Between Brothers

by C. Kelly Robinson

  “Larry, no man of mine has ever even thought about going back to an old girlfriend once they’ve been with me. So don’t even think of living with Mark. You and I both know he’d have a constant parade of your ex-playthings going in and out, at all times of the night. I don’t play that.”

  Larry had found Ashley’s protective instincts somewhat amusing. He hadn’t been involved with anywhere near the number of women Mark had. He had very high standards, at least where the physical realm was concerned. Any woman sharing Larry’s bed, from his first encounter as a ninth-grader up to the present, had fit a carefully defined profile: feathery, shoulder-length hair; a well-developed, firm frame free of any noticeable body fat; and a beige or lighter face that made men lose their minds. Anyone who couldn’t make a living as a professional model need not apply. With Ashley he’d outdone himself. His own father, the man who taught him the criteria by which to choose a woman, had gone green with envy the first time he met Ashley. Larry knew he had a good thing, so he’d let Ashley have her way regarding where he could live. The price was worth it to have a woman who made the perfect trophy.

  “Shall we get to the business at hand?” Rolling up the sleeves of his denim Calvin Klein oxford and checking the time on his gold Wittnauer, Larry tried to put an official tone into the crackle of his fluid tenor. “I was ten damn points behind Winburn in the latest election poll, and now I’ve got an editor who’s out to spill my political blood. Sheila knows I was a member of the Young Republicans in name only; hell, we all make sacrifices in the name of networking. She also knows I chose to refrain from the sit-in at the administration building because President Billings is a former business associate of my father’s. Everyone knew I was with the protesters in spirit! Come on, I helped broker the final agreements between Kareem, Tasha, and Billings.”

  “Baby,” Ashley interrupted him, “you know the truth makes no difference to that girl. She crafted this precisely so all the facts are true, even though the implication is obviously false.”

  “It’s a classic case of the unfounded negative political attack,” Mark groused. “Throw enough mud against the opponent, and pray something sticks. But this one’s coming right back at her, Larry. Check this out!” Mark thrust a printed sheet of paper at his friend, hot off the press from his Compaq laptop. Larry was unable to stem the tide of a grateful smile as he read his friend’s articulate, straightforward, and savvy prose. Mark’s words stabbed back at each of Sheila’s accusations, reasserting truth after truth, then offering his own conclusions.

  “Oh no, you didn’t!” Larry groaned at the section where Mark implied that Sheila was suffering a “sour grapes” complex following her own defeat in running for the presidency last year. After changing a few words for maximum impact and softening a couple that bordered on the obscene, Larry hurled the memo back at his manager with his signature of approval.

  “Guys, I am so sorry I’m late.” Janis Kelley, student president of the school of business and a tight ally of Mark and Larry’s, snuck up on them and seated herself before they realized she was in their midst. “I’ve read the editorial, Larry, and I think you’re best off not responding at all. Anyone who cares enough to read Sheila’s article is just as likely to be at the debates. You know that’s where the real election is decided, at least as far as public forums go. I don’t see how her remarks deserve to be dignified with a response.”

  “Well, try that on for size,” Larry said as Mark slid his letter in front of Janis. As she read it her face registered some of the same emotions Larry had experienced a few moments earlier. “I think Janis has a point,” Larry said. “People know what’s up, right? Maybe we go with this letter and just leave it there.”

  “I agree,” Janis said. “Go with the letter, let Mark be the Bad Cop. It puts the truth out there forcefully, but anyone offended by it will be able to separate Mark’s personality in it from yours. What ever did you do to Sheila Evans in the first place, babe?” She smiled playfully at Larry, her pert little pug nose shining innocently.

  Smacking his lips in defiance, Larry threw his hands in the air. “You got me, J. She’s had it in for me as long as I can remember.”

  “I can hazard a guess,” Ashley said, her green eyes dancing with mischief. “Penis envy. She knows she’ll never get yours or anyone else’s!”

  After enjoying a good belly laugh, the team reviewed Larry’s current platform and debate strategy. There were two other serious contenders in the race, only one of whom Larry was particularly concerned with.

