Tempest Rising - Diane Mckinney-whetstone [118]
28
Ramona sat back against the smooth leather interior of Perry’s deuce and a quarter. Now she felt like a person. Her breaths were moving through her chest absent that block of granite that always surfaced when she tried to do something like this: be comfortable with a man in a way that was honest and precluded her having to look over her shoulder for somebody’s wife or other love interest to jump out at her, maybe throw lye in her face, stab her with an ice pick, pitch a cherry bomb through her front window. The threats she’d endured in the name of what? Certainly not love, not even desire, more just living up to what she’d been told about herself for as long as she could remember. But this was love she was feeling now, as Tyrone clasped her hand and squeezed her fingers one by one, telling her not to worry; he just felt in his heart that the girls were okay.
They were almost to Chestnut Hill. Had just left the trolley tracks and shops of Germantown Avenue and were onto huge streets with no white or yellow lines that marked all the streets of this size in West Philly to hold the traffic in place. There was not much traffic here to hold in place. Just houses as large as the streets were wide, two-, three-storied, deep and long brick houses sitting back behind snow-draped trees; she couldn’t even name these trees, they had such exotic shapes.
“No wonder those girls wanted to get back here.” Ramona sighed. It was a tear-laced sigh. She’d cried such rivers today: for Mae, for those girls, for Donald Booker, for herself. She especially cried for herself.
Now Tyrone was going in between her fingers, taking his time, leaving no speck of her fingers untouched by his hand. “Well, of course, they wanted to get back here, Mona, not just because of their house; it’s just that this is where their essence is. Don’t matter how good or bad they were treated staying with you and your mother, they still would have wanted to get back here to, you know, to breathe.”
Ramona squeezed his hand. Thought about how her essence had been left back in that park eighteen years ago and how she’d had to go back there, at least in her mind, so that she could breathe.
She rolled her window down. The air was still gray, and the temperature was dropping again. She rubbed her hands together and blew into them. She hoped the girls had doubled their socks. They were almost to where a tree had fallen and spread itself out halfway across the road. This was the block; Ramona could tell by the police cars, one marked, one unmarked, sitting in front of a grand stone Victorian.
“You think we need to get out of the car?” she asked. “That must be the house up there where the police cars are sitting. Maybe we could talk to the neighbors; maybe they’d tell us details they might leave out for the police.”
“Sure, baby doll.” Tyrone pointed out of the passenger-side window, motioning to a woman who’d just crossed their view. “We could start with her.”
When Ramona looked at the tall, slender figure gliding up the street as if she were walking on velvet instead of ice-covered concrete and noticed