Chasing Sophea: A Novel Page 18

  “Lucius,” he declared, wide-eyed and out of breath, “Dahlia’s on her way home.”

  Leezel grabbed her abdomen and begged the nurse, Mrs. Stroud, at Baylor Hospital to give her something—anything—to help alleviate the throbbing pain. The baby was coming, and she writhed in agony while it struggled to escape her womb. She called out for Verdell and wished he were with her instead of her dim-witted husband and father. Her prayer for a swift delivery was answered, and she was in labor for a mere three hours.

  “You’re a very lucky girl,” the nurse said.

  Leezel pushed and breathed and pushed. “It’s a boy, Mrs. Potoshnik!” the doctor exclaimed and smiled. And suddenly his smile was replaced by an expression she couldn’t quite identify.

  “What?” she asked, fearful for her son. “What’s the matter with my baby?” No one answered, and then she knew. By the looks on their faces, she knew. The now stoic-faced nurse handed her the whimpering child, and Leezel wept at the sight of her perfect, light-brown, green-eyed, full-lipped baby boy.

  Three days later, no one uttered a word on the ride home, and her father refused to look at her or the baby. She wasn’t surprised and prepared herself for the worst. She imagined that he wanted to kill her. Otto, of course, followed Wilhelm’s lead and ignored her attempts at casual conversation. There wasn’t really anything of substance that she could say without acknowledging that she’d just delivered a black baby who obviously didn’t belong to her husband. Maybe no one would ever speak of it. Maybe she and the child would both survive the night to see tomorrow, and maybe she expected too much.

  Later, when they believed she was sleeping, she heard them whispering about her, plotting in low tones to do God knows what. She was in pain, frightened, and she didn’t know what to do or whom to call. At her urging, Verdell had left town for a while for his own good, so she was alone with a child to protect in a house with men who thought her an abomination. They saw her as something worse than a whore for what she had done. “No one must ever know of this disgrace. Keinem muss diesen Kind sehen,” she heard her father tell Otto in German. “No one must ever see dis child.” She braced herself. It was only a matter of time before he came for the baby. Leezel nursed her precious boy and picked up the phone. There was someone who would help her—someone who could save her son. If only she knew how to find him. If only she remembered his name.

  Percival awoke to a ringing phone in a cold sweat. Creole Kersey from the Balamikki was on the line, mad as a wet hen for being disturbed by some crazy white girl over nonsense. “What the hell you doing getting caught up in Popeye’s mess, man? That white girl’s going to get you both killed,” he’d hollered into the phone. “Even you have to watch yourself on this one, Percival. Man, that daddy of hers don’t like no bloods. Heard tell he was one of them Nazis back in the day.” Percival dressed quickly. He didn’t know what was happening, but he knew that he had to get to her fast. She had tracked him down in the middle of the night, and that meant that she was in a heap of trouble over that baby. He hurried—drove like the wind and prayed that he would get there in time. Sweet Jesus, let him get there in time.

  “Oh, my good God” was all that he could say when he arrived at the Diezman place. A man was screaming, sparks were flying, and the back of the house was already filled with smoke. He ran around the back calling out for Leezel, hoping that she wasn’t there—praying that she had phoned Creole Kersey from somewhere else, anywhere else. He stepped over a man’s charred body still twitching in the doorway and discovered Leezel in a room shrieking, desperately trying to smother a flaming pillow with her bare hands. Only it wasn’t a pillow; it was that precious little baby on fire, and neither of them could stop screaming.

  Leezel Diezman. Leezel Diezman. Dante rolled the name back and forth in his head and tried to remember where he had heard it. It was 3:00 a.m., and sleeping at this point was not a realistic option. He’d been in the closet with Mercy for more than an hour giving her everything he had again and again, and even the thought of her legs wrapped around him wasn’t enough to calm him down. He was exhausted from their passionate encounter, and yet he knew when he’d had her straddled against the wall that his night was just beginning.

