by Dara Girard
***
Michaela tried to get a divorce, but Hudson wouldn’t let her. He threatened to take full custody of their son.
Dorcas went through her savings, trying to help her daughter with her legal fees. But no matter how disappointing the defeat, Dorcas’ smile never left her.
“She has me worried,” I told Aletta one evening after Dorcas had left us. We'd just had tea together at Aletta's flat. We usually meet at my house, but for some reason my husband decided to catch a cold and stay home that week.
“It's that smile,” Aletta said.
“You noticed it too?”
Aletta set her tea cup down with a clatter. “How can you miss it?”
“If you didn't know her, she just looked calm and happy.”
“Yes, but we do know her,” she said, her tone grave.
“What could it mean?”
“I don't know.” Aletta sighed. “But she worried me with her talk about God.”
“She was just angry.”
Aletta shook her head. “And yet she smiles.”
I thought about that smile all night and I thought about it even more the next week when Hudson went missing.
Dorcas came to my house and the smile was gone, but her candyfloss voice was pleasant. “If anybody asks. I was not with you and Aletta last Thursday.”
I still remember the cool round feel of the marble as she placed it in my hand.
***
“Did you get it?” Aletta asked me that night, her voice tense.
“Yes. You?”
“You gone daft? Why would I be asking you if I hadn't?”
“We must do as she asked us,” I said.
“It’s not right. She was with us. Why should we lie?”
“We made a promise.”
“We were children,” Aletta countered.
“Doesn't matter.”
“She won’t change her mind. I’ve tried.”
“What if we don’t?”
“Do you want to risk it?”
I remembered Dorcas' words that we would die if we broke our promise. I didn't believe it, didn't want to, but an icy shiver of fear swept through me. “No.”
Aletta sighed. “I wonder why she's asking us to do this now.”
Two weeks later we found out. A body was found burned beyond recognition. Through dental records it was identified as Hudson. Dorcas confessed to the murder. She admitted to poisoning Hudson and then dumping his body and setting it alight. Naturally the police were skeptical. How could a woman of Dorcas' age and build have carried his body to a clearing and then torched it? However, no matter how long they questioned her, she didn't waver. The police were certain Michaela was somehow involved, but they could find no evidence to support their suspicions and she had a solid alibi--a broken wrist that Hudson had given her--that had sent her to the ER. Dorcas gave no other names and took full responsibility.
Michaela was just as distraught by her mother's confession, but there was an air of resignation when I visited her. Her plain little face was eerily composed. Her broken wrist in a sling. I helped care for her son and tidied up her place. When I glanced out the window I was surprised to see her garden was blooming. All the weeds were gone. I wondered how she had managed that after surviving such a severe beating.
Dorcas was indicted and later convicted. I remember the look between Deena and Dorcas and I thought of Michaela's garden and how the weeds were gone. I knew that Michaela couldn't have tended to the garden herself, and how as children Deena and Michaela had been so close, just as their mothers had been. Although they were not related by blood their souls, at times, seemed to be as one.
Although, I didn't want to, I imagined Deena being angered by Michaela's latest hospital visit and deciding to do something to stop him. I imagined her poisoning Hudson and then discarding the body somewhere. I imagined Deena telling her mother what had happened and Dorcas coming up with a plan. I imagined Dorcas burning his body. But of course, that's all just an old woman's conjecture. What could I know of such things? The truth could be vastly different.
The investigation is closed, but I know the truth: Dorcas was with us the night Hudson disappeared. But it's a secret I have to keep. I won't dare let it escape, even though I hate keeping it. Besides, it's not such a stretch to believe Dorcas' story. Everybody knows that Dorcas Mortag burns everything she touches.
The End
***
The Phone Call
“I bet you’re a redhead with hazel eyes.”
Regina Waters laughed. If the man on the phone reduced her credit card charge, she’d be whatever he wanted-- although she was tempted to say, ‘I’m as dark as a roasted chestnut and just as hot’. She couldn’t blame him for his inaccurate description. Her slight Welsh accent, that always became more pronounced when she was being polite, confused most people. The melodic cadence of her words always came as a shock when people first met her. She was a stately five foot nine with golden highlights in her black hair--not brunette, blonde or red--and she had eyes the color of coffee beans.
Back in school she’d gotten her head slammed into lockers for sounding white, for putting on airs. Most of the students in the DC public schools she’d attended, thought Wales was the plural form of a marine mammal. They’d never heard of the place, let alone black people living there.
In Wales, there had only been two other black families in the entire village. Even their nanny had been white. And most folks didn’t want them there. They’d moved to another village which was a little more accommodating, but still isolating. Moving to the United States had been a dream for her. She admired the music, the food and the literature. She imagined going to a mixed school or one that was predominantly black, where she could blend in and not be a violet in a garden of daffodils. In America, she wouldn’t have to guess whether the rosy cheeked teacher, who handed her back her exam with high marks and a smile, was truly proud of her efforts or just being patronizing.
