by Pat Simmons
When the show ended, Parke latched on to Cheney’s hand like she belonged to him. She tried to snatch her hand back, but he kept it in his strong grip.
“Parke, I know my way back. I’m not going to get lost in the crowd.”
“I’m not worried about the crowd. I’m worried about Mrs. Beacon.”
Causing a small scene, Cheney abruptly halted in the crowd. “If you don’t let go of my hand, you’re going to be worrying about me in a minute.”
Complying, Parke’s fingers opened like a mechanical gadget. He repositioned his hand on her back, guiding them through throngs of people. “How about grabbing a bite at our place, the Whistle Stop?”
“That’s your place, Parkay, not mine.”
Throwing his head back, laughing at her irritation, Parke wiggled his brows as he helped her into the car. Now he was having a good time. She was fired up.
A half hour later, they sat inside the Whistle Stop and devoured his Sicilian Express—Italian focaccia bread with salami, roasted red peppers, and provolone cheese. Again Parke realized he hadn’t blessed his food. He looked at Cheney.
She shrugged. “I said a quick blessing for both of our food.”
Thinking about that prayer he said, to this day, Parke didn’t know where those words came from. He cleared his throat. “How about checking out some more houses on the walking tour? It’s only six o’clock.”
Shaking her head, Cheney bit into her Cannonball sundae—a chocolate frozen custard with hot fudge wrapped in a chocolate waffle cone. She closed her eyes, moaning her pleasure. “Give Grandma BB a heart attack because she can’t track us—never.”
“Who’s Grandma BB?”
“Mrs. Beacon.”
“I didn’t even know she had children and grandchildren.”
“She doesn’t.” Cheney held up her hand as if she anticipated his question. “Don’t start.”
Parke chuckled. “Okay. Does BB stand for BB gun or real gun?”
“Do you want to find out?”
“Nope.”
They ate in silence until Parke cleared his voice. “You’re all right, you know that? I actually enjoyed myself with you today.”
“Did you doubt that you would?”
“Yeah, I did after your neighbor put me through a criminal background check.”
“Admit it. That was funny.” Cheney grinned.
“Do you see me laughing?”
Before either could take another bite, an unannounced contest started. Parke was determined to maintain a straight face. Cheney ignored him, preferring to survey her food. When their eyes met, their laughs detonated, echoing throughout the parlor.
Composing himself, Parke stared at Cheney. When she smiled, she seemed to open the door to his heart. He grinned. “What are you doing next Thursday after work?”
“Not going on a walking tour, a musical, or anything else with Parke Jamieson, whatever your number.”
Laying a hand over his heart, Parke pretended he was hurt. “Whoa, you wound me, woman. Since the moment we met I noticed, you don’t sugarcoat anything, do you? I like that, but if we’re going to hang out, you’ve got to know my number.” Parke watched as her beautiful eyebrows worked their magic on him.
“What are you talking about? I didn’t ask for your phone number, remember?”
Wiping his mouth, Parke displayed an idiotic grin. “You’re sitting with royalty and don’t even know it.”
Parke could see her challenge rising as Cheney sat straight up in her chair. “I’m sitting with a royal nut, and we both know it.”
Their light banter fueled Parke and subconsciously excited him, regardless of Cheney’s height and lack of skimpy clothes. He reached over and tapped Cheney’s hand.
“No, seriously, it’s a love story that laws have forbidden, but not by God,” Parke paused, frowning. Something he couldn’t explain was happening to him. Every time he was with Cheney, he seemed to mention God more and more. It started after Annette and her group prayed for him. Maybe there was power in prayer, but Parke still hadn’t figured out what that had to do with him. He knew now wasn’t the time to analyze it.
“It flourished. My great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather and great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandmother fell in love in the late 1700s. It endured throughout the institution of slavery until the end of the civil war. Wanna hear about it?”
Cheney cocked her head to the side as she twisted her lips. “Sure. You’ve got a couple of hours before Grandma BB puts out her all-points bulletin.”
