Beyond Molasses Creek

by Nicole Seitz

  I find the old electric skillet and a packet of wax. I set it in the plate and plug it into the wall. As soon as it begins to melt, I can smell the wax and it transports me back to that store, back to the streets of Bali. I open a window for some fresh air.

  What will I draw with the wax? Something like euphoria or adrenaline or both builds up in my veins and I itch with creative desire. It grows so strong I can barely stand it. What have I done all these years? I haven’t drawn or painted or sculpted a thing. I haven’t used my creative side at all, yet here it is bursting, ripe, dying to come out. How sad to have suppressed this desire. It feels much like the desire for a man, and goodness knows, I have learned to suppress that as well.

  The river. I will draw the river. My first batik will have blues and greens and yellows, and I will draw Vesey’s house on the other side, the white birds that glide over the water between us. I smile despite myself. To be thinking of drawing again, just thinking about it, brings me so much pleasure. I feel it’s a sin to have put this aside for so long.

  But then again, it was all I could do. I couldn’t draw again. That sketchbook had my life in it, and when it was gone, there was nothing left to draw. There was nothing left in me. I was a dry well. Empty. Parched. Barren.

  Is it possible, after all these years, that I’ve begun to fill up with healing waters again? I shake the past from me and focus on the task at hand. I test out the wax pen and move my hand slowly across the long middle of the silk. I am drawing the line between Vesey and me, yet it is not black and white, only barely there, easily smudged. I think of the reeds by the river and the story of Moses in a basket. I long to draw a wayward baby there, but I push it away. I will draw Molasses Creek the way it is today, the past gone away with the current and new beginnings coming in with the tide.

  As I draw with my molten wax, tears fall down my face and leave faint wet spots on the white silk. It is part sadness, part joy, as if finding an old friend. Although I have never in my life created a batik, with this tool in my hand, expressing what is inside of me, I’m feeling closer to home than I have in many, many years. Over the next few hours I succeed in losing myself completely, and only the occasional prick of pain in my hip and in my heart reminds me I have a body at all. That I am not just a part of the drawing that is before me. That instead, I am real, and the master of what is being drawn.

  THIRTY

  Drawing Clues

  Kathmandu, Nepal

  Sunila

  “WHAT YOU SEE BEFORE YOU IS A BOOK OF DRAWINGS that was with me when I was stolen. I believe the owner of this book to be my mother. My birth mother. I believe that these are her drawings and that they hold some clue as to who I am and where I come from.”

  “Your accusations are dire, Ms. Kunari,” says Mr. Assai as his eyes flip over the pages. “Are you saying you would like to bring charges against your father for stealing you from this woman? For kidnapping? Those are very serious charges, especially in today’s climate.”

  “No,” I say. “I do not want to press charges. What is done is done and one cannot go back and undo it. I do not want Amaa to have to suffer more than she does already. What I want, Mr. Assai, is for you to look at this book, to tell me I am not insane, and to help me find the woman who made these drawings. Here.” I take the book from him and flip to a page near the back. “There is a picture of her here. Of course, I only think it is her. Do you see a resemblance?”

  Mr. Assai looks at me and then at the book and back. His eyebrows rise. “Perhaps a small resemblance.”

  “Then look here.” I turn the page and show him a drawing of a café. It is still there, near the Garden of Dreams. “Do you see this drawing? It is the very last one in the book. Do you see what is here, near the ground?”

  Mr. Assai takes his reading glasses from his desk and places them on his nose. He holds the book away from him. “Yes, I do see it.” He takes his glasses off and looks at me with finality. His voice is low and dire. “It is a baby, Ms. Kunari. This sketchbook, indeed, appears to have belonged to an American woman. And there’s a baby in this drawing, in the café, just as you described.” Mr. Assai pushes his chair from his desk and walks toward the window. He stands there, hands on the sill, watching the rain now pouring on the courtyard and statues. He is silent for so long, I can hear the sound of my own beating heart.

