“Terence Marshall Davidson, is that you answering the phone, like some ill-mannered slob?” There was no mistaking the crunchy voice of his granny, the woman who had almost single-handedly raised him.
“Oh, uh, hey, Granny, this is me. I’m sorry if I sound ignorant, I just woke up. An unplanned nap.” Without opening the blinds or flicking on his desk lamp, Terence clumsily stood up, stepping into the nearest pair of size-thirteen Grant Hill Filas.
“Now look, boy, you know I raised you better than that. What did I teach you, Terence? A man should always behave as if he’s at least one step higher up the ladder than he really is. When you do that, you’ll never stop advancing.”
“And I believe you, Granny. Come on, this is your prized grandbaby here!”
“Don’t I know it. Look, baby, I had to sneak away from the social hour so I could make this call, so I have to be quick. I just wanted you to know I’m workin’ on a way to get you some tuition money. I know those financial aid people been getting rude with you, and Granny’s not gon’ sit by and see her baby mistreated.”
His hands on his hips, Terence stopped dead in his tracks. “Granny, how many times I gotta tell you, your money’s no good where I’m concerned? You got to trust me when I tell you my job is paying me plenty. I can handle my bills. ’Sides, you get to movin’ your savings around, and the Manor might try to put you out for lack of assets. Granted, you could always move in with me, but I don’t think you really wanna do that—”
“Oh, baby, stop that nonsense. Granny would never burden you with putting her up, at least not till you make your first million and get you a little mansion! But I am gonna get you some money now—”
Not that it mattered, but Terence was shaking his head insistently. “Granny, anything you send me, I’m sendin’ back.”
“I’m calling your bluff. Terence, my concern for you didn’t end the day I got sick, or the day you started college. So you look for the money. Anything that lightens your burden is worth my trouble. But I got something else I need to tell you.”
Suddenly realizing that he was supposed to be up on campus right now and that he’d overslept, Terence gently prompted. “Uh, Granny, what is it?”
“Well, I was reading this article in Essence yesterday. Actually, it wasn’t a full article, but one of those inspirational passages by the girl who used to run the magazine, you know the one. Real pretty girl, I think her name is Susan something. Anyway, baby, it was titled ‘Embracing Commitment.’ I’m mailing you a copy today. I think you need to show it to that Lisa of yours.”
Rolling his eyes as he could only do over the phone, Terence gingerly opened the blinds over his desk. “Okay, Granny.” The problem was, Lisa was not his right now, but there was no point arguing that fact with Granny. She had pegged Lisa as a heartbreaker from Day One, not that her prediction had helped free him from Lisa’s spell. “I’ll be looking for it in the mail. I need to go, okay?”
“I’ll let you go, baby, but don’t forget your granny’s words. You are so special, son, pulling yourself up by your own bootstraps like you have. That’s what’s so important about that work you’re doing at the community center. You having any luck getting those bean-pie boys to support the center?”
“Granny, they’re the Nation of Islam. Ellis needs their support as much as the church’s. The Nation be takin’ care of business. Don’t sell them short.”
“Whatever, child. My point was, you got to pull some more folks up with you. When I think of how many boys who grew up on our block are dead or in prison, it breaks my heart. You’re doing so much better, Terence, but you still have some learning to do. Read that Essence article. One day you’ll appreciate my overflowing wisdom! Love you, baby.”
Setting the phone down and clicking on his desk lamp, Terence checked his watch. He’d gotten off work early from Technotronics today, decided to treat himself to a rare nap before going up to campus to attend the Disciples of Christ meeting with Brandon. From there he would be attending a business dinner with his mentor from work, Jerry Wallace. He remembered, through the groggy haze clouding his thoughts, that the Disciples meetings started at seven; his plastic neon clock told him it was 7:58. And he had told Jerry to pick him up at Highland’s front gate at 9:00 sharp. Brandon would never let him hear the end of it, but there was no point trying to make the meeting now. He had to get dressed and make it up to campus in time to meet Jerry. He picked up the phone and punched in a number. On the third ring, the owner of the cell phone picked up.
“This is Larry.”
