Waiting for Regina

Waiting for Regina

Copyright 2017 Curtis W. Jackson

Published by Curtis W. Jackson at Smashwords

Copyright

© Curtis W. Jackson 2017

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means - electronic, mechanical, recording, or otherwise- without the prior written permission of the author

Curtis W. Jackson

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are

either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons,

living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

To Each of my Fellow Graduates

Bay Shore High School

Class of 1983

Table of Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Scripture for Thought

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

A Secondary Yet Meaningful Dedication

About The Author

Other Books By The Author

Acknowledgements

In my thoughts of how possible the contents of this book might never be held in a printed or digital volume in your hands. What may not be resulting if I have not been affected by the excellent examples of various individuals. If I have not been so greatly assisted by caring people, those who given pricelessly of themselves.

The characters in Waiting for Regina engage authentic love in action. It remains a gift to me having been told, witnessed, and experiencing such demonstrations impacting my writing.

Of course, I have pouring gratitude for family and friends who encouraged and supported me. My gratefulness for Jody and Karen thoughtfully editing the novel and sharing their invaluable input. My thankfulness feels ceaseless for Rosa who worked diligently with priceless service abetting me to create the novel’s cover and reaffirming the publishing quality of this book.

Credit is due to the unique persons in human history who gracefully endured disregard and mistreatment merely for the skin they were born in. It is their courage and desire to uphold their internal and outer wealth inspiriting me as an author.

A friend loveth at all times;

And a brother is for adversity.

Proverbs 17: 24

American Standard Version

Chapter One

My arrival at the airport came after hearing a flood of troubling news. Mom related to me that one of our relatives had been killed in a boating accident in her homeland. This one is hard-hitting; he was only ten years of age, a step-cousin. I have not had the opportunity to meet him; the lad’s parents are in immense grief. The news conveyed that the one-hundred-day genocide in Rwanda is ceasing this month. The significant number of lives slaughtered since April, possibly over 700,000 individuals, disquiets me. There is also the end of the civil war in Yemen after the loss of many souls soon to be forgotten by the world, except by their kinfolks. It is saddening in my increasing awareness how sicknesses in one dwelling after another are enlarging the gravesites, such as the Cholera outbreak again in Rwanda and the black death of the AIDs virus in Africa.

Father has shared with us current events of his native land; more political insanity, injustice with poverty, hunger and economic woes seemingly unending, and I am trying to avoid taking sides in the racially infused and socially dividing murder trial of Mister Simpson. Even when fellow apartment residents and my work associates are unswervingly querying my viewpoint, Do you believe O.J. is innocent? or Does it not appear to you he could have killed them? Like, why are you expecting me to pass judgment on this guy either way? Hey, pardon me, I wasn’t present to witness the brutal and senseless slaying of two unfortunate persons in Brentwood, California. I don’t have an opinion on it. Dad’s timeless lessons of neutrality are making greater sense to me with each passing day.

With only a few bright spots, I see the weather condition of our sphere of humanity alternate back and forth from light shades of gray to a blackness without light. When can we behold that multi-colored rainbow of a peaceful renewed world being cleansed of its woes Noah and his family were observing? Candy Pricket, an elderly acquaintance I have been assisting in her house duties, said to me, When you can hear the chirping of birds and the laughter of children there is still hope for us. Those sounds are among the bright spots. How swiftly the grayness shifts daily! The cold war may be concluding just as journalistic forecasters have predicted, but an iciness from the warmth of genuine love has settled among the populations, such can be felt on a steamy summer evening.

Regina, you shall be my cool breeze of refreshing air. The distribution of what is called current events rarely represents the good news I wish to be embracing. A reason why I am waiting for your delayed flight. A purpose of me desiring to begin our reunion, to be chatting our lifetimes together as adults as it was during our youth. The mere seconds of your impending appearance can wipe clear the awful things I hear of the world’s revolting condition. Sitting here for hours after studying the newspaper, how can I keep myself amused? Let me write you a thoughtful letter, set it back in time for our last year of high school to visualize what we experienced. How can one begin as I write with my memory stylus upon the tablet in my mind?

July 31, 1994

From Mispha

Towards Regina

Greetings my dear longtime companion! It has been years since our high school days in Chestnut Bay, Nassau County, Long Island. Are you happy and in good health? May that be so. I’ve been trying to contact you for such a long time. I searched among our former classmates, reaching out to them to learn of your specific whereabouts. Hopefully, this is your correct address. Perhaps you wonder what I have been up to.

Life has been splendid to me, and there is so much to be thankful for. I graduated a few years ago with a degree in Physiology, once again at the top of my class. There were job offers nationwide with high salaries and attractive bonuses. For personal reasons, I wish to be employed back home, to live close to my family. I listened to my parents and others to fulfill my educational goals before embarking on an era of marriage and family life. I heard you are not wedded yet. Our imminent martial arrangements with whoever husbands granted us could be the anticipating events we can allow in our joy together as usual gal pals.

I had the privilege and honor to write the foreword of Cory Douglas’ most recent book. Who could doubt how well you remember him? The Professor of Anthropology who was our tour guide, one of the main sparks among our interactions of that senior year towards graduation.

Do you miss the North Shore of Long Island? It was lovely with its high wooden areas and lush green foliage lining the streets and roads. How suited it was during the nineteen-eighties to the affluent society. There we were amid the few minority families. You with your smooth brown sugar skin, as if it was melting in light, yellow butter. And I with what my mother prided me in having radiant chocolate skin. How could my complexion so dark near blackness be considered bright and shining to her?

Mom answered me with a gift, a little figurine of a West Indies princess carved from ebony stone. It is blacker than charcoal, but it is beaming more than gold in its artistic loveliness. Mom instructed me never to forget I am the living example of what you are holding in your hand. And I never lost that gift. I felt in this lesson a measure of my mother’s displeasure of women of color using harsh chemicals to lighten their skin.

