Walking Through and Other Stories

by Francine Fleming

Walking Through

  “That’s my song.” The voice that reached my ear materialized from seemingly out of nowhere.

  I looked around for its owner and saw an elderly lady seated in an armchair to the right of mine. Fine wrinkles etched her cocoa complexioned skin, though youthful beauty still shone through her aged face. High cheekbones reached up to brown eyes that bore the hint of a slant and her silver-grey hair was swept up in a neat bun. Passing time had not ravaged her features. I continued staring at her, not certain as to whether she was speaking to me or just speaking.

  “Pardon me?” I asked when she spoke again.

  “What’s playing. That’s my song.”

  The velvety voice that flowed through the visitors’ lounge of Forest Brook Retirement and Assisted Living Residences came from a portable CD player that stood on a side table next to her chair. I cocked my head to one side while listening to the singer. Her voice was like Billie Holiday’s - rich and bluesy. I returned my gaze toward the lady who was quietly singing the soulful melody, “…walking through, gonna walk on, walk on through…”

  She opened her eyes and her gaze met mine. A smile spread across her face. “Yeah, that’s me singing. Recorded that tune back in ’66.”

  “It’s beautiful. I’m Megan, by the way. Megan Craig,” I said offering her my hand. She took my hand in hers. Her touch was soft and warm.

  “My name’s Dahlia,” she said. “Born and raised in Harlem, New York. How ‘bout you, honey? Where you from?”

  “I’m from Brooklyn. Born and raised there.”

  “Brooklyn? For real? That’s where I lived before I moved out here to the country.”

  I smiled. Forest Brook, nestled among a copse of mature oak trees, was located only an hour’s drive outside of Brooklyn, not quite in the country but for urban dwellers it might as well have been. I looked out the large west facing windows at the surrounding trees dressed in their spring finery, their budding leaves illuminated by the setting sun.

  This pleasant Sunday afternoon, like every Sunday afternoon since my father suffered a stroke and my husband, Bradley, and I moved him into Forest Brook, found me at the retirement residence for my weekly visit with Dad. He had always insisted he would not leave the house where he and Mom had lived since they got married until he was ‘good and ready.’ But losing Mom a year ago, then the stroke, forced him to be good and ready.

  Dad was snoring softly in his armchair. He often fell into a snooze during our visits and I took advantage of the solitude by writing free prose into my notebook. Being an English Literature professor, my father had nurtured my love affair with the written word. His passion for literature poured from him and rained upon me. When I told him of my desire to become a writer, he happily presented me with my first of many notebooks. On the inside cover, in his bold, slanted handwriting, he had written If you want to be a writer, write.

  Each time I started a fresh notebook, I recorded Epictetus’s words on its inside cover. They stayed with me, through my journey to becoming a successful author and freelance columnist until I shared them with my students at the junior college where I taught creative writing.

  I returned my attention to Dahlia. “How long have you been living at Forest Brook, Dahlia?”

  “I ain’t sure, honey. My daughters, they moved me here, last year, I think. I don’t know for sure but it sure was a big old family affair.”

  “I don’t mind,” she went on. “I miss Brooklyn sometimes but this sure is a pretty place, ain’t it?”

  “Yes, it is. See the gentleman napping in that chair? He’s my father. He moved to Forest Brook just last month. He’s happy here and that makes me happy.”

  Dahlia turned her attention to Dad and smiled. “Oh yeah, I know Slim. So, he’s your daddy?”

  “Slim?”

  “That’s right.”

  I laughed. “Sweet. I like that name.” The moniker suited Dad who’d always had a trim physique, made thinner with aging and the stroke.

  Dahlia was laughing also. Suddenly, she stopped and regarded me curiously. “So, you get your light skin from him, huh?”

  I paused, considering how much of my lineage I should reveal to her. “Well, I’m adopted,” I said deciding on full disclosure. “My birth mother is white and my biological father was black.”

  William and Dorothy Flowers became Mom and Dad to me on the snowy winter afternoon when they brought me to the Brooklyn Heights townhouse that would be my new home. They had adopted me, an acting-out five-year old, from a miserable foster care existence. Since that day, they never allowed the word “adoption” to lessen the bond we had formed.

