Beyond Molasses Creek

by Nicole Seitz

  “You got rid of all his stuff,” I say. “It’s all . . .” I look at Vesey and notice he’s graying around his temples. Funny, I didn’t notice it before. He looks tired.

  “Sorry if I didn’t do it right. Hope you don’t mind I set it all out. I can change it ’round anyway you like.”

  “No, it’s fine. Everything. I just can’t believe—”

  “And your daddy’s things, I packed ’em up myself. They said you told ’em to take it all back to some storehouse in Georgia—”

  “Yes, with Ronnie. It’s ours. At least it was. He and Marlene still let me use it. I’d travel and have things shipped back there over the years. I can’t believe I have amassed all of this. Not sure it really goes together.” He seems unsure of what to say, so I laugh, then he laughs right along with me, shaking his head.

  “No, ain’t never seen the likings of these before. You been all over creation, ain’t you?”

  “Yes, I have.” I sniff the air. “And what are you cooking? You didn’t have to do all that, Vesey. Truly. The moving and now this? How am I ever going to repay you?”

  “Don’t owe me a thing. Just being neighbors.”

  “Neighbors, my behind. People don’t do what you just did. What in the world is that heavenly smell?”

  A wide smile comes over his face and his eyes sparkle. “Gumbo. Lots of crab. That’s a good trap you got. Had near sixteen big’uns. Here, lemme get you a bowl.”

  “I can get it.” But before I can move, he’s already at the stove, ladling a big bowl of steaming rice and red gumbo. My mouth waters before the food hits the table. “I didn’t know you can cook. Doesn’t surprise me though.”

  “Oh, been livin’ ’lone a long time now. Man’s got to survive.”

  I lower slowly into one of my antique chairs, gritting my teeth, and he serves me. I can see diced celery and tomatoes, lumps of fresh crabmeat on top. His hands are strong and lean, the backs of them dark and weathered, the undersides of his long fingers, two shades lighter. He stands there, waiting, so I take a bite, and I tell you, it’s like falling in love. I moan. “Oh, how did you . . . You have got to give me this recipe, or teach me, or something.” He rubs his hands on a dish towel.

  “Glad you like it. It was Beulah’s. She sure could cook.” My heart pricks at the sound of her name. He looks out the window over the sink. Beulah was his wife of twenty-two years. She died giving birth to his youngest daughter. It was tragic. A hideous tragedy. “It’s right near dark now,” he says. “I best be going.”

  “You’re not going to stay and eat with me?”

  “No, ma’am, but I’ll check on you tomorrow evening if that’s all right.”

  “Goodness. ’Course it is. And don’t ma’am me, neither. How about you take some of this gumbo back home. It’s enough to feed Texas.”

  “Cuttin’ back.” Vesey rubs his fit midsection, then pulls out an old grayed fishing cap from his pocket and fits it on his head. He reaches for the screened door that leads to the side yard, then stops. “You ain’t gonna try to lift nothin’, are you? Don’t mess with them stones or statues out here without me. I’ll be back to spread ’em out where you want ’em.”

  I hold my hand up, scout’s honor, and smile.

  Vesey walks out into the night and I am left, a guest in my new-old house. I stare at my things, at my daddy’s walls, and at the most amazing food made by a very old friend. I pick up the spoon again and remember Daddy’s note. I meant to ask Vesey about it. I set it to the side of my bowl and spread it out, tracing his words with my left hand. When did he write this? Right before he died? I picture him, lying in bed, knowing I’d be home soon. Did he know I wouldn’t make it in time to see him alive again? That a note was all we would have between us?

  Tears spring to my eyes as I stuff another steaming bite into my mouth. The sweet crabmeat melts on my tongue, the steam finally dissipates, and I find that I am alone here. An orphan at sixty. All alone.

  SIX

  Faith and Postcards

  Ally

  IT COULD BE WORSE. HAS BEEN WORSE. ONE TIME I couldn’t get out of bed for three weeks. I’ve been careful with my back since hurting it this morning, so it’s much more comfortable, just a dull ache that bristles when I bend the wrong way.

