Like Slow Sweet Molasses by Unknown Page A

sensations of a mending nature.
    “Life
passes you by if you live in the past, Angela.” Chance had first-hand
experience in that area. “Don’t be afraid to explore new things. I know you
have it in you because just look at what you’re doing today—giving a measure of
hope to those who possess little.”
    “You
understand,” she uttered from behind closed lids.
    Honestly
spoken, “I think I do.”

 
    Chapter Seven
     
    Her
complicated life had no room for the distraction named Chance Alexander. He was
an infection riddling her body, forcing her to try every trick in the book to
remedy her ailment. But it excited her to reminisce about his smoldering temper
that up-surged to an incendiary fire whenever their paths crossed over the last
two weeks. He was just what she needed least at this time in her life—a man—and
a white man, at that. All of her prowess went into avoiding any contact with
him after he psychoanalyzed her predicament, with one exception. She continued
to periodically check on his aunt. She wouldn’t throw Mrs. Thatcher to the
wolves simply to appease the selfish need to impound his presence from her
life.
    It
was just after one in the afternoon and her last pupil practiced the scale
thumbing his way over the ivory keys. Jamal’s resistance to the lessons
materialized in the dour attitude exhibited when Angela remarked how proud his
mother was at his acceptance to her offer of the free instructions. He plunked
through the fingering exercises getting a little less clunky with each pass.
Angela encouraged his attempts at massaging the keys rather than smashing them.
She also sensed his hidden satisfaction as each pass up and down the C scale
resulted in a smoother flow.
    “That’s
enough for today, Jamal. You did very well.” She got up from the straight back
chair to secure a practice keyboard that she handed to him. “Do your exercises
to promote limbering your finger movements.” He remained silent but she could
tell he listened intently.
    “My
uncle says piano playing is for sissies,” he informed.
    The
shyness portrayed in his innocent brown eyes had her choosing her words
carefully.
    “Then
your uncle has a limited view of life. You’re a smart young man, Jamal. What do
you feel?”
    “I
gotta go.” He refused to answer that question, backing blindly out of the door,
his gangly uncoordinated legs tripping him up and crashing him straight into
one of the planters balanced of the porch railing. Flowers in every color of
the rainbow littered the concrete floor. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled.
    “Jamal,
it’s okay,” she soothed, rearranging the Caribbean furniture to pick up the
scattered shards of pottery. “I’ll get the broom.” Angela was in the kitchen
when she heard what sounded like a car door slam. Bustling back to the front,
Jamal was nowhere in sight by the time she made it outside. All she saw was the
backend of a shiny red car rounding the corner down from her house as she
handily cleaned up the mess.
      Angela, with the broom and dustpan in one
hand, closed her front door after he bailed out midway through their talk. Her
mind drifted to his mother’s efforts to give him a well-rounded experience that
included the arts. That was the primary reason Angela tried all she knew how to
introduce youngsters to the arts and music. New Orleans was a culturally
diverse city steeped in the talents of its inhabitants. Nowhere was that more
obvious than on the musicians’ corners throughout the French Quarters. She
wondered about the influence Jamal’s uncle had over him. If his kind of
guidance continued, he would surely extinguish the light fluttering inside of
his nephew.
    Angela
piddled around doing much of nothing to burn up excess time before she had to
get ready. Back to nephews is where she went, her mind wandering to Chance and
the mysterious rosebud found in her viola case left on her desk at school.
She’d returned from a meeting in the conference room to