Chasing Sophea: A Novel Read online

  “I know you wouldn’t.” Dahlia sipped her tea. “Where are Milky and Isabel?”

  “Honey, I don’t know where your family is, but let’s hope that wherever they are, they stay there until we tell them it’s safe to come home.”

  “What do you mean safe to come home? I wouldn’t hurt my family. I could never harm them.”

  “I know you wouldn’t. Sit up straight now, and listen to me, child.” Aunt Baby gently took the tea from Dahlia’s unsteady hands and searched her eyes for any signs of the other one. This kind of truth-telling was serious business, and that other one seemed to thrive on keeping the truth from Dahlia. “Tell me, baby doll,” she said, as she leaned closer, “just how much do you remember about your childhood?”

  Dahlia stiffened and pulled her hands away. “What does my childhood have to do with anything that’s happening here and now?”

  “Everything. Everything that is happening to you now is a direct result of what happened to you then, and it’s high time that we dealt with it once and for all.”

  “Well, that can’t be, Aunt Baby, because I don’t remember much. I remember you and Daddy. I kind of remember the house. Nothing happened in my childhood out of the ordinary that’s worth discussing here.”

  Aunt Baby placed the tea back in Dahlia’s hands and continued to study her grandniece’s face. “Finish up now, before your tea gets cold.” Sweet Jesus, this was far worse than she had anticipated. The child didn’t remember a thing, not the tornado, the funeral home, the children, or Reva. The girl didn’t even remember her own mama, and Lucius had always believed that was a good thing. Aunt Baby sighed. She didn’t know where to begin. This was by far the strangest sickness she had ever come across. Something had snuck up into the girl’s brain and commenced to raising pure hell.

  She thought of Percival and wished she could see him now. She’d feel better, oddly enough, if she could just see his face. She couldn’t explain their bizarre attraction to anyone, but he had always been a source of comfort and strength. And when she returned home, she would finally tell him so, practice a little truthtelling for her own soul. “Your father misses you, you know—asks about you and Isabel every day. He’s getting older now, baby doll. We’re all getting up in age—gonna be dead and stinking in a minute. You remember your father, don’t you, child?” Silence.

  “How is he?”

  “Not well. He needs you, and by the looks of things here, you need him. I promise that the world will keep spinning on its axis if the two of you finally sit down and talk about what happened.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dahlia insisted, becoming more and more frustrated. “Daddy and I just don’t get along too well. You know that.”

  “It wasn’t always that way, though,” Baby added, hoping to jump-start her memory. “You and your father were inseparable before the tornado, before Reva—”

  “Look, I see the man every time I look in the mirror. Isn’t that enough?”

  “No, it’s not, and actually you look more like Reva, your mother. Somebody had to give birth to you. Do you remember anything about that woman at all?”

  Dahlia closed her eyes and squeezed her head between her palms in a viselike grip; the pain was almost unbearable. Aunt Baby knelt in front of her. “Stay with me, now. Hold on to my voice, baby doll. We can do this together, Dahlia. Dahlia, look at me.” Aunt Baby waited for an answer, some sign of recognition, but it was too late. She had said too much too soon, and just like that, her Dahlia was gone.

  “My God, old woman,” the other one said, without missing a beat. “You’re still here.”

  “I told you before that I’m not going anywhere, and I’m telling you again to watch your mouth. I’m not too old to slap some respect down the back of your throat.” Aunt Baby stood to face her. “Remember that like you claim to remember everything else.”

  “I know you’ve never liked me, Baby, and that’s cool because I’ve never been too fond of you either. And whether you believe it or not, the only person who can handle what you’re itching to tell is me.”

  “Is that so?”

  “I remember everything about Dahlia’s childhood, her father, those kids, and that crazy-assed mama of hers. Hell, you should be grateful Dahlia doesn’t remember anything. Who would want to?”

  “Why don’t you ever allow her to hear the truth for herself? How is she ever going to get past this thing, with you sneaking around in her head starting a ruckus?”

