Forgive Me

by Stacy Campbell

  “No, she wouldn’t. I’m the devil, remember?”

  They both laughed as Aunjanue found a parking spot at Serenity.

  “I’ll tell her you said hello, Henry.” She said goodbye to him and entered hospice. The nursing attendant gave her Ms. Mag’s room number, and her heart sank as she entered the room. A middle-aged woman seated next to Ms. Mag knitted an afghan as she hummed along with Lou Rawls on the radio, singing “You’ll Never Find.” Aunjanue cleared her throat, and the woman looked up from her project.

  “May I help you, Ms.?”

  “I’m here to visit Ms. Mag. I’m Aunjanue Gipson, and I brought her a quilt and some fruit.”

  The woman lifted her glasses to peer at Aunjanue. “You’re the one she calls Felicia, aren’t you?” The woman stood to shake her hand as Aunjanue confirmed her question with a yes. “I’m Mag’s daughter, Hattie. It’s so nice to meet you. Have a seat, young lady.”

  Aunjanue pulled up a seat and placed it at the foot of Ms. Mag’s bed. She’d lost a significant amount of weight, and her face had sunken in. Her skin, usually glowing, dulled underneath the light in the room. Rapid breaths made the blanket covering her body rise and fall.

  “What’s wrong with Ms. Mag?”

  “She’s on the countdown now. The doctors gave her three weeks. We’ll be lucky if Momma makes it to the end of the month.” Hattie leaned forward and readjusted her mother’s blanket. “She’s tired and doesn’t want to be here anymore.”

  “I’m sorry to hear the news. I loved visiting her.”

  “I believe you kept her alive all this time.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Momma went downhill after Felicia, our baby sister, died.”

  “Felicia is dead?”

  “Yes. Passed on in 1978.”

  “All this time I thought she was alive.”

  “If you listen to Momma long enough, you’ll think she is. Truth is, I don’t think momma ever accepted Felicia’s death.” Hattie completed her row of handiwork. “Pass me my purse, dear.”

  She gave Hattie the purse and watched her dig a wallet from the bag. She leafed through photos, pulling several from the clear wallet sleeves. “Come closer so you can see my little sister.”

  Aunjanue moved closer to Hattie. She was careful with the photos, as some were fading, and others were crumpled around the edges. As she looked at the alluring young woman standing outside a dance studio in a body suit, ballerina flats, and her hair pulled together in a decorative bun, she understood how Ms. Mag might have mistaken her for Felicia. Felicia’s shapely figure appealed to the men standing in the photo’s background; they eyed her with hunger and lust. She seemed oblivious to their desires as she waved to the camera.

  “Where is she standing?”

  “She was outside a dance studio in Detroit. She danced most of her life and wanted to attend Juilliard. Things were fine until her body began to develop. She was a little too thick to do traditional ballet, but I wanted to see her with the Alvin Ailey Troupe. She was a fox, Aunjanue. You couldn’t tell her she wasn’t Thelma from Good Times.”

  “Who is Thelma, and what is Good Times?”

  “How old are you, Aunjanue?”

  “Seventeen. I’ll be eighteen soon, though.”

  “Good Times was a sitcom from the seventies. I bet you can find it on TV Land or TBS.” As Aunjanue passed the photos back, Hattie eyed her baby sister. “Now that I’m looking at you, you and Felicia could have been sisters. She was the family flower child—always seeking fun and new adventures.”

  “If you don’t mind me asking, what happened to her?”

  Hattie sighed. Recounting Felicia stories made her nauseous because everyone in the family felt they should have done more to save her. “One day, Felicia just up and told Momma she was moving to New York. Momma fought her every step of the way, but she gave in after Felicia told her she was moving in with Daddy’s sister, Aunt Rachel. Next thing we knew, Felicia said she was marrying a fellow dancer named Henry Brooks. Momma didn’t like Henry from the moment she met him. He stepped in our house for Sunday dinner like he owned the place, criticizing Momma’s cooking, our house, and everything about us. Felicia sat there like a little wounded bird—not a chirp in our defense.

