I was looking forward to seeing Leland and catching up before the rest of the group arrived. When I got there, Leland and Uncle Doc were putting the final touches on the food and seemed involved in their preparations and conversations. I asked if I could help, and they both gave me a firm yet polite no. So I kept myself busy by wandering around Leland’s condo to see if he had purchased anything new since my last visit.
I loved Leland’s place. It had been decorated by the same woman who had created just the right balance of intimacy and personal comfort at his downtown office. Andrea (she gave only her first name) had met Leland at Uncle Doc’s when Leland was opening up his practice and she was just beginning to build an impressive reputation as one of Chicago’s finest interior designers. She had come into the restaurant trying to convince Uncle Doc to become one of her clients, but instead she had become one of Uncle Doc’s regular customers. Leland told her to give up any hopes of changing Miss Thing’s Wings’ decor, because the only decorating done there would be by the original Miss Thing herself—Uncle Doc.
When Leland bought this upscale condo in Chicago’s Streeterville area, he was lucky to get Andrea to work on both his office and condo at a reasonable price. I don’t know if they did any bartering, you know, a few free sessions on his couch for a room, since Leland never really talked about who his patients were. I do know that she talked with Leland for hours over a three-week period, getting as close to him as he would allow. Assuming he let her in, Andrea discovered that my friend was a complex, sensitive man given to reflective thought. He had a quiet need for order and harmony in all things and cherished books, singers, and his solitude.
Leland had told Andrea he knew his way around the kitchen but had no real passion for cooking. Uncle Doc and I were the most frequent visitors to his home, and we usually spent hours talking in the kitchen. So she remodeled the sterile white kitchen with oak cabinets, terra-cotta countertops and floor, and a copper-plated refrigerator and oven. He installed hand-painted ceramic tiles with African symbols in the breakfast nook, where two tall chairs were tucked beneath a small oak table. Colorful woven baskets dotted the walls above the stainless-steel double sink and the six-burner stove and grill. An antique oak hutch displayed brightly colored china, cups, and a collection of lacquered gourds. Gourmet appliances and copper cookware were purchased more for Uncle Doc’s use than Leland’s.
Leland did little entertaining except for the occasional visiting colleague, the quarterly group meetings, and the rare romantic dinners he told me about. He wanted his home to be a comfortable reflection of what he had accomplished in life without being pretentious.
I loved the parquet floors laid throughout the condo and the creamy white walls. The furniture was a combination of European woodwork and African textiles that created a striking effect of sophistication, warmth, and comfort.
Each of us in the group had our own favorite spot in Leland’s living room. I always nestled down into the corner in one of the deep-cushioned caramel-colored sofas that formed a semicircle in front of the brick fireplace. I’d snuggle up with one of the mud-cloth throw pillows where I could appreciate the carved Yoruba figures that lined the mantelpiece. Most times I’d kick off my shoes and rest my legs on the glass-topped Ashanti stool that served as a coffee table.
Dwight always anchored himself on one of the wood- and leather-backed chairs that flanked the sofas. From this vantage point, he could see past the tall palms potted in beaded baskets and the mahogany cabinet that held Leland’s high-tech stereo system, and into the entryway. I think he sits there in his defensive position so he can see who’s entering the room at all times.
Riley always sits center stage, claiming the entire middle sofa as her own. Leland usually sat on the antique Moroccan trunk beside the fireplace, facing the other members of the group.
Whenever Leland allows newcomers a tour of his home, the bedroom seems to draw the most praise. The headboard and frame of the massive bed were carved African mahogany. The thick down comforter and oversized pillows were fashioned from patterned African textiles of indigo and brown. A moody, unframed portrait of a male nude on the opposite wall was reflected in the large framed mirror over the bed. Black lacquered end tables posed at either side of the bed, a small French sculpture on one, a black glass reading lamp on the other. The door to the left of the bed opened into Leland’s spacious walk-in closet, which in turn led into the master bath.
