Beyond Molasses Creek

by Nicole Seitz

  The child had not been able to swim; it was as simple as that. It was nobody’s fault. He’d simply gotten up early one morning before anyone was awake. They found him on the bank in some cattails with a fishing rod, Vesey’s fishing rod, near him.

  I’d sit on our dock against my mother’s admonitions and watch as the police brought their boats in and searched for evidence, of which there was none. I watched Vesey on the other side, sitting on the bank, arms covering his head between his knees as he rocked and rocked the pain away.

  I cried for Vesey. For some reason, the wails I heard from his mother didn’t shake my bones nearly as much as seeing Vesey, head down, rocking.

  Later, when things had quieted a little and sadness and helplessness had calmed the cries from the other side, I saw him there, getting into his father’s johnboat. And he saw me too, Vesey did. We’d not spoken yet, not even waved to one another that summer. But it was time.

  Vesey looked directly into my eyes. He didn’t smile. He’d gotten older, taller, his face more defined. Something around his lips had changed, perhaps from not smiling anymore. I itched to make him smile again and almost felt it as a great divine purpose. I would make him smile again.

  “Where you goin’?” I hollered over.

  He made a quick motion with his hand toward the main waterway. “Out there,” he said.

  “Can I come?”

  It was brazen, and I knew the second it came out of my lips that my mother and father would not approve, finding some vague excuse why I should not go out fishing with this boy. I could almost see the look on Vesey’s mother’s face if she were to know a white girl was in the same boat as her son. I knew the dangers. I said it again a different way. “Want me to come with you?”

  I’d put the ball in his court.

  “My folks won’t like it,” he said truthfully.

  I was only nine, mind you, but becoming bolder by the moment. “But do you want me to come, was my question. I won’t be any trouble. I’d like to see the waterway.”

  Vesey didn’t look like he had any fight left in him when it came to me and my questions, so without a word, he brought the boat closer, humming alongside my dock. He looked over his shoulder and up to my house. “Yo’ folks gone be mad?” It was more of a statement. We both knew the answer.

  “Maybe,” I said. A look passed between us as I reached my hand out for him to help me into the boat. We were crossing a line that day, all sorts of lines. I’m not sure we understood the depth of it at nine years old, but strangely, it felt good and right to cross those lines. Defiance seemed a natural progression for me, for a good girl with no siblings, living home alone with her parents, always working hard to do whatever they said. I can’t speak for Vesey, but I imagine he was ready to defy all the natural laws that existed as well. His brother had died and in anybody’s natural world, it wasn’t fair, and what could make sense after that?

  The wind was in my face as we wound around the creek bends, careful not to make a wake and disturb nature. We looked back at our houses to be sure no one had seen us go. They hadn’t. We were free.

  I watched the houses that dotted the river, the marsh grass that waved as we passed by. The smells were even better out here with the ocean air mixing with pluff mud, salty spray hitting my hand as it clutched the edge of the boat.

  Vesey looked straight ahead as he steered behind me at the motor. When I’d turn around to look at him, he’d stare off to the sides of me, out into the marsh, avoiding my gaze. We drove in silence until we came to the mouth of the waterway. Vesey cut the engine and pointed to a large cluster of oysters that covered an entire bank. It reminded me of a sea in wartime we’d studied in school, with mines dotting the water, waiting for some battleship to pass by and blow it to smithereens.

  “My daddy find good oyster up in here.” He pointed and swept his hand out over this oyster kingdom of his. “All dat. I help him sometime. Got cut up pretty good . . .” He lifted his forearm out to show me a jagged scar near his elbow and then his legs, a network of tiny, dark, jagged scars. “But he say oyster gettin’ ain’ for no sissy. I reckon I ain’ no sissy.”

  I stared at his dark legs, taking in the rich color, and then off into the oyster beds. A flock of birds overhead prompted me to say what I’d been feeling all summer. “I’m real sorry ’bout your brother.”

  The sound of water lapping along the sides of the boat, and Vesey’s silence, sent shivers up my back.

