Ever since she lost her child, Mrs. Culpepper had been reduced to staring out the window through faded yellow curtains while the rocking chair swayed to a manic rhythm of her own making. Surprisingly, the monotonous back and forth motion made Rosetta oddly calm. It was when it stopped that she became unsettled. Mrs. Culpepper would stare not at her ,but through her while asking the same question she had asked the day before. “Your ma coming t’day?”
“Yessum, Rosetta said.
“She bringin’ the baby?”
“Dunno, Ma’m.
“How old’s your sister now? Must be ‘bout my babe’s age,” Mrs. Culpepper said before turning back to the window. Several months had passed and Mrs. Culpepper still wasn’t convinced that her baby died. When she was lucid, she thought Beryl’s baby belonged to her. On other days, she stayed in her room her mind locked on the day she gave birth.
Rosetta was annoyed by the same question day after day. However, ever since Mrs. Culpepper’s incident, Col. Culpepper insisted that everyone call it that, she was more inclined to hold her tongue. “Same as yesaday ‘cept one day older,” she said.
Secretly, Rosetta didn’t really mind helping Mrs. Culpepper clean. Even though the knick knacks and bric-a-brac seemed to serve no other purpose than to collect dust, she lovingly handled and carefully studied each and every one. Those she favored were as dark as her and had flaming puffy lips that bore unnaturally wide smiles for such small faces. She never knew any of her own people to be that happy.