  It was only a matter of time before he found his way to the prep area. It was silent and peaceful, and he worked best that way. The jazz greats had retired for the night, and so had his brother. He was grateful for the solitude. Seeing her was something he needed to do alone. On some level, though, from the moment he’d read her words, he felt her presence close to him—only he didn’t realize how close. He searched for the paperwork and finally found it in Lucius’s desk, which was unusual. It wasn’t where it belonged, but then neither was he. Everything seemed to be out of place. It wasn’t necessary to read the particulars, but he did, anyway—absorbed their contents deep into his marrow. His mother was in this room in drawer number four waiting patiently to say good-bye.

  He clicked on the soft overhead lights and touched cool steel. “I can do this,” he told himself. “I have to do this.” He took a deep breath, pulled open the drawer, and looked at a face that mirrored his own.

  “I don’t hate you anymore,” he said calmly. “I don’t understand everything that happened that night, and by the grace of God, I don’t remember, but I know you loved me. I can feel it now.” He paused and looked around. “I’ve had a good life here, Leezel, and you chose the best mother for me. I want to thank you for that.” He reached underneath the sheet and caressed her hands. They were hands that bore a lifetime of scars. They were hands that had held him once. “I wish I could have known you,” he continued. “I wish that I could remember the time you sat next to me on that plane, but I don’t. Jesus, I don’t. I wish that I could tell you how much I loved your bread and how much I looked forward to it every week. Thank you for thinking of me. And God knows I wish more than anything that I could hold you now and tell you that I forgive you.” Dante felt himself breaking from the inside out and leaned to kiss her on the cheek. It was then that he noticed her feet, and his breakdown became complete. “Oh, mother,” he cried softly. “What happened to you?”

  Aunt Baby settled into a window seat in first class. She hated planes and couldn’t believe that she was actually belted in a 747 about to fly home with the other one. She rang for the stewardess, because Lord, she needed a drink desperately. The doctor had been none too happy about seeing them go, but she’d promised him that Dahlia would return soon, ready to begin repairing her life. It was all coming together now, and she was glad—relieved, in fact, that the worst of it was still to come. Their lives were moving forward again, and that was what was most important. Stagnation and denial had cost them so much, but after today, their family would no longer be immobilized by the events of one tragic day. They could move on, forgive, and learn to love one another again. That was the best she could hope for. That was what she lived for.

  She watched Phoebe nod off in the seat next to her and wondered what Percival was doing. Did he think of her as much as she thought of him? Did he wonder what she was doing, and did he sense that her heart was breaking? Did he know that she loved him and that she always had? No. Most likely his mind was somewhere else far away sharing her family’s saga, remembering once again what they had all tried a lifetime to forget. Phoebe seemed ready, though, to waltz down memory lane, or at least she claimed she was completely in control up until the time they both boarded the plane. She’d been complaining of a migraine ever since they left Dr. Kelly’s office, and that was a good sign. Headaches meant change, and headaches meant that baby doll was fighting the good fight. Her Dahlia was strong, and Baby sensed that she was trying to climb out of whatever hell she had put herself in. Even though Dr. Kelly told her it was a mistake to bring Dahlia home, Baby was sure it was the only real option. Her mama had always told her that, to cure an illness, you had to get to the root cause of the problem. If she attacked the root cause and healed it, then it stood to reason that Dahlia h
ad a chance to reclaim her life. Exhausted and slightly tipsy from Puerto Rican rum, Baby began to doze off. She took one last glace at Phoebe and worried that she would try to run but relaxed immediately. They were on a plane coasting at an altitude of thirty thousand feet. Where in the hell was the heifer going to go?

  Round and round and round they went, holding hands and giggling until their bellies hurt. And then the laughter was replaced with pain. It seemed as if every inch of Dahlia’s body was convulsing, and she cried out for help. “Mama, Mama, make it go away. Make it stop hurting.”

