THE
SCOURGE
A Novel
R. TILDEN SMITH
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 R. TILDEN SMITH
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
Cover Design by R. Tilden Smith
Original Draft and Digital Proof Editor: Teresa Smith
Paperback Proof Editors: Frank Warmsley and Malika Bristol
Email via: [email protected]
Follow on Twitter via: @rtildensmith
ISBN-10: 1544171331
ISBN-13: 978-1544171333
DEDICATION
This work is dedicated to my daughter Lauren, a supremely gifted writer, whose wonderfully crafted English class assignments and college application essays inspired and challenged me to pick up a pen and endeavor to write. My hope is that this work will encourage her to do the same.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I want to acknowledge the extraordinary work of Malika Bristol, Teresa Smith, and Frank Warmsley. Combing through the text looking for all my stupid mistakes is a herculean and thankless task, for which I did not offer nearly enough compensation. Thank you!
1
“Where to Miss?” the taxi driver asked.
“Fifteen hundred Hermann Park Place, please,” Moji answered, her voice barely a whisper above the sound of the rain drumming on the roof of the car.
“Ok Miss.”
She rubbed her temples and exhaled slowly. I will not have an episode, she thought, not after all this time. Not after all I’ve been through. Lord, please let this feeling pass.
Her prayer went unanswered.
It's your fault he doesn't love you! The voice ripped through her mind like a bird of prey, its talons slicing at the thin veil between her subconscious and her sanity. She huddled in the backseat of the taxi, trying her best to stay clear of the driver’s curious gaze.
The driver coaxed the taxi slowly down the maze of flooded streets that crisscrossed the neighborhood, their twists and turns designed purposefully to discourage the curious, but creating the unintentional side effect of trapping the runoff from miles of connected driveways. Moji peeked over the driver's shoulder at the display of the GPS receiver affixed to the dashboard. It blinked with angry reds and yellows, indicating the late afternoon deluge had denied the driver the most direct route to their destination.
“Many of the streets are flooded Miss,” the driver said, “I will have to take a much longer route. You will have to pay a little more. Is that ok?”
“Yes, that’s fine,” Moji said, keeping her head low so as to avoid the driver’s eyes as they darted back and forth, searching for her in the rear view mirror.
“Very good Miss, l’ll have you home soon.”
Yes, please get me home. I’ll be safe there. The pounding rain thrummed the metal roof of the taxi, producing an audible hum that was loud, but no match for the cacophony of voices in her head. Fight the urge to retreat, her therapist used to say, focus on the present, not the past. Easy for her to say, she doesn't have to contend with a trifling man. She closed her eyes and laid her head between the headrest and the rear passenger side window. The rain and the swish-swish of the windshield wipers lulled her into a fitful sleep, unlocking her tenuous hold on her subconscious.
Lara! Lara, where are you? Where is my beautiful Lara? her father’s voice called to her. She longed to see him, to feel his scruffy five o'clock shadow against her face when he swept her up into his arms and hugged her tight to his chest. Her bedroom was mostly dark, the light from the streetlamp outside beaten to a sparse glow by the yellowed shade and tattered curtains standing guard at her second story window. She crouched at the far side of her bed, the tag on the back of her onesie pajamas tickling her neck.
Daddy! Daddy! she said. Come and find me!
Lara, is that you? the voice of her father asked. Where is my beautiful Lara? I do very much want to see you!
Her bedroom door creaked open and her father's shadow spilled in through the crack.
Daddy! she said, the timbre in her voice betraying her excitement.
Ah, yes! There you are! Moji heard her father say. My beautiful little girl!
LEAVE HIM ALONE! a child’s voice shrieked from a vantage point directly behind Moji’s ear. The voice was so close that she felt hot breath on the back of her neck.
Moji awoke with a start and sat straight up in the taxi’s backseat, gulping air from a stifled scream.
