“Terence,” she had said, “I think I love you, but how can I be sure, when you’re really the only guy I’ve ever been with?” Her question had knocked him off balance with the force of a gale wind. They hadn’t been halfway through their freshman year, but the sights of men with prettier faces, flashy wardrobes, and even flashier cars had turned Lisa’s head.
Terence had initially blamed her wanderlust on her parents. Both postal workers, the Pattons had always made Terence feel self-conscious about his home environment. When he and Lisa had first decided they would attend Highland, Mrs. Patton had been improperly intrigued. “And just how are you going to put yourself through school, Terence? If you don’t get a scholarship, wouldn’t Highland be a little out of your grandmother’s price range?”
It had been a stupid-ass question, but Mrs. Patton had known that. It was her way of sending the message that she knew her little girl could do better—marry up, so to speak. Until Terence was out of Highland and earning six figures as an engineer, he would not be good enough for their angel.
Brandon had put forth a different opinion at the time. “Man, one thing I’ve already realized in six months on this campus—a brother is at a disadvantage when he comes to a historically black school. All of these women here came planning to pull an Al B. Sure or a Blair Underwood who drives a Mercedes or a BMW. And if that’s not what they want when they come here, it’s what they want when they see that’s what everyone else is after. Regular brothers like us don’t have a chance.”
Terence had told Brandon he was being overly pessimistic, but today he wasn’t so sure. Of course there were some wonderful, genuine women at Highland, who were more interested in a man’s character than his wallet, automobile, or jock size. And unlike Brandon, Terence had not been hampered by a commitment to limit himself to Christian sisters. During the monthlong stretches through the years when Lisa had broken things off to date other people, Terence had never been at a shortage for good female friends who had provided conversation, humor, and in some cases “no-strings” lovemaking. Unfortunately those friendships never blossomed beyond the platonic, at least not mutually. He always wound up back with Lisa.
Forgiving her had become an involuntary habit, but erasing the anger that welled up whenever he thought of a brother like Sam Baker helping himself to Lisa’s body was an almost impossible task. Even now Terence was beset by the memory of Baker’s tales freshman year of what he had done to Lisa and where, which Terence had overheard in the cafeteria. That incident had ended with him on top of Baker just outside of the cafeteria, his hands gripped tightly about the braggart’s throat, after he had buffeted him with a relentless barrage of blows. By the time Terence was pulled off of Sam, word had spread. Anyone who got busy with Terence Davidson’s woman had better damn well keep it to themselves.
Terence knew that was the reason the only details he had of Lisa’s subsequent exploits were those she supplied herself. She never talked about the intimate details of her dates or the couple of actual relationships she’d had. She would just come slinking back, slyly implying that no man could match what they had. And even though both his street and his book smarts told him she was not back for good, he would give in to the childlike connection he had to her and let her back in. His mother had left and never returned for him; how could he reject the one person who always came back, regardless of how much it hurt?
“T-Dog, what’s up, man?” Matthew’s voice snapped Terence back into reality. A fellow product of D.C.’s meaner streets, Matthew had played basketball against Terence in both junior and senior high school, laying the groundwork for a friendship that had survived Matthew’s conversion to Islam.
Terence rose from his seat and shook hands vigorously with the short, squat brother. “What up, Matt? Let’s knock this business out. I’m sure we both got places we need to be.”
“Can do, my brother, can do,” Matthew said as he took a seat across from Terence. “I’ve got a summary of the funds that the Nation has designated for the manhood course next year, as per our previous conversations.”
Terence took the packet of spreadsheets, skimming until he arrived at the bottom-line figures. “Twelve thousand five hundred dollars for the whole year? Matt, the total expenditures last year were almost twenty thousand. How do you think Ellis is going to make up that shortfall?”
“T, I told you that the Nation was planning to reduce funding on several projects this year in order to free up cash for our new restaurants and bookstores. Businesses can’t be capitalized on a hope and a prayer.”
