Chasing Sophea: A Novel Page 15

  “No, Dr. Kelly, I understand everything. It’s you who’s working completely blind here, but I’m willing to give you a chance to help make this right. I see how much you care, how much you want to rescue her.”

  “I’d appreciate your cooperation here. I know she had to have been faced with an overwhelmingly traumatic situation from which there was no physical escape. I’m betting you know what happened to her.”

  “Of course I do, Dr. Kelly.”

  “Well, whatever information you can give me about what occurred in Dahlia’s past would really—”

  “No. You’re the doctor. Let’s see what you can get from her. If Dahlia wants you to know, she’ll come out some kind of way and tell you.”

  “What if she can’t, Ms. Culpepper? What if she’s not strong enough?” Dr. Kelly persisted.

  “She’s strong enough,” Aunt Baby countered. “She just doesn’t know it yet. She’s a Culpepper. She can get through anything, even this.”

  “Look, I know you mean well, but it will take a lot more than your beliefs to cure your niece. What you’re proposing won’t work. It just doesn’t work this way. With all due respect, this is my area of expertise. Let me do my job and help Dahlia.”

  “Life is my area of expertise, son, and I’ve seen more in my time than you could ever imagine. So, you do your thing, and I’ll do mine. In the meantime, I’ll sit on in there with y’all and watch. If you need something from me, I’ll help when I can. Like I said, the most you’ve got right now is today and tomorrow.”

  “Why?” Dr. Kelly questioned. “You just said that you were taking her home. Can’t she come back the day after tomorrow?”

  “Home,” Aunt Baby answered softly, “is where she came from and not where she lives now. Home is where this all began, and home is where it will end, around family, around people who love her.”

  “Where exactly are you referring to?”

  “She never told you? Dahlia never told you where she was from?”

  “We were working up to that in previous sessions,” Dr. Kelly responded defensively.

  “Oh, I see.” Aunt Baby smiled. “Well, let’s see what happens in there, and then we can talk more afterward.”

  Dr. Kelly opened his office door, made sure Aunt Baby was comfortable in his chair, and stared into the angry eyes of a woman he was determined to know.

  Percival Tweed wasn’t accustomed to second-guessing himself, but ever since he had given Dante the letter, he’d been consumed with worry. He’d been in possession of that letter for fourteen days, and each day it rested in his desk drawer, he’d tried to burn it, but he couldn’t destroy what didn’t belong to him. It just wouldn’t have been right, plus he’d promised her, and Percival Tweed was a man of his word. About a couple of weeks ago, she’d sent for him out of the blue after a forty-year hiatus. A man had called and asked him to come to Parkland Hospital as soon as possible. He went that afternoon—left ten minutes after the call—but nothing could have prepared him for their reunion. Leezel was waiting, clinging to a life that wanted her to let go. She reached for him, and he held her close for a long time.

  She handed him the letter with a shaking hand, and they both knew whom it was for. “Are you sure you want to do this?” he’d asked, pained for her and yet afraid for Baby Marseli. “Please,” she’d whispered, “do what you think is best.” “Leezel,” he’d responded. She placed her hand on his face. “He has to know,” she said. “I want him to understand that I didn’t want to leave him.” She wanted to say more. She tried to say more, but she became too exhausted to continue and lapsed into a coma from the effort. Doctors filled the room, and he was immediately ushered away, left alone again with his thoughts and now hers on paper. So much would be different now. So much would change. He ran his hand along the champagne-colored envelope and prayed to God to give him the strength to do the right thing. Now it was done, and the only thing he could do was wait. Sweet Jesus, what was next? Everything seemed to be moving so fast, and heaven help him, he didn’t have to open his front door to know that Dahlia’s husband was on the other side waiting—eager and anxious for answers. He opened the door, handed Michael a cup of coffee, and motioned toward the kitchen. He sensed the boy would be most comfortable there. “Knew you’d find your way back out here,” he said, and sat down.

  “I’m here for my wife. I want to help her in any way I can. She’s not well,” Michael offered, and sipped his coffee.

  “I know. She hasn’t been right for a long time now.”

  “Why is that, Mr. Tweed? Why hasn’t she been well?”

  “I think it’s best her father tells you that. I’ll tell you everything that led up to that.” Percival looked away, troubled.

  “Mr. Tweed, I hope I didn’t cause you any problems last night. Dante, is it? Well, he didn’t seem too happy to see me.”

  “Dante, don’t mind him. He’s got other things on his mind, and you aren’t one of them.” Percival paused. “He’s as good a place to start as any. You said earlier that you wanted to know about him. I’ll tell you on one condition.”

  “Okay,” Michael answered quickly.

  Percival decided once and for all what was going to be said and what would remain inside him. And after some intensive reflection, he figured he’d know what to let go of when the time came.

  “What I tell you here today about Dante Culpepper can’t ever leave this here house. Do you hear me?”

  “Yes already, and after you tell me this, then will you take me to see Lucius?”