  Then a knock at the door startles us both.

  “Mr. Assai?” It is the woman from the reception desk. “Your next appointment is here. Shall I have him wait?”

  Mr. Assai is far away in thought. He looks at me and then back at the woman. “Marta, I need you to help Ms. Kunari here get set up in the Shangri-La Hotel. Please arrange a room and food and anything else that she needs.”

  “Sir?”

  “Just do it, please, Marta. I’ll need to speak with her further. Get her set up in a room, and tell them . . . Tell them she is of caste if they ask.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And go ahead and send in my next appointment.”

  “Right away.”

  Mr. Assai comes to me and bows his head. “I must be honest. I am not sure whether to believe your story. You may have done these drawings yourself, no? You are an artist yourself.”

  “No,” I say. “I did not do these drawings. It is just as I explained to you.”

  “Very well. I don’t know what we’re dealing with exactly, Ms. Kunari. This case may or may not have merit. But I need more time. Please go now with Marta and I will call on you this evening. Don’t worry about anything, your meals and room are paid for. Do you understand?”

  I nod, but feel as if I’m in a dream.

  “All right then. I will speak with you later.”

  I turn to walk away and face him again.

  “Oh, your umbrella, of course,” says Mr. Assai, retrieving it for me. I look toward his desk.

  “The book,” I say. “May I . . . have it back?”

  Mr. Assai looks uncomfortable. “I’m afraid I’ll need to hold on to this. I’ll need to do some research. You do understand.”

  He can see the fear and mistrust on my face, but I cannot hide it. I have longed to have this book in my hands for three decades and now I am expected to leave it with another man, one I am not sure I can fully trust. One who does not yet believe me.

  “Please,” I say. “I cannot part with it. Not again. Please understand.”

  Mr. Assai assesses me. “Then you will not go anywhere. You will not leave the hotel?”

  “I will not leave the hotel,” I say with as much strength as I can muster. The book returns to my hands and suddenly I am not so afraid.

  “Very well. I will see you at seven. And I’ll be eager to review this book again.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  Homesick

  Ally

  August 22, 1968

  Dear Sketchbook,

  It’s the last time I laid eyes on him that haunts me the most. It isn’t all the memories of our childhood together, fishing, talking, playing along the water’s edge; instead, it’s Vesey as a young man now, how he’s tall and filled out and not at all the way he used to be as a child. Not the gregarious boy who spouted off all the things he wanted to do with his life, but the one who’s resigned to quit everything and just farm.

  Just farm. Am I a snob now that I’m going off to college? I suppose it is so. There are plenty of colleges where blacks can go, and I know Vesey is smarter than me. If life was fair he’d be the one going off to school and I’d be the one stuck at home.

  How could his mother send him off to live with his uncle after she lost her only other son in Molasses Creek? I’ll never understand it. One day, I’ll go right over to her house and demand, woman to woman, an answer for how she could do it. But then that accusing finger will point back at me and tell me I’m the reason her son has no future. That she had to send him away from me before I got him into more serious trouble. I know she’s right too. I remember what happened to that Musser boy who looked the wr
ong way at Silvia Draught when she was getting on the bus. A group of white boys jumped off and chased him down the street. Knocked him silly. I only heard about what happened to him later. One would think those boys would get into serious trouble for fighting and skipping school, but the truth fell on deaf ears and all the boys were back to school on Monday, looking like the cats who ate the canary. And bragging about it.

  Yes, I know what could’ve happened to Vesey if I’d continued to be his friend. It would not have been tolerated by a certain segment of society and worse things than farmwork could have happened to Mrs. Washington’s son.

  I put my pen down. I try not to see him in the cars and trees and clouds as we drive along Highway 26 toward Furman. You’re starting a new life, Ally Green, one where there will be fun and learning . . . and boys.

  Vesey is there in the field beside the road. In the reflection of a kitchen window.