The year her family arrived in their new homeland they faced a culture shock--the accents, the different manners--but Regina believed once she entered middle school she’d be accepted. Instead, the bullying had been doubly painful. She thought being in a majority black school would be a place where she’d finally belong. It would have been easier to endure if the bullying had been because of her height or her lack of athletic ability, she had no coordination. Even clapping on beat took considerable effort. But none of that had separated her from the other students. It was her accent. It alienated her, when before, the color of her skin had kept her apart.
“You have to fight back,” her older sister had once said when thirteen year old Regina returned home missing an earring and sporting a massive bruise on her cheek. That day, one of her biggest tormentors, a big girl with hands the size of plates, had also taken her lunch money. Her older sister, by two years, was beautiful, fierce and her idol.
“I’m not very good at it,” Regina said.
“I’ll help you,” her older brother said. He too had it rough, being just a year older than Regina, but managed to get through the school halls without incident. His large size was a benefit and he had a look that said ‘Mess with me and I’ll destroy you’ along with an attitude he’d perfected years ago. The other students called him foul names, but they never touched him. For a week, her brother taught her fighting moves and her sister coached her from the sidelines. She was lanky and awkward, but determined. They lied to their West Indian parents about how their school days were going, knowing they’d never understand. They hadn’t understood their children’s lives in Wales--focusing solely on providing the basics of housing, clothing, food and education-- and wouldn’t understand their lives in America either. That Tuesday, Regina got her head slammed into a locker, again, and her books knocked away, but this time she fought back.
And she lost.
She was pummeled to the ground, but not before leaving scars. Long, bloody scars and she was no longer afraid. No one ever bothered her again. By the tim
e she entered college, she finally felt comfortable in her new homeland. She fell in easily with the international students and those who let her be herself, rather than complimenting her for being articulate or not sounding black. However, finding romance had been difficult.
Some men--lured in by her accent and background--quickly became bored when they discovered she wasn’t exotic enough. She liked hot pizza and cold beer, rock climbing and singing bawdy pub songs at the top of her voice, sometimes in Welsh. It was no surprise when her brother married a fair haired woman from Ireland--a woman who accepted her brother’s shy ways, plaid shirts, beat-up car and obsession with Star Trek. Regina found a kindred spirit in her sister-in-law, who fit into their boisterous family.
But as the years passed, she wondered if she’d ever meet her match.
“Don’t you feel rejected a little?” her friend Drea asked her as she and her other friend, Ann, took a lunch break from the architectural firm where they all worked. Drea was born and raised in Tennessee to Kenyan parents before moving East. Ann was a fourth generation Californian whose Asian American family couldn’t believe she’d break with tradition and move to the East Coast. She’d met her at a college concert when Ann sat next to Regina and did a perfect imitation of a top British actress, impressing Regina with her ear for mimicry.
“Don’t say it,” Ann said.
“Say what?” Regina asked.
Drea sighed, clearly annoyed that Regina didn’t understand. “Doesn’t it bother you a little that your brother married a white woman?”
Regina paused, surprised by the question. She hadn’t thought about it and wondered if she should have. “What does that have to do with me? Why would I feel rejected? I’m not marrying him.” She shivered with disgust at the thought.
“Come on, another successful black man marrying white, you must see the trend.”
“What trend?” Ann asked.
Drea waved her fork at her. “Sorry, but you wouldn’t understand, you don’t have that problem.”
Ann rolled her eyes. “Oh, thanks.”
“You’re not being fair,” Regina said in Ann’s defense. “Remember that guy who had yellow fever and kept sending her love songs in Chinese, even though her family’s ancestry is Japanese and Korean?”
“At least he thought she was desirable,” Drea said.
“And we’re not?”
“Not in the same way. Let’s face the facts. Answer my question.”
Regina frowned. “It’s a silly question.”
“Answer it anyway.”
“Isn’t the fact that we’re here proof that black men like black women?”
“I didn’t say all. I know there are exceptions but most prefer white or--” She sent Ann a significant look.
Ann held up her hand. “Don’t even go there.”
“No, I don’t feel rejected,” Regina said, knowing her friend wouldn’t let the topic drop no matter how much she hated it. “I don’t feel rejected or whatever else you said. She’s perfect for him. Besides, the black girls gave him a hard time. They hardly looked at him.”
Drea turned and watched a mixed couple sit down: A well dressed black man and his white companion. The two men sat and held hands, flashing matching wedding rings.
Drea’s mouth fell open. “You see that?” she said in a loud whisper. “Damn, even the gay ones marry white!”
Regina shot a nervous glance in the couple’s direction hoping they hadn’t overheard. “Keep your voice down.”
“Let’s try a new topic,” Ann said.
But Drea wouldn’t let it die, the sight of the couple seeming to fuel her disgust. “Your sister is beautiful and she’s not married yet. You know we’re doomed.”
Ann gently patted her friend on the shoulder. “Eat your food and be quiet.”
Drea shrugged her hand away. “I’m serious about this.”
“That’s what scares me,” Ann said.
Drea stared at Regina. “We’re almost forty. Our time is running out.”