  I watched his face. Something around his eyes changed, as if he was no longer looking at the oysters and marsh but had drifted to some other place entirely. He never looked at me, just down into the water. I detected a slight nod in his reflection, an acknowledgment of my condolence. It was the one and only time we ever mentioned Vesey’s brother dying. Soon after, we vowed to continue our secret trysts with a pinky promise and a spit on the dock. As Vesey put it, being with me was “better than bein’ all ’lone.” To me, it was more than that.

  Secretly, I looked forward to our boat rides with their quiet adventures and our conversations. And I hoped to save Vesey from the grief he had at home by getting out beyond Molasses Creek. I held the belief that in simply getting away, he could leave his troubles behind and start anew. Looking back, I recognize it for what it was. I saw leaving home as some sort of salvation for Vesey—or possibly for myself.

  Yes, definitely for myself.

  FIFTEEN

  Delivering the News

  Ally

  THERE ARE SOME THINGS ONE CAN ONLY DO IN THE COMpany of others—telling bad news, for instance. Very bad news. News, as in, Ronnie, I want a divorce. Those words were delivered in 1995 at a Chinese restaurant in Atlanta just after the pu pu platter but right before the pineapple desert. There were throngs of people around us on a Friday night, sitting at red-cloth-covered tables, happily eating away, chopsticks clumsily hashing around. Even Ronnie wouldn’t want to make a scene there, but I made sure to remove his chopsticks first, lest he get any strange ideas. And we didn’t have a scene at all. It was very civilized, in fact— until we got back home and Ronnie had had time to digest his pu pu platter, and my news. I don’t hold it against him.

  There are other things one can only discuss while in a moving vehicle, with something else to look at and distract you from the meat of what is being served to you. My father used to speak to me while driving in the car. Staring straight ahead, not having to look in my eyes at all, he would deliver soliloquies on sticky subjects—the birds and the bees, the proper way to treat people who are different from us, and later, the reasons why a reputable Charleston doctor cannot continue gathering his daughter from the county jail after being collected from a naked love-in protest.

  So this evening, not only am I having company over to discuss matters of peddling newspapers on the side of the road with Vesey, we’re also planning a little boat trip to the harbor . . . just to keep our eyes busy and take the pressure off. Of me.

  My friend Margaret called. How she knew I was in town, I don’t know, but she’s coming over tonight. I decided I might as well have her here when I talk to Vesey. She can be a sort of buffer between us. Plus, she’s outspoken and Vesey and she go way back. I’ll look like an angel next to Margaret and maybe he won’t take my questioning so hard.

  My macaroni is crispy with oozing cheese on the top, bubbling around the sides. I pull it from the oven, carefully so as not to inflame my hip, and set it on top of the stove next to a pan of butter-sautéed green beans with slivers of almonds nestled in. The roast in the Crock-Pot should be simmering in its own juices, ready to fall apart with the slightest provocation. I stir my gravy, smile, and wipe my hands on a little embroidered apron I bought in India decked out in gold thread and turquoise—ah. The doorbell rings. So she’s here. After all this time. My stomach does a little flip.

  There is no peek of her through the sidelight window, so I imagine her there as she used to be, tall and long-haired, wearing bell-bottomed jeans and a paisley-print top. Oh, t
hat was too long ago. I imagine her face when she sees me now. How do I look at sixty? Am I still the young girl I was? Are my blue eyes just as sparkly and devious? Well, no. They’re not. In fact, the only sparkly thing on me is this apron, tied around my waist strategically to cover any bulges below that line. As for devious, well, I might have mellowed just a bit over the years, but don’t count me out.

  “My stars, if it isn’t—” The door opens and my eyebrows rise a bit. This isn’t Margaret Finke at all. This is a young girl, a teenager, even, pretty blond curly hair, acne on her chin, possibly fifteen or sixteen. She wears blue jeans and flip-flops with a colorful knit top. She smiles at me expectantly and holds out her hand. I shake it, looking behind her for Margaret, and say, “Well, hello. How do you do?”

  “I’m Graison,” says the girl. “Mimi’s coming. She’s parking the car.”

  “M-Mimi? Is Margaret your . . .”

  “Grandmother.”

  “Yes! Oh yes, I can see the resemblance now, that beautiful face, strong cheekbones.”