  I close my eyes.

  “Margaret, your mother tells me you’re thinking of teaching, is that right?” Mama asks. She swivels her head so she can see Margaret in the seat beside me. My mother is wearing large white glasses that point up on the edges so she looks like a cat. Her hair is tucked beneath a brown hat and pinned in place. Simon and Garfunkel are on the radio singing about Mrs. Robinson.

  Margaret is drop-dead gorgeous. Her hair is long and wavy blond, her makeup just right with pale lips and smoky eyes. Her miniskirt is so short nothing is left to the imagination. I look down at myself, at my green dress suit with cropped top and big buttons. My mother made it herself. She looks back at me and smiles excitedly. She’s trying to cover up her worry and sadness. Her little girl is going off to college. Mama never did.

  “I’d like to teach, maybe on the college level,” says Margaret, as if she’s fully mapped out her existence in this world. “I think that’s where the cutest boys are.”

  “College is not about boys,” says my father, glancing at us from the driver’s seat. “It’s about higher education. You think too much of the boys there and you’ll wind up back home in Charleston after a semester or two, working behind a counter.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with working behind a counter,” my mother says. “Oh, listen to this nice song. Jesus does love you more than you will know. Did you know that, girls?”

  “Don’t worry about me, Dr. Green,” says Margaret. “I’ve always been able to keep my grades up . . . even when I was dating the captain of the football team. And there was no one cuter in our school than Graham Scups, was there, Ally?”

  I look out the window as we pass a family in the car next to us. There’s a little girl pressing her doll up to the window for me to see. “No one cuter,” I say.

  “I could have been Mrs. Scups,” Margaret goes on, “but to be honest, he was always a little dull. I need more excitement. I need to go to college.”

  Margaret crosses her legs and peers out the window. Then she turns to me wide-eyed and grabs my hand. “Ally, I just can’t wait!” she whispers. She puts her fingers up to her lips and acts as if she’s smoking a joint. She watches my father to be sure he’s not looking in the rearview mirror at her shenanigans. My stomach cramps up and I have to look away.

  “I think it’s wonderful you two get to room together,” says Mama. “That way you already have a friend. You won’t get homesick nearly as much, Ally. You’ll go off having sort of a built-in support system.” She’s quiet after that, pretty much for the rest of the trip. I wonder if she’s imagining herself moving away to live in a dorm room and earn a degree.

  “I—it’ll be fun,” I say to no one in particular. Then I cross my pale legs and lean my face on the cool glass of the window. After so many miles down the road, I cannot get the rich color of Vesey’s skin out of my mind. For a moment, I wonder why in the world I’m going off to college when I belong back in Charleston.

  Yes, I do belong there. With him.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Evolution of a Co-ed

  Ally

  January 29, 1969

  Dear Sketchbook,

  Getting a college education means different things to Margaret and me. I’ve realized, after so many parties and dates and nights in which I have to sit out in the hallway or sleep in a chair in the dormitory common room, that Margaret has come to college to find a rich husband. After she’s done having her fun with the suitors, that is. But me? I suppose I’m here to better myself, or to find myself. It’s easy for me to get on with my studies and classes because it gives me something to think about other than Vesey. The longer I study, the more removed I feel from him. Imagine not reading about Greek mythology, The Odyssey, the cosmos, psychology. My mind remains titillated and extremely busy and, truthfully, Vesey Washington has faded into the background. Until it comes to boys, that is. Boys, silly college boys, who drink too much and pound their chests and grope at me, only make me wistful for a gentleman like Vesey Washington. The distance he kept from me. The intimacy of our conversations. His genuine, pure heart. These college boys pale in comparison in more ways than one.

