Like Slow Sweet Molasses (5 page)

“Twenty
messages is my limit. Your father and I will pay you a visit this week—”

Chance,
his attitude rising to the positive side of the weather thermometer the longer
he stayed in her intimately color-infused home, raised his head from the
Saturday morning paper, caught off-guard at the abrupt silence because he
absently listened to the message—and yawned. He peered at the machine to see
the answer light’s sporadic flash, gliding the toothpick to the other side of
his mouth with his tongue.

Angela
was awake.

He
insinuated himself in her kitchen with ease brewing a pot of coffee of which he
availed himself. A search of the cabinets had him now on his way to her bedroom
carrying a tray bearing coffee and buttered toast. Perhaps, she could stomach
something a little more substantial. He truly didn’t know.

His
hand stopped mid-air as the sound of weeping assaulted his ears. Chance
puzzled. She fought a man his build for his aunt and cut him down to size in
front of the whole bureau. In spite of that, a softer side revealed itself
during the break-in, which by the way, he found no obvious theft or destruction
but could vouch it happened and now he was certain she cried. An ear-shattering
crash reverberated off the door compelling his eyes to blaze to the spot where
he suspected the item hit like he had x-ray vision.

The
lady really has a temper.
He inhaled a breath and knocked.

“Go
away!” she shrieked.

“Angela,
it’s Chance.” His fingers slid the splinter from his mouth. “I brought toast
and coffee.” He waited. The door flung open unhinging his bottom jaw. She was
beautifully dressed. Who was he fooling? She was just plain beautiful.

“I
don’t have time—”

“I
heard something break. Is everything okay?”

“No,
everything isn’t okay.” Her hands fanned each word from her mouth. “For your
information, I’m going to be late if you don’t move.”

“Late
for what?” He still held the hot coffee and the now cold toast.

She
looked at him wondering why he made himself at home in her place. “Look, Lt.
Alexander. I appreciate all you’ve done. But enough is enough.” She snatched
the tray to set it on the hall table. “I can just make it to the bus stop and
get to school for the mid-day class.”

Houston,
we have a problem.

He
let her usher him down the stairs but not before he latched onto the tray.
“Angela, you have time. Sit for a moment.” He braved her wrath to push her to
the breakfast table. Turning on the small flat-screen TV on the counter, he
used the remote to run the channels up and down. Awareness flooded her
features. She appeared primed for more frustrated tears.

In
a small voice, “It’s not Friday, is it?” Cartoons danced on the color screen.
The weekday soaps were absent when the channels changed.
 

“Afraid
not, Angela.” He felt sorry for her. More importantly, her plight fell on his
shoulders.

“Today’s
Saturday?” she asked amazed. He nodded. “I slept through a whole day?”

“You
did. And deservedly so.” Her ascent was so swift he sidled protectively closer
as she struggled to maintain her balance, tilting her head to rest on the
fingertips massaging her sore temple, supporting herself with the other hand on
the table.

Her
job was now at stake. Or so she thought for yesterday’s unplanned absence went
unreported. She waivered, calculating her chances of success if she leaned to
get her attaché that fell on its side when she rose. It was as if he read her
thoughts for Chance rescued the case to lay it within reach on the table.

“Thank
you,” she mouthed quietly, never looking directly at him.

He
gained a healthy respect for this woman whose barometric gauge measured her
circumstances discriminately helping her choose when or when not to attack.

Cell
in hand, she searched the phonebook, pressed one button and listened to the
ring. “Mrs. Dauchex, this is Angela Munso. Forgive me for disturbing you on a
Saturday. I—” She paused to take in the conversation, listening intently, a
tiny frown wrinkling the bridge of her nose, before stuttering a reply. “I-I’m
feeling better. Thank you for asking.” More silence. “He did.” An astonished
look melded to her incredulous tone when she uttered the same words as a
question. “He did?” Wide-eyed wonder transmitted in the gaze boring through
him. “Yes. I’ll try to recuperate. See you Tuesday. You have a wonderful
holiday, also.”

Uh-Oh.
His trademark toothpick found its way
between his teeth. That look he recollected seeing before. The one that wrapped
around the phrase “white people” when she lobbed it off the side of his head
the other day.

“Not
only did you contact my employer—you also volunteered to conduct my last two
classes?”

“You
weren’t in any condition to report your accident,” he justified his actions,
“let alone teach a class,” his shoulders hunched matter-of-factly, “so I
pitched in.”

“Just
like that? Doing your civic duty for the downtrodden, I suppose.” She always
hated it when the media portrayed the “other” people as the ones most likely to
give of their time and efforts to assist the less fortunate, to the exclusion
of any mention of the same charitable works by Blacks. Here he was,
ingratiating himself as savior of her universe, without her permission.

Meddling
wh—

“I
hear the comment rolling around in that pretty head of yours. We’re not going
to go there, again, are we?”

Angela,
appalled at how transparent he made her feel, caged her retort for later.

Chance
wanted to nip that in the bud before matters got out of hand. “I volunteer at
various schools, Angela. I’ve been exercising my civic duty since right after
Hurricane Katrina. All kids need guidance and not just at home. These children,
with all the trauma they’ve had to handle in their short lives, require extra
attention.”

He
strolled over, bent near to snatch his empty coffee mug from the table,
carefully rinsed and turned it down in the sink. “It’s not much by some
standards, but, I make the time to do what I can.”

“That’s
mighty white of you,” she sniped.

He
allowed this rejoinder to pass, settling for continuing his point. “Or do you
begrudge me lending a hand simply because I
am
white?” Her fingertips
flew to her mouth. “Did you present your back when you heard Aunt Belle scream?
No, you went running—barefooted and bathwater wet, inclement weather and all.”

