Beyond Molasses Creek (15 page)

He shakes his head. “Nah. I've got work to do here. It's pretty good work. I like it. Uncle Percival ain't so bad.”

“But, Vesey, if you're not in college, they'll send you off to Vietnam! Not to mention, with a mind like yours you should be going off to college. Didn't you always dream about becoming a doctor? About saving people's lives? My goodness, how many times did you say it?”

“I quit schoolin' few years back,” he says nonchalantly. “It was too hard to keep up with the farm and all. We sell on down the road and do pretty well. Got a stand and stay pretty busy year-round.”

I rub my arms and feel the weight of it. “You dropped out of school? Because of me?” I am crushed by the unfairness of it all. They'll come for him. They'll send him off to war . . . all because . . . I want to tell him how I really feel. I want to wrap my arms around him and beg him to come with me. I want to stomp my feet and throw a tantrum like a little girl, but I stand back, way back from myself and look at the situation. It's tragic and hopeless and worse than I expected, just as it's always been, no matter how much progress has been made between black and white. I stumble back against the car.

“Ally, don't—”

“I've made a mess of things, Vesey. I honestly had no idea you would have to quit your dreams because of one stupid kiss.”

“Please—” He reaches for me.

“No. I can't.” I back up and open the car door. I sit down slowly and reach for the keys. “Lord knows I don't want to make things any harder than I already have for you, Vesey. Just know I'm sorry. I'm so, so . . .”

“Ain't so bad,” he says, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. His top lip is perspiring. “I mean it—it ain't. And it ain't your fault, Ally Green. It was my decision to quit school. Can you get that through your head? I cain't have you thinkin' it was 'cause of you, 'cause that's a flat-out lie. A flat-out lie.”

I smile sadly at him and want to cry. “It was nice to see you again, Vesey. I-I've thought about you. Time and again. I better be getting back before Daddy reports his car missing. Take care of yourself . . . and the farm.”

Vesey moves closer and reaches for my door. His hand touches mine for a moment and he gives my fingers a squeeze. “Study hard,” he says. “You're gonna do just fine. I know it. Maybe you'll be a doctor like Doc Green. Or maybe you'll go to Hollywood or travel the world like you always wanted.”

With one last look, Vesey closes the door and I back up over roots and potholes, turning the car slowly so he can't see my face. I hold my breath and the tears start falling before I reach the end of the dirt road. I am desolate, heaving fully, growing dizzy as I head off for the next chapter of my life.

TWENTY-EIGHT
Fate and Strangers

Kathmandu, Nepal
Sunila

T
HERE IS A WINDOW IN
M
R. ASSAI'S OFFICE OVERLOOK
ing a small courtyard. In it, I see birds flying and landing on stone statues. I cannot see the way I used to when I was younger. Squinting down into the dust to chisel fine pieces of stone can age a person's eyes. Though I cannot see it clearly, I long to be out there in the sunlight with the birds dancing. Instead, I am here in a wood chair in front of Mr. Assai's desk. He is looking at me curiously and fear nips my insides. Why did I come here? What do I have to say? What proof do I have, and still, what can he do about it? Hopeless I feel. Hopeless.

Mr. Assai pushes a container of food toward me—dal bhat, or rice with steaming lentil soup and tarkari, curried vegetables. The aroma makes me dizzy and my stomach responds by growling loudly.

“Please, eat,” he says, dipping his roti into the dal and scooping up a bite. He has changed his suit and is dry now. I am wrapped in a brown blanket.

I see a plastic spoon. Mr. Assai is using his. I always eat with my right hand, no spoon, but I am dirty now. I lift the spoon and approach my food tentatively. Then I scoop a bite and place it in my mouth. It melts on my tongue, and I want to ravage the plate, to inhale it. But I don't.

If only my mother and father could see me now. Amaa would be fearful, as am I, that this is a trick. No one invites a Dalit to have food with them. It is the principle of
jutho
or ritual impurity. I look to the door to be sure I'm not being tricked. That I am not going to be beaten by the cruel man. If Buba saw me, he would scream at me and tell me how ignorant I am. He would tell me I am no better than the hungry dogs who wander in the streets. I put my spoon down and close my eyes.

“Is it not good?” he asks.

“Yes, it is good. Very good,” I say. I open my eyes. No tricks. No Amaa and Buba, just this man, eating before me, asking me to do the same. I do not know where my next meal is coming from. I may walk out of here in a few minutes and then what? Where will I go? What will I do? Go back to the quarry?

I eat my food and nearly lick the container clean. I need this food to carry me for whatever comes next.

When we're done, Mr. Assai takes the container away from me and stuffs it in a trash bin next to his desk. He pours fresh tea into my cup and I take it in my hands and sip it.

“Thank you for your kindness,” I say.

