by Tiana Laveen
“Don’t flatter yourself. I’m talking about you being in here flippin’ and floppin’ in the bed all damn night like some mermaid out of water!”
“I’m a merman, thank you very much!” he snorted, pretending to pop his imaginary collar.
“You’re a hideous sea urchin is what you are. Now if you think you can’t find it and it’s inconsequential, then why is it bothering you? Why can’t you shake this loose if you think it’s a lost cause or a trivial matter?”
“I’m not really sure, baby.” His big shoulders drooped, giving him the appearance of a sad sack, and his eyes seemed to sag, too. “Because it’s like some mystery, I guess. I mean, it could be nothing,” He slapped his upper thighs, then rested his palms upon them. “The original drawings could be wrong but ever since I’ve seen them, this thing has just been worrying me. I just want to be sure.”
Tossing the sheets off her body, she exposed her oversized salmon shirt and old, bleach stained leggings, which she kept at his home for impromptu sleepovers. He hated them so. She hopped out of the bed and slid her bare feet into her flats.
“Come on,” she said, beckoning him with a hooked finger. “Time to do a bit of gardening…”
Two hours later…
A cloud of dust had settled at her feet. Her dark shoes with the little black band now appeared dusty gray, and her hair dredged in powdered sugar from 1982. Sloan sat across the room in a red and cream folding lawn chair, the one he’d been banished to while she did her work. After a few minutes of power plays and arguments, Emerald had made it abundantly clear she wanted him out of the way, insisting he was only making things more difficult with his smart ass remarks and being constantly underfoot.
She tested out various spots around the office, tapping and pressing on the walls, like some house doctor trying to find a viable heartbeat. He rolled his eyes as she went about her way, certain she’d only destroy his wall and create thousands of dollars in damages. But soon, that tune changed. He sat in that damn chair, in awe of her.
A rectangular hole, about three by four feet large, faced him, a bunch of dust from the debris wafting in the air in front of it. Dark red brick, partially crumbled, lay exposed beneath layers of wood and plaster. Emerald stood beside it, a large sledgehammer cocked over her shoulder as if she were some hired hand. The tiny woman had power; he was duly impressed and planned to tell her so after his shock wore off.
“It looks empty.” She broke into his thoughts with an exasperated sigh, her chest heaving up and down and her shirt was stained with sweat. “I don’t know what it originally was.”
“Me neither.” He sat up and squinted, peering at the empty space from his position.
“It’s too small to be a closet. There is no indication it was a window, either. Matter of fact, I’m sure it wasn’t considering there is the original brick on the other side. Over here, this is a different type altogether.” She pointed to the sides of the thing. “Maybe it was a cubby to display a trophy of some sort… I could imagine that.” He nodded in agreement. “Some homes have these little alcoves created to display fine art, statues, vases, things like that.”
He made his way over, his feet crushing and snapping the scattered junk and bits of wall on the floor. Standing by her side, he reached into the opening, his fingers grazing the rough brick, which was sure to slice his flesh open if he wasn’t careful. Jamming his head inside the enclosure, he looked about.
“Be careful,” Emerald whispered.
“Baby, hand me my phone please.” In a matter of seconds, Sloan felt the iPhone in his palm. Sliding his thumb across the bottom, he activated the flashlight. Slowly scanning the area, he noted nothing of interest. More broken bits of brick, clouds of disturbed dust particles dancing about like ghostly orbs, an old cobweb clinging to one side of the hole like a curtain, and an unmistakable, all too familiar icy chill.
“Well, at least you know it’s here now,” she offered, apparently noticing his disappointment as a frown spread across his face. He strained to see farther inside, his forehead almost hitting the back of the thing. “Be careful, Sloan!” she exclaimed. “It might not be secure.”
“I’m watchin’ out, honey,” he assured her.
His lower stomach hurt as he leaned forward for the jagged opening cut into his robe. In the far right lower corner lay a dark brown, weathered object, mostly shrouded by shadow and dust. Could it be a leather bound booklet that had seen better days? Or something else? It was hard to make out the shape. “Hmmm, what’s that?”
