Chasing Sophea: A Novel Read online

  “Let’s switch tracks for a moment. How do you think your daughter perceives you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If I were to ask Isabel what kind of mother you were, what would she say?”

  “God, I don’t know. That sounds pathetic, I realize. I’d hope that she would say that I love her. I try to love her.”

  “How do you connect with her? You are obviously a busy woman. How do you stay connected to Isabel?”

  “I guess I do regular motherly stuff. I read to her. I try to spend quality time with her when I can. Right now, Dr. Kelly, I am doing the very best that I can. I thank God for Milky, though, because he picks up the slack. Isabel is much more attached to her father than she is to me.”

  “And how does this make you feel?”

  “Sometimes I’m jealous when I see the two of them together, and sadly, other times I’m relieved because Isabel’s preoccupation with her father takes the pressure off of me. Most times, I feel inadequate with Isabel. I don’t feel like I give her what she needs. No, that’s an untruth. I know I don’t give her what she needs. I fail her in some way every day.”

  “And what about you, Dahlia? Have you always gotten what you needed? When you were Isabel’s age, do you believe your mother felt the same way about you as you now feel about Isabel? Did your mother fail you?”

  Dahlia heard the question. It was unexpected, but somehow she’d suspected that he would try to go there, pry into the locked room in her head. It had been eons since she’d thought about her mother, and she wasn’t about to start now. There were times when a part of her tried to remember something from her childhood, but remembering soon became a futile effort. Still, her inability to recall certain moments from her past haunted her and spawned intense bouts of confusion that inevitably morphed into an internal tantrum. Inside herself, she was jumping up and down, kicking, screaming, and ramming her head against an emotional wall. And then a voice deep inside her hissed that she was damaged goods. She’d heard that voice before, a persistent nagging behind her ear, but it was louder now and becoming more difficult to silence.

  “I’ve noticed that every time I begin to talk about your family, you avoid the subject at all costs. I’m starting to suspect that you experienced a traumatic event in your childhood.”

  Dahlia began to cry silently. Traumatic event. She’d heard those words before once. Minutes later, she stood, glared at the doctor, and gathered her purse to leave.

  “Clever, clever therapist,” she quipped. “Did you figure that out all by yourself, or do you have a team of monkeys feeding you through an earpiece?”

  “Are you all right, Dahlia?” he inquired, writing furiously on his notepad.

  “What a fucking idiot,” she said, and walked hurriedly toward the door.

  “Morning, Mr. Culpepper.”

  Lucius nodded and surveyed the grounds of the Culpepper estate. Over the years, it had grown considerably. It used to be one rather large house where the Culpepper family lived, worked, and died. Everything was done in one structure. The family would eat upstairs while the neighborhood was being embalmed two levels down. His line of work seemed to bother some, but it was the only life he had ever known. Almost.

  “Who’s on limo today?” Lucius inquired. He didn’t really give a damn, but his staff needed to feel his presence.

  “Remo.”

  “Remo? What happened to Boogie?”

  “Dante—I mean Mr. Culpepper—said Boogie couldn’t drive no more on account of what happened at the Harper service.”

  Lucius stared at his assistant, a skinny boy named Freddy with a lazy eye. He sighed and continued toward his office. He was feeling somewhat melancholy this morning, but then wasn’t he always? He couldn’t remember the last time when his mind or his body was relaxed. Today was a moderately busy day, and that was just as well because he needed to keep occupied. Three services were being performed, which meant he had to check behind people, ensure that they were not embarrassing him and the Culpepper name. He didn’t embalm so much anymore unless someone specifically requested that he do the work. That happened from time to time, and he always acquiesced. Uncle Brother usually handled all the daily administrative duties, but Lucius consistently approved every single body that was prepped in his funeral home. He was still a hands-on kind of guy.

