Like Slow Sweet Molasses

  “He followed me to explain what I saw meant nothing to him. She was an old flame and their relationship was over long before he and I got together. I pulled from his grip, lost my balance…you know how clumsy I am,” she offered glibly, shaking her head, “and struck my abdomen as I fell.”

  “Losing your baby.” She wobbled under the burden losing the battle to an onslaught of tears. Angela shrank away when his hand snaked around her forearm as he attempted to comfort her.

  “Don’t,” she rebuked with a sniffle. “It happened a long time ago.” She wheeled, dashed to the bedroom returning with the bag of wet things hugged to her chest. “I need to get home.”

  Chance, slow in reacting—his jaw dangling, didn’t reach her until she was half way down the stairs. “I gave your father my word to see you safely home,” he preached to her unyielding back. “Angela!” She never stopped moving. “Angela?” He burdened her with a question he couldn’t resist asking. “How long ago was this?”

  She plodded down the stairs hanging onto her bundle like it was her life preserver. In the throes of abject misery, Angela’s pace dramatically increased putting her at the door, in the street and on the run to anywhere to elude the pain. Pure energy jolted through her bloodstream becoming the main source of her being. The idea she was absolutely out of control was never an issue as she streaked past dilapidated warehouses not yet converted to private residences. Her empty-headed actions denounced the horrendous pain squeezing her heart. The street, partially dry since the rain ceased, was deserted with the exception of her fleeing form and the blur now at her back. Without warning, her feet slipped from under her as her body took flight.

  Chance dealt with her tantrum pretty much the same way he faced all obstacles in his life, swiftly and head-on. He didn’t break a sweat as he thundered behind her, relaying a stay put signal with a covert hand motion and caboosed his body to hers while lifting her off the ground. Angela fought hard for her freedom, crying uncontrollably now. Wondering if he’d driven her to this madness, Chance swiped aside his regrettable accountability to wrap his strong arms around her, bundle and all, after spinning her to face him. “Let it all out, Angela,” he crooned softly into her ear, his hand gloved into her damp hair.

  She practically lay into him ridding herself of the pent-up anguish harbored for so long. Ultimately, all energy fizzled reducing her to a pliable mess of emotions clinging to him for support. He cradled her and her precious cargo all the way back to his loft locking in not only them, but, also his rampant imagination. Angela managed to cap her distress by remembering whose arms sheltered her. It was evident she teetered on the edge of sanity and the time for release was at hand.

  “Nearly six years ago. Right before I came down from Chicago to volunteer after Hurricane Katrina,” she whispered.

  They were in his living area ensconced on the sofa inches from each other when she spoke. She answered the question asked a while ago. The hushed level of her voice drew him closer, so close he saw the sprinkling of freckles across her nose. Freckles he hadn’t seen before. Freckles temporarily erased with an application of makeup.

  “The grieving process requires a number of steps to cycle in order to clear the way to healing, Angela.” Chance pulled her legs across in his lap. She resisted half-heartedly, too played out to fight. Next, he scooted over pulling her to a horizontal position where her head rested on the arm of the couch. “An unfaithful spouse, a miscarriage and the most heinous living conditions imaginable, you sought to bury your pain in charitable works in New Orleans surmounting the human need to repair your own spirit.”

  Angela quietly listened to the words coming out of his mouth as interested in the movement of his lips as much as his consoling tone of voice. All lulled her to relinquish the remaining festering memories as he removed her soggy socks to massage the soles of her feet. Her eyes shut allowing the rousing sensations to course through her body, sensations of a mending nature.

  “Life passes you by if you live in the past, Angela.” Chance had first-hand experience in that area. “Don’t be afraid to explore new things. I know you have it in you because just look at what you’re doing today—giving a measure of hope to those who possess little.”

  “You understand,” she uttered from behind closed lids.

  Honestly spoken, “I think I do.”

