Beyond Molasses Creek (17 page)

“Ally? You all right?”

I try, but I can't speak.

“Is it your friends? I realize you might have some boys there whose numbers got called tonight. Is that what this is?”

“Mmmm,” I manage. “Yes, it is a friend, and Daddy, everyone's been talking about going up to Canada or . . . or who they might know, or, well, some folks are saying that you have to get a physical first and if they find something wrong with you, why then you don't have to go to Vietnam at all.”

“Yes, I suppose that's somewhat correct. In certain circumstances.”

“So, Daddy. I have a huge favor to ask.” The silence between us hums a long minute. “I want you to see if there's any way at all you can help a dear friend of mine.”

“Ally, you know I can't do that. I can't fake something. That would be unethical.”

“This war is unethical, Daddy! It's not ethical to—”

“Honey, calm down.”

“Daddy, promise me you'll help my friend. Okay? Please! He's . . . he just can't go off to war. Thirty-three thousand American boys have been killed already! I would die. I would just—”

“Ally, tell me who your friend is,” says Daddy. The wind has shifted. His words are slow and calculated.

“Just promise me, Daddy.”

“I'll do no such thing. Now, who is it? Who has captured my daughter's heart so much that she would ask her father, a doctor, to bend the rules? I certainly haven't heard you talking about any one particular boy.”

I bite my bottom lip until it bleeds, and then finally, I breathe it out. It's time I stood up for him. It's time, once and for all. “It's Vesey, Daddy. Vesey Washington. Remember the boy who used to live across the creek from us?”

The words I spouted are long and snakelike and seem to be wrapping tentacles around my throat, squeezing tighter. I can hear Daddy breathing, thinking, but nothing else. Nothing until— “Ally, Vesey doesn't need my help.”

“Why? Because he's black, Daddy? Is that it? Yes, he does need your help! His birthday is September fourteenth!”

“Ally, slow down. Vesey doesn't need my help . . . because he's already gone. Far as I know he enlisted two months ago.”

My body burns and turns still like stone, and the phone slips out of my fingers, falling with a thud to the ground. I sit down on the edge of the bed and hear Daddy's voice calling to me from the floor. “Ally? Ally, you there?”

But I'm already gone. Like Vesey.

Already gone.

THIRTY-FOUR
Up in the Air

Ally

May 2, 1970
Dear Sketchbook,

Daddy has not said one word about why I would be so worried about Vesey. Apparently, he has no idea how I feel about him. I am positive he'd have something to say about that if he did. Perhaps he understands we are childhood friends and go way back. Perhaps he always knew I snuck around, spending time with Vesey, and he just never said anything about it. Come to think of it, maybe he knew everything. Maybe Mrs. Washington gave him an earful when she sent Vesey away and told him it was all my fault. Maybe Daddy knows all of this, all our history together, but he lets me lead my own life anyway. Or maybe he knows nothing at all. Yes, that's probably it. Whatever the case, I've asked him to please keep a watch on the Washington house and listen for wailing or other signs that Vesey has been killed at war.

Killed at war. Oh please, God, don't ever let me have to utter those words about Vesey. April Cunningham's older brother came home in a box three weeks ago and honestly, I don't know how she can stand it. She's going to try to finish this semester, but bless her heart, I don't know how she can study for exams in this state.

So far, no signs of mourning have been reported by Daddy, so I hold my breath as I write this.

Margaret is getting married. She's dropping out of school to marry a senior who's very wealthy and going off to med school at MUSC next year. She'll be going back to Charleston to begin her life as a married woman, probably will have some kids. I guess I saw this coming, but I never imagined that a woman like Margaret, so free-spirited, would ever agree to settle down. She says she's gotten all her wild days out of her system, and in a way, I suppose she's right. Maybe that's what's wrong with me. Maybe I haven't taken enough time to go wild and be free and just live life. All I know is, my head is nowhere in school right now. I don't know how I'll ever pass my final exams. I don't know how I'll stand a summer at home or how I'll manage college again in the fall without Margaret here.