“Miss! Miss! Are you ok?” the driver asked. He slowed and then brought the taxi to a stop in the middle of a narrow two way street. He placed the car’s gearshift in park then turned to stare at Moji, pressing his nose against the thick plexiglass that separated them.
“I-I-I’m sorry,” Moji said. She struggled to control her panic, inhaling deeply to calm her labored breathing and to slow her racing heart. She touched her face, it was wet with tears. “I’ll be fine,” she mumbled to the driver as she hid her face in her bag, searching frantically for a tissue, “I just had a bad dream, please keep driving.”
The rain continued to come down in torrential sheets, blanketing the taxi's windows with a distorting film. The driver didn’t move, he just stared at Moji for several seconds while the howling wind and rain gently rocked the car from side to side.
“No more sleep!” he said, his eyes protruding so far out of their sockets that Moji feared they would escape from his skull.
“Yes yes, of course,” she said, “I didn’t mean to frighten or startle you. I was just—”
The driver did not wait to hear her excuse. He turned his back to her, eased the taxi into gear, and continued his slow careful trek down the rain soaked roadway.
Oh Lara, Moji thought as she closed her eyes and lay her head back on the seat, you are such a little bitch.
Lara was the nickname her father gave her when she was a child. Her full name was Mojisola Omolara Douglas. Omolara was the name given to her by her paternal grandmother. Her father often called her “Lara” in honor of her grandmother’s memory. Growing up, she loved to hear her father call for her when he came home from work. When she would hear him fumbling with his keys outside of their apartment door, she would run and hide in her bedroom. Her father would finally find the right key on his keychain, open the door, and call out in a gravelly Nigerian accent, “Where is my precious Lara? I come home from a long day of work and my precious Lara is not here to greet me?” Moji would rush out of her room, jump down the stairs, and leap from the third to last stair into her father’s arms happily squealing, “Here I am daddy!” He would catch her, spin her around, give her a big kiss on the cheek, and pronounce, “Yes, there you are! The most beautiful girl in all the Commonwealth!” Moji adored her father and never tired of that special moment they shared every day. Moji flinched when the inner voice—the child’s voice—echoed in her mind, but you killed him with your stupid love. Moji winced at the memory and held her breath, expecting an onslaught of emotional torment from her alter ego. But to her relief, the inner voice went silent.
Thank you Jesus, Moji thought, letting the air leave her lungs in a quick nasally rush. She was careful to avoid thinking too much about her childhood. Her therapist didn’t think Moji’s fragile psyche could survive the constant reminders of such a traumatic past and encouraged her to eliminate those tangible memories from her life. With the promise of a life free from the pain and guilt surrounding her father’s death, Moji gladly complied. No family pictures were display
ed on the walls of her home; she wore no family heirlooms or possessed any childhood mementos. Taking her therapist's’ advice one step further, she decided to put as much distance between herself and her old life as she could. At seventeen years old, fresh out of high school, and against her mother’s wishes, she accepted a full scholarship to Rice University, endured the twenty five hundred mile bus ride from her hometown of Boston, Massachusetts to Houston, Texas, and never looked back.
But we never really escape our past, she thought. It follows us, scratching at the edges of our consciousness, looking for a way in, looking for a way to be rekindled. Moji sighed and shook her head quickly from side to side, trying to fling the dark thoughts from her mind. No need to dwell in the depressing thoughts of the past, she told herself, you have enough of them in the present to keep you busy.
True to his word, the driver had gotten her home quicker than she thought would be possible given the havoc the flooded streets played on his intended route. Even through the window’s distorted view, Moji recognized the stately oak trees that lined the street separating the condominium tower where she lived from the four hundred acre public park that made her address one of the most coveted in the city. The park contained running, walking and bike trails, an outdoor theater, a golf course, several picnic areas, and even a zoo. As the park also bordered Rice University and Houston’s world renowned Medical Center, Hermann Park Place, or “The Tower” as the locals chose to refer to it, attracted some of the area’s most prestigious doctors and academics. Although her tenth floor unit was a small one bedroom and didn’t have any park views, she felt blessed to be able to afford to live in such a fabulous place. It was her sanctuary.
