Banda's Diamond

By Kathryn

Watching her walk into the terminal, seeing her after twenty years apart, was like watching a stranger but with the

characteristics of someone with whom she was once familiar. Barely over the height of a broom handle and just as thin,

walking in stiletto heels

• Language: English
• Publisher: Haystack Creatives
• Release date: Sep 2, 2020
• ISBN: 9781953115041

Kathryn

Upon retiring from medicine, Kathryn began writing. Through her imagination she delves into an array of relevant aspects of todays society as well as some of the more recent unique medical conditions that plague mankind.

Book preview

1

Watching her walk into the terminal, seeing her after twenty some years apart, was like watching a stranger but with the characteristics of someone with whom she was once familiar. Barely over the height of a broom handle and just as thin, walking in stiletto heels, carrying a multi-colored hand bag large enough to carry a weeks worth of laundry, wearing sun glasses that covered what her bleached hair had left exposed, Nyala wondered if what she had planned was going to be the best idea she‘d ever had concerning the two of them. She couldn’t move. She didn’t want to move. She just sat and watched her friend from childhood walk in shoes, considered by most to be as lethal as any .45, as though she knew whoever was coming for her would know who she was by her presence and thereby saw no need to announce herself to anyone. After all, she was the wife of Mr. Lawrence David Harrison, Attorney, stock broker, entrepreneur and one of the wealthiest men currently existing in Boston.

How could they be so different? They grew up literally living side by side, playing together, going to school together, planning their futures together. And yet…

Nyala took stock of herself. She was easily taller than her friend, dressed in blue jeans and a loose fitting white blouse, tied at the waist, with her .45 tucked in her belt. Her long, straight black hair was pulled back, held loosely by a barrette. Her boots were of the latest style, just above the ankle, comfortable but not intrusive. She wore no makeup; none was necessary.

Her friend’s name was Christine. Mrs. Christine Harrison, wife of Mr. Lawrence David Harrison. She would inform you if you pushed her too far. It just depended on who was asking. Nyala knew this because over the years, through the grapevine of old friends, it had trickled down that Christine had married well and with her inheritance and all, had made quite an impact on society in places where having lots of money counts. As Christine paraded herself around the area, head held high, in her made-to-order chambray lavender suit, Nyala wondered what personal values she’d sacrificed to become a someone who had to announce she was a lady.

As she approached her, Nyala couldn’t help but see the amount of makeup Christine had applied to her face, that part of her face she could see. The first thing you’re going to have to do is wash that stuff off your face, sister. You’re in Nashville, Tennessee, it’s August, it’s hot and that stuff will just melt off your face right onto your outfit. Understand?

Christine, startled, looked at the tall woman beside her, and responded, I’m sorry. What did you say?

Christine. I said. Go to the bathroom and wash that stuff off your face...

Nyala! Nyala Barnes! I should have known. Come here. They gave each other a brief hug. Now what were you saying? It’s so good to see you. My, you look good. Haven’t put on a pound. And that long black hair.

Christine. Seriously. It’s nearly a hundred outside. You really ought to get rid of that crap on your face before we go outside. Ladies bathroom. First stop! Nyala grabbed Christine’s arm and proceeded to walk her to the nearest bathroom when Christine protested.

Nya! Stop! You’re going to fast! I’m going to trip!

Nyala stopped, looked down at the stilettos and calmly said, Those are the first things we throw out.

It was as though twenty-two years had been but a day.

2

Waiting for the luggage to appear, Christine calmly asked, Do they call you Nyala or do your friends call you Nya like I do?

Nya. What should I call you? Now that you’re a lady of such high standing in Washington circles and such. Nyala looked straight ahead, never flinching, her thumbs in her pockets, waiting for the response that was sure to come.

Nya. Really. Christine leaned into Nyala. Whatever facial expression Christine was wearing couldn’t be seen because of the hat she was wearing. And Nya had had enough.

