Beyond Molasses Creek

by Nicole Seitz

  Then Daddy said, “It’s too bad you’ll be gone for the wedding.”

  “What wedding?” I asked.

  “Vesey, here, just invited us to his wedding in two weeks’ time. He’s marrying a girl . . . What’s her name again?”

  “Beulah,” said Vesey, his eyes beaming. “She’s a great gal, great cook. Her daddy owns the farm down over next to my uncle Percival’s. That’s how come we met.”

  If ever there was a moment when the world seems to melt away and you wither down to nothing but a crack in the cement, it was that moment for me. I choked on my iced tea and Vesey moved to pat me on the back, but I had to get up and leave. I had no control over what I might say or do, so I excused myself, faking a smile until I made it to the bathroom, and there, in the privacy of darkness, I bawled my eyes out. When Daddy came in to check on me, I couldn’t speak. He told me Vesey had gone on back to work and then he stood at the door a long time without saying anything. Finally, Daddy walked away quietly and I turned on the light. My face was distorted and red and streaked with makeup. I climbed down into the dry cold tub and stared at my backward reflection in the faucet. Everything was distorted and backward and wrong.

  When I came back out much later, I grabbed my sketchbook and found Daddy on the dock. I sat down Indian-style and started sketching Daddy holding his fishing rod. He looked at my puffy eyes but didn’t say one word. I loved my father then something fierce, and I drew him well, a profile in his fishing hat.

  Neither one of us uttered Vesey’s name again for the rest of my trip home that summer. Both Daddy and I knew it would have been more than I could have stood.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Rude Awakening

  Ally

  ROBERT FRIEDBERG AND I BECAME AN ITEM IN OCTOBER of 1971. He bought me a drink in the Dallas airport and then another and soon we began spending all our layovers together. He was charming and handsome, and something about his flying an aircraft just hypnotized me. I’d seen those controls. I’d imagined myself trying to learn everything he’d had to learn in order to fly, and if I thought about it, it made my head swim. He carried all of us safely in the air. It was a lot of responsibility and made him all the more attractive to me. Robert Friedberg, the cutest pilot to ever fly the friendly skies, was interested in me, and he proved to be the perfect antidote to thinking about Vesey Washington.

  By this time, Vesey was married, and he and Beulah Washington were farming away as husband and wife, digging in the soil, selling their produce on the side of the road. I could picture them. It was quaint, really, and I was happy for Vesey. Truly, I was. I was glad he finally had a happy ending to his life. There you have it. I was no longer responsible for his happiness or sadness—not that I ever had been, but I’d carried the weight of it, for sure. I felt as if I’d finally been set free. Knowing Vesey would never be mine allowed me to give myself fully to another man.

  Robert and I flew quite often together, and although I’m fairly sure we weren’t exclusive due to the talk among the girls, I knew he had feelings for me. He told me as much, maybe not in words, but through actions. He would buy me flowers and put his arm around me in broad daylight in the airport. He would tell me how beautiful I was. Looking into Robert’s eyes, I believed him and was falling for him hard. As hard as I could, anyway.

  And then one morning, we were to fly to San Francisco and back to Atlanta in one day. I woke up happy next to Robert and went to the bathroom to get ready. I remember starting the water in the shower, and as the steam filled the room, the room started to spin. Before I knew it, I was running to the toilet and vomiting, something I just never did.

  I looked at myself in the mirror then, thin, pretty, terrified. I’d tried using the Pill, but it was putting weight on me and I was afraid they’d start weighing me in before flights and telling me I’d gotten fat. That they wouldn’t let me fly anymore. But now I was pregnant and that was definitely worse. I was twenty-one years old, single, and scared to death to tell Robert about it. If he knew, he might feel responsible to tell the airline. One word and I’d be out of a job. So I decided to keep it to myself until I formulated a solid plan.