“Larry, what’s up, Big Dog?” Terence sank back into the tempting cushions of his squeaky twin bed.
“Is this Terence?” Larry’s voice was jovially indignant. “Boy, I told you not to make me waste my valuable cell-phone batteries taking calls from my housemates. You can talk to a brotha anytime.”
Terence came fully awake as he traded quips with his friend. “Yo, I need you to stop over at the Student Center and tell Brandon why I missed that Disciples meeting.” This was the third time he’d wigged out on Brandon’s invitation, despite the fact that Brandon had attended a recent Nation of Islam meeting with him. Terence wasn’t a member in good standing, but he still believed the Nation did more before 9:00 A.M. to help the community than the average Baptist church on the corner.
Larry chuckled. “Bro, you know I got no place up in the midst of the People of God. Make up an excuse and tell Brandon yourself.”
Terence hee-hawed conspiratorially. Larry had to be the most slang-using Buppie he’d ever known. “Come on, Dog. They have a break at eight. Just stop over and let him know, so he doesn’t spend the next couple of hours cursin’ me.”
“I got you covered, T. I’m in the midst of a big strategy session now. I’ll check you out later, awright?”
Terence clicked the flash button on his phone and stretched out his long right arm, resting the phone on the rickety wooden table a few feet from his bed. Activating his Marvin Gaye’s Greatest Hits CD on his Emerson boom box, he decided playtime was over. Because he was putting himself through school by working a lucrative internship at Technotronics, Terence could only attend classes Tuesdays and Thursdays, meaning those days were packed full of electrical-engineering classes. This very night he was going to have to write a paper and review for two exams. But that would have to wait until he returned from tonight’s dinner.
Dragging his six-foot-two frame through his doorway and taking the few steps required to reach the bathroom, he bent over the miniature porcelain sink and turned on the sputtering spigot.
He splashed cold water onto his Pepsi-colored face and the shiny pate of his clean-shaven head. The sounds of Marvin’s “Trouble Man” percolated throughout the hallway, helping to clear the fuzzy clouds blocking Terence’s thoughts. The weight of what he had to accomplish in the coming weeks hit home. In addition to completing his latest project at Technotronics and passing his course load for the semester, Ms. Simmons, Highland’s financial aid director, would require his attention.
He had lied to Granny about his financial status; he was one step away from financial ineligibility. He shuddered involuntarily as he hung his red washcloth on the towel rack next to the sink. To think that witch Simmons held his future in her miserly hands made him crazy. He had to stop thinking about it. Granny was always reminding him that his father, Tony, who’d died in prison, had had chronic high blood pressure. Terence had no desire to worry himself into an early grave. He had won Ms. Simmons over so far, and he would have to keep employing the Davidson charm until he could earn the rest of his tuition money at Technotronics. But he knew time was running out. If he didn’t get his back tuition paid off by the end of the year, Ms. Simmons had made it clear he could forget registering next fall. He stared blankly into the mirror and admitted to himself what he was going to have to do.
An hour later Jerry Wallace pulled up to the red brick front gate of Highland’s campus. Terence was waiting faithfully, dressed snappily in his o
nly full suit, a J. Riggings pinstripe he had purchased over Larry’s bougie objections. He tugged at the tight collar of his Van Heusen white oxford and wiped the last few beads of sweat from his forehead. He had made the eight-block walk from LeDroit Park in five minutes despite being dressed like he was going to church, but it had come at a price. He hoped he didn’t look too rumpled.
Rolling down the driver’s side window of his burgundy Lincoln Navigator, a high-end jeep that drew immediate attention from the other students lining the front gate, Jerry winked at Terence. Even from several feet away, Terence’s nostrils tingled at the new-car smell emanating from the Navigator. Leaning out the window, Jerry yelled over the roar of house music flooding the street. “Hey, Terence, my man, hop in. We’ve gotta beat Burton there if we wanna keep our reps up!” A millionaire vice president of Technotronics, an upstart software engineering firm and a current darling of Wall Street, Jerry was as self-assured as could be expected, even in a neighborhood most thirty-two-year-old white men would find intimidating.
