Beyond Molasses Creek (12 page)

But what we heard next sent the fear of God through my chest like lightning. Vesey's mother had snuck up on the bank behind me, and before my eyes, she wrenched her son off the ground and ripped him away from me. I'd dreamed all summer of kissing those lips and there we were, caught, a Montague and Capulet. The music was still playing as he disappeared from sight, but I could barely hear it over my sobs.

I lay in bed that night, crying my eyes out silently as I could hear Vesey getting whipped on his side of the river, taking the blame for something I had initiated and had, in my heart, been planning since the day I met him. Hadn't I, really? Hadn't I always known it would happen? I didn't mean him any harm, but how could I have been so selfish? How could I have allowed myself to cross that forbidden line?

We were done. It was the death of our friendship. I didn't dare see Vesey anymore, and he didn't try to see me either. I'd been careless, and now my closest friend in life was gone. In the days after, I'd take Daddy's boat out on the water and stare over toward Vesey's house, hoping to see him, to see if he was all right, but he was never out. Once, his mama was hoeing in her garden, and she shot me the evilest look I'd ever witnessed. My stomach began to hurt after that something awful, and it didn't let up until school started. I wondered if she'd hexed me.

The window shades on Vesey's house remained pulled shut. I imagined he'd been shipped off to John's Island to live with his mean uncle Percival. I felt responsible for Vesey's demise. He'd have to work hard the rest of his life with no schooling, no education, no possible way of getting ahead and making something of himself—all because I couldn't get him out of my mind.

I never did understand how his mother knew we were there, but deep in the pit of me, I wondered—or rather feared—that Margaret had somehow tipped her off. That somehow she'd known Vesey really had a hold on me.

TWENTY-ONE
On Education and Freedom

Mount Pleasant
Ally

T
HE BOAT IS HUMMING BENEATH US, THE WATER
rippling up quietly on the sides. Vesey is silent, hands on the wheel. We're in Daddy's cruiser, a sixteen-foot Boston Whaler. It's a little bigger, more comfortable than Vesey's skiff.

“Isn't it beautiful tonight?” I say. I can feel that pot roast dancing in my belly. I'm nervous, gearing up for the big talk. “I do love the breeze on my face, the smell of that pluff mud. Don't you, Margaret? It's the closest thing to heaven for me.”

I let the word
heaven
prick our ears, then I take another deep breath. “Vesey, I was out today . . . went over to that new Whole Foods store to buy supper, and you know, I declare, I thought I saw you standing on the corner selling newspapers! Isn't that funny?” A nervous laugh escapes my chest. “Was that you? That wasn't you, was it? It couldn't be.”

“It was,” he says, steering the boat to the left a little as we pass the oyster beds and head out toward the inlet.

“But you . . . I mean, really? How long have you been doing that?”

“Oh, 'bout six year now.”

“Six years!” I grab at my chest. I think of all the places I've been in six years. All the living I've done, the sights I've seen. I think of the poor peddlers begging on the streets. I think of Vesey standing under that umbrella for six whole years.

“But why do you do it?” I ask quietly.

“Must be out of his mind,” says Margaret. “I could never set out on the street corner like that and tote all those magazines, all those newspapers, every day in the heat, the rain . . .”

I shoot Margaret a look that could light the moon.

Vesey is calm and smiles a little. He seems to be taking great pleasure in my discomfort. “Sho' is a pretty sunset tonight, ain't it?” he says.

The sky is fire red on the horizon with purples and pinks shooting up and out. The color reflects on his dark skin.

“Vesey, I don't mean to pry,” I say, “but I thought you, you know, lived off your land and owned your house outright and . . . Well, what I mean to say is—”

“What she means to say is why in the world would you want to stand there out in the weather like some paperboy?”

“Margaret!” I squeal.

“Mimi, that was rude,” says Graison. “Maybe he likes it out there. Maybe he likes selling newspapers.”

“I do like newspapers,” says Vesey. “Miss Graison, you see that over yonder? That's the old lighthouse. Ain't it purdy? Back in the day it used to keep boats and sailors from crashing to their deaths on these Charleston beaches. Mighty important job, don't you think?”

“Vesey, please. I don't mean any harm,” I say. “I just want to know . . . if I can help you in any way. I mean, if you're hurting for money or—”

“Oh, Miss Ally, now. Listen.” Vesey lowers the throttle and the boat slows down to a crawl. The engine is quiet and his voice hits me loud and hard.

“My grandfather couldn't read,” he says, eyes firm, held on me. “His father, my great-grandfather, couldn't read neither. He was born a slave over to White Point plantation on up in Georgetown. My mother and father couldn't read, and they suffered their whole lives because of it,” he says, waving his hands. “But me? I learned to read. Even when I was at Uncle Percival's farm, I got me some books, and I hid 'em, and I read 'em. The Bible, mostly. Weren't much, but I knew . . . somehow I knew that I could make myself a better life if I could only master those books and newspapers. It's how I learnt about Martin Luther King Jr. It's how I knew what was happenin' in Birmingham and Greenville. It's how I realized I was part of somethin' bigger than me and my own troubles. Readin' was how I survived, Miss Ally. And my son gone on over and fought in a war just so people like me could go on being free and learnin' to read.”

I turn to look at snails hanging high on tips of marsh grass, but he goes on.

“The way I figure, if sharin' newspapers and magazines with the world on that street corner can help somebody the way it done helped me, well then, almighty, I'm gonna sell those things. You hear? Don't care what I look like doing it. Education, Miss Ally. Freedom. That's what I'm out there peddlin', and I'm right proud to be doing it. Best thing I ever done.”

