Like Slow Sweet Molasses (16 page)

“I’ll
leave you alone if you file a complaint against whoever did this to you.”

“That’s
like striking a bargain with the devil himself as he promises to spit you out
of hell if you just obey. I don’t want any more trouble. I have wagonload of
that already.”

“I
don’t know what you want from me, Angela.”

“The
simple truth…about…the attempted assault.”

“What?”
he bellowed.

“You
heard me.” She stood her ground although terribly frightened by his tone and
unusually aggressive manner.

“The
charges against me were false and proven so.” Chance hated reliving that time
in his life. “They were juvenile corrections charges lodged against me and—”

Angela
saw the bulb go off in his head.

“Darrell
did this to you?” All the pieces fell into place. “He’s misrepresented the
truth to smear me in your eyes, Angela. Have I ever laid a hand on you or given
you any reason to fear me?”

“Does
our first meeting count?”

His
laugh was harsh. “You tagged me pretty good yourself, if you recall, with that
acerbic tongue of yours. I only defended myself.”

“I
rather not owe you anything. Have Mr. Robinson bill me for the materials. You
can leave yours for the equipment with Mrs. Thatcher.”

Dismissing
him had become a habit of hers. “Fine. I’ll do that. Now, you’ve got to do
something for me and I promise not to bother you ever again.”

“I’ll
do anything to hurry this up.”

“Get
your purse. Let’s go.”

“You
must be out of your mind to think I’ll go anywhere with you after…after—”

“Then
I’ll call 911 and have an ambulance take you to the hospital instead of my
taking you to the precinct to lodge a complaint.”

“That’s
blackmail,” Angela accused.

“Call
it what you want. What’ll it be?” Chance knew a record existed of everything
that transpired between them that evening. Darrell sealed his own fate by
continuing to pursue Angela as a way of frustrating him. His meddling would be
his undoing.

“Okay.
I’ll permit you to compile your evidence if that means getting that trash off
the streets and you out of my hair.”

“Deal.”

Darrell’s
arrest on gun charges was key to having him returned to lockup for possession
of an illegally obtained firearm. A convicted felon in violation of the law.
Her association with him, naming him as her attacker on two consecutive
occasions, on two consecutive days remained on file as a last resort maneuver.
Her involvement in Chance’s case against him was unnecessary for which she was
relieved. In spite of that, she was on the receiving end of whispered innuendos
instigated by the one person whom she sought to protect by warning her of
Darrell’s criminal record.

Sheryl
was unforgiving, criticizing Angela in front of other teachers in the lounge
during lunch periods. Overtly accusing her of petty jealousy of the
relationship she and Darrell shared. Matters escalated until Angela, filled to
the brim with ignoring the snipes, confronted her when her amen corner was
absent. Their tête-à-tête smoothed out their differences while the friendship
skidded to a grinding halt.

Angela’s
days at school seemed longer than ever before due to the animosity charging the
air. Now she was in a better position to escape at her convenience without
depending on the bus schedule all thanks to Mrs. Thatcher’s generosity. The
last act Chance committed at the termination of their friendship was to arrange
for a loaner car. Mrs. Thatcher’s to be exact. Her vehicle sat unused most of
the time since Chance chauffeured her whenever needed. Once all was said and
done, she owed him a great debt of thanks for thinking of her safety even under
their strained association.

Chance
kept his word maintaining a self-imposed exile that included his aunt’s home
during the hours Angela was at home. Mrs. Thatcher’s view of the situation was
their reason for calling it quits to the developing relationship was as
weak
as sweet water.
She insisted to Angela Chance’s neglect at defending
himself against her charges was because he was innocent then and hurt now that
the woman he was attracted to believed him a scoundrel. Until they remedied
their spat, she urged Angela to keep the lines of communication open.

Angela
wheeled into Mrs. Thatcher’s driveway, tooted the horn at her sitting in the
swing with a visitor and drove to the back carport. Daylight waned giving way
to dusk as she juggled her load to the front. “Good evening.”

“Hey,
Sweet Child. Come here. I want you to meet someone.”

Angela
looked at the black woman sitting comfortably in the swing next to Mrs.
Thatcher. The woman looked back at her the way someone in authority sized up a
suspected person-of-interest. Her cases set at her feet when she climbed the
steps to the porch and waited for the introduction Mrs. Thatcher eagerly wanted
to perform.

“Angela,
this is Chanté Guilridge.”

“Nice
meeting you, Chanté.” That was all she knew to say. Yet, the vibe stipulated
something more needed saying, especially when the woman stood up.

“Same
here, Angela.”

Each
woman appraised the other.

“Well,
I’ll be going and leave you two to your visit.” Angela grabbed her belongings
to withdraw; only Chanté’s voice stopped her.

“I
came to see you, Angela.”

Mistrust
narrowed her eyes as Angela responded, “Me? Why?”

“I
have information to share about Brock.”

“That’s
where I’ve heard the name before,” she remarked aloud. “There’s nothing you can
tell me about Chance that I want to know, Chanté.”

“You’re
wrong, Angela. He’s lost some of his spunk after finally coming back to life
with his relationship with you.”

She
strenuously objected to the terminology. “We were acquaintances. That’s all.”

“Call
it what you like. All I know is Brock’s interests in things other than work,
motorcycles and cars revitalized after meeting you. You were a positive
addition to his life. Don’t let Darrell’s lies put that fire out.”

