If This World Were Mine

by E. Lynn Harris

  So, I’m just sitting there like a stone, listening to Dan and Myron trying to convince me to take this job, when Myron looked at me and said, “Dwight, I’ve heard a lot of great things about you. And the job is yours if you want it. But I think there is something you should know about me, since it looks like we’ll be working very closely. We have big plans for expansion in the data processing arena.” I was thinking, what is he getting ready to tell me, that he’s white? I could see that. That he was Jewish? The name gave that away and I didn’t have a problem with that either. So I looked at Myron and said, “I’m listening.” And Myron said, “We have a family environment at MedMac … and, well … I’m gay. Will that be a problem for you?” I looked at Myron and then at Dan, cupped my hand over my mouth to hide my grin, and said, “No, I don’t have a problem with that.” And the funny and strange thing for me was, I really didn’t care. There was no twitching, my heart didn’t quicken, and sweat didn’t soak my neck. All I could think was these two men had enough faith in me to offer me a chance of a lifetime. Man oh man, wouldn’t Yolanda and Leland be proud of me. And of course, Sarah and Scooter would be proud too!

  I’m finally starting to believe Leland will be just fine. I hope our friendship will be the same, if not stronger. The doctors say Leland is still not out of the woods yet, but I believe in something higher than the doctors. My faith. Something I hadn’t given the attention I should and need to. It’s not like I stopped believing in God or anything like that, I didn’t. It’s just with my business and all, I got sidetracked with my time commitments. I was working six days a week, so on Sunday instead of going to church I stayed in bed. I know I need church to reinforce my faith. I had always gone to church, but with each new client I signed, church became a lower priority. My mother and father wouldn’t be happy about that either. Sybil reminded me of how whenever we ran into a problem, Mama always used to say, “Give it to God. He can handle it.” When both my parents died, the grief was unbearable. Even with Sybil for support I didn’t know how I would survive without my parents. But I did. I gave it to God. And even though I don’t remember the day when the pain left, it did. I was able to accept my parents were in a better place, together forever.

  So that’s what I’ve done with Leland’s health and our friendship. I’ve given it to God, and it seems he’s sent me an angel to make sure I know he will take care of Leland. The funny thing is, I never thought Dwight would be that angel. He has been so supportive and understanding. Allowing me to talk when I need to talk, and cry when the tears just come. When the doctors were holding information on Leland’s condition, I imagined the worst. But when Dwight told me Leland would be fine, I believed him. I don’t know why, maybe it was the way he said it. He seemed so sure of what he was saying to me. I’m praying he doesn’t take the job in D.C., but if he does, I will definitely go and visit. If he invites me. The job opportunity in D.C. really sounds like a good one. And Dwight deserves a break.

  The other night Dwight and I were sitting in the hospital waiting room, just talking about life. How Leland’s tragedy had made all of us take a look at life. How short and precious it could be. How when we were at Hampton we were convinced life would always be as fun as a greek show, a slamming party, or a walk alongside Hampton Creek with that someone special. I don’t know, but since Dwight came back from D.C., his face looks younger, like he has not only changed internally, but physically as well. Maybe the tension he used to always carry with him has vanished and took some years with it. He laughs a lot now (mostly at the ebonics jokes he tells me when I look depressed), and when he does, his eyes appear to sparkle like stars against a dark sky. When we talk, I don’t want the conversations to ever end. But when Leland leaves the hospital, I’m afraid the late night talks just might.

  I also know when Leland gets better, I’ll have to deal with John. I need him to understand that friendship is the only thing I can offer. I can’t believe he’s still calling, sending flowers and expensive gifts. Just a few days ago I noticed a large box inside my apartment. The office management people told me it had been delivered by FedEx, and that some gentleman had called and asked them to put it in my apartment. When I opened it, I realized it was a beautiful Verna Hart painting I had admired when John and I had visited a New Orleans art gallery. The certification papers informed me I was now the owner of a limited edition serigraph entitled “Bass Walkin,” a colorful painting of three African American jazz players. It would fit perfectly in my living room, with its blue and red coloring, that is, if I decide to keep it. I think I’m going to call the gallery and find out the price and then send John a check for the amount. He has to know he can’t buy my love and affection. But right now John and the painting will have to wait.

