Like Slow Sweet Molasses

by Like Slow Sweet Molasses

  “I heard that,” Sasha rebuked from another room in the house. “Goodnight, Bro.”

  “Goodnight, Blabby,” he joked. Lowering his voice, “Seriously, though. My hooks are too deeply embedded. I love this woman.”

  “She’s got your nose wide open.” Trell quizzed, “Then what’s the problem?”

  “You know her father suffered a heart attack and I visited them in Chicago. Well, I thought that’s where Angela was all week. Each time I called to check on her I got voicemail.” Chance saw Trell’s interest in his story by his posture. “She always returned my calls, some sooner than others. And never for extended periods. Nor did I ever get to speak to her parents on those calls.”

  He took a drag of his beer.

  “So?”

  “So, I called her father’s cell to—”

  Trell supplied tongue-in-cheek, “Check on the lying sistuh.”

  “No!” he blasted. “To really see how he progressed. Of course, the topic of Angela came up. Her parents enthusiastically support our relationship, Trell. They’ve given me nothing but encouragement in the pursuit of their daughter.”

  “I’m confused.”

  “Welcome to my world,” he admitted balefully. “They talked about the trip she was on. One planned long before we met.”

  “Her father had a heart attack and she still took a trip?”

  “They persuaded her.”

  Still disbelieving, “And she went.”

  “Yes. That’s where my problem comes in. Lee and Connie realized they’d let the cat out of the bag. That Angela’d not mentioned her plan to me.”

  “I can see where you’re coming from. I’d have a problem with a solo trip, too.”

  “That’s just it,” Chance said. “I don’t think she’s alone.”

  “You suspect she’s cheating?”

  “That’s rather harsh.” He refused to condemn her as his mind slung him back to his marriage’s blow-out and its subsequent demise. “I do know the male voice she denied engaging in conversation was treacherous sounding and steeped with malice.” He listened to the voice in his head. “Trell, I don’t know why but I think she’s in over her head.”

  Chance looked at Trell. Trell looked back at him. “I tried her cell today. No answer all day. I’m worried.”

  “Her parents know her whereabouts?”

  “They say they don’t and I believe them. Said they tried the hotel in the islands where she had reservations only to find she’d canceled.” He rustled the hair on his head. “They didn’t seem alarmed because of their daily conversations. That and the fact Connie convinced her she needed time to herself.”

  “It seems to me, Bro, the lady has a secret,” Trell accused.

  “What do I do about my suspicions? I mean,I trust Angela. I don’t trust the circumstances surrounding her disappearance. She’s not gullible but she’s an overtly compassionate soul.”

  “You do have a conundrum.”

  “Yeah.” He sucked the last of his brew down and slowly stood. “Thanks for listening, Trell.”

  “You got a plan?”

  “Not a good one—but I have one. I’ll try her cell on my way to Aunt Belle’s.”

  Trell gave a twisted smile. “And Tina?”

  “Is why I’m staying at Aunt Belle’s. To keep the commotion to a minimum.”

  Trell walked Chance to the door. “Glad I’m not in your shoes.”

  “Yeah. I feel like I’ve walked this road before. This time I have a damn good reason to fight for love,” he relayed. “I don’t have a doubt that she loves me, too.”

  “Then,go get her, Bro.”

  Chance took Trell’s words in the literal sense sitting in his car in front of the house to call Angela’s number one more time. “Crap! Voicemail…again.”

  Coincidentally, Angela, too, worried about their relationship all the way to her house where she drove into her drive instead of Mrs. Thatcher’s dead set on making an unobserved arrival due to her severe exhaustion. She rolled as far inward as she could before leaving the confines of the automobile. Joy burned like fire through her veins. She was so thrilled to be home as she unlocked the door to step into her haven.

  Her eyes searched for anything out of the ordinary that alluded to an intrusion. She saw nothing unusual. Neither did any telltale scents warn of danger. Angela wheeled her bag to the kitchen not only to shelve her medications but also check her fax for the all important contract. The light over the sink flipped on. The machine had papers in the tray that she didn’t disturb because before her hand cleared the suitcase handle, the doorbell rang, disrupting her. Woman’s intuition alerted her to the visitor’s identity but omitted the knowledge that Mrs. Thatcher was not alone.

