Lovey came with me
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“Angie,” the literary agent spoke sharply. “I love it!”
“That’s great,” the financial crimes detective smiled.
“Yeah! So, I showed it to an editor friend and she loves it too. Can I get another five thousand words by this weekend?”
“Uhhhh…”
“Girl, I really wanna represent you. If you can turn that around, I think we’ll get a good deal.”
“Yeah! I can make that happen,” replied the thirty year-old unmarried woman.
“Great! I’ll hit you up later.”
Angela Evans went back to work. She and her partner, Dale Cordero, were investigating a potential money laundering scheme by a local Filipino gang. Her mind was growing tired of making the links to uncover the nefarious activity. Thankfully, it was almost time to clock out.
“Cordero,” she said. “I’m outta here.”
“Alright, chica! Have a good weekend,” the forty-four year-old stud grinned. “Let me know if you need any help this weekend.”
She rolled her eyes, “Calm down. That was a one time thing.”
“Whatever you say,” Dale shrugged his shoulders.
Angie left hurriedly as she thought about having let her partner boink her a few months ago. He had been trying ever since they were assigned to work together. Admittedly, the Venezuelan-born man was a excellent in bed. The five-foot-ten, brawny, brown man had been a vigorous lover and used his well-endowed manhood with skillful precision. She desperately enjoyed it, but didn’t want to do it again because he was married.
Dale watched Angie’s hourglass figure disappear around the corner. His dick twitched as he thought about how much fun it been bedding her. At work, she was straight-laced and by-the-book. That night, she was a complete opposite version of herself - wild, lusty, and yearning. What he wouldn’t give to feel her warm, tight pussy on dick once more. He didn’t worry because he knew she would be wanting more soon. He resolved to wrap up work and possibly find some fun before heading home.
Angie crept along the freeway to her apartment. She decided to give her older brother a call. “Donnell,” she beamed.
“Hey, sis! What’s up,” answered the political science professor.
“Sitting in traffic. How are you?”
“Pretty good. About to settle down and watch a movie.”
“Sounds nice! I got a call back from the agent.”
“Okay! How’d it go?”
“She likes the book so far. I gotta get her another 5,000 words by Monday. She thinks we’ll get a deal.”
“I knew it! I told you the story is powerful.”
“Yeah! You always believe in me.”
“Are you gonna mention it to mom or Aunt Pat.”
“Not yet!”
“Okay. Your secret’s safe with me.”
“Thanks! Enjoy your movie. I better concentrate on driving.”
“Bye, sis. Love you!”
Angie and Donnell had always been close growing up. Now, they lived on opposite coasts so it was harder to stay in touch with the three hour time difference. But, they still did a decent job, She was appreciative of the support he always gave her. When she decided to join the police force instead of going to law school, he backed her one hundred percent while their mother was less than happy. Angie was constantly doing things her own way which is what had led her to write this book.
Donnell remembered the Thanksgiving dinner when his younger sister announced her intention to write the story she had uncovered about their grandfather. The mood turned from sugar to shit in two-point-one seconds flat. Their mother, Pamela, clammed up. Her older sister, the Reverend Patricia Smith, began calling Angie a liar and a heathen. Donnell and Pat’s son, Lawrence, attempted to calm the situation, but it was to no avail. The subject matter was just too touchy.
Angie gripped the steering wheel of her Saharan stone colored 2015 Nissan Altima. She said a quick prayer and resolved to go forward with writing this book. She felt strongly that the story needed to be told. Plus, her brother said it was a gold mine. She did not intend to work for the LAPD for the rest of her life.
The events leading up to her undertaking this novel started a little over a year ago. Her maternal grandfather, Paul Wiley, was in the hospital and nearing death. The family of the eighty-one year-old man had been called in. Angie was there along with her mother and aunt. Lawrence and Donnell both lived too far to make it back in time. The three women were sobbing silently and trying to be strong as they watched Paul struggle to breathe.