He reached for it, hoping it wasn’t a dead bat that hadn’t fully decayed. It was an old house after all; no telling what was sandwiched between some of those walls. Though he had a strong stomach, he’d prefer not to run across any flying rodents that had met their untimely demise. He groaned, stretching his arm out to reach for it but barely able to touch whatever lay less than three inches out of his reach.
“Shit.” He gritted his teeth in frustration, pushed up on his toes, and tried harder. The object’s bumpy surface grazed his fingertips, teasing him just so. With one more hard lunge, he grabbed hold of it and dragged it up into the light, cutting his wrist in the process. The sting of the broken flesh didn’t deter his excitement, which filled his veins as quickly as the blood left him. “I got it!”
“You’re bleeding.” Emerald dashed out of the room, while he tried to make heads or tails of what he held in his damn hands. Drops of blood from his hand fell into the ash and dirt.
This looks like one of those old leather envelopes, the kind that closes with a flap and ties with a string. He pulled out his desk chair and sat in it. Taking his time, he carefully slid his finger in the tight loop and gave it a gentle tug. The damn thing was so frayed, it fell apart, affording him immediate access to the contents.
“Here, put your arm up.” Before he could enjoy his treasure, Emerald had him give her his hand to clean with a hand towel dipped in a bowl of warm water, which she’d brought back with her. “Where are your peroxide and bandages?”
“In the upstairs hall bathroom.”
“You need some. I’ll be right back.” She turned to walk out.
“Wait a sec. I’ll get it. Sit down and let’s open this together.”
She looked at him for what felt like a long while, then came to a decision to pull the folding chair to the desk, and take a seat next to him. Leaning forward, she studied the leather envelope. Pushing the flap back, he exposed a stack of stiff, yellowed folded papers. He slid them out, one by one. He checked a few, finding the faded ink of the handwriting still legible.
“I wonder what these are.” He unfolded another one from the stack, and several aged, black and white photographs fell out.
“Oh my God…” Emerald leaned in closer and picked up one from the table. Peter Jones stared back at them. Taken in a massive room with a light colored fedora on his head, the picture showed him sitting in front of an enormous grand piano, and on top of the instrument sat an attractive, elegant Black woman in a 1950’s style dress, her legs crossed, dark-toned high heels on her feet, and a sultry look on her face. Emerald picked up another photo of the same woman, this time alone, sitting on a picnic style checkered blanket, an open wicker basket beside her and a sad smile on her face. “Sloan… I bet this was the woman he was in love with! Oh my goodness…”
On a swallow, he nodded in agreement and sorted the other photos, most of which were of this lovely woman. The one that struck him the most was one of her in an old fashioned nurse’s outfit and hat, and she was standing in what appeared to be a hospital. Some water damage had ruined a part of the photograph, but the other half looked to be in pristine condition.
“Do you want to read the letters?” He picked one up and handed it to her.
“No. I think you should read them, Sloan. Peter identifies with you; you wrote his story, so, I think he’d actually prefer you reading them.”
He hesitated for a fraction before taking the letter back from her.
> December 6, 1956
Dear Sadie,
You have refused to respond to me. You ignore my correspondence. My letters are coming back to me, return to sender. Don’t you realize how much I love you? Can’t you see I am doing everything in my power to rectify this situation? I am due to head out of the state on December 12th. I will not return until December 16th. It is imperative that we discuss the situation at hand. I have promised you much, but delivered little. I understand your disbelief and skepticism, but I beg of you, please allow me one additional opportunity to correct my wrongs.
