Forgivin' Ain't Forgettin' Read Free Page B

“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-year-old 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.
    Cassidy gave Robbie a squeeze and patted his braided-to-the-scalp hair. “Your scooter looks new.”
    “It is. My dad gave it to me last weekend . . . when I stayed at his house.”
    “It’s very nice. I like your knee and elbow guards, too. Where’s your helmet?”
    Robbie’s stare widened. “I should go put it on.”
    “Good idea. I’ve got the luggage.” Cassidy watched the boy ride home, her heart still aching. She turned back to Emma. Emma’s expression was a sandwich of disbelief and disagreement.
    “Ya should’ve let that chile help. It’s never too soon for a boy to learn the ways of a man.” She propped her cane on her hip and stacked her arms across a hefty bosom. “And like I’ve told ya time and time again, young lady,