An Excerpt from Released: In Search of a King

Enjoy an excerpt from Released: In Search of a King by Andrea Gadson.

Are people ever really beautiful? Forget about eye of the beholder and all that crap that mothers tell their children so they’ll feel better about themselves. Is there real beauty, and if it truly existed, would ugly things  ever happen? A required philosophy class essay fueled these musings from a college student. The questions sparked as she watched light reflect off the magazine cover. It gleamed and shined, begging the eyes to take in the photo of a  woman. A long, bare leg poured through a slit in a diamond sequined silver dress. Light shimmered down the leg and into an open toe stiletto. The leg was flawless, free of dark spots and wrinkles, cellulite and stretch marks. This lady, a supposed representation of beauty, made the female student meditate about the truthfulness of beauty.  

She imagined her own leg protruding through the slit of the dress, the height-challenged, thick limb hanging like a  pork leg in a butcher shop. The web of veins on the inside of  her right knee resembled an ugly, dark and violent kaleidoscope. The sight made her shudder. A small, black mole on the top of the knee attempted to give her hope. If she believed what children in her neighborhood said, then she thought a mole was a beauty mark, a sign of uniqueness and one of quality. Back then she was only eight, and many of them, like her brother, were five years older.

But at nineteen, Mimi Combs had sense and did not believe those neighborhood kids. At present, their wisdom  had landed more than half of them with at least one more mouth to feed. She shuddered again, this time knowing the answer to the question. She was not beautiful. Those children were liars like the mothers. There was no beauty. And yes, ugly things happened all the time. 

Her eyes shifted to the next magazine. She moved her fingers slowly back and forth in a swirly line across the front cover. The touch tickled her fingertips, and she let them rest near the title of an article.  

“Not in my house. Not my child.” The voice came from behind her, just over her left shoulder. Its tone was clear but  a little shaky, breaking the unwritten protocol of personal privacy, even in a grocery store checkout line. Mimi pulled her fingers away from the title’s bold, white letters. The tickle in her fingertips ceased.  

The voice belonged to a short, wide woman. Everything on her was round, from her bright cheeks to her full breasts to her thighs that were tightly wrapped in bright red velour pants. A child, with a thick hand wrapped around an open chocolate bar, was riding the woman’s hip.  

When Mimi first entered the checkout line, the woman’s head had been buried in her shopping cart. She was fishing items out of the cart and placing them on the sliding counter one at a time. Mimi had to bite the urge to grab a few of the twelve million TV dinners and stack them on the counter. At  the time, the little girl wearing snug jeans and a tight blue and white striped pullover sweater sat in the cart’s seat talking to  the candy bar in her plump little hand.  

“Open it,” she said, but the command was for the candy bar rather than the mother.  

The woman had so much in her cart and was moving so methodically, that Mimi thought she would be waiting a long while. The magazines, some with their glossy covers and screaming titles, presented, as they normally did, a good way to pass the time.  

But this cover, the one with the title that made the woman’s words intrude on her thoughts, almost made Mimi  vomit. The title, Man Found Guilty in Child Rape Case,  begged her to turn to page 27 for more of the story. Just like any wave of nausea she had when something reminded her of her own tragic life, the desire to throw up this morning’s bowl of Kellogg’s Corn Flakes quickly passed. The wide, thick woman’s words took their place in her senses. 

Mimi blinked once, then twice. The woman spoke again in a louder voice, the kind you use when you believe your audience may be just a little deaf.  

“Not in my house. Not my child. No way. No man is going to touch my child that way.” The woman pulled the  small version of herself closer, and the little girl squealed while dark, brown spittle oozed out the corner of her mouth. The child took another bite of the candy bar. 

Mimi shook her head slowly to convey some agreement with the statement. Then she turned back to her own cart. She could hear the woman sigh loudly, then say, “Shoot! I  forgot to pick up bread.” The cashier kindly asked an employee to bring a loaf of bread to the front. Mimi slipped  into her own mental conversation. 

Where had she heard those lines before? Was it a movie? A  TV show? A book? The question tapped on her mind like JoJo did when they were younger, and he wanted to irritate his baby sister. He would poke her forehead with his index finger until she acknowledged his presence. The question presented itself in this annoying way, while she watched the woman place the child back in the cart, and then her groceries. A loaf of bread protruded from the top of one of the bags. The woman paid for her purchases and left while the question continued to plague Mimi.  

“Paper or a plastic?” the giddy cashier asked Mimi. The question tapped as she walked back to her dorm carrying two  plastic bags filled with milk, Ramen noodles in every flavor,  bread, lunchmeat, peanut butter and jelly. All of this was the hallmark of great sustenance for a college student.  

Halfway to her dorm, and walking in step with the rhythm of the question, she found it―the location of a memory buried beneath images of laughter, tears, anger, and fear. She  found the place and the time where she had heard those words spoken before.  

Mimi stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, the two plastic bags hanging on each side. She spoke to the wind and said, “Not in my house. Not my child.” 

She toyed with the memory, turning it around several times  and replaying it. As Mimi tripped over other memories and paused to watch them unwind, she knew it had been only a minute or two. Still, she stood there like some talking statue. If anyone had been walking by, they would have thought she  was a bit crazy, but the street was empty. 

Then she saw him. He was not a memory of a time she had forgotten, floating by like scenes on a movie screen. He was real. And he was now and today, not a past she had been hiding. Wearing khakis, a tan turtleneck, and a Parka coat usually found on those battling Alaskan-like temperatures, he moved quickly toward her. His face was set with a confident  smile, but his eyes betrayed him and yelled his uncertainty. His stride was long, and in seconds he stood in front of her,  till wearing that smile and those conflicting eyes. 

Once his smile widened, he parted his lips to speak, but Mimi blurted, “What are you doing here?”

To continue reading, purchase your copy of Released: In Search of a King.