sunlight drifting in from the windows caught the intricate scrolls carved on the molding. The cheap braided rug couldn’t conceal the dark pine floors that it covered. This place was, as they say, the
real
thing.
An ancient TV blasted from a makeshift coffee table, and the green sofa behind it looked as if it had been dropped in from a 1960s sitcom. Two matching black cups were next to the TV, and a baby’s high chair with a soiled pink bib tossed on it leaned against a back wall. The smell of burned toast and fried bacon drifted in from what I assumed was the kitchen.
The woman herself was stocky and moved awkwardly, but her face was pretty, with flawless red-brown skin and high, angular cheekbones. Bright strands of silver ran through her silky black hair, which she wore high on her head in an unruly bun reminiscent of Mrs. Butter-worth. But she had probably been as much a beauty in her day as this old house was; time and hard luck had worn them both down. I put her in her early seventies, but she moved like someone older. Her red chenille housecoat was buttoned to the top and looked as threadbare as the couch to which she led me. Avoiding my eyes, she pulled a Marlboro out of a purple case and lit it, pulling the smoke in hard and blowing it out harder.
“Beautiful place you have here.” I made a stab at conversation, and she smiled.
“It’s all I got, this house; love it like kin. Each and every soul I have ever loved been part of it.” I was as struck by her candor as I was by the sorrow in her brown eyes.
“Did Thelma Lee tell you she’d asked me to come?”
She shook her head, and her eyes were blank. “She didn’t tell me nothing.”
“Does she live here?”
“Yes, she does.”
“And the baby?”
“She stay here, too.”
I wondered how much she knew and what I should tell her. Best to start with the truth—or a piece of it.
“I’m working for the baby’s grandparents, Mr. and Mrs. Treyman Barnes. They hired me to find their grandchild, who is missing. I received a call from Thelma Lee last night, and she told me that she had the child and was eager to turn her over to the Barneses. I’m here to pick her up.”
“She’s just the cutest thing I’ve ever seen, that baby, ain’t she? Just like her pretty little mama.”
“Yes, she is. Is Thelma Lee here?” Best to get this over and get out as soon as I could.
“You see her sitting here? I don’t see her sitting here. Unless she turned invisible, she ain’t here. You think she invisible?” She said it with a cackle that surprised me; the woman definitely had an edge. I remembered then that Lilah Love had called her Sweet Thing. Maybe folks called her “sweet thing” like they’ll call a six-foot kid “little man,” chuckling whenever they said it.
“Do you know where she is?”
“Heard the phone ring this morning, then I heard her hightail it out of here before you knocked at the door.” She picked up the cup and took a sip of whatever was in it.
“Did she say who it was?”
“Nope.”
Probably Barnes,
I thought. “Before we go any further, let me get your name.” When I did my report for Barnes describing our conversation, “Sweet Thing” wasn’t going to get it.
A door opened suddenly, and the smell of breakfast food filled the air. “Call her Miss Edna; that’s her given name. Miss Edna Sweets. I call her Sweet Thing, but that just for family,” said the man who walked through it, holding a slice of bacon in one hand and coffee in the other.
“You here about Thelma Lee and that damned
I stepped into an old-fashioned parlor with spacious high ceilings and long, narrow windows that dropped to the floor. The corner fireplace boasted its original mantel, although the marble was stained and darkened with dust. Stacks of old newspapers and dank, dusty curtains gave the room an unpleasant musty smell, but sunlight drifting in from the windows caught the intricate scrolls carved on the molding. The cheap braided rug couldn’t conceal the dark pine floors that it covered. This place was, as they say, the
real
thing.
An ancient TV blasted from a makeshift coffee table, and the green sofa behind it looked as if it had been dropped in from a 1960s sitcom. Two matching black cups were next to the TV, and a baby’s high chair with a soiled pink bib tossed on it leaned against a back wall. The smell of burned toast and fried bacon drifted in from what I assumed was the kitchen.
The woman herself was stocky and moved awkwardly, but her face was pretty, with flawless red-brown skin and high, angular cheekbones. Bright strands of silver ran through her silky black hair, which she wore high on her head in an unruly bun reminiscent of Mrs. Butter-worth. But she had probably been as much a beauty in her day as this old house was; time and hard luck had worn them both down. I put her in her early seventies, but she moved like someone older. Her red chenille housecoat was buttoned to the top and looked as threadbare as the couch to which she led me. Avoiding my eyes, she pulled a Marlboro out of a purple case and lit it, pulling the smoke in hard and blowing it out harder.
“Beautiful place you have here.” I made a stab at conversation, and she smiled.
“It’s all I got, this house; love it like kin. Each and every soul I have ever loved been part of it.” I was as struck by her candor as I was by the sorrow in her brown eyes.
“Did Thelma Lee tell you she’d asked me to come?”
She shook her head, and her eyes were blank. “She didn’t tell me nothing.”
“Does she live here?”
“Yes, she does.”
“And the baby?”
“She stay here, too.”
I wondered how much she knew and what I should tell her. Best to start with the truth—or a piece of it.
“I’m working for the baby’s grandparents, Mr. and Mrs. Treyman Barnes. They hired me to find their grandchild, who is missing. I received a call from Thelma Lee last night, and she told me that she had the child and was eager to turn her over to the Barneses. I’m here to pick her up.”
“She’s just the cutest thing I’ve ever seen, that baby, ain’t she? Just like her pretty little mama.”
“Yes, she is. Is Thelma Lee here?” Best to get this over and get out as soon as I could.
“You see her sitting here? I don’t see her sitting here. Unless she turned invisible, she ain’t here. You think she invisible?” She said it with a cackle that surprised me; the woman definitely had an edge. I remembered then that Lilah Love had called her Sweet Thing. Maybe folks called her “sweet thing” like they’ll call a six-foot kid “little man,” chuckling whenever they said it.
“Do you know where she is?”
“Heard the phone ring this morning, then I heard her hightail it out of here before you knocked at the door.” She picked up the cup and took a sip of whatever was in it.
“Did she say who it was?”
“Nope.”
Probably Barnes,
I thought. “Before we go any further, let me get your name.” When I did my report for Barnes describing our conversation, “Sweet Thing” wasn’t going to get it.
A door opened suddenly, and the smell of breakfast food filled the air. “Call her Miss Edna; that’s her given name. Miss Edna Sweets. I call her Sweet Thing, but that just for family,” said the man who walked through it, holding a slice of bacon in one hand and coffee in the other.
“You here about Thelma Lee and that damned
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