  “Who says that she’ll ever get past this thing? Most people couldn’t get past what happened. Have you? Besides, I’ve always let her hear what she needed to hear.”

  “See, what you need to do is mind your business.”

  Phoebe smirked. “Don’t you get it? Her business is my business and has been for quite some time.”

  “You are an abomination, girl, a freak of nature. Can’t you feel that? You don’t belong here, not in her life and not in this house. Go back to where you came from, do you hear me?”

  Phoebe threw her head back and laughed. “Me. I’m the freak of nature. You and your dysfunctional family are the abominations, the ones who left Dahlia by the wayside all alone to fend for herself. Why didn’t you drop her off in the middle of a freeway and watch her get run over? Now, that would have been more humane. The nerve of you people actually claiming that you’re surprised she disappeared. Give me a break. Hey, I’m the normal one, the sane one, the courageous one. Your precious Dahlia, on the other hand, has blossomed into a walking wreck, a total whack job just like her demented mama. She’s standing at the edge of a cliff here, Baby, barely holding on, and I’m just the person to give her the encouragement she needs to jump.” Phoebe walked around and searched for her shoes.

  “She’s a lot stronger than you think, you know.” Baby followed behind her.

  “No, Aunt Baby, she’s not. Strength has always been my area. I control what comes in and out of Dahlia’s life, and I have since that day twenty-five years ago. I have protected her from your neglect and her father’s pain. I have kept her safe from the rest of you and your backwards look-the-other-way bullshit. If it weren’t for me, Dahlia would have slit her wrists years ago. Trust me. She actually thought about it, you know, ending her life, but I wouldn’t let her. And do I get a thank-you? Hell, no! And why? Because no one has ever appreciated me, so kiss my ass and move out of my way.”

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “Wherever I feel like going. Where the hell is my purse, anyway?”

  “You’re not leaving this house until I get Dahlia back.”

  “And who’s going to stop me? You? Please. I’m going home to take a nap, and when I come back, I want you gone—back to whatever tepee you crawled out of. This is my house now, my family, and we don’t need you.”

  Aunt Baby silently asked her mother for guidance. She had prepared for this kind of setback. The main ingredient in her tea would take effect momentarily. The child would get to the door, but she’d never make it to the car. She was moving slower now. It was only a matter of time before she succumbed to the herbs.

  “Phoebe,” Aunt Baby called, and guided her back toward the couch, “why don’t you take your nap here?”

  “What did you do to me, Pocahontas?” Phoebe asked angrily, unable to control the lethargy that was spreading through her body. “You haven’t stopped anything, you know,” she added smugly, as Aunt Baby placed the blanket over her. “Dahlia still won’t be here when I wake up, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

  “I know, Phoebe. Go on now and get some rest.”

  “Prettybaby,” Phoebe whispered, before drifting off.

  “Yes,” Baby answered.

  “You remembered my name.”

  Aunt Baby sat cross-legged and sang a prayer of gratefulness to her ancestors like Oceola had taught her. She’d won the battle this time, but the war would take much more effort. Phoebe would sleep for hours, and when she awoke, there would be hell to p
ay. Baby twisted her fingers, a habit she kept from childhood, and allowed herself to momentarily slip away. Her soul was exhausted, and begged to be free of the cumbersome body that held it in. She was almost there in that meditative space that replenished her, but a sudden distraction in the background hindered her from going any further. She disconnected and hurried toward the ringing intrusion. On the line was just the person she needed to speak to. Wouldn’t you know it? Oceola Moon had heard her after all.

  It seemed as though they sat for hours before speaking, the anxious husband who required information and the albino poised with a story to tell. Much like an elephant, Percival Tweed remembered every happening—tragedy and triumph—that had befallen the Culpepper family, and his memories were filed, numbered, and categorized by name. He could, if he so chose, share with anyone what had happened to whom on any given day for the past five decades. He was a keen observer of human nature—a voyeur, if you will—and analyzing the people around him had been his true life’s work. As all knew, he was indeed a man of few words and had never contemplated sharing his observations until now. He was simply a recorder of circumstances, and his reflections and opinions remained close to his heart, where they belonged. After all this time guarding the Culpepper history, he found it difficult to remove the first file—his: Percival Tweed, May 8, 1939. Finally, he opened his heart, and the words tumbled out eagerly in search of a new home.

