I crawled into the dumbwaiter after I dropped my coat on the floor, then slid open the door just a slot. Momma was probably still in the foyer taking off her wet coat and muddy white boots.
Then she appeared in the doorway, minus her coat and boots. I hadn't even had the time to check and see if my grandmother was in her rocking chair-- but she was there all right.
Stiffly she rose, facing my momma, hiding her trembling hands behind her back, the veil hiding most of her face as it hid all of her hair.
Something small, weak and young inside of me wanted to cry as I saw Momma step into "her" room, still carrying Cindy, only Cindy's outer clothes had been taken off. She was completely dry, while Momma's hair stuck to her face and head like strings. Her flushed face looked so feverish I again wanted to cry. What if God struck her dead this second? What if death by hellfires was what He really wanted?
"I'm sorry to burst in on you like this," said my momma. I'd thought she'd pitch right into her. "But I must have a few answers to my questions. Who are you? What is it you tell my youngest s
on? He's told me terrible things he claims you told him I don't know you, and you don't know me, so what can you tell him but lies?"
So far my grandmother hadn't said a word. She kept staring at Momma, then at Cindy.
My grandmother gestured toward a chair, then inclined her head as if to say she was sorry. Why didn't she speak?
"What a lovely room," said Momma, glancing around at all the fine furniture. There was a troubled look in her eyes, even her smile seemed forced. She put Cindy on her feet and tried to hold onto her hand, but Cindy wanted to explore and see all the pretty things.
"I'm not going to stay any longer than necessary," Momma went on, keeping an eye on Cindy, who had to touch everything. "I have a severe cold and want to be home in bed, but I must find out just what you have been telling my son so he comes home and says terrible things. And doesn't respect me as his mother. When you can explain, Cindy and I will leave."
Grandmother nodded, keeping her eyes lowered, like she truly was some Arab woman. I guessed from the odd way Momma kept looking at her she was thinking this was a foreigner of some kind who didn't understand our good English.
Momma sat down uninvited near the fire, as Cindy came to perch on the raised hearth near her legs.
"This is an isolated area, so when Bart comes home and tells me the lady next door has told him this and that, I knew it had to be you. Who are you? Why are you trying to turn my son against me? What have I ever done to you?" Her questions went on and on, for the woman in black wouldn't speak. Momma leaned forward to peer more closely at Grandmother.
Was Momma suspicious already? Was she so smart she could tell despite the disguise of the black veil, the long loose black dress? "Come now, I've given you my name. Be courteous enough to tell me yours."
No answer, just a shy nod of the black veiled head.
"Oh, I think I understand," said Momma with a perplexed frown. "You must not speak English."
The woman shook her head again. Momma's frown deepened. "I truly don't understand. You seem to understand what I say, yet you don't answer. You can't be mute or you wouldn't have been able to tell my son so many lies."
Time was ticking away loudly. Never heard the clock on the marble mantle tick so loud before. My granny just rocked on and on in her chair, like she'd never speak or raise her head.
Momma was beginning to be annoyed. Suddenly Cindy jumped up and raced to pick up a porcelain kitty. "Cindy, put that down."
Obeying reluctantly, Cindy carefully replaced the cat on the marble table. The minute the cat was out of her hands, Cindy looked around for something else to do. She spied the archway to the next room and ran that way. Jumping to her feet, Momma hurried to prevent Cindy from roaming. Cindy had a way, like me, of wanting to examine everything--though she didn't drop things as often as I did.
"Don't go in there!" cried out my grandmother, as she too stood up.
As if stunned, my mother slowly turned around, Cindy forgotten. Her blue eyes widened and the color drained from her face as she kept staring at the woman in black who couldn't keep her nervous hands from straying up to the neckline of her black dress. Soon she had the rope of pearls and was twisting them between her fingers.
"Your voice, I have heard it before."
Grandmother didn't speak.
"Those rings on your fingers, I've seen them before. Where did you get those rings?"
Helplessly my grandmother shrugged and quickly released the pearls, which dropped down out of sight under her black robe. "Pawn shop," she said in a strange, raspy, foreign way. "Bargain."
Momma's eyes narrowed as she continued to stare at the woman who wasn't a stranger. I sat breathless, wondering what would happen when she knew. Oh, Momma would find out. I knew my mother couldn't be so easily fooled.
As if her knees were suddenly weak, Momma sank down on the nearest chair, unmindful that her clothes were still wet, unmindful that Cindy had wandered into the other room.
"You do understand a little English, I see," she said in a quiet slow way. "The moment I walked into this room, it was as if the clock had been turned backwards, and I was a child again. My mother had the same taste in furnishings, the same choice of colors. I look at your brocade chairs, your cut velvet ones, the clock on your mantlepiece, and all I can think of is how very much my mother would have approved of this room. Even those rings on your fingers look like the rings she used to wear. You found them in a pawn shop?"
"Many women like this type of room . . . and jewelry," said that lady in black.