A girl on the hall downstairs, Brigit, is leaving school to become a stewardess for AirAmerica. She says she'll get to travel all over the world for free, get to meet new people, get to live the glamorous life of a beauty queen, really. She said I'm pretty enough to get a stewardess job, too, and I'm seriously considering it. I've already sent off an application and am awaiting a reply.

My heart is on the other side of the world in Vietnam. Vesey is out braving the world and fulfilling his patriotic duty, but me? I'm just bored and sheltered. I've got to get out of here. I've gone absolutely stir crazy.

July 4, 1970
Dear Sketchbook,

It's official! I am going to be an AirAmerica girl! They have the cutest little outfits with knee-high boots, stylish short dresses, and adorable hats. I leave for training in Dallas next week and am excited to be studying again. It's been awhile since I've felt that way. Mama and Daddy are not pleased, to say the least, but again, they're letting me make my own way. “Make my own mistakes” is the way they put it. But I know what I'm doing. I'm getting out there. I'm not sitting still. My life is going to be full of exotic travel and adventure and I'll be all too busy to miss Charleston or Vesey Washington. Goodbye, Furman. The world is my textbook.

Happy Independence Day to me!

November 1, 1970
Dear Sketchbook,

I took my first real working flight today from my home base in Atlanta to Tampa. I was nervous, wondering if I'd spill a drink on someone's lap or forget something important when showing the passengers how to fasten their seat belts. Not everyone would do it, mind you, but with a little prodding, they acquiesced. A particularly difficult gentleman in seat 7C asked me if I'd like to have cocktails with him when we landed, but I got out of it by saying I was meeting my sister and only had a short time to spend with her. But thank you, anyway, and hope you fly with us again soon.

We've been told to say this last part when trying to smooth over uncomfortable moments with the opposite sex. That wouldn't work with a woman, you see. There was a woman flying with her husband today who seemed to look at me disapprovingly, as if I was doing something wrong by serving her husband a drink. I most certainly am not doing anything wrong. I'm a grown woman. This is my job. I get paid to be kind to the passengers and wear this cute little outfit. So I've done nothing at all wrong.

And yes, of course, the men are going to be attracted to us—we're all single young ladies with skirts that rise up to the North Pole when we bend over or help a passenger with his bag in the overhead. But we're making a living and a good one, I might add, one that with hard work and many miles will bring seniority and perks and maybe even more.

Brigit is convinced her husband will fly our airplane someday. Well, the future Mr. Brigit, anyway. She hasn't met him yet, but some of the girls think it would be romantic to have a gorgeous passenger in the back row, to bring him a pillow or a cocktail, and then, when their eyes meet, voila, love at first sight.

I told Brigit that if that happens she'll have to quit flying. She says who cares; she'll have the man of her dreams. Marriage is grounds for being let go from the airline, as is pregnancy. I've heard many stories about girls who've been fired after letting the airline know they were pregnant. I suppose it's fair, but maybe it's not fair at all. I'm not sure yet. All I know is that the pilot we had flying our aircraft today, Robert Friedberg, was so handsome and capable, I felt very safe in his hands . . . well, having his hands at the controls, anyway. Between you and me, he could land on my airstrip anytime. That's sort of a joke between us AirAmerica girls.

Now for the mundane: Tampa was very nice as far as airports go. It was sunny, of course, and a couple of us girls just sat out on the cafeteria veranda and soaked up sunshine.

And for the more exciting: I called Mama and Daddy tonight and told them I think I'm going to like this job. They seemed genuinely happy for me. I could tell at the end of the conversation, though, that my father was unusually quiet, so I asked him what was wrong.

“Nothing's wrong,” he said. “I just thought you might like to hear that there's a lot of shouting going on tonight at the Washington house across the creek.”

“Shouting?” I asked, heart stopped.

“Yes, and dancing. He's back, Ally. Your friend Vesey? Looks like he came back in one piece from what I can tell from over here with my binoculars.”

I couldn't speak. I just couldn't speak. Finally, I mustered, “Thank you, Daddy, thank you! I . . . That's good news.”