  “She was out back there picking tulips with her mother the first time I saw her. They did things like that every afternoon around the same time. Her mother was a full-blooded Choctaw, you know. Prettiest Indian gal you ever did see. My mama—Caldonia Tweed, God rest her soul—had recently gone to glory, and I was feeling mighty poorly. It’s not like I ever had a porch full of kin to talk to like most folk. I went to see the elder Culpepper because I needed work, solitary work. As you may have guessed, I mostly keep to myself, and people tend to leave me alone around these here parts. I don’t mess with nobody, and I don’t want nobody messing with me. Anyways, seeing as how I was born in the house out yonder on the stairs in the main hall, I asked old man Marcel for a job. He liked my resolve, he said, and started me right away that same day digging graves and such. That was over forty years ago, and I’ve been here ever since.

  “Later that same day, Prettybaby—that’s what we called her back then—came to see me, which was a surprise because her father didn’t allow her to keep company with anybody, and I can’t say I rightly blamed him either. She didn’t say much and neither did I, but somehow we understood each other. She held my hand for a long time, gave me a bowl full of funny-smelling cream, and told me that she’d be watching. We connected that day as sure as the sun rises, and I been here ever since watching her watch over me. She needed me; I could see it in her eyes even then.”

  “Why didn’t you ever talk to her, let her know how you felt?” Milky inquired.

  “ ‘Cause a man like me don’t deserve a woman like her. We have what you young folk call an understanding, and I accept my place. I’m used to being by myself, and unlike a lot of y’all, I don’t believe in forcing nothing. She has her role in this life, and I have mine. Well, I did try once to muster up the courage to approach her after the old man died, but I couldn’t. She was busy with Dante, and, well, our time had passed.”

  Percival Tweed paused for a while and appeared to collect his thoughts. Milky respected his silence and waited. Rushing the old fellow would be futile, and he couldn’t leave until he knew everything there was to know about his wife and her family. He thought of his daughter and became even more determined to stay the course. Isabel deserved a complete family, whole and intact, not the counterfeit version she had been relegated to. He wondered what Dahlia was doing now and whether she missed him. She would surely divorce him and inflict bodily harm if she discovered where he was and what he was doing. But he didn’t care because his fear of not being able to help her outweighed the consequences. God, he loved her, and a part of him would wither away and die if he couldn’t help her and their marriage didn’t survive. He stared out the window just like Percival and fantasized about the Dahlia he used to know. It would take more than an hour before the albino began again.

  “Marcel Culpepper was a proud man, you know. Some said he was a strange one, too, but that don’t really mean nothing to somebody like me. He come up from New Orleans with his family to open up this here funeral home. My mama told me that the folk here took to him like gravy to corn pone. He was a hard man to get next to. Although he took care of folk during their time of need, he didn’t trust nobody and never let no one get close to his family, especially after what happened to his boy. His wife and daughter were not allowed to go anywhere off this property without him. Now his son, Lucius Senior, Dahlia’s grandfather, was given free rein to do whatever he wanted to do, provided he ended up home every night at a decent hour ready to work. And he did—most nights, anyway—from what I heard.

  “When he was sixteen, you see, he put this girl across town in a family way, and old man Marcel was fit to be tied. He confined the boy to the house and made him marry the girl. No kin of his was coming up without his protection, he said. The girl’s name was Livia, I believe, and she was younger than Lucius Senior by a hair. They had one son, Lucius Junior, Dahlia’s daddy. Well, after a while, Lucius Senior and Livia couldn’t stomach living and working in the family business, and they told Mr. Culpepper that they wanted to leave Dallas, travel, see the world. It hurt him, I think, his only son wanting to leave the business like that, but he was a very proud man. He offered them money and told them they could go, but they had to leave the boy, and they did. Lucius Junior was about five years old when his parents chose Paris over him.