  The noncontender, Winston Hughes, was an ambitious junior political science major. He was known for his staggering intellect, outmatched only by his complete lack of personality. In public forums such as the upcoming campaign debate, the boy radiated the warmth of a block of ice. Coupled with his inability to match his ties to the Sears suits he always wore, Winston’s lack of charisma spelled certain death in Highland’s image-conscious political arena.

  The opponent who kept Larry awake at night, the one he knew Sheila Evans was laboring to put into office, was David Winburn. Winburn was affectionately known campuswide as Rev. Jackson, due to his obvious desire to be Generation X’s Jesse. He stood six feet tall, almost even with Larry, and cloaked his lanky frame in professionally tailored suits and loud ties. He had a large rectangular head, a deep maple complexion, wide eyes, sparkling white teeth, and a well-groomed mustache processed with the same S-curl juice he used on his hair. Winburn’s image had graced so many campaign posters for the past four years, he was almost a household name around campus. Larry knew that face even better than most, because it haunted him every time his head hit a pillow.

  He and Winburn had entered Highland with the same class, lived in the same dormitory, even traveled in the same social circles. Larry had won the presidency of the school of business at the end of freshman year, while David stormed into the same office in the liberal arts college. From there Larry served in the HSA cabinet while David served as student representative to the university’s board of trustees. Everyone who’d known them had expected this year’s Battle of Titans over the HSA office. Larry, for his part, had absolutely no intention of losing. His father’s urgent motto raced across his mind as he wiped David’s face from his mind: Whitakers Don’t Lose.

  In exactly the way he knew Winburn was doing with his own campaign team, Larry and his friends always reserved a healthy chunk of time to dissect their key opponent’s major assets and liabilities. In the arena of policy, they had decided to focus on Winburn’s cozy relationship with the university administration, and the role that allegedly played in several decisions he made as undergraduate trustee. Mark was the lead soldier on Operation Pull the Covers Off.

  Full of bravado, Mark briefed them on his latest mission. Last night he’d wooed Shannon Moon, a former girlfriend of David’s, sweet-talking her as she’d crossed campus and getting her to agree to an impromptu date. The night had ended at El Cerrito’s in Georgetown, where Mark had filled the girl with quesadillas, margaritas, tequila, and more margaritas. By the time her tongue was completely loosened, she’d given him an earful of allegations about David’s stewardship as university trustee: an agreement to “go along and get along” on the most crucial issues of interest to students, in return for a few amenities, such as the snazzy new Accord he’d started sporting that year. Supposedly Shannon had access to memos and other documents to back it all up.

  If he felt a prick of conscience at the manipulation of an innocent sister, Larry waved it aside in the name of political ambition and let Mark continue. Sometimes he wondered if the price of following in his father’s footsteps as HSA president would be worth it. He banished the thought: of course it would. It hadn’t served Larry senior too poorly, had it? His father had gone from running a student body to spearheading a multimillion-dollar business enterprise. For Larry, the HSA presidency was just the next rung toward the top.

  It occurred to Larry that the revelations about David’s political deals w
ere far from surprising. Winburn’s alleged actions were far from heinous; in fact they sounded like the bargaining of a natural politician, if that was a good thing. But Larry knew this would mean jack to the average Joe Student, who would find Win-burn’s abdication on important policy issues entirely inexcusable. This was a good thing; at this point Larry would take every edge he could get. Twenty minutes later he clapped his hands loudly. “My brother and my sisters, thanks for another productive war room session. Let’s get outta here!”

  Mark eyed Ashley and Janis as they began gathering their things. “Word, word. Larry, can I, uh, talk to you privately for a minute, bro?”

  “What you need, man?”

  Mark heaved himself back from the table. “What say we rap outside by your car? The ladies can meet us out there in a minute.”

  In a few seconds the men had gathered their briefcases and windbreakers and were on the brick walkway outside the front lobby. Larry walked to the curb and set his leather satchel near the front of his Lexus. “What’s up, man? What crazy woman you messing with now? I gotta bail you out again?”

  Mark cut his eyes at his best friend. “Nothing like that. Look, I gotta be real with you, Larry. I don’t know if this thing about David’s misdeeds will be enough to save your ass.”