  My father had a bad back too. It’s one of the frailties of our genes, I suppose. When Daddy’s back would go out, he’d be laid up for days in the bed with Mama and me waiting on him hand and foot. I never minded. In fact, secretly, I relished those days when Daddy couldn’t go to work, couldn’t go check on someone else’s family but was captive to my stories and I to his focused attention. He had one particularly bad spell when I was around, oh, seven or so. Daddy usually didn’t talk about his patients around us at home, but he’d had a tough case, and a little boy had died after contracting a parasite from standing water. It had happened so fast. Daddy was torn up pretty bad. I heard him behind closed doors crying to my mother about it. “There, there,” she was saying. “You did all you could do, Reid. You did all you could do.”

  I’d never heard my father cry before and it scared me. It made me think that death was real, that it could actually happen. To me. To Mama or Daddy.

  With his back out, I took advantage of the situation. I would sit there next to Daddy, reciting to him Grimms’ fairy tales, Rapunzel and Rumpelstiltskin. He in turn would tell me Uncle Remus stories of Brer Bear and Brer Rabbit. He did it in a low, gruff voice too, and I would cackle and roll to the floor. “That rabbit is smarter than Brer Bear and Brer Fox,” I’d say. “If they throw him into the briar patch, he won’t die, will he?”

  “No, he won’t die. The briar patch is where he was born, sugar. He’s trickin’ ’em, see?”

  “But . . . someday he’ll die, won’t he? Brer Rabbit, I mean. Everybody has to die, right?”

  My father knew we weren’t talking about the fairy tales anymore, and his eyes moistened as he lay there helpless on his back. He reached for me and winced with pain. I fell into his arms and lay there on the bed next to him, feeling his warmth and listening to his heartbeat. “You know, dying isn’t all that bad. Considerin’.”

  I didn’t dare speak.

  “What I mean is . . . Well, there’s heaven, you know. Heaven is a wonderful place. My mother and father are there right now, matter of fact.”

  I turned to look at him, inches from his whiskery chin. “How do you know?” I whispered.

  “Well, faith, for one.”

  Faith in some invisible, intangible place, to me, was as elusive as touching a rainbow. It was far, far out of my reach. Beyond my understanding. It hurt me to think about such things and I began to tear up, to breathe faster. Daddy knew it.

  “Well, faith, and also . . . they sent me notes.”

  “From heaven?”

  “Yep.”

  “Like postcards?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Well, where are they? What did they say?”

  Daddy breathed in deep. “I don’t have them anymore. They . . . they washed out into the river, accidentally, you see.”

  “What’d they say? Grandma and Grandpa?”

  “They said that they had made it safely to heaven. And that it was a beautiful place. Even better than they had imagined.”

  I inhaled, picturing them, Grandma and Grandpa with suitcases at their sides, smiling and waving and dropping postcards into heaven’s mailbox. It was the closest I’d ever been to having faith and I clung to it, trying not to let the image go.

  “Daddy?”

  “Yeah, baby?”

  “Who do you think will die first? You or me?”

  “What kind of a thing to ask is that?” Daddy ruffled, shifted, and felt the pain in his back, then he said, “I suspect it will be me to go first. At the rate I’m going . . .”

  “Will you write to me?”

  “Write to you?”

  “If you get to heaven first. Will you send me a postcard and let me know you made it? Tell me what it’s
like? If I go first, I’ll send you one, all right?”

  My father was quiet for nearly a full minute. Then he squeezed me tight and pulled my face to his lips. He kissed me, sandpaper on my forehead, and whispered, “Yes, Ally. I promise. I’ll write to you if I get there first.”

  Night has come. With a new bed in Daddy’s room, I’m looking forward to sleeping so I can shake this day from me. Imagine, skirting my duties and letting Vesey and two strange men move all of Daddy’s belongings out of his house. I hold his note to my chest: Make yourself at home.

  Apparently I have, Daddy. I’m feeling a little ashamed now. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. I stare out the window toward the river, at indigo shifting up through the water and glassy chards of white on top. I watch as the birds all skitter to their nests and a chill runs through my body. For half a second I almost believe Daddy sent me this note from heaven, but I know it must have been from some other time, perhaps when I came back from Bali and he was out at the grocery store. That’s it; he left me this note long ago—it’s probably eight years old by now—and I simply don’t remember it. It must have gotten stirred up while Vesey and the movers were changing things around in here. That’s it.

