“Well, Momma,” I said with a heavy sigh, “first of all, I’m too young to get serious, and even if I did, I wouldn’t do that in your house. I’d never bring a boy in here.”
“So who’s that proper-talking nigga always calling here at night?”
“Oh, Henry,” I said, and then lowered my voice with a cluck of the tongue. “Momma, he’s just a friend.”
“Umm.” With that she headed upstairs. I did not want to follow her because it would look just a tad obvious, so I turned on the TV and prayed his big butt could hide.
“Ahh, Cheryl,” she said, with I caught you in her voice, “what is your room window doing open?”
“Doggone, Momma, I was just airing out the room,” I said and, then decided that I should go upstairs. Thank goodness he had gotten away.
She was looking around my room, and I noticed her on her knees looking under my bed. I walked in and said, “You know, this is really sad, Mom. I hate to say it, but I done told you I didn’t have company. I’m not even courting anyone and look at you. You in my bedroom, on your knees, looking under my bed? I can’t believe this.”
I watched my words cut through her. My posture, the tone of my voice, or the words, I don’t know which it was, but she looked almost embarrassed for the first time.
“I know, sugar,” she said, standing with a soft grunt. “You right. You’re a good girl, I must admit. I just had a long day today and, I don’t know, I saw that bike out there and those pillows on the floor and just flipped.”
As she sat on the bed I went to the window and closed it, looking for Henry but figuring by now he was so scared he was probably halfway home. I hoped he didn’t take the bike, because how would I explain it? And if Mrs. Jefferson across the street saw him, I was up the creek anyway. But I didn’t have time to worry about that now. I had to deal with my momma.
“So what happened Momma? Why you home so early?”
“I quit, got fired, whatever you want to call it.”
“What?”
“Well, I called your dad and asked him what I should do. They are still refusing to integrate that lunch counter at Woolworth. I know I’m just a custodian out there or what have you, but right never wronged nobody.” As she spoke, wrinkles appeared in her forehead and at the corners of her eyes, and she looked at me with indignation. “They were supposed to do it two years ago and then they said definitely last year, and now they still are not doing it. It’s 1968. If not now, when do they plan to do it? So I told them I was not cleaning up the dining area. If we can’t eat there, dammit, we can’t clean there.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I called your father before I did it just to make sure we could get by on one income until I could find some day work, if they did what I expected them to do. He told me to do what I felt was right because I had to work there and somehow we would get by. So here I am.”
“Well, Momma,” I said, sitting next to her, “I’m proud of you.”
“Thanks, baby. I appreciate that.”
“What can I get for you? I wanna make you queen for the day. I’ll run your bath, clean the kitchen, do the laundry, whatever you like. Would you like a Co’Cola or some iced tea or something?”
“Yeah, sweetie, bring me an RC. That would be nice.”
I stood and kissed her on top of her partially balding head. I had never been so proud of that little lady as I was at that moment. She looked up at me and smiled, because she knew it.
As I ran downstairs, I looked at the clock, trying to anticipate how long it would take Henry to get home. I looked out the window and saw that the bike was there. He was obviously waiting in the area since he had heard the story about me borrowing the bike. He was so smart, and so fine, so nice, so considerate, so cute, so—And then I heard, “Son, come on out that closet, you’re messing up my shoes.”
The next thing I knew, I was out the door, on that bike, and riding as far away from that place as I could.
Chapter 2
Phoenix, Arizona
November 7, 2000
Arizona Statehouse
8:05 P.M. EST
“This is Vincent Winslet reporting from the statehouse in Phoenix, Arizona, where there’s a rally for the much-beloved yet sometimes controversial governor of this state, Governor Thomas Edward Baldwin, or as he is affectionately known in these parts, Governor Tom. The polls here will close in about three hours, and we expect the crowd to increase here in the valley of the sun. Arizona State Police estimates indicate about four thousand supporters have gathered here on Washington Street to support their governor in his bid to become the next president of the United States. As you may remember, Franklin, in the fifties Arizona was considered a Democratic stronghold, and it was not until 1968 that that trend came to a screeching halt with the man viewed by many as the father of modern-day conservatism, one Senator Barry Goldwater.”
