Like Slow Sweet Molasses (2 page)

The
rain poured like God kicked buckets of water out of the heavens. One foot into
her dash and she collided with someone on the corner. “Pardon me,” she mumbled
as she clutched her possessions during her sidestep, and removed the dark
glasses.
  
Daylight resembled dusk
now.
 
Swiping the precipitation from her
face,
 
she scurried on, when suddenly, an
oversized umbrella deflected the downpour.

“I’ve
been waiting for you,” said an octogenarian with lively azure eyes, beaming at
her. “I saw you leave this morning. You forgot to take your umbrella.” The look
Angela gave her would be heroine drew a chuckle. “I’m Bella Thatcher, your next
door neighbor. The house with all the rose bushes?”

Angela’s
recall faltered, for being sociable during her travels to and from Chicago
while checking on the renovations to her current place of residence was more
than an oversight. Her secret visits left no time for pleasantries. However,
she did remember hearing a woman’s cooing voice on a couple of occasions, enticing
her flowers to grow. But, she’d never seen her. “I’m Angela Munso.”

“Come
on. You’re soaked.” She looped her arm in Angela’s to maneuver them up the
street.

She
moved like a gazelle for someone who appeared to be in her eighties. “This was
very kind of you, Mrs. Thatcher.” Angela repositioned her load to grab the
handle when the wind nearly had the elderly lady mimicking Mary Poppins. “But,
you shouldn’t be out in this weather.”

“Nonsense,
child. What are neighbors for if not to look out for one another?”
 

They
trudged through the puddles, oblivious to everything except arriving home
without incident on the slippery sidewalk. As soon as they got within viewing
distance of Mrs. Thatcher’s flowers, her pace suddenly slowed to a crawl.
Angela watched as the old woman’s features shut out any trace of what went on
behind her eyes as she now squinted in what seemed to her as fear. She stopped,
her gaze straying to the car parked at the curb in front of her home. Movement
inside alerted both to someone patiently waiting for the rain to slack.

“Is
everything alright?” Angela inquired.

Muttering
more to herself than answering Angela’s question, Mrs. Thatcher said, “Jackal
showed up anyway. Thought he wasn’t coming since his appointment time passed.”

“What
was that, Mrs. Thatcher?” She missed most of the answer, the words were so
soft.

“Nothing,
Hon.” She commenced her journey. “Take the umbrella with you. I’ll get it
later.”

Angela
didn’t have a good feeling about what just transpired and waited as she
shuffled up her walk. She lingered a few extra seconds until Mrs. Thatcher
entered her home before swiveling to inspect the car’s interior. Angela bent
for a look. The white man’s glower was evident even through the darkly tinted
windows. And the lack of light outside didn’t help matters. He exited sans
cover, unmindful of the torrential rain, and strolled past her as if she was
non-existent, without so much as a nod. A glimpse of the name tag on his
medical scrubs bonded to her brain. She watched him climb the three steps to
the wrought iron gate, ram it open with unnecessary force, march up the walkway
and enter the house, uninvited.

Mrs.
Thatcher’s door slammed in Angela’s face as she sprouted roots right there on
the pavement. She was only a few steps from her house and covered the distance
hastily to get out of the weather. Her walkway displayed loads of curb appeal.
The attractive cobblestones were a welcome enticement to her and visitors
alike, she suspected.

Boldly,
Angela strutted to the front door settling all but her handbag on the porch to
break down the gigantic umbrella. The sight that met her tired eyes begged her
to leave her troubles at the door and enter her calm sanctuary. Her domain,
once she shut the beveled glass entry door, was off-limits to any worries
during her wind-down period, which usually took about an hour.

Variations
of soothing earth tones comforted her weary bones, mellowed her rough edges and
did away with tensions remaining from her exhausting day. Ignoring the
repetitive blink of the new message light on the phone, her high heeled shoes
were the first in a series of clothing items removed on her trek upstairs to
the bedroom. By the time she reached her haven, Hansel and Gretel would have no
problem finding their way to her. The remaining pieces of attire dropped
haphazardly to the oak floors and she glided straight to the bathroom, touched
a button on the wall that filtered in soft, relaxing music and submerged up to
her neck in a tub of scented water. Her mind cleared of all negative images and
thoughts to dwell in a place only her music was able to carry her. That aspect
combined with aromatherapy set her adrift in a world devoid of troubles.

