Beyond Molasses Creek (18 page)

THIRTY-SIX
The Invitation

Ally

I
N THE SUMMER OF 1971
, I'
D EARNED TWO WEEKS' VACA
tion and decided, after traveling nonstop for work, to come home to Mount Pleasant and rest with Mama and Daddy. Mama filled me with butter beans and fresh corn and vegetable soup, things I had been missing. But I went easy on it all. I couldn't afford to gain any weight for fear they would not let me fly. There was a girl I knew who had reached 130 pounds and the airline made her step on the scale before they let her board an airplane. It was shameful to watch. I certainly didn't want to have to go that route, so I ate lightly and did the exercises we'd been trained to do. Mama seemed thrilled to have me home, but there was some distance between us. I suppose now that I was a woman, she didn't know me the way she once did.

Daddy and I would sit for hours on the dock and fish. I still loved fishing and acting the tomboy as I always had. This fancy girly-girl life I was leading was great fun, but I loved to stick on an old pair of blue jeans and go barefoot through the grass.

One morning as Daddy and I were setting up shop on the end of the dock, we saw a boat coming toward us. I nearly fell over when I saw Vesey Washington. He was a sight for sore eyes, handsome and so bright-eyed. He had no visible wear and tear from the war, and I imagined him to be just as he had been before he left.

As he docked, I ran to him and put my arms around him, right there in front of Daddy.

“It's so good to see you!” I squealed.

Vesey pushed back and smiled. “Good to see you too, Miss Ally. Good to see you too. And Doc Green?” Vesey reached his hand out for Daddy's and Daddy shook it heartily with both hands. My heart nearly overflowed with joy. I had certainly thought about Vesey every now and again . . . Oh, who was I kidding? Every new city I went to, I thought to myself,
Boy, wouldn't Vesey love to see this!
As I stood on the foggy San Francisco Bay. As I saw the skyscrapers of New York City. As I walked through adobe houses in New Mexico. I thought of him every step of the way and brought him with me, in my heart.

So seeing him in person was beyond belief. I'd been waiting and plotting how to set out and find Vesey without Daddy getting suspicious of my motives, yet here he was. He'd come to me by water, as if I'd dreamed him up. He was a vision.

“How have you been?” Daddy asked him.

“Doing real good,” said Vesey. “Thank you. Good to be home.”

“I hear you went off to Vietnam. Is that right?”

Vesey's smile faltered and he looked at his feet for a second. “Yes, sir, I did.”

He waited to see how Daddy would respond and tears sprang to my eyes when Daddy eyed him hard and said, “Welcome home, son. You did your duty. Your parents must be awfully proud.”

I don't think I've ever wanted to hug my daddy more than I did that minute, but instead, I said, “How about some iced tea? Vesey, would you like to come sit up on the porch?”

Vesey looked at Daddy for permission and Daddy nodded. “Come on up and set a spell,” he said. “I'd like to hear how your mama is doing.”

“Oh, doing right well. Feeds me all the time.” Vesey smiled and patted his lean belly. “She thinks I'm wastin' away.”

“And your dad?”

“Daddy's good. Still oysterin'. I been workin' with him a good bit. I can bring you a bushel anytime you like.”

“That'd be nice,” said Daddy. I left the two to go grab the iced tea and when I came back, something was different on Daddy's face. I set the tray down and offered each man a glass, then I took one for myself and sat on a rocking chair, crossing my legs just like they taught us in stewardess school. It didn't have quite the same effect in my blue jeans.

“Miss Ally, Doc Green says you been flyin' all over creation.”

“Yes, I have. I'm a stewardess now on AirAmerica.”

“Well, that is good work. Ain't sure how you do that flyin' though. I seen enough of it in the army, and every time I had to hold my breath.”

We shared a laugh and I felt so silly, like a schoolgirl with a crush. The two most important men in my life were there with me on the same porch and it was nearly too much. I sipped my tea and smiled, unable to speak.

“So how long are you home for?” Vesey asked me. My heart skipped, imagining him asking me to get together with him, to go fishing like old times or maybe more. Dare I imagine more?