“What’s the mood out there, Vinny?”
“There is a deep sense of patriotic optimism, Frank. As you know, after the Republican convention most of these people never thought they would have the opportunity to cast a presidential vote for their favorite son. Two events have shaped this day. First, the decision by Governor Tom to don the mantle of the party initially worn by H. Ross Perot in the 1992 election. He of course is running on the Reform party ticket and has the full-fledged support of the religious right and what most would call the conservative wing of the Republican party. As you know, the candidate for the Republican party, Vice President Ronald Steiner, lost a considerable amount of his support when he selected the pro-choice mayor of San Francisco, Mayor Sydney Ackerman, as his running mate. We are told.”
“Vinny, if you would hold on for one brief moment. I hate to cut you off, but we have the very first election results from our exit polls at ten minutes after the hour.
“NBS News is reporting that the great state of Virginia has gone to Senator Henry Davis of Florida. Repeating, the commonwealth of Virginia has cast its thirteen electoral votes for the two-term senator from Florida, Senator Henry Louis Davis the Second. This is a state in which he campaigned hard and heavy for several months, with former governor L. Douglas Wilder by his side. It is one of the few states in which his numbers have not dropped in recent weeks. With 280 electoral votes needed, the two-term senator from Florida is thirteen votes from making his dream a reality. We will be back with more election coverage after this message.”
DAVIS 13
STEINER 0
BALDWIN 0
Fountainebleau Hotel
Presidential Suite
The eruption in the ballroom shook the walls as someone pounded on the door of Henry’s bedroom. “Sent’a Davis! Sent’a Davis! Have you heard the news?” the female voice shouted. He did not move from his chair. Hours earlier he’d joined his key staffers in the living room of the suite. Phone calls, telegrams, and faxes from all over the world were being sent to wish him well on the monumental night. After that, he’d asked Marcus to clear the bedroom so he could just have a little time to himself.
As Marcus asked the individuals to leave one by one, Henry noticed he stopped to talk to Joey Wood, his chief of security. Joey, who was rail-thin and reminded Henry of Barney Fife because he seemed to always have had one cup of coffee too many, had apparently refused to leave as Henry watched the two men exchange words. Then Joey whistled with his index and pinky finger in his mouth and a gentleman bearing Secret Service credentials walked over and the words subsided.
While they had had Secret Service protection since the New Hampshire primary and the death threats began, never had they had as many agents as on this night. The agent spoke into the microphone in his sleeve, and the bulge from his magnum was apparent under his black jacket. Soon the Secret Service agent pointed his index finger at Marcus to make his point. Henry’s first inclination was to see what was going on, but he resisted doing so because in the last couple of years he’d taught himself to delegate. Thus he allowed Marcus to handle the situation whi
le he returned his attention to the news.
TV crews from all the major networks had asked to set up cameras to watch his emotions as the numbers came in, but Henry had vetoed the idea the previous day. His running mate, with whom he’d had differences in the last weeks of the campaign, had brought a contingent of about thirty people to his door, only to be turned away by his campaign press secretary, Ed Long.
“You mean to tell me,” Henry’s running mate shouted, loud enough for everyone in his entourage to hear, including a few members of the press, “that he’s not going to let me in there? What kind of horseshit is he trying to pull this time, Eddie? You know it’s tradition for the candidates to watch this here thing together.” Six-foot-five-inch Dirk Gallagher was the stereotypical elbow-grabbing Texan with ostrich boots, barrel chest, slick salt-and-pepper used-car-salesman hair, and matching attitude.
“I know, Governor, I know,” Ed said, shaking his head like Rafiki. Noticing the reporters in the crowd, he then said at a lower decibel, “He and I talked about that a couple of hours ago and he’s just dead set against it right now. Maybe a little later on. What we’ve done is made my suite the reception area for the inner circle.”