  Dahlia nodded. “Ah. So Slim ain’t your real daddy?”

  I smiled. “Oh Slim is my real daddy, the only one I know.”

  She smiled with me and then suddenly became agitated. She squeezed her brows into a deep frown and gripped the chair’s armrests. I heard frustration tinge her voice when she spoke. “What you say your name was? Mabel? Margaret?”

  “Megan. It’s Megan.”

  “Megan, honey, reach over here and put my song on again for me, will you? I don’t know why they turned off my music. I didn’t want it turned off.”

  “Of course,” I said hoping to soothe her.

  I went to the side of her chair and pressed the play button, releasing the sultry voice from its metal casing. A CD shell cover lay on the table, beside the player. I examined the cover photo closely. The picture had the look of a copy, as though someone had burned a copy of her song onto a disk especially for her. Dahlia, all sultry elegance sheathed in a figure hugging red dress, was surrounded by three dapper-looking men, each holding an instrument – saxophone, trumpet, and upright bass. A fourth man sat behind a drum kit.

  I peered at her face and thought, with a little envy, of my own features – round, wide set eyes, round nose sprinkled with freckles, all set in a heart-shaped face. ‘Beautifully cute,’ was how Bradley had referred to my looks when we first met. I knew then that there was something special about a guy who could see beauty in a face I had always considered quirky looking.

  I continued staring at the CD cover. The woman in the picture was the woman with whom I was speaking alright. She hadn’t changed that much, even after all those years. How did Dahlia feel, I wondered, when she gazed upon her youthful self?

  Dahlia started humming again, softly, soulfully. She closed her eyes, swaying ever so slightly from side to side. I studied her as she hummed and swayed, her movement almost hypnotic. Suddenly, her eyes sprang open and her gaze met mine.

  “What was the name of them boys again?” She asked.

  “I’m sorry, boys?” I asked.

  “Yeah, I used to sing with them. Jazz. That’s what they played. The Jazz Deliverers, that’s it. They played and I sang. Honey, we made the sweetest sounds.”

  “I’m sure you did.”

  “Oh yeah. But if it weren’t for Josephus, I never would’ve hooked up with them. Least he was good for something. That, and playing trumpet. That man, he played trumpet like it was the most natural thing in the world. He made that thing sing sweeter than a Mockingbird in springtime.”

  My creative motor shifted into high gear. Curiosity piqued, I asked, “Josephus?”

  “Yeah, Josephus. He was my man. He got me into the Half Moon Club, you know. All the best Blues and Jazz folk played there.”

  “The Half Moon Club? Sounds like quite the place.”

  “Oh, it sure was. I remember the day Josephus come into the dive where I used to sing. I remember that day real good. He come to the club, looking like a cool cat with his pressed hair and wearing his fancy suit.”

  I leaned toward her, listening intently as Dahlia spoke, her voice alluring while she recounted the day that the man she called Josephus discovered her. She paused and glanced at the notebook on my lap. “What’s that?” she asked.

  “It’s a notebook. I am a writer. Would you mind if I took some notes?”

  She shook her head. “I do
n’t mind one bit.”

  Determined to capture as much as my note-taking would allow, I began to scribble into my notebook as she continued.

  “I watched Josephus go to the bar to fetch himself a drink, but not before he looked my way while I was singing and I knew what I saw in them eyes of his. There was a spark there for sure. After my set, he introduced himself and asked me my name. And that’s when he invited me to come down to the Half Moon to sing with him and his band.”

  I’m not sure how long I had been writing when Dahlia’s voice trailed off. I searched her eyes for remnants of those days.

  “So?” I prodded, eager for more. “What happened at the Half Moon Club?”

  Dahlia gazed at me as though she were seeing me for the first time. Then something like recognition crept into her face, lifting the corners of her mouth into a little smile. “Martha, honey, put my music on will you? Somebody turned it off. I don’t know why they turned it off. I was listening to it.”