“About another week,” I said. “I go back to Atlanta on the eighteenth.”

“Oh,” said Vesey. He looked genuinely disappointed, and I was sure in that moment that he had feelings for me too. I'd always wondered. He'd never out and out said it or shown it, really, but I knew deep down he must have felt the same for me.

Then Daddy said, “It's too bad you'll be gone for the wedding.”

“What wedding?” I asked.

“Vesey, here, just invited us to his wedding in two weeks' time. He's marrying a girl . . . What's her name again?”

“Beulah,” said Vesey, his eyes beaming. “She's a great gal, great cook. Her daddy owns the farm down over next to my uncle Percival's. That's how come we met.”

If ever there was a moment when the world seems to melt away and you wither down to nothing but a crack in the cement, it was that moment for me. I choked on my iced tea and Vesey moved to pat me on the back, but I had to get up and leave. I had no control over what I might say or do, so I excused myself, faking a smile until I made it to the bathroom, and there, in the privacy of darkness, I bawled my eyes out. When Daddy came in to check on me, I couldn't speak. He told me Vesey had gone on back to work and then he stood at the door a long time without saying anything. Finally, Daddy walked away quietly and I turned on the light. My face was distorted and red and streaked with makeup. I climbed down into the dry cold tub and stared at my backward reflection in the faucet. Everything was distorted and backward and wrong.

When I came back out much later, I grabbed my sketchbook and found Daddy on the dock. I sat down Indian-style and started sketching Daddy holding his fishing rod. He looked at my puffy eyes but didn't say one word. I loved my father then something fierce, and I drew him well, a profile in his fishing hat.

Neither one of us uttered Vesey's name again for the rest of my trip home that summer. Both Daddy and I knew it would have been more than I could have stood.

THIRTY-SEVEN
Rude Awakening

Ally

R
OBERT FRIEDBERG AND
I
BECAME AN ITEM IN
O
CTOBER
of 1971. He bought me a drink in the Dallas airport and then another and soon we began spending all our layovers together. He was charming and handsome, and something about his flying an aircraft just hypnotized me. I'd seen those controls. I'd imagined myself trying to learn everything he'd had to learn in order to fly, and if I thought about it, it made my head swim. He carried all of us safely in the air. It was a lot of responsibility and made him all the more attractive to me. Robert Friedberg, the cutest pilot to ever fly the friendly skies, was interested in me, and he proved to be the perfect antidote to thinking about Vesey Washington.

By this time, Vesey was married, and he and Beulah Washington were farming away as husband and wife, digging in the soil, selling their produce on the side of the road. I could picture them. It was quaint, really, and I was happy for Vesey. Truly, I was. I was glad he finally had a happy ending to his life. There you have it. I was no longer responsible for his happiness or sadness—not that I ever had been, but I'd carried the weight of it, for sure. I felt as if I'd finally been set free. Knowing Vesey would never be mine allowed me to give myself fully to another man.

Robert and I flew quite often together, and although I'm fairly sure we weren't exclusive due to the talk among the girls, I knew he had feelings for me. He told me as much, maybe not in words, but through actions. He would buy me flowers and put his arm around me in broad daylight in the airport. He would tell me how beautiful I was. Looking into Robert's eyes, I believed him and was falling for him hard. As hard as I could, anyway.

And then one morning, we were to fly to San Francisco and back to Atlanta in one day. I woke up happy next to Robert and went to the bathroom to get ready. I remember starting the water in the shower, and as the steam filled the room, the room started to spin. Before I knew it, I was running to the toilet and vomiting, something I just never did.

I looked at myself in the mirror then, thin, pretty, terrified. I'd tried using the Pill, but it was putting weight on me and I was afraid they'd start weighing me in before flights and telling me I'd gotten fat. That they wouldn't let me fly anymore. But now I was pregnant and that was definitely worse. I was twenty-one years old, single, and scared to death to tell Robert about it. If he knew, he might feel responsible to tell the airline. One word and I'd be out of a job. So I decided to keep it to myself until I formulated a solid plan.

