Between Brothers

by C. Kelly Robinson

  “Mom, that’s not fair. Grandma could have asked Dad the same thing about you when you were in college.”

  Mona’s eyes had turned suddenly quizzical. “Oh, really? Says who?”

  “Mom, I’ve seen your high school and college photos. Obviously, for my own psychological protection, I can’t elaborate, but there wasn’t much difference between you then and Ashley now.”

  “Aw, boy, hush,” Mona had said, a slight blush coming over her. Larry had never been a fool. Since grade school, he had grown accustomed to the rude remarks of peers who found his mother to be uncommonly attractive.

  “Regardless of what I looked like, I was about something. Is she?” Larry knew what she meant. His mother had come from a working-class family and worked to put herself through college. While she had always been fashion-conscious enough to play up her natural beauty and draw the eye of someone as picky as Larry senior, she had never been the primped, prepped princess that Ashley was. Besides, she knew of her son’s early tendencies to date women based on style instead of substance. Of course, he hadn’t been all about style. They had to be giving up some play, too.

  But Larry had decided last year that he was ready to outgrow his days of judging women based on cup size, body-fat percentage, and hair texture. For several months before he and Ashley first hooked up, he had purged his life of one-night stands and shallow relationships. He was still no saint, but he had already grown tired of the player’s game. The life of a player had yet to satisfy Larry senior, who was already stepping out on Amy, his second wife. And as much as he admired his father in the business arena, Larry was determined not to end up like his father when it came to his treatment of women. Larry had stumbled across his father’s affairs several times in high school, so much so that he was almost relieved when the old man finally announced he was trading the mother of his children in for a new model. At least there was no need to pretend anymore. Now he could care less if his father played around on Amy; the girl had known from jump what she was getting. Once an adulterer, always an adulterer.

  Larry was ready to start settling down now, and Ashley was as good a prospect as any, at least on her good days. Of course, he wasn’t sizing her up for an engagement ring quite yet. With her tastes, he wouldn’t be able to swing an acceptable ring for her without depleting all of his upcoming summer earnings or taking a chunk out of his trust fund. Besides, he wasn’t ready to choose a wife yet; Ashley was the first girl he’d ever even considered in those terms. But Larry wanted to at least get into the habit of monogamy. He was afraid if he waited until he was married to try being faithful, he’d end up like Dear Old Dad.

  Ashley broke his introspection, yelling up to him from the mahogany staircase. “Babe, I’m booting up the Compaq for you! You can get started on that while I go fix a little breakfast.” She shared the two-floor luxury apartment with Jill Jones, a blue-blooded classmate and sorority sister. Jill traveled a lot on the weekends and usually stayed at her boyfriend’s during the week, so Larry and Ashley were used to having the place to themselves.

  Searching the customary Web sites, Larry started accessing his routine daily information. He’d not had time to check the stock market listings yesterday, so he was pleasantly surprised with most of the results. The Dow Jones was up 5 percent, and some of the sectors in which he was most heavily invested had driven the climb. Whipping open his stock-summary spreadsheet in Excel, he updated the key stocks’ prices and checked the summary calculation.

  “Ash, my portfolio appreciated eight percent yesterday!” An 8 percent appreciation on a $250,000 portfolio was no small matter. Ever since his mother had urged Larry senior to let his son manage a portion of his stocks, Larry had taken to the responsibility like a kid in a candy store. Sure, today’s gains could quickly become tomorrow’s losses, but he knew that in the long run his efforts would bring a return well above what the bank down the street offered.

  “That’s nice, dear,” came Ashley’s patronizing reply. She didn’t enter into the kitchen very often, which made her weekend ritual of fixing breakfast for Larry somewhat endearing. That was why he was letting her make him a meal before his brunch with Ramirez; and, he didn’t want to be sidetracked by hunger while he tried to plead Ellis’s case. That said, right now he wished she could forget the food and show some interest in his financial-management skills. Sure, her professionally managed portfolio was probably ten times the value of his, but at least he knew what was happening with his. Ashley relied on quarterly reports and an annual face-to-face with her father’s financial adviser, some guy with J. P. Morgan. This wasn’t right, and Larry knew it; how many people, given the privileges he and Ashley had, would treat their own trust fund like the immense blessing it was? It was time for him to do his duty as Ashley’s man and help her take more responsibility for her fortune.