  “Yeah, Mimi says I’m the one who takes after her. Poor me.”

  “Poor you, indeed,” I say, winking. I’m definitely taking a liking to this child.

  “Yeah, she pretty much told me all about you and her going to jail and all. I think it’s cool.”

  “Jail time is not cool,” says a steely no-nonsense voice, accompanied by the click-clack of heels along the walkway. Margaret Finke Peabody is dressed to the nines with a big showy pink hat, complete with fresh flowers tucked in, and a formfitting matching pink dress that shows she’s kept that figure and then some. Those bosoms got us into a lot of trouble once upon a time. “Though standing up for what you believe in, that’s always all right in my book.”

  “Margaret, my dear.” I reach forward and hug her tight. “You look amazing. Simply amazing.”

  She must have had some work done. She stops and looks in my face. A genuine smile breaks out, pearly white. “So do you, Ally. You really do. Look just the same.”

  “Well, a little older. But hopefully I’m in a holding pattern.”

  “Always did love flying. The mile-high club, I believe it was?”

  “Margaret. Behave.”

  “I see you’ve met my granddaughter, Graison. I knew you wouldn’t mind if I brought her along. She’s staying with me— well, for the time being. Did you say hello, Graison? Did you use your manners?”

  “Of course she did! She’s a delightful child. And I’ve got enough food to feed the Citadel tonight.”

  “What I wouldn’t do to be forty years younger and have a Citadel knob on my arm.”

  “Oh, Margaret, not in front of Graison.”

  “I don’t mind, Mrs. . . .”

  “Miz. But you can call me Ally.”

  “Miz Ally, I’m used to my grandmother’s mouth. That’s how come they sent me to her. Mine gets me in trouble all the time. My parents thought we could relate, I guess.”

  “Well, amen to that. Relating and such. Listen. Come on in and let’s get you a drink. Graison, you like ginger ale? Margaret, I know what you like.”

  “Sorry, Al. Not anymore. Ginger ale’s fine for me too. My liver will thank you later.”

  “Oh, I see.” I think of my nice bottle of tempranillo in the kitchen and wonder about the etiquette of opening a bottle of wine when you’re the only one drinking it. I know Vesey won’t have a sip. Never has had a taste for alcohol or any other mind-altering substances.

  “Ginger ale all around, then. It’ll go great with my pot roast.”

  “I’m a vegetarian,” says Graison.

  “You are? Why, that’s wonderful, so much healthier, don’t you think? One of these days I’ll quit eating meat too. I’ve got some macaroni for you, dear. You do eat cheese?”

  “I’m sort of on a diet.”

  “Well . . .”

  “Don’t go to any trouble, Ally. She barely eats a thing. I promise you. Thinks she’s heavy. Which you are not, young lady. Men like curves, and don’t forget it.”

  “I hope so.”

  “I have lots and lots of fresh green beans,” I say. “Okay? Now listen, Margaret. You know who else is coming tonight, right?”

  A look comes over her face as if she’s far away and here at the same time. “I do. Mr. Vesey Washington. Long, long time since I’ve seen him. Last I knew he was laying that wife of his to rest. Poor, poor man.”

  “I know it. It’s awful. Now, he’ll be here any minute and I want you to be nice.”

  “I’m always nice.”

  “What I mean is . . . don’t mention anything about . . . well, you know.” For a moment my stomach drops and I’m wondering if this wasn’t a grave mistake. Maybe I shouldn’t have invited Margaret over after all. Maybe I should have had a nice quiet talk with Vesey alone instead.

  “What?” says Graison. “What can’t we mention?”

  “Never you mind,” says Margaret, wrapping her arm around her granddaughter’s shoulders. She pushes her toward the screen door.

  “Why don’t you all go out and enjoy the fresh air on the dock,” I tell them. “I’ll join you in just a minute. Got to stir my gravy.”

  I hold the screen door open, the breeze gracing my face like a cool spirit while I watch the two maneuvering arm in arm across the lawn. Margaret is awkward in her high-heeled shoes on grass. She turns back to me. “Speak of the devil. Here he is now, arriving in style on the water,” she says. “Just like a savior might.”

  “I said be nice.”