  I smile to myself and head to the bedroom slowly, tenderly for my hip.

  I turn on the light. I scream, a far-off sort of scream that sounds as if someone else is doing it.

  On my new red futon and littering the floor are little square pieces of paper from Daddy’s old prescription pad, at least a dozen or so. I lift one up, shaking, and see these words:

  Made it to heaven safely, Ally.

  Better than I expected.

  Dad

  SEVEN

  Sunshine All the Time

  Ally

  KAT JUMPS OFF THE BED AND SCURRIES UNDER IT. Someone’s at the door, but I can’t move. I haven’t slept a wink, and I’m still hugging my knees, staring down at the papers on the bed. The sunlight is peeking in through the slats of my bamboo shades, drawing long lines across the floor. It may have been one of the longest nights of my life.

  I hear the knock again, and this time, it breaks through my fog. I wince as I set my feet on the floor and pad to the bathroom to check my face. Oh, my face. I splash some cold water on my puffy eyes and pat them dry with a white towel. It’s too scratchy. Too new. I need to do a load of wash.

  Please be Vesey at the door. I could use a friend right now. I need someone to see these notes from Daddy so I know I’m not losing my mind.

  I hope I’m not losing my mind.

  I walk through the golden dancing dust in the living room and run my hand along Daddy’s green chair. There’s a sliver of Vesey showing through the transom window, and my heart stirs at the sight of him.

  I turn the lock and welcome in the warm morning air. Birds are chirping. His face is so kind, so familiar, it almost reminds me of my father. “Mornin’.” He nods and takes off his hat, holding it to his chest. He has a brown paper bag of fruit and pushes it to me. “Thought you might like some.”

  “Thank you, I’m . . . I’m sorry I look this way.” I run my hand through my hair and wish I could go make up my face. “I didn’t sleep.”

  “It’s overrated. Sleepin’.” He smiles and likes to melt my heart. “Can I come in?”

  “Yes, sorry, please. Come in.” I take the fruit into the kitchen and check the stove clock. It says 8:32.

  “These look wonderful.” I unload peaches, apples, and plums and lay them out upside down on some paper towels. “Let me just make some coffee so I can think straight.”

  Before I know it, we are sitting at the kitchen table, this massive wood thing, and I am ruing getting rid of Daddy’s small dinette. It went much better with the linoleum floor.

  I have so much to tell Vesey. I don’t know where to begin.

  “Feelin’ better?” he asks as I sip, eyes closed.

  “Getting there.”

  “I thought I’d help you with the outside today. Got all them statues and such.”

  “Oh, gosh, I’d forgotten all about that. They’re so heavy, you shouldn’t be lifting—”

  “I’m a man, Miss Ally. I’m fine.”

  “I know you are.” Something sharp flits between us, a spark, some current. I set my cup down and say, “Vesey, I have something to tell you, and I don’t want you thinking I’m crazy, all right?”

  He nods, brown eyes focused on mine.

  “I, well, I was up all night, thinking about Daddy. It’s harder than I thought it would be. Somehow when I lost Mama, it was softened by his still being here. I think I took solace in that, but now . . .” Vesey pushes up from the table and grabs a paper towel for my eyes. He folds it carefully and hands it to me. His gesture only makes me want to cry more. I blot my eyes and take a deep breath. “My father and I once had a conversation about dying. I was a little girl. He was laid out because of his back and . . . well, he was trying to make me feel better, so he lied. A pretty big lie.”

  “About what?”

  I smile, remembering. “He said that when he got to heaven one day, he’d write me letters and tell me all about it. Can you imagine? That Grandma and Grandpa had done the same for him.”

  “And did it help . . . when you were little?”

  “Yes, actually, it did.”

  “Don’t see the harm in it then. He was just looking after—”

  “There’s more, Vesey.” I stare him down. “I’m almost afraid to tell you this, afraid that when I go back there, you won’t see anything and they’ll have to call the paddy wagon and haul me off for good. I’m overdue, you know.”