  “They snuck off and got married, and Henry moved her to L.A. Early one Sunday morning, we got a call from Henry saying Felicia couldn’t breathe. He said she fell asleep and didn’t wake up; the police said Henry killed her after they went out dancing the night before. Henry finally said it was an accident, but Felicia didn’t strangle herself. Momma gave up living after that night. She said she aged twenty years after Felicia’s funeral.”

  “She always lit up when I came by to do drawings of her. I understand why now.”

  “I came down from Detroit to take Momma home. I didn’t know she was this sick until I got here.”

  Felicia’s death made her think of S’n’c’r’ty. Another sister gone at the hands of someone else. “I won’t disturb you any longer. I wanted to give her these gifts and go home. I’m watching my little brother tonight.” She set the items atop a dresser in the room. “May I hug her before I leave?” she asked Hattie.

  “You may.”

  She hugged Ms. Mag and whispered in her ear, “I love you, Ms. Mag. Safe travels on your journey.”

  Ms. Mag cracked an eye and in a faint, whispery voice asked, “Felicia, what you doing here? Shut Lou Rawls off. I been through with him since he married that white woman. Play that boy with the Bible names.”

  Curious, Hattie mouthed, “Who’s she talking about?”

  Aunjanue remembered Mag’s love for WTLC 106.7. They listened to the station during visits and drawing sessions. She laughed and answered, “Luke James. She loves his song ‘I Want You.’ ” She switched the station for Hattie as Ms. Mag went back to sleep. Aunjanue squeezed Mag once more and headed for the door.

  “Honey, before I forget, I have something for you.” Hattie opened a closet door and retrieved a locked box. “Momma wanted you to have this. She said, ‘If Felicia comes back, give this to her.’ ”

  “We can’t take anything from the residents.”

  “She’s not a resident; she’s a friend. I loved the drawings you did of her, and so did she. I don’t know what’s inside, but let me get the key from my purse.”

  Aunjanue waited for Hattie to give her the key. She held the box and hesitantly walked away. She stopped again. “Ms. Hattie, what happened to Henry?”

  “He didn’t go to jail, and we have no idea. Somebody said he moved to Canada. Ever since Felicia’s death, Momma swore she had this sixth sense about men who didn’t mean women any good.”

  “Ms. Mag is something else. I’ll come back and check up on her before Christmas.”

  “You can try, but I can’t guarantee she’ll be here.” She gave Aunjanue a warm hug and the key.

  “It was nice meeting you, Ms. Hattie.”

  Aunjanue left the room, box in hand, and headed to her car. Her phone vibrated and she answered when Lake’s name appeared. “Are you on your way home?”

  “Yes, Uncle Lake. I’ll be there soon.”

  “Don’t speed, but get here fast. Your Auntie ’Sheer is missing!”

  Chapter 26

  Tawatha, still upset after the showdown with Royce, took advantage of Shandy’s gift certificate. She sat in the car outside Dixon’s Hair Affair talking to herself and looking in the mirror. “The nerve of Royce, accusing me of being a stalker. If he had family and friends who didn’t speak to him, he’d want to be in touch with them,” Tawatha said to herself. She touched up her makeup.

  She kept a stack of “treasures” in her glove compartment, which were mostly Googled items to keep her in touch, or at least at a lawful distance, between herself and family members. Royce stepped up his game to “protect” her; he had placed the Indiana stalking statutes in with her treasures. At the bottom of the print-out, he wrote the words in all caps: RECIDIVISM. LOSS OF FREEDOM. NOT
A GOOD LOOK. Tawatha perused the paper again, reading the lines he’d highlighted in neon orange. She read the words aloud: “Indiana Code 35-45-10-1. As used in this chapter, ‘stalk’ means a knowing or an intentional course of conduct involving repeated or continuing harassment of another person that would cause a reasonable person to feel terrorized, frightened, intimidated, or threatened.”

  “There you go! When have I terrorized, frightened, intimidated or threatened Sheer, Onnie, Momma, or anyone else? Since when did sitting in someone’s yard constitute stalking?” she asked herself in the mirror.

  A young man tapped lightly on her window, terrifying her. He held a tray of items in one hand as he leaned in with concern. She let her window down.