Terence tapped his right temple with his pencil. “I understand, man, but Ellis is really under the gun. If you’re going to leave ’em out there like this, what are you doing to raise some private funds for the shortfall?”
“Well, that’s the good news. Our fund-raising committee is devoting some time to raising money for the manhood program at local temples, rallies, and even on some of the local college campuses.”
“Well, show me the money, Matt. Sheryl Gibson and Rolly Orange are trying to determine each program’s level of funding as we speak.”
“Patience, man. I’ll have a check for a few hundred this week, and we’re hoping to raise another one to two thousand.”
Terence ran a hand over the back of his smooth head. “Well, that’s gonna still leave the center up a creek, but your efforts are appreciated. You’ll understand if we have to scale back on the number of students next year.”
“I know the realities of budget constraints, my brother. You folks do what you gotta do, we’ll supply the instructors as long as you provide the location and willing students. Any other questions before I jet?”
Terence took one last flip through the papers in front of him. “Naw, we straight. Can we expect to see you and some other Nation representatives at the rededication ceremony?”
Gathering his materials, Matthew paused. “Isn’t that a little premature? I thought you all still have a ways to go to meet your private-contribution goals?”
Terence beamed a broad smile. “Maybe so, but the center has until next fall for that, and nobody’s lettin’ up. But in the meantime, while the students are still here this spring and the debate over the center is hot, the board voted to hold this ceremony and garner some more attention. It’s kind of like a rally. Positive thinking, man.”
Matthew returned Terence’s smile. “Well, trust the Nation will represent. We’ll see you there, T. Assalaam alaikum, my brother.”
“Hot salami bacon to you, too, Big X,” Terence said. “You stay out of trouble now. I don’t wanna see you walkin’ around with rib juice on your lips or a loose woman under your arm.” He chuckled as his friend pretended to ignore him on his way out.
Terence checked his watch, remembering he needed to meet a study group for his electrodynamics final in the engineering building. As he prepared to leave, Rory Perez appeared in the doorway.
“Terence, hey, how are you doin’, man?”
“Aw, damn,” Terence whispered under his breath as Perez made a beeline toward him.
“This is a great coincidence, man. You’re just in time for our Young Republicans meeting. You got time to stick around for a minute?”
Licking his lips, Terence regretted the earnest conversations he had had with Perez during their early years at Highland. Living on the same dormitory floor, they had spent many slow weekend evenings arguing, and often agreeing on, issues both political and spiritual. Like Terence, Perez was not a believer in any one religion but believed that a man’s life was what he himself made it and nothing else. In addition, they agreed that the federal government served little constructive purpose to the lives of most Americans, other than to overtax the wealthy and kill the ambition of teenage mothers with welfare. Where they parted ways was their beliefs about government’s role in the lives of black Americans specifically, and Terence saw no room to maneuver in such a crucial area. “I really have to go, Rory. I got a study group.”
“Well, le
t me give you one of our brochures. We’re kicking up an aggressive recruitment drive right now, Terence. We’re going to show that Young Republicans can be real activists on this campus, too. In fact, we’re starting out by trumpeting welfare reform and the end of affirmative action. Heck, we’ve got the best example of the ills of affirmative action on this campus—all the scholarships the administration is giving out to the Caucasian students. Now we know how all the white students at the mainstream universities feel. Discrimination based on race, regardless of whether you’re white or black, is wrong. We’d love to have you join the battle, Terence.”
Leaving his backpack on the table for a moment, Terence folded his arms and met Perez’s eyes. “Rory, let me be sure I understand this. You wanna end affirmative action, right? Does that mean you think we’ve arrived at a color-blind society, in which I can go and get any job that Average White Boy can?”
Disappointed, Perez hunched his shoulders without breaking eye contact. “Well, sure, Terence, this is America, greatest country on the face of this earth. Look at Colin Powell, Tiger Woods, Michael Jordan, or even John H. Johnson. Black men can do anything in this country they want!”