“Your suite? Why not the big one at the other end of the hall!” Dirk demanded, spilling his drink on a member of the Texas press with a pen poised over a yellow notepad. “We can’t all fit in that tiny-ass suite of yours anyways! Why, trying to fit us all in there is like trying to push a porcupine into a—”
“Governor,” Ed said into the candidate’s chest, “we sorta got the missies in there until things . . . you know . . .”
With a tilt of his cowboy hat, Dirk asked quietly, “Are they still going at it?”
“Well, aha, yeah.”
“Well, good! Fuck ‘urn!” Dirk shouted, and then turned toward his laughing supporters and said, “Listen, guys. There has been a small change, but it’s no problem. We have handled more difficult situations with them assholish senators in Austin. So let’s just go across the hallway and watch this thing in good ole Ed’s room. And Eddie has assured me he does not have any cheap liquor in there. Right, Ed?”
HENRY
Nineteen seventy-three. Umm, what do I think of in ’73? Well, the obvious answer is Watergate and how this country was awakened and brought to its knees with the reality of what really goes on every day in Washington. On a more personal level, it was the year I lost Cheryl and met Yvette Leslie Shaw.
Cheryl and I dated through high school. I had always told her I was going to Florida A&M and then either Georgetown or Harvard Law. She said she would go to FAMU with me, and so I was just sure she would be there. We never really talked about it much. I played football and made all-city and all-state and a few other all-teams, but she really never did anything regarding extracurricular activities. Why did she not participate more? Just like our choice of colleges, it never really came up.
My mom and dad bought me a car in January of ’71. It was a sleek sky blue 1966 Mustang that my dad got an incredible deal on from his boss. My father worked as a medical records administrator but could have been a great salesperson because he was always thinking two steps ahead. After I got the car, girls were almost throwing phone numbers in the windows when I came to red lights.
I never cheated on Cheryl. Was I tempted? Does Ted Kennedy own a black suit? I think any red-blooded American kid would be. This was about the time I started hearing reports about John and Bobby Kennedy possibly having affairs. There was even a rumor floating that Dr. King had had a couple of flings, which I refused to believe, but I did not want a ghost from my past to appear one day with a story of my own indiscretions. I know these thoughts were not typical for a kid that age, especially in the free-sex late sixties and early seventies, but like I said, I knew I wanted to be sitting in this chair, in this room, on this night.
So I was eighteen years old, a star on a state championship football team, driving a new, to me, Mustang. And I was still a virgin. Yes, Cheryl and I had come close on more than a couple of occasions, but we had never crossed that threshold.
To this day my parents have never accepted Cheryl, which, when I look back, I think only made me love her more. After they found out who she was and where she lived, they got to the point where they wouldn’t allow her to call the house. My dad even called her mom and dad one night and got into it with them. They wanted the best for me, I know now looking back, but I still don’t agree with the way they handled the situation.
And then came the time to select a college. I remember getting this catalog from Florida A&M as soon as it came into the Guidance Department. I brought it to lunch, and after Cheryl and I finished eating our Tater-Tots, I remember pulling out the catalog as if it were a three-carat diamond and looking for the smile of utter joy on her face. But all she said was, “Umm. When did you get that?”
“Today. It just came in!” I was beaming from ear to ear. “I was looking at the campus map. They have the dorms on opposite sides of the campus, but I noticed the football dorm is over here, so—” And then I noticed her crying.
“Cheryl? Cheryl, what’s wrong?” She just sat there saying nothing, still looking at the pictures in the orange and green catalog. I slid closer to her, and said, “Baby? Did I say something wrong? You don’t wanna live in a dorm? Whatever it is, I’ll fix it.” As soon as those words parted my lips, the floodgates opened and she stood and ran away. I chased her for a while until the assistant principal blew his whistle for me to stop running and to walk. Then the bell rang and I started to walk back toward my next class. Thoughts ran through my mind like a herd of broncos, because I had never expected such a reaction.
