Dew Angels

by Melanie Schwapp

  Nola hurried after Dahlia through a tall hedge of plumbago. Never had Nola seen plumbago grow to such heights. This one’s purple-blue blooms almost meshed with the branches of the mango tree that hung over it. The opening led on to a beaten track, both sides lined with old paint cans of blooming gerbera, heather and speedwell plants leading right up to the daintiest pink house that Nola had ever seen.

  The house reminded Nola of a newborn baby – soft and pink and pampered. Everything about it seemed to whisper tenderness and care. The verandah was just big enough to hold two plastic chairs with a little table in the centre. The windows on either side of the front door, turned up against the afternoon glare, were the same aluminium-type louvres as the ones at school, except that the school louvres were missing most of their blades, always reminding Nola of a toothless old man.

  “Come nuh!” Dahlia beckoned as she skipped up the steps and opened the front door. “Mama sleeping.” Dahlia’s voice was a whisper as she poked her head back through the front door.

  Nola stared at the girl. Was she really about to enter Merlene Daley’s house? She gave one last glance at the hedge behind her and sighed with relief when she saw that nothing of Della Way was visible through the thick bramble of leaves. She mounted the little steps and followed Dahlia through the door, nearly walking straight into a formica table with its vase of cheerful yellow gerberas.

  The aroma of food filled the tiny space, making Nola’s belly rumble. She looked around, blinking to get her eyes used to the dim light. Everything inside was as neat and precise as the exterior. A tiny kitchenette was to the right of the formica table, with cream cupboards attached to the walls. To the left of the table was a red settee sitting in front of a coffee table and a small television set. Pink lace curtains flitted in the breeze from a standing fan in the corner of the room. Beside the television was a half-opened door through which Nola spotted items of clothing strewn over the floor—a striking contrast to the immaculate house. “Must be Dahlia’s room,” she thought.

  “You want to change?” Dahlia pointed at Nola’s uniform.

  Nola blinked. Why on earth would she want to change? She wasn’t planning to stay forever, just long enough to get Slugga’s homework done, and so as to leave before Merlene’s patrons began arriving for their evening stint of sin!

  “No. Let’s just do the square roots quick,” she snapped.

  Dahlia gave her a look of shock, as if she’d just suggested they cut off each other’s ears. “You goin’ do homework before you eat? You not hungry?!”

  Nola’s stomach rumbled its own answer, but she shook her head firmly. She never ate after school, afraid of Papa’s disgust at her size. Dahlia shrugged her shoulders and flounced through the half-opened door. Nola, realizing she was standing alone in the middle of Merlene Daley’s house, quickly followed.

  Dahlia’s room was an unholy mess. Even the small cot against the wall was covered in clothing. There was a large poster of birds taped on the wall above it, the masking tape peeling and tinged brown, as if it had been taken down and re-taped repeatedly. The only other furniture in the room was a chair strewn with clothing and a chest of drawers with clothing spilling from its open drawers. Dahlia’s dog-eared school books were thrown carelessly on top of the chest, the math book on top of the pile.

  “Put this on. That uniform too hot!” Dahlia waved some sort of blue shift at Nola. “This is cooler.”

  Dahlia flung the shift onto the pile on the bed. Then she stripped off her own uniform revealing the purple bra in its full glory, complemented by huge green panties. She rummaged through the clothing on the chair and gave a satisfied snort as she hauled a peach-striped shift, similar to the one she’d offered Nola, over her head.

  Just then, there was a creaking sound from the living room. Dahlia gave an excited giggle and dashed out of the room.

  “Mama, you wake!” Her voice chirped from the living room.

  “Pumkin, you reach home!”

  The voice was raspy with sleep, but held a soft lilt that stopped Nola dead in her tracks. It was not the voice of a Jezebel.

  “You hungry, Pumkin?” The voice thickened around a yawn.

  Nola could hear the rustle of fabric, and the smell of perfume wafted into the bedroom. She pressed herself behind the door and squeezed her chest to stop her heart from pounding too loudly.

  It must have been part of the charm, that voice, part of the spell that Merlene wove over her victims. Nola had heard Pastor Pepper’s warnings innumerable times. “… Fall under the spell of the evil ones and stand the chance of gettin’ struck by the lightnin’ wrath of God!”

