Beyond Molasses Creek

by Nicole Seitz

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Jasper Farms

  Mount Pleasant

  Ally

  1968

  IT HAD ALL BEEN A MISTAKE. A TERRIBLE, AWFUL MIStake. I went through four years of high school, fifteen dances, eight different hairstyles, and countless Beatles songs without ever laying eyes on Vesey Washington again. All because of my impetuous nature. My parents never knew anything had happened between us. They saw me sitting on the end of the dock, pining away as all teenaged daughters did, no doubt. They had no idea—and they would have had strokes had they known— that I was missing Vesey. I, Ally Green, homecoming queen to the class of 1968 at Mount Pleasant High, missed a colored boy. When I was dating Sam Packard and Miles Dupree, I was actually thinking about Vesey—how he would never say something just to impress me, how he would speak from his heart about his dreams for the future, about spiritual things and the true state of man—how he was real and genuine and everything right.

  It was all wrong in everyone’s eyes, but I remember sitting there with my feet down in the water, thinking, If it’s so wrong, God, why would you let me feel this way? A loving God wouldn’t make somebody have feelings for a person and then never ever let it be right. Would he?

  My religion was wavering, my foundation growing shakier each year, and by the time I hit eighteen and was thinking of leaving Charleston—going off to college, going off to start a life somewhere—I could not bear the thought of never seeing Vesey again. He had grown into the image of a near-god in my drawings and in my heart.

  To never see him again? I simply could not bear it.

  When you have wronged someone, you live with it. It does not go away. It lingers and stains and hurts and festers. I had wronged Vesey by keeping my mouth shut. I should have rowed over to his mama’s house and told her that I was the reason Vesey was caught dancing with me that night. I should have told her it was me who had had designs on him and not the other way around. I should have explained that I was like Odysseus’s sirens, luring him to the rocks. To his death.

  But I never said a word. I thought it might inconvenience and embarrass my parents. I thought of my own shame and what people might say about me. I thought of Vesey, I did, but in all actuality, I only did what served me best. And by the time I turned eighteen years old, I remembered that little girl I used to be, the little girl who used to be good friends with the little colored boy across that river. I thought of who I had become, who I wanted to be. And then early one Sunday morning I borrowed Daddy’s car and headed straight for John’s Island. I was going to find Vesey Washington and set things straight once and for all. I feared he was no longer there anymore, that he’d been drafted or hurt or grown bitter or run off and gotten married. I feared I’d never get the chance to tell him I was sorry, that I could never tell him the depth of my true feelings—that I had cared for him deeply. All these years. Him, and nobody else.

  Daddy’s ’65 Olds rolls along the dusty roads of John’s Island, clouds forming at the back of the car. The oak trees hang over me, Spanish moss dripping down and doting on me like an old nanny. I should have come here a year ago. Two years ago. Three. I should have found Vesey as soon as he got moved here. I could have cleared things up. I might have moved on with my life, had some closure, but no. I am still living with his ghost just as if he never left.

  I look at my hands on the wheel. Have they changed any since I’ve become a young woman? I look down again at my chest that has filled out this sweater, then back up into the rearview mirror at my eyes with purple eye shadow and blond hair, curled and smoothed. Yes, I have changed. I hope Vesey likes what he sees. But what will I find in him? Will he be handsome still or grown bitter, living out on this farm? Will he even agree to see me?

  There is a sign on the right for the Angel Oak. Mama and Daddy and I drove out here once to see it, a large sprawling fourteen-hundred-year-old tree. Standing there, cradled in its arms, I could almost feel the souls of the Indians who had prayed there before me. I pass the sign and keep on driving. No time for prayer. A deer is standing on the side of the road flicking its tail. It waits and waits and I slow down to a crawl. I honk my horn and it turns back to join its family. I take a deep breath, and then I see it—a hand-drawn sign that says Jasper Farms. This is it. I turn into the dirt drive and hold my breath.

  Pothole after pothole, at the end of a very long road, I finally see a break in the sky. There’s a river straight ahead of me and on the left, a sprawling farm with cotton plants and tomatoes and purple wildflowers as far as the eye can see.