  That was by far the longest day of flying I’d had in my first six months as an AirAmerica girl. But as the days and weeks went on, it seemed I was running out of time. I’d have to do something, to say something to Robert quickly, because if I waited any longer, the whole world would know about my indiscretion, and I’d be out of a job and a cute pilot boyfriend, not to mention the father to my unborn child.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Dusty Files

  Kathmandu, Nepal

  Sunila

  MR. ASSAI, THE US EMBASSY CONSULATE OFFICER, AND I are sitting in the restaurant of the Shangri-La Hotel. It is outside on the lawn, and the chairs and table are carved out of wood that seems to grow up out of the ground. The view behind me is the hotel itself, but beyond Mr. Assai, I watch the trees and flowers and water flowing, as if paradise lies just beyond his shoulders, almost in my reach. The moon is rising higher still, full and orange, casting warm light on my hands. They itch to hold a chisel and busy themselves. I am anxious, yet there is a hope inside me I have never felt before. For what I am hoping, exactly, I am unsure.

  “Ms. Kunari, thank you for meeting with me again,” says Mr. Assai.

  “No, thank you,” I say.

  “Are you comfortable here? Are they treating you well?”

  “Oh, very much so. I—I have never had such . . . Yes, I have been treated very well, sir. Better than I deserve.”

  “Good. That is very good. I took the liberty of doing some research before I came to see you this evening. It seems I may have found something . . . worthwhile.” I search his face and he reaches across the table. “May I hold the book, please?”

  Slowly, I lift the sketchbook from my lap and place it in his hands. I take a deep breath. “Please, what did you learn?”

  “Do you know in which year you were born?”

  “Yes. Well, no. I am either thirty-eight or thirty-seven. Possibly thirty-nine. Amaa told me I was several months old when they found me. Or rather, when they took me. I—I do not know what to believe, Mr. Assai. Perhaps I was born in 1971 or 1972. I have never truly known. I remember as a child that in the month of December, Amaa would hold me close at night and put a dot of rice yogurt on my forehead for good luck. I’ve always considered my birthday to be in December.”

  Mr. Assai nods but his face remains untroubled as he opens the book. He makes grunting noises every now and again as he flips the pages or mutters, “Aha . . . I see.” I do not know what all of this means. The server brings us two cups and saucers and a pitcher of milked tea. I pour a cup for Mr. Assai with shaky hands and then a cup for myself.

  “This is very interesting, Ms. Kunari,” says Mr. Assai, stirring his tea. “I am eager to tell you what I’m reading here.”

  “And I am eager to hear. Please. Go on.”

  “First, I should tell you what I learned in our embassy files this afternoon.” He closes the book and sets it in his lap, then he leans forward and places both hands on the table. “I wanted to verify the things you mentioned to me earlier, not that I didn’t believe you—that your mother claims you were taken from a woman in a café.”

  My heart falters and I’m unsure what to do with myself. I take my spoon and stir my tea.

  “Ms. Kunari, this sketchbook appears to have belonged to an American, based on the written words. So with that, I looked back to see if there were any reported kidnappings of American children in Kathmandu in the early 1970s . . . assuming your age, of course.”

  Mr. Assai smiles and is quiet for a moment, and the big orange moon behind him makes him glow until it seems he may burst into flames. I put my hands to my lips and bite on my finger.

  “Ms. Kunari, indeed, there was an American child reported missing.”

  The server comes by and asks if we are ready to order, but I am unable to speak. Mr. Assai sends her away.
r />   “This book, Ms. Kunari, the one you brought me, the one you said was found with you when your father took you, this book”—he holds it up in front of me and taps the worn black cover—“appears to have belonged to a young woman from the United States, the same woman who reported to the embassy that her child was stolen from a café in Kathmandu in December of 1972.”

  I let out a tiny squeal and tears begin flowing down my face. Mr. Assai reaches forward and gently brushes the tears from my cheeks. He smiles at me compassionately, encouragingly. “Ms. Kunari, there is so much more to be done to confirm all of this, and I don’t want to get your hopes up too soon, but I believe you do have an American mother out there somewhere. I believe you were born an American citizen and that you were kidnapped and raised as a Nepali. And I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure justice is served in this case.”

