Hanging on a String Read Online Free PDF Page A

Dahlia did not believe in holding her tongue to spare feelings. She was a prime candidate of keeping it real. She wasn’t malicious, but she did believe in honesty. There had been a lot of people in school who’d kept their distance from Dahlia. She didn’t suffer fools lightly. She told people exactly what she thought about them and their actions, and her blunt nature could be disconcerting to some. I found her honesty refreshing. I was taught to hold my tongue, to be diplomatic, to be careful about whom I offended. Dahlia, on the other hand, was the kind of friend who didn’t tell you what you wanted to hear. She told you what you needed to hear.
    â€œAddie, can you cover the register for me?” Dahlia called out to a small older woman fixing books over in the erotica section.
    Addie was one of Dahlia’s many West Indian cousins. She was pushing seventy and had recently immigrated to New York from Jamaica. She had a thick Jamaican accent, and she loved looking at books with pictures of naked people.
    â€œI got it, gal!” Addie called out.
    Dahlia shook her head. “I swear Addie is always trying to get her freak on or something. Why is she reading those books? She must have a man on the side.”
    We walked through the bookstore to the tearoom in the back. We sat, my best friend and I, facing each other across a table covered with a kente tablecloth. The table in the back was my favorite as it looked out over a garden planted with a profusion of flowers, all of the tropical variety. No roses or carnations here. Bird-of-paradise, hibiscus, and other brightly colored flowers, whose names I either did not know or could not pronounce, spilled over in Dahlia’s garden. How she got these flowers to flourish in the middle of Brooklyn was a mystery to me.
    Dahlia’s dreadlocks were pulled away from her face and tied with a bright red, black, and green scarf to reveal a face with flawless brown skin without a stitch of make-up. Her features were all from the motherland. She looked like an African princess, complete with long, regal neck; high cheekbones; and large dark eyes, which seemed to swallow her whole face. Dahlia was one of those women who could wear anything and still be beautiful. Even this getup she now wore, a large, shapeless brown dress that looked as if it was made from a potato sack, did nothing to hide her beauty or her curves.
    â€œI can’t believe Chester is dead,” I said, repeating the words that had been playing over and over in my head.
    â€œJasmine, what did I tell you about bad karma? I hate to talk ill of the recently deceased ... but Chester was heading for a fall. I just didn’t think it would be this kind of fall.”
    I remained silent. What she said was true. The list of people whom Chester had caused pain or bad feeling was long and didn’t start with me. Still, I felt bad he had come to a hard ending. In the back of my mind somewhere, I must have hoped he would have an epiphany or find Jesus, or both, and realize that stepping all over folks was just not good for the well-being of his soul.
    â€œYou know,” said Dahlia, “I talked a lot about Chester. Said a lot of bad things about him. Didn’t like him. Especially after what he did to you. I may have even wished ill on him. But I never wanted anything like this to happen to him, and I know you didn’t, either. But, whatever anger you had toward Chester was justified. So you don’t go feeling guilty, girlfriend. He was not a nice person. But you didn’t cause this. Your wishes didn’t cause this, any more than my wishes caused it, or any of the countless other people that Chester backstabbed.” After she finished speaking, she muttered under her breath, “I’m sure the list is long.”
    â€œWe should never have dated,” I said. “We should have just stayed friends. All the bad stuff happened between us when we started