Beyond Molasses Creek (25 page)

FORTY-NINE
Oh, Won't You Stay

Ally

I
HOPE I'M NOT TOO LATE
! M
Y HEART IS POUNDING
. I
HIT
the ground running as soon as we get to the hospital, and Margaret and Graison go on to park the car. When I step inside the elevator, I watch my shiny self in the cool gray metal doors and close my eyes. I feel my way back to the wall and lean against it, holding on to the rail tight, feeling faint. Then I pray, something I haven't done in a very long while.
Please let him be okay. Please let him live. Don't let me be too late. Please. Please. Please. Amen
. Maybe it's just begging, but it passes the time to the third floor.

When I find Vesey's room, there are three women in there— his sister, Marcie, and his two daughters. Marcie pushes herself out of her chair and comes to greet me. I can't hear the machines beeping anymore.

“Glad you came, Miss Ally,” she says. I have a flash of Marcie as a little girl. I see her sitting in the dark in her living room next to Vesey the very first time I ever met them. I see her touching my blond hair as if it was pure gold. And here she is now, a slight woman, about my age, pretty and dignified. And saddened to the core. “He's been asking for you for a while now. I think it's . . . Well, go on.”

I turn from her and walk to his bedside. I acknowledge his daughters, who dab their eyes with tissues. “Let's go on out in the hall,” says Marcie and the other two follow. It's such a kind gesture, my heart swells.

Vesey looks thinner than yesterday. I can see the bones in his face. His skin is even paler. I reach for his hand and sit down next to him. I fight, I fight, I fight not to cry. Not now.

“Vesey? Vesey, it's me, Ally.”

“Ally,” he says, eyes still closed. “Wondered when you'd come for me.”

“I—I don't know how to get you home—”

“Don't worry. I'll get there.” Vesey opens his eyes and looks into mine, shiny tiny marbles. “Listen, I need your help.”

“Anything, Vesey. You know that. Anything.”

“I don't want no big deal when I'm gone. No newspaper, ceremony . . . no tears.” He looks at mine and I wipe them away. “I lived a good life, done lots of things, learned and farmed, had family and friends. Always adventure, always good. Never, never regret.”

“Oh, Vesey.” I let go then and fully surrender.

“Shh, honey, every man got to go, and I can't wait to get to heaven. You hear me? Gonna see your daddy there,” he whispers. “Gonna tell him you're all right. Might just send you a note when I get there too. Maybe from both of us. Never know.”

“Vesey, I have something to tell you. Something I should have said a long time ago.” He looks at me with tired eyes and I move closer. “Since the day I met you, I knew there was something special between us. You're the only one in the world who makes me . . . Vesey Washington, I love you. With all my heart. Do you know that? I'll always, always love you.”

“I love you too, Miss Ally. More than you know.”

“No, you don't understand. I—I'm gonna miss you. Please don't leave me, Vesey, please. I'm—no. I'm sorry. It's selfish of me, and I'm sorry. It's okay. It's okay to go.”

“Miss Ally, my life wouldn't have been right without you in it. It was better because of you. Richer because our lives entwined, and I am grateful. I thank God for you.”

The words are like a sad symphony in my ears. What I wouldn't have given to have heard those words long, long ago.

“Now I got to ask you something else,” he says, his voice labored and slow. “You 'member that spot on past the oyster bed? Where I wanted a house?”

“Of course I do.”

“I want you to scatter my ashes there. Where the river run out beyond Molasses Creek.”

“Vesey, please don't talk like this. I can't—”

“Look at me,” he says. I lift my head and tears stream down, unhindered. He tries to smile for the both of us. “Everythin' gonna be all right. You know that? For me, for you. You gotta trust me on this. You got to stay on Molasses Creek.”

“How do you expect me to stay when Daddy and you—”

“Promise it, Ally. For me.”

I don't know what to do. I don't want to lie, but I can't imagine being able to look across the river and know he's not there anymore. But this is Vesey, and he never asks me for anything. There's only one thing to do. I reach down and take his hand. I lift it up so it's right there in between us, then I wrap my pinky in his pinky. Like old times. “I promise. I'll stay.”

