Mercy Me (16 page)

I didn't feel equipped to do all this, but who else was there?
Time is of the essence,
I thought.
I'll take the bull by the horns, and if it's the last thing I do, I'll see to it those precious children are spared the clutches of big government.

“Lord,” I said aloud, “help me keep ahead of all them bureaucrats sniffing out cases like this one.”

At the courthouse they kept sending me from one office to another. I had to be cagey, not tell them everything, lest they turn me over to Social Services and take everything out of my hands.

The first question I asked got an answer that scared the daylights out of me. I inquired of some bored-looking clerk what the government did with immigrants who didn't have their citizenship papers yet. He looked at me as if I were from outer space. “Illegal aliens are deported.”

Smart alec! He looked like something from outer space himself. I could tell he loved his work; he seemed about ready to lie down beside it and go to sleep. Splurgeon said it right: “Idle people are dead people that you can't bury.”

I went down the hall, looking for another likely source of help. I saw a sign that said
PROBLEM RESOLUTION OFFICE
. Sounded like a winner. There were a lot of people waiting, and I had to take a number. I don't know how long I sat there, maybe forty-five minutes, before my number came up. Turns out the people in that office only solve IRS problems. Some skinny woman sent me to Health and Human Services. They gave me forms to fill out that made no sense at all. I asked a woman filing her fingernails if I was in the right place. She said, “It's the right place if you're a Medicaid client.” Seeing I was about to blow a gasket, she said, “You probably need the Social Security Administration down the hall.”

By the time I got there and sat in the waiting room another half an hour, I was frazzled. Seeing how worn out I was, a woman about my age came around the
counter, took me in a private office, and had me sit down across the desk from her.
Anybody that kind must be trustworthy,
I thought, and before I knew it, I was telling her the whole truth, nothing but the truth, so help me God.

She listened carefully, and when I was finished, she said, “What you need is a private investigator. He'll find the father and the birth certificates. You also need a lawyer. I don't know much about adopting foreign-born children, but there's a couple in my church adopted a child from China. I'll find out what I can from them. Give me your phone number, and if I come across anything helpful, I'll get back with you.” She stood up and reached her hand across the desk to shake mine. “Miss Esmeralda, I'll be praying for you and that family.”

Can you believe a saint like that works for the Social Security Administration! All the way home, I thanked the Lord for her. Now I knew what to do—get us a private eye and a lawyer. Of course, that was going to cost big bucks, but the Lord always provided. I didn't ever worry about money.

I sailed home in record time.

Lucy met me at the door, just beaming. “Esmeralda, guess what? I got some information today. When Thelma was trying to get a little Jell-O in Maria, I was able to ask a few questions. Little by little, she gave me a few answers. I kinda had to piece together what she told me.”

“Go on.”

“Well, it seems that after the earthquake in Guatemala, Maria and her boyfriend joined a band of migrant workers
coming to the States. They were a rough bunch, stealing and drinking, fighting. After they slipped across the border, they had to avoid the law. That's why Maria never went to a hospital to deliver her babies. The best I understand, she was alone in a field when Angelica was born.”

“How long have they been in the States?”

“I'm not quite sure, but all of her children were born here. One year they worked in California, but the migrants murdered a woman and had to run from the law. They worked their way through Texas. That's when Maria's boyfriend started doing drugs. He beat her too, but because she didn't speak English and didn't have a green card, there was no way she could get away from him.”

“How awful for poor Maria!”

Lucy nodded. “I know. And when they moved from Florida up the east coast, following the crops, they stole a van, and her boyfriend held up a store. By the time they reached the South Carolina border, Maria knew they'd be caught, and she was terrified she might lose her children. Then one morning she found her boyfriend dead in a ditch from an overdose.”

“Mercy me, Lucy, you got a lot of information! Do you know how she got to Live Oaks?”

“Yeah, she said after her boyfriend died, some men in the group came on to her strong. Their women didn't like that. As they were traveling north, on the outskirts of Live Oaks, the women pushed her and the children out of the van and sped off.”

“Good night!”

Lucy shook her head. “I wonder where she got the virus.”

“There's no telling.”

“Esmeralda, I know being a hooker is a bad sin, but what else could Maria do? I can see why she wound up like she did—couldn't speak the language, had no way to feed her children. Afraid of the law . . .”

“It's sad, Lucy, it's sad. And to think such as that went on right under our noses.”

I could see Thelma was still in there with Maria, and I knew she would stay long enough for me to get my ducks in a row. Lucy was talking a mile a minute.

“I know. I see stuff like that on TV, but it's hard to believe it's happened right here in Live Oaks. Maria wanted to tell me more, but she was given out. Maybe I can get some more out of her later.” Lucy brushed a strand of hair out of her face. “What did you find out at the courthouse?”

I started toward the kitchen to get busy on the phone. “Can I tell you about it later?” I asked. “I need to make some phone calls.”

“Sure. Oh, by the way, Beatrice called. She said to tell you she and Carl went to church and that Carl is bald on top and uses his pigtail to do a comb over. She fixed Sunday dinner for him, and the couple upstairs also ate with them.”

I couldn't help but smile at that. “Thanks, Lucy, I'll try to call her. But right now I have got to find us a lawyer.”

Lucy put her hand on my arm. “One more thing,” she said, looking worried. “Maria's afraid to die.”

Well, that piece of information didn't surprise me one bit. I had worried that neither the pastor nor I could speak
to Maria about the Lord. “Lucy, since you're the only one speaks Spanish, it's up to you to show her the way.”