With all of my love,
Peter
Sloan selected another letter and unfolded it, and then another and another. The intensity still tied to the words on the paper seemed to magnify with each communication he read aloud. In most of the letters he pleaded for her return, but one in particular was different…
April 3, 1957
To my Dearest Sadie and Joseph,
I attended your funeral last week. I’m now at the point where I have been able to sit down and write again. I’m not talking about my books or screenplays. Previously I attempted to write this letter to no avail. But, it must be done. The church was filled with beautiful flowers and people I didn’t know, people I should have known since they were individuals who loved you. Before the ceremony began, I placed a single white rose on your casket. I sent the money to ensure all expenses were covered. I had it mailed off to your sister, along with an additional sum of money for any other expenses she hadn’t foreseen. I didn’t sign my name to the register; I didn’t want any acknowledgement though I’m certain she figured it out on her own accord. My life no longer has meaning, Sadie. The day of your burial was the last day that I can recall being myself, and it was no longer just your funeral and our child’s, but mine, too. According to the hospital, you passed away at 2:37 P.M. It seems I can’t get that out of my mind. Perhaps because when we met after my car accident, the newspapers said I’d been admitted at 2:37 P.M., too…
I sat outside in the foyer of the church listening to the minister speak so kindly of you. He was the same minister that, from my understanding, almost refused to allow you to have your services at the church you attended regularly, all because you’d had a child out of wedlock. My child.
There was no shame in what you did and felt, or at least, there shouldn’t have been. The shame should have been placed on me, and me alone. Your mother, father, and sister sat in the front pew, and your sister saw me, but said nothing. I could not look her in the eye for very long. She looks too much like you, and I am deeply regretful. She knows our secret, and is keeping her word to you to not tell anyone about us, but I can see in her eyes that she hates me, and I cannot blame her. I am the cause of her losing her only sibling and newborn nephew.
Our son’s casket lies right beside your own, small and white, shiny with real gold trim. His tiny body exposed, covered in red roses, and some petals scattered about him. He looked so peaceful, embodying both of our characteristics. It’s rather fitting that I should use that word, for the word character is a big part of this. Character… I have none. How must you have felt once you realized you’d mistakenly fallen in love with an arrogant fool?
I spoke to my attorney the day of your passing and he advised me to not mention my relationship with you to friends or family. I left the hospital and was prepared to defy his suggestion, but he was waiting there along with my manager, declaring it would be pointless at this juncture. They crowded around me, pushed me into the car, and took me some place I’d never seen before. It was dark, and they were stern, forcing me to listen to them, not caring about my grief. They told me it would not only ruin my career – news of a deceased Negro woman I’d planned to marry and our child hitting the press would be disastrous for me, but it would also ruin those who were associated with me, as well. I didn’t wish for anyone else to endure more anguish. I believed I’d caused enough.
In my misery, however, I wasn’t fully coherent. I was swayed, but I know deep inside, they were correct, despite their selfish motivations. It would serve no purpose for me to tell the world of our relationship, our love affair, because you aren’t alive to reap the well-deserved benefits. You cannot legally have my last name in this country. You cannot receive my assets and all of the things a dutiful wife is entitled to.
This is why I wished to take you away to Europe. That is why, when I proposed to you and you accepted, I was making arrangements for your flight out of the country. But you grew tired of me, waiting indefinitely for me to do what was right. I must’ve broken your heart a thousand times, Sadie. I’m so sorry. When you discovered you were pregnant, I asked you to consider taking the engagement ring back and allowing us to try again. You agreed to it, but once again, I did not keep my promise. I placed the wedding band and engagement ring in my bedroom closet, hoping that despite it all, one day I’d be able to present it to you for yet a third time. But you no longer trusted me. My word was no good then…so what good would my words be now?
The way things were, and as they stand, it would be like watering dead flowers. It would help no one because I’m far too late. I took advantage of time, and time dealt me a hand I couldn’t play. As someone who demanded the ability to influence time, I’ve come to the realization that I have little to no control over the destiny of others. I cannot write an existence on paper and make it come to life. Believe me, I’ve tried. I am no magician, though I did try to play God. I now sit in my office after having reflected and mustered the strength to think about my actions, and deliberate over a fitting final decision. I’ve made my choice, and now, it is time. I refuse to speak to anyone anymore. I spoke through my books, the many movies and accolades, and now, I must render myself silent.