The death rattles were clearly present. The old man whispered, “Rose.” Then he expired. It was a somber event. The staff gave them a moment to gather themselves before getting to work disassembling the machines. Pat led a prayer. Pam suggested they grab a bite to eat. Angie drove.
At the diner, Angie asked, “Who is Rose?”
“What,” sniffled Pam.
“Granddaddy said ‘Rose’ right before he passed away. I wonder who she was.”
“Nonsense, Angie,” chided Pat. “I’m sure he meant he wanted roses at his funeral.”
“I find that strange,” the detective retorted. “If it were flowers, he would have said ‘roses’. It was just ‘Rose’. Do y’all remember anyone by that name?”
“No,” her mother spoke up.
“We DO NOT know anyone by that name. Your grandmother, God rest her soul, was the love of his life.”
The conversation set the tone for everything that was about to come. After the funeral, the family began going through Paul’s belongings. In the back of his sock drawer, Angie came across a small locked wooden box. There was no key so she picked the rudimentary lock. In it, she found a sterling silver locket with a picture of an Asian woman - not her grandmother. There were also a few letters.
She unfolded the first. It was dated ‘June ‘61’. It read:
‘My Dearest Paul, I know you must honor your wife and your family. I cherish the time we had together these past five years. I truly believe you are the love of my life. I hope that I’ve been more than a passing a fancy. When I’m with you, I feel like the only girl in the world. I’m not going to make this go on forever. I love you. I forgive you. I understand. Love Forever, Rose.’
Eureka! Rose! This is who her grandfather had referenced on his deathbed. Some Asian lady he knew before he married her granny. There was another letter. The handwriting was different. It read:
‘Rose my love, I’m very sorry for what has become. I didn’t know I would fall so deeply in love with you when I met you that first night at Club Alabam. Thank you for understanding. Even though I can’t see you no more, I won’t ever forget you. My love for you is unchanged. I wish you’
It stopped so abruptly. It was obvious to Angie that Paul had penned this one, but never finished the message. There was a tenderness about it. She wondered about Rose and how the woman must have felt to have not gotten any feedback from a man she so clearly adored. There were so many questions. How had they met? What were they like together? Then, Angie thought about her grandmother, Martha. Had she known about Rose? Was this what caused the distance in her eyes? She decided at the moment to do a little research.
The next weekend, Angie got down to investigating. She’d heard of Club Alabam and knew it was a swanky jazz bar on the famed Central Avenue. In the 1920s and 1930s, it was the hub for the Black Angelino elite. The business was no longer in operation, but there was a senior living facility on the site of the former Dunbar Hotel where several former jazz artists made their home. Angie headed downtown on the off chance that someone may recognize the picture.
There were several residents hanging out in the common area watching TV, playing cards, reading and laughing. “Over here, sweet thing,” an old man said as he spotted her. Angie smiled. He looked old enough to possibly know something so she walked up to him.
“Hi there,” she began. “I’m Detective Evans with the LAPD.”
“Whoa! I ain’t done nothin’,” he protested.
“No, I’m sorry. Let me start over. My name’s Angie. I’m looking for a friend of my grandfather. Would’ve been back in the Fifties”
“Well, I was here back then for sure. What’s his name?”
“My granddad was named Paul Wiley.”
“Nah, don’t rightly recall that name.”
“It’s okay. I have a picture of his friend.” Angie opened the locket. “Do you remember her? Her name was Rose.”
“No, missy. I don’t. But I think I would remember her,” he smiled.
“Okay. Thanks!”
“You may wanna check over there with Bertha. In the wheelchair,” he pointed.
“Thank you, sir!”
Angie moved over to the woman sitting quietly in the corner. “Excuse me, Miss Bertha.”
“Who’s askin’,” snapped the dark-skinned lady.
“I’m Angie Evans. I was trying to find out about a friend of grandfather. Her name is Rose. Here’s her picture.”
“Rose...Rose...Rose! Yes, honey! I remember Rose.”