  He’s concerned now. He rubs the knuckles on his left hand.

  “Come here,” I say.

  I stand slowly, and Vesey grabs my arm, helping me up.

  “Back any better?”

  “A little. I just don’t want to take any more pills that knock me out. Give me a good bottle of wine, but I don’t like those pills. It’ll be fine in a few days, I’m sure.”

  We walk arm in arm to Daddy’s old bedroom, mine now, and I stop at the doorway. Kat runs ahead of us and jumps on the bead, turning and biting at a flea on his leg. I point to the unmade bed and watch Vesey’s face. He looks at me, then walks forward and picks up a piece of paper by my pillow. He does see it. He straightens his glasses, reads it, and turns it over. His eyes search for the others and he bends and picks up each and every one as if picking delicate flowers in a field.

  I close my eyes and see them in my mind.

  Weather’s real nice. Sunshine all the time.

  Thinking of you.

  Dad

  Mama says hello. She’s young and beautiful!

  She loves you with all her heart. Me too.

  Dad

  Did I tell you we have a mansion by a glittering river?

  More beautiful than I imagined.

  Dad

  Ally, sweetness, I’ve seen her. She’s here.

  Time for you to rest now.

  Dad

  EIGHT

  Uncertainty

  Kathmandu, Nepal

  Sunila

  I’VE GOT TO REST. I CANNOT KEEP GOING. I HAVE NO food. I am wet. Why did I ever leave? I belong in the quarry with Amaa. I am destined for nothing but misery and bad luck here. I duck in from out of the rain and find an alleyway between stores. I don’t know which street I am on. They all look the same now. I wedge myself behind piles of rubbish and pull my knees up. I am sore from my shoulders to the bottoms of my feet. My shoes are barely there anymore.

  Why did I set out on this journey? I am not this brave. I am stupid, just as they have always told me. I feel the hard edges of the Book of the Gods in the tops of my thighs and I allow my mind to go to the images. I have carved them many times. I feel calmer now. I breathe in deeply. You have come because you must. Because there was no other way.

  I hear a noise and lift my head. I wish to be invisible, to blend in with the garbage. There is a man coming toward me. I wrap my han
d around my chisel. I will use it if I must. He comes closer and bends down. My arm tenses. He reaches his hand into the garbage and pulls things this way and that, and suddenly he is staring right at me and my hand with the chisel is pointed back at him. He is a Dalit like me. Who of us is more afraid?

  He lifts his hands and says in a coarse voice, “I mean you no harm. I am hungry.”

  I look at him and feel pity. No more fear. “I am hungry as well,” I say. Then I put my head down and listen as his heavy footsteps slosh away.

  NINE

  Letters from Heaven

  Mount Pleasant

  Ally

  “MISS ALLY?” VESEY TOUCHES MY SHOULDER. I’M LEANing against the door frame of my father’s bedroom and feel like I might have dozed for half a second. “What is all this?”

  I smile, sadly. There are pieces of paper all over the bed, the floor. “So you see them too?”

  “’Course I do,” he says.

  “It’s his handwriting, Vesey. I’d know it anywhere.”

  “Where’d they come from?”

  “I don’t know,” I tell him. “One minute they’re not here, the next, they’re all over the bed and the floor. I found one yesterday too”—I fish it out of my pocket—“and I meant to ask you about it. It suddenly appeared on my stomach after I’d been lying in Daddy’s chair out there. I assumed you’d found it and put it there.”

  Vesey grunts and furrows his brow. He looks through the papers, then around the room. “So, what, you think he’s sendin’ you notes from heaven?”

  “Isn’t that what it looks like? I just can’t believe it. I don’t even believe in all that mess.”

  “In what mess?”

  “You know, heaven, God. I don’t know, maybe I do.”

  “Y’either do or don’t. No in-between.”

  “Well, maybe there is an in-between. Maybe I’m in it.”

  I turn and leave him standing in the bedroom. I can feel the coffee kicking in, heart pounding.

  “I didn’t mean to offend—”

  “Oh, come on, Vesey, you didn’t. I’m just tired. I just . . . don’t understand . . .”