  Pausing to take her to task, Larry descended the towering staircase to the first floor. Ashley stood inside the contemporary white kitchen, its high glass chandelier and gold-rimmed cabinets and sink reeking of overindulgence. “When’s the last time you made a strategic decision about the makeup of your portfolio?”

  Seasoning the large omelette simmering over the stove, she turned a suspicious eye his way. “Larry, have you ever considered the fact some of us have other things we prefer to do with our time? Remember, I’m going to be the lawyer someday that helps you bankers and businessmen protect your money. I’ll always hire somebody else to handle my investments.”

  “I’ll never understand how you can be so cavalier about money that your father and his ancestors busted their butts to earn for ingrates like you and your spoiled cousins.” Larry hadn’t meant to start an argument, but his indignation at Ashley’s indifference to the weighty fortune that lay at her feet was too strong to suppress. “You wanna practice corporate law, right? You know how much insight you could get into business matters by managing your own investments?”

  Rolling her hazel eyes, Ashley placed a well-manicured hand on her hip. “Larry Whitaker, what do you think you can possibly tell me that my father hasn’t already told me a thousand times?” The flash of impatience in her eyes told him his weekly breakfast was in danger of being pitched if he kept up his line of questioning.

  “Ashley, I just believe in always giving your best, regardless of where you are in life. You got to understand, the money in the Whitaker family ain’t as old as yours. My great-grandfather grew up on a former slave plantation, never moved off the estate. But he and my great-grandmother taught their kids to reach for life’s best. That’s how my grandfather built a dual career as a physician and entrepreneur.”

  Ashley leaned over her simmering omelette. “Larry—”

  “Hear me out, please? My grandfather never forgot where he came from or how he got out of it: hard work. He never let my father rest on his laurels, and that’s why my parents have always forced me to be responsible for the money they’ve devoted to my future.”

  “So I’m irresponsible now?” The twist of his lady’s head told Larry he’d be lucky if she even finished preparing his omelette. “Fool, please. You are the problem here, Larry. If you’re going to be with me, you’re going to have to learn how the truly wealthy in this country live. You think JFK, Jr., was studying the minutiae of stock market fluctuations when he was in college? Hell no, he was enjoying life and doing the type of things most black people don’t even dream of doing, like spending a year studying and traveling overseas, experiencing the finer things in life, meeting VIPs from coast to coast, and, when time allowed, deciding what he wanted to do with his life. When you come from a family with money like mine, the wealth allows you the freedom from fretting over nickel-and-dime fluctuations in asset values. You get to enjoy life!”

  Taken aback, Larry tugged at his left earlobe violently. “Well, well, here we go again. It was inevitable. You’re the princess, I’m the pauper. Damn, Ashley, it’s so easy for me to forget. I sure am glad you keep me in my place.”

  “I am not
ashamed of the truth, Larry. Your father is in the top five percent of the black upper class, but mine is probably among the top ten black wage earners, period. This is only a contest if you make it one. Baby, you have to understand what it’s like to grow up wealthy beyond most people’s dreams. That’s the only way that you’ll get rid of this habit of judging people. You know, if you had taken my advice and moved into that condo with Jeffrey Kemp and George Clemmons, you might be better able to relate to the other half.”

  “Those pseudo-Negroes are stuffed shirts, way ahead of their time where I’m concerned,” Larry bellowed, his face cracking at the thought of living with the two blue-bloods. “They’re always primping over their Jaguars, sampling the latest wines, caviar, and going on skiing weekends with their blond playthings. No thank you, this brother likes to keep it real.” Larry paused and took a look around Ashley’s ostentatious apartment. “Well, most of the time. My crib is a nice place, but it’s in the hood, and my housemates are good brothers who know who they are.” He scooted closer to Ashley as she slid the omelette onto a plate. “No shame in my game.”

  “You know, I’ve never understood why you chose those guys in the first place. I know your and Brandon’s fathers are friends from their Highland days, but why would you want to stay with any of them?”