Good news is an understatement. Can you believe it? Vesey's back! And he's alive! He's served his time, and oh, how badly I wish I could be there to welcome him to Mount Pleasant. He may need all the welcoming and dancing he can get, because from what I've seen and heard, there are boys coming home to jeers, not cheers, and worse. I saw a couple soldiers in the airport today, having just come home from overseas, and a woman actually spit on them as they walked by. It's not right, any of it. They're still people, these soldiers. And they've just been through hell.

But thank God Vesey survived it all. He always has been a survivor. No matter what this life throws him.

My goodness, I do miss that smile. I'm flying out to Chicago tomorrow, and I'm excited about the trip, I am, but honestly, part of me wants to go—needs to be—home.

THIRTY-FIVE
Shangri-La

Kathmandu, Nepal
Sunila

I
AM THINKING ABOUT HOME
. I
AM THINKING OF
A
MAA
and Buba and what he must be doing to her now that he knows I have left. He's never been a kind man. He's never loved Amaa, from what I can tell, and certainly, he's never loved me. He once made me sleep in the rain for two nights when I was twelve years old and had just been promoted, if one can call it that, to a carver instead of a stone crusher.

“She thinks she is too good for us. She thinks with her skin and blue eyes that she is some sort of goddess, someone high caste, someone special. But she is not special. She is like the dogs that roam about. She should sleep with the dogs.”

And sleep with them I did. I suffered a terrible sickness in my lungs after that and when I was finally well and home from hospital, we only had more debt to pay off. Buba hated me all the more.

I am thinking of home, of our hovel, our tiny tent with its walls that keep nothing out, the water, how it comes in beneath and leaves muddy puddles where we should be sleeping. I am thinking of home now, because I am in the Shangri-La Hotel, and this must be how the gods live. This is nothing at all like home.

There are two beds, big enough for a family of six people, in this one room. There is a television set that seems to send me into a trance when I push the button and hear the people talk. Time moves quickly when I watch it. I have to keep turning it off for fear my time in this room will be gone when I blink my eyes. There is a working toilet and a bathtub—not for sharing—only for me. And no one is watching. I have bathed already and although the water was warm and there was sweet-smelling soap to use, I was anxious. I felt someone would break into the room and yell at me to get out. They would say,
Who do you think you are? You filthy dog, get out of this room. You are stealing it, you little thief!

I have heard these words many times in my life. To not hear them makes me uneasy. I know they are coming. I try to stay prepared.

There are two mirrors in this room in the Shangri-La Hotel. One is by the television across from the beds. When I sit on the edge of the bed and watch the newsman telling about the tragedies in Kathmandu, I see myself in the mirror, and it startles me. I cannot get used to seeing my image. She is older than I remembered. Before my bath, I saw myself in a dingy pink-and-orange sari. It is now clean and drying on the bar in the bathroom behind me.

I am in a white towel that covers little of my body. I, too, am clean. My skin is mottled with spots on my forehead and neck, but the rest of my body, the part that lies beneath this towel, is much whiter than Amaa's body. I have seen Amaa nude many times, and her skin is the color of roasted beans. But beneath my towel—I dare not peek—my skin could be from the tops of the snowy mountains of Nepal, where that white bird should have left me, instead of dropping me into the filth of Kathmandu.

My heart jolts. There is a knock at the door. It will be Mr. Assai asking to see my book again. Fearful, I feel the hanging fabric of my sari, but it is still wet. I run out of the bathroom and make sure the latch is still fastened. I open a door to a very small room. There is a bar with hangers on them and a long white robe. I put it on and feel even more like a thief than before. But the odor of the fabric is of the finest powders, and I smile inside despite myself.

When I'm ready, I open the door, but instead of finding Mr. Assai before me, there is a woman holding a tray with domes of silver and a little vase of flowers. I nearly faint with delight when I smell the food. My stomach rumbles and the woman sets the tray on the table near the curtains. “Would you like to see the view?” she asks me.

I did not know there would be a view, but she pulls back the curtains, and there, on the ground below, is green grass and colorful flowers and tailored gardens. There is a man-made river flowing through the stones and trees, and it seems as if it is all sculpted from drawings from the Book of the Gods itself. As if I have opened the pages and finally managed a way in.