  “They’d been gone about six months when Livia sent word that Lucius Senior had caught some kind of crazy infection over there—scarlet fever something or other—and up and died on her. I was a young man then myself—about twelve or thirteen, same age as Prettybaby. The Culpepper women took it hard when they found out, and the old man locked himself in his office for days trying to get his son’s body shipped back here. He never did, and when he finally came out of that room, he didn’t allow anyone to mention his son, Livia, or what happened. As far as he was concerned, there was only one Lucius, and he raised that boy as if he were his son, not his grandson.”

  “Man, so what happened to Livia? Did she ever come back from Paris for Lucius Junior?”

  “Well, the man is still here, ain’t he, minus the junior? I think she knew Mr. Culpepper would never have let her take that child away. It didn’t take long for Lucius to finally stop asking about his parents, and nobody heard from his mama again. Lucius was all right, though. He had his grandparents and his aunt, and his brother Dante kept him busy enough.”

  “I thought you said Livia and Lucius Senior had one child. Where did this brother come from?”

  “Slow down, son. There were a lot of folk that asked that same question. Why don’t we make sure you have all the names right, ‘cause this’ll get mighty confusing if you ain’t paying proper attention.”

  “I think I’ve kept up all right so far. We’re talking about two people named Lucius here, parents, grandparents, aunts, and a mystery uncle, but by all means, feel free to go over it again in case I missed something.”

  “Okay, listen to me now. Marcel Lucius Culpepper was married to the Indian woman Oceola Moon. Remember I told you about that?”

  “Right. Got that. Go on.”

  “Marcel and Oceola had two children, Lucius Senior and Baby Marseli Culpepper. Lucius Senior married a girl called Livia, and they had one child, Lucius Junior—your father-in-law. Baby Marseli had one child, a boy by the name of Dante. Junior married Reva, and Dahlia, your wife, is the child of that union.”

  “Okay, I think I’ve got it now. So Aunt Baby is Dahlia’s grand-father’s sister, right?”

  “Good, good. It’s about time you started keeping up.”

  “I’m trying to follow you
here. Where are Dahlia’s parents? And why doesn’t she talk to them?”

  “Well, that there is a mouthful, the question of all questions. Be patient, son. I’m coming to that part in due time. You young folk are so busy rushing to get somewhere that you don’t pay attention to the signs, the little things that move you through life along the way. You’ve got to study every piece of a puzzle before you can put it together right. You’ve got to know about Dahlia’s family, Dahlia’s life, before you can begin to understand her, the woman that she turned out to be. Now I’m going to give you the pieces you need, and nobody has all of the pieces but me.”

  “Now old man Culpepper was extra hard on Lucius. He’d realized, I guess, the mistakes he’d made with his own son, and Lucius suffered. He listened to his grandfather and always did what he was told until he started smelling his own manhood, and then all hell broke loose. He was about seventeen, and the old man was on the warpath.”

  “Wait. You didn’t tell me about Dante. You said he was Lu-cius’s brother, and then you said he was Aunt Baby’s son. Which one is it? How could he be both?”

  Percival Tweed rose from his chair and walked into his small bedroom. No wonder he didn’t go around running his mouth. All this questioning and interrupting was plucking his nerves but good. Maybe this wasn’t the best notion after all, but then again, his mama, Caldonia Tweed, always told him that you couldn’t meet your maker with a lie caught between your throat and your soul. Not that he was planning on dying anytime soon, but he had already lived longer than an albino was supposed to live, or so he’d been told by folk his entire life. All of this fatlipping was new to him, and he needed to catch his breath to continue. He couldn’t remember ever talking this much to anybody. It was downright exhausting. He was prepared to tell the boy everything about Dahlia, but he wasn’t ready to discuss Dante Culpepper. As a matter of fact, he had planned on taking everything he knew about Dante Culpepper to his grave.