I felt like a complete asshole, but it was a lesson I needed to learn. My circle was small until I went to Howard. It was composed of a select group of black Jack and Jill kids and white classmates from school. All privileged, all far from harm’s way. We were basically cookie-cutter kids who’d had the world promised to us, or so our parents wanted us to believe.
I know it sounds corny but after I tried unsuccessfully to contact LaKeisha several times to apologize for my insensitivity, I decided that I needed to do something about the information she’d given me. It wasn’t enough for me to just be aware; I felt a need to get out and act, really do something. So I decided to try to help children who found themselves in situations like LaKeisha’s. After interning at the Children’s Defense Fund in D.C., I realized that the best way I could do this was in the courtroom. Going to law school to be a children’s advocate was a hard decision—little money and less acclaim—but it was what I was most passionate about, and it made my daddy proud.
“Please, girl, you’re just saying you’re never too busy because I’m the one picking up that fat law school tab,” my father said, reaching out for me in front of the country club. “Come give your dad a big hug.”
Walking up to the car to hug him, I looked over his shoulder and noticed a man getting out of the other side of the car. Tall, I thought almost immediately. The brother was stretching out to be at least six-four. He was pretty handsome, too, and I could tell that he was younger than most of my dad’s other friends by the way his chocolate skin wrapped tightly around his flawless features.
“T.H., this is Reverend Hall from First Baptist,” my father said, noticing my short stare.
“Hey, that’s Reverend Dr. Hall to you, Mr. Money Bags,” he joked, taking my hand. “But you can call me Kyle.” He grinned at me and opened the door to the clubhouse for me to enter. “I am off the clock.”
As I passed by him, I could see that he had good taste. He had on a cream Polo golf shirt with khakis. It was a classic and unpretentious country club look—the direct opposite of my father, who seemed to be going for old man pastels and plaids these days. Kinda sexy, Rev, I thought, watching him walk by. But what the hell was he doing with my father on golf day? I’d told my father about my breakup with Julian over the phone. I’d told him I was coming to the course to spend time with him…alone. I wasn’t in the mood to share his attention. I just needed two ears, not four—I’d had enough of that the night before.
“Reverend Hall and I were about to have breakfast. You want to join us?” My father smiled, looking as if he was reading all of my doubts as they bumped around in my mind.
“But, Daddy, I came to watch you play golf,” I said, trying not to sound upset.
“I know, T.H. But Reverend Hall and I have a venture we’re working on down in Harlem and, well, I just can’t get this guy out here. This is really the only time. Do you understand?” my father asked in front of Kyle.
I always hated it when people asked me questions in front of other people. It was almost as if I was being forced to be the bigger person to save face. I mean, I couldn’t exactly say, “Hell, no. Tell his ass to go home so I can cry my eyes out on my daddy’s shoulder alone.” That would make me sound spoiled and selfish. So I had to settle…
“That’s fine, Daddy,” I said, gritting my teeth. He signaled for a table and off we were. Great, breakfast with a monk. That’s just what I needed after my breakup with the love of my life. Maybe Rev. Dr. Hall could bless my breakup and talk me into joining some nunnery upstate. I know it sounds bad, but give a girl a break. I go to church every Sunday and I tithe—and I don’t have a job! But there’s a time and place to spend time with your “sanctified” friends. For example, I wouldn’t invite my saved friend Sheena to a strip club, and it would be a bad idea to ask my pastor out for drinks on a Friday night. It’s wrong. Too much temptation for them; too much censorship for me. Point-blank, it just wasn’t a good time for me to sit across the table from Rev. Dr. Hall. I could just imagine what he would say when I stabbed my smoked salmon, Julian’s favorite, repeatedly with a knife. He wouldn’t understand. He’d probably want to pray over me…wash the demons away.
“I’m actually glad to meet you, Troy,” Kyle said, pulling out my chair. “Your dad talks about you so much.” I gave Dad the evil eye from behind my menu. “I think it’s great—the work you’re doing with the kids down at the Kids in Motion Settlement.”
I lowered my menu and looked across the table at Kyle. Had my father really told him about the volunteer work I do at the artistic community center? I didn’t think my father knew much about it. I mean, I talked to him and my mother about the little girls in the ballet class I taught, but I didn’t think he thought much of it. It wasn’t exactly bringing in any clear profits.
“Thank you,” I said. “So how’s Mom?” I asked, deliberately pointing a question at my father. I didn’t have him to myself, but I at least wanted to talk to him.
“She’s fine. Just busying herself with a bunch of stuff.” My father rolled his eyes playfully. “You know your mother.”
“Did she give you drama this morning about coming out?”
“No, she took Desta to her GED class this morning,” my father answered, referring to their maid. Desta was an Ethiopian immigrant my mother hired about two years ago. When she started, she could barely speak English and she’d never been to school. My mother made getting an education a part of Desta’s duties. Mom said that she didn’t see the sense in having someone clean her house for the rest of her life. She explained that she wasn’t helping her if all she gave her was a check and a broom. “That way she’ll always be a maid, cleaning people’s houses. That’s no way to live,” she said.
“That’s cool,” I said.
“Yep, she’s been stalking that poor girl,” my father said. “And it’s good too, because Desta finally got a divorce from that crazy husband of hers and they’re sending her kids over soon.”
“So what kind of project are you two working on in Harlem?” I asked, watching out of the corner of my eye as Kyle ordered his food.
“Oh, some real estate stuff,” Kyle jumped in. “Your dad and I are about to save Harlem.”
“Save it?”
“Oh, just buying some real estate, baby. Just a bunch of old forgotten buildings no one wants,” my father replied, sipping on a cup of coffee the waitress brought over.