  Again, I went to the side of her chair and pressed the play button. I looked at Dahlia hoping she would continue but her eyelids looked heavy and her head was slightly tilted forward. A young personal care worker approached her then. The PCW’s name badge read “Liz.” She smiled at me, and then put a hand on Dahlia’s shoulder. Gently, she shook it.

  “Dahlia,” Liz said. “C’mon dear. Let’s get you to your suite now. It’s time for your evening medication.”

  Dahlia looked up and smiled at the young woman. She allowed Liz to guide her from the chair. I went to the CD player, picked it and the disk up and handed them to Liz. “Don’t forget these,” I said.

  Liz shook her head. “Oh no. We keep the player and CD in the lounge’s audio cabinet. That way, Dahlia can have her music whenever she’s here.”

  Dahlia reached for my hand and squeezed it. “Where you going honey?”

  “I’m going home, but I’ll be back next Sunday. I hope we can visit again.”

  “Sure. Let’s do that. But where you going?”

  I wondered whether she heard my response as Liz led her from the lounge. Dad began stirring from his slumber. I looked down at him and smiled as I cupped his lined face in my hands. “Ah, you’re back with me, huh Dad?”

  “I am sorry, Meg. Did I spend most of our visit sleeping?” Dad asked. He spoke slowly, a slight slur to his voice.

  “Not really. We had a good visit before your nap.” I glanced at my watch. “I should get going. Come, I’ll walk you to your suite.”

  Inside his suite, I hugged him closely. “Love you lots. I’ll see you next Sunday. Sure you’re okay?”

  “Abserlooly,” he replied. “Love you too, sweetheart. And give my love to Bradley and the girls.”

  I nodded.

  On my way to the parking lot, I looked toward the evening sky where patches of grey clouds blotted out the sun, eliminating the twilight’s golden hue. The rain began falling just as I reached the SUV. Settling behind the steering wheel, I checked my cell phone for messages. Other than an email from my editor, there were none. I sighed and started the engine.

  As I drove, I heard the jazzy backbeat to Dahlia’s song in the windshield wipers’ rhythmic pock-peck, pock-peck sound and I pictured her face, her enduring beauty and the uncanny sharp details that pushed through the haze of dementia or Alzheimer’s or whatever cognitive dysfunction she suffered, as she recounted her past. The idea that had already taken root in my mind began to flourish and grow. I decided then that I would write her story.

  ***

  Bradley came from the kitchen as I let myself in through the front door. My husband of nearly 25 years greeted me with a nod followed by “hey”.

  A mouthwatering aroma filled the hallway. “You cooked?” I asked.

  “Well, if you call taking that tuna casserole from the freezer and heating it up cooking, then yeah, I guess I cooked.”

  “Tuna casserole sounds good to me.” I hung my jacket in the hall closet then followed Bradley to the kitchen.

  “How was your visit?” He asked as he slid on oven mitts and took the casserole from the stainless steel gas oven. Our kitchen was state-of-the-art gourmet. Bradley loved to cook. Cooking, he claimed, helped relieve the stress that came with his career as a New York State prosecutor. He’d had the kitchen remodeled shortly after we moved in. It became our favorite room in the house. I recollected the special times we shared in this space, creating meals together, even stealing intimate moments. Bradley and I used to joke that food wasn’t the only thing sizzling in the kitchen. Those days felt like a distant past.

  “Megan, did you hear me?”

  My focus shifted back to Bradley. “Sorry, what?”

  “Your visit. How was it?”

  “Oh, really interesting.”

  “Oh yeah? What did you two talk about that was so interesting?”

  The smirk I thought I heard in his voice was deflating. “What’re you saying? Because Dad is old, that isn’t possible? You’ll get there one day too, you know.”

  I heard him draw in a deep breath. “What’s with you? I just asked a question.”

  “Nothing’s with me.”

  “Whatever. If you’re ready to eat, I’ll dish out the casserole.”

  A dense fog of silence enveloped us as we sat at the dining room table. It had become our mealtime normal since our two daughters went off to college.

  “Actually,” I said while peering across the table at him. “I didn’t speak with Dad all that much. He had a long nap during our visit. But I met an amazing lady.” I searched Bradley’s face trying to recognize a glimmer of the flame that once burned brightly between us.

