I went over and squatted beside her at the foot of the tree. "I've got to explain something to you, sweet pea. Some things grow into bushes or trees when you plant them, but other things don't. Beans do, doll babies don't."
"Yes," Turtle said, patting the mound of dirt. "Mama."
It was the second time that day she had brought up a person named Mama. I registered this with something like an electric shock. It started in my hands and feet and moved in toward the gut.
I kneeled down and pulled Turtle into my lap. "Did you see your mama get buried like that?" I asked her.
"Yes."
It was one of the many times in Turtle's and my life together that I was to have no notion of what to do. I remembered Mattie saying how it was pointless to think you could protect a child from the world. If that had once been my intention, it should have been clear that with Turtle I'd never had a chance.
I held her in my arms and we rocked for a long time at the foot of the pine tree.
"I'm sorry," I said. "It's awful, awful sad when people die. You don't ever get to see them again. You understand that she's gone now, don't you?"
Turtle said, "Try?" She poked my cheek with her finger.
"Yeah, I'm crying." I leaned forward on my knees and pulled a handkerchief out of my back pocket.
"I know she must have loved you very much," I said, "but she had to go away and leave you with other people. The way things turned out is that she left you with me."
Out on the lake people in boats were quietly casting their lines into the shadows. I remembered fishing on my own as a kid, and even younger going out with Mama, probably not being much help. I had a very clear memory of throwing a handful of rocks in the water and watching the fish dart away. And screaming my heart out. I wanted them, and knew of no reason why I shouldn't have them. When I was Turtle's age I had never had anyone or anything important taken from me.
I still hadn't. Maybe I hadn't started out with a whole lot, but pretty nearly all of it was still with me.
After a while I told Turtle, "You already know there's no such thing as promises. But I'll try as hard as I can to stay with you."
"Yes," Turtle said. She wiggled off my lap and returned to her dirt pile. She patted a handful of pine needles onto the mound. "Grow beans," she said.
"Do you want to leave your dolly here?" I asked.
"Yes."
Later that night I asked Esperanza and Estevan if they would be willing to do one more thing with me. For me, really. I explained that it was a favor, a very big one, and then I explained what it was.
"You don't have to say yes," I said. "I know it involves some risk for you, and if you don't feel like you can go through with it I'll understand. Don't answer now, because I want to be sure you've really thought about it. You can tell me in the morning."
Esperanza and Estevan didn't want to think about it. They told me, then and there, they wanted to do it.
Chapter 16 Soundness of Mind and Freedom of Will
Mr. Jonas Wilford Armistead was a tall, white-haired man who seemed more comfortable with the notarizing part of his job than with the public. Even though he had been forewarned, when all of us came trooping into his office he seemed overwhelmed and showed a tendency to dither. He moved papers and pens and framed pictures from one side of his desk to the other and wouldn't sit down until all of us could be seated, which unfortunately didn't happen for quite a while because there weren't enough chairs. Mr. Armistead sent his secretary, Mrs. Cleary, next door to borrow a chair from the real-estate office of Mr. Wenn.
Mr. Armistead wore a complicated hearing aid that had ear parts, and black-and-white wires and a little silver box that had to be placed for maximum effectiveness on exactly the right spot on his desk, which he seemed unable to find. If he ever did, I thought I might suggest to him that he mark this special zone with paint as they do on a basketball court.
The silver box had tiny controls along one side, and Mr. Armistead also fiddled with these almost constantly, apparently without much success. Mrs. Cleary seemed during their working coexistence to have adjusted her volume accordingly. Even when she was talking to us, she practically shouted. It had an intimidating effect, especially on Esperanza.
But we all managed small talk while we waited. Which was all the more admirable when you consider that not one word any of us was saying was true, so far as I know. Estevan was an astonishingly good liar, going into great detail about the Oklahoma town where he and his wife had been living, and the various jobs he'd had. I talked about my plans to move to Arizona to live with my sister and her little boy. I think we were all amazed by the things that were popping out of our heads like corn.