  “Why not?”

  “Five letters, Larry. E-l-l-i-s. You got to get off your soapbox, money.”

  Larry wriggled his neck and squinted. “Wha? What are you talkin’ about, Mark?”

  “Larry, come on. This thing about adding a campaign promise requiring all Highland students to perform community service at Ellis or one of its affiliate centers, if you’re elected president? You really think folks want their time infringed on like that?”

  Larry leaned gently against the gold gloss of his ride and crossed his arms. “Mark, I believe we all gain when we give something back. Plus, the more I can circulate Ellis’s name and get people interested, the better. You know why I treasure institutions like Ellis, man.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know. Aunt Rae.”

  “Damn right, Aunt Rae.” Larry smiled at the sound of his late great-aunt’s name. It had been Aunt Rae, his grandmother’s sister and a popular baker in north Chicago, who had taken him and his younger sister, Vera, to the Rosewood Community Center every summer when they would visit for several weeks. Larry’s grandparents, Chaney and Lola Whitaker—a family physician and an interior designer who still lived in Hyde Park, folk of old money who behaved like it—had taken them in each summer but always made sure they saw some “real life” through Aunt Rae’s eyes.

  Larry would never forget the sense of belonging the Rosewood staff instilled in the kids there, many of whom hailed from single-parent homes and had seen nothing but the armpit of life. Every summer he’d gained from Rosewood, learning the latest fads (which he’d quickly taken back home to the Cincinnati suburbs and co-opted in order to solidify his “cool” credentials), but it was the spirit of the kids, and the way the center fostered that resilience, that stuck with him. As long as those images were fresh in his mind, Larry couldn’t let Ellis Center fold. There was too much good to do.

  He patted Mark on the back and yelled over the roar of a passing truck. “Mark, playtime is over where Ellis is concerned. They need a hundred and twenty-five thousand bucks to meet their next loan payment, by September first. The bank’s already given them several extensions, but these guys are not saints. Ellis has to deliver this time, or the doors could be closed.”

  Mark choked back a phony sob and put a hand to his chest. “Larry, just remember I play to win. All this time you’re spending trying to save Ellis—the schmoozing with local CEOs, holding fund-raising banquets—it’s all very cute, but it ain’t gonna win no votes. Highland students want you to deliver in three areas: financial aid, housing, and security. They don’t need you to tell them that in addition to working their way through school, staying in broke-down dorms, and studying their asses off, they gotta log eight hours a month minding somebody else’s bad kids.”

  Larry sighed in relief when Ashley and Janis rolled up, interrupting Mark’s rant. He smiled lazily in Mark’s direction and decided to fight this battle later. “Player, I appreciate the sentiment. Now good night.”

  He slapped hands with Mark and placed an arm around Ashley. He would worry about his poll standings in the morning. It had been a long day; right now he needed to let his spirits be lifted by the revelations about Winburn. No matter how temporary it might be, he was going to enjoy the feeling. He would chill at Ashley’s downtown apartment, watch the Wizards game against L.A., then blow off steam in exactly the way Mark had suggested earlier.

  A good woman was the best form of stress release going.

  CHAPTER 3

  . . . . . . . . . . . .

  SINISTER MINISTER

  Ten blocks west of Highland’s campus the Light of Tabernacle Missionary Baptist Church family was kicking its Wednesday-evening service into high gear. The congregation was proud of its new home, a month-old stone-and-glass structure on a five-acre lot. Just a year ago the ground beneath them had been awash in beer bottles, syringes, and cigarette butts. The church’s new sanctuary and Christian-education center now employed four additional people, all of them local residents who had previously been homeless or on public assistance. This self-proclaimed “small-town church in a big city” was slowly but surely moving into the big leagues.

  At the front of the crowded sanctuary, a platform stage rose ominously from the sunken floor, towering over the congregation. In the center of the pulpit sat five high-backed chairs draped in cushy red velvet. In front of the center chair, in which Pastor Otis Grier reclined, stood a solid marble column from which arose a glass lectern and a bank of silver-tipped microphones. Whenever Grier or one of the associate ministers climbed the short stone steps that led up to the lectern, they were immediately reminded of the awesome nature of their calling.