Her face soured. And unless I figure something out soon, I’m going to lose it too.
The driver guided the taxi slowly through the floodwaters partially covering the street and turned onto the huge semicircular driveway that denoted the building’s main entrance. The driver stopped in front of the main lobby doors, underneath the large ornate porte-cochère that ran the entire length of the building and provided cover for the middle third of the driveway.
“Here we are Miss,” the driver announced, “please use the credit card machine to pay your fare.”
Moji did as she was instructed, noting with a little irritation that the display reported a gratuity had already been applied to her fare. On any other day she would have challenged the driver's assertion that he could take such liberties with her, but today was not one of those days. As she stepped from the backseat of the taxi, a gust of wind blew through the canopy, producing a melancholy howl that matched her mood.
“Good afternoon Miss Douglas,” said Thomas, the building’s meddlesome doorman and concierge.
“Hello Thomas,” Moji replied, careful to keep her tear reddened eyes hidden from Thomas’ questioning stare. I don’t need him putting my business on the building gossip grapevine, she thought. She stepped quickly through one of the large glass doors Thomas held open for her and entered the lobby.
Roger Sims, the day shift security guard, glanced up from his desk. He stood up to greet her as she approached.
“Welcome back, Miss Douglas,” he said, his smile revealing creases on his face that made him look more distinguished than elderly. “Did the rain put the kibosh on your pool party?”
“Something like that,” Moji said, her face conveying a complex mix of anger, fear, and sadness.
“Is everything alright Miss Douglas?” Roger asked, “You don’t look well.”
“Oh, everything’s fine,” Moji said, sure her reddened eyes and hurried demeanor gave him cause to doubt her obvious lie. She forced her best fake smile. “My sinuses are acting up and this rain and humidity are not making it any better.”
“Do you need anything? I can send Thomas to pick you up something from the drugstore.”
“No no, I’ll be fine. I have everything I need in my apartment.”
“Well, you get some rest young lady. It hurts my heart to see the most beautiful woman in this building not looking and feeling her best.”
His kind words soothed Moji's anxiety so thoroughly that her fake smile morphed into a more genuine one. It was only decorum that stopped her from rushing over to plant a kiss of gratitude on the crown of his shiny bald head.
“Thank you, Mr. Sims. I’m going to whip me up some hot green tea with honey and lemon juice and then head straight to bed.”
“That sounds good,” Roger said as he collapsed back into his squeaky office chair. “Take my advice and add a jigger or two of Crown. It never fails to fix whatever’s ailing me.”
Moji’s smile broadened at the suggestion and she gave Mr. Sims a quick affirmative nod as she boarded a waiting elevator. They don’t make men like that anymore, she thought. Kind, considerate, respectful, and wise. If he wasn’t twice my age, I’d be batting my big brown eyes at him instead of the losers that seem to flock to me like flies to poop.
She sighed and pressed the button for the tenth floor. The doors closed with a soft thud, and for the first time since the events at the pool party, Moji felt absolutely alone. As the elevator began its ascent, she took stock of the reflection staring back at her from the highly polished doors. This has been the worst day of my entire life, she thought. Me and my dog will probably be evicted from my home and now the man I love has evicted me from his life.
Moji felt as if she was losing everything she held dear. The reflection staring back at her looked worn, beat down, and—if she allowed herself some room for truth—more than a little depressed.
“You are a pitiful hot mess,” she chided her reflection. “You should be ashamed of yourself! You allowed the childish behavior of ignorant people to reduce you to a confused emotional little girl. You’re better than that!”
She stepped closer to the doors and confronted the angry image staring back at her.
“Look at you! You’re a beautiful, successful, professional woman and you run home, tail between your legs, just because a man you loved, and who you thought loved you, decided that you're not worthy of respect. You are worthy! You hear me Moji! You are done compromising your ideals for the sake of companionship!”