I do not want anyone attempting to influence me, or talk me out of my decision. I allowed the people closest me to do that my entire career, and it left me with nothing but loneliness, bitterness, self-hatred and unhappiness. I can blame no one but myself for this situation. However, had I not allowed this to happen, I would have never accepted to be talked out of being with you publicly in the first place. I have never loved anyone as I loved you. As I still love you. In those moments we had together, it was the most powerful and at the same time the weakest I’ve ever felt. I never planned to keep you a secret, Sadie.
Once I realized I was in love with you, I immediately told my manager, Frederick Jasling, who is also my best friend, that I’d fallen in love. I told him the details, and he knew who you were. Of course he did. He was the only person aware of the fact that you and I were living together under the guise of you being my caretaker after the car accident. He’d urged me to never tell a soul about this after I refused to stop seeing you. He’d even assured me that he believed you were a lovely person, but if I went against his advice, my career would never be the same. He stated we could continue as we were, living together, keeping our relationship secret. You no longer wanted that; nor did I – but only you had the strength and courage to break free. I did not.
I believe Frederick was simply trying to help me, but all it did was hurt us by giving me an easy way out.
I was too late, too prideful, too everything. It proved easier to give in to his suggestions than walk out with the truth, and face the music. Music… oh how I miss dancing with you, my dear. I play music as I sit here going through the final stage of my suicide. I shall play music as the days go by, until I can’t play it anymore – all of our favorite songs and the ones I believe you’d like. I wish to torture myself with your memories. I must face time, look existence in the eye. I must suffer, the way you suffered, the way our baby Joseph suffered, the way your heart broke at my lack of sympathy and understanding. Some will think I’ve gone mad, but I’ve never thought so clearly in all my life.
I kept you behind me, in the darkness, while I basked in the light, sacrificing you with little to no regard. I must feel immense pain, when all you did was heal and cure me. I must undergo a surgery that no doct
or can perform – it is of a spiritual kind.
I cannot have you here on Earth anymore, so I will have you in Heaven, but first, I must go to Hell to prove to God that I am truly repentant for my sins. I once loved this house, but now I hate it. Therefore, it shall be my tomb. It represents my lust for fame, not for love. I prefer the latter.
I will chase you until you forgive me, Sadie. I will burn until you forgive me. I will suffer until you forgive me. If you grant me your forgiveness, and I get to kiss you in the afterlife, I shall find a way to give you another white rose, and we will get married, just as we’d planned. In the interim, please tell our son that I’m sorry. There’s no doubt he is with you. I’m not certain he heard me as I held his small body up to my chest in the hospital. He kept warm for so long after passing, and I imagined him soon breathing again, but he never did. You died without me. You faced it alone with only your sister by your side. I was in California, signing autographs, while the love of my life took her last breath.
You both died during childbirth, so I must die as well, in my own way. How can I ever forgive myself for this? No, our child did not die by my own hands, but indirectly, I might as well have plunged a knife into his heart. Had I married you when I was supposed to, you would have received better health care. Had I been by your side, the doctors and nurses would not have treated you like some woman of ill repute. They would have respected my wishes and done everything in their power to ensure you pulled through. But all they saw was a poor, pregnant Black woman, unwed and giving birth. You meant nothing to them, despite being a nurse yourself.
I’m not certain of anything anymore, Sadie, except for the fact that I love you so very much, and my actions must match the words. When we come into the world, we rely on our parents to take care of us, to nurture and nourish us. While a baby lies inside the womb, a mother feeds it from her very own sustenance. You were a mother because of me, and I must now become a child and start over. I will no longer receive nourishment, Sadie. I’m cut off. You were forsaken, so I must become forsaken by my own hands. A motherless child, begging for Satan to let me go, and for God to let me be with my family in the afterlife.