As Terence peeled off a warm smile and climbed into the passenger’s seat, he and Jerry made small talk. Terence wasn’t sure if it was simply Jerry’s personality or the security he had of being wealthy enough to retire, but Jerry had seemingly taken a genuine interest in Terence’s career from the first day of his internship three years ago. Assigned to be Terence’s mentor, Jerry regularly treated him to fancy lunches and even social gatherings at his lavish home in Alexandria, where he would clue Terence in to the politics of Technotronics and suggest new technologies he should include in his studies. Jerry was the first white man Terence had known who acted in a way that took his mind off skin color. Terence still didn’t grant the man complete trust, of course. Truth was, Jerry looked a hell of a lot like one of those sneering, snotty white boys at his private grade school, the ones who had rained racial epithets on him until he had flexed a few muscles and sent them scurrying into their dark corners like sprayed roaches. He wasn’t going to forget that stuff overnight.
White man or not, though, Terence figured he was too desperate to be proud. It was time to seek Jerry’s help with his financial problems. Boldly, he laid out his situation for Jerry and asked if the company might provide an advance on his future salary, so he could pay down his Highland bills.
“Terence, I would love to help ya out,” Jerry replied. “But we’re only allowed ta offer advances to full-time employees, and ta be honest, it’s rarely done even for them.” A native of Boston, Jerry had a salty blue-collar accent belying his current status in life. “How much do you owe?”
Terence felt his eyes slide to the floor of the luxury jeep. “I owe back tuition of three thousand dollars, and I have to come up with another four thousand to pay for this spring semester.”
“Lordy!” came Jerry’s anxious reply. “Terence, what type of advance would you be looking for? An advance on your first year of full-time employment?”
Terence bit his lip in frustration as Jerry whisked his SUV around Dupont Circle. The glaring lights of the CVS pharmacy and the hip eateries surrounding the circle aggravated his percolating headache. He was not in a mood to appreciate the meaty Scot’s attempt at humor. “I just know I need to get a major down payment on the balance before the director of financial aid cancels me.” He cursed himself for using such obvious slang in front of Jerry. Good job, Terence; just encourage the man’s stereotypes, why don’t ya.
Showing his concern, Jerry asked how Terence had managed to make it so far with unpaid tuition balances. Checking his level of trust, Terence told him how inefficient Highland’s financial aid office was, how they managed to bungle students’ loans and grants on a daily basis, something to which he had fallen victim plenty of times. The only positive was the fact that Annabelle Simmons, the director, happened to be a distant family friend, and had agreed to play dumb regarding his unpaid balances, up to a point at least. He didn’t mention that her help had come with an embarrassingly high price tag. But Terence was refusing to go there with her anymore. A brother had to retain some pride, broke or not.
“How about this?” Jerry smiled in a reassuring, fatherly manner as he guided the Navigator to a curb near the four-star Prime Cut Restaurant on M Street. “I’ll ask Burton if we can give you an advance of five hundred a month. Maybe that could keep your director friend happy for now.”
I need the money right now, not parceled out in small-ass pieces, Terence thought. Jerry was offering him a Band-Aid for a gaping, festering wound. Damn. How was he going to get out of this hammerlock? Just last week he’d been harassed again by old high school friends trying to bring him into their street operation.
“A couple deliveries a week, T. Two, three hours of your time at best, nigga. You could clear a few extra Gs a week, bro. Think about it.” Terence had told them to get out and go to hell, and now he felt like telling Jerry Wallace the same thing. Wishing he could be honest, he turned toward his mentor and forced a smile as he shook Jerry’s clammy hand. “Thanks, Jerry. I really appreciate it.”
Jerry grinned and climbed out into the street, quickly circling the car and meeting Terence at the curb. “You just make sure you do a kick-ass job on the Reveal project. You’re the star intern of your class so far. Keep making me look good, okay? Oh, by the way, let me know this week if you’re up for an Orioles game next month. I’m taking some of the execs in a couple weeks, and thought it’d be good exposure for some of the interns and new hires.”
