Beyond Molasses Creek (13 page)

“Maybe just more pot roast if you got it.”

“For breakfast? You men. You're all alike.”

He steps up on the dock then makes his way toward me. “Figured we don't move these statues today, your grass is gonna start growing up all wrong. Doc Green wouldn't 'a liked that. Thought I'd go 'head and fix it now.”

“That's awfully kind of you. How 'bout that pot roast first? Give you some energy?”

“Naw, man needs to work on an empty stomach. Helps him work harder. Keeps reward on his mind.”

“Okay. Whatever you say. It's your back.”

We walk around the yard for a while, me trying desperately to figure out where to put everything and him hoping to not move anything twice. At the end of it all, the shoving, the panting, the ordering around and changing of minds, I've had my second cup of coffee and Vesey is sweating, drinking water without breathing or stopping. He wipes his face and surveys his work.

“So who all you got here?” he asks, leaning up against the house.

“Well, the fountain, here, has cherubs, angels.”

“I do know that much, Miss Ally. What about him over there?”

“Him? Oh, that's Poseidon, Greek god of the sea. And next to him is Aphrodite, the goddess of beauty. Also Greek.”

“And this one with all the arms?”

“That's Durga, Goddess Mother in Hindu.”

“She seems scary to me.”

“Scary, why?”

“A woman with that many arms is bound to be trouble. So what about this one?”

I walk over and run my hands over the smooth white stone. “This one is Buddha. You're supposed to rub his belly for good luck. Here. You wanna rub it?”

Vesey backs up, hands raised. “Not really my thing,” he says. “I don't need luck. 'Specially not from some fat man.” Then he's quiet, thinking.

“What? What is it?” I ask.

“Oh, nothin'. None of my business.”

“Come on, Vesey, you know I have no boundaries when it comes to other people's business.” We laugh at this sad truth and finally he opens his mouth to speak.

“Well, I cain't help but notice how you got all these gods everywhere. You got a god for this and a god for that. And what's that, an elephant?”

“Ganesha, god of knowledge and reflection.”

“I see. Well, I'm just wondering, now, out loud really, does it do you any good? I mean, do these folks give you any peace, these pieces of stone?”

I stare into his big brown eyes, unable to move. Peace. Peaceful. I haven't felt that way in, well, in forever. “There was a place once,” I tell him, my mind drifting far away and my gaze out over Spanish moss hanging from trees. “There was a very special garden with statues of gods and elephants. The Garden of Dreams, it was called. It's the last time I was happy. It's the last time I—”

“Now, now,” says Vesey, putting an arm around me. “I ain't meant to be pushy. I know how you feel. I've lost . . . Well, I've lost too. But listen, honest truth, you ever decide it's too crowded over here with all these statues, you come on over to my side of the river. It's simpler over there. See that? See right yonder?” He points toward his house.

“What? What am I supposed to be looking at?”

“See that clothesline? Looks like a . . . What does it look like from here?”

“A cross?” I say.

“It sure do.”

“You're telling me you worship a clothesline, Vesey Washington?”

He smiles and sips his water again. “Somethin' like that, Miss Ally. Somethin' like that.”

I look around at my stone garden and think of what it will look like when I get some flowers planted, maybe a walkway. It will feel peaceful then. It will. “To each his own, Vesey. Now, how 'bout we get you that pot roast? You've worked harder than a, than a—”

“A slave?” says Vesey.

“I wasn't going to say that, Vesey, and you know it. Now, what am I going to do with you?”

“Feed me, I reckon.” As we step in the doorway, I glance at the clothesline across the river, and for half a second a crow roosts on it. Then it seems to notice my gaze and flies off into the clouds. Flies away in a blur as if I'd only imagined it.

TWENTY-FOUR
Thieves

Kathmandu, Nepal
Sunila

I
AM IMAGINING THINGS, A BOWL OF RICE AND RED
lentils. The pigeons are scattered like white ashes in Durbar Square now that the rain has stopped. They are hoping to find food. As am I. The pigeons scavenge while the monkeys roost like kings on their temple. I keep my umbrella above me. It helps to hide my face. I am soaked through, my clothes, my spirit. I see a cow lying on the sidewalk, hoping for sunshine to dry its coat. The cows, the pigeons, the monkeys . . . they have a better life than me and Amaa and Buba. They need not work for their food. They need not always slave away in dust. They are not shunned by those high-caste people who pass by in silk saris and jewels and fancy cars.