  “Coming,” she raised her voice a degree. “Just a minute.” Water sprayed her front as she quickly filled a tall glass with an unsteady hand to wash down a pain pill, tidying up the area by pushing the bottles to an out of the way corner of the counter. Now was the time for an Academy Award performance to keep the kindhearted soul in the dark regarding her plight. Angela hustled over and shot a look out the blinds as a measure of security.

  “It’s me,” the kindly faced woman said. “Belle.”

  A false smile greeted her neighbor as she held the door open without stepping outside. “What’s all of this?” she inquired of the huge covered casserole pieces clacking together as Mrs. Thatcher strained to control the weighty dish on her sprint to the kitchen. “Here,” Angela offered in pursuit. “Let me take that.”

  “Chance fried this big hen turkey this morning just for…”

  She halted mid-sentence, Angela noted, and appeared nonplussed as she stared at the front door. “Are you alright?”

  “I was just saying he wanted to fry a turkey for Thanksgiving.” In the next breath, “Don’t just stand out there in the cold, child. Get in here.”

  Angela set the dish on the counter and turned in the direction where Mrs. Thatcher directed her comment. A teen entered loaded with newspapers stuffed in a plastic sack in one hand and a wad of mail in the other. Her dark garb was a dead giveaway as to who entered as if she’d stepped into a snake pit. If that wasn’t an obvious identifier, the hardened glint in her eyes didn’t smother her father’s sea-green trait. This had to be Kelsy.

  “Come on in,” Angela invited with a smile, hoping to win one in return.

  “Kelsy, meet the best neighbor I’ve had in a long while.”

  “Hi, Kelsy. I’m Angela,” she waited in vain for some response.

  “Where are your manners, child?” Mrs. Thatcher chided as Kelsy stood gaping.

  The teen couldn’t pull her eyes from Angela to generate a show of good behavior. Instead, she flat out asked, “You’re Angela? The one my Dad talks about all the time? The one who helped him plan the week of the lamest activities we’ve ever done?”

  Her great aunt exclaimed shading to a bright red, “Kelsy!”

  Angela thought Kelsy’s words totally undeserving and harshly wound-inflicting. But, she responded, “One and the same.” Her body felt like one gigantic toothache as her system fought to repair itself. Her stamina flagged at the flippant remarks and she staggered under the duress, managing to quip as she weaved to a table chair, “Having your father’s undivided attention and spending quality time with him didn’t meet with your approval?”

  “I-I didn’t say that,” she blasted saucily, topping off the tantrum by slamming the bag in the center of the floor. The mail left her hands like an Old Yellow eruption.

  “Wait until I tell your daddy, young lady.” Mrs. Thatcher was beyond herself as she tried to minimize her anger. “Young people today.” She plodded over to spin Kelsy towards the door. “He’s going to be on you like a duck on a June bug.”

  Angela pursued the topic. “What are you saying, Kelsy?” Hoping against hope that she not suffer any indignities at the hands of a minor.

  “What does he see in you?” Words tumbled, uninhibited, from her mouth. “You’re no
t tall. You’re not pretty. You’re not…” She stopped on the edge of the precipice.

  “Go on. Say it,” Angela dared.

  “White.”

  So that’s how I sound she concluded sadly.

  “That’s it. Get to the house.” Mrs. Thatcher’s embarrassment prevented her from meeting Angela’s eyes.

  “It’s a pity in this day and age someone as young as you still gravitate towards hatred and the biased doctrines spewed in some arenas.” Angela stood. “At this rate, the world doesn’t stand a chance.”

  “I’m sorry…”

  “You owe me no apology, Mrs. Thatcher. But, I’m worn out from my trip. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to bed, now.” The old lady steered Kelsy by the shoulders with more velocity than Angela thought her capable of.

  “I’ll send Chance over when he gets back.”

  “No. Don’t do that,” she disagreed. “I haven’t the strength to tackle one more problem tonight.” Angela’s comprehension of her neighbor’s look made her reiterate. “I’m going straight to bed. Goodnight, Mrs. Thatcher.”