  “You okay, Miss? I saw you talking to yourself and I wanted to see if everything was all right.”

  “I’m not talking to myself. I had my phone on speaker talking to my dad.”

  She held up her phone and sucked her teeth.

  “Oh. I didn’t see your phone.” He rubbed his goatee, shifted his tray of items to the left, and presented them to her. “I got incense, DVDs, and CDs. I do purses on Fridays and Saturdays, but this is Thanksgiving week, so I’ll get back on my purse grind next weekend. Whatchu need?”

  He’s cute in a roughneck kinda way. “I’m good. Thank you.”

  She stepped out of the car and headed toward the salon.

  “You are good and fine!” said the young man, and slapped his free thigh as he watched Tawatha switch her massive hips. He ran behind her. “Let me give you my card so you can call me if you need something, Ma.”

  She looked at his card, blushing at his advances. She read his name and responded, “Waylon, I’ll call you if I need anything.”

  “I gotchu! Whatever you need, I gotchu!” he said and licked his lips.

  She entered the salon, taken aback by the elegant surroundings. The last time she was in this location was the night she revealed herself to her lover’s wife. She crashed the window with a brick, walked into the opening, and interrupted their candlelit dinner. She assumed the building had just been christened that night, because it was still under construction and contained unopened boxes of products, equipment with tags, and wine bottles plastered with James and his wife’s photos. Time brings about change.

  A receptionist approached her. “Do you have an appointment?”

  “Yes, I’m a guest of Shandy Fulton. I made an appointment a few days ago.” She fished in her purse for the certificate. “My name is—”

  “Dana, right? She’s said you’d be in today and to take extra special care of you. Follow me.”

  Tawatha read the young lady’s nametag and said, “Sure thing, Gala.”

  She followed Gala to an area beyond the impeccably decorated reception area.

  “May I take your coat?”

  She gave Gala her coat and waited for her to hang it up. A few women looked up from their services at her outfit and gave her a sour look. “Humph,” said one, and glued her eyes to In Style magazine.

  In an attempt to please her onlookers, she slowed her gait, putting extra emphasis in her stride. Take that, tricks. Millie had unwittingly upgraded her look from trashy to elegant, and she liked it. The red cashmere body dress went just past her knees. This dress would have been Amish garb in her old days, but she loved how it made her feel like a woman. A silver buckle gathered the dress on the side, leaving enough room to highlight her curves.

  A fan in the pre-relaxer process called out, “Girl, you are wearing that dress! The whole outfit suits you.”

  The other ladies gave the fan fiery eyes, daring her to say anything else.

  “What? She does look good!”

  She addressed her admirer. “Thank you for the compliment. I wish more women were kinder to each other,” said Tawatha, speaking to the young woman but eyeing the other women.

  They dropped their heads and went back to their activities, some gossiping, others reading.

  Unaware of the commotion, her stylist of the day, Penny, approached her with an outstretched hand. “You must be Dana. How are you? I’m Penny. My chair is over there. The blue one. Have a seat.”

  She sat in Penny’s chair. She’d pulled her hair back in a ponytail. Her hair grew longer in prison and extended to the middle of her back thanks to Faithia’s braiding skills. Today, she wanted a new look. Millie’s clothes were a great start. The hair had to follow. Penny came toward her, smock in hand, and wrapped it around her.

  “It’s always great meeting new clients. I’d like to tell you a little about myself.”

  She nodded, giving Penny the green light to continue.

  “I’m Penny Murphy, and I’ve been with Dixon’s two years. I do it all: natural, relaxed, the Devachan, braids, blowouts, and even warm presses if that’s your thing. You name it, I do it. I am punctual, so if you continue with me, know that I give clients a fifteen-minute grace period. If you know you’ll be late, call me within an hour of your appointment. If you can’t make it at all, please cancel within a twenty-four-hour period. Time is precious, so I don’t believe in wasting mine or yours. Is that a deal between you and me?”

  “Yes.” Pleased with Penny’s matter-of-fact nature, she asked, “How long have you been doing hair?”