I continue to walk for miles, stumbling, struggling for breath.

I can see a long compound across the street. If I were not so tired and hungry, my blood would stir at the sight. Instead, my stomach growls and reminds me I am nothing. Who am I to think I am anything special? Who am I to think I can possibly escape my fate? They may spit on me if I try to set foot inside. Perhaps I should not have come. I should not have come! I turn and clench my fists around the umbrella. I feel the jagged edge of the book in my sore ribs and remember the faces, remember the gods, the rivers, the pictures. I feel calm again and know I have not come all this way for nothing. For Amaa said it was so. She said I must come here.

“The cruel man is dead, Amaa! He has fallen and is no more. His cold, hard heart has finally killed him!” Amaa does not stir. She stares down at her hands, rough and swollen from smashing rocks so many years.

“He is dead and can no longer keep us!” I say.

“His brother will take over his affairs,” says Amaa. “Or his son. We will always be in debt. It will never end. Never.”

“I stole the book, Amaa. I took it. The Book of the Gods. I have it here in my hands.”

I pull the book out from behind me and hold it reverently out to her. “Do you remember I told you about this? I feel it has secrets about the gods, about me. Look, Amaa. Do you see? There are words here, but I cannot read them. And here? Do you see this face?” I flip through the pages. “This goddess, Amaa. Does she . . . does she not resemble me? Is it not as you always told me, that I am descended from the gods? That I do not belong here? But a great white bird—”

“Sunila.” Amaa's words are barely a whisper.

“Yes, what is it?”

She looks at me dry-eyed with a faraway stare. “He thought you would bring us good luck. That you would fetch us a large fortune. That we would finally find favor with the gods and escape this life.” She wrings her hands. “You were there, outside a café . . . with a woman.”

Time slows and my hair stands on end. I pull the book back and press it to my chest, desperate to keep my feet from floating off the ground.

“Buba was passing by and saw your white skin, saw the woman with her head turned the other way.”

“No. Please.”

“You must go now, Sunila, while you can. Go.”

“How? How could you do it, Amaa?”

She is quiet and then she looks at me. She whispers, “I wanted a child. He wanted to sell you, but I insisted on keeping you as my own. I begged him. I only wanted a daughter, Sunila—you must believe me. I saved you from being sold away.”

I look at Amaa and see the lines around her eyes, webs of lies covering her, spreading out on the hard soil at her feet. She has fallen, no longer looking at me. I do not know this woman. I do not know my mother.

“Amaa.” The cry escapes my lips.

“It was a mistake. I know this. But I loved you the moment I saw you. And besides, there was no way to return you to her. Buba bargained with the cruel man and gave him the book that was tucked in beside you. It was all to pay down our debt, but then his foot was crushed. We had hospital bills. He always blamed you, said you were the reason we would never be free. I think he was right. You can hate me if you want. Take the book, Sunila. You have always known, haven't you? Just go. Please. Don't look at me in this way.”

As I stand, I am risking turning to stone. I see her there, but I cannot go to Amaa. I am unable to feel any love for her at this moment, nor hatred for Buba. I am turning to stone and must leave here quickly. As my feet trample the dust, I shake it from me and swear I will never return here. I clutch the book in my hands and promise to die before I ever return to this quarry.

I wipe the wetness from my brow and fold down my umbrella. I see myself in the windows of the US Embassy, and in the right light I catch a glimpse of her there before me—the face of the goddess drawn in the Book of the Gods. She tells me to open the door. So I do.

TWENTY-FIVE
Escape

Mount Pleasant
Ally

I
OPEN THE BACK DOOR AND MOVE TO STEP OUT
. I
LONG
for fresh air and feel the need to visit my new stone garden, but the cord just won't reach.

“Ronnie, don't harp on me. I'm dizzy with it all as it is.” I twist the cord around my fingers and look down toward the dock. I'm getting claustrophobic. I've got to get out.