“So why are ninety percent of the top jobs in this country held by white men, when they don’t make up anywhere near that percentage of the total population?”
Perez twisted his mouth into an annoyed frown. “You can’t legislate who succeeds based on numbers, Terence. Have you ever considered that white males are disproportionately at the top because they work the hardest and are the smartest?”
“Oh Rory! Don’t go and confirm my view of black Republicans like that! Deep down, you must believe that whites are where they are because they’re superior. How else could you take up for them the way you do?”
“Terence, I’m not taking up for them, I’m just pointing out the reality—”
“Black man, I think it’s time we end this conversation before I say or do something I’ll regret later.” Terence slung his backpack over his shoulder, patting the smaller man on the back as he made his way out. “When you get a strong enough swig of racism, you’ll come around, man. Black folk have no business being Republican or Democrat. Give me a call when you ready to start up the Ebony party, then we can talk.”
As Rory shook his hand, a confused look on his face, Terence let out a husky laugh and strode outside. Pulling a bag of Skittles out of his backpack, he popped a few into his mouth and tried to think good thoughts. The moody weather notwithstanding, Terence decided to enjoy himself. His ribbing of Matthew X and Perez had lifted his spirits so much that he barely registered the glowering stares of Sam Baker and crew as he passed by. He decided to enjoy their attention. They could look, but they knew better than to touch.
Unfortunately the same couldn’t be said for the woman who blocked Terence’s path as he neared the top of the walkway. Ms. Annabelle Simmons almost ran him over.
“Mr. Davidson.” A tall woman, Ms. Simmons barely had to look up to make eye contact with Terence. Locking on to his eyes, she quickly smoothed her navy blue pantsuit. “A pleasure as always. It’s good I ran into you.” Her smile was radiant.
Oh God, Terence thought. He wondered if Allah, Jesus, or whoever he was got annoyed that he called on him only in desperate times.
Sidling up to him, Ms. Simmons breathed hard enough for her minty breath to fill Terence’s nostrils. “We need to talk about this tuition bill of yours, Terence. I don’t have the numbers in front of me, but we can’t let you complete the year with such a large balance.”
Terence could feel his brain bubbling. Not again. She couldn’t be pulling this mess. He’d served her “the high hard one” four times in as many years at Highland. He’d never told anyone about the escapades, not that he really thought of them as an escape from anything other than poverty.
Just north of forty, Ms. Simmons kept herself in good shape with a regular aerobics and weight-training regimen. She wasn’t exactly pretty, but she had a certain magnetism that was outweighed only by her sour personality. But in the heat of their trysts, she had ravaged his body with the enthusiasm of a teenage girl. Terence wasn’t proud of what they’d done those times in the privacy of her Hyattsville home, but it had been those sessions and nothing else that had kept him from having classes dropped and being put out of Highland.
He had always feared what might happen if he sat out of school, even for one semester. He’d known too many others from his hood who had taken a semester off and never set foot on a college campus again. He knew sitting out was an invitation to sink back into the world of drugs and poverty he was working so hard to escape. And he was not going to fail his granny; both his mother and Biggie had already done that. That was the only thing that had kept him going every time he’d walked through Ms. Simmons’s front door, spurring himself on with his personal mantra: Can’t nobody hold me down. His desire to complete school had outweighed his discomfort with the trysts. But he’d thought he was through paying for school with his body.
“Ms. Simmons, you promised me.” He paused, hearing the angry tension in his own voice.
Looking to her left and right, Ms. Simmons smiled and placed a hand on Terence’s chest. “Don’t stress yourself out, Terence. This is not a threat. You just go ahead and complete the school year. We’ll discuss your bills . . .” She traced the outline of the buttons on his shirt. “We’ll discuss your bills at the start of next year. I have a feeling one last meeting will pay you up for good. You take care, honey. Tell your granny I said hi.” The inappropriate smile still plastered on her face, Ms. Simmons sashayed down the steps toward the lobby, leaving Terence rooted where he stood.