Just
where she wanted to go.

Angela’s
soprano voice rang true as she hummed along with the tune coming from the
speakers installed overhead. The pillow braced her neck, ensuring comfort while
she sponged more water over her glistening skin. Every now and then, an errant
noise invaded her space formulating a disconcerting thought. She tapped the sound
down with the remote handily available in the caddy on the Jacuzzi’s ledge.

There
it was again. Louder this time. A mewling sound, then it was gone. Her eyes
searched the ceiling as if doing so would heighten her hearing. Just as she
gave up on honing in on the noise, it registered that someone needed help.

Time
was of the essence.

She
dripped from the tub puddling water on her way to the window. The opaque glass
rose soundlessly to reveal Mrs. Thatcher unsuccessfully attempting to stop her
visitor from destroying her precious roses planted next to the backyard fence
separating their properties. He hacked away with what looked like a severed
broom handle, deflowering a number of bushes. Angela rocketed out of the
bathroom swiping at her wet body with a plush bath towel before she swiftly
pulled on a pair of sweats for the shoeless run down the stairs, through the
living room, out into the horrible weather and straight to her neighbor’s
rescue, getting there just in time to receive a whack on the shoulder as she
grabbed at the offending weapon.

Her
attack, equally as swift as she landed a bulls-eye sidekick to his kneecap,
surprised him, as was evident by his howling string of verbally abusive and
racially-charged curses. He dropped like a brick, cracked and broken. His
obvious pain dictated the writhing motions he made in the thick muddy mounds
supporting the plants. It was his turn to moan and Mrs. Thatcher’s to make
demands.

“Get
up, you harasser of old women! You’d better have your lard ass off my property
before my nephew gets here. He’s an NOPD lieutenant.
 
Lt. Brock Alexander.”
 
Her form of retaliation, an upwards slap to
the back of his head, punctuated her commands. “Now, get the hell out!”

Meanwhile,
Angela stood poised for further action, channeling her shoulder discomfort into
the anger needed to fuel another defensive move, if warranted. It was
unnecessary; for he stumbled to his feet and had to drag his injured leg,
grooving his retreat into the ground. His raspy voice was hauntingly low.

“You
haven’t seen the last of me. Either of you.”

Mrs.
Thatcher mocked him to Angela’s disapproving headshake. “Yea, yea. Skedaddle!”
Reading Angela’s eyes from across the yard, “I really do have a nephew on the
force.” She snickered. “Haven’t seen him in months, though.”

“We’d
better go inside and call 911.” She tested her shoulder with a circular
rotation, and was immediately sorry for the action. A worry surfaced. An injury
could impact her playing. What was she thinking, attacking like that? That was
the problem. She didn’t think, merely reacted to a grown man intimidating an
elderly woman.

Mrs.
Thatcher interrupted her silent admonishment.
 

“No.
I’ll contact the agency tomorrow. They’ll take care of it.”

“I
don’t think that’s a good idea, Mrs. Thatcher.” The senior citizen conveniently
became deaf, clucked at the immense destruction and headed for the house,
Angela on her heels. “What if he comes back?”

“I
have something for him if he does.” She traipsed over to the broom closet.
“It’s called an equalizer. And I know how to use it.”

Angela
had never seen a real gun of any kind, nevertheless, a double-barreled shotgun.
“Is that thing loaded?”

Propping
it in the gun rack at the door leading from the kitchen, she said with an
innocent smile, “It’d better be. No good to me if it isn’t.” Noticing the
concern on her young neighbor’s face, she added, “Been handling guns since I
was old enough to gather eggs without suffering the hens’ disfavor. I’m not
cavalier about it.”

“Still,
the police should handle this.”

“Have
you eaten? I roasted a chicken today.”

Angela
knew the subject was no longer open for discussion. She could keep her company
for a while. It was early, yet, and truth be known she was hungry. Her
appreciative smile accompanied the words. “I’m starved. I’ll run home and lock
up. Be right back.”