E. Claudette Freeman
Nightmares, religion gone awry and a husband with a secret that is slowly coming to light – they all combine in this powerful story. Crystal Houston is being tortured by recurring dreams that she believes are pointing to something too close to her. What her reporter’s inquisitiveness leads her to will test her faith, her love for her husband and may even threaten her life. Her investigation will uncover a world of violence and rampant sexual abuse cloaked in religion. More importantly her investigation may reveal that her world is dangerously aligned with what she’s found out.
E. Claudette Freeman is the President/Creative Director of So ME Creative. She is also the author of two collections of short stories: PIECES AND ME. A COLLECTION OF LIFE and THE STUFF THAT WAKES UP AT NIGHT (a work in progress) and the inspirational journal THE MORNING HOUR; additionally she has authored/produced three literary CDs: DRAMA EXPOSED, FOR THE BROTHA YOU ARE and SPIRIT AWAKENED and penned several plays two which garnered recognition in the Quest Theater Loften Mitchell Playwrights Festival competition. Freeman has two boys, her son Isaiah Langston-Michael Freeman and nephew, Douglas Tirrell Freeman, Jr.
I stood at the door of the bedroom taking in the coolness of the room. For whatever reason, it seemed that the normal 72 setting on the central air conditioner blew chillier than normal. I suddenly noticed that the feng-shui of the room was exceptional. Remodeled to make me comfortable and relaxed in every corner; I smiled as I saw the gazebo peeping through the blinds. When they were pulled back the picture window revealed a line of orange and mango trees, and a flower garden that lifted sweet fragrances at various times of the year. This were trees that I’m sure had some history. Grand limbs touched each other like they were beckoning each other to dance. The fruit, when born in their season, was always plump and sweet. Though I do not like mangoes, I’ve discovered that they are a wonderful aphrodisiac to a man that does enjoy their taste. I remember when I was younger, we had an orange tree in our back yard. It never really got big, not like the huge grapefruit tree we had, but it always bore oranges just the way I like them. Truly the best oranges are those that are not sweet enough to raise your diabetes level, but those not tart enough to cause your lips to pucker. The best oranges were the ones that were kissed by the sugar angels just so and then hugged by the juice angels just a pinch.
The oranges, I thought as I enjoyed the site of the blossoms, would be in soon and I would get a kick out of squeezing them for breakfast or sitting in the gazebo and eating them. There have been times since we’ve moved into this hidden area of Miami Lakes or the Country Club of Miami, depending on who you ask with its mini-palaces and delicate mix of old school Anglo and Hispanic money, with up and coming Black money and a comical mix of bourgeois, hip hop and Janet and P-Diddy-wanna-be teenagers; that I’ve literally eaten four or five oranges back to back sitting in that gazebo. Then I’d stop just before number six because I could hear my mother yelling from the window, “Crystal gal you gone ruin your dinner and be sick at best, put them things back on the tree and get in here.” Putting them back on the tree would stomp me for a good hour until I was about 10 and finally figured out you couldn’t put them back - it was simply my mom’s way of putting my eating attention on to something else.
My girl Maggie says all the time, “you couldn’t get your average white plastic kind of gazebo - no - yours would have to look exotic like something out of Caribbean or African travel magazines. What is this tooth picks on steroids?” It did look that way, but the gazebo, which was wonderfully crafted with bamboo poles, had to compliment the flow of the trees. Surely, I thought, the essence of blossoms, orange and red and orange fruit would be lost as art playing above a simple white plastic structure. They all had a purpose. That purpose - simply celebrate the fact that you are part of a tremendous painted canvas that God himself constantly re-creates.
Even when it rained, I could enjoy the quiet welcoming vibe of a gazebo. All I had to do was recline in the soft leather chair that sat next to the window. The view to garden and gazebo, in fact the garden and gazebo themselves, were my come to Jesus place. The place where I could sit and often times without saying a word, bear my soul to The Wonder. This is the no pretense place. No matter what else is happening in the seven bedrooms, the living room that I still think is way too big, the kitchen that my husband says belongs in a house with a cook staff, or the four bathrooms - one of which doesn’t really know it’s a bathroom - it’s more like a sink room. This sink room is actually where I’ve begun to hide the stuff I buy that I need to sneak into the house gradually.