  Chapter 33

  Days passed. Then weeks, and I still hadn’t talked with Yolanda. I was exhausted waiting for a call that would not come. There were many days when I felt myself drifting back into my tunnel of gloom. I needed to talk with Yolanda. I knew if I could talk to her in person, or even at length on the phone, I could convince her to give me another chance. Yolanda was the type of woman capable of love and forgiveness. All she needed was a little time. Part of me is trippin’ out, wondering why I don’t just move on. If Yolanda doesn’t want to give me another chance, then I should say to hell with you. Get to skippin’, Miss Lady. But I can’t.

  It was a couple of days before Thanksgiving, and I was still counting on her to go to Detroit and meet my father and aunt. With the exception of Chase, I never wanted my father and aunt to meet a lady I was serious about. Mainly because my father and aunt didn’t think there was a woman good enough for me, which was probably true. They didn’t meet Vickie until after we were married.

  I figured something had happened to Yolanda’s friend Leland from the updates she left on her answering machine and with her assistant Monica. “This is Yolanda, and I have had a family emergency and won’t be available to return your messages promptly. If this call is regarding my services, please contact my assistant, Monica, at Media Magic. Have a blessed day and pray for Leland.” At least, it seemed he was out of danger, and I was hopeful Yolanda would soon be answering her phone. While I was waiting for a food delivery, I decided to give her one more try. My fifth call today alone. I was startled when she answered the phone on the first ring.

  “Hello?” Her voice sounded tired, but sweet.

  “Yolanda baby, this is John. How are you doing?”

  “I’m doin’. I got your messages, but I guess you’ve heard about Leland,” Yolanda said.

  “Yes, I heard your messages, and Monica mentioned it when I called your office. How is he doing?”

  “Better. He came home two days ago. Thank God, it looks like he’s out of danger.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. Girl, you don’t know how hard I’ve been trying to get with you. We need to talk,” I said.

  “John, I don’t know what we have to talk about. I think I’ve told you where I stand. Besides the obvious, I have to make sure I’m here if Leland needs me, and I’ve got to get my business back on track,” Yolanda said.

  “I understand. But I think there are some things we need to talk about. I don’t think you know the whole story,” I said.

  “John, look, I’m not trying to be a you-know-what. But I don’t think we have anything to discuss in terms of a relationship. Maybe after some time has passed, we can try and start a friendship. I don’t think I have a problem offering my friendship. But now I don’t even have time for that. I don’t begrudge you for being gay.”

  “Yolanda, dammit! I told you I’m not gay. I’m not even bisexual. That’s why we got to talk. Please let me come to Chicago. Let me pick you up and drive you to Detroit for the holidays. It sounds like you need to get away for a while,” I pleaded. I didn’t mean to raise my voice, but I had to make her understand. Things were not what they seemed.

  “Thanks, but no thanks. I’ve already made plans. Look, my other line is ringing. Maybe we can talk
at the beginning of the year.”

  “Yolanda, please, baby. I need to share some things with you.”

  “I’m not the one, John.” I didn’t think Yolanda was being cold, she was just direct, but I didn’t want to hear this.

  “Yolanda, I love you. I mean that. I really love you. Please give me another chance,” I said.

  “Good-bye, John. Give your family my best.” And then a dial tone.

  I was so mad, I slammed the wall phone down so hard, it crashed to the kitchen floor. “Goddammit, dammit,” I yelled. My body was tight and tense and I felt a rush of anger pass over me. The kitchen felt dim, dismal, and gray, like a storm cloud was hovering right about the stove.

  When I heard someone knocking at my door, I was thinking who in the fuck could this be, knocking on my door unannounced. If it’s the mofo Monty, I’m kicking his ass from here to Hollywood, I thought.