As they ducked under the awning of the restaurant, Terence frowned to himself. Another outing? Wasn’t tonight enough for a while? Corporate America really demanded more of you than nine to five. He wanted to tell Jerry he had better ways to spend his time, but he knew a have-to when he heard one. “Sure, I’ll let you know tomorrow.” As Jerry slapped him on the back and they stepped into a smoky lounge filled with Technotronics employees, all of them lily-white residents of suburban Virginia, Terence gritted his teeth and reminded himself to turn on the charm. Just two hours, he told himself, and then he could return to his normal world. Maybe the monthly advances could hold Ms. Simmons off for the rest of the year. He’d try not to worry about that tonight, but he’d still have a ton of work waiting for him. And once he got that straight, he’d have to spend yet another night in bed without Lisa.
Terence tried to remind himself to be grateful for the small things. Sometimes that was all that kept a brother going.
CHAPTER 5
. . . . . . . . . . . .
MILITANT CLOWN
On Friday morning Rolly V. Orange, former D.C. councilman and man-about-town, cruised down Alabama Avenue and observed the Ellis Community Cultural Center from the spring warmth of his black late-model Cadillac. The center beamed down at the campus of Highland University from a grassy perch atop a quarter-mile slope. Awash in slowly chipping red brick paint, the aging structure proudly bore the stripes earned by twenty years of service to its beleaguered community. To the left of the towering three-story structure sat a swimming pool surrounded by dilapidated plastic furniture. An entrance on the east side of the building led to a regulation-size basketball court with recently replaced backboards and thick cloth nets. Plastered across the faded blacktop of the court was the center’s motto: Lifting As One to Lift All.
Orange pulled his Cadillac into one of the few available spaces left on the block in front of the center. Hoisting his rotund frame from the car, he lumbered up the front steps and entered the lobby. Turning to his left, he entered Conference Room 105, a wood-paneled study where Sheryl Gibson sat at a maple-colored round table. Orange nodded politely and took a seat in a wooden chair with plaid cushions that had seen better days.
“Sheryl, how are you?” he said, noting her freshly permed head of curls, her maroon blazer, and the new sheen of her skin. It seemed she had survived yesterday’s board meeting with more poise than he had. He wondered how long she could hold up.
“This is such a battle,” Sheryl was saying. “I can’t tell you how m
uch I appreciate having you aboard, Rolly. We have to get the private sector energized. I just spoke with President Billings at Highland. It’s official; they can’t provide any more financial support this year. They’ve been helpful, granting college credit to students who serve as volunteers, but the university’s own recent financial woes have dried up their well for now.”
“Not to worry,” Rolly said, patting Sheryl’s hand and stilling the flip in his heart. “I have quite a Rolodex, Sheryl, don’t forget that. I will get Ellis onto the radar of some of these VIPs.”
Sheryl smiled at her old friend, hoping he didn’t realize some of her glow was amusement at his outfit. A tall, pear-shaped man with a prodigious belly that usually threatened to break through the quivering buttons on his shirt, Rolly was attired today in a draping kentecloth outfit with vivid hues of red, black, and green. Sheryl imagined her friend thought it gave him an air of authenticity, but in reality it made him look like a militant circus clown.
In hiring Rolly as Ellis’s business manager, Sheryl was hoping for the best, but it didn’t take a genius to see her friend was still recovering from his fall from grace. He insisted on denying the aging process, his round head flanked by Jheri-curled locks, though the top of his cranium was clean as a baby’s bottom. He needed some work, but Sheryl had faith in him. This man had managed multimillion-dollar budgets and helped D.C. realize countless dreams. Rolly Orange still had it, she was sure; with her emotional support, he would organize the center’s affairs and fill its coffers.
Sheryl tore her eyes from Rolly’s outfit and put a hand to her chin. “Rolly, about last night’s board meeting . . .”
A fleeting look of irritation danced across Orange’s face. “Don’t tell me about it. I still can’t believe the impudence of those Highland kids—”
“They mean well,” Sheryl said. “Larry and Brandon are new to the board. They were just trying to get an understanding of all the accounts we’re using to record the donations and grants as they come in.”
Between Brothers Page 5