  “Relax, Al,” says Margaret. “We’re Southern, and we all go way back. Back to another time when all that was expected of us was to be proper and nice. If I know anything, it’s how to be proper. And nice. Just ask Graison.”

  “She could charm a snake,” says her granddaughter. “She’s giving me lessons.”

  “That’s my girl. Now move on over. I want Mr. Washington to get a nice. Long. Look at me after all these years.”

  SIXTEEN

  Poodle Skirts and Aprons

  Ally

  IMAGINE, MARGARET FINKE IN MY HOUSE AFTER ALL these years. I met her at her ten-year-old birthday party in 1960. Goodness, has it been fifty years already? I remember her hair was pulled up in a white ribbon and she had neat bobby socks and a poodle skirt bigger than Texas. She had just moved to Charleston from Memphis, and not knowing a soul, her mama had invited every girl in the fourth grade, which is why I hadn’t actually met her until I got to her house. And what a house it was.

  The Finkes had money. It was clear by the servants they had offering us food on little serving trays, by the size of her house that overlooked the ocean on Isle of Palms. The house had five bedrooms and there were only two kids in the family. Her father was a businessman, importing Chinese silks and tapestries, so her house looked like an exotic place somewhere far off. Staring at all those colors, feeling the silks in my fingers, I longed to go to where these things were made. I longed to be exotic myself. But I was only a ten-year-old girl with a ponytail and shabby poodle skirt with the tail that kept coming unglued at the edges.

  “How do you do?” I said, curtseying at my mother’s request as we stood there at the big front doors. Margaret seemed very popular for being so unknown, girls giggling and running up and down the stairs. I figured having money and being so pretty and blond like she was, was all one needed to make lots of friends. I envied her at that moment.

  “Thank you for coming,” Margaret said, smiling genuinely at me. “Neat poodle skirt.” She was a liar, and I knew I liked her that instant. She grabbed my hand and tugged me upstairs to go look at her new room.

  I remember accepting food at that party from a black woman holding tea sandwiches on a silver tray. She was wearing a black dress with a white apron and I thought she looked a little familiar. I imagined Vesey’s mother working in a home like this. I was embarrassed as I took the food from her, wondering, What must she think about us white folks? Does she think we’re all this rich? Does she think we’
re all so different from her? I knew my answer, of course. In that house full of black servants, I decided to guard my friendship with Vesey from Margaret and the other girls in fourth grade. I knew not to speak of it, lest something unpleasant be said. I decided in that very house on that very day that Vesey Washington was going to be my very own secret. He felt more special then, pressing upon my heart. I never wanted him to think of me the way these servants surely thought of me and Margaret. I’m different, I thought. Vesey knew that. There was no distance between us. At least, that’s what I told myself.

  SEVENTEEN

  Co-Cola Bottle in the Sun

  Vesey

  I REMEMBER THE FIRST TIME I SEEN HER LIKE IT WAS yesterday. I was just a boy.

  My father was an oysterman, shrimper. Hardworking man. He used to take that old johnboat down over past the river bend to the waterway, and then on out to the oysters. Me? I pestered him to use that boat whenever he weren’t in it, which meant, ’less I was off oystering with Daddy, I was on my own, fishing line in the creek out back. I knew the birds, the same ospreys that kept their nests and had little’uns every year. I knew the fiddler crabs at low tide, how they ran all this way and that. I knew the tides like I knew my own heartbeat. Better, still. So when I seen this girl on the other side of the creek—my very own river—I knew I had to know her too. It was only natural. She was running through my veins.

  It was a scorcher that day, but it was early yet. I put my line with a live cricket down in the water and watched that house over yonder, how big it seemed from my side of the river, how the dock would stretch out, asking me to hop on over. Begging, even.

  I seen her daddy out there many a time, though I was barely eight year old. Knew not to mess with white folk. Knew it well. Had it bred into me by my father, from his father, and on back to Africa from whence we all came. Knew not to mess with white men—especially not to look them in the eyes. But the girl—she was my age. She was small and harmless, as I knew myself to be. She was sitting with her feet dangled down in the water, the same water that lapped up on my side. We shared that water between us, like blood, or so I thought.