The whole boat is silent as Vesey revs up the engine once more. Margaret and Graison are stunned still. Tears burn my eyes as I think of this man, this good, principled man I've just offended, who had to grow up on his uncle's farm, struggling for books, all because of me. I'm desperate to be a snail on that blade of grass, small and unseen.

I cannot speak for the longest time, but when the sun dips down below the horizon, and the air chills another degree or two, I manage to say, “I think it's time to call it a night. Would you please take us on home, Vesey? I . . . I'm awfully tired now. Suddenly, awfully tired.”

Secretly, I'm wishing I was far away. I itch to be somewhere on the other side of the world.

Part Three

Before I was humiliated I was like a stone that lies deep in mud, and he who is mighty came and in his compassion raised me up and exalted me very high and placed me on top of the wall.

—S
AINT
P
ATRICK

TWENTY-TWO
Maharajgunj Road

Kathmandu, Nepal
Sunila

T
HERE ARE STATUES OF ELEPHANTS IN A PLACE CALLED
the Garden of Dreams. Through the gate I can see them, a pair, each with mother and child. I watch as the rain comes down and feel as if I have been here before. I have seen this very garden in my dreams with the pool and the symmetry and the elephants. I did not know it existed, yet here it is in front of me. Everything is gray and wet, and as the rain hits my face, it masks my tears. Oh, how I long to enter the gates of the Garden of Dreams, but it is locked, and I must keep going. I feel as if I am walking backward in time. It is a treacherous journey.

I have grown so tired, and I'm lost now. Every storefront looks alike. Water rolls down my face with the blowing rain and my stomach is empty. But I will not cry. I will keep going. I look in a store window for life and light and move closer. The shop owner sees me and gives me a look, daring me to come in. I move on and hope for a friendlier face in the next window.

There is a woman sitting at a desk sewing sequins onto a long piece of pink silk. I close my umbrella and open the door, hoping she will not scream for me to leave. I know I look unclean. I will try to hold my head up and act as if I am of caste. “Namaste,” I say.

My shoes are soaked and a puddle of water forms below me on the tile floor. She looks down at it, then up at me. I cannot hide my shame. “What are you doing? Filthy girl, get out!” She stops sewing and stands, throwing up her hands.

“Please,” I say.

“Can you hear? Are you so stupid? I have no food!” she tells me, holding the needle in the air. “I have no money. Why don't you beg elsewhere?”

I shake my head, then lower it. I stare at the puddle and say, “I need only to find Maharajgunj Road.”

“What? Why?”

I think of telling her. I think of telling her that I have to get to the US Embassy to meet a man who may not even still be alive, but the words do not come out.

She stops yelling for a moment and then says, “You are nearly there.” She points with her head. “Go to Lazinpat Road. It is at the gas station. Keep following it north. It will turn into Maharajgunj.”

Turn right or turn left?
I wonder. She sees the confusion on my face.

“It will
become
Maharajgunj, stupid girl. Just stay on that road. Now go.”

I nod and thank her and back out of the store, wishing I had something to mop up the mess that I left on the woman's floor. I watch as she goes to get cardamom to cleanse the place on the floor where I stood and defiled it.

As the rain hits my umbrella again and wind whips my sari around my wet legs, I remember the cruel man. I remember his violence. I feel the Book of the Gods pressed to my chest. I think to myself,
Keep going, Sunila. You are getting closer. You're almost there. I can feel it
.

TWENTY-THREE
Gods in the Garden

Mount Pleasant
Ally

I
CAN FEEL
K
AT WALKING ACROSS MY LEGS
. H
E'S READY
to go out or get food or whatever it is cats do. I groan and roll over. The memories of last night are still fresh, the pot roast, the macaroni, Margaret and Graison, the boat ride. My shame. How can Vesey always sound so perfectly right every time he says something? I mean, here he is on the side of the road in fatigues, and I'm the one who feels rotten and ignorant. He makes everything seem so dignified and worthy. Which leaves me on the other side of that coin.

I don't care to see him today. I think I'll go and see about trying to walk that bridge. Maybe get some exercise and do my own thing. I don't need him.

Daddy. Hey, how about that? It took me a few seconds before I remembered he was gone. I was distracted. Maybe to heal, one needs distractions. Plenty of them.

Of course, I already knew that, didn't I? I've been distracting myself for decades.

A pain, deep and low, shoots through me, and I clutch my stomach until it's properly deadened. Coffee. I need coffee. I roll out of bed, thankful that my hip is even better today, and then head for the kitchen. In a drawer beneath the coffeemaker, I find Daddy's notes and relive them again. I shouldn't, but I do. I stop when I see the one he wrote about her.

Ally, sweetness, I've seen her. She's here.
Time for you to rest now.

Dad

My knees go weak and I hold myself up on the counter. She's there. In heaven. With Dad.

But no she's not, because these notes are phony. Why would Daddy say something like this to me? So I would give up? So I would stop looking for my child . . .

So you can get on with your life, Ally. It's time for you to move on
. I can almost hear him now.

My chest feels like it's opening up, a raw, bloody wound. I open my mouth and let out a perfectly silent scream. Then I close it, compose myself, and slowly walk to a chair by the table. I hug my knees and feel the pinch in my hip.

I've been stuffing things down for so long, I barely know what it feels to be normal.

With my coffee I go outside and look at the mess of statues littering the yard. A stone garden. A healing garden. That's what I'll have here. With plants and flowers and places to meditate. I look over to Vesey's house without thinking, and it's as if I've conjured him up—there he is on the water, gliding toward me. How does he do that?

“Mornin',” he hollers, tipping his fishing hat.

I smooth my hair and smile despite myself. I take a hot sip of coffee. “Come back for more punishment?” I say.