  The Reverend Oscar Jarvis Peters, Jr., lovingly known as O. J. to most, sat to Grier’s right. Winking at his pastor, O. J. matched Grier’s pace and bopped his head to the rhythm of the youth choir’s raucous performance. Seated on an incline of six rows with ten chairs each, the young people were driving the church mad with their rendition of Kirk Franklin’s “Melodies from Heaven.” Although O. J. still marveled at how little Kirk had somehow managed to do the unthinkable—his music enthralled everyone from the jeep-hoppers out in the street to the old folk in God’s house—he was growing a little tired of this particular tune. He swore that every church he’d visited in these last few months had sung that dang song at some point in the service.

  Carl Shockley, the director of the choir, was a reedy young man of average height, a member of the Highland University Gospel Choir and a classmate of O. J.’s in the liberal arts college. Despite persistent rumors about Shockley’s personal life, O. J. admired the vigor with which the young man pushed and prodded his choir. Large beads of sweat cascaded down Shockley’s beaming face, several of them coming to rest just above his thin, crusty lips.

  “You betta sang that one mo’ time!” he exclaimed.

  The choir let loose with its final line:

  “MELODIES FROM HEAVEN! (Pause) RAIN DOWN ON ME! RAIN DOWN ON ME!”

  Now Carl ushered in the close. “MELOOOOO-DIEEEES!” he piped, spurring the choir to respond.

  “MELODIES FROM HEAVEN! (Pause) RAIN DOWN ON ME! RAIN DOWN ON ME!” As Carl shushed the choir into silence, congregants of every age and gender burst from their seats. O. J. knew they were praising God for another day and for the talent of their teenage choir.

  O. J. smiled as the time for the evening’s sermon arrived. Pastor Grier, a tall, bald-headed man whose beige complexion was muddled by a faceful of razor and acne scars, rose to address his congregation. As the overhead lights bounced unfavorably off Grier’s blemishes, O. J. thanked the Lord for his own baby-smooth, cocoa-brown skin. Combine that with his heavily waxed head of waves, courtesy of Dax, and O. J. knew
he was pretty. Grier was his mentor and a great role model, but the man was no sight for sore eyes.

  Grier eyed the crowd enthusiastically. “Did I hear somebody say they wanna praise him?” A buzz of “Yessirs” swept across the sanctuary.

  “Er, uh, wait a minute,” Grier said, smacking his lips and rolling his tongue around in the back of his mouth. “I don’t think you heard me, chu’ch. I said, you ought to get up and praise your Lord right now!” As a wave of applause and hallelujahs began to fill the air, Grier pressed on. “You just heard a choir full of your own chil’ren stand up and praise the Lord our God, asking to be filled with his spirit! Not, mind you, selling drugs—”

  A deep, rippling note of emphasis went up from the church organ.

  Grier continued. “Singing about ‘freakin’ ”—again the organ hummed—“stealin’ from the corner store, or from the local bank, fo’ that matta—”

  The third ring of the organ brought the audience to its feet, once again filling the sanctuary with shouts of joy. “You oughtta be praisin’ him for these young folk, for your jobs, for this new sanctuary, for all the things he brought you through!” Grier ceased his oratory long enough to take in the adoring, pumped-up crowd. Clearly satisfied that he had lathered up the people for his pupil, he set into his introduction.

  “Bringing you the Word tonight will be one of my prized associates!” Hearty laughs greeted Grier’s playful tone of voice. “No, no, y’all know I don’t play favorites among my ministers, but, when it’s their turn to preach, I believe in turning the spotlight up! This young man has been a real find for the ministry of this church, a preacher’s son himself, a man of the people about to receive an English degree from the Highland University, and, soon enough, to be admitted to Dallas Theological Seminary for his master of divinity!” A rush of Mmm’s, Well all right’s, and You go, boy’s met Grier’s proclamation. O. J. wished again that Grier would stop announcing his interest in seminary like it was a secure fact. He had yet to be admitted to one seminary. “Give the Lord a hand of praise and encourage our brother, O. J. Peters!”