  “Mama, guess what?” Nola heard Dahlia clap her hands.

  “Nola come home with me!”

  “Nola? The girl with no friends?”

  Nola blinked. Dahlia Daley had described her as having no friends?

  “Slugga say she must help me with homework—EVERY DAY!” Dahlia sang.

  “Help you with homework every day?” Merlene repeated sleepily. “So, where she is? Where’s this Nola?”

  Nola felt her blood thicken as Dahlia’s shoes scraped towards her hiding place. The girl ignored her pleading look and grabbed her arm, hauling her into the living room. At that very moment, Nola understood why the lizard had bitten her finger.

  A vision of blue turned from the little stove – blue nylon nightgown; light blue lace rubbing against smooth, dark calves; blue bed slippers with a shock of fluff on the toes; sleep-swollen eyes cast in a face the replica of Dahlia’s – same wide nose and full lips, spreading even wider in a sleepy smile. The faces were similar, but where Dahlia’s clunky features overpowered her face, Merlene’s own sat proportionately on hers. Proportioned and, well – quite pretty.

  Nola stared in awe at the legend of Merlene Daley. The woman’s skin was as smooth as a half-ripe Julie mango, framed by eyebrows plucked so thin that they resembled the precise lines of an excercise book. Nola was tempted to touch the face, to see if the softness was real or the trick of some powder, but Merlene moved before she could raise her hand. Instead, Merlene took her hand, ignoring Nola’s wide-eyed assessment like it was something she got every day. She cupped Nola’s hand within both of hers, one beneath the palm, the other gently rubbing the top. The film of outdoor dust grated between their flesh.

  Grampy used to do that. Rub her hand, like it was a precious gem. Now, the Jezebel of Redding was rubbing her hand just like Grampy, ignoring the sore on her face, smiling at her like she was a long lost friend.

  Suddenly, Nola was overcome by another type of fright. What on earth? Tears were flooding her eyes, and her lips were quivering with the effort of holding them back! No, no, no! This couldn’t be happening, not in front of ugly Dahlia and her ‘Jezebel’ mama. It must have been the rubbing, bringing back too many memories.

  Nola saw the thin brows meet before her, saw the smooth skin crinkle just for an instant, then, just as fast as it had appeared, the frown was gone.

  “Nola, you is a good friend to come and help Pumkin. Thank you.” The sweet lilting voice addressed her.

  Nola cleared her throat, “Slugga … I mean, Miss Simpson say I must come,” she stammered.

  Merlene chuckled softly and shook her head ever so slightly.

  “Farmer pull cow to trough – cow don’t have to drink.”

  Nola swallowed. She knew! Merlene knew that she hadn’t wanted to come! Her sweating palm formed a slippery film between their grip. She quickly pulled her hand away and looked down at her dusty shoes.

  “Mama, dinner ready?”

  Thank God for Dahlia’s love of her belly. The girl pranced through the thick wedge of truth that had lodged between Nola and Merlene and yanked open the oven door. A blast of heat and the delicious smell of baked chicken filled the little room.

  “Nola, you goin’ to die of heat in that uniform, and you goin’ get food all over it when you eat. Go put on one of Dahlia dusters,” Merlene said, nodding towards Dahlia’s room, then
she picked up an oven mitt and took a tray of sizzling chicken and sweet potatoes from the oven.

  “I not eatin’ … I not stayin’ long … I have to go home before it get dark.”

  Dahlia scoffed as Merlene transferred a chicken leg from the baking tray unto an oval platter.

  “Foolishness!” Merlene said, not even looking up from her task. “You can finish long before night come down. You can’t do homework on a empty belly!”

  Dahlia picked up a piece of chicken that had fallen off the bone, blew on it aggressively, then flung it into her mouth and chewed with noisy relish. She gave a loud mmmm that made her mama laugh. Nola watched in confused silence. The way Dahlia begged at school, one would think she had come from a home with absolutely no food, yet this meal spoke of quite the opposite.

  “Pumkin, give Nola a duster to put on, then wash your hands and come.”