  Chapter Seven

  Her complicated life had no room for the distraction named Chance Alexander. He was an infection riddling her body, forcing her to try every trick in the book to remedy her ailment. But it excited her to reminisce about his smoldering temper that up-surged to an incendiary fire whenever their paths crossed over the last two weeks. He was just what she needed least at this time in her life—a man—and a white man, at that. All of her prowess went into avoiding any contact with him after he psychoanalyzed her predicament, with one exception. She continued to periodically check on his aunt. She wouldn’t throw Mrs. Thatcher to the wolves simply to appease the selfish need to impound his presence from her life.

  It was just after one in the afternoon and her last pupil practiced the scale thumbing his way over the ivory keys. Jamal’s resistance to the lessons materialized in the dour attitude exhibited when Angela remarked how proud his mother was at his acceptance to her offer of the free instructions. He plunked through the fingering exercises getting a little less clunky with each pass. Angela encouraged his attempts at massaging the keys rather than smashing them. She also sensed his hidden satisfaction as each pass up and down the C scale resulted in a smoother flow.

  “That’s enough for today, Jamal. You did very well.” She got up from the straight back chair to secure a practice keyboard that she handed to him. “Do your exercises to promote limbering your finger movements.” He remained silent but she could tell he listened intently.

  “My uncle says piano playing is for sissies,” he informed.

  The shyness portrayed in his innocent brown eyes had her choosing her words carefully.

  “Then your uncle has a limited view of life. You’re a smart young man, Jamal. What do you feel?”

  “I gotta go.” He refused to answer that question, backing blindly out of the door, his gangly uncoordinated legs tripping him up and crashing him straight into one of the planters balanced of the porch railing. Flowers in every color of the rainbow littered the concrete floor. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

  “Jamal, it’s okay,” she soothed, rearranging the Caribbean furniture to pick up the scattered shards of pottery. “I’ll get the broom.” Angela was in the kitchen when she heard what sounded like a car door slam. Bustling back to the front, Jamal was nowhere in sight by the time she made it outside. All she saw was the backend of a shiny red car rounding the corner down from her house as she handily cleaned up the mess.

  Angela, with the broom and dustpan in one hand, closed her front door after he bailed out midway through their talk. Her mind drifted to his mother’s efforts to give him a well-rounded experience that included the arts. That was the primary reason Angela tried all she knew how to introduce youngsters to the arts and music. New Orleans was a culturally diverse city steeped in the talents of its inhabitants. Nowhere was that more obvious than on the musicians’ corners throughout the French Quarters. She wondered about the influence Jamal’s uncle had over him. If his kind of guidance continued, he would surely extinguish the light fluttering inside of his nephew.

  Angela piddled around doing much of nothing to burn up excess time before she had to get ready. Back to nephews is where she went, her mind wandering to Chance and the mysterious rosebud found in her viola case left on her desk at school. She’d returned from a meeting in the conference room to discover the flower as she prepared to leave for the day. The interesting part—she recalled locking her classroom and he still gained access. The rose hanging in the latch of her storm door at home that same evening froze her in her tracks. He presumed too much taking a step over the imaginary line she had no intentions of crossing.

&
nbsp; She swept thoughts of Mrs. Thatcher’s kin to the side to make room for fresh ones related to the ladies-only function later this afternoon at the jazz club’s grand opening. Since it was a birthday party for a co-worker, Angela raced to her bedroom dead set on dressing and arriving early enough to assist with the preparations for their table. Sheryl, the honoree, bragged about the owner’s generosity of sharing the spotlight on such an auspicious occasion. Her reserved table would seat her guests in the center of all activities.

  Angela smiled while sliding hangers aside in her walk-in closet, remembering the high energy conversation with the younger woman who gave thrilling details of the suave proprietor and his enchanting smile. Sheryl’s version of the interaction alluded to feelings of love at first sight which in turn spoke to her naiveté. There was a time she held love or the prospect thereof in high esteem like Sheryl. Of course, age had a bearing on that immature outlook. Life’s experiences wobbled the hope right out of her.