Getting comfortable, Parke smiled and recited the facts that had been passed down to him. “Paki Kokumuo Jaja was born in December 1770 in Cote d’Ivoire, Africa,” he rolled his tongue to authenticate an African dialect.
“You’re supposed to tell me about your family tree, not some made up fairy tale.”
He continued as if she hadn’t interrupted him, “His name means a ‘witness that this one will not die’. But on that fateful day he and his warriors were attacked, severely beaten, and kidnapped. Mande tribe leaders thought their country was too far westward and untouchable from slave traders, nestled relatively safe between kingdoms that would later become French or British colonies, and eventually Liberia, Guinea, Mali, Burkina, and Ghana.” Parke took a deep breath. “FYI, America resettled freed slaves in Liberia from ships leaving New Bedford, Massachusetts about 1821.”
“I didn’t know America had colonies, but I guess that was why former Liberian President, Charles Taylor, felt American troops were obligated to be peacekeepers during that uprising years ago. I heard he was somehow connected to al-Qaida. Didn’t he get something like fifty years in jail for maiming millions of Africans?”
“Yeah.” Parke was in awe. His appreciation for Cheney’s intelligence grew. Finally, a woman who had interest in history.
Cheney frowned. “Wait a minute. Let’s go back to slavery exploitation. I didn’t think any Africans were safe from the human hunters.”
“Not really. Their skin color was the deciding factor, even though millions of Africans had already been captured on the coast off the Indian Ocean and in Midwestern countries. They were driven across the Sahara desert and northern Africa like a herd.”
“That’s fascinating. I wish more history was in our school’s history books.”
“Yes. That’s why I give lectures, volunteer as a storyteller at local libraries, and participate in Black cultural events.”
“It means a lot to you.” Her expression softened.
Parke stared into her eyes. “Yes, it’s my world.”
“It’s our world.” She tapped a finger on his hand.
His heart raced. He didn’t know if it was what she said or did, but there went his heart again. Parke swallowed to regain his concentration. “Paki’s ship landed in Maryland, a state known for harsh slave laws. Separated from his bodyguards and warriors, Paki was sold for a couple hundred dollars.”
With folded hands, Cheney leaned forward on the table, giving Parke her undivided attention. “How could anyone find love in so much misery?”
“It wasn’t easy. Some men refused to marry females enslaved by the same master because they couldn’t bear to see their wives whipped unmercifully when they didn’t move fast enough for the overseer. Plus, we know masters and overseers sexually violated women and children. And then sold them off to punish the husbands.”
Closing her eyes, Cheney shook her head and shivered.
The truth wasn’t for the tenderhearted. Parke waited for her to open her eyes. “Some good news. Paki was sold to Jethro Turner, the largest slave owner in Maryland. He had more than one hundred slaves. My great-great-great…you know—refused to submit to orders, Paki was repeatedly tied to a tree and whipped with cowhide.”
“The love story, Parke. Just tell me the love story. You’re depressing me.”
“Sorry. I’m so used to the story that the bitter details no longer anger me. They empower me. Well, the master had six sons
and one daughter, Elaine. She was seventeen years old and fascinated with the tall, dark-skinned warrior from a country called Africa.”
Cheney chuckled. “Uh-oh, I bet she was.”
“I understand she was very beautiful. Stop interrupting.” Parke’s eyes sparkled. “Here comes your love story. Elaine taught Paki how to communicate in English through symbols and signs. As time passed, Elaine became protective of Paki. When she witnessed him being tied to a tree and beaten, she ordered him down, and after dark, applied salve to his wounds. Later, Elaine snuck Paki clothes and food from her dinner table.”
“Okay, so they fell in love.”
“Yes. It was a love against all odds, risking punishment and death to be together.” Parke paused. “Escaping bondage, Paki became a fugitive and took Elaine with him. They set off for Kansas, a free state, but settled in Illinois rather than chance crossing another slave territory—Missouri.”