  When I opened the door, this short Chinese guy was standing there with my food delivery.

  “Who let you up here without calling?” I demanded. He looked at me like I was crazy.

  “Sir, sir. We called. The phone just ring. Doorman said it was okay.”

  “How much is it?” I asked. Instead of kicking Monty’s ass, I needed to kick some doorman’s ass. If it hadn’t been for the damn doorman, I wouldn’t be begging Yolanda to give me a second chance. The delivery guy didn’t tell me what I owed. He handed me a greasy yellow slip with $27.96 written in blue. I reached in my jean pockets and quickly realized that I had only ten dollars in cash.

  “Do you take credit cards?” I asked, looking at him like I dare you to say no.

  “Yes, sir,” he mumbled while looking down at his well-worn gym shoes.

  “What kind? Do you take American Express?”

  “Yes.”

  I pulled my American Express card from my wallet and placed it in his open hand. He looked frightened as he pulled a small credit card machine from the red box that transported the food.

  I signed the receipt and slammed the door. Now I wasn’t hungry. While I was putting the card back in my wallet, I noticed a business card. When I pulled the card out, there it was: Raymond Winston Tyler, Jr., Attorney-at-Law. Below the numbers designated as office and fax was a handwritten number with an H at the end. That’s who I needed to talk with: Raymond would understand my rage.

  But I couldn’t call Raymond right away, not when I was this angry. I put on my Brownstone CD, started humming the song “If You Love Me.” I ate some wonton soup, shrimp fried rice, dipped an egg roll in some sweet and sour sauce, and drank a beer. My order included some sweet and sour pork, but after pouring it on a plate I decided I was full. Again, I had an urge to call Raymond. Maybe he would understand what I was going through. What I was feeling.

  I went to my bedroom and picked up the phone and began to dial Raymond’s number. Just before I hit the last number I heard my call-waiting beep. Maybe it was Yolanda. “Hello.”

  “Basil?” It was my dad.

  “Hey Dad, whatsup?”

  “I’m doing okay, son. Did I catch you at a bad time?”

  “Not really. I was making a call. It can wait.” I sat down on the bed and tried to breathe slowly, I didn’t want Dad knowing I was upset.

  “What day are you and your lady getting to Detroit?”

  “I don’t know. Right now that’s up in the air.”

  “Why? You are coming, aren’t you?”

  “I think so. But Yolanda might not be with me. We’ve got some problems to work out. I might just skip Detroit and bring her down to Jacksonville for Christmas,” I said.

  “I need you to come on up to Detroit, son. I need a favor.” I knew this meant he needed to borrow some money, which was cool. My dad usually didn’t ask to borrow anything unless he really needed it. He owned his truck and rig, but sometimes business was slow around winter.

  “What’s wrong? Is business slow? Sure, I can spot you a loan.”

  “Business is doing all right. Matter fact, so good I’m taking off a couple weeks in December and January,” my dad said.

  “So, did you meet some nice new lady and you gonna take her on a cruise?”

  “Naw, son. It’s my brother who needs the help. Your uncle Mac. He’s got cancer, son, and he doesn’t have insurance.”

  Uncle Mac was the last person I wanted to loan money or help. I had to stall while I thought of an excuse to say no. “Why doesn’t he have insurance?”

  “I don’t know that. But I told him not to worry. We would work this out. He didn’t want me to ask you for the money. But Lois doesn’t have it, and I told him you’d be happy to help out.” I bet he didn’t want my dad to ask me for shit. It was amazing my dad didn’t know how much I despised his younger brother.

  “I don’t know if I can do that. What kind of cancer does he have?”

  “I think it’s prostate. The doctors say if they operate they’ll be able to get it before it’s too late.”

  “I have to think about it, Dad. Most of my money is tied up with investments. I’m trying to buy a new apartment. I’m sort of on a fixed income.” I had the money and would give it to my dad in a heartbeat, but not Uncle Mac.

