Chapter 1 : Part 2

Forgivin' Ain't Forgettin'
by Mata Elliott

(Page 2 of 4)

A group of elementary-age girls drove by on bicycles, and Cassidy smiled, ACES stamped on her thoughts. The tutorial center, stationed in Charity Community Church, had been her idea. She had named it the Academic and Cultural Enrichment School. And while ACES had been left in capable hands, Cassidy was eager to return. The students weren't just students. They were her children, those she loved and those who loved her.

The wind chimes hanging in the far corner of the porch tinkled as Cassidy looked over at her car, parked on the street. The previously owned Accord, hers for the last eight years, had been grounded, in need of significant repairs. Cassidy sauntered closer to the car and removed a brochure clamped beneath the windshield wiper. She skimmed the advertisement, an announcement detailing the grand opening of another neighborhood pizzeria. There was no room for pizza in Cassidy's diet, so she crumpled the paper into a ball and stuffed the wad into her pocket. She continued to study the car and decided it must have rained a lot while she'd been out of town, because except for the bird droppings splattered on the windshield, her car was immaculate, the front bumper "burnished to a luminous shine," she remarked to a squirrel scampering up a telephone pole.

Burnish. It was Cassidy's word for the week. She collected words the way some people collected stamps or dolls or coins.

"Cassie gal, is that you?" Emma Purdue, Cassidy's longtime next-door neighbor, wobbled out onto her porch. Cassidy smiled in the direction of Emma's loud voice as Emma limped down the steps and along the walkway with the assistance of a cane.

"Yes, Ms. Emma, it's me." Cassidy advanced upon the only person in the world who called her Cassie. Emma Purdue, slightly deaf in both ears and adamant about not needing the support of hearing aids, had yet to discover that Cassidy's real name was Cassidy. With folks like Emma, once something got stuck in their head, it seemed to stay that way, and no matter how zealously the rest of the world poked, prodded, or protested, it didn't change a thing. Cassidy had long ago accepted that to Emma Purdue she would probably remain "Cassie" forever.

Cassidy embraced Emma, the odor of fried chicken and collards billowing from the stout senior's flowered housedress. The soul-food smell almost drowned out the thick and commonplace smell of the pomade Emma used on her short gray Afro.

"Whatcha doing back?" Emma asked, a hand on her hip, a hand resting on her cane. "Gal, ya not sick, is ya?"

Emma, with her Deep South upbringing and no more than eight years of school, often reverted to the way she spoke when she was a "gal" back home. Cassidy shook her head no to Emma's question, appreciating the motherly concern threading through Emma's voice.

"Did you eat enough while ya was at that teachas' convention?" With the back of her hand, Emma wiped the mid-June heat from her forehead. "I know the way ya can go without two, three meals straight sometimes." Her lips in a firm pucker, her eyelids close together, Emma bobbed her head down, up, down, up as she inspected Cassidy. "Gal, it don't look like ya put on a single pound."

"I ate three meals a day, Ms. Emma." Cassidy added what she knew the older woman would relish hearing: "Of course, none of the meals were as good as yours."

"I sho know that's right." A mighty laugh burst from Emma, and Cassidy laughed, too, secretly, at Emma. The over-eighty-yearold didn't believe anyone could fry, bake, or even boil better than she could, and the truth was, up and down treelined Pomona Street, Emma was said to be one of the three best cooks on the block. The Vietnam veteran who resided in the corner house and Cassidy's aunt Odessa were said to be the other two.

"Well, I'm glad yer back," Emma said. "Shevelle and the baby is still here. Shevelle's been hoping she could get together with ya 'fore she goes home next week." Cassidy was all for hanging out with Shevelle, but she prayed Shevelle left the baby at home. Last time Cassidy and Shevelle went out, Shevelle brought the baby along and insisted Cassidy hold her. It annoyed Cassidy when people with babies assumed everyone wanted to hold their little angels.

Cassidy reached for her suitcase, and the gold link bracelet she rarely took off slid to the end of her arm. "Hold it." Emma's voice was uncompromising as she pounded her wooden stick on the sidewalk, the rubber tip stealing the strident sound she seemed to be after. "Robbie, come take this here suitcase," she hollered across the two-way urban street.

Their neighbor, a boy of nine, out for an excursion on his scooter, stopped the royal-blue contraption a few inches short of Cassidy's white canvas sneakers. "Hi, Cassidy," he said cheerily.

"That's Miss Cassie to you, boy." Emma nudged his ankle with her cane.

Cassidy put her arm around Robbie's shoulder and sent a smile down to the child. An ache within Cassidy's soul intensified mercilessly, but she kept her jaw rigid, unwilling to let the agony show on her face. "Robbie," she said, "you keep right on calling me Cassidy."

"It ain't respectful." Emma aimed a sharp gaze at the youngster, further conveying that in her presence there would be no addressing adults without the preface of Mr. or Miss.

Copyright © 2006 by Vermata Elliott

About the Author

Mata Elliott began writing, her first novel, Forgivin' Ain't Forgettin' during the difficult season of caregiving for two ailing parents. Prior to taking on the role as care giver, she graduated from Temple University with a degree in education and taught on the elementary level for nearly ten years. When Mata is not writing, she enjoys reading, taking long walks, eating ice cream, watching romantic movies with her husband, and playing with her two senior citizen cats. Mata has a soft spot in her heart for all animals and whenever possible she makes it her mission to rescue stray or abandoned cats and dogs and find them a loving home. Mata is the mother of one son and she lives in Philadelphia.