The Yellow Hibiscus Chapter 10

Minutes later, my doorbell rang, “Open the door, Miss Shade,” Sergeant Willoby called loudly, almost pitifully outside my door. He must have slipped in when someone went out.

“What do you want now?” I yelled at the closed door.

“You aren’t answering any of your phones.”

“That means leave me alone,” I yelled

“Let me in; I want to talk to you.”

“Sorry, but unless you are here to tell me that my parents’ death was accidental, and the Justice Department gave you the wrong information. Go to hell!” I snapped.

“The New York City Fire Department hasn’t completed their investigation. Don’t you want to know about Mr. Solomon?”

I quickly opened the door, the safety latch still engaged. I peeked out. His navy-blue blazer matched the blue cargo jeans he wore. Carrying a bouquet in his left hand, he flashed an apologetic smile as my face appeared through the latched door.

“Here,” he enticed, extending the flowers out to me. It was a lame attempt to get me to open the door fully. I stood there staring at him through the slightly opened door.

“If you want to know about Mr. Solomon, let me in,” he coaxed.

“Why you? Don’t they have other police officers at the precinct that I could talk to about this case?”

“Sorry, but this is my case,” he said firmly, still smiling. “I was a little harsh earlier. Insensitivity got the better of me.”

“Ok, but only for a minute,” I bought the lure, disengaging the safety latch. I opened the door, took the flowers, and examined them suspiciously.

This variety of flowers was unknown to me. Dad often joked that Mom was born with flowers in her hands because she loved flowers so much. She’d even converted one of the bedrooms into an atrium. I’d had fair exposure to different varieties of flowers, but I had never encountered this type. They were bright yellow trumpet-shaped, with five petals.

A yellow stem sat in the middle of a maroon center. Tiny red seeds rested at the top of the stem, looking down at the yellow seeds below. The leaves were deep dark green, with thin stems. They released a wonderful fragrance that imitated the odor of roses and lilacs.

“What about Mr. Solomon?” I asked on my way toward the kitchen to put the flowers in a vase of water, then brought them into the living room. I positioned the vase in the center of my coffee table. Willoby still had his idiotic smile despite the sadness etched on mine. He lounged on the Futon. I sat opposite him.

“Even though the FBI and the NYPD have successfully kept the information of your parents’ death out of the papers and from the media, you might still be in danger.”

“Me. In danger, from whom?”

“That’s why I am here, and I thought you might need some support . . .. since you are . . ..”

“I am what?” I asked.

“I could be your grief counselor,” he rebounded.

“I would rather talk to a hungry saber-tooth tiger! And you are wrong! I’m in no danger, now what about Mr. Solomon!” I repeated.

“I see you are still angry with me. Look, I was only doing my job.”

“And an excellent job you do!” I remarked.

“I know I was arrogant at first, but . . .”

“Say what!” I stood up with unsure footing too quickly, suddenly feeling faint.

He rushed over to me. On hearing my abdominal rumbling, I remembered that I hadn’t eaten all day. I stubbornly tried to resist his gestures of kindness but with not much success. I was too weak. He gently ushered me to my room and helped me onto my bed. Moments later, he returned with a tray, placed it on the empty side of my bed, and marched out. It was chamomile tea. I savored a few sips and lay across my bed. I must have fallen asleep because I was aroused by the aroma of pineapple chicken, which lured me into the kitchen. As I entered, Willoby was holding a tray with food.

“Finally,” he said, smiling, resting the tray on the kitchen table.

“Don’t you think it’s too late to be eating?” I asked, side glancing at the rose-shaped clock mother bought me for my birthday, one of eight. I collected antique clocks. It was 10:31 PM.

“For you, no,” he shared, shedding the fruit printed apron mother gave me two years before. I strolled over to pineapple chicken, creamy mashed potatoes, generous shakes of parsley flakes, and baked beans.

I stood and stared at him in smug admiration. Who was this paradox of a man?

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