  “Her name is Dahlia. She told me she used to be a Jazz singer,” I continued.

  “Oh, yeah?” Bradley said, barely looking up from his meal.

  “Yeah. She was quite beautiful, even in her old age. And she kept humming to this song that was playing on a little CD player she had beside her chair. She said it was her song. It was lovely, really, sort of haunting. But you know what was most intriguing about her?”

  “What’s that?” Bradley mumbled between chews.

  “Well, she told me she was the reincarnation of Billie Holiday.”

  Bradley’s head shot up. “She what?”

  I chuckled. “Oh good, I have your attention.”

  “Of course you have my attention. I can eat and listen at the same time.”

  “Of course you can. Anyway, this lady, Dahlia, seemed to be struggling with dementia or maybe Alzheimer’s but her long-term memory was just incredible. She recalled her past with such detail.”

  Bradley looked me in the eyes, his expression now one of curious interest. “Dementia or Alzheimer’s eh? Are you sure she didn’t invent this Dahlia character?”

  ‘Argh, Bradley! Why do you always have to throw that cynical wrench into everything?’ I wanted to shout. It was the lawyer in him, I decided. And, had Dahlia not spoken in such detail and had I not seen her picture on the CD cover, I would have to admit he had a point. But there was no question in my mind that the Dahlia with whom I spoke and the Dahlia in that picture were the same, and I told Bradley so.

  “There’s no way she made up what she told me. She said she sang with a band called The Jazz Deliverers and she recalled names, places, dates, everything, so clearly.”

  He set his fork down. “Come to think of it my grandmother was the same in the few years before she died.”

  “Really?” Bradley’s grandmother had died the year we met.

  “Well, Gran couldn’t recall what day of the week it was, or what she’d had for breakfast, but ask her about how she and my grandfather met, or about their wedding day and she’d give you a blow-by-blow account of those memories. Her attention to detail was incredible, just like your Dahlia. Pretty amazing, alright. So, what did you say the group’s name was? Jazz Defenders?”

  “Jazz Deliverers. The Jazz Deliverers.”

  “Hmm. Guess I’m not the Jazz aficionado I thought was. I’ve
never heard of them. And you say there’s a CD of their record? That means, to this day they’re cutting re-releases of their album?”

  “Oh no, I don’t think so. The CD looks like a homemade version. The shell cover photo looks like a good quality copy, from an album cover. I’m thinking someone made a copy of that record for her.”

  He nodded. “Makes sense.”

  The warm satisfaction I felt coursing through me was not the result of the delicious casserole only, but because Bradley and I hadn’t had such an involved conversation in ages. Silently, I thanked Dahlia for that.

  After dinner, Bradley retreated to the den to work on closing arguments for a high profile trial that was about to wrap up. I stacked the dishwasher and went to bed ahead of him. Climbing the stairs to our bedroom, my steps felt a little lighter. That night, in bed, I stared at Bradley’s broad back as it moved up and down in rhythm with his soft snoring. His football player physique – broad shoulders, back and tapered torso were features that first attracted me to him; that, and his rich chocolate complexion. Bradley had, in fact, played college football. We had met at one of his games. After a mutual friend introduced us and I complimented him on his prowess on the field, he had shrugged self-consciously and said "truth is, football's not really my thing, but I wasn't going to turn down the scholarship I won."

  Fixing my gaze on his back, I reached over to run my hand over the width of him. He grunted, and pulled the covers tightly around him while shrugging off my touch. ‘We’ll find a way,’ I told myself, ‘to get back what we once had.’

  ***

  “Baby, every day should be your day.” Bradley had uttered those words at my ear, his arms encircling my waist when, years ago, I declared Mondays “my-days.” Back then, my days were filled with the demands of raising two elementary school-aged daughters - supervising homework, chauffeuring the girls to extracurricular activities, attending and planning birthday parties - while Bradley worked long days. On Mondays, my schedule, cleared of classes and office meetings, allowed for six blissful hours to myself. Bradley and I found time for each other where we could.

  Then, life served up a dose of irony with the change in our family dynamic - the girls went away to college while Bradley and I grew apart.