  The wash of warm water stripped away the impurities of her past life creating a new creature—one open to the exploration of the unknown. She toweled herself dry, applied a scented cream to keep her skin moistened, slipped on her undies, wiped the steam from the bathroom mirror and caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of her eye. But, that couldn’t be for she was home alone.

  Angela sprang into action securing covering for her body, keeping as quiet as humanly possible while leaving the confines of the bathroom.

  “Who’s there?” Complete silence answered her. “I know you’re there.”

  Tiptoeing into the room with ears attuned to any noise, she sidled to the bedroom door to ease it shut, heart quivering because she was afraid to venture any farther. There wasn’t a thing she could do except lock herself in and call 911 to report the break-in. She clothed herself properly surprised at how swiftly sirens split the air in front of her home. The emergency operator held her on the line until the authorities knocked on her door announcing their arrival. Fear harnessed her steps lengthening the time it took her to approach the front door. The decorative glass permitted slashes of the red strobe lights to penetrate the room while concealing the person’s features.

  “Miss Munso. NOPD.” The loud knocking was an accompaniment to the swirling whoop sounds blaring from the cruiser in the street. “Miss Munso!”

  Angela threw open the door to see a pimply faced officer who looked young enough to be one of her former students. Her level of confidence plummeted with this development. The way her eyes jumped from him to his vehicle to the faces now beginning to crowd the street and back to him revealed her uneasiness.

  “You reported a prowler?” he asked, tapping his name tag to set her mind to rest.

  Her shaky tone of voice had her pause to catch a steadying breath. “Yes. Someone was in my bedroom.”

  “I need to search the premises.”

  “Please do.” Angela gladly acquiesced, taking in his silent travels through her home. Unlike last time when instructed to stay behind, she did as told, watching from the open doorway.

  “Angela!”

  The alarm in the voice from across the fence pushed her out onto the porch.

  “I’m okay, Mrs. Thatcher. Don’t come over here until I know it’s safe.” Knowing her neighbor, she’d just spoken Greek to the elderly woman who proved it so, for Angela heard her cussing up a storm as she made her way through the mob before spying her on the walkway. “Mrs. Thatcher.”

  “Look, Sweet Child, you’re not alone anymore. What’s the matter?”

  “A prowler.”

  “At least we know it wasn’t that snake from home healthcare. Brock says he’s under arrest for other unrelated crimes that should keep him shackled for a few years.”

  “He never said anything to me about that. That’s good to know.”

  “Miss Munso? All clear.” The officer produced a pad ready to record the necessary information of the break-in. “They jimmied the lock on the back door. You’ll need to replace it as soon as possible. It locks, but, it’s flimsy.”

  Angela supplied answers to all the questions the policeman asked, her study of Mrs. Thatcher’s body language collaborating with her belief this report would land in the pile of unsolved cases. There was no bodily harm done. Therefore, fingerprinting was of no consequence. She was another trivial statistic drowning on the books of the already swamped NOPD. Two break-ins in fewer than three weeks. This one felt different, and that frightened her.

  “Miss Munso, I have all the details to file a report. It appears they slipped in and out without detection in broad daylight—probably thought no one was home.”

  “What do I do now, officer?”

  “You might want to invest in a security system,” was all he could suggest.

  “I’ll consider that. Thanks for your help.” She and Mrs. Thatcher hovered in the doorway as he reached his car.

  “You’ll stay with me tonight,” Mrs. Thatcher announced, her intrigue shifting to a hanging picture of idyllic serenity depicting an Italian village captured on one of Angela’s trips abroad. Her mind took a backwards leap. “I enjoyed my childhood in a beautiful hamlet just like that.”

  “It is lovely, isn’t it?” Angela admired the scene, pleased to see Mrs. Thatcher mesmerized into such a personal attraction to the image.

  “Memories.” She caught herself wishing for the good times of the past. However, Angela’s circumstances resurfaced. “I think you should consider my offer.”

  “That’s sweet. But, no.” She wouldn’t let them run her from her own home.