“There
was never any fire, Chanté.”

“Oh,
yes, there was,” Mrs. Thatcher butted in. “Still is if you ask me.” At the
looks of the younger women she added, “But, you didn’t,” and started the swing
to moving.

“You
know what this is about, Mrs. Thatcher?”

“Brock
told me.”

“Oh.”

Chanté
reclaimed her seat. “Please, hear me out, Angela. It can’t hurt anything.
You’ve already kicked my brother to the curb.”

“I
resent that, Chanté. I’ve known your brother all of a minute. He could very
well be the miscreant Darrell Williams talked about.”

“But
the fact remains—he isn’t.”

“What
makes you so sure? He’s not even a blood relative.”

“Sometimes
blood ties are irrelevant,” Chanté concluded.

“You’re
right, of course.” Angela agreed wholeheartedly thinking about the man who
raised her. The only father she has ever known.

“I’m
sure of Brock’s innocence because I was the one attacked.”

There
was no recognizable shame in the voice that laid the bombshell on Angela.

“I’m
sorry.”

“Brock
and Darrell were friends in high school. Schoolyard jocks. Jocks got all the
girls and craved attention. I knew Brock by seeing him on campus. I knew
Darrell better for we dated a couple of times.”

Angela
broke Chanté’s train of thought. “You needn’t tell me your business.”

“I
want you to know the kind of man Brock is, Angela. I want you to know he has
strong feelings for you, even now.” She let that sink in. “Now, Darrell and I
had a good time together until he became possessive of my time and body. I reminded
him we were just friends.”

Chanté
drifted back to high school. “One evening after practice, I was a cheerleader,
you know, Darrell demanded more from me than I was willing to give up. We
struggled as he tried to honey-talk me under the bleachers, pinning me to the
ground. Brock didn’t do like most guys might have. He saw what was happening
and took a stand—against his friend. They fought. One bullied for dominance and
control. One valiantly for my honor and self-respect.”

“I
don’t need to hear anymore. This is your business and none of mine.”

“We
can thank Darrell for this conversation. After all these years his hatred of
Brock persists. Darrell accused Brock of participating. That’s where the
charges of attempted assault stemmed from. I cleared Brock and they dropped the
charges against him. He’d spent weeks in detention put there by Darrell’s lies
and came out bitter at society. That’s where he and my father’s paths crossed
again. That’s how he came to the Robinson’s household after some counseling. That’s
how I learned to disassociate him from what occurred. Although he was the good
guy, he was part of the attack in my nightmares. Counseling helped me, too.”

Chanté’s
story was a wrap.

“You
owe my brother an apology, Angela. And another chance.”

“Chanté,
I really appreciate the fact that you just relived an awful time in your young
life to clear Chance’s name. I really do. But, there’s more to what’s not going
on between me and Chance. I can’t be sure I won’t hurt him in the future. Or
that his relationship with me wouldn’t be a detriment to him. Thanks for your
candor. I wish all of you well.”

As
Angela slowly made her way to her yard, she heard Chanté call out.

“Think
about it.”

Chapter Eleven

Angela
knew all about cutting losses and running before the debts mounted too high for
repayment. That’s why she’d written two checks, each in a very substantial
amount, placed them in two separate envelopes, one each made out to Chance and
Mr. Robinson. She would be indebted to no one regardless of their insistence
that the deed done was a gesture of friendship. Mrs. Thatcher very
diplomatically inquired as to the envelopes contents when Angela delivered them
to her for disbursement, going so far as to suggest Angela broke the golden
rule to
never look a gift horse in the mouth
. The way Angela saw it—if
it had teeth why take the chance on it biting her in the butt?

No.
It was better this way. Severing all ties freed all parties involved of any
further obligations.

Another
week came and went with the month of October racing into November swifter than
she cared to think about. From her vantage point on the living room’s window
seat facing the street, the changing season was never more obvious than the
loss of leaves floating gently on the afternoon wind. Some were as green as
grass while others ranged in color from golden yellows to rust reds. The
temperature deigned to give way to a slight chill that the weatherman reported
was only a temporary relief to the smoldering humidity on this Saturday. The
change was one she happily welcomed for it put her in mind of home and her
loved ones there.

Her
mother and father lived up to their promise not to call continuously to harp on
the subject of whether she’d come to a decision about the request from her
biological father, opting instead to badger her via text messages on her cell.
They were the epitome of meddling parents whose hearts always beat a tune of
love and protection for their only child. She advised them at every turn her
answer was the usual: she had no idea what the answer was. The solution was to
put off the inevitable for as long as she could.

Angela
looked at the messenger’s envelope in her hand delivered earlier in the day.
She found the nerves to open it, dumping an engraved business card to the floor,
even as the sender’s name almost sent her into convulsions. The missive, an
ultimatum of sorts, contained detailed instructions for a face to face talk
with her biological father.

“Some
nerve,” she hissed.

A
knock at the door startled her out of her pensive mood. It was Chance,
toothpick, glower and all. So engrossed in her entanglement of the moment she
completely missed his approach. Chance, who let the envelope halves plummet to
the porch as she posed in the doorway, uttered not a word using the seemingly
premeditated action to drive the point home. His disdainful look traveled from
her head to her toes as he arrogantly mouthed the toothpick. Angela’s gaze
touched on the litter on her porch then back to his ramrod carriage as he
marched down her steps.