Like Slow Sweet Molasses (23 page)

The
relevance of that wall enlightened him that although culturally different—family,
pride and dignity crossed barriers to blur the color line. He circled back to
soak up the section set aside to honor Angela’s accomplishments as far back as
secondary school. Love shone like a lamp all around her as Connie and Lee
beamed in each and every picture they shared with her. Chance found it hard to
comprehend how she could imagine anyone other than Lee as her father.
Fatherhood etched all over his face.

Chance
swerved towards the stairs at the slight noise he heard upstairs hoping she’d
make an appearance. To his utter disappointment, she didn’t. His diversion came
as the doorbell rang. After finding the right door which he hadn’t a key to
open, he signaled the delivery boy to meet him at the garage entrance where he
paid for his order and returned to the kitchen loaded with white paper bags.
Each container was lovingly placed on the island and he popped the flaps to
reveal the contents. Aromatic steam corkscrewed in the air. He fanned the
drifting scent upwards and out of the kitchen.

It
was just as he hoped. Angela’s keen sense of smell coerced her down to his
territory.

“I
thought I heard the doorbell,” she explained away her instant appearance, eyes
glazed with exhaustion and lusting for what she spied on the island.

She
looked revived in that she no longer wore the clothes she apparently slept in
for days. Teal green sweats graced her body failing dismally to lessen her
appeal to him. Her hair was damp and pulled back from her face exposing
cheekbones any model would die for. Angela advanced closing the distance as if
she expected him to pounce on her. For reasons unknown, she was uncomfortable
in his presence and became very skittish as he passed to search out the
cabinets for plates. He documented this turn of events, hauled down two plates
and noticed the beautifully braided, thick plait down the center of her head.
It never ceased to amaze him how her physical attributes could not be minimized
even in her worst of times.

“Lee
instructed me to feed you.” He shoved a plate in her direction. She
reciprocated with utensils and glasses for each.

“Check
the wine cooler or the refrigerator for whatever you’d like to drink,” she
said.

“I’ll
have what you have.” He decided to give her a decision to make, thereby,
including her where she’d been excluded before.

“You
don’t have to do that, Chance,” she grimaced. “It’s okay to have something
stronger than soda, if you like.”

This
time she passed at a wide angle to get to the refrigerator. Once more, she hurt
his feelings exemplifying her blatant distrust. Out came a strawberry soda. The
tab popped and she took a sip straight from the can, doing that cute little
nose-crinkle-eyebrow-lift-thing—denoting—he surmised, taste bud heaven. He
moved aside as she retrieved her glass to fill it with crushed ice from the
refrigerator spigot. Chance opted for a glass of wine and straddled the nearest
stool.

Angela
nibbled at her plate when Chance sat directly across from her, their eyes
connecting like magnets. He dished a healthy portion of food surprised at his
stomach’s grumble. The meal, shared in an oppressive silence, brought to light
the internal sufferings each sought to keep private. In spite of that, a
longing desire surfaced with every stolen glance. They ate slowly pretending to
savor the fare. She finished her sweet strawberry drink and greedily started on
another.

That’s
not a good sign.

Her
fork clanged to the plate signaling the end of the meal. She enjoyed her drink,
eyes closed and hand propping up her chin. The astounding phenomenon to Chance
was how rapidly her head dipped and dived as she nodded off. The tip-off that
the time had come for their dreaded exchange was the way her eyes tore open,
zapping him with stingers as their heated glint scorched his skin.

“My
parents may be fooled by your show of concern, Chance.” Angela slid from the
stool to dispose of her leftovers. “I know the ulterior motive for this visit.”

“I
don’t know what you’re rambling about, Angela.”

“Rambling,”
her voice raised a notch. Her plate crashed to the sink. Angela began storing
the remaining dishes making several trips to the refrigerator and enough noise
to wake the dead.

“What
do you think I’ve done this time?” His question intimated a heavy weariness.