I could still hear the sounds of food frying and Leland’s and Uncle Doc’s voices, so I walked into Leland’s small study. It was his sanctuary. A large L-shaped ebony desk and buffalo hide swivel chair dominated the space. A credenza stood against the wall behind the desk, covered with assorted framed photographs of friends and family, old photo albums, his Hampton degree, and his journals. A John Biggers painting of a father and son filled the wall space behind the credenza. His desk was cluttered with orderly stacks of file folders, magazines, trade publications, and mail. Well-worn psychiatry texts stood between carved elephant-head bookends I had given him, to the right of a computer and keypad. Most prominent on Leland’s desk was a silver-framed photo of a smiling Donald with his arm around Leland’s shoulders. A deep, red-based Oriental rug stretched from between the desk and bookcases to the worn leather couch against the shuttered windows. A brass floor lamp stood at attention next to the couch and end table that held the CD player. It was there that Leland like to sit and read or, I imagine, just sit and think. He once told me that sometimes he just sat in this room and stared at the picture of him and Donald, so happy, so long ago.
But despite the intimacy, comfort, and warmth of Leland’s home, it was a study in contradiction. There was a vague sadness in the air, a sense of something missing, something lost.
While I was standing in the den thinking tenderly about Donald’s last year of life, Leland walked in and hugged me from behind and whispered, “What you thinking about, doll? That new man?”
I turned and faced him and kissed him on the cheek and said, “No, baby-boy. I was thinking about you and Donald. I was missing him. How are you doing?”
“I’m all right now that everything’s ready. Uncle Doc cooked up some food. You’re going to have to take some of this stuff home, and I’m going to take some down to the homeless shelter,” he said.
“That sounds like a plan. What time is it?”
Leland looked at his watch and said, “It’s almost show time. Come on in the kitchen and let me see if Uncle Doc needs any help.”
The two of us walked down the hallway into the kitchen, where Uncle Doc was removing his apron and surveying the buffet of chicken, ribs, and sides of baked beans, slaw, and potato salad. Positioned in the center of the table was a beautiful white coconut cake with strawberries dotting the edges. He heard the two of us walking close to him, and he turned and greeted me with a big smile and hug. “Hey, baby-girl. How ya doing?”
“I’m fine, Uncle Doc. Everything looks great.”
“And look at you. You look fabulous,” he said as he pulled for my hands and turned me in a circle like ring around the roses and gave me the Uncle Doc seal of approval.
“That new man better know what he’s got hold of.”
“I remind him every chance I get,” I teased.
“You do that doll, and don’t forget to see if he has an older brother or a daddy that can appreciate an old southern gal like myself,” Uncle Doc joked.
“I can’t believe you don’t have people knocking down your door. I mean as sweet as you are and the way you cook,” I said.
“Please don’t encourage him,” Leland said.
“The kids ain’t lookin’ for sweet these days, doll. They like them rough and tumble men. It ain’t like it use to be,” Uncle Doc said. “But enough about me. I’m getting out of here before your guests arrive. Now, remember, Leland, there is plenty of extra sauce and some more wings and ribs sitting in the oven. All you have to do is pull it out and dump them in the platter. But if you don’t think y
ou can do that, I can still have Thelma come over and help. The old gal should just now be gettin’ home from church,” he said as he looked at the gold watch on his thin wrist.
“I’ll be fine, Uncle. I’ll call you later on this evening so we can finish our conversation,” Leland said.
“Yeah, you do that,” Uncle Doc said as he headed toward the front door. Just as Leland was closing the door, the buzzer rang and the doorman announced that Riley and Dwight were in the lobby. Leland gave me a warm smile as he told the doorman to send them up. He then clapped his hands and said, “Let the games begin!”