“Good. Good.” We sit for a while like that, hand in hand, until I hear a whisper escape his lips. It sounds like, “I'm free . . .”

“Oh, Vesey. No.” I watch as his eyes close. “Vesey,” I whisper, but his hand in mine tells me he's already gone. “No, no,” I whimper. I lean over and with my fingers gently outline his warm face. I touch his forehead, his cheeks, his chin and I study him, the way I used to when I'd draw him. Something warm wraps around me like a blanket and the tears stop. My head clears. “You are part of me, Vesey Washington. The best part of me, and I'm sending it on up to heaven with you now. So go on, friend. Go on home.” I kiss his cheek and linger there for a just a moment, then stand and back away dazed and empty, part of me soaring straight up through the clouds.

FIFTY
Dear Ms. Green

Kathmandu, Nepal
Sunila
One week later

M
R
. A
SSAI IS AT HIS DESK, RUBBING HIS EYES
. H
E HOLDS
his hands there for a moment and then sits back in his chair and looks at me.

“How do I tell this woman that we've found her child after thirty-eight years? How does a person go about doing something of that magnitude? Forgive me, I'm talking to myself out loud. But do I write her a letter? Dear Ms. Green, we are happy to inform you that our investigation has concluded and we've found your daughter. No. Our investigation was concluded three decades ago, but somehow, she has found us just now. Sunila, I must tell you. I've been moved by your story. Very moved. I—”

“Perhaps you could call her on the telephone?” I interrupt.

He smiles at me. “The telephone? Yes. Yes, hello, is this Ms. Green? The Ally Green who was in Nepal in 1972? Yes, well, this is Mr. Assai, consulate officer with the US Embassy in Nepal. I am calling you with a bit of good news. You see, we've found your daughter and she's alive and well. And she'd like to see you.” He turns to me. “You would like to see her, correct?”

“Oh.” I try to let the words come but my head is nodding for me. “More than you know.”

His face erupts and he slaps his desk with two hands. “I'm just so happy for you, Sunila! You deserve this.” He stands and walks to me, then sits on the edge of the desk. “I think a phone call would be in order, don't you? Would you like to talk to her? I would translate, of course.”

I bite my lip and put my head down in my hands. It is just too much. “Please,” I say. “You talk with her. Talk with her and . . . and is it too much to ask to arrange a meeting? You've done so much for me already. I don't want to—”

“Of course, Sunila. It's not at all too much.” He catches my eye and I feel my stomach grow warm. “But let us get past this step first. We must make initial contact.”

I smile as if light is growing inside me and must come out. “Yes. Initial contact.”

I watch as he moves back to his desk and lifts a file with papers. He flips through until he finds what he wants, then pulls the telephone toward him. He lifts the handle. He dials the numbers. A strange look comes over his face, one of eagerness and confidence and fear all at once. He sits up straight as he can and turns his eyes from me. We wait and wait. I clench my hands. I grab the clothes I wore as a baby and lift them to my nose again. I close my eyes and try to remember my birth mother, but nothing comes. Nothing at all. I wait, and I wait, until Mr. Assai sets the phone down again and says quietly, “I just realized . . . it's about 2:30 in the morning there. I am not thinking straight. I cannot call her now.” He shifts in his seat and takes a deep breath. “But do not worry. I'll call later this evening. And I'll keep trying. I'll keep trying until she answers the phone, and if that doesn't work, I'll think of something else. I will. A letter, perhaps.”

I nod. Of course, this was too good to be true. The tears come again. Once strong and parched, I now cry at the simplest things, as if I'm brimming over. I nod again and try hard not to show my disappointment, but it is there. It rises up slowly and threatens to push away my newfound hope. I firm my shoulders and ask, “Would it be possible for me to go back to the Shangri-La Hotel now? I would like to be alone for a while.” This request, to be alone, is not one understood in my society, yet it is the way I feel now.

“You . . . want to go back? Of course. Of course you can. You must be very tired after all you've been through. I should have suggested it. I will take you back to the hotel myself.”

“I would like to walk,” I say. “I would like to walk and think.”