“Well, I tried to say something.”

“Good . . .” I walked over to the window; somebody was pulling up in the driveway. It was the cruiser, with Horace at the wheel.
I wonder what he wants?
I walked out to the porch to meet him.

Well, Horace wasn't nearly the officer of the law chasing me on the highway; he looked like a shorn sheep, drooped shoulders, head down. He got out of his car and walked over to me.

“What can I do for you, Horace?”

“Miss Esmeralda,” he said softly, “you said I should come and see for myself.”

“You want to see Maria?”

“Yes'm.” He fingered the cap he held in his hands, looking scared to death.

“Well, all right,” I said. “I'll see if you can.”

Well, it wasn't all right. I went into the sickroom to have a peek and found that Maria had started coughing and was spitting up blood. I turned around and started to tell Horace to wait a minute, but I didn't. I figured he might as well see what it was like to have AIDS.

I beckoned to him, and he followed me in. After not a minute, that poor boy was gagging on the odor of the sickroom. He bolted out of there. I could hear retching, gagging, and some more throwing up.

“What's the matter with Horace?” Thelma asked. She was helping Lucy clean up Maria.

“He's sick to his stomach. Listen, girls, I've got to try to find us a lawyer, and if I don't call now, their offices will be closed.”

“Go ahead, we can manage,” Thelma said.

Being a law-abiding citizen, I was not personally acquainted with a single lawyer in the county, and with the reputations lawyers have got, I wondered if I could find a good one who wouldn't squeeze the last penny out of us. I was thumbing through the yellow pages and, wouldn't you know it, here came Horace back inside.

“I'm sorry, Miss Esmeralda. I got to clean up that mess out here on your front porch.”

“The front porch! Mercy me, boy, couldn't you make it to the yard?” I wet a washcloth and handed it to him, then went to the broom closet to get the stuff he needed to clean the porch. I gave him detergent, a bucket, my scrub broom, and a can of disinfectant. “Use the garden hose in front to wash it off. Be sure you scrub the porch and spray it good with disinfectant. Try not to leave any sign or smell of that vomit on my porch.”

I didn't mean to sound harsh, but I know I did. When I had a minute, I'd apologize or make it up to him some way. That poor boy was going through hell with nobody to confide in and no mother to comfort him.

I went back to the yellow pages, where there were names and ads of lawyers all over the county, as well as from Columbia. I couldn't count the number of those full-page ads of accident attorneys. What we had to deal with was no accident.

I scanned page after page but got nowhere.

Horace finally shut off the hose and gathered up the cleaning stuff to bring back inside. He walked around the house and came in the back door.

“Horace, look in the fridge and get yourself some ginger ale. That'll help settle your stomach.”

The boy looked so pale and scared, I really felt sorry for him. “You'll have to look for it—it's way in back somewhere.”

After poking around and making me nervous, he finally found the ginger ale and stood in the middle of the floor, not knowing where to find a glass.

“Go in the laundry room, Horace. You'll find a paper cup in that package on the washer.”

He found it, poured himself the cold drink, and sat across from me at my kitchen table. “Thanks,” he said. I grunted and turned the page.

“What're you looking for?”

That was none of his business, so I didn't answer. The boy just wanted to talk, and I was too busy to talk right then.

“I got tested today.”

I looked up from the phone book. “At the hospital?”

“No, the med center.”

Well, I knew why he didn't go to Carson City General—it was too close to Live Oaks and he didn't want his business spread all over the county.

“They say it'll take seven to ten days before I'll know anything.”

Watching me turn another page and run my finger down the list of names, he asked again, “What're you looking for?”

Ordinarily, I would have told him it was none of his business, but that poor boy needed what kindness I could give him. “Well, Horace, I'm looking for a good lawyer.”

“A good lawyer? Daddy knows all the lawyers in the county and in Columbia too. If you need a lawyer, he's the one to ask.”

I was in no position to ask Sheriff Thigpen for any favors, but I wasn't getting anywhere searching the yellow pages. Lucy was calling me.

“All right, Horace, ask your daddy to give me a call. And today, Horace. Right away.”

Sure enough, as soon as Horace got home and told him, Thigpen called me. I gave him all the details, and he said he'd get right on it.

17

Lucy and I were giving Maria her morning bath when I heard an engine roaring up outside.

“Sounds like a motorcycle,” Lucy said.

It was. When I made it to the door, I saw the thing parked in the driveway. A man who looked like one of those long-haired, tattooed bikers was waiting for me.

“Can I do something for you?” I asked.

“Esmeralda! Don't you recognize me?”

With that helmet and goggles, he didn't look like anybody I'd have the least interest in knowing. He pulled off the helmet and goggles and laid them on the glider, then unzipped his leather jacket. Well, I tell you, if I had a belly like his, I would never unzip my jacket.

“No, I don't know you, and we've got sickness here. Get to the point, mister. State your business.”

“Esmeralda, it's Percy Poteat!”

“Percy Poteat?” He looked worse than roadkill. “What funny farm did you escape from?”

“Ha! Aren't you going to invite me in?”

Invite him in and it's inviting trouble, more of which I don't need,
I thought. “Well,” I said, hesitating, “you can come in, but I can't give you more than a few minutes. Like I said, we have got sickness here.”

He opened the screen door.

“Wipe your feet, Percy,” I ordered, pointing to the rug. I tell you, I didn't like this one bit. Nothing good could bring Percy Poteat back to Live Oaks after all these years. Why, he hadn't even come back for his own mama's funeral!