  “I can’t, my precious. The only person who can make it stop hurting is you.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Stand up straight, baby doll, like your Aunt Baby taught you, and walk with me.”

  Dahlia shook her head “no” but allowed her mother to guide her. Her mama led her toward another door, and she froze. She was tired already; she wanted to rest, and she wanted the ache in her head to disappear.

  “If you come with me, you’ll feel better, I promise.”

  “Okay. Mama?”

  “Hmmm.”

  “Do you love me?”

  “Yes, darling, but not enough—not like I should have.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, because I was sick way down in the inside where you can’t see it.”

  “Mama?”

  “Shhhhh, baby doll. We’re almost there.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “To your brother’s room, my love. He’s been waiting for you for a long time.”

  “My God. So what happened in that house?” Michael questioned incredulously.

  “I don’t rightly know till this day. We didn’t speak of it then, and we only spoke once more after that night. Leezel Diezman handed me that burned-up baby, and you know, I don’t think she ever really intended to give that child up, but it was for the best, considering what happened. He was so tiny, and he didn’t look like a baby anymore after what they had done to him. She begged me to help her save him and to keep quiet about what I’d seen. I wrapped the poor child up as best as I could and left him on the doorstep of the one woman—the only woman—who could give him a chance at a normal life.”

  “Aunt Baby.”

  “Yes.”

  “Does anyone in the family know that it was you who left him on the porch?”

  “You do, and someone else will soon enough. If you ask me, that’s already two people too many.”

  “Mr. Tweed, this was a fascinating story, but I don’t understand what any of it has to do with my wife.”

  “Well, it doesn’t have anything to do with her directly, but I figure now you’re prepared.”

  “Prepared for what?”

  “Everything else you need to know.”

  “I just want to know about my wife, her life, and her parents.”

  “I can’t tell you nothing about that, son, but I know someone who can. Come on, now. We ‘bout done here.”

  Michael stood and followed Percival out the door.

  “Where are we going?” he asked.

  “Up yonder to the house. It’s time you met the rest of Dahlia’s family.”

  Lucius paced and contemplated what he was going to say to his firstborn. They hadn’t laid eyes on each other in more than fifteen years. And as much as he missed her, he was terrified of facing her after all this time. Dahlia, his beautiful Dahlia—losing her had nearly killed him. Mercy and Dante were trying to tell him something, but he didn’t hear them, and soon they were no longer in his field of vision. The whole house was weeping around him, and in moments, he was standing over his wife, Reva, or what was left of her. Abruptly, someone grabbed him, and he was once again forced into the present. He looked at Mercy and addressed Dante.

  “My baby is coming home,” he said.

  “I know. I don’t know how Mama did it,” Dante answered.

  “It doesn’t matter. This time, I’m not letting her leave until I make things right.” Mercy began to cry. Both men turned to her in surprise. “What’s the matter, Mercy girl?” Dante asked softly.

  “Oh God” was all she could say.

  Lucius left Mercy and Dante when he heard the doorbell. He raced toward the sound, struggling desperately to maintain his composure. It couldn’t be Dahlia and Aunt Baby already. He opened the door with Dante not too far behind.

  “Morning, Lucius,” Percival said. “This here is somebody I think you ought to meet.”

  “Percival, this isn’t the best time. My daughter’s coming home today. Dahlia is finally coming home.”

  “Mr. Culpepper,” Milky interrupted, “you’ve spoken to Dahlia?”

  “No, he hasn’t,” Dante interjected. “I spoke to my mother, Aunt Baby. She’s been in Pasadena with your wife all this time. They’re on a plane right now. They should be landing in a couple of hours.”

  “You two know each other?” Lucius asked, confused.

  “Yes, we’ve met briefly,” Milky answered, staring at Dante. He quickly refocused and offered his hand. “I’m Michael Chang, sir, Dahlia’s husband.”

  “Michael has been spending quality time with Percival Tweed since he’s been here,” Dante added, avoiding Percival’s eyes. Lucius glanced at Percival. “Did you tell him everything?” Lucius asked quietly.