  “Oh, so now that I’ve insulted your work ethic, you insult my friends. Fine, Ashley. I chose housemates that weren’t tight friends because I’ve seen too many friendships end when folks try to live together. And all these brothers are cool, in their own way.”

  “Fine, Larry, it’s your life. You don’t mind the fact that Terence’s brother could bring his gangbangin’ cronies up in that house and do God knows what, or the fact that nobody can enjoy sex in the house for fear of offending Brandon’s old-fashioned ass. And we all know it’s just a matter of time before one of O. J.’s dumb-ass little whores comes after him, straight out of Fatal Attraction. It’s hanging with the crabs at the bottom of the barrel that keeps those of us with money from being able to fit in with the rest of the upper class. I don’t know when you’ll learn that.”

  Scooping up his plate with one hand and balancing a plastic pitcher of orange juice in the other, Larry decided to let the shots slide. When Ashley got started on a tear like this, it wasn’t worth fighting back—that just made it worse. “Ash, you do your thing, I do mine. I’m gonna eat and scoot to make that meeting with Ramirez.” As Larry turned to leave the kitchen, Ashley grabbed her plate from the counter. He could hear her vigorously scraping her omelette into the gilded trash can. He set his juice and omelette on the glass coffee table, hearing the slamming of the refrigerator door, kitchen drawers, and pans Ashley had used to prepare breakfast. Determined to eat in peace, he grabbed at the stereo remote and drowned out her nonverbal tirade with the After 7 CD that had served as the soundtrack for last night’s love session. As the Edmonds brothers’ voices filled the apartment throughout the night, Ashley had called out his name with the worshipful ardor of a saint on Sunday morning. Now she was probably busy creating names for him that could be spelled in four letters or less.

  A few hours could sure change things.

  CHAPTER 8

  . . . . . . . . . . . .

  PRIMARY COLORS

  Five hours later, in the blacktop parking lot outside the Highland Student Center, Mark Jackson reclined in the driver’s seat of his candy red Mazda Miata, his head snapping in time to the rhythms of the latest Blackstreet jam. For anyone within half a mile of the vibrating auto there was no mistaking the boom of “No Diggity.”

  Larry pulled up alongside Mark in his Lexus, not bothering to get his friend’s attention. Mark was in his own world. A pair of Ray-Ban sunglasses masked his eyes as he pretended he was Teddy Riley himself.

  “And this is who you entrust your campaign to?” Dressed in a loud olive suit and black wing tips, O. J. laughed heartily as he climbed out from the passenger side of the Lexus. Brandon and Terence emerged from the backseat as Larry circled around to Mark’s window, rapping loudly as the writhing man pretended to be oblivious to his surroundings. Then Larry gave a conspiratorial nod to his housemates. “Fellas, let’s wake the fool up, shall we?”

  Immediately catching his boy’s implication, Terence positioned himself behind the rear bumper of the Miata. In seconds O. J. and Brandon grabbed ahold and began to help lift the back of the gleaming machine off the pavement, as Larry rocked it from the front. Feeling the back of the car rise, Mark whipped off his Ray-Bans and removed his key from the ignition, bringing the sounds of Blackstreet to a sudden halt.

  A mock frown twisting his face, Mark emerged from his cocoon. “You niggas must be out your freakin’ minds!”

  As the men stepped back from the Miata and slapped hands in amusement, Larry stopped Mark in his tracks. “Mark, need I remind you, my campaign manager, that we are in the parking lot of the Student Center?” Larry’s tone was jovial but carried an undercurrent of annoyed sincerity.

  “Ah, damn, you right.” Mark placed a hand on the roof of the Miata, calmly closing his door. Larry knew Mark hadn’t really been upset at their prank, but if anyone passing by had heard him use the dreaded N-word, it could be turned around on Larry for Winburn’s political gain. More than a few past HSA candidates had been embarrassed in the past over stray comments or actions. Larry’s stomach curdled as he remembered the way the student body booed Ian Roberts off the stage last year, when he’d admitted to calling his girlfriend a bitch in the heat of the moment. No way was he going out like that.