Mr. Assai looks uneasy. “Well, you may, of course, though I wouldn't want anything to happen . . . Now that we are so far along, I cannot bear the thought—”

“I will be fine, Mr. Assai. And thank you again. Please, tell me if you make contact . . . with my mother.” The words sound so foreign in my mouth. I think of Amaa and what she must be doing now. She is most likely beyond tears and gone on to a place of stone. My heart breaks for her.

“You have my word,” says Mr. Assai.

“Please take these for safekeeping,” I say, handing Mr. Assai the baby clothes. “You will need them in your conversation, no?”

“I am sure if it is her, she will have them ingrained in her mind. It is how we will know if we have found the correct Alicia Green.”

“Namaste,” I say, palms pressed flat in front of my chest, honoring the god in him. “Thank you, Mr. Assai.” I turn and head out toward the streets of Kathmandu. I want to find my hope again and will walk until I have found it.

FIFTY-ONE
Newspaper Man

Mount Pleasant
Ally

W
HAT KIND OF MAN DOESN'T WANT A CEREMONY TO
mark his death? What kind of man doesn't want any fanfare, any record, really, at all that he was here? That he walked the earth like the rest of us? A man like Vesey, that's what kind. A good man. My friend.

I cannot look over there and not see him. I see him everywhere— the house, the dock, the boat, the river itself, all black and rich, the yellow sky.

There is no obituary in the
Post and Courier
, just as we promised him, but somebody caught wind of Vesey's death, and the letters are pouring in.

Dear Editor,

How saddened I was to hear of Vesey the Newspaper Man's passing. He always had a word of wisdom for me when I bought my afternoon paper. I must have bought a thousand from him over the years. Once he told me there was an angel watching over me and it helped me through a very rough time. He was someone stable in my life. I could always count on him to be there. I will miss seeing that rainbow-colored umbrella, and I will miss a dear friend.

Dear Editor,

One time Vesey came across the road to the Wendy's parking lot to help me with a flat tire. He saved me that day and I made it to my interview on time. I got the job, by the way, and I have him to thank for it. His corner will always look empty without his stand.

Dear Editor,

A very special fixture in our community has left our fair town. May I be the first to suggest we put up a small memorial on that corner to honor Vesey Washington, who shared the good news with all of us every day.

At the top of the page, there is a photograph of the empty street corner with the Hardee's sign behind it. The ground is littered with flowers and notes and a single rainbow-colored umbrella.

I am beyond crying.

I'm sitting on the back porch with Kat beside me. I rub his head and set the paper down on the table. I watch how the breeze makes the marsh grass swirl. I lay my head back and close my eyes to think of him. I can still feel him, you know. And I can still feel Daddy. They linger here like the glow of glory on Moses's face. But they'll fade away, that feeling of having them with me. They'll fade and then I won't be able to stand it anymore.

I rest for a good long while out there, listening to the rustling of the trees. Then I get up and take my sadness to the stone garden. I walk to each of the statues, all the gods and angels and heavenly things, hoping for some comfort. Then I stop when I get to the elephant god Ganesha. He is supposed to be the Remover of Obstacles, the Lord of Beginnings. Looking at him, I think of the elephant dreams I had.
Was I dreaming of you, Ganesha?
I wonder.
What does it all mean? All of it. And why didn't you move until the white bird came along?

In the distance I hear a noise, a ringing, and I realize it's my phone. I don't feel like answering, I really don't, but I look over to Vesey's side of the river and there is a white bird sitting on his clothesline cross. The way it sits so still, so majestic, makes me rise, and as if being pulled, I run fast as I can back into the house to answer the call.

FIFTY-TWO
Shout to the Sky

Kathmandu, Nepal
Sunila

I
HAVE MADE IT ALL THE WAY BACK TO THE
S
HANGRI
-L
A
Hotel, holding my hands together, feeling that they have become softer with the lovely lotion in my bathroom. I am now queen when before I was lower than the pigeons. I see people around me who look me in the eyes as I walk by. They actually look at me, some of them scornful, others lustful, most indifferent. Who am I in this strange world? What is this America I have heard about? What sort of people live there? I have seen some Americans come through our quarry. They leave with statues. I watch my work load up on their trucks and rarely see a rupee for it. All those hours, all that work. Very little in return.