  “I think I can do that. We should be right on time.” Percival rose and paced the kitchen. He swore once to Leezel a long time ago that he would never speak of her to anyone, but he didn’t think she’d mind now, seeing as how she’d gone to glory and was lying up yonder. So it was, he would begin with her story and reveal a secret that he’d kept safe for more than forty years. “Well, it was 1964. Folks were fighting, the world was going crazy, and, let’s see, it was four years before Dr. King would be assassinated. Seems like now that none of that compared to what was happening right here in Dallas. Cities were burning, and a baby boy was left up yonder on the doorstep. Michael, I’m telling you, it was the beginning of peculiar times, and you know, I remember it like it was yesterday. I remember it all.”

  Leezel Diezman could have sworn on a stack of Bibles shipped straight from Jerusalem that she’d been struck by lightning. Lightning had shot through her eyeballs, traveled down her spine, and settled in her bones, nearly causing an internal combustion of sorts. How in the world could she return to her ordinary life now? She knew the explanation for what she experienced back there was deeply inadequate, but she couldn’t think of any other way to describe her feelings for the tall, cocoa brown boy she’d met at the Balamikki Jazz Room.

  Unbeknownst to her father, she’d been sneaking down there on Friday nights when he thought she remained behind at the bakery with the others, kneading dough like a loser. Now she couldn’t focus on anything or anyone else but him and the way he stared at her. Oh, yes, he wanted her; she knew it, and she was willing to give him everything she had, including the clothes off her back. Maybe next week she’d get a chance to touch him, and perhaps he’d want to reciprocate. She’d allow him, of course, to explore her completely. That was without question. She would dance like she was one of them, sip the tan liquid in the short, fat glasses, and wait for him to notice her. She was in love with the tall cocoa brown boy, and when her father found out, he would kill her for it. She was seventeen, miserable, and stuck in a place and a time that didn’t understand her. She’d emigrated from Düsseldorf with her father and brothers a decade prior, and had been wild as a coyote ever since.

  Leezel Adeline Diezman had two lives: one of them had been decided for her before she’d been born, and the other she’d chosen herself. Her father, Wilhelm, always believed that females were only worthy of being spoken to if they were attached to a man. She knew he was full of shit at a very early age and questioned him
incessantly, often catching him in a myriad of contradictions. She suspected he didn’t like her much, and that was okay because she wasn’t especially fond of him either, but he was her father nevertheless, and girls were supposed to honor their fathers. However, it didn’t take her long to realize that every time she honored her father, she dishonored herself. So something drastic had to be done at once or her existence would begin to resemble everyone else’s around her. Leezel refused to end up like the other fräuleins in her community, married to some dreadful man whom she didn’t love, baking his schnitzel and scrubbing his floors. She was unfit for such drudgery, and nothing her father said would make her accept his choices for her.

  After Leezel’s mother died, Wilhelm moved to America with all of them in tow and opened a German café in North Dallas. In spite of her father’s sour disposition, it thrived in no time at all, and she grew up not really wanting for anything except a life of her own. Her brothers, two of whom were dumb as sticks, were able to make decisions—come and go as they pleased—but she had to do what she was told: clean the house, prepare the borscht, pour her father’s lager. And still, while she temporarily became the dutiful daughter whom he demanded, he plied her with useless commentary. She was too smart for a girl. She had too much mouth for a girl. God had surely cursed him.

  She’d wanted to go to college like two of her brothers, but her father had said no. He would not waste his hard-earned money that way. She was already too smart for her own good, too clever for anyone suitable to ever want her. So, when her father informed her that he’d chosen the man she would marry, Leezel decided she had nothing to lose and delighted in discovering every aspect of herself. She opened her own bank account and stopped eating German food. She hated German food. It was mediocre, much like her family, and lacked spontaneity. She wore frosted pink lipstick every day and bobbed her long, blond hair. Of course, her father punished her, beat her, and threatened to send her back to the land of her birth, but she knew he didn’t mean it. He was getting old, and she was the best baker in the café, better than he had ever been, better than her mother. Her breads boasted a bold, distinctive quality unlike any other. Customers could always tell the difference between the breads she baked and breads baked by her father or her brothers. People craved her creations and returned for more, always inquiring as to her whereabouts. So in spite of his foul temperament and idle threats, her father needed her, and she needed a way out. Heaven help her, she would cut herself a new path any way she could. She would turn her back on her father, her brothers, and her way of life before she married one Otto Potoshnik—a man who resembled a potato and reeked of day-old sauerkraut. There was a whole wide world waiting for her, and she ran toward it with open arms.

  The Balamikki Jazz Room was located on the corner of State and Hugo streets near downtown Dallas. It was owned by a cream-colored Creole man named Kersey with two wives, and everybody who was anybody in the jazz world had graced its stage at one time or another. The club boasted an eclectic mix of people, young and old, black and white, the law-abiding and the dangerous. It was the kind of place where a person could relax for a spell and forget about the combustion of the outside world. Oftentimes folks who sat together at the Balamikki would never have spoken to one another anywhere else. Cultures collided, and here that was a good thing. The owner had a penchant for the company of young girls, so he allowed them in most times as long as they behaved and didn’t start a ruckus.