Give me that thing. It’s big enough to serve as an umbrella and it’s not raining! Nyala removed the hat from Christine’s head with a flourish and unceremoniously offered it to anyone who would have it. Hat, anyone? Christine immediately put her hands on her head as though her hair might fly away, giving Nyala a look as though she’d disgraced Her Royal Highness. Don’t look at me that way! You’ll get over it. You always do.

I can’t believe you did that!

Well. I did. Looking toward the noisy luggage rack brought forward for Mrs. Harrison, Nyala asked, Sissy, you plan on vacationing with me...or you plan on moving here? Nyala wasn’t sure how many pieces of luggage Sissy had brought with her but she was glad she had brought her pickup instead of her Jeep.

Would you help Sissy out the door with all that stuff, waving her arm over the suitcases and whatever else Sissy had packed that she couldn’t do without for two weeks, while I get the truck and bring it around. It’s not far. It’ll just take a minute or two.

The porter nodded affirmatively and Sissy gave a big smile. Oh, thank you so much. I could never push...or pull...or whatever you do...I could never...especially in these heels. The porter glanced at her shoes, gave Nyala a look of ‘Oh, my, I’m glad she’s yours’ while Nyala placed Sissy’s hat on top of the three suitcases.

We’ll be at the door, waiting. Main street level.

Just throw them in the back ahead of the bales. Nyala jumped up on the tailgate and pulled the two bales of hay that were in the bed of the truck so they would sit against the gate once it was closed. Had anyone asked, Nyala could’ve honestly said the bed had plenty of loose hay in it but wasn’t exactly dirty, just messy. And right on que, Sissy opened her mouth in front of God and country, letting everyone know that she was no ordinary traveler with just ordinary luggage.

What are you doing with my exquisite Neiman Marcus luggage? How thoughtless of you to throw them around like that...and to put them in the back of a...truck...stacking them like sacks of potatoes. My goodness! Just look at that mess! And the dust! I’ll never get them clean. I think I heard something break! Nya! Do something! Don’t just stand there! Do something!

While Sissy was carrying on, flailing her left arm around like Elizabeth Warren was doing on the campaign trail will running for president, Nyala rested her elbow on the edge of the bed of the truck until the porter was done loading Sissy’s stuff. People standing close were laughing and enjoying the charade of this pint-size would-be celebrity trying to be somebody she was not, at least not in this town.

Get in the truck, Sissy, unless you want to stay here. Thank you, sir. Nyala waved to the porter, after she discreetly handed him a tip.

How can I get in this truck? It’s much to high for me? Can someone help me? Everyone standing around just stood and watched. Oh, all right then.

Take those dang shoes off, throw them in the back, grab that handle on the door and hoist yourself in here. And give me that dang purse! Upon taking the bag from Sissy, Nyala asked, Does everyone carry a feedbag like everyone wears a hat...in Boston?

Getting into the truck was not a pretty sight but Sissy made it. Her face became a bit contorted when she thought she may have torn her dress but she said nothing. I’ve got a run in my nylons now. Are you happy? Even when we were younger you were always in a hurry. And now look! I’m just a mess!

Some of the people standing near the truck started to clap. The porter looked at Nyala, winked, and with a loud, boisterous voice, said, Welcome to Nashville, where nylons are a thing of the past and pickup trucks are here to stay.

People here are rude, Nya.

Nah. They’re not rude. Their just painfully truthful. And personally. I prefer it that way.

3

Leaving the terminal, driving toward Nyala’s townhome, the conversation became a little bit more normal. That was a pretty rough start after so many years being apart. You’ve changed so much, Sissy. You never used to wear makeup. Not that I remember. I don’t smell it but do you smoke as well?

Well. I never thought I’d see you driving a pickup truck, dressed in jeans and boots! What with the hay and all. Do you milk cows and ride horses too? My lord. What have we become?

After a moments time, driving along in silence, they both started to snicker. Nyala pulled over to the side of the highway and stopped, fearful of not being able to see the road through her tears of laughter. After gaining their composure, Nyala turned on the ignition and crawled back into traffic.