Reaching into his back pocket, Parke pulled out a business-size laminated card from his wallet. “I actually have a copy of the ad from The Baltimore Star. FOUR HUNDRED AND FIFTY DOLLAR REWARD—Ran away from subscriber. Negro man kidnapped only daughter, Elaine Turner. Said Negro is nearly black, between twenty and twenty-five years old, very good-looking, tall, over six feet and muscular. I hereby forewarn all persons not to harbor or employ said man or woman at the peril of the law. Reward is for his capture in or out of state, dead or alive. I want my daughter alive.”
Cheney looked up, confused. “Why do you carry this in your wallet?”
Rubbing his chin, Parke stared in another direction. “Two reasons. First, they described my seventh great-grandfather as good-looking—see any resemblance?”
“Black man, please.” She slapped his arm.
“Okay. Second, Paki and Elaine, or Alai as he affectionately called her, were never captured. Both lived to see the end of slavery.”
“A hundred years, Parke?”
“Almost. Elaine and Paki were married eighty-two years.” Parke twisted his mouth. “What can I say? I’m a descendant of a strong African tribe. Elaine, a White-skinned, green-eyed brunette was willing to live as a slave to be with him.”
“I’m sure the old master went ballistic judging from that ad.”
“I read that he did.” Parke closed his eyes. “Bits and pieces of what happened have been passed down through the years in her journal.”
“What did she say?”
“Basically, that Elaine was in love with Paki Kokumuo Jaja, Chief Prince of the Diomande Tribe of Africa. She wrote that Paki was a whole man and not the three-fifths determined for those enslaved under the Maryland constitution.
Her father, Jethro, argued that if any White woman married a Black man, she’d become a slave until her husband’s death and his grandbabies would be mulattoes, basically born into slavery.”
“What did Paki say about her decision?” Cheney asked.
“In his country, she would be his first concubine.”
“Unbelievable. Even your ancestors were arrogant.”
“Elaine wrote she’d be queen and he wouldn’t have time for another woman.”
“Good for her, go girl.” Cheney smirked, pounding a fist on the table. “Wow. It’s amazing you know your family’s history like this.”
“Elaine kept a diary. It has been well preserved throughout generations. Plus, there are legal documents. When she overheard plans to sell Paki, they ran away.”
Cheney stole one of his chips and crunched, sending crumbs to the table. Parke grinned. Sometimes, peeks of her feminine charm melted his heart.
“Why do I have the strangest feeling there’s more to their story?”
Parke tilted his head. “So you really are listening. Yes, there’s more.”
She snapped her fingers. “Then continue, Mr. Parke Jamieson… what number?”
Laughing, they finished off the chips. Parke paused when a dimple winked in her right cheek. How unique, only one. “I’m number six, but I really should be number ten.”
“Finish your story and forget the mathematics.”
And he did, sharing more of the story, filling it with twists and turns.
“Humph. Love comes with too much drama.”
Parke ogled Cheney’s long lashes. Her eyes were beautiful. He lifted his finger. “The Jamiesons thrive on drama. My great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandparents secretly married. Soon Elaine gave birth to a son, continuing Paki’s legacy.”
She covered her mouth in a mock yawn. “Well, now I know how you got here.”
He leaned closer. “What’s your opinion of seeing a man crying?”
“Are they capable? It seems to me that men lack emotion.”
For a quick second, Parke sensed that Cheney was about to open up to him, then she shut down again. The jigsaw puzzle was adding pieces. “Elaine wrote that Paki sobbed uncontrollably as he looked down at his firstborn son’s bright yellow face. He lifted the child to his god mumbling a native blessing, Dankie, kind aansoek doen—thank you, the child I hoped for. They named him Parker Kokumuo Jamieson and so it was for the first male born each generation thereafter. Paki cherished his wife and five sons until the day he died, so the Jamiesons keep the story about our heritage alive.”
Parke watched strands of Cheney’s hair that weren’t tucked in her boring ponytail dance with the wind against her flawless face. “Then, in 1867, a few years after slavery was abolished, Paki altered the name. He removed the last ‘r’ to symbolize the first child removed from a world of enslaving a fellow man. I guess that’s why I carry the reward notice. Elaine and Paki were always a step ahead of their racist and hateful society, so I must use my intellect to overcome today’s subtle discrimination ploys.”
