Faces on the Ceiling

FACES ON THE CEILING

Pat Watkins

iUniverse, Inc.

New York Lincoln Shanghai

FACES ON THE CEILING

Copyright © 2005 by Pat Elizabeth Watkins

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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ISBN: 0-595-33842-9

ISBN: 978-0-5957-8631-2(ebk)

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Contents

JULY, 1988

THE SURPRISE

MAY I TAKE YOUR ORDER?

BUSINESS AS USUAL

SANCTUARY

UNFULFILLED PROMISES

LEAVING PARADISE

BACK IN THE SADDLE

PLACID WATER

A NEW BEGINNING

CHANCES

CHANGES

BY MYSELF

NEW YEAR’S EVE, 1988

HOLIDAY HEARTACHES

TRADITIONS

CRACKS IN THE FOUNDATION

IS TODAY

ANGELS CAN DO ANYTHING

THE SILENCE OF INDECISION

FRAGILITY

TEMPORARY QUARTERS

TEARS FOR DAD

HUSH, LITTLE BABY

LEAVING THE GHOSTS BEHIND

WITHOUT A KISS

AUTUMN RENEWAL

EARLY DECISION

NEW DIRECTION

THE BASKET IS FLOATING

HOLIDAY CELEBRATIONS

COUNCIL CONVOCATION

O HOLY NIGHT

For my husband, Roger, the captain of my heart

A Very Special Thank You To:

Boston Children’s Services

Massachusetts Adoption Resource Exchange

One Church, One Child

A.H.W.

The faces. The faces on the ceiling. Can’t you see them, Nana?

Notnow, dear. When i was your age i did. It’s the guardian angels, watching you from heaven. Don’t be afraid of the faces on the ceiling. It’s just the angels.

JULY, 1988

THE SURPRISE

The blue grey dawn blanketed the streets of North Cambridge with a gentle mist of fog. It was peaceful and still, with a fresh scent wafting through the air. She relished mornings like this, savoring their sweetness, knowing that, in all to brief a time, this solitude would be shattered by the sounds of the stirring city. But for now, for these precious moments, she stood still on the front porch, drinking in the tranquility and waiting for Peter to join her.

The stillness was broken by the rumbling of the taxicab. She rang the bell.

Peter! The cab is here. There’s only an hour before the flight, hurry up! she yelled up the stairs.

She knew at this hour of the morning there would be no traffic and there was ample time to make the plane. The ride to Logan would take twenty. Twenty-five minutes max. But, she was anxious to begin the day’s events. After so many months of planning, she was bursting with excitement! What a surprise she had in store for him! He was totally unaware of what lay ahead of him! She smiled at the emotionless cabdriver and watched him yawn as he leaned against the cab, bored and still asleep. Oblivious to the events she had planned for today. Today was going to be the best day of Peter’s life and her life.

Peter lugged the last bag down the stairs and handed it to the weary driver, who tossed it in the trunk.

Bewildered still, Peter climbed into the backseat of the cab with Samantha. Sam, why are we flying to Maine? It’s such a beautiful day. It would be perfect weather to cruise up there on the motorcycle. Just think how fantastic a ride along the coastline would be. Why don’t we cancel the flight and ride up?

I am not going to ride on the back of a bike for fourteen hours, over bumpy roads, when we can hop a plane and be there in merely thirty minutes. Besides, this resort is very exclusive. I can just image the reception we’d get, roaring up through the gates of this old New England seacoast mansion on a Honda Gold Wing. They’d probably make us use the service entrance. Also, there’s not enough room for our luggage on the bike.

You know, that’s another thing I don’t understand. Who wears a suit coat and tie in Maine? Dress flannel, yes. But jackets and ties in the middle of July? Come on now! I haven’t figured this out, but I have a fairly good idea that we are not going to Maine on this trip. He eyed her, smugly, like a child who had discovered his Christmas presents after Thanksgiving dinner.

She would not lose her composure. The surprise would be ruined if she told him now. He’d just have to wait. Nonchalantly, she responded, Of course, we are going to Maine.

The trip had taken even less time than she had anticipated and the cab was already approaching the Callahan Tunnel.

Where ya goin’? the sleepy driver yawned.

Delta Terminal C, Sam responded.

Finally wakening up, the driver attempted to make conversation.

Yup. Great day for flying. Where you folks headed to?

Maine, Sam answered.

Bull! Peter echoed. He leaned forward to speak to the driver through the glass partition. I don’t think we’re going to Maine. No one wears a jacket and tie in Maine, except at a wedding or a funeral. And, she had me pack my snorkel and flippers with some bogus story about swimming with the fish at an interactive aquarium. Besides, who would choose to fly to Maine when they could enjoy the smell of the salt air and the rocky coastline cruising on a Gold Wing Aspencade? No. She insists on getting on a cramped, noisy, expensive airplane. And get this! She has me bring my passport, as if Maine is a foreign country. No, I don’t think we are going to Maine.

Peter, remember we are taking the ferry to Canada for dinner one evening and, of course, you need your passport. You just don’t want to go on the vacation as I planned it, so you are trying to make it into something else. Your idea was to take a motorcycle trip and camp through New Hampshire and Vermont. I don’t think so. We are going to Maine, we are going my way, on my trip and that’s all there is it.

As they bickered, the cabdriver laughed, Yeah, yeah, at least you’re gettin’ outta this hot town. Lady, if he won’t go wichah, I’ll trade places with him. He can drive this pig in and outa traffic and I’ll down a coupala brewskis on the veranda of this grand hotel wichah.