  I put my hands over my eyes and begin shaking although it is warm and dry now. The rains have stopped. “This will require a lot of work and time, and even more patience. So I will need your total cooperation, Ms. Kunari. I’ll need you to stay here at the Shangri-La until I come up with further evidence. We will, of course, take care of your payments here. You will not incur any debt. May I count on your total cooperation, please?”

  “Yes, of course,” I say. But inside, I feel strange, as if I have walked off and left a shell of myself sitting here. As if the ground is shaking and I am desperate to hold on. I have always been untouchable. I am Sunila Kunari, daughter of Amaa and Buba, master carver of stone. I am a Nepalese worker. I was born in debt. I am a member of the lowest caste in Nepal, a Dalit. I am not worthy to be sitting here in this hotel café with paradise within my reach. I am not worthy to have this man telling me that I may not be who I’ve always thought I was but am instead an American citizen. I do not know what this means.

  Part of me wants to scream for joy. It feels right in my bones. But in many ways I need to run and run and run, all the way back to Amaa. I want to tell her that I forgive her. I want to lie in her arms again and listen to her singing. I want to go back and chisel the stones that have never brought me freedom.

  I want to thank the gods for what is happening at this moment. But I am too confused to be sad or to be happy. I simply am right now. Torn.

  “Thank you,” I say to Mr. Assai.

  “We will get to the bottom of this, Ms. Kunari. Mark my words. Now please, let us have some food and then I’ll need to take this book back with me. May I do that? May I take it with me?”

  I grab at my chest and stare at Mr. Assai. It is more than I can handle. I am unable to fully trust this man, yet I must trust him. It is too late not to trust him. I realize I have come too far, crossed some invisible line, and now I must continue traveling this journey, for to turn back now would mean the death of me.

  I am different now.

  Somehow, I am different than before.

  THIRTY-NINE

  Steak au Poivre in Paris

  Mount Pleasant

  Ally

  IT’S VERY DIFFERENT NOW, MY ARTWORK. IT HAS TAKEN on a sophisticated, exotic air it never had before. With the silk beneath my fingers and the smell of hot dye in my nostrils, I feel whole, as if my entire life has been to get to this moment, to making this batik, this scene of the river with indigos and blues and greens and bright sun yellows. When I look back on my life now, for just an instant, it all seems to make sense. When I am doing this artwork and engulfed in this creation, my life seems to have had a purpose—to get me here—the good, the bad, the people, the loss, all of it. Though I can’t understand why I need to be here exactly. It’s just a feeling.

  Maybe I’m breathing in too many fumes. That’s it. I go and open the window to let some fresh air blow through. Daddy would be pleased to see me in this room, making my way. I wish with all my heart he could see me now. He would say something like, Ally, girl, just look at you. I always knew you’d come back, always knew you’d come to your senses. I hoped you’d move on with your life one day and realize you don’t have to go traipsing all over the world anymore to find happiness. That she’s been here with you, all along. There is a time and a place for everything under the sun, sweetheart. There is a time to search and a time to give up searching. It’s time that you stay home.

  I stop. I put my brush down on the table beside my dyes. I should not have allowed myself to imagine Daddy’s voice. It’s too soon. I feel as if he might come to the door any minute now and want to see what I’m working on.

  There is a scratch at the door. I go to open it and find Kat at my feet, eyes bright and purring. I smile at the little booger.

  “I don’t mean to shut you out, Kat. Come here, you old boy.” I bend down carefully and lift him up. The hip is so much better that tomorrow I’m going to walk that new bridge. I am. The cat and I go find Daddy’s La-Z-Boy to sit in. We settle and I stroke his soft fur. He purrs and my soul just rumbles. I lift him up to me and rub my face on his side. I kiss the top of his head and rub his ears just the way Daddy used to do. Kat leans toward me as tears drop down my face, and he licks my cheeks with his dry scratchy tongue. It makes me cry all the more, having this little cat love me. I’ve never done anything to deserve his affection, yet here he is giving it to me freely. He’s lonely too; I understand that.