That was by far the longest day of flying I'd had in my first six months as an AirAmerica girl. But as the days and weeks went on, it seemed I was running out of time. I'd have to do something, to say something to Robert quickly, because if I waited any longer, the whole world would know about my indiscretion, and I'd be out of a job
and
a cute pilot boyfriend, not to mention the father to my unborn child.

THIRTY-EIGHT
Dusty Files

Kathmandu, Nepal
Sunila

M
R
. A
SSAI, THE
US E
MBASSY CONSULATE OFFICER, AND
I are sitting in the restaurant of the Shangri-La Hotel. It is outside on the lawn, and the chairs and table are carved out of wood that seems to grow up out of the ground. The view behind me is the hotel itself, but beyond Mr. Assai, I watch the trees and flowers and water flowing, as if paradise lies just beyond his shoulders, almost in my reach. The moon is rising higher still, full and orange, casting warm light on my hands. They itch to hold a chisel and busy themselves. I am anxious, yet there is a hope inside me I have never felt before. For what I am hoping, exactly, I am unsure.

“Ms. Kunari, thank you for meeting with me again,” says Mr. Assai.

“No, thank you,” I say.

“Are you comfortable here? Are they treating you well?”

“Oh, very much so. I—I have never had such . . . Yes, I have been treated very well, sir. Better than I deserve.”

“Good. That is very good. I took the liberty of doing some research before I came to see you this evening. It seems I may have found something . . . worthwhile.” I search his face and he reaches across the table. “May I hold the book, please?”

Slowly, I lift the sketchbook from my lap and place it in his hands. I take a deep breath. “Please, what did you learn?”

“Do you know in which year you were born?”

“Yes. Well, no. I am either thirty-eight or thirty-seven. Possibly thirty-nine. Amaa told me I was several months old when they found me. Or rather, when they took me. I—I do not know what to believe, Mr. Assai. Perhaps I was born in 1971 or 1972. I have never truly known. I remember as a child that in the month of December, Amaa would hold me close at night and put a dot of rice yogurt on my forehead for good luck. I've always considered my birthday to be in December.”

Mr. Assai nods but his face remains untroubled as he opens the book. He makes grunting noises every now and again as he flips the pages or mutters, “Aha . . . I see.” I do not know what all of this means. The server brings us two cups and saucers and a pitcher of milked tea. I pour a cup for Mr. Assai with shaky hands and then a cup for myself.

“This is very interesting, Ms. Kunari,” says Mr. Assai, stirring his tea. “I am eager to tell you what I'm reading here.”

“And I am eager to hear. Please. Go on.”

“First, I should tell you what I learned in our embassy files this afternoon.” He closes the book and sets it in his lap, then he leans forward and places both hands on the table. “I wanted to verify the things you mentioned to me earlier, not that I didn't believe you—that your mother claims you were taken from a woman in a café.”

My heart falters and I'm unsure what to do with myself. I take my spoon and stir my tea.

“Ms. Kunari, this sketchbook appears to have belonged to an American, based on the written words. So with that, I looked back to see if there were any reported kidnappings of American children in Kathmandu in the early 1970s . . . assuming your age, of course.”

Mr. Assai smiles and is quiet for a moment, and the big orange moon behind him makes him glow until it seems he may burst into flames. I put my hands to my lips and bite on my finger.

“Ms. Kunari, indeed, there was an American child reported missing.”

The server comes by and asks if we are ready to order, but I am unable to speak. Mr. Assai sends her away.

“This book, Ms. Kunari, the one you brought me, the one you said was found with you when your father took you, this book”—he holds it up in front of me and taps the worn black cover—“appears to have belonged to a young woman from the United States, the same woman who reported to the embassy that her child was stolen from a café in Kathmandu in December of 1972.”

I let out a tiny squeal and tears begin flowing down my face. Mr. Assai reaches forward and gently brushes the tears from my cheeks. He smiles at me compassionately, encouragingly. “Ms. Kunari, there is so much more to be done to confirm all of this, and I don't want to get your hopes up too soon, but I believe you do have an American mother out there somewhere. I believe you were born an American citizen and that you were kidnapped and raised as a Nepali. And I'm going to do everything in my power to make sure justice is served in this case.”