The Cradle Robber. E. Joan Sims
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before the birds got up. Rudolfo and his pals had promised to return at seven, and Mother wanted to fix breakfast for them. Cassie and I scrambled a million eggs while Mother made biscuits and pancakes. Soon the kitchen was full of the delicious aroma of sizzling bacon and baking bread. By nine o’clock it was gathering flies—a huge soggy mess on the patio table.
“I can’t believe this,” pronounced Mother in a voice filled with displeasure. “Of all the inconsiderate things!”
“I can’t believe it, either,” I grumbled. “All that good food gone to waste. Thanks a lot for not letting us eat until they got here, Cassie. Now I wouldn’t touch that crap with a ten foot pole. And I’m starving.”
“We couldn’t have eaten first!” protested my daughter. “It would not have been polite.”
“Yeah? And just what do a bunch of illiterate wetbacks know about manners?” I responded angrily. “They didn’t even call to tell us they weren’t coming!”
“Mom! How could you?” cried Cassie as she burst into tears. “How could you be such a bigot! Remember, it was one of those so-called illiterate wetbacks who saved our Aggie!”
“Yeah! And thanks a bunch for that, too! Just what I always wanted, ‘the return of Fang.’”
Cassie jumped up and ran into the house. She slammed the screened door so hard the wind chimes detached from the porch ceiling and fell to the floor with a loud melodic crash.
“Oh, dear,” murmured Mother. “Do you think that was all quite necessary, Paisley?”
I sat back in my chair and gazed morosely at our moldering breakfast buffet.
“I suppose not. But I’m mad as hell.”
“Language, dear.”
“Damn it, Mother, I am mad. And hungry. Pass me a biscuit—from underneath the pile. Maybe there’s one or two left that the flies haven’t crapped on.”
“Please.”
“What?” I asked distractedly. I thought I heard a car coming up the driveway. Maybe the Mexicans were coming after all.
“You forgot to say ‘please.’ And I’ve asked you repeatedly not to use foul language,” she protested. “Paisley, I’m your mother and this is my home. You need to honor my wishes.”
Andy Joiner’s police car pulled into view and ruined the rest of my morning.
“Damn it all to hell. Look who’s here, Mother. It’s Deputy Dawg. Damn! Drat and drat!”
“Paisley Sterling! Have you not heard a word I’ve said?” declared my outraged parent.
“Humm? What, Mother? I’m sorry. Tell me again after Andy leaves.”
I grabbed the silver coffee pot and poured the tepid liquid out in the grass at the edge of the patio.
“Paisley, what on earth are you doing? You’ll ruin what’s left of the grass,” she sputtered.
“How’s the cream? Is it still okay?” I asked, still ignoring her.
I sniffed deeply of the cream pitcher, and poked viciously with my index finger at the soft sagging stick on the butter dish.
“Paisley! That’s quite enough!”
“You’re right. I’ll get some fresh butter and cream, too.”
I balanced the pitchers and butter dish in my arms and hurried towards the kitchen. I smiled as I heard Mother utter one of my “vile epitaphs” under her breath. I had won this round. My mood was improving by the minute.
I dumped the souring cream in the sink and grabbed a clean pitcher from the china cabinet. I deliberately chose an old one with a chip in the handle. Mother would hate that. And when I put fresh butter on the dish, I left a piece of the wrapper on the stick. She wouldn’t say anything in front of Andy, but she would be brooding over those two minor details the whole time he was here. I bounced back out to the patio in total good humor.
God got me almost immediately. Andy Joiner was his instrument.
“Morning, Andy,” I sang out gaily. “Fresh hot coffee? The eggs and bacon are rotten, but the biscuits and jam are still better here than any where else in Lakeland County, even if the flies have been…”
“Paisley, shut up!” shouted Mother, astounding both me and Andy.
“Well, sure. If you say so. Although I…”
“Paisley,” she continued in a tightly controlled voice, “Andy has just presented me—us—the inhabitants of Meadowdale Farm, with an injunction against the direct hiring of non-citizens to perform any labor whatsoever on our property.”
“What the hell?” I protested.
“Look, Paisley, Miz Sterling—this has nothing to do with you all personally,” said Andy, as he shifted uncomfortably from one big foot to the other.
“I should hope not!” declared Mother.
“What does it have to do with, Andy?” I asked softly. “Is it just a coincidence that we sat here for two hours watching fifty pounds of food go bad while we waited for a bunch of guys who can’t help us anymore—and you show up with this paper? What’s going on?”
“Look, Paisley,” he began. “Mind if I sit down?”
“Help yourself,” I said, plopping down in a chair opposite him. “And help yourself to some coffee, and biscuits. The ones on top are the freshest,” I added wickedly.
Mother and I went over the legal papers while Andy fixed his coffee. I watched out of the corner of my eye as he picked three big biscuits from the top of the pile. He ate them quickly, washing them down with a second cup of coffee.
“Thanks,” he sighed with satisfaction. “I didn’t have time for breakfast this morning and I was a mite famished.”
“Have some more then,” I said pushing the biscuit plate closer. “And some bacon. Make yourself a sandwich.”
“Thanks, Paisley. I really appreciate your not holding a grudge,” he said with a winning smile.
I felt a guilty little twinge in the pit of my stomach. “Let me fix some fresh bacon. Won’t take me but a minute.”
“There’s no bacon left, Paisley. We cooked it all,” observed Mother dryly.
“Thanks, just the same, ladies. I don’t really need anything else. It’ll be lunchtime soon and Connie’s bringing something to the office for me.
“Who is behind this nonsense, Andy?” insisted Mother waving the injunction like a banner. “Jimmy Hershey’s been a friend for fifty years. I can’t believe he signed this ridiculous piece of paper. What’s going on?”
Andy shook his head slowly.
“I’m not really sure what’s going on. Seems to me like it would be a good idea to let those guys help out. Everybody else in town is swamped, and I know the Mexicans need the money. Most of the tobacco crop was wiped out by the storm, and they don’t have anything else to do right now. They don’t make much money in the best of times, and what they do make most of ’em send it back regular to their families. Two months without work could make a big difference, and it’ll be at least that long before plantin’ time. But I guess their contractor won’t let ’em do any outside work.”
Andy looked acutely uncomfortable. That was a long speech for him and I was sure he felt like he’d said too much. I probably should have let it go at that, but he had said something that piqued my interest.
“Contractor? I thought these men were independents who went wherever there was a need for laborers.”
“I’m not just exactly sure how it works,” said Andy, “but from what I’ve gathered, it’s