Judge Stone by James Patterson - 8

The preacher never made it to the kitchen door. He was stalled midway, brought to a halt by a young woman dressed in a tight pair of well-worn jeans. When the woman buttonholed Reverend Erskine, Nellie made a scornful noise.

She nudged me. “Mary, check her out. You see that one? Pastor would be wise to turn and run. Run for his life.”

I did look, just to see what Nellie was going on about. The woman smiled up at Erskine, talking a mile a minute. She was laser-focused on the preacher until a child toddled up and grabbed her around the leg.

Without looking down at the child, the woman whirled around and called out, “Nova!”

Beside me, Nellie made a disapproving click with her tongue. “I can tell you who she’s hollering for. Nova, that’s her oldest. I see the girl at school. I’ll have her in my math class next year. She’s finishing seventh grade.”

Nova ran up to her mother. The girl had a child in her arms, two more trailing behind her.

Nellie kept talking as she grabbed a gallon of milk from my refrigerator and carried it back to the door. “That girl Nova looks a lot older than she is. You’d think the child was in high school, she’s so big. Really stands out. She’s taller than most of the boys.”

The revelation stirred memories. “I was a big girl. It’s not easy.” I still recalled exactly how it felt to tower over everyone, to be the first girl to wear a bra. What it was like to explain to the teacher that I desperately needed to run to the restroom in the middle of class.

My sister and I stood together, watching Nova peel her sibling away from her mother’s leg. Nellie said, “That mother’s still in her twenties. Has five children, no man at home. But she runs up to the church every time the pastor opens the door. What do you think about that?”

My voice was neutral. “I don’t think I should judge.”

Nellie’s laugh sounded like a hoot. “You judge people all day long. It’s your job.”

Hugging the plastic milk jug, she shouldered her way through the screen door. As it banged shut, I checked the clock over the stove.

It was past time to feed my guests. Still holding the sugar bowl, I made my way out of the house and into the yard, stopping to greet people as I passed them. We’d lucked out with the weather, had a brilliant blue sky overhead. The late March sun was just right, not too hot. People were comfortable, whether they stayed in the shade of the porch, or in the middle of the yard, or under the old birch trees laden with Spanish moss.

As I set the sugar by the oatmeal pot, Reverend Erskine came over. “Always a pleasure to break bread at your table, Judge Mary.”

“Thank you, Reverend. Will you lead us in prayer?”

He did a creditable job, knew when to wrap it up. I was glad of that. Hungry people don’t appreciate a mealtime grace that runs overlong.

Keeping dishes filled while folks went through the line was a group effort. Jordan ladled the oatmeal while Nellie served bacon and sausage and I dished up the eggs and grits. People helped themselves to biscuits, rolls, the covered dishes neighbors had shared. A separate table held a coffee urn, milk, cold water, and juice. I had to keep an eye trained on how the food was holding out. I had Jordan’s husband take my place while I ran into the kitchen for more butter and juice.

Walking back out, I got a rush of satisfaction seeing all those folks enjoy the breakfast. Every seat on the porch was filled, and clusters of people sat on old sheets spread across the yard in the shade. I saw Nova and her mom struggling to keep all those little children corralled. The youngest was a baby who kept crawling off the sheet and into the grass.

I walked over and scooped him up. He was a pretty boy, with eyes like buttons.

Nova started to rise. I shook my head, to keep her seated. “You eat your breakfast, hon. I’ll hold this big boy for a bit.”

Nova looked at her mother for permission before she sat back down and spooned up oatmeal for her little sister. I caught her looking over her shoulder, across the field. In a voice so soft I could barely catch it, she said, “You got a lot of pretty trees.”

The dogwoods were blooming, redbuds starting to fade. I said, “It’s been a good year for dogwoods. Weather must be just right for them.”

She looked up at me. “How’d you plant so many?”

“Oh, honey, they grow wild on my farm. Dogwood trees have been growing here as long as I can remember.”

The young mother spoke up. “Is she bothering you about the trees? That child is always going on about them. Showing off how she knows so much about flowers and all.”

The woman shaded her eyes with her hand and smiled up at me. “You’re the judge, aren’t you? Judge Mary? I’m Starla Jones. These are my kids. We’ve been going to Victory Baptist, that’s how we heard about your Saturday picnic.”

I knew every soul in that town, but I rarely encountered her. “Welcome, Starla. I’m happy y’all could come.”

Her little boy bounced on my hip, chewing on his fist. I whispered to him, talking baby talk. Starla glanced at the child in my arms and said, “Nova, did the baby eat his cereal? I don’t want him crying in an hour.”

Nova scurried around, looking for the little boy’s foam dish of oatmeal. I took it from her. Plopped myself down on the tattered sheet and balanced the baby in my lap.

The girl looked hesitant, like I might not be up to the task.

I said, “Nova, I had two little sisters. I used to feed Jordan oatmeal just like this. You sit down and eat. Do you have a plate?”

Nova shook her head and whispered, “I don’t want any breakfast. Thank you, though.”

Starla’s voice rose. “All this food out here, and you didn’t get nothing to eat? What’s the matter with you?”

She answered in a voice even softer than before. “I don’t feel good, Mama.”

“You got nothing to feel bad about. I bring you to a judge’s house, and she invited you to eat. Don’t give me any attitude. Get you a plate.”

“I said I’m not hungry.” I could hear tears in the girl’s voice.

“Nova, you fix your face right now.”

Oh, Lord, I thought. Here it comes.

Scooting sideways, I put my back to them, gave the baby another spoonful of cereal and scraped the excess off his chin. Tried to pretend I couldn’t hear Starla fussing with her daughter about breakfast.

But it was impossible to ignore. Nova whispered, “My stomach hurts. I need to go to the bathroom.”

“Are you kidding me? You’re thirteen years old. You know better. You’re supposed to pee before you get on the church bus.”

I had to intervene. “Y’all, it’s fine. Nova, you go in the house through that screen door, and the bathroom’s just beyond the kitchen.”

Starla wanted to argue with me, but I was insistent. Nova sat unmoving on the ground, looking miserable.

That’s where I was—sitting on the ground holding a baby—when a news van pulled into my yard. I watched the vehicle pull up within yards of my house.

“What the hell?” I said. I should’ve watched my language. One of Starla’s children repeated it. I heard a child exclaim, “What the hell?”