  June 5, 1969

  Dear Sketchbook,

  Our freshman year at Furman is over and Margaret has talked me into staying in Greenville and getting a job for the summer. I know that if I go home to Charleston, I’ll be thinking about Vesey, looking across Molasses Creek to his mother’s house. Not to mention after the freedom I’ve experienced living on my own, I’m not sure I want to come back under Daddy’s roof. Under his rules. He was so disappointed when I told him I wasn’t coming home, and I know for a fact Mama was heartbroken, but they’ve never been parents to force me to do anything I didn’t want to do. Why would they start now? I’ll be making my very own money working at a craft store downtown, and Margaret has a paid internship at a local radio station. She’s long given up her desire to teach and is moving on to more exciting things like music and dancing and rock-and-roll.

  June 15, 1969

  Dear Sketchbook,

  I’ve been fairly truthful about our summer existence, except that when Daddy came to move us into our loft apartment I neglected to tell him two of Margaret’s friends would be living in the extra bedroom. I also neglected to tell him that these friends happen to be strapping young men. Mama would die a thousand deaths over that. But I have evolved. It’s honestly no big deal—living with members of the opposite sex—what with the liberation of birth control and my not minding cleaning up after them. Somehow, I’ve become a regular home-away-from-home-maker.

  September 20, 1969

  Dear Sketchbook,

  Summer has come and gone. Men walked on the moon for the first time. A war is being fought on the other side of the world. A bus full of our Furman friends drove up to Woodstock and had the time of their lives. But me? I stayed back at our apartment and worked at the craft store—still timid due to my upbringing, I suppose. School has started again and I am officially a sophomore at Furman, but to be honest, I feel tied down by the books, by all the rigmarole.

  Margaret’s finding it harder to adjust to a schedule again. She was gone basically the entire summer, traveling with boys, sleeping out, and occasionally working. She had more than a working relationship with several of the folks at the radio station and would come home telling me how groovy so-and-so was and how lame I was for not wanting to date his friend, what’s-his-name. Margaret and I are growing more and more different as evidenced in our attire. I’ve retained the simple shirtdresses I went off to school in while her colors have grown bolder, patterns wilder, dresses skimpier. I’m more Jackie Kennedy and she’s more Jane Fonda in Barbarella. But I’m not a stick in the mud. I’m not. I do let loose occasionally. I date boys and drink too much and smoke whenever I feel like it. I’ve been on my own, making my own rules, with no parent to tell me what to do for a full solid year . . . but my lack of boundaries has begun to feel as stifling as a boundary itself. Is that possible?

  My head simply isn’t into school anymore.

  December 2, 1969

 
Dear Sketchbook,

  Something dreadful has happened. Last night they held a lottery for the selective service. We were all gathered around the television in our dorm room, anxiously watching as numbers were called. Girls whimpered as soon as they heard the birthday of a brother or cousin or a friend who hasn’t already been drafted, but by the time they hit number seven, September 14th, I was the one doing the crying. Vesey’s birthday is September 14th. And his number was called.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Daddy’s Girl

  1969

  Ally

  DADDY!” I HOLLER INTO THE PHONE AS SOON AS HE picks it up.

  “Baby, what is it? What’s wrong?”

  “It’s the draft, Daddy! Have you seen the draft on television?”

  “’Course I have. Your mother and I are watching it now.”

  “But all those boys, Daddy! All those people have to go over to war and fight and kill or be killed!”

  Daddy is silent. He’s letting me vent and listening well as he always does. He’s fairly used to my hysterics.

  “It’s not fair,” I whine.

  “It’s as fair as they can make it, honey. It’s a random drawing. Nothing’s fair about wartime.”

  Words catch in the back of my throat and my eyes begin to burn.

  “Ally? You all right?”

  I try, but I can’t speak.

  “Is it your friends? I realize you might have some boys there whose numbers got called tonight. Is that what this is?”

  “Mmmm,” I manage. “Yes, it is a friend, and Daddy, everyone’s been talking about going up to Canada or . . . or who they might know, or, well, some folks are saying that you have to get a physical first and if they find something wrong with you, why then you don’t have to go to Vietnam at all.”