“Because I've pretty much worn out my welcome, that's why. Vesey has no use for me. Every time I speak to him, I stick my foot in my mouth. I'm thinking Bermuda beaches are calling my name. Maybe a little sun, a little relaxation—how about you and Marlene, you feel like joining me? Can you get off of work? We could take a cruise. They have a new ship that leaves the Charleston port, if you can believe that. You wouldn't even have to fly a lick.”

“Oh, come on, Ronnie. Don't tell me you and Marlene can't use a vacation . . . You're having what? Dental surgery? Wow, that sounds positively atrocious. Well, I guess if you have to have it, you have to have it, but you really should take better care of your teeth. You never did floss when we were married . . . Well, it's gross, Ronnie. All right. All right, honey. Listen, I'll stick around for a few more days, maybe, but I can't make any promises. Daddy obviously didn't know me very well. Imagine thinking I could actually be still long enough to live here. Okay, honey. Love you too.”

I unwind and put the phone back in the cradle. It's still Daddy's old white phone, now faded and butter colored. I think of his ear at this very place. How did Daddy feel when he was tethered to the phone and I called him from afar? He was probably busting at the seams to get out of the house like I am.

I escape and enter the sanctuary beside the house. The soil is still dug up in a few places, but the grass seed will cover that up nicely. Pretty soon this garden will be lush and I can bring out a glass of wine and watch the sunset, stare at the statues and think about things, or nothing at all. I lower myself onto a little stone bench with two bunny rabbits holding it up on the sides. Nice bunny rabbits. I can see the water from here and my soul rumbles from construction going on somewhere down the road. I take a deep breath and close my eyes. I hear the pound, pound, pounding of the hammers and open my eyes again. Peaceful. It's supposed to be peaceful out here. I look to the god of wine, Dionysius, spouting water out of his mouth. Is he spitting at me? Is he laughing at my meditation spot? I'll show him. I close my eyes again and touch my thumbs and middle fingers together. “Ohhmm . . .”

No, it's impossible. I cannot sit still. I have to do something, go somewhere. No, do something. I see the boxes and tools still propped up on the side of the house and decide to move them into Mama's old room. Yes, I'm going to set up a batik-making station. A studio. I'm going to learn how to make batiks once and for all. How many years has it been? I can almost smell the wax in that little storefront in Bali. I long to have the dye in my fingers. I'm going to get inspired again and keep my hands busy like they used to be when I had my sketchbook. Back before the Great Sadness.

Forget it all. I'm going to draw again and rewind time.

I bend over to lift up a heavy box and pray to God or the gods or anybody who might be listening.
Oh, please don't let me wrench my hip again. Please just let me do something on my own without having to depend on Vesey or anyone else. Ever again. Let me get this box inside and escape into the wax, the colors, the birds, the mountains, and the rivers I'll paint. Just let me do this one thing, please
.

I need an escape
.

Gritting my teeth, I open the door and hold it open with my hip as I pass on through. The gods must have been listening. My hip is okay. I walk by Daddy's La-Z-Boy chair, by the Guatemalan rug and flat-screen TV leaning up against the wall. As if in a dream, I head to Mama's old room to turn it into the studio I've always wanted. I picture notes from heaven falling on me when I open the door, but nothing but empty memories greet me. Mama and Daddy are gone. It's up to me now to create something new in here. I can do it. And I won't feel alone. I refuse to feel alone anymore.

TWENTY-SIX
How It Will End

US Embassy, Kathmandu, Nepal
Sunila

I
SEE MY REFLECTION IN THE HEAVY GLASS DOORS AS
I pull one to me. I am filthy and cover my face with my scarf. I step into a foyer, a large rectangular room with marble floors. There are statues of lions flanking either side of the hall, and I can tell by the style of them which family has carved them in Swayambhu. They pass down their secrets from father to son. But me? I could carve these lions better than what I see before me. A strange and foreign sense of pride comes over me. I shudder and shake it off. I am a Dalit. I am a woman. I am nothing. I turn to go.

Then I stop and turn back around.
You have come too far
.