surround and comfort
her. Shame surfaced when she met his eyes. She was unable to identify the
emotion she saw there. It was an uncommon event for her—to volunteer
information about herself.
“It
started with the rose left in my viola case in my class—while locked behind
closed doors. Then, the rose found in the door handle the same day—just like
today. This is the third one.”
“And
the break-in?” Chance questioned while scanning as far as the eye could see.
“I
started to think I’d imagined it. Someone lurking in my bedroom. So, I called
911, anyway.”
“Good
girl,” he praised, unaware that a white man never referred to a Black woman as
a girl.
Angela
let the slip pass. “The officer found forced entry in the kitchen.”
Chance
left the women to investigate that part of the house. Everything appeared in
order with the exception of the straight back chair braced under the knob of
the back door. “Were fingerprints taken?” he called out.
“Not
to my knowledge. He said there was no bodily injury though he did take a
report.” Softly, to no one in particular, she amended, “I can’t believe this…my
life, all of a sudden, is careening out of control.”
Belle
sat next to her giving her hand that grandmotherly pat. Angela managed a weak
smile. Chance dropped to one knee before them.
“In
view of recent happenings, I have someone coming over right away to collect any
trace evidence of the intrusion.” Her frown and pursed lips showed her
distaste. He explained, “It’s necessary, Angela, in the event fate smiles on us
and we get a nibble on an identity.”
“I
feel so…so—” The right word escaped her.
“Violated?”
he supplied.
“Yes.”
“I’m
sorry.”
Perplexed,
she looked at him. “Why are you sorry?”
Chance
internalized the question, delivering an answer after much deliberation while
remaining on bended knee. “I’m sorry you mistrust me because of what I am.”
“A
policeman?”
“A
white man,” he responded. “Otherwise, you would have point blank told me where
to get off and I would’ve insisted to you, then, I wasn’t the guilty party.”
“I
didn’t think we had anything in common, Chance. Ignoring the flowers, simply
put,” her hands lifted in supplication, “would make you go away.”
“You
really have an inflated impression of yourself, lady,” he lashed out. Three
sets of eyes looked from one to the other.
“I’m
not proud of what I’ve become over the last few months.” She couldn’t believe
they conducted this discussion in front of innocent Mrs. Thatcher, who hadn’t
moved a muscle and watched in unadulterated interest. “I’m what I sometimes
accuse others of being—a bigot.”
“That’s
not true,” he refuted her description of herself. “You’re coming to grips with
what you feel was abandonment by your biological father—”
“Chance,
please,” she shushed him. Her head lowered in disgrace. A finger lifted her
chin.
“You’ve
done nothing to cause your head to drop. It’s his loss not to know the
wonderful person you are.”
The
knock at the door abbreviated her reply.
“Come
on in, Pops.” Chance let the newcomer in. Angela went ballistic.
“Two-faced.
That’s what you are. Talking out of both sides of your mouth.” She was
trembling, now—fighting back sobs. “Show this man the respect he deserves.”
Chance,
knowing what she meant, had her entrenched in his arms in nothing flat,
crooning into her ear, rocking her sweetly while she bawled into the front of
his dress shirt. She satisfied his trepidation of holding her by circling his
waist and holding on as she quieted.
“Freddy
Robinson, it’s been a long, long time.” Mrs. Thatcher greeted the bespectacled
policeman whose full head of silver gray hair rivaled her own although he was
years younger.
“Belle,
you’re looking fine and dandy,” he returned. Turning to the couple, he asked,
“Angela?”
Chance
nodded over her head. “Angela,
her. Shame surfaced when she met his eyes. She was unable to identify the
emotion she saw there. It was an uncommon event for her—to volunteer
information about herself.
“It
started with the rose left in my viola case in my class—while locked behind
closed doors. Then, the rose found in the door handle the same day—just like
today. This is the third one.”
“And
the break-in?” Chance questioned while scanning as far as the eye could see.
“I
started to think I’d imagined it. Someone lurking in my bedroom. So, I called
911, anyway.”
“Good
girl,” he praised, unaware that a white man never referred to a Black woman as
a girl.
Angela
let the slip pass. “The officer found forced entry in the kitchen.”
Chance
left the women to investigate that part of the house. Everything appeared in
order with the exception of the straight back chair braced under the knob of
the back door. “Were fingerprints taken?” he called out.
“Not
to my knowledge. He said there was no bodily injury though he did take a
report.” Softly, to no one in particular, she amended, “I can’t believe this…my
life, all of a sudden, is careening out of control.”
Belle
sat next to her giving her hand that grandmotherly pat. Angela managed a weak
smile. Chance dropped to one knee before them.
“In
view of recent happenings, I have someone coming over right away to collect any
trace evidence of the intrusion.” Her frown and pursed lips showed her
distaste. He explained, “It’s necessary, Angela, in the event fate smiles on us
and we get a nibble on an identity.”
“I
feel so…so—” The right word escaped her.
“Violated?”
he supplied.
“Yes.”
“I’m
sorry.”
Perplexed,
she looked at him. “Why are you sorry?”
Chance
internalized the question, delivering an answer after much deliberation while
remaining on bended knee. “I’m sorry you mistrust me because of what I am.”
“A
policeman?”
“A
white man,” he responded. “Otherwise, you would have point blank told me where
to get off and I would’ve insisted to you, then, I wasn’t the guilty party.”
“I
didn’t think we had anything in common, Chance. Ignoring the flowers, simply
put,” her hands lifted in supplication, “would make you go away.”
“You
really have an inflated impression of yourself, lady,” he lashed out. Three
sets of eyes looked from one to the other.
“I’m
not proud of what I’ve become over the last few months.” She couldn’t believe
they conducted this discussion in front of innocent Mrs. Thatcher, who hadn’t
moved a muscle and watched in unadulterated interest. “I’m what I sometimes
accuse others of being—a bigot.”
“That’s
not true,” he refuted her description of herself. “You’re coming to grips with
what you feel was abandonment by your biological father—”
“Chance,
please,” she shushed him. Her head lowered in disgrace. A finger lifted her
chin.
“You’ve
done nothing to cause your head to drop. It’s his loss not to know the
wonderful person you are.”
The
knock at the door abbreviated her reply.
“Come
on in, Pops.” Chance let the newcomer in. Angela went ballistic.
“Two-faced.
That’s what you are. Talking out of both sides of your mouth.” She was
trembling, now—fighting back sobs. “Show this man the respect he deserves.”
Chance,
knowing what she meant, had her entrenched in his arms in nothing flat,
crooning into her ear, rocking her sweetly while she bawled into the front of
his dress shirt. She satisfied his trepidation of holding her by circling his
waist and holding on as she quieted.
“Freddy
Robinson, it’s been a long, long time.” Mrs. Thatcher greeted the bespectacled
policeman whose full head of silver gray hair rivaled her own although he was
years younger.
“Belle,
you’re looking fine and dandy,” he returned. Turning to the couple, he asked,
“Angela?”
Chance
nodded over her head. “Angela,
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