  And there bending down to the soil is Vesey.

  He looks up and stands, hands on hips, watching me. He squints and when he realizes it’s me, he drops his basket and runs toward the car. My heart is about to burst out of my chest! I set the car in park and get out of the door. I go to run to him, but he stops several feet away and scolds, “What are you doin’ here?” He looks behind him to see if anyone is watching. His body is a man’s now, taller, fuller. His clothes fit him loosely, a long-sleeved white shirt with blue jean overalls. He looks healthy and dark. Better than I imagined.

  “Vesey, is it really you? I can’t believe how you’ve changed.”

  “You cain’t be here.”

  “I won’t stay. I just needed—my goodness, it’s been so long.” I grab my stomach and smooth my dress. I look over now toward the house to be sure we are alone. “I’m, I’m going off to college. In the fall. I got in.”

  Vesey is silent, watching my face and pressing his hands in his pockets.

  “Are you?” I ask. “Are you going to college?”

  “Ally, why’d you come here? It ain’t good for you to be out here. Ain’t you heard all the stuff goin’ on?” His voice is low and thick like molasses.

  “Oh yes. I’m sorry about Dr. King. I—I don’t know what to say really, but it’s awful. All of it. I just cannot believe people behave the way they do.”

  Vesey looks back at the house and folds his arms across his broad chest.

  “You don’t think I’m like that, do you?” I ask.

  “What kinda question is that?” he says. Crows come for whatever is in the basket he dropped, and he shoos them away.

  “I’m graduating next week, Vesey. We’re going up to visit Furman as soon as I do. I guess I came here because I wanted to . . .” I look down at his dirty shoes and then at my own. “I’m sorry, Vesey. I’ve wanted to tell you how sorry I am for the longest time, but—”

  “Sorry ’bout what? Ain’t nothin’ to be sorry about.”

  “Yes, there is! It was my fault. I’m the one who got you into trouble. It was all me! You had to come all the way out here because of me.”

  “It was bound to happen,” he says.

  “Yes, it was. And it was all my fault because I—” I look up into his eyes. “Vesey, I’ve cared about you since the day I met you.”

  The silence between us is loud and awkward. I want to absorb the words back into my mouth but I can’t. It’s too late. Confusion comes over Vesey’s face and then concern. Crows dance behind him on the ground, cackling at my announcement. I speak again to smooth it all over.

  “So are you? Going to school?”

  He shakes his head. “Nah. I’ve got work to do here. It’s pretty good work. I like it. Uncle Percival ain’t so bad.”

  “But, Vesey, if you’re not in college, they’ll send you off to Vietnam! Not to mention, with a mind like yours you should be going off to college. Didn’t you always dream about becoming a doctor? About saving people’s lives? My goodness, how many times did you say it?”

  “I quit schoolin’ few years back,” he says nonchalantly. “It was too hard to keep up with the farm and all. We sell on down the road and do pretty well. Got a stand and stay pretty busy year-round.”

  I rub my arms and feel the weight of it. “You dropped out of school? Because of me?” I am crushed by the unfairness of it all. They’ll come for him. They’ll send him off to war . . . all because . .
. I want to tell him how I really feel. I want to wrap my arms around him and beg him to come with me. I want to stomp my feet and throw a tantrum like a little girl, but I stand back, way back from myself and look at the situation. It’s tragic and hopeless and worse than I expected, just as it’s always been, no matter how much progress has been made between black and white. I stumble back against the car.

  “Ally, don’t—”

  “I’ve made a mess of things, Vesey. I honestly had no idea you would have to quit your dreams because of one stupid kiss.”

  “Please—” He reaches for me.

  “No. I can’t.” I back up and open the car door. I sit down slowly and reach for the keys. “Lord knows I don’t want to make things any harder than I already have for you, Vesey. Just know I’m sorry. I’m so, so . . .”