  “Can you talk to your people? I really need you to do this. Your uncle really needs your help.”

  “I’ll get back to you, Dad. I’ve got a call to make.” This would have to wait until I changed Yolanda’s mind. She was my priority, not my good-for-nothing uncle.

  “When?”

  “When what?”

  “When can you let me know something? They want to schedule the surgery right after Thanksgiving.”

  “A couple of days.”

  “That might be too late,” he said.

  I started to say that’s too goddamn bad, but I was firm and said, “It’s the best I can do.”

  “Are you all right, Basil?” he asked with a puzzled voice.

  “I’m cool. I’ve got to go,” I replied as I hung up quickly. I didn’t mean to be rude, but what did he know about me, about any of this? Since when did he care about what I’m feeling and not about what I’m earning. I picked the phone back up and dialed Raymond’s number again. I was burning with anger. How dare my dad ask me to help this dumb mofo! Dumb-ass didn’t have any insurance. It would serve him right if his ass died for being so dumb.

  After a couple of rings, a man answered the phone. It wasn’t Raymond. I started to hang up, but the man said, “Hello … hello … is anyone there?”

  “Yeah, I’m sorry. Is Raymond Tyler there?”

  “Sure, can I tell him who’s calling?” What kinda shit was this, I was thinking. Ole boy sounded like a bitch making sure ain’t some other woman calling her man.

  “Tell him it’s Mr. Henderson from New York City,” I said firmly.

  “Hold on.” Yeah, I thought, you hold on, mofo.

  “Hello.” This was Raymond.

  “Mr. Tyler. How ya doing? Guess who?”

  “Whatsup, Basil,” Raymond said.

  “So you remember my voice? See, I knew you wouldn’t forget me,” I teased.

  “What was it, a couple of months ago when I saw you? I did give you my number. I expected at some point you might use it,” Raymond said.

  I didn’t recall Raymond being so cocky, but I liked it. “So is that yo boy who answered the phone? I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

  “That was Trent. And I’m not worried about any trouble.”

  “All right, then,” I said as I stood up and turned open the miniblinds. A milky light filled the room.

  “So what did I do to deserve this call?” Raymond asked.

  “I guess you just a lucky so-’n’-so,” I said.

  “It was good seeing you. How’s your lady friend?”

  “That’s up in the air right now,” I said.

  “I see. So you coming back to the other side?” Raymond asked.

  “No way, nohow. That’s not why I’m calling. I thought I was going to need your legal help. But right
now things are changing,” I said, replaying the conversation with my father.

  “Are you in some sort of trouble?” Raymond asked.

  “Not right now. But I could be,” I said. I knew I was being mysterious, but I was still trying to decide if I could talk with Raymond.

  “What are you talking about, Basil?”

  “I thought I might have to kill somebody,” I said.

  “You’re joking, right?”

  “Naw, I’m serious as a heart attack.”

  “Man, whatsup with that? Are you still tripping on the violence tip?” Raymond asked.

  “What are you talkin’ about?” I asked.

  “Man, how soon we forget. Remember the last time I had to help you out legally? I’ve forgotten his name, but you know what I’m talking about. The young gay man you beat up for telling the truth,” Raymond said.

  I started to hang up on his ass, but instead I said, “Man, that’s cold. I don’t remember that mofo’s name.” I added, “And if I kill this mofo, it would be for a good reason.”

  “There is no good reason for killing anyone. You know that. I can’t believe you’re serious.” I heard somebody in the background, and Raymond continued. “And I’ve got to get out of here. Trent and I are getting ready to go to the movies.” I started to say how sweet, but instead I asked, “So you wouldn’t help an old friend out?”

  “Have you killed anyone?”

  “Naw, but I still might,” I said. I knew I sounded like a little kid craving for attention, but I was feeling something this evening that was more than attention-seeking.

  “Then call me then. I don’t do criminal cases, but I can make some recommendations,” Raymond said.