“Hey, Henry, somebody told me you were going to play for the Gators. For real?” Regina Grant asked. Regina was the head cheerleader, and you could always tell she had this thing against wearing bras.
“Yeah, the recruiter called me the other night,” I said, looking over my shoulder for Cheryl, “but I’m not going.”
“Why not?” she replied, and hugged my left arm. “That’s where I’m going. That’s where Angela and Joanna are going too.”
I was feeling so many emotions inside, but as she spoke, all of a sudden those feelings were taking a backseat to the cleavage Regina had parked on my triceps. Cheryl had beautiful breasts, don’t get me wrong. I’d played with them a number of times, but I had not actually seen them since one particular day when we were fifteen. Unfortunately my girl had nothing on Regina D-Cup Grant. I had never felt breasts so soft. It was as if my arm were just enveloped in their uptilted softness, and I didn’t want to pull away, although I knew I should.
“Really? All of you going to UF?”
“Yep. In fact, we’re going to Gainesville on the thirteenth to look over the campus. There’s a lot more to do in Gainesville than in Tallahassee.”
“I know, I know, but I’ve always wanted to go to FAMU. Even as a—”
“Chile, das ole-fashioned thinking. Most colored folk are going to the University of Florida nowadays. They’re recruiting colored kids left and right.”
When I heard her say the word colored, a chill swept over me, and I knew I had made the right choice in colleges.
“Well,” she continued as I got to my classroom door, “here’s my phone number. If you change your mind, let me know. I would love for you to come up for a weekend. And who knows?” she said, with a suggestive look, a giggle, and a wiggle. “Even if you do decide to go to that nigga school, maybe you could come down and see me on the weekend.”
I took the number, smiled, folded it into a square, and went into my classroom. As I sat at the desk, my first inclination was to throw the digits away. After all, she was calling the school I had dreamed of attending my entire life a nigger school. Yeah, I wanted to throw the number away, but I was experiencing a sensation in my jeans that created a tingle in my left foot due to a lack of circulation. And I was a little embarrassed to stand up once I was in my seat for fear that I would pitch a tent. The �
��colored” and “nigger school” talk did not mean a thing to the action below, which could not get the bouncing peach blouse out of its mind.
As I extended my legs beneath my desk and adjusted things with my hand in my pocket, my thoughts went back to Cheryl. I reviewed everything I had said to her as well as conversations from the previous days, and I came up blank. Glancing down at the slip of paper with Regina’s number, I wadded it up and shot it in the can just like my idol Clyde “the Glide” Frazier of the Knicks. There was no doubt, if there was any before, as to what I should do. I should attend Florida A&M, pledge Kappa, be elected student body president, and graduate cum laude. But first I needed to find out what was wrong with my baby.
Before the sound of the bell left the air, I was out the door. Since I always made a point of sitting in the front row, that was no big deal. I only had five minutes to get to my next class, and it was on the other side of the school. I knew if I ran, I could go by Cheryl’s class, find out what was wrong, and get back to my Americanism Versus Communism class before the bell rang.
I was running down the hallway full speed wearing my football jersey with the big “35” plastered on the back of it. As I slid and skipped through students, I looked down at my watch and figured I was making good time. Two or three football players tried to stop me; one tried to tell me something about his decision to go to UCLA. It didn’t matter, because I now had only three minutes to see Cheryl, kiss her, and get to class. As I ran down the hallway, my best friend on the team, David, yelled at me, “Hey, Stang! Wait a minute!” Most of the fellows in school called me Stang, which was short for Mustang.
“Can’t, man. I’m in a rush. I’ll getcha’ on the comeback.”
He ran up behind me, and said, “Listen man, I need to tell you something.”
I looked at my watch and slowed down. “What, Slick, I’m in a rush.”
“I know, I know, but dig on this, blood.” And then he looked the other way as he got closer. “It’s your honey.”
Always Page 4