  “Goodnight, Sweet Child.” Poking Kelsy’s shoulder, “Say goodnight.”

  It came out grudgingly. “Goodnight.”

  Closing and locking up for the night, Angela revved up her nerves to attack the stairs. Try as she might to put the disturbing scene at Chance’s to rest it was no use for her chest compressed squeezing the air from her oxygen-starved lungs. Her whole body smarted. The altercation with Kelsy cut her to the quick. Yet, it was the unbearable grief in her chest that persisted because no pill existed to numb a broken heart.

  This night ranked right up there with the time she found out her biological father’s identity. She walked around in a haze for days unable to come to grips with the illicit facts of her life. Everything in her world resembled a false expression of the truth. So did this ill-fated relationship with Chance. He had a great aversion to honesty as was seen in the scantily clothed woman ensconced in his loft. As if that wasn’t enough, whether he knew it or not, he was the proud father of a little bigot-to-be. No, it appeared she was right the first time. The time she drew the imaginary line in the sand and told him not to step over or they both would regret it.

  Here she was a few measly days later doing just that to the tune of an entire box of tissue.

  “Why are you crying?” she asked aloud while stifling her sniffles. “You thought him different. A rare breed.” She blew her nose. “Get over it. Get over him.”

  Getting over Chance wouldn’t be as easy as saying it as she heard his throbbing motor pulling into Mrs. Thatcher’s drive. She doused the lights shuttering the house in darkness to give him pause about showing up at her door tonight. Once she lay down to snuggle under the covers, all energy drained from her body leaving her too limber to move a muscle.

  The pill took effect as she closed her eyes to the world and Mrs. Thatcher brought Chance up on the happenings. Quite perturbed and almost willing to risk going to jail for child abuse, she met him at the back door where the tale spilled incoherently from her lips.

  “Aunt Belle, calm down.” His keys jingled to the table as he fell into a seat covertly taking in both females’ body language. As if getting a call from Tina saying she needed a ride from the airport wasn’t enough misery for today. “What happened?”

  “I’ll tell you what happened,” his aunt puffed. “Your little angel, in reality, is a devil in disguise. She insulted Angela’s heritage.”

  “Angela’s home?” Chance didn’t blow up. He simply wanted the facts before jumping to conclusions. “Is that true, Kel?” He looked at his offspring wondering where he went wrong. Crucifying himself for her appearance. Perhaps, it was his absenteeism that drove her to such lengths. “I’m waiting.”

  “I spoke the truth, Dad. You always encouraged the truth.”

  She had him there. “What was your truth?” Her head dropped an inch or so.

  “I said her idea of a good vacation for me was dull and boring.”

  “That’s only part of it,” Belle intervened. “Tell Brock the rest.”

  “I only said she wasn’t white.”

  Chance’s lips formed a thin line. He counted to ten before saying another word. “What did race have to do with anything?”

  “She’s not your type, Dad.” Kelsy pouted and wound her way over to drop in the adjacent chair.

  “You think you know my type, Kel? What’s my type?”

  She’s not,” Kelsy protested. “That’s for sure,” she sang. “She’s too plain…too short…too…too—”

  “Brown?” he supplied when she bit her tongue to blot the criticism.

  “Yeah, Dad,” she admitted spitefully. “We don’t need any Ka-Vivors in our family.”

  “Kelsy! What crap is that?” He refused to repeat the phrase and his displeasure etched all over his handsome face. His eyes switched momentarily to see his aunt’s reaction. She stood silently by with a hand to her chest, thoroughly aghast. The legs of Chance’s chair scraped as he shoved back and towered above his daughter. When she didn’t answer, he chastised, “Answer me, dammit! Where did you get that crap?”

  “Gee, Dad. It’s not like I said the N-word or anything,” she rationalized while looking up at him, seeking his favor with her own green eyes.

  “Sounds derogatory to me. It’s an attack of a particular culture.” He crossed his arms and waited, head tilted to the side with a one-eyed squint.

  “I picked it up from the kids at school, okay? It’s a nickname for Katrina survivors.”