“Save
it, Lt. Alexander. It really doesn’t matter to me anymore.” Her sights set on
the stairs. “You don’t matter anymore.”

“Don’t
do this, Angela.” He pleaded to her back for she was gone. His head dropped in
disbelief.

Chance
cleared the island following her example by carrying his plate to the sink for
rinsing. His glass set empty and he took the liberty of getting himself a
refill. A look around told him all was in order, so, he snapped up his glass
and grip to march into the downstairs bedroom. The truth was she had a point
about his trustworthiness. He didn’t trust himself because he craved her
closeness. His door shut caging him inside the room even as his thoughts
trailed her upstairs.

Now
that she lay in her bed, sleep eluded Angela leaving her flipping like pancakes
on a hot griddle. She lay on her stomach, floundered on her back, curled on her
side and Chance slipped his way into her thoughts, anyway. The strong feelings
she had for him, emotions more grandiose than the Grand Canyon, stoked a
smoldering fire she thought snuffed a long time ago. Urges settled like boiling
lava in her abdomen before snaking their way down. Her legs wildly kicked the
comforter away as she desperately attempted to counter the feelings. The
exertion soothed her agony turning her into a madwoman wallowing all over her
cold, lonely bed.

“He’s
bad news,” she scolded herself. “Just like all the rest of them.” She sprang
from her bed. “I need a soda.”

The
socks on her feet offered no protection against the freezing ceramic tiles of
the kitchen floor. She was all set to yank the refrigerator handle. But, the
little voice in her head, the one that warned of excessive behavior poked her
conscience. More sweets were the last thing she needed tonight. Her
sugar-induced tantrum substantiated that conclusion.

Angela’s
hand fell away. Her ears perked. Her heart thumped.

The
strangling sound assaulted the quiet night. A horrible deep-throated rattling
noise elevated the daddy-of-all chill bumps on her arms. Angela was afraid
until she remembered the reason she chased down a sugar fix. Chance. It had to
be him caught in a nightmare.

Cautiously,
she tipped to the bedroom door to listen for confirmation. There was no doubt
as the groans grew louder and his movements sounded more animated with the bed
frame crying out loudly at odds with his tussling. She peeked into the
blackness at his rangy frame reacting to whatever held him captive in his
dream. Another push of the door had the hinges squeak softly.

She
never saw him move for his actions were lightning-fast. All she knew was her
body hovered for a modest moment in the putrid blackness of night because his
hand had a death grip, right above the wrist, on the forearm outstretched to
awaken him. She piled spread-eagle into the mattress enduring his crushing
weight on top of her. Angela knew her life was endangered and chose to remain
calm—but most of all—still.

“Chance?”
Her voice held none of the terror coursing through her body at the rock hard
fingers gouging her neck. The tactic was very familiar to her, the one he used
on Jason. Chance’s other hand trapped her arm above her head stretching the
shoulder muscles taut. “Chance, don’t hurt me.”

The
softness of Angela’s voice trickled into his awareness.

Chance
gasped and rolled from her, sickened by his deplorable actions. Instead of
apologizing, though, he went on the defensive. “Crap, Angela! Don’t sneak up on
me like that.” He punched at the light switch on the wall flooding brightness
into every corner.

Her
head was turned away from him as she lay in a vulnerable and unflattering
position. There was no missing her heaving chest and the way her hands flexed
and balled the sheet bunched under her body. That was her only movement. Chance
crouched prayer-like beside the bed waiting on her to acknowledge him. She
neither looked at him nor said a word.

“I
suffer from night terrors, Angela. They often happen, lately, brought on by my
fear of inadequacies at protecting those I care about.” He hoped for some
response, but, received none. So, he continued. “My last big episode centered
on Kelsy’s rebellious acts that nearly caused her her life.” He pressed his
face into the mattress.

“Your
warning comes too late, Chance,” she moaned, staring at the ceiling, still a
little daunted by the whole experience.