“Really,” Angie felt heavy.
“Oh yes. She used to perform on occasion.”
“Do you know if she’s still alive.”
“I’m not sure.”
“Did you know anyone she was involved with?”
“She was a popular girl. She did have one particular fellar she used to go on about. Will or Wilk or…”
“Wiley?”
“Maybe.”
“Do you know her last name?”
“Something Spanish. De La something or another. I don’t really remember.”
“Thank you! You’ve been helpful.”
Angie went back to her spot. She ordered Chinese food and pulled out her laptop. She entered her password and navigated to the database to search for city records. She entered ‘ROSE DELA*’ and waited. There was were several hits. Most were from the Nineties, but there was one dated Saturday, 2 March 1956. Subject name: ROSE DELACRUZ. She clicked on the entry. It was an arrest for lewd and dissolute behavior. The name was ‘Rose’ was listed as an alias for Raymond del Rosario.
Angie considered this strange. She searched for the Raymond person and got many more hits. Nothing criminal beyond what she had seen, but Raymond appeared to be alive. And, he was living in Los Angeles. Angie copied down the address and phone number.
She took time to think about the implications of all of this. Was her granddad’s Rose really Raymond? Had her grandfather been on the DL? She had no idea what was going on. She felt somewhat uneasy for searching this out, but her mind wanted to know all of this. Beyond the fact that he grandparents came to L.A. from Little Rock, Arkansas, she knew very little about their past. She hoped this was a chance to learn more.
Angie sighed and dialed the number.
“Del Rosario residence,” answered a feeble voice after several rings.
“Hello! May I speak to Raymond?”
“Speaking. Who is this?”
“My name in Angela Evans. I know you don’t know me, but I think you knew my grandfather.”
“I’m sorry dear. I don’t know any Evans.”
“No. I’m sorry. His name was Wiley. Paul Wiley.”
Silence.
“Raymond. Are you there?”
“Ahem. Yes. I’m here.”
“Did you know Paul Wiley?”
“I remember that name dear. How can I help you.”
“Well, he recently passed away. And there’s something he left you. I’d like to bring it to you if that’s okay.”
“I...uh...Are you sure he left something for Raymond del Rosario.”
“It appears to me that knew you as Rose de la Cruz. Are you one in the same?”
“My goodness, young lady. You ask a lot of questions.”
“Look, Rose. May I call you Rose?”
“Okay…”
“I have no problem with what you and my grandfather may have shared. I just want to give you what he left you. Are you free tomorrow afternoon?”
“Yes, dear. Around 1:00 okay?”
“Sounds perfect. Can you give me your address.”
Angie wrote down the details and told Raymond / Rose that she would call before heading over tomorrow. She was too far in shock to eat her food. She sat up the entire night wondering what would transpire the next day - or if she would even go.
Raymond del Rosario sat lifelessly in the easy chair. He had not heard the name Paul Wiley in over 50 years. The elderly Filipino man wondered what the man he once loved with all his heart would have left him after so long. It was still early in the evening and he, too, spent the night tossing and turning.
Sunday morning came. Angie toasted a bagel and smeared it with garden veggie cream cheese. She placed a quick call to Rose confirming the visit for later.
Angie arrived at the supportive living apartment complex for low-income seniors. She carried the wooden box she found in Paul’s sock drawer. She took a deep breath and knocked on the door.
Rose answered wearing a pink ruched turban, a black and white cheetah print moo-moo, and slippers.She walked with the assistance of a cane.
“Rose? I’m Angie Evans.”
“Yes, dear! Come in. Have a seat,” the host said. “Would you like some tea?”
“No, thank you! I’m okay. This is for you.”
Rose sat down and took the box. She opened it slowly. Tears welled in her eyes when she saw the locket. He aged hands fumbled with it for a moment until she got it open. She held it to her chest briefly, “He used to wear this around his neck.” Then read the two letters. She sobbed. Angie reached over, grabbed a box of tissue, and handed it to Rose.