  Percival Tweed spent time there now and again when he desired a respite from the monotony of his life. He wasn’t upset about his choices, nor did he want to make a change. He was content with where he was, and had no intention of leaving as long as Baby Marseli remained. There were so many times that he wanted to ask old man Culpepper for her hand in marriage, but he figured the old man would be offended, refuse, or worse, send him away. Being away from Baby Marseli wasn’t an option, so he swallowed his courage repeatedly and loved her still in the privacy of his own heart. She was unusually sad right now, and he had to find a way to carry her burden. When she frowned, he ached, and when she smiled, he rejoiced. And so it was and would continue to be until the day he dug his own grave. He fantasized about her for hours while he listened to the likes of Nancy Wilson sing “Guess Who I Saw Today” with Cannonball Adderley on alto sax, his baby brother Nat on cornet, and Roy McCurdy on drums. His ears were in heaven, and oftentimes his heart was in hell. The Balamikki was jumping, but no one ever bothered him, so he was able to drink his poison in peace and focus on ten thousand ways to make Baby happy.

  He noticed the white girl right away sitting at a table by herself pining for someone she had no business even thinking about. She was that German girl from North Dallas, and he’d heard tell that her father was one of them Third Reichers. Lord, she was either extremely brave or decidedly insane. Either way, she wasn’t any of his business, or so he thought. He had a feeling, though, that he should watch her closely—pay attention to whatever situation she found herself mixed up in. So, not one to ignore his gut feelings, he visited the Balamikki Jazz Room three times more a month than he should have, listened to Ahmad Jamal tickle the ivories, and waited for fate to deal him a new hand.

  My dearest Dante,

  I have always wondered what I would say to you if and when I could ever muster the courage to say anything at all. I am struggling as I write this letter because I know that there are not and never will be any words to convey my emotions about what happened. If you are reading this, then I am gone from this life and am finally free from my feelings of guilt and selfhatred. You see, I was never the same after I let you go, and I suppose that is no surprise. How could either one of us be what we once were? I think that would be impossible. Real pain changes you, my love, changes every cell in your body until you become someone else. I know that who you would have been before that night is completely different than who you are now.

  I want you to know that I thought about you every day, and I think of you still even during my last hours on this earth. I need you to understand that I wanted you, that I loved you, and that I would have done anything to spare you the pain you suffered because of me. Please try not to think badly of me. I did the only thing I knew to do to save your life and to salvage my own.

  The night you came into this world seems like a lifetime ago, but I can still smell you when I close my eyes, and I can still feel you in my arms warm and secure. You had my mouth and your father’s nose, and you were a thing of beauty, so small, so precious, and all mine if only for a short time. Trust me, a mother never forgets these things about her child. You were born on May 16, 1964. And a few days later there was a horrible accident, a fire, and you were injured beyond comprehension. My love, I was so scared that you were going to die, and I believe you would have perished if it weren’t for Percival and the woman you know as your mother, Marseli Culpepper. Percival Tweed was my angel, and he helped me at a time when I had lost everything: my family, my house, and almost my life.

  I was so young then, Dante, young and naïve, and I actually thought that I could control the world around me, but nothing that night was under my control except for my decision to give you away. There is no justification for my cowardice, but I was hurt, terrified, and lost in a moment that has continued to haunt me. Percival swore to me that Baby could heal you and that no one would care that you were half-white at all—half German, in fact, not that it matters at this point. “Black folk are used to raising other people’s children,” he said, and I believed him. He promised that you would be loved and cherished in spite of me, and so I handed you to him along with a part of my soul.

  Marseli Culpepper is a good woman, a gifted healer, and I know that she has been and will continue to be a wonderful mother to you. She is everything Percival said she was and more. My life has been incomplete without you in it, and baking bread for you on Wednesdays all these years was the only way that I could be close to you. I hope that you enjoyed what I had to offer, and I hope that you tasted th
e love I created for you. I did not want to intrude on your life, but I want you to know that I’ve seen who you are. I’ve watched you from a distance, sat next to you on a plane, and touched your hand once in a restaurant in New Orleans. You are a fine man, a man that any mother would be proud of, and I am honored that you came through me even though the journey was a torturous one. I know there has been sorrow in your family, but believe, Dante, that your heartache will pass and your life will move forward full of joy and countless blessings. When you think of me and you begin to wonder, close your eyes and feel my embrace. Know that I am never too far away. I wish you well, my son, and I leave you with my heart, my love, and my promise that I will watch over you always.

  Your mother,

  Leezel Adeline Diezman

  Dante sat on the edge of a chair facing the door for hours. He read the letter over and over again searching for a truth that maybe he’d missed the first few times. He was numb and yet satiated simultaneously. He knew that she had left out vital information, and obviously she’d had her reasons, but he didn’t care. It didn’t matter anymore who his father was or why he was left on the Culpepper doorstep. His mother loved him, and that made all the difference. He was suddenly filled with an intense emotion that he couldn’t quite describe, and there was only one person, one woman, he wanted to share his feelings with. Despite the tug-of-war going on in his heart, he opened his door and went to find her.