“That’s
different.” Angela deduced his aunt left nothing out.
 

“Why?”

“Because—it
just is. That’s all.” There wasn’t one good reason she could offer to bat down
his comparison. “Mrs. Thatcher was in trouble.”

“So
were you.” Standing a little over five feet from her, which was probably every
bit as tall as she was—if she wasn’t just a tad over, he inhaled the light
fragrance of her body lotion. “So are the children.”

“Then
on behalf of the children, I thank you, for scraping a few minutes out of your
precious life.”

“What
is it with you?” He had enough of her belligerence. “Who broke your heart and
crushed your spirit?” Chance knew he strummed the wrong chord when it took her
more than a few seconds to replenish a breath.

“How
dare you?”

“Was
it a white man who shattered your faith in
all
of mankind?” She huffed
past him headed straight for the front door.

“Get
out, Lt. Alexander,” she ordered, shaking with barely contained ferocity. The
door opened wider in invitation for he hadn’t moved from his spot and stared
over her head. That’s when the smell wafted under her nose.

She
turned.
 

“You
were in my home.” Angela’s pulse raced as she challenged the person on her
porch who deigned to return to the scene of the crime.

“Prove
it.” Boldly, he sneered, the act pulling the thin layer of mottled white skin
tightly over his skeletal frame. As a taunt, he added, “You can’t, can you?”
Looking over his shoulder, he beckoned to someone in a parked car.

She
hadn’t noticed the vehicle because her full attention was on him. The car door
opened to expose her horror of horrors. “You’re not welcome here!”
 

Chance
moved forward to lean casually on the door jamb beside her only when he heard
her strident tone. Her look told him not to interfere. His concurred, relaying
as long as matters didn’t get out of hand. His physique rose behind her like a
granite pillar of support.

“What
part of don’t contact me anymore didn’t you understand, Jason Harper? How did
you find me, anyway?” She stared at the smartly dressed visitor.

The
man approaching engaged Angela in conversation as Chance kept a vigilant watch.

“You
didn’t make it easy,” he snarled. “Your parents were of no use, either.”

He
stood smack dab in front of her now and Chance wished he knew what the heck was
going on. They favored enough to be kin. “Ridiculous.” His not-so-secret
muttering captured her attention for a microscopic second.
Same eyes.
Same
nose.
Same twist to their pursed lips.
He’s white. She’s not. But
definitely kin.

“You’re
trespassing.” She wanted nothing to do with him or his problems.

“You’re
a cold-hearted bitch.” He cut to the quick.

The
toothpick snapped and air over Chance’s tongue heaved the broken pieces out of
his mouth. His hand lashed out swifter than a whip. The vise-like grip on
Jason’s jugular forced the other man’s attempt at rescue to fall short of
victory. “That’s no way to speak to a lady. Without a doubt, inappropriate on
her own doorstep.” Jason was a minnow on his hook. “Apologize.”

Chance
noticed how the weasely man stayed put as well as quiet, now.

“Lt.
Alexander.” Angela tugged at his arm. “I can handle him.”

“You
heard her.” Jason squeaked like the rat he was while trying to dislodge the
spikes from his neck. He breathed his next gulp of air strictly at Chance’s
generous whim.

Prior
to rewarding Jason with complete freedom, Chance tormented, “We’re waiting.”

“I
apologize.” He coughed and sputtered in discomfort when released. “I should
sue.”

“In
New Orleans, B&E’s against the law. Or was I hearing things when Angela
pointed a finger at your accomplice here?”

“Like
I said—” The little man’s courage returned to instantly falter again at
Chance’s contemptuous look.

“It’s
too beautiful a day for a hospital stay.” Chance’s enjoyment of his own rhyme
illuminated sparkling ivory. “Want me to call for backup, Angela? Trespassing
sounds legitimate.”

“Do
I need to file charges, Jason? Or will you leave peacefully, of your own accord
never to return?”

He
weighed his options carefully. “I’m leaving. Believe me when I say this isn’t
over. Think about your answer long and hard, Angela. Make no mistake, there’s
more at risk than your hurt feelings.”

“Hurt
feelings!” The door slammed shut so hard the glass rattled. Angela’s head
pounded and her stomach reeled. She clutched at her face. “White people!”

Chance
took that as his cue to leave no questions asked. She heard the rustling sounds
and looked up.

“Not
you.” She stopped his departure, her hand on his as he fondled the door knob,
and met his unwavering stare. “This time.”

“White
people have feelings, too, Angela. The same as Black people, Asians, Latinos,
etcetera, etcetera. Has that term always been your mantra?”

He
really wanted a reply.

“Only
of late, Chance,” she divulged in a melancholy dirge.

The
use of his nickname surprised him. Thus far, she only used his title and last
name when addressing him.

 
“Lately, nothing in my life makes any sense.
I’m stuck in I
-love-you-but-lied-to-you
hell. My father isn’t really my
father.” Her loose lips regurgitated facts she wanted no one to know before her
mouth clamped shut.

“He
sounded like a father to me.” Chance comforted, tussling internally with why
those words reverberated intimacy. He didn’t know her from Adam and here he was
trying to protect her feelings.

“How
do—”

“I
know what he sounds like? He’s only called…like about ten or twelve times over
the last day.”

“You
took my calls?”

“Of
course not. Your answering machine did.” Curious that her answer didn’t clear
up his confusion, he pursued. “And this involves white people, how?”

“I
don’t want to think about it.” She quietly opened the door. “I’ve burdened you
with too many of my troubles already. This is something I have to handle all by
myself.”