Beyond Molasses Creek (21 page)

Mr. Assai pushes an old newspaper article toward Buba, and I open my mouth to tell him that he doesn't read, but I stop myself. I close my mouth.

Buba is battered, but a proud man. He looks down at the paper and says, “Yes, I am the one who stole the baby. She was in a café in Thamel. I wanted to sell her for money, but my wife insisted we keep her. I should have sold her away when I could. She's brought nothing but bad luck since the day she was born.”

Then he spits at my feet, and the ground falls out beneath me. I stumble and Mr. Assai holds me up.

“But you have no proof,” says Buba, smiling. “So what if I say it? I could be a crazy man. You have nothing against me.”

Amaa grows still and looks down at her feet. She pauses for several moments and then backs through the doorway. “Amaa! Please don't go!” I wail, but she has disappeared. Mr. Assai holds firmly to my arm and holds his gaze on Buba. In the next moment my mother is quietly joining us again. I look at her and see the tracks of her tears, though she is not upset; she is firm. She pulls her arms out from behind her back and hands Mr. Assai a package wrapped in paper and tied with twine.

“Here,” she says. Buba looks at her. “You will find your proof,” says Amaa. “You will find when you open this package that the clothes are there, the very clothes she was wearing when she was brought home to me thirty-eight years ago. She is telling the truth. My daughter, Sunila, tells the truth. She is a good child. Always a good child.”

Amaa puts her rough fingers up to my face and strokes my skin as if looking at me for the last time, as if studying every new line and silver hair. In her eyes she is empty, yet at peace. She puts her hand down to her side and I know in my heart that this is our final look, our final moment together as mother and daughter. She has done all she can do, and now—now the rest is up to me.

Part Four

He that cannot forgive others, breaks the bridge over which he himself must pass if he would ever reach heaven; for everyone has need to be forgiven.

—G
EORGE
H
ERBERT

FORTY-THREE
Can't Take It with You

Mount Pleasant
Ally

I
F IT WERE ALL UP TO ME
, V
ESEY
W
ASHINGTON WOULD
never have to work again. Look at him there, loading his cart up with newspapers and magazines. He keeps it hitched to a bicycle and stuffs that rainbow-colored umbrella down in the mix. Hauls it all the way down the road like a mule till he gets to his intersection by the Hardee's. I've watched him. It's sort of a spectacle. I try to act as if I don't see him from in this house. I sort of peek out the windows. I don't know why I'm still uncomfortable with his stand, but I am. There you have it. He shouldn't have to sit out at that stand and cater to people as they drive by. Trust me, I know catering to people. I was in the service industry for nearly four decades, saying,
Welcome aboard,
and
Have a nice flight,
and
May I get you anything, sir?
and
Yes, sir, I'll get you that pillow right now,
and
Yes, ma'am, I do like these outfits,
and
No, they don't make me feel at all patronized by men
.
I like my job. I enjoy the people. I love to fly
.

Ughh. I do love to fly, or rather, I love getting to my destination. I love the
idea
of going where I'm going, the dreaming about it part. I used to love seeing that same look on my passengers' faces. I loved sitting with the little children who happened to be flying alone. I would take them under my wing and take great care of them. I considered them my own child until I got them to the ticket counter in the next airport and saw the reunion with their parent or grandparent. And all of us were relieved.

All in all, I think I've had the right career for me. Flying away was my vice as well as my bread and butter. This sitting still, even though I've made Daddy's house my own as much as possible, is not all it's cracked up to be. When I'm not working on my batiks, I'm going stir crazy. I feel as if there's something else I need to do!

I look at them out there, my batiks hanging on the back porch, blowing in the wind like prayer flags, sending offerings up to the gods. They've turned out better than I'd imagined, and I have been busy. When I'm creating, I forget my own existence, but when I'm not, I feel something stirring in my soul, this itching under my ribs I cannot satiate. I grab my cell phone from my purse in the kitchen and head out for some fresh air in the stone garden. I go to sit by a particular statue that has always made me think of her. An angel with outstretched wings. I dial Ronnie's number and wait, eyes closed, birds singing around me, squirrels gathering nuts at my feet.

“Hey, it's me,” I say. “Y'all home today? Great. Uh-huh. Yeah, I've made a couple more. I'm going to send you one of Molasses Creek. I think Marlene will like it. It has these big white birds and . . . well, maybe she can hang it in the dining room. It'll go well with her blue walls.

“No, no, I'm fine, I just . . . well, I'm feeling that itch again, Ronnie. No, not that itch, you doofus, the one where I need to go flying. I'm . . . thinking of getting away for a while.

“Mmm-hmm. Yes. Yes, I know, but . . . well, Margaret's busy with her granddaughter. Not like we get together all the time. I have lunch with her every now and again, but I declare, spending time with Graison makes me . . . well, it makes me sad, I guess. Seeing that belly and all. Knowing she's going to miss her baby someday. It hurts, Ronnie. I want to save her from herself. And from the rest of the world.”

I walk back inside and grab a tissue on a sideboard in the kitchen and dab my nose as I listen to one of my oldest friends, if ex-husbands count as friends. Ronnie met me after my Great Sadness and he was just what I needed, always cheering me up. Shame I never did give him a child though. I'm fairly sure he was shooting blanks. I suppose children for me or Marlene just was not meant to be.