Pulling into her driveway, a gray and white cat sat by the garage door to the left as she pulled up to the door on the right. Single level, stone structure, with lots of windows, facing a treed park to the south, it fit the personality of what Nyala would want, Christine thought. The garage door to the left opened. Inside, on a rack built for three, sat two saddles, gleaming in the mid-morning sun, covered with mesh, now occupied by the same gray and white cat. On the asphalt surface next to the rack were several bridles, old and in need of repair. Next to them, sat a pair of tall, well-worn cowboy boots, smudged in what looked like mud or manure or something related to both. Just beyond that, sat a pristine little black Jeep. Next to the back wheel sat two red five gallon gas cans, with a pair of work gloves sitting on top of one.

Well. This is home, sister. At least for a couple days. Let’s go in and have ourselves a coffee.

Christine looked at the house and the small well-kept front yard, looked across at the area behind the right garage door and decided it was mostly for storage. She began to wonder what she’d walked into for the next few days. She knew Nyala lived a life completely different than hers but it was a life she chose just as she had chosen to marry an attorney who could handle her wealth and inheritance and provide her with the luxury and standing she’d become accustomed to growing up. The difference between them wasn’t important to them when they were young. They were children. They went to the same school, to the same church, to many of the same community activities. Nyala’s parents owned a popular and thriving combined bookstore and coffee edifice while Christine was the only offspring of old money.

Living in Rocksburg, West Virginia, just south of Charleston, provided both families a good living. In the late nineteen hundreds, Russell and Randy Barnes had met and married in a small town in southern Ohio before moving to Rocksburg. Within a couple years they built a bookstore across the street and two blocks west of the Rocksburg Medical Center and a year later added a high end restaurant, with a bridge connecting the two. A beautiful setting, having a menu with a variety of native quisines, served with a healthy dose of Christian hospitality, there was never a day that the Barnes establishment wasn’t filled with people looking for something to read or to eat.

It was where Nyala Barnes grew up. It was where Nyala learned to read. It was where Nyala learned to appreciate history, to value its impact on the present, and to apply what she learned toward the future. Away from their business, they led a very different life. Their home was located about four miles east of the bookstore, situated on Queen Ann Hill, a promontory named for no other reason than the fact that it existed. With neighbors on either side of them, they were not sequestered but neither could they hear each others’ bad manners. It was built of brick and stone with five columns that held up a porch on a second story that wasn’t there. The front lawn was sculptured with blooming flowers and bushes and several towering oak trees, with one massive weeping willow.

Rocksburg, West Virginia, being an old southern town, was built when money flowed freely between wealthy land owners, coal companies and the railroads. Depending on who came first, they built their homes on the highest piece of ground they found. And of course it had to have a name. Thus, Queen Ann Hill. Of the eleven families that eventually built their homes on the Hill back when Rocksburg was first founded, before the turn of the nineteenth century, all were still left standing and were still in remarkedly good shape. It was in one of these one-story homes that Nyala was raised in the genteel manner of her parents, where no ill was spoken of anyone, where the English language was held in high regard, where history was as important as eating three meals a day, where attending church kept their faith intact and their character and integrity righteous and where Nyala learned that wealth accumulated for only financial superiority was the devil’s doing. At home, they kept to themselves as most neighbors usually did after a days work but to those passing by no one would’ve guessed that they were the owners of the luxurious and prosperous Barnes establishment.

Three houses and a good deal of manicured property further east on Queen Ann Hill was the home of Christine Webster, the only child of Calvin Coolidge Webster and his wife, Audrey Hiliary. Their home was no taller than any of the others except that it was a two-story, painted white, with a small wing on either side, one for the kitchen and the other currently used for the master bedroom. Everyone in Rocksburg knew who lived in the white house on Queen Ann Hill. It could be seen for miles, depending on the trees and the direction from which you were coming. If one had to ask in town who lived in the house, they immediately knew you were a stranger from parts unknown.

The road that passed below the hill was now paved as were the driveways to all the homes. With the exception of the two of them, the families that occupied the other homes on the Hill worked regular jobs. A couple were school teachers, one was an electrician, one worked for the County and one was a pastor and his wife. But as far as Rocksburg residents were aware, no one had more income or had inherited more wealth than Calvin and Audrey Webster who lived in the white house on Queen Ann Hill.