“Thank you,” wheezed the senior citizen,
“He really did love you,” Angie whispered.
“We were very much in love. I had no idea he had written back.”
“Yeah! It doesn’t look like he ever got to around to finishing it, but I could tell you meant a lot to him.”
“Thank you, dear! Can you hand me that photo album on the table over there.”
Rose flipped it open to the middle. There was page with only two pictures on it.
“Granddaddy,” exclaimed Angie.
“Yes! This was my Paul. This one his high school graduation photo. He gave it to me shortly after we met. This one was taken one night on Central Avenue outside the Dunbar Hotel.”
“He was so young.”
“Yes, we were,” laughed Rose.
“Tell me about him, please,” Angie implored the old woman.
“Paul moved out here in 1954,” Rose started. “He was 18 and came to find work. A lot of Black folks were doing that back then. Any way, in those days, it was i*****l to be gay or for men to dress as women. And that’s what I did. But the clubs on Central Avenue were friendly to people like me of all races. I met Paul down there one night.”
“I don’t think he knew right away that I was in drag,” Rose continued. “We had a charming conversation. I was smitten with him. He was tall, had a nice smile, and was sweet. Plus he was couple years older than me. We talked until the sun came up. Eventually, I told him I was in drag.”
“How did he react.” Angie inquired.
“Oh,” giggled Rose. “He was freaked out. Said he’d never seen nothing like this in Arkansas.We remained friends, but eventually it was easy to sense that we both loved one another. He told me one night and we kissed. It was magical. He would come visit me at the rooming house where I stayed nearly every day after he got off work. He’d bring me something every time - a note, candy, flowers. He was so thoughtful. He told me he had a sweetheart back home that he was going to marry.”
“My granny,” Angie exhaled.
“Yes, that lucky woman,” Rose went on. “He would go back on occasion to Arkansas. She was studying to be a teacher I think which is why she wasn’t here yet. He married her on one of those trips. But, when he got back to L.A., we were together again. I cried when he told me, but he held me.”
“Oh my! I had no idea,” Angie interrupted.
Rose nodded. “I don’t think anyone did. Eventually, he told me that his wife was going to have a baby. I was so jealous. I yelled at him and kicked him out. I didn’t talk to him for a week, but he still came by every day asking to see me. Finally, I let him come up and we made love. I had missed him so much. He was mine until his new family moved out here. He explained to me that he had a duty to fulfill and we could no longer be together. I knew it was coming, but I was still devastated.”
“When was that,” the detective prodded.
“1961,” the choked up woman reminisced. “That was the last time I saw him, but it sure wasn’t the last time I thought about him. I tried to kill myself twice. Obviously, I didn’t succeed,” she coughed.
“I’m so sorry, Rose,” Angie offered.
“Don’t be, dear! You bringing this letter to me makes me glad I’m still alive. Tell me. Was he happy?”
“I think so. He had two daughters and three grandc***dren. He was always very loving to us.”
“Yes, that was Paul. So thoughtful.”
“Rose, there’s something else I want to tell you.”
“What’s that?”
“Your name is the last thing he said before he died.”
“No…”
“Yes! He loved you till the day he died.”
Rose could no longer control herself. She wailed almost inconsolably.
Angie was unsure if she should have told the woman or not. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“I’m not upset,” Rose blew her nose. “I just felt like I was a castaway after Paul. Now, I know that I wasn’t.”
The two talked for a while more and shared that glass of tea.
As Angie was getting ready to depart, she asked, “Would you like to see his grave?”
“Oh yes,” beamed Rose.
“Well, how about this coming Saturday?”
“Yes! Yes! Yes!”
“It’s a date, Rose.”
“Thank you so much for doing this. You’ve brought such joy to an old queen.
Angie remembered tell her brother about the meeting. He was floored. And eventually so was the rest of the family. She pulled up, walked inside, and sat down in front of her personal laptop. She began a new page.