Cheney rested her chin in the palm of her hand. “What a family legacy. You’re lucky. I’m surprised Paki and Elaine could trust each other in their environment, live so long under the dreadful codes of slavery, and not be separated.”
Reflective, Parke bit his bottom lip. “Yeah, I know. My mom’s side wasn’t so lucky. I could only trace it back to 1860, and that’s where my great-great-aunt Lettie was promised her freedom if she bore fifteen children.”
“Oh my God!”
“It gets worse. She was one of many young wenches advertised in Virginia as good breeding stock. For mere dollars, White men had a chance to impregnate Negro slave women. It added slaves and gave restless young White men something to do.”
With sad eyes, Cheney sighed. Parke reached over and touched her hand.
“I have seven great-great-uncles who are brothers with different last names. Their fathers were different overseers, masters, or clients. I located them on the 1880 census because they happened to be living in one place, all unmarried.”
“I’m glad I ate before story time. Whew, I’ve lost my appetite.”
“Sorry. My heritage is very important to me. I’m committed to choosing a beautiful wife who is not afraid to be strong like you. And who appreciates my ancestry.”
“Good luck. I’m not getting married.”
“Nonsense, you’ll meet someone special one day.”
Cheney gave a mock laugh. “Already did. I’m a recycled lover, won’t be used again.”
Parke watched her brows knit together and hurt flash across her face. “Life’s a journey with all kind of detours, but our ancestors will lead us.”
“Let me ask you a question. Why did you invite me to the Black Repertory Theatre? You could be using your time interviewing for Elaine’s position.”
“See, that’s an easy answer. You’re much more exciting than Tracey.”
“Who’s Tracey?”
“Someone I was going to take to the play.”
Grabbing her purse, Cheney stood. “You better keep looking. I’m not the one for you.”
Boy, don’t I know it, Parke thought.
Chapter Thirteen
One week later on a Friday night, Cheney tagged along with Mrs. Beacon. At least three hund
red couples, teenagers, and seniors had invaded the ritzy ballroom of the Chase Park Plaza for an annual dance event.
“Reverse,” the live disc jockey commanded. “Reverse, how low can you go? All the way to the floor,” the dreadlocks-wearing man taunted the guests.
Some cheered, others bit down on their tongues as they painstakingly followed instructions for the Cha-Cha Slide.
“Let me see you Charlie Brown,” the man hyped the crowd.
Cheney watched with amazement as a slightly overweight older Asian man to her right rocked back and forth. His lips puckered as he concentrated to stay in step with everyone else in the line. To his credit, he did a better job than Cheney. Glancing over her shoulder, Mrs. Beacon’s long silver ponytail anchored on top of her head, bounced as she moved with ease. Her neighbor’s gold glittery sweater sparkled every time a strobe light spotted her. Mrs. Beacon’s fitted faded jeans matched the denim two-inch heeled sandals.
“Pump it up now, y’all,” the deejay shouted.
Laughing, Cheney jumped to stay in step. She was enjoying herself. At first, she couldn’t believe she had let Mrs. Beacon talk her into an all-night dance-a-thon.
“It’s a yearly fundraiser for the Sickle Cell Foundation, Foster Kids of Greater St. Louis, and the Safe House for abused women and kids,” Mrs. Beacon pleaded.
Kids? Since her abortion, Cheney didn’t think twice about helping children. She’d do whatever she could to redeem herself. “But all night?” she had quizzed her neighbor. “How can you stay awake until six o’clock in the morning?”
“Geritol and a morning workout with Janet Jackson’s When I Think of You video.”
“All right, but please tell me I won’t have to suffer through the fox trot, waltzes, and big band sounds all night.”
Mrs. Beacon revealed a toothy grin as she pulled long hairpins out of her mass of curls. “Chile, please. We do a little moon walking, bumpin’ and the old folks have a contest to see who can do the Harlem Shake without fracturing a collarbone.”