“It was my pleasure. I'm not used to sharing my lunch with someone as lovely as you.”

There it is again. He called me lovely. I am quite uncomfortable. The last time anyone said this he was asking for my hand in marriage, vowing to unite me with a wealthy man if I would only follow him across the border. He would lead me to a better life.

Lovely. I am not lovely. I am poor. Lowly. Unclean. This man is lying. I move to get up, but something keeps me sitting. I have come so far. My shoes are still damp, and so is my hair.
Tell the man
, a voice says deep inside.

“Now, Ms. Kunari, I am interested to hear why you have come such a long way to speak with a consulate officer at the US Embassy. Please, won't you oblige? I am very curious.”

The birds fly past the window. There are dark clouds forming where the sunshine was. It is monsoon season. Any break in the clouds only leads to more clouds and more rain. I look to the wall at my umbrella. I'll need it soon.

“Mr. Assai, forgive me, but I do not know where to start.”

“Just tell me what prompted you to come here now. You met Mr. Monroe, was it, a long time ago. Why make this trip now? Why today?”

He has leaned back in his chair, one arm up on the rest, his hand rubbing the side of his neck. I place my tea back in the saucer and pull my knees together. I sit up straight and look down into the swirling tea.

“I am a master carver at Chobhar Stone. I have worked there since I can remember, along with my parents. My family is in debt to the man who owns it. It is a sad story. We shall never be free.” I swallow and breathe in deeply. I am beginning to shake.

“Several days ago I was bringing in the last of the statues to the owner, as the rains are here. He wanted to take inventory and sell the things I carve. He is cruel and tells me I am no good at carving, but I have seen others' work. He is an evil man.

“When I brought him the last statue—it was the goddess Durga—he looked at it and started yelling, ‘Stupid girl! You did it all wrong!' I was so ashamed. I looked down at the ground. The next thing I knew he was silent and staring at me. I was afraid he would strike me, but instead he grabbed his chest and dropped to the floor on his knees. I was terrified and stood there, unmoving. His eyes rolled back in his head and soon the life had left him. I should have notified someone, but instead, I knew this was my chance. I went to the cabinets behind his big desk. There is a book. I have known it since I was a child. The cruel man had me study the pictures when he saw I was capable of carving stone, not only crushing it. He had me study those drawings and I would carve them into stones that the others had prepared. He would sell them, my statues, for a lot of money, but I never saw any of it. I remained in his debt. When I was nine or ten, he took the book away from me and I never saw it again, but oh, I could see it in my mind's eye. I carved the stones from memory.” I look up at Mr. Assai and he encourages me to continue.

“I have always suspected there was something special about this book, Mr. Assai. I do not look like either of my parents. They have always told me they found me, abandoned, and took me in as a baby. But Amaa, she told me the truth before I left.”

“And what was that? What was the truth?”

I touch the book beneath my sari and close my eyes. I look at Mr. Assai and summon my courage. “That I was not abandoned as a child, but stolen. That my father stole me from a woman in a café. That there was a book, this book, tucked in with me.” I turn from the man and reach into the top of my sari. I pull out the book with its worn edges and faded drawings. It is still warm from the heat of my body. I set it gingerly on the table between us, and Mr. Assai looks at it. Then at me. He seems to be studying my face, my blue eyes, my small nose.

Mr. Assai takes the book in his hands. “May I?” he asks.

I nod and prepare to watch his face as he flips through the pages. He will, no doubt, be able to read the words, which I cannot. I feel as if a fire is rumbling up within me. I sit up straighter and put my hands in front of my mouth. I am shaking, but this is happening now. The book, the man, it is all happening. My fate is in his hands.

TWENTY-NINE
Tears and Molten Wax

Mount Pleasant
Ally

“C
OME TO
M
AMA
,” I
SAY. I PULL OUT A PILE OF WHITE
silk from a cardboard box and feel the softness in my hands. I shake it out, a piece about four feet wide and six feet long. I look at the old green carpet of Mama's bedroom. This will have to go. I imagine dropping wax and dye and all else on the floor . . . but that will come later. For now, we play.

I set two sawhorses up, about six feet from each other, and use stick pins to carefully hold the ends of the silk in place. The middle droops slightly, just as I remember it in that little store in Bali. For a moment I wonder about that woman, the one who was kind enough to sell me all of this. Was she able to buy better equipment? Did she continue to make batiks all these years? Did she live a happy life? How old would she be now, seventy-five? Eighty?

Kat strolls through the door and his eyes grow large as he surveys the silk. His tail twitches.

“Don't even think about it,” I say. I can picture him, claws out as he slays my silks, me freaking out. I pick him up and set him out the door, then close it. “Not today,” I say through the wood. “We have to build some trust, you and me, before I let you in here. Run on now.”

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

“W
HAT 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?”