  “Then, I’m calling Brock,” her neighbor threatened. “He’ll know what to do.”

  “You’ll do no such thing. I can take care of myself, Miss Belle.” Her words held more bravado than she felt. “Leave him out of this.” Angela sighed when the old lady clucked her tongue to argue. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Remember, I have the equalizer.”

  “The equalizer. The old lady. You just be careful with that thing.” They took a step onto the porch. The lights stopped pulsating and so did the noise. “Look, I have an early dinner date at that new jazz club in the Quarters and will just make it in time.”

  “Then I’ll keep watch until you get home.” Mrs. Thatcher marched down Angela’s walk on her way to the sidewalk. “Me and the old lady.” She mingled in the presence of those gawking and littering the sidewalk, screeching her disapproval. “It’s over. Go on home. All of you.”

  Angela shuddered and braced her nerves to go back inside. A break-in in broad daylight. What was she going to do when day drifted into night and the world turned ebony?

  The decision to attend the party and not let some random intrusive act curtail her enjoyment of life spurred Angela to her waiting taxi. Daylight still reigned. There was no sense throwing caution to the wind. She was smarter than that and left every other light on in and out of the house. Mixed feelings about what happened shook her to the core. Her plan was to drop in on the festivities with an apology for an early departure since she intended to be home early enough to beat sundown.

  The ride took all of ten minutes landing her at the entrance to the establishment that had people in line looking like birds on a wire, waiting on the 4pm opening time. Just about the time she wandered towards the end of the line, she heard her name. Angela swung around, her eyes searching the happy faces. Sheryl peeped from the interior with the hugest, gloating smile Angela ever witnessed.

  “Get on in here, Sister Gurl. I’ve been looking for you.”

  Angela followed her inside marveling at how Sheryl flaunted her association with the club’s owner, undaunted by the unfortunate souls withering away in the heat. This would be their first clubbing experience together, proof that their movie and concert excursions went well. Sheryl seemed to thrive in this arena, rewarding all who met her approval with her wide-toothed model grin for, indeed, that’s what she looked like. A leggy, statuesque, latte goddess.

  Loud throbbing music descended on
the merry revelers occupying the round table front and center in the room. There were faces she knew from the school and some she never laid eyes on before tossing back drinks like liquor was a cure-all and prohibition was making a comeback. Sheryl made a go at introductions over the noise scooting over to make a place for Angela beside her. A waitress materialized to take her drink order. She requested Sprite flavored with cherry juice and a cherry.

  “Angela, it’s the weekend, girl. Let your hair down and live a little.” Sheryl’s laugh infected the entire table.

  “Medical concerns, Sheryl, but, don’t let that hinder you. Remember, it’s your party.” Believing she’d weathered that squall, Angela greeted each woman with smile.

  Wrong.

  “A prima donna,” slurred an inebriated well-wisher, her talon-like nails ringing a nearly empty glass clattering with ice.

  Glancing at her watch, four o’clock—happy hour was five minutes in the making causing Angela to wonder if this person began celebrating long before the appointed hour.

  Sheryl intervened, flipping her shoulder-length hair to signal authority. “Cat, sheathe your claws. None of that drunken, jealous bull-thit on my day.”

  “Jealous?” she replied, sheering over the operative word. “Of what? Little Miss Goody-Two-Shoes here? Get real.”

  “What—ev—ver. You don’t attack as long as your mouth is…full.” Sheryl’s raucous laughter placed a new light on the conversation. “Order another drink. That’ll keep you quiet for a while.”

  It did.

  Angela relaxed in the spirit of things, remembering why she shied away from the club scene. Always on the defense. That was a clubber’s modus operandi. If you drink, never mind drink too much, you were liable to squeal on yourself or others. If you didn’t indulge, you were outcast and suspect. So far, her virgin drink was the lone non-alcoholic beverage at the table. Her no peanuts rule, as she refused the bowl of nuts making the round, relegated her to the dishonorable laughing-stock label.