Candles Burning by Tabitha King Page B

ransom.
    And while Mama had threatened to kill me so many times that I could hardly take it seriously, I knew that she had never threatened to kill Ford, not in my hearing. She doted on him; he could do no wrong in her eyes.
    â€œMoney? You can have mine. You can have that silver dollar I got hid in my bedroom at home.” I reconsidered. Daddy gave me that silver dollar for my fifth birthday. “If you really want it.” Now it seemed like we were dickering. “You could let me have that Fred Hatfield card you got.”
    â€œI can take that old silver dollar anytime I want. You are never getting that Fred Hatfield, you might as well forget it.”
    I was relieved; if he took it from me, then I was absolved of the guilt that a trade would have carried.
    I heard Mamadee’s step in the hall.
    â€œMamadee!” I whispered.
    Ford held his finger to his lips. We both froze. Mamadee paused at the powder room door.
    â€œCalley? Ford? Ford, baby, you in there? I heard you. You sick, baby boy?” The doorknob rattled violently. “You unlock this door right now.”
    The solitary window was too high and small for escape. There was no way out. Ford never did have sense enough to make sure he had a way out. He shot me a look of warning and flicked the lock.
    Mamadee stood in the open doorway with her hands on her hips. “Just what is going on?”
    â€œNothing, ma’am,” Ford said. “We just had to do some crying, so we come in here so as not to bother anyone.”
    My stomach gurgled loudly.
    â€œCalley,” Mamadee said. “How many times have you been told not to swallow air?”
    She engulfed Ford in an embrace that he could not gracefully escape. I lingered only long enough to enjoy his discomfort.
    â€œMy poor, poor orphan boy,” Mamadee murmured. “Don’t you worry now, I’ll keep you safe.”
    Slipping past them and out the door, I heard Ford hiss, sadly, like a tire with a nail in it.
    I stopped with my hand on the doorknob of the library. Mama was inside, talking on the telephone.
    â€œâ€”never informed that the police were gone to search my home. I never saw a search warrant—” There was a pause for an answer, and then Mama continued, “I beg your pardon? You had no business ‘sparing me,’ Mr. Weems. You had no business authorizing an invasion of my home. You do not have my power of attorney”—her voice went high and shaky—“that was only to get the ransom money! You had better explain this right now. I will expect you within the hour.”
    The telephone receiver crashed down onto its cradle.
    Mama blew her nose. “Jesus God,” she muttered.
    I opened the door and peeked in. She was sitting at Senior’s desk.
    â€œYou heard everything, I suppose,” Mama said. “You never mind those words I just used. I am having a crisis. I do not know what is gone on but I do not care for it one bit.”
    â€œMama, would you like me to rub your feet?”
    She chortled incredulously. “Yes, I would, Calley. Yes, I would.”
    Mama yanked up her skirt and unhooked her garters. I pulled up a hassock and sat on it to roll down her silk stockings and rub her feet.
    â€œThe only useful thing that silly old man had to tell me was that your late beloved daddy owned a plot in some backside-of-the-moon boneyard. Isn’t that just the cherry on the whipped cream!”
    I guessed that boneyard meant cemetery but the significance of owning a plot, a single plot, in one, escaped me. All I knew was that Mama did not like it.
    All the good of the foot rubbing I did went to waste, like the meal that Tansy had prepared for us. An hour later, two hours later, Mr. Weems had not answered Mama’s summons to Ramparts, nor was anyone answering her phone calls to the Weems house. The Edsel was still on its way back from New Orleans, by arrangement with Uncle Billy Cane Dakin, and Mamadee