Moose and Goose

Chapter Seventy-nine

Judith drags her nails back and forth across her flaking chest, standing over her mother as she runs hot water in the tub. It's eight-fifteen in the morning, and Rembrandt is at the bar in Darlington, per usual, while Stevie and Vera are sleeping off their fevers.

Judith's baby hairs stick to the skin around the circumference of the edge of her head, just above her large forehead. She's sweating the way her father used to yet shivering as if the bathroom is cold.

Sheryl turns the knob to shut the faucet off, then drags her fingertips above the water, leaving trails of wrinkles.

"Okay, you can get in now." She shakes her hand dry before rubbing her fingers against the side of her floral dress. Judith trudges closer, and Sheryl takes her hand to guide her into her tub. "Hopefully, this helps. Otherwise, I'll have to go to the pharmacy, and I'm too busy for that. I'm trying to get everything packed for New York."

"When – are you leaving," she shudders through her question. Sheryl opens the box of plain oatmeal leaning against the tub on the floor as Judith lays her head back. The cloudy, milk-infused water gradually turns cinnamon brown as her mother shakes the oats around her shivering body.

"I don't know. I'll think more about it when you three are better." She forces a smile to ease her daughter's concerns. She darts her eyes onto the door, and her mother crumbles the wrappers near her kitten heels. "When do you plan to head to Morehead? Will I have to drop you off?"

"I don't know, and I doubt it." Sheryl swirls the water against her hand, forming a whirlpool of specs of grains. "Kacey really wants to go, and I think she'll be upset if I don't take the offer. She says I'm the face of this – idea, and if I change my mind, it'll ruin things for everyone involved."

"Do you wanna go?" Judy solemnly looks at her and nods. "Then what's the issue?"

"The kids," she starts to say, but her mother interrupts.

"Enough. I'm the parent, and whether you believe it or not, I have their best interests at heart. You're nineteen, Judy. No kids, no husband to tie you down, and nineteen eighty is right around the corner," Sheryl reminds her. She takes a deep breath with her chin to her chest, calming herself when she overexcites herself. "Did I ever tell you how I met your father?"

Christmas 1954

"Here's a letter from Oakland, California." Sheryl sits a dingy envelope on the counter, and the white man in front of her slides it towards himself.

He's wearing a green and white striped shirt tucked into his white shorts, black suspenders holding them in place. He stands with a hunched back and a cold gleam in his icy blue eyes.

She watches him lean forward to support his weight on the counter, and he rips the envelope open with his thumbs. Sheryl peers over his head at the three others waiting— a white woman and man are standing together, and a black man is far behind them— then back to the elder reading his letter.

"This says it was sent three weeks ago." She takes her eyes off the last customer. "Why wasn't it in my hand before now?"

"We've been trying to find you since it arrived, but," she stops herself when he lifts his bushy, blond brow. "I'm sorry, sir."

"You're sorry? My daughter's telling me in this letter that her mother's dying, but she's probably gone already because you nigger women don't know how to get a letter out quick," he raises his voice. She bounces her eyes onto the couple behind them as they look at each other with concern. "Hello? Are you hard of hearing?"