“That’s great,” the financial crimes detective smiled.
“Yeah! So, I showed it to an editor friend and she loves it too. Can I get another five thousand words by this weekend?”
“Uhhhh…”
“Girl, I really wanna represent you. If you can turn that around, I think we’ll get a good deal.”
“Yeah! I can make that happen,” replied the thirty year-old unmarried woman.
“Great! I’ll hit you up later.”
Angela Evans went back to work. She and her partner, Dale Cordero, were investigating a potential money laundering scheme by a local Filipino gang. Her mind was growing tired of making the links to uncover the nefarious activity. Thankfully, it was almost time to clock out.
“Cordero,” she said. “I’m outta here.”
“Alright, chica! Have a good weekend,” the forty-four year-old stud grinned. “Let me know if you need any help this weekend.”
She rolled her eyes, “Calm down. That was a one time thing.”
“Whatever you say,” Dale shrugged his shoulders.
Angie left hurriedly as she thought about having let her partner boink her a few months ago. He had been trying ever since they were assigned to work together. Admittedly, the Venezuelan-born man was a excellent in bed. The five-foot-ten, brawny, brown man had been a vigorous lover and used his well-endowed manhood with skillful precision. She desperately enjoyed it, but didn’t want to do it again because he was married.
Dale watched Angie’s hourglass figure disappear around the corner. His dick twitched as he thought about how much fun it been bedding her. At work, she was straight-laced and by-the-book. That night, she was a complete opposite version of herself - wild, lusty, and yearning. What he wouldn’t give to feel her warm, tight pussy on dick once more. He didn’t worry because he knew she would be wanting more soon. He resolved to wrap up work and possibly find some fun before heading home.
Angie crept along the freeway to her apartment. She decided to give her older brother a call. “Donnell,” she beamed.
“Hey, sis! What’s up,” answered the political science professor.
“Sitting in traffic. How are you?”
“Pretty good. About to settle down and watch a movie.”
“Sounds nice! I got a call back from the agent.”
“Okay! How’d it go?”
“She likes the book so far. I gotta get her another 5,000 words by Monday. She thinks we’ll get a deal.”
“I knew it! I told you the story is powerful.”
“Yeah! You always believe in me.”
“Are you gonna mention it to mom or Aunt Pat.”
“Not yet!”
“Okay. Your secret’s safe with me.”
“Thanks! Enjoy your movie. I better concentrate on driving.”
“Bye, sis. Love you!”
Angie and Donnell had always been close growing up. Now, they lived on opposite coasts so it was harder to stay in touch with the three hour time difference. But, they still did a decent job, She was appreciative of the support he always gave her. When she decided to join the police force instead of going to law school, he backed her one hundred percent while their mother was less than happy. Angie was constantly doing things her own way which is what had led her to write this book.
Donnell remembered the Thanksgiving dinner when his younger sister announced her intention to write the story she had uncovered about their grandfather. The mood turned from sugar to shit in two-point-one seconds flat. Their mother, Pamela, clammed up. Her older sister, the Reverend Patricia Smith, began calling Angie a liar and a heathen. Donnell and Pat’s son, Lawrence, attempted to calm the situation, but it was to no avail. The subject matter was just too touchy.
Angie gripped the steering wheel of her Saharan stone colored 2015 Nissan Altima. She said a quick prayer and resolved to go forward with writing this book. She felt strongly that the story needed to be told. Plus, her brother said it was a gold mine. She did not intend to work for the LAPD for the rest of her life.
The events leading up to her undertaking this novel started a little over a year ago. Her maternal grandfather, Paul Wiley, was in the hospital and nearing death. The family of the eighty-one year-old man had been called in. Angie was there along with her mother and aunt. Lawrence and Donnell both lived too far to make it back in time. The three women were sobbing silently and trying to be strong as they watched Paul struggle to breathe.
