Like Slow Sweet Molasses (10 page)

“Take
it easy, Angela.” He was there, prepared and ready to catch the fallout of her
traumatic episode.

“Six
months into our marriage, three months into our pregnancy, I thought the world
rotated on golden axis. I’d never been happier. Living the American dream. In
love with and loved by a wonderful man.” Angela marched away from him to stand
at the window, shaking badly enough to cause her voice to tremble as she
carried on with her tale. “Or so I thought. Long story short, he loved me as
long as I was in sight.”

“Another
woman?” She jumped apparently unaware he’d made his way to her. The back of her
hands served to swipe the tears from her eyes. “A white woman?”

“He
followed me to explain what I saw meant nothing to him. She was an old flame
and their relationship was over long before he and I got together. I pulled
from his grip, lost my balance…you know how clumsy I am,” she offered glibly,
shaking her head, “and struck my abdomen as I fell.”

“Losing
your baby.” She wobbled under the burden losing the battle to an onslaught of
tears. Angela shrank away when his hand snaked around her forearm as he
attempted to comfort her.

“Don’t,”
she rebuked with a sniffle. “It happened a long time ago.” She wheeled, dashed
to the bedroom returning with the bag of wet things hugged to her chest. “I
need to get home.”

Chance,
slow in reacting—his jaw dangling, didn’t reach her until she was half way down
the stairs. “I gave your father my word to see you safely home,” he preached to
her unyielding back. “Angela!” She never stopped moving. “Angela?” He burdened
her with a question he couldn’t resist asking. “How long ago was this?”

She
plodded down the stairs hanging onto her bundle like it was her life preserver.
In the throes of abject misery, Angela’s pace dramatically increased putting
her at the door, in the street and on the run to anywhere to elude the pain.
Pure energy jolted through her bloodstream becoming the main source of her
being. The idea she was absolutely out of control was never an issue as she
streaked past dilapidated warehouses not yet converted to private residences.
Her empty-headed actions denounced the horrendous pain squeezing her heart. The
street, partially dry since the rain ceased, was deserted with the exception of
her fleeing form and the blur now at her back. Without warning, her feet
slipped from under her as her body took flight.

Chance
dealt with her tantrum pretty much the same way he faced all obstacles in his
life, swiftly and head-on. He didn’t break a sweat as he thundered behind her,
relaying a
stay put
signal with a covert hand motion and caboosed his
body to hers while lifting her off the ground. Angela fought hard for her
freedom, crying uncontrollably now. Wondering if he’d driven her to this
madness, Chance swiped aside his regrettable accountability to wrap his strong
arms around her, bundle and all, after spinning her to face him. “Let it all
out, Angela,” he crooned softly into her ear, his hand gloved into her damp
hair.

She
practically lay into him ridding herself of the pent-up anguish harbored for so
long. Ultimately, all energy fizzled reducing her to a pliable mess of emotions
clinging to him for support. He cradled her and her precious cargo all the way
back to his loft locking in not only them, but, also his rampant imagination.
Angela managed to cap her distress by remembering whose arms sheltered her. It
was evident she teetered on the edge of sanity and the time for release was at
hand.

“Nearly
six years ago. Right before I came down from Chicago to volunteer after
Hurricane Katrina,” she whispered.

They
were in his living area ensconced on the sofa inches from each other when she
spoke. She answered the question asked a while ago. The hushed level of her
voice drew him closer, so close he saw the sprinkling of freckles across her
nose. Freckles he hadn’t seen before. Freckles temporarily erased with an
application of makeup.

“The
grieving process requires a number of steps to cycle in order to clear the way
to healing, Angela.” Chance pulled her legs across in his lap. She resisted
half-heartedly, too played out to fight. Next, he scooted over pulling her to a
horizontal position where her head rested on the arm of the couch. “An
unfaithful spouse, a miscarriage and the most heinous living conditions
imaginable, you sought to bury your pain in charitable works in New Orleans
surmounting the human need to repair your own spirit.”

Angela
quietly listened to the words coming out of his mouth as interested in the
movement of his lips as much as his consoling tone of voice. All lulled her to
relinquish the remaining festering memories as he removed her soggy socks to
massage the soles of her feet. Her eyes shut allowing the rousing sensations to
course through her body, sensations of a mending nature.

“Life
passes you by if you live in the past, Angela.” Chance had first-hand
experience in that area. “Don’t be afraid to explore new things. I know you
have it in you because just look at what you’re doing today—giving a measure of
hope to those who possess little.”

“You
understand,” she uttered from behind closed lids.

Honestly
spoken, “I think I do.”

Chapter Seven

Her
complicated life had no room for the distraction named Chance Alexander. He was
an infection riddling her body, forcing her to try every trick in the book to
remedy her ailment. But it excited her to reminisce about his smoldering temper
that up-surged to an incendiary fire whenever their paths crossed over the last
two weeks. He was just what she needed least at this time in her life—a man—and
a white man, at that. All of her prowess went into avoiding any contact with
him after he psychoanalyzed her predicament, with one exception. She continued
to periodically check on his aunt. She wouldn’t throw Mrs. Thatcher to the
wolves simply to appease the selfish need to impound his presence from her
life.

It
was just after one in the afternoon and her last pupil practiced the scale
thumbing his way over the ivory keys. Jamal’s resistance to the lessons
materialized in the dour attitude exhibited when Angela remarked how proud his
mother was at his acceptance to her offer of the free instructions. He plunked
through the fingering exercises getting a little less clunky with each pass.
Angela encouraged his attempts at massaging the keys rather than smashing them.
She also sensed his hidden satisfaction as each pass up and down the C scale
resulted in a smoother flow.