  Dahlia obediently grabbed Nola’s arm and hauled her to the bedroom where the blue twin to her own duster waited on the bed. She shoved the garment at Nola, gave an excited giggle, then left the room, the door slamming behind her with a decisive bang.

  Nola stood there for a while, feeling more and more like the lizard in the noose. Slowly, she removed her school blouse, thankful that at least Dahlia had given her the privacy to change. What would she have told her mama about the criss-crossed scars that ran across Nola’s upper arms and back? What would Merlene, with her gentle rubbing hands, have thought of those?

  Neither Dahlia nor Merlene showed any reaction when she floated from the room in the oversized duster.

  The meal was exceptional. An exceptional meal in ‘Beggin’ Dahlia’s’ house! The chicken was soft and succulent, releasing sprays of oily juice down Nola’s chin as she bit into it. But she had just one piece. Merlene insisted she have more, but she shook her head firmly. She could already hear Papa’s voice—“No porridge for Nola, Sadie, just some tea this morning. She gettin’ as fat as that damn cow!” So Nola just had the one chicken thigh, sucking the bone till it was grey and brittle. She watched as Dahlia slurped her way through a heaping plate, ignoring the cutlery which lay neatly at the side. She marveled that Merlene did not comment on Dahlia’s loud slurps, or the amount of food she consumed. She just delicately cut through her own meal with her knife and fork, ignoring the gravy that dribbled down Dahlia’s arms and formed a greasy circle on her lap.

  Instead, Merlene laughed. She threw her head back and laughed a deep belly laugh when Dahlia told her how Delroy and Devon had wobbled down the road after she’d saved the lizard.

  Merlene laughed till tears streamed down her face, and when Dahlia told her that the lizard had bitten her finger after she’d rescued it, Merlene had to stand up because her rocking laughter almost tipped the chair over.

  Nola wanted to add the part about Dahlia flinging the lizard against the wall, but she sat in silence and watched the bubbling mirth in awe. She was used to being an outsider, wanting to be happy, but knowing she shouldn’t. She held her head down and played with her bone till she heard Merlene gurgle out the words,

  “Nola, you didn’t laugh when the lizard bite Pumkin’ finger?”

  She looked up from her plate and stared at Merlene’s face, at the tears on her cheeks that she hadn’t even bothered to wipe off. So different from Mama, and home. She cleared her throat and dug her voice from its hiding place at the bottom of her chest.

  “I laugh,” she whispered. “I laugh even more when Dahlia fling the lizard against the wall and him stick like a busted breadfruit!”

  Merlene laughed till she choked, and Dahlia laughed till chicken flew out of her mouth and landed on the floor beside Nola’s shoe.

  It felt good. It felt so good to know that she’d been responsible for that glee. So Nola laughed too, a gurgle that had tried to come out when she’d put on the shift. It now erupted with such a force that it split the sore on her lip, and her face throbbed with the pain, the sweetest pain she’d ever felt in her life. For that moment, while they laughed and slapped their thighs in mirth, Nola didn’t even think about the truth. For that moment, it didn’t even matter. It didn’t matter that she was black; that she was ugly; that her papa thought she was fat. She reached over and took another piece of chicken, and when she bit into it, the gravy dribbled down her chin and formed a grease circle on her lap, just like Dahlia’s.

  After the meal they did homework at the table while Merlene washed up the plates. Dahlia listened while Nola explained over and over about the square roots. Each time she grasped something that Nola explained, Dahlia would let out a loud whoop, and Merlene would smile from the sink and say, “That’s my Pumkin!”

  However, when Merlene turned from the sink, wiped her hands on a towel and said, “Pumkin, I goin’ to get ready for work now,” Nola forgot all about the square roots, the lizard, and the laughter. Her chair scraped from the table with such a force that its plastic cushion toppled onto the floor. Work! The Jezebel! She was about to start her night of sin!

  “Sorry … sorry … sorry …,” was all Nola could say as she scraped up her books and shoved them into her bag. She was aware that they were staring, but she didn’t care. They’d tricked her with their food and laughter. She half-walked, half-ran past the bar, but broke into a full sprint when she realized that the red door was open. She could hear the faint beat of music and the swish of a broom scraping against floor, but she looked neither left nor right. She raced down the marl road, stumbling on the loose stones just like Delroy and Devon had done earlier. It was not until she neared the end of Della Way that she realized that she was still wearing Dahlia’s stupid shift.