  He reclined in his office, put on some Bird, and scanned the obits. He always listened to Bird when he read the obituaries. It was becoming more and more difficult to focus on the everyday minutiae of his life. His mind always seemed to creep to the inevitable. He thought about Mercy, Uncle Brother, his mama, his grandfather, Aunt Baby, and even his father, and Lord knows he hadn’t thought about him in a month of Sundays. He tried desperately to fill his head with every thought, every memory that wasn’t reminiscent of Dahlia and his family, his life before that day. Thankfully, right as his chest was beginning to tighten, Freddy began pounding on the door.

  “Mr. Culpepper, Mr. Culpepper, there’s been an accident.”

  He’d heard those words before, and although Freddy kept blabbering on, Lucius was already lost in the moment, reliving that day, that space when every cell in his body changed forever. He froze and it was 1981 all over again. He inhaled deeply and fought the battle waging in his head as his mind threatened to explode with memories buried under a volcano. It was windy outside, and there was a tornado. Sophea, he’d named her Sophea. He remembered he was busy that day, up to his neck in stubborn corpses. Two elderly people had expired at the local nursing home, and one was curled up in a fetal position. He’d needed to concentrate on his work, and he remembered Uncle Brother screaming something, something he couldn’t quite make out. And then Mercy rushed in with the phone. “Lucius, there’s been an accident,” someone had said.

  “Mr. Culpepper, Mr. Culpepper, did you hear what I said? Three people died today. Families are calling. I need some help out here, sir. How should I schedule the viewings? Who should I send to pick up these bodies? Mr. Culpepper!”

  Sweet Jesus, help me, Lucius prayed. Why was this happening to him now after all these years? What had he ever done to deserve this hell? Breathe, he thought, or die. He peered out the window as he quietly answered his assistant. “Go find my brother, Freddy. He’ll tell you exactly what to do.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Culpepper. Should I send for Percival Tweed, too? We’re going to need …”

  Lucius held his fingers to his lips and continued to stare toward the cemetery. Percival Tweed tipped his hat, and Lucius knew instinctively that the old albino had already dug six graves.

  Milky hurriedly packed suitcases for him and Isabel. He had spoken to his mother, Miko, and she had agreed to keep Izzy while he went away for a few days. He told his mom that Dahlia was ill with the flu and needed a while to recuperate, but he knew that she suspected he was lying. He would have to tell her some part of the truth when he dropped Izzy’s luggage off or she would never let him leave. He’d bought an e-ticket to Dallas and was due to land at DFW at around 8:00 p.m.

  He’d told no one of his plans and was beginning to question his impending interference. He felt the truth of this trip, though, inside himself. And his insides never lied. Reality was buried in the way he felt, and he had been feeling odd about the Culpepper family for quite some time. Christ, he’d never even spoken to her father. Still, questions plagued him, and he couldn’t help imagining the worst conceivable outcomes. Like what if Dahlia found out and divorced him? What if her father loathed him or harbored some freak hatred of Chinese people? What if his wife came from a family of psychopaths and his daughter had inherited some mutated mortician gene? Really, what kind of people operated a funeral parlor for eight generations anyway? He’d always thought anyone in that particular business had to be a little bit off somehow, different, unique. What if? What if? The possibilities were endless, and he nearly gave himself an aneurysm contemplating every aspect of his trip. This all seemed so insane, but something was gnawing at him, and he w
as compelled to find out what it was.

  The relationship between Dahlia and her family was always puzzling, but she had been adamant about her decision to stay away, deal with them in her own way. “You wouldn’t understand,” she’d say. “Your family is so normal.” Well, that was nearly a decade ago, and he had been remiss for not insisting on introductions or traveling to Dallas sooner. So he would go and intrude in the lives of his wife’s bizarre family, his daughter’s family, but a family nevertheless. He’d made reservations at the Adolphus downtown. He didn’t want to inconvenience anyone, and he had no intention of closing his eyes in a damn funeral parlor. He grabbed his luggage to leave, and then the doorbell rang.

