MULATTO (Iyila) (Editing)

chapter fifty four

It was late midnight when Gabriel arrived at his apartment in West Decatur, Illinois. He was tired, exhausted and hungry. Dropping the boxes on the ground, he reached to collect his key from the small box. With a creak, crack and push on the door it opened, welcoming him with the normal lavender mixed with a bit of magnolia and a spicy scent of leaves that Abigail was growing, all oozing out of the garden.

Being accustomed to his house, it wasn't difficult for him to find his way even in the gross darkness of the apartment which smelt no different from the way he had last perceived it, almost three months ago.

In his bedroom he dropped all his boxes, removed his suit, knelt down beside his bed and said thanks to God for journey mercies, before he reaching for the lantern beside his bed. Once alight, he noticed the clean, straightened bed sheets, the well dusted furniture, the neat ceilings and properly arranged books on the shelves, all indicating Abigail's touch.

Gabriel smiled, the woman was truly stubborn as he had asked her to take the time off during his journey. But it appeared she had never left the house. Even in his absence she had executed her duty perfectly as though he was there to inspect it. He went further into the kitchen, the place was intact and smelt of newly baked bread. His stomach grumbling, he went to the cupboard to pick out a loaf. Sadly he saw nothing to accompany it, just some irritating spices, that immediately caused a sneeze, and other cooking things that he lacked knowledge of.

Chewing the bread, he strolled out to the garden. The flowers had grown and so had Abigail's plants.

Sighing, he sat on a wooden bench that he and Roman had made together last fall. He reduced the light from the lamp, then focused his gaze on the full moon, glittering in the sky. Then he brought out Iyila's letter and read it for the hundred and twenty ninth time.

He'd read it all through his journey from Charleston to Illinois and every time he felt his heart pumping with anxiety and excitement as though he was a squirt.

Every time Gabriel read the letter it felt fresh. Every time it felt new and expressed new meaning. He closed his eyes and slipped the letter into his pocket. For once in so long he felt alive, he felt beaten because of a person. Shannon's death, probed by Naiomi's unfortunate murder had killed him and turned him sour. Every day since then he had spent mourning her and hating himself for it. Fifteen years of his life had been spent on cursing himself and now, as he remembered it, he could not deny any more that he had studied law and dedicated his time in studying so well so as to graduate as the best scholar all because of Shannon. All because he'd wanted to hate his father and put men like him in goal houses.

But now as he thought of Iyila he felt as though he'd been given another chance to start over. He felt the intense hate he had nurtured in his heart slip away for this new sensation that he felt. This new chance to be happy and live life just the way he had intended. Raising his eyes to the moon he allowed a tear to slide down.

"These damned tears," he muttered, quickly brushing them off. It amazed him how a girl he'd met at the rail station market, who had washed him with a rough Southern sass, had turned out to be the very woman his soul longed for. The very woman who jabbed an accusing finger at his face and tried him on the count of his race, was the very one who he missed, her every smile, her laughter, and fierce kisses.

"Oh Shannon, I need your strength," he whispered into the still night, hoping she would hear him.

He thought of Iyila and wondered what she could be doing at that time. Perhaps sleeping, or even better, dreaming of him.

He stayed out a bit but retired inside when it started blowing. In his sleep that night, he dreamt of Iyila.

Just wearing his breeches, Gabriel slipped out of the bed, feeling unusually enthusiastic. When he checked the pendulum clock on the wall he noticed that he had woken up almost an hour before his habitual time of eight O'clock. Feeling lively for the first time after so long; whistling merrily as he toured the three bedroom house that he had purchased just two years ago.