The meeting started with Dwight suggesting that we either move the meeting to Sunday evening or Friday night since the football season had started. Every year we went through this with him, and although we usually conceded, it was three to one in favor of changing the meeting time. Since John had entered my life, I too was in favor of the change, despite John saying he was going to attend only games he was paid to cover.
Before we started to read from the journals, we talked about the recent Olympics, with Riley saying how sad she was that Dominique Dawes, the beautiful Black gymnast, had fallen during her individual events. Riley shared that she had been depressed for a couple of days after her events. Her statement led me to pose a question to the group.
“Why is it that we—meaning Black folks—take on the disappointment of people we don’t even know. I know every time I hear about some tragic crime on television, I immediately begin praying … please, God, don’t let them be Black,” I said.
“I’m a card-carrying member of that club,” Leland said. Riley and Dwight were silent.
“I remember when Debi Thomas was in the Winter Olympics some years ago. Honey, we had a major party the night she skated. I think it was about twenty-five of us all gathered around the television set, waiting for Miss Debi to beat that Katarina chick. But when Debi slipped on her ass in the first couple of minutes, the room was silent like somebody had died,” I said.
“I remember that,” Leland said. “I was at a Black gay bar in the Village in New York that night, and everybody was watching the television and it got dead quiet in there when she fell. A couple of the kids even had tears in their eyes.”
“It’s because we put so much hope in them. Like their success validates us as Black people,” Dwight said. “And that ain’t right. It’s like we need to succeed in white folks’ eyes to feel good about ourselves.”
“I don’t agree,” Riley said. “I just want them to do well.”
“I know one thing. I’m already sick of that little Miss broke-leg Kerri whatsherface,” Leland laughed.
“I know that’s right,” I said as I gave him a high-five.
“See … we shouldn’t feel bad for Dominique. She was the real star. If it hadn’t been for her, the U.S. team never would have won the gold medal. She was the top scorer for the team on the night of the finals. But does the media point that out? Hell no! They had already won the medal before the little munchkin made her vault. But the great white hope hobbles away the star. Making all the bank,” Dwight said.
“Dominique was the top scorer? Are you sure?” Riley asked.
“Yes, she was. But you wouldn’t read it in the papers,” Dwight said.
“See, I didn’t even know that,” Leland said. “I be damned. Learn something new every day.”
We moved from the Olympics to our journals with Dwight reading something about his job. It sounded like he was headed for serious trouble, and I was wondering how he had managed to stay in corporate America so long with his strong feelings about white folks. Maybe it was because despite his personality problems, Dwight was a brilliant man. At Hampton, Dwight finished in the top five of our class, but very few people knew it until graduation because he didn’t talk a lot about himself. The only way I knew was because Kelli was bragging on what a great catch Dwight was, and predicting how much money he would make.
Riley read something about how much fun she was having on the Internet in the chat areas and exchanging poetry with people she had met through her computer. She seemed happy and didn’t mention her singing. We all tried to encourage her, but Dwight warned her about all the weirdos on the net, and made her promise not to give her name or phone number to anybody she met through her computer. It was really touching to see Dwight acting like a big brother toward Riley. He really seemed concerned. And Riley thanked him for his advice. She didn’t say she was going to follow it, but her thanks sounded sincere.
Leland shared something about some famous political person cruising him at one of the parties I had taken him to during the Democratic Convention. He wouldn’t give any names but said we all knew him and would be totally blown away. We all blushed as Leland read from his journal about what the mysterious politician had in mind for him. Riley kept quizzing him for clues, while Dwight’s only comment was he knew for sure it wasn’t the now-jailed former Chicago congressman Mel Reynolds or one of his heroes, Louis Farrakhan. Leland quipped, “I’m Catholic, but I ain’t a schoolgirl.”
I read one of the entries I had written after helping John prepare for his first announcing gig. I told them how much fun it had been and how it had opened my eyes to another market I could attack when I was able to hire more personnel. Dwight joked he might be looking for a job and looked me dead in the face, then asked would I hire him. I smiled and said, “Of course, bro man, I’d hire you in a heartbeat.”