  CHAPTER

  6

  Nola awoke the next morning with a lightness in her heart and tightness in her belly. It was the secret of the past afternoon, constricting yet thrilling her. Strange, since she’d fretted the whole way home about entering her house in Dahlia’s huge shift. She’d fretted till sweat soaked the dress. She’d rehearsed the lines over and over, about her uniform being stolen at the river, about having to borrow something from Jervis Calder’s clothesline, but, as it turned out, she hadn’t had to speak. Mama had barely lifted her head from the stove, and Papa had been listening to the news on the radio in his room. She tiptoed past the half-open door, glimpsing the custard brown of his big toe peeping from a hole in his sock. She’d hurriedly tore off the shift and stuffed it beneath her mattress beside Grampy’s worn leather belt and the faded picture of Granny Pat’s shiny face. And now she’d woken up with this feeling.

  At school, she even smiled apologetically at Dahlia before she could stop herself, her lips lifting as if in their own memory of the past evening. But the smile, slight as it was, didn’t go unnoticed. Nola saw Clarice’s eyes narrow as the girl looked from her to Dahlia. She immediately tried to assume an air of distraction, as if she hadn’t been smiling at anyone in particular, but when Slugga waddled in and called for the homework, Nola grinned all over again when Dahlia passed up her ripped book with the flourish of handing over gold.

  At lunchtime, the laughter came again as the image of Delroy and Devon stumbling down Della Way came to mind when she spotted Delroy playing scrimmage.

  “Your glad bag bust today, Nola.”

  Nola jumped at the voice above her.

  Clarice and Faith stood over her as she sat beneath the lignum vitae tree. Clarice’s face crumpled beneath the strain of her frown and her hot-pressed ponytail shook accusingly over the peak of her chest.

  Clarice was Toneisha’s sister. She was no stranger to Nola, having accompanied Toneisha on many visits to their home, but as many a time as Clarice had been to her home, was as many a time as she’d greeted Nola with indifference the next day at school. Clarice was popular at school, and her loyal subjects included all of the love-struck boys and most of the girls. In fact, both the Johnson girls remained one of the prides and joys of Redding, with skin so fair it glowed luminescent in the sun. On a hot day, the pulsing network of tiny veins was actua
lly visible on their temples. Nola would never have said it to anyone, but Clarice’s skin always reminded her of that of a baby croaking lizard. Such an opinion would have been considered blasphemy by the people of Redding.

  “How you laughin’ so much today, Nola? You have a secret you not tellin’ me?” Clarice’s usually baby-fine voice was thick with accusation.

  “I don’t have no secret,” Nola shook her head innocently.

  “’Memba, Nola—chicken merry, hawk deh near!” Clarice wagged a finger over Nola’s plaits, her light brown eyebrows trying to look fierce.

  So engrossed was Nola in those frowns above her, she did not see when the scrimmage box flew past Clarice’s legs. She only felt the breath leave her chest as something slammed into her shoulder and jerked her backward against the tree trunk.

  “Delroy, why you do that?” she heard Clarice say, but the voice sounded as if the girl had slipped into another part of the world.

  Nola grabbed her shoulder and watched as Delroy’s sneakers joined Clarice’s before her. She tried to focus on the shredded laces but found that everything had suddenly become blurred by her tears. The universe was back to normal; Nola’s laughter had ceased, and the tears had returned.

  The box had hit her in Papa’s spot, the dent where her arm joined her shoulder. Nola knew from experience that she only needed a couple of minutes to breathe deeply till the shock dissolved and her arm became gloriously numb.

  “You alright there Nola?” Delroy’s voice reached her through the pain. “I kick the ball in the wrong direction. Throw it back nuh!”

  Then there was the blur of Dahlia’s huge shoes beside Delroy’s, and the blur of her taking the juice box out of Nola’s lap and flinging it right into Delroy’s face – flinging it so hard that her right leg lifted off the ground. Then there was the blur of blood streaming from Delroy’s nose, and the blur of him striking back at Dahlia, sinking his fist into the fleshy duo of her lip-nose.