The death rattles were clearly present. The old man whispered, “Rose.” Then he expired. It was a somber event. The staff gave them a moment to gather themselves before getting to work disassembling the machines. Pat led a prayer. Pam suggested they grab a bite to eat. Angie drove.
At the diner, Angie asked, “Who is Rose?”
“What,” sniffled Pam.
“Granddaddy said ‘Rose’ right before he passed away. I wonder who she was.”
“Nonsense, Angie,” chided Pat. “I’m sure he meant he wanted roses at his funeral.”
“I find that strange,” the detective retorted. “If it were flowers, he would have said ‘roses’. It was just ‘Rose’. Do y’all remember anyone by that name?”
“No,” her mother spoke up.
“We DO NOT know anyone by that name. Your grandmother, God rest her soul, was the love of his life.”
The conversation set the tone for everything that was about to come. After the funeral, the family began going through Paul’s belongings. In the back of his sock drawer, Angie came across a small locked wooden box. There was no key so she picked the rudimentary lock. In it, she found a sterling silver locket with a picture of an Asian woman - not her grandmother. There were also a few letters.
She unfolded the first. It was dated ‘June ‘61’. It read:
‘My Dearest Paul, I know you must honor your wife and your family. I cherish the time we had together these past five years. I truly believe you are the love of my life. I hope that I’ve been more than a passing a fancy. When I’m with you, I feel like the only girl in the world. I’m not going to make this go on forever. I love you. I forgive you. I understand. Love Forever, Rose.’
Eureka! Rose! This is who her grandfather had referenced on his deathbed. Some Asian lady he knew before he married her granny. There was another letter. The handwriting was different. It read:
‘Rose my love, I’m very sorry for what has become. I didn’t know I would fall so deeply in love with you when I met you that first night at Club Alabam. Thank you for understanding. Even though I can’t see you no more, I won’t ever forget you. My love for you is unchanged. I wish you’
It stopped so abruptly. It was obvious to Angie that Paul had penned this one, but never finished the message. There was a tenderness about it. She wondered about Rose and how the woman must have felt to have not gotten any feedback from a man she so clearly adored. There were so many questions. How had they met? What were they like together? Then, Angie thought about her grandmother, Martha. Had she known about Rose? Was this what caused the distance in her eyes? She decided at the moment to do a little research.
The next weekend, Angie got down to investigating. She’d heard of Club Alabam and knew it was a swanky jazz bar on the famed Central Avenue. In the 1920s and 1930s, it was the hub for the Black Angelino elite. The business was no longer in operation, but there was a senior living facility on the site of the former Dunbar Hotel where several former jazz artists made their home. Angie headed downtown on the off chance that someone may recognize the picture.
There were several residents hanging out in the common area watching TV, playing cards, reading and laughing. “Over here, sweet thing,” an old man said as he spotted her. Angie smiled. He looked old enough to possibly know something so she walked up to him.
“Hi there,” she began. “I’m Detective Evans with the LAPD.”
“Whoa! I ain’t done nothin’,” he protested.
“No, I’m sorry. Let me start over. My name’s Angie. I’m looking for a friend of my grandfather. Would’ve been back in the Fifties”
“Well, I was here back then for sure. What’s his name?”
“My granddad was named Paul Wiley.”
“Nah, don’t rightly recall that name.”
“It’s okay. I have a picture of his friend.” Angie opened the locket. “Do you remember her? Her name was Rose.”
“No, missy. I don’t. But I think I would remember her,” he smiled.
“Okay. Thanks!”
“You may wanna check over there with Bertha. In the wheelchair,” he pointed.
“Thank you, sir!”
Angie moved over to the woman sitting quietly in the corner. “Excuse me, Miss Bertha.”
“Who’s askin’,” snapped the dark-skinned lady.
“I’m Angie Evans. I was trying to find out about a friend of grandfather. Her name is Rose. Here’s her picture.”
“Rose...Rose...Rose! Yes, honey! I remember Rose.”
“Really,” Angie felt heavy.