  “It’s you and me, Kat. Just you and me. Don’t run off now, all right?” Another pang of sadness strikes my gut as I imagine Daddy here after Mama died, and me, flying off to anywhere-but-here. I left him all alone, didn’t I? Was that selfish? Did he understand? “Thank you for being Daddy’s friend,” I tell the cat. “I imagine you were just what the doctor ordered by the time you set up house here. You were a stray, weren’t you? Little skinny, scrawny thing. Look at you now. Are you some sort of angel cat? Hmmm? Someone to comfort the afflicted?”

  The words coming out of my mouth only bring more grief. Where are you, Daddy? Where are those messages, the real ones you promised you’d send me when you got to heaven? What else did you tell me that was a flat-out lie? That my heart would mend after losing Constance? That I could get on with life and just forget about her? That I could forget I’d had my only child stolen from me and go on to live a normal, productive life?

  “You were wrong, Daddy,” I say, looking out the window at the sunlight glistening on water. “I know you meant well, but you were so wrong about so many things.”

  I lay my head back and close my eyes. I remember how wrong Daddy was about Robert Friedberg. Daddy believed him when he said he would marry me. He believed him like a fool.

  I remember the night I told Robert about my pregnancy. It was 1972. We were having dinner by candlelight in my little Atlanta apartment. I had made his favorite, steak au poivre and pommes frites, although the potatoes were not fried but roasted. A pilot and stewardess need to stay fit.

  I could barely eat a bite, but I watched him ravage his plate and tell me about the little café in Paris where he had the very best steak au poivre, and he looked at me, took my hand, and said, “We’ll go there someday. I can’t wait to take you to Paris.” After a while, Robert noticed I wasn’t eating and asked if I wasn’t feeling well.

  I came right out and said it then, no pussyfooting around.

  “I’m pregnant.”

  Robert put his fork and knife down. He looked up at me. He bit his lip.

  “Are you sure?”

  I began sniffling and he knew I was serious.

  “Oh boy,” he said. He wiped his face with his hand. His eyes darted back and forth across the table. “How far along are you?”

  “About ten weeks.”

  “Ten weeks?! And you waited till now to tell me? Is it . . . Whose is it? Is it mine?”

  “Of course it’s yours, Robert.” He was quiet for a minute, soaking it all in.

  “Well, what are you going to do?”

  I blinked at him. “What am I going to do? What am I going to do? I—I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me what you want to do?”

/>   In the pit of me, I had dreamed of this moment, when I would tell Robert the news of our baby, and he would know that I was his forever and would confess his love for me finally. He would come round and sweep me off my feet and hug me hard and tell me how happy he was, how I should just forget the airline, that he would take care of me now. That I didn’t have to worry about anything. That he would be the happiest man alive if I would just agree to be Mrs. Friedberg.

  Instead of getting down on one knee, Robert got up and walked to the other side of the room. It grew cold around me. After a few minutes of silence, he said, “I know this place, in Paris, where a girl can go and . . . and not have to worry about having some quack without a license . . .”

  My heart sank. In that moment, seeing Robert there, all the love I’d mustered for him fell down by my feet and I knew I was in this thing alone. I had already decided to have the baby. I had decided to love this child on my own. I would have to go home to Charleston with my tail between my legs and live with Mama and Daddy so I could raise this baby, but I was going to do it. I was going to give up the so-called glamorous life of travel and make my way back home.

  Seeing me silent, Robert came to me and put his hands on my shoulders. “It’ll be all right, kid. Don’t worry. We just can’t let the airline know or . . . or you’ll be out of a job, right? And me, well, I doubt they’d look too friendly on me getting you into this . . . position.”

  Into this position. I wanted him out of my apartment. I wanted him out of my face. Any attraction I’d had to him before was gone and to look at him made me sick. “I’m not feeling well, Robert. You understand. How about we call it a night. I’ll see you at work tomorrow?”

  Robert studied me and faltered. “Oh, okay. I, um . . . so you’re all right . . . with this? You’re . . . We’ll make plans to get you to Paris in a week or two. Just leave everything to me, all right? I know what I’m doing here. It’ll be the best thing for everyone. And then we’ll go to that little café and get that steak au poivre I was telling you about. It really is to die for.”