By the time of the verdict, they looked like the other kids in their schools, having lost the telltale signs of kids in deep poverty. Erica had dark freckles on her forehead and sneezed a lot in springtime. She loved to wear lip gloss and dance to soul music. Whenever she visited my house, she went straight for the records. I was a Stax girl—Carla and Rufus Thomas, mainly—with some occasional James Carr thrown in, but Erica gravitated toward the smoother Motown sounds. She was captivated by the lyrics of Stevie Wonder and had listened to Music of My Mind so much that I told her she was wearing a hole in the record.
The fungus on India’s neck finally cleared. She had a mole in the crook of her nose, and her favorite food was peanut butter. She ate it straight from the jar. And the girl had never met a dog she didn’t like. She would feed the strays wandering around Dixie Court pieces of stale sandwich bread, a day-old biscuit, crackers. I remember this white German shepherd that followed her everywhere. When India mounted the swing, the dog would sit nearby and watch her, as if to make sure she didn’t fall. India didn’t have the language to give the dog a name, but she could whistle. It wasn’t a loud whistle, but the dog could somehow hear it and would come crawling out from underneath one of the buildings. It took me a while to realize that those mangy dogs on the farm had been tolerated by the family because they soothed India. After moving to Dixie Court, Mrs. Williams swore never to allow a dog in the house again, but India cared for this shepherd outside, drawing comfort when the dog lay at her feet as she scratched its back with her fingernails. Her other passion was dolls. She owned six of them and propped them against the pillow on her bed.
Erica: left-handed. Stubborn. Polite. Made her bed every day. Slept in her socks. Lover of chocolate ice cream, Motown music, and her little sister.
India: right-handed. Tender. Dog lover. Mother of dolls. Peanut butter addict. Climber of fences. Rider of carousels.
Their names always had the ring of twins to me. Erica and India. India and Erica. Though very different, there was no mistaking it: The sisters were soulfully connected.
The Williams sisters. Two of the greatest loves of my life. And two of my greatest heartbreaks. They are both the reason I never had biological children and the reason I found it in my heart to love and mother you. I never had confidence in my ability to mother, but my love for them has endured over the years.
FORTY-FIVE
Montgomery
1973
Erica had been missing three days. She knew my home phone number, but with Mama in Memphis and Daddy working, she wouldn’t be able to reach us even if she did have access to a phone. We didn’t have an answering machine back then, and I couldn’t just stay at home and wait for her call. The family didn’t have a phone, so Mrs. Williams held twenty-four-hour watch at the apartment. People in Dixie Court brought her groceries because they knew cooking soothed her nerves. But she did not cook, and one of those days I found India eating slices of bread and government cheese when I stopped by.
Mace’s boss gave him time off to help with the search without fear of losing his job. He didn’t get paid for those days, so my church set up a fund to help his family. I worked the telephone, calling everyone in my parents’ telephone book to inform them about the meeting places and times of the search parties. Ty led the morning searches. Mace went all day, stopping only to eat and catch an hour of sleep here and there.
India was inconsolable. Recently, she had started to communicate more—pointing, grunting, tilting her head—but when Erica went missing, she became silent again. No facial expressions. No sounds. Nothing. Thinking it would help take her mind off things, Mrs. Williams allowed India to come sleep at my house. I didn’t plan to take her to school, but Sister LaTarsha called me and said she thought it would do India some good to get back into her routine. When I asked India, she didn’t nod or make any response whatsoever. She just sat on the edge of my bed, staring at the floor.
I moved her into the den, where I planted her in front of the television. That seemed to ignite a flicker of light in her eyes. I let her watch Sanford and Son while she munched on Funyuns.
I sat beside her on the sofa, thinking about Erica and trying not to imagine the worst. But the worst still crept into my thoughts. Kidnapping. Murder. Rape. Please, Lord, I prayed, have mercy. The school wasn’t within walking distance to anywhere. It had been built on the outskirts of the county, a desegregation decision that didn’t make sense because that meant everyone in town had to take a bus or a car to get there. Erica didn’t have any money, so she had to be eating somebody else’s food. If she was stealing, I prayed she wouldn’t get caught. If she had found food, I prayed it was enough.
I thought about all the things I could have done differently, but everything that went through my mind toppled into some other unforeseen mistake I had never considered. I could have applied to medical school instead of coming back to Montgomery to work in the clinic. I could have notified someone as soon as I found out about the Depo. I could have gone to the girls’ house that morning instead of waiting until the afternoon. I could have left the case alone.
Maybe the verdict hadn’t changed anything at all.
On the third morning, the only thing that made me get out of bed was India. I needed to take her to school, but when I woke her, she seemed to be just as unrested as I was. I got her into the bathroom to brush her teeth, only to return and find her standing in front of the mirror with the dry toothbrush in her hand. I thought she might be ill, so I asked Daddy to check her. He said he did not believe it was a medical problem, said the school understood her disability better. He urged me to take her to Sister LaTarsha. Some ailments are not meant for a medical degree, he told me.
I helped snap her bra and wrestled a shirt over her head. “I’m sure Erica will be back soon. Now, I made some toast and boiled us some eggs. There’s marmalade, too. Let’s get something in our bellies.”
In the kitchen, it was dark. I turned on the light and opened the curtains. I had been preparing meals since I was younger than India. I would have to make food when Mama slept late. Before school it was toast, jelly, and a boiled egg. In winter, oatmeal. After school, I emptied beans from the can and spread them on toast, placed a slice of cheese on top, and put it in the oven until the cheese melted. I wasn’t a cook like Mrs. Williams, but I understood how to make food that kids liked. India’s appetite was still good. That relieved me.
“You want some more toast?”
She didn’t respond. When Erica was around, she answered for India. This forced separation probably had India feeling like half of herself was missing.
After I dropped India at school, I drove to their apartment. A police detective was there taking another statement from Mrs. Williams, and from the look on her face I thought the grandmother might curse someone if she had to answer one more question. She wasn’t a cursing woman, but I had never seen her look so tired.
“I think she’s done for the day,” I said.
I tried to think of any other friends Erica had mentioned. There were only two names that came to mind—Dinesha and Tonya—and they’d already been questioned. Erica’s picture was in the paper. Some of the kids gathered outside the school each morning asking one another if anyone had heard from her. Everyone was doing everything they could.