Like Slow Sweet Molasses

Like
Slow Sweet Molasses

By

Mickie
Sherwood

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual
events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely
coincidental. 

Like Slow Sweet Molasses by Mickie
Sherwood

Red Rose™ Publishing

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Red Rose™ Publishing

Copyright© 2011
Mickie Sherwood

ISBN: 978-1-4543-0256-8

Cover Artist: Dawn Dominique

Editor: Raven

Line Editor: Julia Roberts

All rights reserved. No part of this book may
be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission,
except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews. Due to copyright
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This is a work of fiction. All references to
real places, people, or events are coincidental, and if not coincidental, are
used fictitiously. All trademarks, service marks, registered trademarks, and
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Like
Slow Sweet Molasses

By

Mickie
Sherwood

Chapter One

The
first day of school muddled along with a huge number of challenges surfacing,
seemingly bent on destroying the enthusiasm of children and grownups alike.
Insufficient materials for learning: from text books to instructional manuals,
visual aids to computers; the school lacked everything. To the present day,
hope remained, though the brutal reality simply boiled down to the fact that
the fight to recover from Hurricane Katrina wasn’t over, even six years later.
Devastation etched the faces of older children and haunted the wide eyes of the
younger ones. That look would shake even the most hardened soul. Pain and
despair combined to form a kind of salve that treated the festering wounds of
desolation while leaving behind a scab easily broken, if pricked.

“Hey,
are you ready to go?”

Pausing
from her study of the lesson plan before her, Angela looked up to smile at the
petite twenty-something first year teacher poking her head into the room. “Not
yet,” she answered, checking her watch to see if she missed their appointed
departure time, also taking in Sheryl’s air of impatience. “I have a few loose
ends to tie up.”

Their
classrooms were side-by-side which set the stage for the friendly rapport that
existed between them. Sheryl’s disappointed expression reminded Angela of the
imposition she had probably placed on her new friend. She hadn’t asked her for
the ride home that day, but Sheryl volunteered when she passed her waiting at
the bus stop after school one afternoon, and the practice became an off and on
tradition, until today.

“You
go on. I’ll catch the bus.”

“Are
you sure?” Sheryl asked, barely containing her elation, a mischievous grin
revealing a gold sparkle. “I have an engagement I can’t be late for.”

Angela’s
translation after their brief acquaintance; Sheryl had met a man.

“Get
out of here,” Angela chirped, containing the mild flare of jealousy.
 

“See
you tomorrow.” Sheryl didn’t have to be told twice as she vanished from the
doorway.

Angela
set about straightening up the classroom, putting order to desks that circled
one side. It was here that she introduced her students to what she believed was
a spirit-lifting experience. The financial investment was well worth it, even
if it ate a good-sized portion of her car down payment, for the children
reimbursed her with smiles and eruptions of giggles throughout the day.

She
fingered a shiny gold triangle, tapping it rhythmically with the matching rod
to make a soothing tinkly sound. Her satisfied laughter floated gently on the
air. She couldn’t wait until tomorrow. Another day to impact young minds with
the joys of music. Perhaps music would lead some yearning soul to a complete
healing. All she could do was share her knowledge. That she was happy to do.

The
precious viola that played during the music sessions today rested safely in its
carrying case before the lid clinked shut.

She
peered through the sparkling window panes at the grayness of the August sky,
realizing she’d likely get a good rain-soaking on the way home. This was the
time of year in New Orleans for afternoon and evening showers, no matter how
bright and sunny the day dawned. One carried an umbrella to at least shield
their upper torso from the drenching. Did she forget her girl scout’s motto to
be
prepared
?

She
was
umbrella-less
. So, the answer was y-e-s. Angela moved to shuffle the
papers on her desk after depositing cymbals, bongos, tambourines, triangles and
sticks in their respective bins along the opposite wall. If she hurried, she’d
just make the three o’clock metro, having an earlier bus ride to the Garden
District than originally planned.

She
gave one last visual check, then closed the door.
 
The lock clicked and she was on her way.

“How
did it go, Ms. Munso?”

Angela
recognized the nasal tone before turning in the direction of Principal
Dauchex’s voice. The tall, full figured woman loped towards her, closing the
gap along the polished hallway swifter than most her size could even attempt,
her light brown skin burnishing a little from the exertion. In a matter of
seconds, the educator was near enough to Angela, to blot out the light of the
hall. “It was a very productive day, Mrs. Dauchex.”

“We
will
see you tomorrow?” Angela’s raised eyebrows asked a non-verbal
question of their own. “The resource shortfall we face hasn’t given you pause
for reconsidering your options, has it?”

Thinking
a moment about her personal situation, Angela replied, “I committed to the end
of the year, and have no intentions of leaving sooner.”

The
principal smiled. She liked this determined young woman, thinking to herself
that her parents had raised her with old school values. “See you in the
morning, Angela.”
 

After
the goodbyes, Angela pushed her richly endowed body through the double doors,
switching the instrument case to the same hand as her attaché to get a glance
at her watch. “Oh, well. I guess it’s the three-twenty.” Next, dark sunglasses
were donned to protect her eyes. Although the sun hid behind the clouds, the
glare, allergies and pollutants were enough to cause them irritation.

She
cut across the campus yard, eliminating a few precious steps in her race to the
bus stop two blocks away. The steel gray sky hung low, laden with unspent
moisture and threatening to erupt at any moment. Traffic sped by as if in a
race with nature to reach destinations unknown prior to the expected downpour.
Angela reached the roof enclosed bench just as the first big drops plopped to
the parched earth. Then the sky opened up, sheeting rain under the cover,
pelting everything and anyone unprotected. She drew her feet as far under the
bench as possible, returning to them when she saw the bus lumbering down the
street.

The
tokens clattered into the receptacle resting atop others already stacked as she
briefly surveyed the entombed denizens of the bus. Swaying like a tightrope
walker, Angela juggled her way to the middle of the commercial transit where
she dropped her briefcase down on the hard pleather seat. The viola escaped the
degree of neglect shown the satchel and was reverently rested on the former.
Faces on the bus reflected in the windows, now a mirror of sorts courtesy of
the darkened skies outside. Some were as blank as one of the unused legal pads
she scribbled notes on when her creativity sparked. And it had been a while
between writings. Others showed bleak signs of living, like life on the
down-beat before eternal rest. Health professionals termed it “Katrina
Fatigue”.

Almost
immediately after the hurricane, Angela left for New Orleans with a volunteer
group to do her part in the recovery, against her parents’ will.
 
She had put her lucrative music career on
hold to do so, also to their dismay. She was almost thirty at the time, quite
old enough and more than capable of making her own decisions. The ‘
only
child’
syndrome kept the apron strings knotted and her close to home for
longer than usual. Her parents were proud of her dedication, but afraid for her
safety in what the media described as “war-torn New Orleans”. She’d stayed four
months in a make-shift temporary community, helping with various tasks from
preparing meals for hundreds of people a day to cataloging the missing, the
found and the deceased.

The
exit bell dinged. The bus lurched to a stop, disturbing her “daymare”, for
which she was grateful. Angela’s eyes scanned the businesses and homes as they
passed, noting a measurable progress. Yet, the work still left to do after all
the grueling years remained more a mountain than a molehill. That was the main
reason for her return. She’d gotten her second wind and was determined to
lessen the shortfall of teachers in the area, even if for only a few months.
Recognizing the neighborhood grocery coming up in the next block, she pulled
the cord, collected her belongings and waited for the overhead light indicating
the go ahead to open the doors.