Moji fell back against the wall of the elevator, exhausted. Fresh tears began to well up in her eyes as the elevator came to a stop. She pulled another tissue from her bag and quickly dabbed her eyes dry, lest one of the other residents see her in this state. The doors slid open and Moji was relieved to find no one was waiting to board. She hurried down the carpeted hallway, keeping her footfalls as quiet as possible so as to not attract the attention of some of her more nosy neighbors. She reached her apartment door and as quietly as she could, inserted her key into the old fashioned copper knob. Before she could turn the key and let herself in, she heard a soft whimper escape from the other side of the door.
“Hey baby!” Moji said, “Mommy’s home!” She turned the knob and gently pushed the door open, knowing that the source of the noise would be in close proximity, eager to greet her. “Hi Tyson!” she said, quickly entering the apartment then closing the door behind her.
Tyson, an eighty-six pound, jet black male pit bull terrier, wagged his tail excitedly and spun his body to receive his anticipated back scratching.
”Oh, I know what you want,” Moji said. She used both hands to scratch Tyson’s back, starting behind his floppy ears and continuing to the base of his tail. Ecstatic to have his master’s attention and eager for more, Tyson flattened his ears against his head, sat down, and slapped his tail rhythmically against the wood floor. Suddenly, he fell to the floor, turned over on his back, and spread his hind and forelegs wide.
“Oh, silly boy!” Moji said, responding to Tyson’s maneuver by vigorously scratching his belly. Tyson always makes me feel better, she thought as she grabbed her cell phone out of her bag then tossed the bag and her tunic on the couch. “Alright, play time’s over. Mommy’s got to wash this chlorine off her body before she can’t pass for black.” Despite
her mood, she managed to chuckle at her own joke as she headed to the bathroom with Tyson following close behind. She stripped off her bathing suit and threw it in the hamper. As she turned to close the bathroom door, she caught a glimpse of her naked body in the vanity mirror. Moji quickly averted her gaze and slumped on the deck of the large jacuzzi tub.
You’re old and ugly and no one is ever going to love you, her small inner voice reminded her. She squeezed her eyes shut and held her breath, pushing the thoughts of that scared little girl back into the well of her subconscious. No Lara, you’re wrong and I will not let your lack of self-esteem affect mine, she thought.
But it’s too late for that ain’t it, the little girl in Moji’s head said, collapsing Moji’s carefully built wall of self-confidence.
She exhaled and then inhaled deeply, calming herself using a technique she had honed since childhood. The voice finally retreated and Moji felt safe again. I am not listening to you anymore Lara, I am a grown woman now. She opened her eyes. Tyson had gotten comfortable in one corner of the bathroom in what Moji called the “Superman” position—lying down with hind legs outstretched and his head on the floor between his forelegs—like he was flying.
“Tyson, I could’ve used a super dog today,” she said in the direction of her most faithful companion. At the sound of his name Tyson wagged his tail but otherwise remained motionless. Moji turned on the bath water and added her favorite bubble bath. The tub filled slowly with hot, steamy water, converting the soap into a quickly growing mountain of suds. Satisfied with the amount of lather that was rapidly covering the water’s surface, Moji placed her phone on the bathtub deck and stepped into the bath. Tyson wagged his tail a few times in response to her movement and then went still, watching her intensely as she slid into the frothy, lavender scented water. She breathed deep, dipping low enough in the tub that the hot water flowed over her shoulders and the bubbles tickled her chin. She closed her eyes and let the water’s heat and lavender scent soak in, washing her body free of the acrid stench of chlorine and cleansing her mind of the emotional trauma of the morning’s events. After a few minutes of peaceful silence, she picked up her phone and pressed “2” on the speed dial menu. A high school picture of a seventeen year old Moji hugging her best friend and confidant, Crystal LaMont, smiled at her from the phone’s display.
The Scourge Page 1
