Leann Sweeney - Pick Your Poison

“I have some aspirin. Would that help?” She stepped back so I could enter.

Like Daddy would have said, easy as stepping in East Texas mud. Can’t slam the door in someone’s face if they’re already inside.

She led me down a hallway, and I managed to catch a peek in the living room, where three very pregnant young women sat on a worn-looking velour sofa watching television.

We entered a country kitchen, and the smell of something wonderful cooking in a giant pot on the stove enveloped me. Chicken and dumplings maybe? The woman unburdened me of the flowers I had picked up at the local grocery store, and I sat at a gigantic table covered with a red-checked cloth. The woman placed a tall glass of lemonade in front of me. She then started struggling with the childproof cap on the aspirin bottle she’d pulled from a cupboard near the sink.

“My five-year-old grandnephew opens these things in a flash,” she mumbled. “The only ones they keep from the medicine are the arthritics like me.”

“Please don’t bother with the aspirin,” I said. “See, I have a confession. I don’t really have a headache, and I’m not delivering flowers.”

She stopped fiddling with the cap, her face wary, her smile gone. “How’s that, young woman?” she said sternly. “Are you selling something or fixing to rob me? Because if that’s the case, I don’t have much to take.”

“Nothing like that. If you can spare a few minutes, I’d like to explain.”

She poured herself a glass of lemonade and sat opposite me. “Are you in trouble? Is that it?” Despite her irritation, she seemed genuinely concerned.

“I’m troubled, yes, but it’s not what you think. And so complicated, I’m not even sure where to start.”

“The beginning usually works.” Her smile returned.

“I’ve made up so many stories lately, the idea of simply telling the truth seems... strange,” I said.

“If I can, I’ll help you. There’s still a few people in this world you can trust, and I’d like to think I’ve lived long enough to understand most of what human nature is capable of. Tell Sally Jean about this trouble.”

“It’s odd. I’ve never lied this easily before the murder.”

“The murder?” Her eyes widened. “You didn’t murder someone, did you?”

“Of course not. It has to do with Samuel Feldman. I got your number off the Parental Advocates office phone, and I want to ask him a few hard questions, but the only phone number and address I could come up with were connected to the office.”

“I can tell you where he is, but first you need to tell me why I should.”

“You know where he is?” I sat straighter in my chair.

“You must want to see him real bad to sneak in here with your daisies and your fake headache.”

“I think he murdered my yardman. And maybe someone else... a long, long time ago.”

She closed her eyes and made the sign of the cross. “It wouldn’t surprise me one bit. It’s a sad thing to believe that about another person. He’s a cold one, he is. But start at the beginning, Miss... What’s your name, honey?”

“Abby. Abby Rose. And yours?”

“Sally Jean Daniels. All the girls call me Sally Jean, and you will, too. Explain about this murder you say Sam did, may God have mercy on him.”

“I don’t have hard proof, but the story began in a little town north of Houston called Shade....”

By the time I finished my narration, I could tell nothing I’d said surprised her.

“I’ve lived here ages and ages caring for pregnant girls,” she said. “Making sure they eat right and get enough exercise and all that. But not until Melvyn—he was my husband—not until he died did I begin to suspect the only light at the end of my tunnel was an oncoming train.”

“What do you mean?” I said.

“I’m not good with math... figures... you know. I never saw the bills. Melvyn worked with Feldman on the business end of running this place. The Doc—that’s what the girls called my husband—treated the girls; then Sam Feldman paid him for services rendered. But after Melvyn’s funeral, I discovered that even though I’m bad with arithmetic, Melvyn missed more of the basics in addition and subtraction than I ever did.” She shook her head. “A financial nightmare, let me tell you.”

“Wait a minute. Young women giving up their babies for adoption stay here, right?”

“Going on thirty-five years now,” she said.

“And you work for Parental Advocates?”

“That’s what I was trying to explain. If you had said ‘Parental Advocates’ to me six months ago I would have looked at you like you were as nutty as a Corsicana fruitcake. But as I waded through those legal papers after the Doc’s death, I learned how the whole thing works.” She crossed her arms, barely spanning her broad bosom.

“You don’t seem thrilled,” I said.

“This business has changed, nothing like it used to be when Melvyn was alive, that’s for sure. But he left me nothing but a bunch of worthless stock, so I gotta keep working, and this is all I know how to do.”

“I take it Mr. Feldman hasn’t been the best employer.”

“He’s just in it for the money, of course. But he stopped coming here a while back. Grew to be a hermit. We talk on the phone, but I don’t see him anymore, which was working fine for me. But he married that skinny, fast-talking woman right before he took to his house. She’s young enough to be his daughter, mind you. Anyway, she started bringing the girls over here and handling the business. She expects me to run this place like a prison, and I hate her ways. These youngsters have made mistakes, but it doesn’t mean they’ve lost their rights as human beings.”

“Are you talking about Helen Hamilton?” I asked.

She nodded. “The two of them live in the fancy section of town. Do you realize what people pay to adopt a baby these days? Thousands and thousands of dollars, that’s what. Yet my salary’s not much more than when we first started here. Of course, Melvyn and I never did this only for money—not like those two.”

“You’ve been doing this for thirty-five years?” I asked, wondering if Cloris had come here to have her baby.

“That’s right. I’m not a registered nurse, just vocational, and Melvyn was only a GP, but I think we did okay. Only lost two babies in all those years.”

“You and your husband delivered them?”

“Sure did. Not in the last ten years, though. Times have changed. Not that I don’t know how to deliver, but I’d need a midwife certification from the state. We gave the girls the best, most inexpensive care for a good many years, though. After the Doc died, I discovered most of them could have had the finest room in any hospital for what those adopting families paid Feldman, but he cut costs and pocketed most of the cash.”

“Ben’s wife, the one I told you about from Shade? Her name was Cloris. Do you remember her?”

“Cloris? Let me think.” Her lips moved in and out as she concentrated; then she said, “Yes! Yes! I do remember her! Unusual name. Right after she gave birth she changed her mind about the adoption. Took one look at those beautiful twin girls and said she couldn’t give them up.”

“Twins?” My heart hopped. “But I never realized—”

“Wait a minute,” said Sally Jean, holding up a restraining hand and shaking her head vigorously. “It’s all coming back. Cloris got real bent out of shape once she realized she’d never see them again. Not that some girls hadn’t balked before. But if they wouldn’t sign the adoption papers, Sam Feldman would hire a family to keep the baby for a few days. That way the girl could reconsider without an infant snuggled up to her. Oh, Mr. Sam was slick, all right. He’d come and talk to those girls about how there’d be no more dancing or movie shows and how they wouldn’t be having fun anymore; they’d be changing diapers. And I’ll admit, I didn’t argue with that approach. Those infants deserved a decent life, one that probably wouldn’t happen with mothers who were little more than children themselves. After a few days, sure enough, they’d forget and sign whatever Sam wanted them to sign.”