shrimp into her cart, spun around and said, “Uh, excuse me? Did you just say I’m the color of dirt somewhere in Germantown?”
“No, Germanton. I’m sorry, you’re right, that didn’t come out right. But, you know what I mean, right?” He paused for an answer, got none, then continued nervously, “Hey, we all come from dirt, right? That’s how we got to be all these mixed up colors.” Annabelle thought he appeared to have been colored by dark roasted pecans, perfectly procured, from somewhere divine.
Annabelle, regarding him coolly, dismissively, turned and sashayed away.
“Whoa, back up! Come on, please? Please don’t be offended,” he said, wringing his hands, his expression like a scolded puppy’s.
Exercising great restraint, Annabelle continued to ignore him, looking over to the frozen dessert aisle, searching for key lime pie.
Speaking more calmly, he began again, “It’s just that your hair, your skin, are like sunbaked clay. I mean you’re hot!” He extended his hand. “I’m Conrad Lash,” he said with a disarming smile.
Annabelle stared emotionlessly into his eyes, his pretty green eyes. Handsome men could be so annoyingly forward and presumptive sometimes. She didn’t take his hand.
Conrad, looking defeated and exasperated, said, “I’m sorry. If you could just see the sides of the road you’d know what I meant. I didn’t mean any harm,” he said, throwing his hands into the air in surrender, hoisting 2-lb bags of frozen shrimp in each fist.
Annabelle was intrigued. “Actually, Conrad, one of my uncles is the pastor at Red Bank Baptist Church.” She extended her hand, “I’m Annabelle Conrad, which means I’m probably your cousin, ol’ crazy boy,” she said, laughing.
Conrad, quickly regaining his composure, smiled, opened his arms wide and said, “Well, in that case, Cousin Annabelle, how about a hug?”
***
Annabelle looks out her kitchen window towards Old Salem, remembering her conversation with Conrad about his childhood. True, she’s had a hard life, but Conrad’s seemed worse. His mother died when he was two, he never knew who his father was, and after his mother’s death, he lived at the Children’s Home on Reynolda Road for three years before being adopted by a couple, the Moores in Lewisville, North Carolina. He was five. The Moores raised him as an only child, and have since passed on.
Conrad’s mother’s name was Dorothy Elizabeth Lash, a Bethania family surname. Although his mother was White, Annabelle believes her last name and his first name, Conrad, share a Bethania connection.
Lifting her gaze from the parking lot below to the black café curtains framing the kitchen window, Annabelle daydreams…adrift on a sea of embroidered white polka dots, rubbing her fingertips over the raised threads, concentrating, willing herself to remember: What were her dad’s exact words about how Great Aunt Annie fit into their bloodline? And, had Aunt Annie been the sister of great, great, great Grandfather William?