Chance
tracked the tearstains on her face into the hairline above her ears. He reached
to erase the wet lines, snatching back as if burned when she shrank from his
touch. His body fell the rest of the way as he sat on the floor at the side of
the bed replaying, over and over, in his mind how he’d manhandled her. The
expert skills honed to do his job well were the same ones exploited to disable
her.

Languishing
in self-pity, he kicked himself for not having warned her of his demons.
“Forgive me, please, Angela.”

The
degree of sorrow sounding in his voice made her look at him. Angela saw
absolute contrition not only on his face, but, also in his posture. She tested
her limbs by pulling the silky nightshirt down to cover the exposed parts of
her body. Her knees drew up in a protective ball as she lay on her side facing him,
feeling victimized and benevolent all at once.

“Who’s
Kelsy?”

He
thanked his lucky stars she said anything to him. It wasn’t an acceptance of
his apology, but, she talked to him.

“My
daughter.”

“She’s
okay, now?”

“She’s
coping.”

Angela
sat up in the middle of the bed studying his reactions to what she said and
did. “I guess you have very little control over how you deal with worrying
about family.” He pushed from the floor like an old arthritic man to sit on the
edge of the bed, body in a dejected slump. Even that posture failed to keep
Angela from admiring the fit of his boxer’s, constructed of the identical
breathable fabric as most briefs, that conformed to his buffed body.

“No,
you can’t know how your mind will react once you realize you’re not superhuman
and far from omnipotent,” he conceded.

“You’re
a survivor of many altercations, I suppose, in your line of work that manifest
in nightmares, Chance.” Angela’s respect grew for the man whose internal
battles leaked out in the dead of night. His shamefaced look cinched her heart.
“What has your daughter been up to?”

“She’s
not a little girl, anymore. Just because I say something intended to guide and
instruct doesn’t make it so.” The mattress maintained its support when Chance
shifted his body.

“I
didn’t recognize her on the last pic her mother emailed to me.” He sighed
heavily. “Bottle black hair and nails, ruby red lips, black attire.” His
distressed scan flitted towards Angela as he topped off his description. “Long
holey, black stockings stuffed into storm trooper footwear.”

“She’s
Goth.” Angela sat cross-legged debating her decision to let him off the hook so
easily. Her response surprised him. She could tell this by the twitch of his
brow.

“So
she tells me,” he replied. “I’m just not sure to which depth she participates
in this social practice.”

“There
are varying sub-cultures,” she agreed.

“I’ll
find out next week when she arrives to spend Thanksgiving week with me.”

The
Gods smiled on her.

“What
have you planned?” Angela pried.

“I
thought we’d do a little sightseeing. Maybe take in a movie or two. You know
the usual absentee father ritual. The mall. Ugh.”

“Mix
it up a little,” she urged. “Make reservations at the Riverside Hilton. A
suite. Make sure to have a suite with a view—a balcony perhaps—overlooking the
Mississippi.” His look expressed what he thought of her suggestion. “It can’t
hurt to spend a couple of days alone with your daughter. She may not say it
aloud, but, I’d be shocked if the thought hasn’t crossed her mind. Use the time
wisely. Get reacquainted without the distractions from the force.”

Devising
the plan consumed Angela. She continued, “There’s access to the RiverWalk and
the Aquarium of the Americas. Take the riverboat tour. All kinds of interesting
things are at your disposal, Chance. It will be money well-spent, I can assure
you.”

“Do
“Goths” do those things?”

She
didn’t know but said, “Goths are people, too. This Goth is your only daughter.
Be open-minded. If she prefers to hang around the loft the entire time, simply
cancel the reservation.”

“I’m
hoping to have a family holiday that includes Aunt Belle—,” he hesitated, “and
you.”

“I’m
flattered but I won’t be there for the holiday.”

Disappointed,
he admitted,” I suspected as much with Lee’s illness.”