  Dante Culpepper hung up the phone and shook his head in disgust. After all this time, people still surprised him. Sandra-Ann Patterson, the local pastor’s wife, wanted the jewelry from her dead brother’s body before the man’s wife came to claim him. Oftentimes death brought out the worst in people. He’d witnessed it time and time again—ordinary folk turning into demons when they thought they were entitled to the life a dead person left behind. Hell, he’d seen an entire family ripped apart over a deuce and a quarter that none of them could drive.

  These days, he found that he was revolted with people most of the time. He needed a change in his life, a distraction of sorts to break up the monotony of bodies, economy packages, and casket receipts. Maybe it was time to take another trip, one of his special excursions where no one knew him or knew what he did for a living. Not that he was ashamed of his line of work, but he didn’t get as much action when he told women that his nickname was the Bone Collector. Man, they ran from him like convicts in a prison raid. He was forced to invent a more ambiguous description of his profession. However, he was and had always been unable to lie, and so if he couldn’t avoid the “Hey, what do you do?” question, he answered with his trademark response: “I’m a thanatologist, and my word, your eyes are absolutely mesmerizing.” Go figure, women just naturally assumed that he was some type of surgeon. In a way, he was, so it wasn’t a complete fabrication. And anyway, he couldn’t find a decent date in Dallas, not even with a full head of “good hair” and a platinum American Express card. Everyone seemed to know his business—what he did, where he lived, how his real mother had abandoned him like a burned-up marshmallow on the Culpepper doorstep. It was an old story, and he had become increasingly annoyed at constantly being reminded of his painful beginnings.

  Dante “Uncle Brother” Culpepper was forty-one years old, and he was finally ready to settle down. He had to find the right woman, though, a woman who could love him in spite of his profession—a woman who could live at the Culpepper estate and meld with his family, a woman who wouldn’t antagonize his mother. Ironically, at that moment, Mercy switched by wearing a crimson dress that had obviously been made to cling to the curves that blessed her body. She spoke softly, and he readied himself for innocent conversation, conversation that he wouldn’t be ashamed of.

  “Dante, may I speak to you for a minute? I heard it’s been a dreadful day.” Mercy never called him Uncle Brother. She always thought his first name was much more sophisticated.

  “Well, yes—dreadful for the people who aren’t breathing anymore but not dreadful for us. On the contrary, we’ve had a very lucrative day.”

  “That’s horrible. I’m sure God doesn’t think that’s so amusing.”

  “Yeah, well, the Almighty had more to do with them being dead than we did,” Dante said, smiling just a little. “How are you, Mercy girl? Is everything all right?”

  “As all right as it can be, I guess. Dante?”

  “Hmmmm.”

  “Where do you go when you leave here?”

  “Away.” Dante turned to face her, and for a split second, he felt as if he was doing something wrong. And as usual, he pushed the thought out of his head. “Can I help you with anything, Mercy? I’m kind of busy here.”

  “Um-hmm. My husband. Have you seen him, by chance?”

  “Yeah, he walked toward the chapel a while ago.” Dante pointed down a long hall.

  “Thanks. I’ll see you around.”

  “I’m always here,” he replied, as he watched her walk away from him. His brother had been trying desperately to avoid Mercy for days, and here he was sending the woman in his direction. If only he were able to lie just a little. He returned to his paperwork relieved that she’d gone and was immediately startled by a voice he’d heard his entire life.

  “One of these days, boy, the devil’s going to win you over,” Lucius quipped from an adjoining door.

  “How long have you been standing there?”

  “Long enough to know that you liked the way my wife looked in that dress.”

  “Lucius, please.”

  Lucius waved his hand and eyed his brother suspiciously. “What the hell is going on here, Dante?”

  “What are you talking about? Nothing—”

  “I’m talking about this.” Lucius pushed Aunt Baby’s letter across the mahogany table. “Where in God’s name is Aunt Baby? Where is your mother?”

  Dante walked around and stood facing the only sibling he would ever have. “You know where she is, Lucius.”

  “When did she leave? Why didn’t she tell me?” Lucius yelled. His eyes began to fill with tears that he wouldn’t allow to fall. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Brother. What if I’m not ready for this? What if I fail her? I can’t go through that again. I can’t lose her again.”