  The posse of young brothers made their way up the central staircase of the Student Center and wound around to the large conference room at the north end of the top floor. Inside were enough blue plastic chairs, arranged in neat rows, to seat all fifty-five of Larry’s campaign team members. Before the chairs sat a rectangular fold-out table, draped with a LARRY WHITAKER: the promise decorative cloth. Ashley had paid a pretty penny to have that and numerous other advertising vehicles designed by a tailor she had used back when she lived in Manhattan. Larry admired the rich blue and gold colors, which conveniently matched Highland’s. Ashley could go overboard sometimes, but there was nothing like going overboard in style.

  Most of the campaign workers had already arrived and taken seats, though they continued to mingle and socialize. Ashley and Janis stood in front of the table, updating the list of attendees. Mary Corkley, campaign secretary, was seated at the table, wildly flipping through a manila folder, searching for her copies of the meeting’s agenda. The other occupant of the table, Chuck Dawkins, was the campaign’s unofficial bouncer. As always, Dawkins was dressed for war, his bulky frame draped in a pair of army fatigues and a white cotton turtleneck. A six-feet-five linebacker for the football team and a former roommate of Mark’s, Dawkins was a faithful running buddy to both Larry and Mark. Everyone on campus knew he was more than willing to express that loyalty by embarrassing, even physically harming, anyone who attempted to crash these campaign meetings. Larry and Mark had barely entered the room when Dawkins bolted from the table and stomped their way, his clunky Timberland boots slapping against the thin carpet.

  “Hey, dudes,” Dawkins said, in the flat tones of his native Minneapolis. He gripped Larry by the shoulder and glanced between him and Mark. “Guys, we got trouble.”

  Larry pursed his lips in annoyance. “What now, Chuck?” Dawkins tended to be quick on the draw; he could find evil in the most innocent gesture. Larry doubted this was anything serious.

  “It’s this,” Dawkins said. He stepped back and fished deep into the right pocket of his fatigues, until his hand emerged with a neatly folded sheet of printer paper. He held it out toward Larry and Mark. “This was in the campaign’s mailbox this morning. Read it, then tell me whose ass I gotta kick.”

  Larry grabbed the sheet, unfolded it, and held it down so Mark could read as he did. The note was typed in a large, bold font that took up the entire middle of the page.

  Whitaker: Our neighborh
ood ain’t your playground. Back up off Ellis Center and mind your own Silver-Spoon business. Don’t think you ain’t being watched.

  Larry met Mark’s eyes, which had grown to twice their normal size, and yawned. “You know,” he said, stretching his arms overhead, “Winburn and company have lost their minds. What kind of stupid-ass scare tactic is this?”

  Dawkins began pacing, his hands on his hips. “You think Winburn did it? Cool. I’m gonna go find that little—”

  “Chuck, Chuck,” Larry said, waving him off. “Forget it. We’re grown folks here. Best thing to do is ignore this nonsense.”

  Mark crossed his arms and followed Larry over to the front table. “You really think that’s what this is? Larry, nobody wants you to play savior over this community center. The student body don’t care, and the community sure don’t appreciate a spoiled brat like you.” As they took their seats, he lowered his voice. The crowd had quieted in recognition of their arrival. “At least leave Ellis out of your speech for now,” he whispered.

  “I got you, chief,” Larry said, surveying the crowd. More than fifty of the plastic seats were occupied, so it was time to begin. He swept his eyes over the crowd, taking in the diverse constituency before him. He noted the presence of some of his long-lost running buddies from freshman year, several members of current and past HSA administrations, acquaintances that he knew only from a few classroom conversations, people who were really just friends of friends, and even, to what he knew would be Ashley’s dismay, a handful of his past romantic conquests. No one could say he didn’t know how to treat women, even when it came time to return a relationship to the land of platonic friendship.

  Taking his seat at the center of the table, Larry met Mark’s eyes, intuitively signaling it was time to begin. Dressed in a maroon Perry Ellis casual suit and a pair of leather sandals, Mark sprang to his feet. The crowd’s mixing and mingling came to a sudden halt.