  “No,” Percival answered. “Not my story to tell. I’m going on home now. I’ve done my part here.”

  “What in the hell is going on?” Michael yelled. “What in God’s name have you people done to my wife?”

  “Come in, Michael,” Lucius said, and placed his hand on Michael’s shoulder. “We should talk.”

  Dahlia held on to her mother’s hand and stared at the little boy playing with his trains. She didn’t know him, and her first instinct was to bury her head in her mother’s skirt like a child. She looked down at herself again. She was some kind of strange child-adult construct. She resembled a child but was starting to feel more like a grown-up with every passing moment. It was frightening and liberating at the same time.

  The boy appeared to be about seven or eight, and seemed quite content to remain where he was. He didn’t notice them initially lingering on the outside looking in, but then he saw her and smiled. A tiny smile at first—you know, the way kids do sometimes when they’re up to something mischievous. She grinned back and walked toward him. He looked familiar and smelled like home.

  “Come play with me, baby doll. You never play with me anymore,” he whined.

  “That’s funny, I don’t remember playing with you at all. What’s your name?” She looked to her mother for help. “I think he knows me.”

  “Of course he does, baby doll. That’s your brother, Jazz,” Reva announced.

  “Who are you talking to, crazy girl?” Jazz asked with a laugh.

  “Oh, baby doll, he can’t see me.”

  Dahlia picked up a train and started pushing it around the track.

  “Choo-choo,” Jazz began in a singsong voice. “Choo-choo-choo-choo-choo.”

  A room was opening in her mind—a room that had been sealed for most of her life. “Keep out,” the voice said harshly. “There’s nothing for you here.” Ignoring the enemy within seemed to be less difficult. She railed against herself, straining to recall what had been lost. New memories sprang forth—so many that she became dizzy. The harder she pushed, the more they came, one right after the other. One minute she was in her purple pajamas helping a man decorate a tree. The next she was sitting at a table drinking hot chocolate and showing a little girl how to tie her shoes. And then children were calling her name and squealing in delight. She picked them up and twirled them around. She wasn’t a stranger; she was somebody’s sister, and she was adored. Dahlia looked at the boy through new eyes and realized that he was exactly the way she remembered. “You’re right, Jazz,” she said, as she reached for him. “I never play with you anymore.”

  He wrapped his little arms around her, and they laughed and played for a long time. And
then he was gone, and she grasped achingly for the space where he had been. The feeling of pure loss was so powerful that she almost blacked out from the intensity of the moment. “Where did he go?” she asked Reva, who was now sitting crossed-legged in front of her.

  “Home, where he belongs.”

  “I had a home once.”

  “Yes, you did,” Reva answered. “And you still do. You just have to find your way back there. You see, you’re lost now, and that’s all right. We all get lost sometimes.”

  “Have you ever been lost, Mama?”

  “Oh, yes. And once I became so lost that I couldn’t find my way back home.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I came here and waited for you.”

  “What in the hell for?” the voice interrupted.

  “Did you hear that?” Dahlia asked.

  “No,” Reva answered, and vanished before her eyes.

  “Over here, crazy,” the voice continued, but it wasn’t just a voice anymore. The sound was emanating from the mouth of a woman standing in the doorway.

  “Who are you?” Dahlia asked.

  “What, you haven’t figured that out yet? Christ, you’re slow.”

  Dahlia narrowed her eyes. “I remember you. You used to be my friend, but you’re not my friend anymore.”

  “Aaaah, that’s not true, and to prove it, I’m going to give you a little piece of advice.” The woman began to walk toward her, and Dahlia cowered.

  “What is it? What do you want from me?”

  “Look, doll, stay out of business that doesn’t concern you. You can’t go home anymore, and you know you can’t listen to your mama. She was crazy then, and she’s still crazy now. You can’t trust a word she says.”

  “And what about you?” Dahlia asked, willing herself to stand and face the stranger who knew her.