I squirmed in my seat, wiped the perspiration from my upper lip.
“Your Honor,” Mr. Morgan said. “Surely the court wouldn’t object to the minor being raised by someone who loves her. I visited the father, and he agreed that Miss Adams would be the ideal guardian. We would hope that you will honor the parent’s wishes—”
The judge lifted his hand. “Mr. Morgan, I’m not inclined to be swayed by an inmate’s wishes. Also, before I rule on this, I have to contact Judge Taylor over there. In light of the father’s letter and Miss Loretta Adams appearing in front of me today, agreeing to accept guardianship of the minor, he still may not—” He paused and called out to Retta, “Are you willing to accept guardianship, Miss Adams?”
I glanced wildly at Retta.
Retta popped up from her chair and said, “Yessir, Buddy Norton. I’ve been tending to Honey Mary-Angeline here since birth. Changed many of that child’s cloths, same as I did yours when your mama came to visit.”
The judge looked down at his paperwork and gently cleared his throat at the mention of diapers, and I felt my own face heating from embarrassment for both of us.
“What about you, Miss Lovett?”
“Sir, Your Honor?” I stood up with knocking knees, my indigo-blazed hands gripping the table for support. Alarmed, I locked my hands behind my back, hoping he hadn’t seen them, wishing I had my gloves.
“Are you in agreement?” the judge asked somberly. “Are these your wishes, Miss Lovett?”
I looked at him, surprised. Not once since my folk were arrested could I remember anyone asking my wishes. Retta nudged me. “Yes, sir, uh, Your Honor, sir. Miss Retta’s like family sure enough.” I sat back down before my legs failed me, folding anxious hands into my lap, hiding them under the table.
The judge nodded. “Well, I still need to hear from the Honorable Judge Taylor. We are in recess while I call him. Bailiff, Miss Lovett is not allowed to leave the courtroom.”
“Yes, Your Honor,” the bailiff answered and pinned bored eyes to mine.
As the judge stepped off the bench, he turned to us and warned, “If Judge Taylor isn’t in agreement to rescind his order, my hands are tied.” Then he disappeared somewhere into the back.
Terrified, my eyes searched Mr. Morgan’s. If the lawyer was concerned, he didn’t show it. Instead, Mr. Morgan jumped up and said, “I’m going out in the hall. I have some telephone calls to make about another case. You wait here like the judge said.”
He gave a nod to Mr. Greene who joined him. The Knott County social worker shot Retta a troubled glance as he passed.
I looked into Retta’s worried eyes and folded her old, soft hands into mine.
“You’re freezing, child.” She briskly rubbed my hands.
“Retta, in case they take me to prison, our root cellar is full with enough food to last several seasons. You have Alonzo ride all of it over to you. I’ll need someone to tend to Junia.” It broke my heart to think about the ol’ girl all alone or, worse, sold off to a meat-packing plant because she was too ornery to get along with most.
“Nonsense, child.” She released our hands and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. Her eyes were fierce, but her touch gentle. “They’re gonna have to fight my ol’ hide if they dare try and take you anywhere.” She squared her shoulders, plucked at the collar of her fresh, clean dress, then shot the bailiff a mean eye.
Unconcerned, the deputy turned his back to us when a lawman poked his head through the judge’s back entryway. The two struck up a conversation.
Sunlight streamed through the windows, puddling on the walnut plank flooring, streaking across our wooden table. I placed a finger on the table, tracing the old grains, the wood soft and indented. I wondered how many others had rubbed their worriment into the table, polished it with their remorse and sorrows.