  “That’s it!” Chance lost all patience. “Love ones were lost in that storm. Families separated across these United States without the knowledge of where they’d end up or even if they’d survive the upheaval after the storm.” He wanted to shake some compassion into her. “Children taken from parents…spouses and significant others separated from each other. Some lost family members and everything they’d worked long and hard for—all in the blink of an eye.”

  He came up for air. “If you’d been here…in that chair…during Hurricane Katrina, it’s possible you’d have floated away, too. Aunt Belle,” he twisted in aunt’s direction to see her swipe at her eyes, “got water inside but not nearly as bad as others.”

  “I don’t see where what I said is so bad,” she complained in a grouchy manner.

  Chance knelt in front of Kelsy. “That’s a problem, Baby, if you don’t. I don’t know what they’re teaching you up there? I think you need a father’s hand fulltime. I’ll speak to your mother about that this weekend.”

  “My friends are in Montana,” she whined.

  “I’m beginning to wonder about those you call friends. A new cultural experience is just what you need. More diversity in your life.”

  “Dad, I like it back home. I’ll die in New Orleans. It’s too, too…confining.”

  He didn’t know the word she kept to herself. However, Chance knew that term wasn’t it. “I’m very disappointed in you, Kel. To show you how far off the mark you are, Angela’s not from New Orleans. Her hometown is Chicago. She relocated here as a volunteer after the storm. She returned because her heart was in the right place and she wanted to make a difference in the lives of children here. Angela is no more a Katrina survivor than you. What she is, is a Katrina provider…providing her talents and skills to make a difference.”

  Kelsy didn’t shy away from her father’s gaze matching his blink for blink. “I can’t give you a dose of benevolence or a spoonful humanity to keep your mind open to new experiences. I can give you encouragement not be so judgmental and narrow-minded in your views of the world and others in it.”

  Chance kissed her cheek on his way to his feet. “We’d better get going. Your mother’s waiting.”

  “Mom’s here?” elation tinkled in her voice.

  “She’s at the loft.” Chance added for his aunt’s benefit, “I’ll get them settled in and come back here to spend the night.” He watched Kelsy’s face fall. “Get your j
acket. Let’s go.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chance was willing to go to any lengths to make his daughter happy, but, excluding Angela from his life and sleeping in the same house with her mother weren’t going to happen. He buzzed the garage door open bringing the car to a stop as the door dropped behind them. Kelsy was out like a shot and dashing upstairs. He remained in his seat cursing the gods that conspired against him. When he left his vehicle, he did so with very little in the way of spirit to climb his way up. His ex-lounged comfortably in his chair, dressed or undressed, depending on the point of view, in one of his tee-shirts. Their idol worshipping daughter sat at her feet like she bowed before a goddess.

  “Make yourself at home,” he mumbled under his breath.

  “What?” Tina asked, sparing him a look. “Did you say something?”

  “Mom,” Kelsy attempted to commandeer the conversation.

  “Yes,” he intruded. “We need to talk.”

  “I bet you never had fried turkey,” she continued excitedly. “Dad fried one today. Talking about de-lish.”

  “About Kelsy.”

  “Hey, I speak English, you know.”

  Tina uncurled. “Kelsy’s earned a punishment.” She unseated her daughter to pull the ottoman over and extended her long legs across the soft leather. “We could cut her allowance. Or ground her.” She toyed with them both. “On second thought, I vote to take her cell away. That would get her attention.”

  “Mom, please.”

  Chance’s observations summed up the threats as a game regularly played. “This is serious, Tina. Our daughter ran away from home…cross country to be exact…on a whim.” He sat on the sofa where he monitored everything.

  “Oh, Brock, really. She wanted to see you, that’s all. To spend extra time with her father.”

  “At the risk of her life, Tina. Wake up. That stunt was dangerous. We’re lucky it ended the way it did,” he scolded.

  “It’s called spontaneity,” she corrected. “Something you never had.”

  He gauged his temper and chose his words carefully. “I’ll not do this in front of Kelsy, Tina. Your idea of a parental conversation and mine are at odds.” He leaped to his feet. “I’ll leave you two for the night. I see you’ve already imposed yourself in my territory.”