Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 74450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
Moments later, they were gathered in an attractive living room decorated with African style art and curio cabinets displaying Afrocentric trinkets, dolls, and the like. On the walls hung framed photographs of Black Panthers activists from the 1960s and Black performers such as Lena Horne, as well as artistic oil renderings of African men and women tending to their daily lives. The lit fireplace spread warmth around the space.
“I was excited when you told me about the project you were workin’ on, so I went on down to the basement and took the liberty of checkin’ for my aunt’s old school stuff for you to look at.” There, on the floor beside her, sat a big green plastic tub full of papers and whatnot.
“Well, thank you. I appreciate that.”
She nodded and clasped her hands, a stiff smile on her face, her back rigid as a pole. It was clear she was gauging him, trying to decide if she could trust him with any information.
“Uncle Clifford said y’all had a good talk.”
“Yes, we did. He’s got a great personality. I can see why Mrs. Florence chose him as a life partner.”
She nodded. “Uncle Clifford is a good man. Not perfect, but none of us are. You might wonder why I’m not takin’ care of him, right?”
“Actually, no. It didn’t cross my mind. There are plenty of reasonable explanations as to why a loved one with serious health issues isn’t suitable for livin’ at home, at least not without professional care.”
Wrapping her hands around her knee, she swung her bare foot, looking a bit jumpy. Meanwhile, Phelps had disappeared into the adjoining room that was full of plants—these ones alive and thriving. He was focused on the television, watching a football game.
“It ain’t ’cause I didn’t want to.” She wants to explain herself and paint herself in a good light. She’s struggling with guilt. Maybe because it seems rather opportunistic to have moved into this big old pretty house and kick him to the curb. “He preferred it. Said he was havin’ nightmares ’bout her in here. Didn’t want to stay in this house no more.”
Caspian leaned back, intrigued. Interesting. Mr. Florence made no mention of such a thing…
He grabbed his phone and launched his recording app. “Do you… do you think she was actually visiting him in his dreams?”
Monica’s complexion deepened, then she looked away.
“Let me check on dinner. I’ll be right back. You can look through the box if you want.” She bent to pick it up but he jumped to his feet.
“Don’t you dare trouble yourself. I can get it.”
She offered a watery grin, tinged with a hint of concern, and disappeared out of the room. His hands now bore the weight of a heavy, dusty green box full of dog-eared papers, cards, and books. A musty odor wafted in the air as he carried it, and he hoped the contents hadn’t sustained any water damage or mold that would make his job difficult.
Sitting back in his chair, he dug around in the container, just like he’d done with Aunt Angel’s box Noah had given him. The same anticipation, mixed with trepidation, gripped him, leaving an upsurge of warmth and pleasure that stuck to him like honey and tar. The only difference was, while he’d wanted to take his time with his aunt’s box, to savor it and bide his time, this one he couldn’t wait to devour.
He lumbered through a few yearbooks from older students—a different time from his—as well as photos of her at the school, some with other faculty members, others of her alone. In all the images she looked as lovely as ever. Mrs. Florence had a memorable smile, kind and all-knowing. He held one photograph of her and stared into her eyes for a long while, only lifting his sights when Monica returned with a cold Cola in her hand.
“I figured you might want somethin’ to drink,” she offered.
“Thank you so much.”
She put the glass on the coffee table before him while he thumbed through some old CDs, reading the labels taped across them.
“So… when is this article of yours comin’ out?” she asked.
He paused and looked up at her. She was tapping her foot and fidgeting with her cuticles.
“I’m not certain but as soon as I have all of my research complete, I’ll compose it.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed on him and she crossed her arms.
“Uncle Clifford told me you were one of ’er favorite students. You and two other boys… Well, men. Y’all was real close and she took a likin’ to ya?” She intoned it as a question, but one she seemed to already know the answer to.
“Yeah, I’d say she took a likin’ to us, more like a mother figure. Is there somethin’ on your mind, ma’am?”
Monica turned to her husband, who was still engrossed in his program, then looked back his way.