  “I’ve been making magic professionally about ten years now. I started at my dad’s feet in his barbershop, and I did unofficial hairdos in high school. I moved to Durham, North Carolina, after high school to attend Dudley, then came back home. The South is beautiful, but the Midwest is my home. I went from shop to shop and made my way to Dixon’s about two years after I kept seeing the TV commercials and hearing the radio ads.”

  “What’s so special about Dixon’s?”

  “Dixon’s is a five-star enterprise. Professional service, continuing education, plus, the owner, James, believes in giving us all a stake at personal growth and development. My booth rental isn’t too crazy, and he encourages us to branch out on our own and have our own shops. I’m putting together a business plan right now. I hope to go out on my own in about five years.”

  She blushed at the mention of James’s name. “He sounds like a great owner. Does he do hair here?”

  “He’s out of town handling business right now. As a matter of fact, I’ve been meaning to ask Shandy when he’ll return.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad. I’d like to meet him some time.”

  “Well, if you remain in my chair, I’m sure your paths will cross. So, tell me about yourself, Dana.”

  She had rehearsed her new spiel in the mirror along with other personal conversations. “I’m Dana Marin, and I just moved back to Indy after living in Texas five years. I have a seventeen-year-old-daughter, and I’m living with my uncle until I get back on my feet.”

  Penny eyed Tawatha. “You do not look old enough to have a seventeen-year-old daughter!”

  “Thanks, Penny.”

  “Shandy mentioned you might be renting her old place. How are negotiations going?”

  “My boyfriend thinks it might be too much room for both of us, but we’re still trying to decide.”

  “If the two of you entertain, it’s a fabulous house for parties. I attended a few parties James and Shandy threw, and I had a ball!”

  “Oh, I didn’t know Shandy and James were married.”

  “They’re not. They dated for a few years and broke up recently.”

  “Sound like an ideal couple. I hope they get back together.”

  Steering the conversation back to business, Penny asked, “What look do you want to achieve, Dana?”

  “I’d like a nice shoulder-length cut. Something eye-catching and sexy. Maybe something asymmetrical with highlights or tonal color. Nothing crazy, though.”

  Penny swiveled her around in the chair. “I think a mild blonde or auburn would bring out your beautiful skin tone.” She rotated the chair a quarter turn and ran her fingers through Tawatha’s hair. “Are you a fan of Keri Hilson?”

  “Ms. Keri,
baby? I sure am.”

  “We can go in that direction if you’d like. I think you’d be gorgeous, and the look would accentuate your eyes, nose, and full lips.”

  “You think so?”

  “Absolutely. The question is, do you really want to cut all this hair?”

  “Yes. I’m changing my life in all aspects.”

  “I like the sound of that, Dana! I think we’ll get along fine. It’s hard servicing clients who are afraid of change. I’ll start with your relaxer. We use all Dixon products here, so I hope you’re okay with the product line.”

  “I’m open to new things. Please, don’t burn all my hair out.”

  They laughed as Tawatha held her head back, allowing Penny to section her hair in four parts. If James had four locations, his own product line, and was away “on business,” that meant he was doing very well. It also meant he could take care of her, Aunjanue, and Jamesia in their own place. It would take some time to learn hair care lingo and get acquainted with what he did, but she was up for the challenge. She’d make sure this time they stayed together and flourished as a couple.

  “Penny, can you answer the phone?” asked another stylist.

  Penny grabbed the nearest phone, continuing Tawatha’s service. “James, how are you?”

  Tawatha craned her neck to listen to the conversation.

  “The shears arrived yesterday. We haven’t had a chance to complete inventory, but we’ll be unpacking everything before next Tuesday. How’s everything in Georgia?”

  So, he’s in Georgia.

  “How’s your family?”

  He’ll be back home to me soon. He’s just hanging out with my future in-laws.

  “I know you’ve got a lot on your plate, but you have been doing a wonderful job with the Facebook updates. I love the photos of the Georgia clients. The hairstyles are nice. I’m glad you whipped out your clippers and shears again.”

  I didn’t know he had a Facebook page. I’ll definitely get the goods on that before I leave.

  “I’m doing a new client now, so I’ll talk to you a little later.”

  “Did we talk him up or what!” said Tawatha.