4

Walking through the garage to get into the house, Christine said, It smells terrible in here. Gas fumes. Oil. What’s that other smell? Tip-toeing, without shoes, around the gas cans and Jeep, she walked across the open bay to the back door Nyala was holding open for her. Watching Christine try to avoid anything that would soil her dress while still looking around the garage, as though she were looking for something, made Nyala wonder if she and her husband had a chauffeur.

Hurry up, Sissy. How long has it been since you’ve driven a car? Or been in a garage?

Oh, I don’t know. You’d have to ask Lawrence?

When they were entering the kitchen through the mud room, Nyala was pondering. So you always call him Lawrence. Funny. Thought you might have a pet name for him. At least a short name or at least an endearing name for him since he’s your husband. She waited for a response. None came. Christine was too busy walking through the open kitchen-dining-living room to pay any attention to what Nyala was muttering about. Nyala stood against the kitchen counter, watching her, wondering what the heck she must be thinking. Compared to what Christine must be living in, her quarters must be a real shock to her senses. Nyala could’ve cared less. A house was a house. It was a place to live, to sleep, to eat, to return to after a day’s work. If it had a kitchen, a bedroom and a bathroom, it had everything for Nyala to survive. Since you’re headed that way, I’ll show you to your bedroom.

How am I going to get all my things in here, Nya. It’s so small! Christine walked around the bed with her arms outstretched. This room...this room is smaller than my closet!

Sissy! We’ll bring your luggage in here, you’ll unpack your shoes, clothes, etc. and place them on the bed and we’ll decide what you’ll need while you’re here. With that said, Nyala turned and left. When she returned with two pieces of luggage, Christine was not in her bedroom.

Sissy? What’s in these bags? Something’s making noise and something smells! No answer. Sissy? Where are you? With the bags on the floor, Nyala found Sissy looking in the master bedroom closet, doors open wide.

Nya! You have no clothes! What on earth do you wear? You...you have jeans...scads of jeans...in just about every color. Pressed, no less! Blouses, all plain. Ugh! And shoes! My lord, Nya. What would your mother say if she saw your clothes. Boots and more boots. How can you dress so cheap!

Nyala wlked over to Christine and very gently closed the closet doors and moved her over to the door leading to the hall. First of all, what are you doing in my bedroom? Second. What business is it of yours what I wear? Third. My mother had no trouble whatsoever with what I chose to wear. And lastly. The price tag for those clothes and boots you saw in my closet would put the price of your exquisite Neiman Marcus luggage to shame. Now! Start unpacking. Something in your bags has died and you need to bury it. Get to it!

Christine sat on the edge of her bed, worried about what had become of her friend in the intervening years they’d been apart.

Nyala prayed, looking toward the ceiling, and tripped over Christine’s feedbag.

5

You told me to line them up, so I did.

Nyala stood at the end of the bed, hands on her hips, looking down at seven pair of high heels, all in different colors, all neatly wrapped in cellophane bags. So. One for each day of the week. Dresses to match, I presume. Just out of curiosity, any slacks, tights, shorts, anything comfortable you have. Like slippers?

Tights?

Tights! Leggings. Like nylons. You know. Only lighter, maybe colored, tighter. You only need a shirt to wear with them. They’re very comfortable. I’m sure you’ve seen them, Sissy. Looking at Christine’s face, she added, You want me to draw you a picture?

Oh, I’ve seen those things. Lawrence would just die if I wore something like that. Christine smothered a laugh, as though it was an impolite gesture, something that would’ve been unappreciated in certain circles of society. Nyala, on the other hand, had other ideas.

We’re going shopping. When you’re done hanging up you’re stuff… and throw those hats under the bed...I’ll find some clothes around here suitable for you to wear to town and we’re going to buy you some clothes that you can wear while your staying with me. Nyala left the room and walked toward the kitchen. So don’t dilly-dally. There’s nobody here to wait on you and time is a wasting. You want a bite to eat? I’m having a sandwich. You want one? No