“We’re only thirty-three,” Regina said, sending a confused look at Ann. Neither woman knew where their friend’s sour outlook had come from. And they didn’t know how to change it.
Drea played with her drinking straw and said in a sour tone. “It’s easier for them anyway.”
“I don’t want to have this conversation,” Regina said.
“Successful black men have their pick of partners,” Drea said. “Successful black women don’t. So, we either have to marry down or forget about marriage all together.”
Ann folded her arms. “You’re having man troubles, aren’t you?”
“What do you mean?”
“This sudden tirade isn’t coming from nowhere.”
“It’s not a tirade,” Drea said annoyed.
“You haven’t answered her question,” Regina said.
“Trenton wants to move in.”
Trenton was her boyfriend of six months. He worked in maintenance and changed jobs like most men changed shirts--casually and without thought. Neither Regina nor Ann ever had anything to say to him, both secretly finding him as interesting as a glob of tar. Regina once hinted that she thought Drea would be happier seeing someone more in her league, at least someone with similar interests, but Drea always ignored her.
“Do you blame him?” Ann said with a grin. “You’ve got a house and he’s got his mother’s basement.”
“I told you he’s only there to save money.”
Ann raised a brow. “You still believe that?”
“What do you want?” Regina asked before her friends got into an argument.
Drea sat back and sighed. “I don’t want to.”
“Then don’t.”
“But I don’t want to break up. I’d rather have someone than be alone. And there aren’t many employed black man available.”
“Stop with the statistics,” Ann said. “It’s not that bad.”
“How would you know?” Drea snapped. “Survey any man and ask them what kind of woman they want and they’d chose a white woman first then an Asian woman. Black woman are always the last choice.”
“That doesn’t mean we still don’t meet jerks or have bad relationships,” Ann said.
“At least you--”
Regina held up her hands. “Wait, wait. Let’s not fight about this. Drea, don’t take your frustration out on Ann it’s not her fault.”
“I didn’t say it was, but she shouldn’t pretend that she has it as bad as we do.”
“I wish you’d stop talking as if we’re victims.”
“We are. Victims of a society that doesn’t value us. Everything has a price and our price is low.”
“That’s not true,” Ann said.
Drea ignored her, keeping her gaze focused on Regina. “You’re single and your sister is single and it’s going to stay that way until you open your eyes and realize your options are limited.”
Regina didn’t want to believe that. She wanted to believe there was someone out there for her, someone who she could talk to, someone interesting, someone with whom she’d never run out of things to say. She didn’t want to only see herself just through the eyes of a man. Wasn’t she more than that? Wasn’t that what women had fought--still fight--for--equality? Was her value only about how much she was desired? Wasn’t there someone out there who could see how great she was?
But that night, after the credit card call, she started to doubt it. Most men wanted the long haired blonde or savvy brunette. They fell in love with their eyes and, to them, she would always be invisible.
***
She was clearing out her kitchen cupboards when she ended up playing phone tag with her sister, who was helping her plan a fishing trip for their father for Father’s Day. She finally got to talk to her when the phone suddenly disconnected. Seconds later it rang again and she answered.
“Don’t put it there,” she said, referring to the new fishing rod. “He’ll know. It has to be put in a place he’ll never guess.
I can’t wait to see his face when we take him to the lodge. A weekend fishing retreat will be so much fun for us.” When her sister didn’t reply she said, “Hello?” afraid she’d lost the connection again.
“Hello, I think I dialed the wrong number.”
On the other line she heard the deepest, richest most beautiful voice she’d ever heard. As sweet as Georgia peaches, and hot as fudge with a slow, careful cadence. She hadn’t thought much about Southern black men.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, ready to hang up.
“Never met a woman who enjoyed fishing,” he said, before she disconnected.
“I don’t. I just enjoy being out on the water in the quiet. Although, I don’t think I gave you that impression just now, but I can sit silent for hours.”
He laughed. “A woman who can just sit and say nothing? That’s rare indeed.”
“I’m rare in more ways than you can imagine.”
For the next three hours, the two of them ended up talking about everything from the culinary value of beans on toast to the fate of the panda bear.
“I have to go,” he said. “But I’d like to do this again.”
Regina laughed. “Well, you have my number.”
“Yes, but I don’t know your name.”
“It’s Regina.”
“I’m Benedict.”
“Benedict? Really? I don’t know any American Benedicts.”
He laughed again. “I’m sure they’re around. I was born in England and moved to the States when I was two.”
She could feel her heart soar. Another connection. Perhaps a black man not born in the States could understand her background more. “Can I call you Benny for short?” she teased.
“No.”
“I really like Benny Goodman.”
“You cannot call me Benny.”
She laughed. “How about Dic?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Oh, well goodbye, Benedict.”
“Bye, Regina.”
She hung up the phone with a smile, not expecting him to call back, but glad she’d had a chance to speak to him. He made her feel beautiful. His voice conjuring thoughts of cold ocean waters on warm sand, candlelit dinners and crackling fires.