  “Ain’t so bad,” he says, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. His top lip is perspiring. “I mean it—it ain’t. And it ain’t your fault, Ally Green. It was my decision to quit school. Can you get that through your head? I cain’t have you thinkin’ it was ’cause of you, ’cause that’s a flat-out lie. A flat-out lie.”

  I smile sadly at him and want to cry. “It was nice to see you again, Vesey. I-I’ve thought about you. Time and again. I better be getting back before Daddy reports his car missing. Take care of yourself . . . and the farm.”

  Vesey moves closer and reaches for my door. His hand touches mine for a moment and he gives my fingers a squeeze. “Study hard,” he says. “You’re gonna do just fine. I know it. Maybe you’ll be a doctor like Doc Green. Or maybe you’ll go to Hollywood or travel the world like you always wanted.”

  With one last look, Vesey closes the door and I back up over roots and potholes, turning the car slowly so he can’t see my face. I hold my breath and the tears start falling before I reach the end of the dirt road. I am desolate, heaving fully, growing dizzy as I head off for the next chapter of my life.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Fate and Strangers

  Kathmandu, Nepal

  Sunila

  THERE IS A WINDOW IN MR. ASSAI’S OFFICE OVERLOOKing a small courtyard. In it, I see birds flying and landing on stone statues. I cannot see the way I used to when I was younger. Squinting down into the dust to chisel fine pieces of stone can age a person’s eyes. Though I cannot see it clearly, I long to be out there in the sunlight with the birds dancing. Instead, I am here in a wood chair in front of Mr. Assai’s desk. He is looking at me curiously and fear nips my insides. Why did I come here? What do I have to say? What proof do I have, and still, what can he do about it? Hopeless I feel. Hopeless.

  Mr. Assai pushes a container of food toward me—dal bhat, or rice with steaming lentil soup and tarkari, curried vegetables. The aroma makes me dizzy and my stomach responds by growling loudly.

  “Please, eat,” he says, dipping his roti into the dal and scooping up a bite. He has changed his suit and is dry now. I am wrapped in a brown blanket.

  I see a plastic spoon. Mr. Assai is using his. I always eat with my right hand, no spoon, but I am dirty now. I lift the spoon and approach my food tentatively. Then I scoop a bite and place it in my mouth. It melts on my tongue, and I want to ravage the plate, to inhale it. But I don’t.

  If only my mother and father could see me now. Amaa would be fearful, as am I, that this is a trick. No one invites a Dalit to have food with them. It is the principle of jutho or ritual impurity. I look to the door to be sure I’m not being tricked. That I am not going to be beaten by the cruel man. If Buba saw me, he would scream at me and tell me how ignorant I am. He would tell me I am no better than the hungry dogs who wander in the streets. I put my spoon down and close my eyes.

  “Is it not good?” he asks.

  “Yes, it is good. Very good,” I say. I open my eyes. No tricks. No Amaa and Buba, just this man, eating before me, asking me to do the same. I do not know where my next meal is coming from. I may walk out of here in a few minutes and then what? Where will I go? What will I do? Go back to the quarry?

  I eat my food and nearly lick the container clean. I need this food to carry me for whatever comes next.

  When we’re done, Mr. Assai takes the container away from me and stuffs it in a trash bin next to his desk. He pours fresh tea into my cup and I take it in my hands and sip it.

  “Thank you for your kindness,” I say.

  “It was my pleasure. I’m not used to sharing my lunch with someone as lovely as you.”

  There it is again. He called me lovely. I am quite uncomfortable. The last time anyone said this he was asking for my hand in marriage, vowing to unite me with a wealthy man if I would only follow him across the border. He would lead me to a better life.

  Lovely. I am not lovely. I am poor. Lowly. Unclean. This man is lying. I move to get up, but something keeps me sitting. I have come so far. My shoes are still damp, and so is my hair. Tell the man, a voice says deep inside.

  “Now, Ms. Kunari, I am interested to hear why you have come such a long way to speak with a consulate officer at the US Embassy. Please, won’t you oblige? I am very curious.”