The morning sun made the still dewy planes glisten. Fog had shrouded the coast earlier, but was lifting as the sun rose. There would be no delays today. This trip would be perfect. She has planned it that way.

Parking alongside the curb, the cabbie opened the door for them and proceeded to get their bags. While Peter paid the driver, Samantha quietly spoke to the porter, who swiftly spirited their luggage onto the conveyor belt, tagged for their destination. She tipped him well.

Peter looked around for the bags. I already took care of them, Peter, Sam informed him.

The doors whooshed as they entered the terminal. Peter’s eyes busily searched for a monitor to scan the departures. He would now solve this mystery. Spying one, he haughtily laughed, Now, I’ll find out where we are really going. He scrutinized the monitor. His mouth dropped open and incredulously he read, Maine. Bangor, Maine. Seven-ten departure. He turned to her, and disappointedly said, We really are going to Maine.

Peter. That’s what I’ve been telling you for the last month. I just don’t understand why you didn’t believe me. Whatever made you think any differently?

On the polished corridor leading to Gate 12 and Bangor, Maine, their footsteps echoed throughout the nearly empty terminal.

Maine, he grumbled. I don’t want to go to Maine.

Sam went to check them in, as he sat in the departure area. On the walls surrounding him were posters of Paris and London and New York. The warm beaches of the Caribbean faced him. He would much rather be lying on a sandy beach with a rum swizzle in his hand than going to cold, foggy Maine and staying in a stuffy old hotel, where the average age of the guest was seventy and daily activities included wheelchair races and rocking chair rides.

In the background he heard the flight attendant announce the next flight.

Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Flight 45 to Bermuda will be boarding through Gate 14. Passengers seated in first class and those traveling with small children or in need of assistance may board at this time.

Sam nudged him, who was staring mindlessly out the window. Come on, they just called our flight.

Gate 12 and 14 shared the same companionway. The flight attendant took their tickets and smiled, Good morning, enjoy your flight.

Peter started toward Gate 12.

Sir, she called to him. Sir, you depart from Gate 14, not 12. Gate 14 is for Bermuda. Gate 12 is for Bangor. I don’t think you want to get on that flight.

Stopping dead in his tracks, Peter looked at Samantha. A Cheshire cat smile was all over her face. She had harbored this secret for six months. Longing to tell him, but so much wanting to surprise him, she remained silent.

Happy Birthday, Peter!

Hugging her tightly, he kissed her. I just knew that you weren’t going to take me to Maine for my birthday!

As they entered the wide body jet, Peter instinctively headed toward the coach section and again was stopped by the flight attendant.

First class is this way, Dr. Wilson.

First class? You arranged first class?

As the flight attendant drew back the curtain, his eyes gazed on a cabin decorated with balloons and streamers. A banner proclaimed, HAPPY BIRTHDAY, PETER!

Oh my God, was all he could say, as he sat down in the first row.

SURPRISE! Familiar voices came from behind him.

Standing there was Jennifer and Frank, their best friends and vacation buddies.

You guys are in New Jersey. I talked to you last night.

We always go on vacation with you two. Do you think we’d miss this party? We flew up this morning to be with you and celebrate, explained Frank.

Mesmerized, Peter was now at a loss for words. He still couldn’t believe what was happening. He gazed into Sam’s sparking blue eyes and smiled. You are absolutely wonderful, Mrs. Wilson.

That’s because I’m married to the absolutely wonderful Dr. Wilson.

Squeezing her trim white hand, he thought about how fortunate he was to have her as his wife. Marriage, by itself was difficult enough. But when two people from different races choose to marry, complications can arise. For a black man to marry a white woman, the marriage needed to be based not only on love and trust, but also faith.

The flight attendant approached them, Would you prefer coffee, tea or champagne this morning?

What the hell, it’s my birthday. Champagne for all.

The glasses filled, Peter raised his high, To a great vacation, a wonderful wife and the best friends in the world. Glasses clinked. Champagne was sipped. The engines whined and the plane taxied down the runway.

Smiling contently, Samantha mused. I finally did it. I finally surprised him.

MAY I TAKE YOUR ORDER?

The red ceramic tile floor was sticky and slippery. The crew from the last shift, eager to leave, had not taken the time to thoroughly clean it. As Gwen walked across it, her feet would sticker either on an uncleaned tile or slip on a wet tile.

She hated working the middle shift, starting in the middle of the lunch rush and work until after the dinner rush was over. All she did was run back and forth between the counter and the hot station. Back and forth. Slip and slide. Forth and back. Slip and slide. Order this. Pack That. Ring the register. Thank you for coming.

What she needed was never there. She had to make frequent trips to the walk-in freezer for more fries and burgers. With today’s temperature nearing ninety, she didn’t mind the icy cold of the freezer. It was a welcome respite from the hot counter, where warming lamps, the Fryolater and the burning grills, made her station feel like an inferno. Her yellow uniform was drenched with perspiration and stuck to her back. As the day wore on, she took more time in the freezer, enjoying the oasis from the heat.

Her forehead was masked with beads of water. The nape of her neck was damp and sticky. The heat of the day drained her. The working conditions made her exhausted. How nice it would be not to have to work! There were lots of girls who didn’t work after school. They didn’t have a job. But, they didn’t have dreams either. All those girls wanted was for someone to take care of them. She was different. She had plans. She would finish high school in two years, go to college and then law school. If she wanted to have her dreams come true, then she had to work. It would all be worth it.

She had to get out of Dorchester. She had to get out of that triple decker house, on