“That’s
enough for today, Jamal. You did very well.” She got up from the straight back
chair to secure a practice keyboard that she handed to him. “Do your exercises
to promote limbering your finger movements.” He remained silent but she could
tell he listened intently.

“My
uncle says piano playing is for sissies,” he informed.

The
shyness portrayed in his innocent brown eyes had her choosing her words
carefully.

“Then
your uncle has a limited view of life. You’re a smart young man, Jamal. What do
you feel?”

“I
gotta go.” He refused to answer that question, backing blindly out of the door,
his gangly uncoordinated legs tripping him up and crashing him straight into
one of the planters balanced of the porch railing. Flowers in every color of
the rainbow littered the concrete floor. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

“Jamal,
it’s okay,” she soothed, rearranging the Caribbean furniture to pick up the
scattered shards of pottery. “I’ll get the broom.” Angela was in the kitchen
when she heard what sounded like a car door slam. Bustling back to the front,
Jamal was nowhere in sight by the time she made it outside. All she saw was the
backend of a shiny red car rounding the corner down from her house as she
handily cleaned up the mess.

 
Angela, with the broom and dustpan in one
hand, closed her front door after he bailed out midway through their talk. Her
mind drifted to his mother’s efforts to give him a well-rounded experience that
included the arts. That was the primary reason Angela tried all she knew how to
introduce youngsters to the arts and music. New Orleans was a culturally
diverse city steeped in the talents of its inhabitants. Nowhere was that more
obvious than on the musicians’ corners throughout the French Quarters. She
wondered about the influence Jamal’s uncle had over him. If his kind of
guidance continued, he would surely extinguish the light fluttering inside of
his nephew.

Angela
piddled around doing much of nothing to burn up excess time before she had to
get ready. Back to nephews is where she went, her mind wandering to Chance and
the mysterious rosebud found in her viola case left on her desk at school.
She’d returned from a meeting in the conference room to discover the flower as
she prepared to leave for the day. The interesting part—she recalled locking
her classroom and he still gained access. The rose hanging in the latch of her
storm door at home that same evening froze her in her tracks. He presumed too
much taking a step over the imaginary line she had no intentions of crossing.

She
swept thoughts of Mrs. Thatcher’s kin to the side to make room for fresh ones
related to the ladies-only function later this afternoon at the jazz club’s
grand opening. Since it was a birthday party for a co-worker, Angela raced to
her bedroom dead set on dressing and arriving early enough to assist with the
preparations for their table. Sheryl, the honoree, bragged about the owner’s
generosity of sharing the spotlight on such an auspicious occasion. Her
reserved table would seat her guests in the center of all activities.

Angela
smiled while sliding hangers aside in her walk-in closet, remembering the high
energy conversation with the younger woman who gave thrilling details of the
suave proprietor and his enchanting smile. Sheryl’s version of the interaction
alluded to feelings of love at first sight which in turn spoke to her naiveté.
There was a time she held love or the prospect thereof in high esteem like
Sheryl. Of course, age had a bearing on that immature outlook. Life’s
experiences wobbled the hope right out of her.

The
wash of warm water stripped away the impurities of her past life creating a new
creature—one open to the exploration of the unknown. She toweled herself dry,
applied a scented cream to keep her skin moistened, slipped on her undies,
wiped the steam from the bathroom mirror and caught a glimpse of movement out
of the corner of her eye. But, that couldn’t be for she was home alone.

Angela
sprang into action securing covering for her body, keeping as quiet as humanly
possible while leaving the confines of the bathroom.

“Who’s
there?” Complete silence answered her. “I know you’re there.”

Tiptoeing
into the room with ears attuned to any noise, she sidled to the bedroom door to
ease it shut, heart quivering because she was afraid to venture any farther.
There wasn’t a thing she could do except lock herself in and call 911 to report
the break-in. She clothed herself properly surprised at how swiftly sirens
split the air in front of her home. The emergency operator held her on the line
until the authorities knocked on her door announcing their arrival. Fear
harnessed her steps lengthening the time it took her to approach the front
door. The decorative glass permitted slashes of the red strobe lights to
penetrate the room while concealing the person’s features.

“Miss
Munso. NOPD.” The loud knocking was an accompaniment to the swirling whoop
sounds blaring from the cruiser in the street. “Miss Munso!”

Angela
threw open the door to see a pimply faced officer who looked young enough to be
one of her former students. Her level of confidence plummeted with this
development. The way her eyes jumped from him to his vehicle to the faces now
beginning to crowd the street and back to him revealed her uneasiness.

“You
reported a prowler?” he asked, tapping his name tag to set her mind to rest.

Her
shaky tone of voice had her pause to catch a steadying breath. “Yes. Someone
was in my bedroom.”

“I
need to search the premises.”

“Please
do.” Angela gladly acquiesced, taking in his silent travels through her home.
Unlike last time when instructed to stay behind, she did as told, watching from
the open doorway.

“Angela!”

The
alarm in the voice from across the fence pushed her out onto the porch.

“I’m
okay, Mrs. Thatcher. Don’t come over here until I know it’s safe.” Knowing her
neighbor, she’d just spoken Greek to the elderly woman who proved it so, for
Angela heard her cussing up a storm as she made her way through the mob before
spying her on the walkway. “Mrs. Thatcher.”

“Look,
Sweet Child, you’re not alone anymore. What’s the matter?”

“A
prowler.”

“At
least we know it wasn’t that snake from home healthcare. Brock says he’s under
arrest for other unrelated crimes that should keep him shackled for a few
years.”

“He
never said anything to me about that. That’s good to know.”

“Miss
Munso? All clear.” The officer produced a pad ready to record the necessary
information of the break-in. “They jimmied the lock on the back door. You’ll
need to replace it as soon as possible. It locks, but, it’s flimsy.”