“I realize, Ronnie, that it has been a long time, but I'm different now. I'm not crippled emotionally like maybe I used to be. I just . . . well, Vesey has his own life and I do too. It's just too quiet over here. I'm gonna tell him I'm leaving. No, I am. Maybe Aruba or Hawaii. Someplace warm where I can wear my bathing suit and not give a darn who's looking at me. Someplace they give me little umbrellas in my drink and I—

“Okay, Ronnie. You can try calling me tonight, but I tell you, I'm not gonna change my mind. I believe I am the best judge of my mental health. But thank you, sweetie. I know you're just saying what you think is right. Uh-huh. Uh-huh . . . Oh, listen, I've been missing this mirror Daddy used to have in his bedroom. We'd put these little notches on it every year on my birthday to show how tall I was getting. I was thinking of having you send that back for me if it's no trouble. I . . . Well, from Daddy's furniture in the warehouse. I was just thinking about it the other—

“What do you mean? Are you kidding me? Are you sure?” I fall down into a chair at my oversized kitchen table. “But then where is it? Did they send it to the wrong place? Oh no, Daddy! He'd have a heart attack if he knew his stuff was gone!”

I get off the phone with Ronnie after I beg him to go and double-check. My mind is a blur. Eyes shifting, I think back on that moving day a few months ago and how out of it I was because of the pain medication. Did I even tell those movers where to take Daddy's stuff? Did Vesey? Or did they steal it right out from under me and rob my daddy blind!?

I am so heated I don't know what to do with myself. I grab Daddy's boat keys hanging on the kitchen wall and make my way to the dock where I proceed to climb in, start the engine, and glide fifty-five feet over the water to Vesey's side. It's over in a split minute, and I tie up on his dock and barrel toward his house. I could have driven over but it would have taken too much time. I need answers. I feel sick to my stomach. I feel robbed, stolen from, and there's nothing that stabs me worse than when I feel like something important to me has been taken. I've been violated.

“Vesey!” I holler. He'll be able to tell me. He'll be able to ease my mind as he always does. “Vesey, yoo-hoo. It's me, Ally.”

Still no answer. I get closer to his little house and think of climbing his steps to knock when I see a door open to his shed where he keeps his bicycle. I go to the doorway and flick on a light. It's been a good long while since I've been here. Vesey's usually the one to come over to my house for suppers or coffee and cards on the dock.

I grab my chest and hope I'm not having a heart attack. There before me, stuffed from wall to wall and floor to ceiling, are my Daddy's things—all his furniture and knickknacks. Everything he ever owned or accumulated. The little table I had when I was a girl, the one I sat at and had tea parties with all my stuffed animals and dolls—that very table is perched upside down in Vesey's shed!

This feels worse than a death. Vesey is the person I've lived my whole life loving. He's the reason I ran off to the airline in the first place, the reason I ran into Robert's arms and got pregnant, the reason I ran off to Nepal with my daughter to get away from the pain of watching Beulah carrying Vesey's own child, and the reason I lost my own. Vesey. He's always been the cause of my reactions and now . . . now I find out he's a fake? He's a thief and a liar. He's no better than society deemed him to be long ago.

Maybe I am a bigot. Maybe I'm no different than all the others who came before me.

Heartsick, I lean out the door and scream bloody murder; it's a sound I should have made years ago when they stole my child. It's a sound I should have made months ago when Daddy left this earth. It's a sound that comes out from someplace deep and foreign inside me, and I scare myself with it. It's the same scream I listened to when Vesey's mama lost her youngest son in Molasses Creek. When the sound stops, I hear an echo far off. I run around to the front of Vesey's house, and there, lying on the dusty ground face-down, is Vesey Washington. His bicycle and cart are still standing.

Without thinking, I rush to his side and tears flood my eyes as I turn him over and see white dirt like ash covering his face. His eyes are closed, and at this moment, I do not care if he stole all my daddy's stuff. He can have it! All of it! This is Vesey Washington. This is the little boy who lived across the river from Daddy and wanted to be a doctor like him when he grew up and never got the chance because I stole his future from him with a single kiss. Yes, this is the same Vesey I've always known, and as I hold him in my arms, crying his name, I understand one hundred percent why a man like this might have stolen from my daddy.
Oh, I understand, and I forgive you. I do
. Because the truth is still there between us in black and white. No matter what he's done, no matter what he might do, he's always had a hold on me.

“Vesey? Honey, speak to me,” I plead.

I wipe his face with a wet washcloth and watch as the ambulance pulls up. A man and woman in uniform get out and approach us.

“Thank goodness you're here!”

The man takes my place holding Vesey and says, “Sir? Can you hear me?” He holds his wrist and feels for a pulse. The woman grabs the stretcher out of the back and brings it to us. Everything's happening so fast.

“He's breathing,” he says. “Pulse is good.”

“Oh, thank God!” I cry and stare at the crosslike clothesline in the yard.

“You're gonna be just fine,” I say to Vesey. Then, turning to the paramedic, “I'd like to ride with him if I can.”

“Are you family?” The question seems silly to me, obvious, seeing the difference in our skin, but this is a young man in his twenties and times have changed here in the South. We could be family. We could be. “Not family, but neighbors. We've always been neighbors. See? That's my house there, my boat. Well, it is now.” The man is quiet. “Do you know what's wrong with him? Is it his heart?”

“I don't know yet. Did you see what happened to him? Does he have any history of heart disease, diabetes?”

“No. I don't think so. But I don't really know. His parents did die pretty young. He'd been trying to get this bicycle and all that heavy stuff loaded up and . . . and maybe it was just too much for him.”

The man looks at the newspapers and then at Vesey with recognition. “Ah, the newspaper guy. I know him. Well, come on, Mr. Washington. We're gonna get you to the hospital. Take good care of you.”

The next thing I know we are riding down a dirt road, bopping along in the back of the ambulance, and I am praying that Vesey can wake up and speak to me. I'm not sure who I'm praying to, maybe to God, or maybe to Daddy in heaven, or maybe, maybe to Vesey himself.

“Please wake up. Just please, wake up for me.” It's the mantra I say to myself and to Vesey for miles and miles to go.