One of her cousins from the homeland burned her skin badly with permanent scars after using an untested skin whitening product sold on the black market. My great aunt’s daughter also suffered an early death; the toxins from the cosmetic product absorbed into her veins and caused complications in her heart. I was too young to remember; only that mom was somber when she got the news. Dad was trying to console her. You must have seen it in my bedroom, even held it in your hand. Now, I am wondering why I did not share with you the story behind the beautiful black figurine.

During our school days, we were partners working for each other’s success, building each other up. How many nights did we spend doing our homework together, studying at the public library and quizzing each other for the big tests? We had to measure up, prove ourselves to be among the finest, academically. We were outnumbered, representing that small ten percent or so of our ethnicity in our school district. There were slightly larger percentages of Latinos, Asian and Indian students. We overcame obstacles, facing the challenges, and did our best.

My thoughts were, back in nineteen eighty-six, that society with its hurtful views on race and class distinctions would make it difficult for us to succeed. But I refused to accept the stereotype of becoming a single mother living on welfare with a bunch of hungry children, each having a different father. Men, those deadbeat dads who occasionally stop by to leave pocket change for diapers, bread, and milk. I refused to take the prospect of having a nine to five factory job, and dwelling in a dilapidated apartment with cockroaches. Sort of distorted thinking, right? My mother’s longtime and talkative friend in Chestnut Bay, Rosa, put the fright in me of not having that unfortunate outcome.

What molds and shapes us as adults now? Let us take joy in acknowledging the positive influences in our lives. Certainly, my parents played a significant role. You have been an upbuilding example for me to imitate. And my younger brother William, a budding engineer, contributed to my happiness. Your folks, your wonderful parents, how accepting they were of me as one of their children, me with my dark skin. Then there were Samantha, Cory, and others.

My mother installed her Jamaican roots within my brother and me. Oh, those many hours in the kitchen. I can, in my soul, still smell the curry powder and the grounded allspice from her stove thousands of miles away. The scents of my recollection are mixing with the air of this airport. She is an expert cook and teacher. Do you remember when you were at my home when mom demonstrated to you how to prepare vegetable and beef patties? You were folding, and fork-stapling the filled dough as if it was one of your art projects.

My Haitian father met mom in her homeland. He traveled there for employment. They were well matched in the values of life and their love of hard work. My parents wedded in the historic fishing village of Old Pera; my late grandfather officiated the vows. Father retook mom with him to Haiti. Dad believes a man should be able to sustain himself in the land of his birth. His mind was soon to change within a few years. Father, in disgust of the political upheavals and violence, left the country taking my mother with him. She was then carrying me in my early stages as an embryo.

William would be in the same place after Dad first settled the family in Bay Shore on the South Shore, then into Chestnut Bay to live closer to his job. Dad felt a man should not be far from his family like a farmer avoiding a long journey from his farm. William and I were his proudest productions; he watered and cultivated us. We did not have much materially. In New York state our parents strived to maintain a happy family life. I considered myself blessed that mom and dad were so loving and attentive. The effect motivated William and me, of trusting our parents and being accepting of their discipline and guidance.

Our parents’ upbuilding examples were preparing us to confront what is unfavorable in human society. Because of our color, William and I were often teased by some of the white children; even some of the lighter-skinned African Americans and Latinos would join them. How does it feel to be titled little black sambos, an egot or a sweet tar baby? I was crying from the inside but did not let my tears show from the outside. My gladness I could forget most of those awful names they called us. William asked father why people made fun of us if we are humans like them.

Dad gave us some explanations. He seated us down and spoke with us many times, reaching our hearts and minds with soothing talk that could heal a broken bone. Once again and again, he watered us with clear words of counsel, filling us with esteem in ourselves. Did father consult with the Lord Jesus before we came to him? Because William and I felt we forgot what those kids said, and their returning verbal assault was like the rain beading off our repellent jackets.

Chapter Two

At a young age, I came to understand that the world is far from perfect. Especially was this so in race relations, among other things. William tended to handle matters finer than me. He can easily be a steady sailboat gliding across rough waters. Still, from time to time, I became upset, despite everything I know. It appeared the world would never accept me as the person I am.

And Dad noticed this one day. How could I hide my feelings of rejection from him? For a child trying to navigate her emotions, it was very painful, how so uneasy! At dinner, my father saw the face I tried to shield from his view, and this little evidence was enough for him. He was whispering something into mother’s ears. She smiled, nodding her head in agreement. What were they up to? That night father ordered us to be ready early in the morning.

Father served as a supervisor at a large-scale Sands Point farm. His employer allowed William and me to assist Dad in the summertime. We had the fortune of satisfying work usually not permitted to the visiting school children who would tour the farm. I loved feeding and cleaning the animals; the fuzzy, curly haired sheep were my favorite, of all their colors and spots. Of course, for safety and insurance reasons William and I were limited to our hours and job tasks. Do you recall, Regina? You came with us a few times.

The night’s sleep must have helped ease my angry feelings. I slept more in father’s truck that early morning. When we arrived, before most of the employees, Dad took William and me into the fields. He put his arm around me and drew me close to his side. Dad extended another hand to my brother’s back, with a gentle squeeze upon his neck and shoulder. It was there he inspired us again!

The three of us knelt close to the dark, fertile soil that was giving life to the reliable, robust crops. In his rough hands, father scooped up some of the ground. Cupping his hands together, he brought the dirt into our focus with a baby earthworm swimming in it. With our eyes upon it, how splendidly the dense, moist coffee-colored granules are crystallizing, glistening in the morning sun