Aunt Carrie sat on the top step of her front porch, working her fingers through my hair to give me what she’d called a “German braid.” From what I could tell, it snaked all the way around my head like a crown or halo. It didn’t matter much to me what it looked like. All I cared was that my hair was off my neck. I liked the way the breeze cooled my skin when my hair was pulled up.
She was gentle with my hair, Aunt Carrie was, never pulling harder than she had to when running a brush through or doing the over-under-over-under work of braiding.
“My hair was nice and smooth like this when I was young,” she told me, pinning the last bits of hair so it would stay in place. “Mine wasn’t this pretty shade of blond.”
“I like your brown hair,” I told her. “I always wanted my hair to be dark.”
“Why’s that?”
“So I’d look more like Mama.”
Aunt Carrie put her hands on both my shoulders and gave them a kind squeeze.
“She’s not my real mama,” I told her, glancing at her over my shoulder. “Did you know that?”
“I did,” Aunt Carrie answered. “Does it bother you that I know?”
“Not really.”
“I promise I won’t tell anyone.”
“All right.”
She told me I should come inside and look at my hair in the mirror in the room she shared with Uncle Gus. I did and thought she’d done a real nice job and I made sure to tell her so.
“Most girls wear their hair quite short these days,” she said.
“Mama likes my hair long.” I shrugged. “She’d be sore if I got it cut.”
“Well, I think it’s pretty.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
She touched my cheek and I thought what a good mama she would have made. But she never had any kids and it made me wonder why not. When I’d asked Mama, she’d just told me it was none of my business and barred me from asking Aunt Carrie.
But Mama was back at the house on Magnolia Street doing who knew what. I didn’t figure she’d ever find out what Aunt Carrie and I talked about.
“Why didn’t you ever have any children?” I asked, letting my words come out slowly and in a quiet voice. “Didn’t you want any?”
“Oh, I did. I wanted ten. Twelve, even. Enough to fill this big old house.” She reached out and pushed a stray strand of my hair into one of the hairpins. “It just never happened. I couldn’t even have one. Sometimes that’s just the way of things.”
“Does it make you sad?”
“Every once in a while,” she said. “It was harder at first, when we still thought it might happen. Now I know that I’m barren.”
“What’s that mean?”
“I’m not able to have babies,” she answered. “You’ll understand when you’re older.”
I thought I understood enough then. Aunt Carrie suffered from what Meemaw would have called a dried-up womb. According to Meemaw, that was the condition old Sarah from the Bible’d had and why she didn’t give Abraham a son right away.
“Then, the Lord God done give her a boy even in her old age,” Meemaw had said. “Praise Him!”
“Meemaw,” I’d asked that day. “Do you think you might have a baby, then?”
“Oh, Lord no.” She’d shook her head and cackled with her mouth open wide. Then she’d lifted both her hands toward heaven and looked up at the ceiling. “Please, God, no.”
I’d laughed right along with her. I didn’t understand what was so funny, but it sure had been nice to hear her laugh like she did.
“Aunt Carrie, do you ever think God might see fit to do a miracle on you?” I asked.
“To give me a child?” she asked back. “Oh, I don’t know. I suppose if He wanted to, He could find a way.”
“But miracles don’t happen anymore, do they?”
“Well, I don’t know about that.” She joined her hands together in front of her, fingers laced together. “Do you think they do?”
“I don’t know,” I answered.
“Come with me,” she said.
I followed her out of the bedroom and through the kitchen where Aunt Carrie handed me a basket. She took one too. Then, out to the garden we went to gather the ripest and freshest tomatoes I’d ever seen. We pulled full-formed carrots from the dark soil and cut zucchini at the stem.
It wasn’t a half hour later and both our baskets were full to overflowing of good food. I had to tuck a couple cucumbers under my arm since they wouldn’t fit in the basket.
“Looks like I’ll have a good canning year,” Aunt Carrie said. “Gus will get sick of all the stewed tomatoes halfway through winter.”
She loaded a wagon full of gifts from her garden. Once Ray came in from working the fields with Uncle Gus she told us we should go ahead and take that wagon with us back home to Mama.
“She’ll like all this, don’t you think?” Aunt Carrie asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” I answered.
She put both her hands on her hips and let out a contented sigh. I did the same, hoping the more I echoed her the better chance I had of growing up to be like her.
I imagined, for the smallest of moments, how it might be if Aunt Carrie was my mama. Then I lowered my hands off my hips and did my best to put the idea right out of my mind. It would’ve broke Mama’s heart to know I entertained such a thought.
“It’s been such a treat to have you with me today,” she said. “I hope you feel at home here.”
I nodded, wanting so bad to tell her how it was the homiest place in all of Bliss but not knowing how to get the words out right.
As Ray and I walked away, trying to keep the wagon steady on the rutted dirt road, I was quiet, thinking about what she’d said.
The whole way back home I asked God if He wouldn’t think on making Mama be her normal self by the time we got back to the house on Magnolia Street. I sure did miss the Red River Mama.
Seemed to me the God who hung the stars and spread the waters over the earth could do something so small as that.
Ray and I got the wagon pulled around to the back porch and carried in all that we’d brought home from the farm. Mama did put me right to work setting the table for supper, but not before I washed my hands real good. And she did send Ray to scrub in a bath.
“I do believe you found all the dirt on that farm,” she said to him.
I thought sure my prayer had worked. She wore a real nice smile on her face when she said that.
Ray got himself to the tub and I heard the water running and then a sloshing sound when he got in. I imagined he’d gotten half the bathroom floor good and wet in the process. The way Ray splished and splashed made me think he’d grown to enjoy a good soak in the tub.
Mama came to the dining room to check on me. She rested her hands on the back of one of the chairs and told me I was doing a fine job. That made me stand up a little taller.
“Oh, just three plates, though,” she said. “Your father’s working all night, I guess.”
She gathered the extra plate and napkin and silver, taking them back into the kitchen, humming the whole time.
Something in my heart felt dry and barren.