  “You have to be ready.” Dante glanced at his watch. “Because my mother is already there by now fussing at your daughter, trying to convince her to come home, and most likely telling her to stand up straight. It’s time, big brother. You have to slay this dragon, put it out of its misery once and for all.”

  “I know,” Lucius said, as he sat and buried his face in his hands. “I know.”

  Phoebe knew he was in there; she could hear determined footsteps on the other side of the door. She inhaled deeply. There was still time to reconsider, walk away, but she’d never walked away from anything, so why should now be the first time? The door opened and her new life began.

  “What are you doing here, and why are you ringing the doorbell?”

  “I thought I’d surprise you,” Phoebe said seductively, and walked past him into the house. “It’s been a while, sexy. Haven’t you missed me?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good. Now that’s what a girl likes to hear. You know, the truth will set you free.” Phoebe scanned the room and noticed the garment bag draped across the couch. “Going somewhere, Michael?”

  “Umm, no. Just donating some old suits to charity.” Milky glanced at his watch.

  “What’s the rush? Surely you can spare a moment to chat, catch up on life.”

  “Are you serious?”

  Phoebe sat on the couch, parted her legs just so, and beckoned for him to join her. “I can only imagine how difficult it’s been for you lately, and I just thought I’d come over and offer you a welcome distraction. You know, an afternoon pick-me-up, a little bump and grind, if you will.”

  “Is that right? What brought this on?” Milky asked suspiciously. “What’s gotten into you?”

  “What? Don’t look at me like that. You know you want it.”

  Phoebe caressed the side of his face and whispered in his ear. “I know I can make you happy, Michael. Come on, baby, let me give you what you need.”

  Aunt Baby rolled into Union Station with a strong spirit and a throbbing bunion. All hell was about to break loose. “Lord Jesus, give me strength,” she sighed. The ride had been a troubled one filled with painful memories and unrealistic expectations. She found a half-dressed girl with a plethora of tattoos to hail her a cab. Lord, these children today, she thought. “Pasadena” she called to the driver. “Carry me to Pasadena, 3252 San Rafael Avenue. And hurry. My grandniece is waiting.”

  Sitting in the back of the cab, she prayed fervently that she’d misread the entire situation. Dahlia was
fine, Milky was wonderful, and her family was whole and intact. But Baby Marseli Culpepper had never misjudged anything or anyone in her sixtyfour years on this planet. She was blessed that way, and sometimes she hated the realness of it, like now. For as long as she could remember, she was the way she was. Gifted, knowing, but this—this here was a problem even she didn’t know how to solve. All the herbal remedies in the world couldn’t fix what was ailing Dahlia. Only God knew what could. But Heaven help her, she would try. Aunt Baby would try until she couldn’t try anymore. And she intended to keep trying until Dahlia remembered everything. Dahlia had to return home, face the pain in that house, and let it float up to Jesus, where it belonged.

  So much had happened over the years. Time passed and memories became trapped in the rooms of the funeral parlor, invading the very air they breathed, reminding them of what they’d lost. The house coveted every moment that passed in the Culpepper family, nurturing them, keeping them alive. To this day, there were some rooms in the Culpepper place folks couldn’t step foot in without becoming severely affected. Of course, nothing like that ever happened to Aunt Baby. She was seasoned in distress and had seen far too much, although when she walked into certain rooms, she was filled with recollections of her life there—some good, some bad, and some she could definitely do without. She wasn’t ready to think about those now. They would be upon her soon enough. She smiled, though, and recalled the night her nephew Lucius was born. He took a long time to come into this world. His poor mama was in labor for sixty-two straight hours, God rest her soul. It was almost as if Lucius knew what awaited him and decided to lounge in the comfort of the womb until he was evicted. The midwife tried everything, but he was stubborn even then, refusing to glimpse the light of day. His father, Lucius Senior, put on some Duke, and—wouldn’t you know it?—that boy slid right out of there like he was coated with Crisco. Turned out, all he needed was the right kind of coaxing. Some things never changed.