“Oh yes. She used to perform on occasion.”
“Do you know if she’s still alive.”
“I’m not sure.”
“Did you know anyone she was involved with?”
“She was a popular girl. She did have one particular fellar she used to go on about. Will or Wilk or…”
“Wiley?”
“Maybe.”
“Do you know her last name?”
“Something Spanish. De La something or another. I don’t really remember.”
“Thank you! You’ve been helpful.”
Angie went back to her spot. She ordered Chinese food and pulled out her laptop. She entered her password and navigated to the database to search for city records. She entered ‘ROSE DELA*’ and waited. There was were several hits. Most were from the Nineties, but there was one dated Saturday, 2 March 1956. Subject name: ROSE DELACRUZ. She clicked on the entry. It was an arrest for lewd and dissolute behavior. The name was ‘Rose’ was listed as an alias for Raymond del Rosario.
Angie considered this strange. She searched for the Raymond person and got many more hits. Nothing criminal beyond what she had seen, but Raymond appeared to be alive. And, he was living in Los Angeles. Angie copied down the address and phone number.
She took time to think about the implications of all of this. Was her granddad’s Rose really Raymond? Had her grandfather been on the DL? She had no idea what was going on. She felt somewhat uneasy for searching this out, but her mind wanted to know all of this. Beyond the fact that he grandparents came to L.A. from Little Rock, Arkansas, she knew very little about their past. She hoped this was a chance to learn more.
Angie sighed and dialed the number.
“Del Rosario residence,” answered a feeble voice after several rings.
“Hello! May I speak to Raymond?”
“Speaking. Who is this?”
“My name in Angela Evans. I know you don’t know me, but I think you knew my grandfather.”
“I’m sorry dear. I don’t know any Evans.”
“No. I’m sorry. His name was Wiley. Paul Wiley.”
Silence.
“Raymond. Are you there?”
“Ahem. Yes. I’m here.”
“Did you know Paul Wiley?”
“I remember that name dear. How can I help you.”
“Well, he recently passed away. And there’s something he left you. I’d like to bring it to you if that’s okay.”
“I...uh...Are you sure he left something for Raymond del Rosario.”
“It appears to me that knew you as Rose de la Cruz. Are you one in the same?”
“My goodness, young lady. You ask a lot of questions.”
“Look, Rose. May I call you Rose?”
“Okay…”
“I have no problem with what you and my grandfather may have shared. I just want to give you what he left you. Are you free tomorrow afternoon?”
“Yes, dear. Around 1:00 okay?”
“Sounds perfect. Can you give me your address.”
Angie wrote down the details and told Raymond / Rose that she would call before heading over tomorrow. She was too far in shock to eat her food. She sat up the entire night wondering what would transpire the next day - or if she would even go.
Raymond del Rosario sat lifelessly in the easy chair. He had not heard the name Paul Wiley in over 50 years. The elderly Filipino man wondered what the man he once loved with all his heart would have left him after so long. It was still early in the evening and he, too, spent the night tossing and turning.
Sunday morning came. Angie toasted a bagel and smeared it with garden veggie cream cheese. She placed a quick call to Rose confirming the visit for later.
Angie arrived at the supportive living apartment complex for low-income seniors. She carried the wooden box she found in Paul’s sock drawer. She took a deep breath and knocked on the door.
Rose answered wearing a pink ruched turban, a black and white cheetah print moo-moo, and slippers.She walked with the assistance of a cane.
“Rose? I’m Angie Evans.”
“Yes, dear! Come in. Have a seat,” the host said. “Would you like some tea?”
“No, thank you! I’m okay. This is for you.”
Rose sat down and took the box. She opened it slowly. Tears welled in her eyes when she saw the locket. He aged hands fumbled with it for a moment until she got it open. She held it to her chest briefly, “He used to wear this around his neck.” Then read the two letters. She sobbed. Angie reached over, grabbed a box of tissue, and handed it to Rose.