  The birds fly past the window. There are dark clouds forming where the sunshine was. It is monsoon season. Any break in the clouds only leads to more clouds and more rain. I look to the wall at my umbrella. I’ll need it soon.

  “Mr. Assai, forgive me, but I do not know where to start.”

  “Just tell me what prompted you to come here now. You met Mr. Monroe, was it, a long time ago. Why make this trip now? Why today?”

  He has leaned back in his chair, one arm up on the rest, his hand rubbing the side of his neck. I place my tea back in the saucer and pull my knees together. I sit up straight and look down into the swirling tea.

  “I am a master carver at Chobhar Stone. I have worked there since I can remember, along with my parents. My family is in debt to the man who owns it. It is a sad story. We shall never be free.” I swallow and breathe in deeply. I am beginning to shake.

  “Several days ago I was bringing in the last of the statues to the owner, as the rains are here. He wanted to take inventory and sell the things I carve. He is cruel and tells me I am no good at carving, but I have seen others’ work. He is an evil man.

  “When I brought him the last statue—it was the goddess Durga—he looked at it and started yelling, ‘Stupid girl! You did it all wrong!’ I was so ashamed. I looked down at the ground. The next thing I knew he was silent and staring at me. I was afraid he would strike me, but instead he grabbed his chest and dropped to the floor on his knees. I was terrified and stood there, unmoving. His eyes rolled back in his head and soon the life had left him. I should have notified someone, but instead, I knew this was my chance. I went to the cabinets behind his big desk. There is a book. I have known it since I was a child. The cruel man had me study the pictures when he saw I was capable of carving stone, not only crushing it. He had me study those drawings and I would carve them into stones that the others had prepared. He would sell them, my statues, for a lot of money, but I never saw any of it. I remained in his debt. When I was nine or ten, he took the book away from me and I never saw it again, but oh, I could see it in my mind’s eye. I carved the stones from memory.” I look up at Mr. Assai and he encourages me to continue.

  “I have always suspected there was something special about this book, Mr. Assai. I do not look like either of my parents. They have always told me they found me, abandoned, and took me in as a baby. But Amaa, she told me the truth before I left.”

  “And what was that? What was the truth?”

  I touch the book beneath my sari and close my eyes. I look at Mr. Assai and summon my courage. “That I was not abandoned as a child, but stolen. That my father stole me from a woman in a café. That there was a book, this book, tucked in with me.” I turn from the man and reach into the top of my sari. I pull out the book with its worn edges and faded drawings. It is still warm from the heat of my body. I set it gingerly on the table between us, and Mr. Assai looks at
it. Then at me. He seems to be studying my face, my blue eyes, my small nose.

  Mr. Assai takes the book in his hands. “May I?” he asks.

  I nod and prepare to watch his face as he flips through the pages. He will, no doubt, be able to read the words, which I cannot. I feel as if a fire is rumbling up within me. I sit up straighter and put my hands in front of my mouth. I am shaking, but this is happening now. The book, the man, it is all happening. My fate is in his hands.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Tears and Molten Wax

  Mount Pleasant

  Ally

  “COME TO MAMA,” I SAY. I PULL OUT A PILE OF WHITE silk from a cardboard box and feel the softness in my hands. I shake it out, a piece about four feet wide and six feet long. I look at the old green carpet of Mama’s bedroom. This will have to go. I imagine dropping wax and dye and all else on the floor . . . but that will come later. For now, we play.

  I set two sawhorses up, about six feet from each other, and use stick pins to carefully hold the ends of the silk in place. The middle droops slightly, just as I remember it in that little store in Bali. For a moment I wonder about that woman, the one who was kind enough to sell me all of this. Was she able to buy better equipment? Did she continue to make batiks all these years? Did she live a happy life? How old would she be now, seventy-five? Eighty?

  Kat strolls through the door and his eyes grow large as he surveys the silk. His tail twitches.

  “Don’t even think about it,” I say. I can picture him, claws out as he slays my silks, me freaking out. I pick him up and set him out the door, then close it. “Not today,” I say through the wood. “We have to build some trust, you and me, before I let you in here. Run on now.”