After taking a break to eat some of Uncle Doc’s delicious grub, I thought we would enter some affirmations in the group journal. But Riley had brought those cards and convinced everyone it was time to pull a card. We were having such a good time, and it seemed we were all feeling the same, because nobody protested. Not even Dwight, who offered to go first.
He pulled a card and handed it to Leland, since he was the host. “If you could ask God one question, what would it be?”
“That’s easy. I’d ask if we Black people get any extra credit for putting up with white folks and all their shit while we down here on earth,” he said confidently. I thought it was funny and started laughing, but Riley in a very serious tone asked Dwight if he believed in God.
“Of course I do. My mama had me in church every Sunday ever since I can remember. I think you’d have to be pretty stupid to believe man could be responsible for some of the wonderful things life has to offer. Like nature and good people you’re fortunate enough to know and love.” When he said this, he looked toward me and gave me a sweet, almost sensual smile. It made me slightly uncomfortable, but I smiled back.
“Aren’t you asking for some type of affirmative action from God?” Leland asked.
I thought his question would change Dwight’s pleasant mood, but it didn’t. He just answered Leland’s question without his normal defensive tone. “Not if you believe in a God that’s fair. We know life here on earth hasn’t been fair for a lot of people of color. So it has to be a more equitable way in heaven. To me that’s not asking for special treatment,” Dwight said.
“But what about white people who go through suffering themselves? Shouldn’t they get some extra credit for their pain?” Riley asked.
“You’ve already had your question, Mrs. Woodson, but I’m feeling charitable today, so I’ll answer you. God will have to decide if they deserve consideration or if they’re paying the debt of some evil they committed before their bad luck.”
“Let’s go to the next person. Riley took my question,” I said. I wasn’t going to tempt fate by asking Dwight if he would worship with whites if he thought that would get him to heaven.
Riley pulled the next card and passed it to Leland. He smiled before he read the question. “Riley, your question is: What lesson has love taught you?” Riley looked at Leland and then around the room. She was silent for a moment, and then in a very eerie voice she said, “That forever isn’t as long as it used to be.” The three of us gazed at Riley for a few moments, and then I asked her if she believed you fall in love—real love—only one
time.
“I think we’re lucky if it happens that often,” Riley answered.
“Do you think you need it to survive?” Dwight asked.
“I don’t know about most people, but it’s the one dream in my life that’s never changed. To have someone love me as much as I love them,” Riley said solemnly.
“Don’t you think it best to have someone love you just a little bit more than you love them?” Leland asked.
“I don’t think that’s fair,” Riley said. Now it was my turn. I pulled a card from the bag and handed it to Leland. “This must be the love-questions day,” he said as he read the card. “Yolanda—what are the three most important things you look for in a potential spouse?”
“That’s easy … the triple H,” I said, laughing, because I knew they wouldn’t understand my secret code.
“What’s the triple H?” Leland asked.
“Honesty … humor … head—and not necessarily in that order,” I said.
“You’re some kinda crazy,” Leland said.
“And you know it. First question.”
“Since honesty is something you look for, please tell me why most women fall in love so easily with liars?” Dwight asked.
“Probably ’cause men are so good at lying,” I snapped.
“Yolanda,” Leland said.
“Yes, baby?”
“Do you think it better to give or receive?”
“I assume you’re talking about trait number three. Both,” I said. Riley had this disapproving look on her face. I started to tell her she should try it before she turned her nose up at it. Maybe that would bring Selwyn back to her side of the bed.
“Would you marry somebody who possessed only one of those traits?” Riley asked.
“Absolutely not.”
Leland handed the bag to a surprised Dwight and pulled out a card and placed it in his hand and instructed him to read it.
“Aw, man … this is an easy one. I wish I had gotten this one. Name your favorite actress,” Dwight said.
If This World Were Mine Page 12