“Thank you,” wheezed the senior citizen,
“He really did love you,” Angie whispered.
“We were very much in love. I had no idea he had written back.”
“Yeah! It doesn’t look like he ever got to around to finishing it, but I could tell you meant a lot to him.”
“Thank you, dear! Can you hand me that photo album on the table over there.”
Rose flipped it open to the middle. There was page with only two pictures on it.
“Granddaddy,” exclaimed Angie.
“Yes! This was my Paul. This one his high school graduation photo. He gave it to me shortly after we met. This one was taken one night on Central Avenue outside the Dunbar Hotel.”
“He was so young.”
“Yes, we were,” laughed Rose.
“Tell me about him, please,” Angie implored the old woman.
“Paul moved out here in 1954,” Rose started. “He was 18 and came to find work. A lot of Black folks were doing that back then. Any way, in those days, it was i*****l to be gay or for men to dress as women. And that’s what I did. But the clubs on Central Avenue were friendly to people like me of all races. I met Paul down there one night.”
“I don’t think he knew right away that I was in drag,” Rose continued. “We had a charming conversation. I was smitten with him. He was tall, had a nice smile, and was sweet. Plus he was couple years older than me. We talked until the sun came up. Eventually, I told him I was in drag.”
“How did he react.” Angie inquired.
“Oh,” giggled Rose. “He was freaked out. Said he’d never seen nothing like this in Arkansas.We remained friends, but eventually it was easy to sense that we both loved one another. He told me one night and we kissed. It was magical. He would come visit me at the rooming house where I stayed nearly every day after he got off work. He’d bring me something every time - a note, candy, flowers. He was so thoughtful. He told me he had a sweetheart back home that he was going to marry.”
“My granny,” Angie exhaled.
“Yes, that lucky woman,” Rose went on. “He would go back on occasion to Arkansas. She was studying to be a teacher I think which is why she wasn’t here yet. He married her on one of those trips. But, when he got back to L.A., we were together again. I cried when he told me, but he held me.”
“Oh my! I had no idea,” Angie interrupted.
Rose nodded. “I don’t think anyone did. Eventually, he told me that his wife was going to have a baby. I was so jealous. I yelled at him and kicked him out. I didn’t talk to him for a week, but he still came by every day asking to see me. Finally, I let him come up and we made love. I had missed him so much. He was mine until his new family moved out here. He explained to me that he had a duty to fulfill and we could no longer be together. I knew it was coming, but I was still devastated.”
“When was that,” the detective prodded.
“1961,” the choked up woman reminisced. “That was the last time I saw him, but it sure wasn’t the last time I thought about him. I tried to kill myself twice. Obviously, I didn’t succeed,” she coughed.
“I’m so sorry, Rose,” Angie offered.
“Don’t be, dear! You bringing this letter to me makes me glad I’m still alive. Tell me. Was he happy?”
“I think so. He had two daughters and three grandc***dren. He was always very loving to us.”
“Yes, that was Paul. So thoughtful.”
“Rose, there’s something else I want to tell you.”
“What’s that?”
“Your name is the last thing he said before he died.”
“No…”
“Yes! He loved you till the day he died.”
Rose could no longer control herself. She wailed almost inconsolably.
Angie was unsure if she should have told the woman or not. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“I’m not upset,” Rose blew her nose. “I just felt like I was a castaway after Paul. Now, I know that I wasn’t.”
The two talked for a while more and shared that glass of tea.
As Angie was getting ready to depart, she asked, “Would you like to see his grave?”
“Oh yes,” beamed Rose.
“Well, how about this coming Saturday?”
“Yes! Yes! Yes!”
“It’s a date, Rose.”
“Thank you so much for doing this. You’ve brought such joy to an old queen.
Angie remembered tell her brother about the meeting. He was floored. And eventually so was the rest of the family. She pulled up, walked inside, and sat down in front of her personal laptop. She began a new page.
Latisha
- 24.03.2022
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