Damn! His heart beating like an insistent drum, he yanked his backpack tightly against his shoulder and propelled himself to the top of the walkway. Later for this. If that woman thought she was gonna play him like a violin, ever again, she was due for a rude awakening. He’d sooner drop out. He didn’t need this.
CHAPTER 16
. . . . . . . . . . . .
HANKY - PANKY
The sun had set, and outside O. J.’s bedroom window the Tuesday-evening sky faded to black. He fingered the smooth business-sized envelope in his hand as if it were a precious ounce of gold. His heartbeat slammed against his chest. He was not one who experienced many nervous emotions, but right now he was holding in his hand a letter from the admissions office of Walker Seminary. Walker was his last real hope: the Dallas Theological rejection letter had arrived yesterday, and United was a long shot. Walker had to come through for him. He was O. J. Peters, and he was going to be a rich, famous pastor someday. He needed to have that doctor title in front of his name, if he was ever going to reach the heights of ministry. As he tore the envelope’s seal with his right index finger, his desperate thoughts were interrupted by Carla Grier.
Pastor Grier’s only daughter had arrived at the house just as he was checking the mailbox, and his excitement at seeing the letter had made him all but ignore her. She removed her Paul Harris blazer and sat daintily on the edge of his bed, her eyes filled with concern. “O. J., what is it?”
With this letter in his hand, he felt like a dehydrated traveler holding a full canteen. He ripped the sole sheet of paper from the envelope, and his heart thudded at the sight of the short paragraph before him. Knowing the answer already, he willed himself to read the impersonal prose:
Dear Mr. Peters, Thank you for your sincere interest in our institution. Walker Seminary is proud of its tradition of educating some of the top theological minds in the country.
“Ha! Top minds my butt,” he muttered angrily. Walker had been the lowest-ranked of the schools to which he’d applied. Like a sadomasochist, he pushed through the rest of the letter.
Unfortunately, we are unable to select you for admission at this time. Please accept our best wishes in furthering your career in the ministry. God bless.
Completely unaware of Carla’s presence now, he dropped the letter onto the carpet. His head was spi
nning. If a comparatively rinky-dink school like Walker wouldn’t admit him, who would? What was the Lord up to?
“Though he slay me, I will serve him,” he whispered. What Scripture reference was that? He knew it was out of Job; he had used it for a recent sermon. It sounded good, but O. J. knew he didn’t believe it, not for a minute. Against his will, his head filled with memories of the day his budding faith in God died a sudden death.
He had been two weeks past his thirteenth birthday. Puberty had arrived and left its mark, spurring him to pass his first “Will you be my girlfriend” note to Maria James in English class. She had tittered loudly when she read it, and rolled her eyes as he watched her with a hopeful heart. That had been her only response; the message was clear.
He had trudged home, only to find his driveway packed with the Pintos, Buicks, Cadillacs, and Lincolns of members of his church. What are they doing here so early? he had wondered. His mother had been in the hospital again for the past few days, but his father had assured him God was going to heal her cancer. “Your mother has walked hand in hand with God, son, as have we, and God will honor that. He already told me. Anything we ask in his name, we know that we have it. Your momma will be fine.” Back then, O. J. had taken his father’s word as the gospel itself, so despite occasional sleepless nights, he’d convinced himself everything would be fine. But that day, as he saw the drive filled with cars and members going to and fro with foilcovered plates and casserole dishes, he knew something had gone terribly wrong. He had thrown his books and lunch pail to the floor and run toward that house like it was on fire. Momma!
Carla’s voice pulled O. J. out of the stinging past. “O. J., are you okay? You’re not making much sense.” She had stopped by to see him on her way home from work at Coopers & Lybrand. O. J. knew that his moody reaction was probably making her feel unappreciated. He turned to make eye contact with Carla for the first time since he’d ripped the letter open. “Nothing, Carla, nothing. I was just asking the Lord what this means, is all. These dang seminaries are playing me like Boo-Boo the fool. I guess God never said the road would be easy, did he?”
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