“But they do want the buildings,” Kyle said. “The rich white investors want them and so do the black residents of Harlem. The residents just can’t afford them and the rich know that. So they buy low, renovate, and sell high to white buyers. Good old gentrification. The new whitewashing of Harlem.”
“That’s a bad situation,” I said.
“It’s not just bad, Troy. It’s wrong. Most of those people have been living in the very houses we’re buying for generations. They’ve been living there and renting for years—just throwing away money that could belong to their families through homeownership.”
“So where do you two come in?”
“Well, we plan to buy the land and start putting some of the money back into the community,” Kyle said. “First Baptist can do scholarships, fix up the block, get the people to really care about the community again. The church can get them to take ownership in making and keeping their Harlem nice. We’ll also keep the rent reasonable for the tenants who already live in the buildings. Many of the landlords over there are charging them exorbitant rates.”
“Why?” I asked, watching the passion grow in Kyle’s eyes. I could see that he really felt what he was saying.
“To be honest, I think they’re trying to drive them out. They’re charging them double and triple what the places are worth, trying to get a different crowd in there. It’s a real bad deal, too, for the people who live there. It not only makes saving money impossible, but it keeps their credit bad because they’re pretty much living off of what little credit they have to make ends meet—not to mention being late on alm
ost all of their bills,” Kyle went on. “So by keeping the rent low, we’re actually helping them, because then they can get into one of the homeownership programs at the church and work toward buying the property from us in the future. The sky’s the limit. All we need is this man right here to come on board with the investment money.” Kyle pointed to my father.
By the time we finished eating, Daddy and Kyle had shared their entire secret plot to save Harlem from ruin. I was so excited about their plan, I almost forgot about Julian and the reason I’d gone to the country club in the first place. Other than the fact that I kept checking my cell phone every five minutes to see if Julian had called, I was as cool as mint gum.
I also learned a bit more about the good Rev. Dr. Kyle Hall IV. A graduate of both Morehouse and Morehouse’s School of Religion—just like his uncle, father, grandfather, and great-grandfather, Kyle was what I like to call Holy Royalty.
Nana once told me that back in the day, the big black moneymakers were teachers, doctors, preachers—the latter making the most money. Folks like Kyle’s great-grandfather not only organized and owned churches, but they were also insurance men, real estate investors, and business owners. They were pillars in their communities. They had memberships in the best clubs and all the right connections in town. These connections included white people, who used the black preachers to get the favor of the community during election time.
Preachers and preachers’ sons (who were practically groomed to be preachers themselves) were treated like gold. That’s where Kyle came into the picture in his family. After talking to him, I learned that he was pretty much destined to be a preacher. He grew up in his daddy’s church in Memphis. He was giving his own sermons by the time he was twelve. He skipped the twelfth grade to go to Morehouse a year early. There, Kyle led an on-campus Christian crusade ministry, pledged my father’s fraternity, Omega Psi Phi, and was student body president. He graduated in three—yes, three years—and walked across the street to the School of Religion to “follow the call of the Lord” (those were his exact words). When he graduated from the School of Religion, he went home to Memphis to help out with his father’s church. He explained to me that it was way too much pressure on him trying to find his way in his father’s church, so he headed north to help his uncle out with his church in Harlem. Two years later, his uncle retired and turned the church over to him. That’s where he’d been for the past five years, and he didn’t plan on leaving anytime soon. Is that all? No, Kyle has no children, lives alone, and has a Jack Russell named Luke. Damn, I’m good.
He was an interesting character. Not only was he handsome, in a Morris Chestnut kind of way, but he was also easy to talk to and passionate about what he did.
All in all, while Kyle had an ongoing date with the Lord, he was a nice guy. I mean, he was cool. I’d never date him; I just wouldn’t make a good pastor’s wife. I hate church hats and I like drinking and dancing too much. I’m saying, Kyle seemed like a great guy, but great and dateable are two different things. Kyle was a good boy and while I tended to be a bit conservative when it came to taste and style, I was definitely a bad girl. We may as well have been oil and water trying to mix at that table.
“Did you have a good time?” Daddy asked as we stood in front of the country club, waiting for the valet to bring my car around. He’d insisted on walking me out when I said my goodbyes.
“Everything was cool. It was great to get out here to see you,” I said. It was after noon. We’d spent over three hours talking and laughing at that table.
“Well, I’m glad you did.” He patted me softly on the back. “So how did you like Reverend Hall?”
“He’s a nice guy.”
“Well, to be honest, I invited him out here on purpose today. I lied earlier. I haven’t been trying to get to him, he’s been trying to get to me.”
“Why’d you lie, Daddy?” I asked, horrified that my father wanted to hook me up. Was I that pitiful?
“Because I wanted you two to meet and I figured without Julian in the—”
“Whoa…Dad,” I broke in. “Who said anything about hooking me up? I so don’t need a hookup, Dad.” I covered my face with my hands in embarrassment. I was so humiliated. Did he tell Kyle I needed to be hooked up? What did he say? “Hey, Rev, my daughter is so desperate, I need to find her a damn date, even if it’s a preacher”?
“Well, I just thought it would help,” my father said, pulling my hands from my face. “I know what you’re thinking. But don’t worry, I didn’t tell him anything about you being here or the breakup. He was just as surprised as you were.”
“Good.” I noticed the valet pulling up with my car. “And don’t you get any more ideas, Dad. I’m not interested in this guy. Not even a little.”
“I know. Now give an old man a hug before you go.” He pulled me into his arms. “Daddy loves you so much, TH. Don’t forget that,” he said, touching the remaining puff that was still apparent under my eyes. “You don’t need to worry about Julian. Just move on.”
I walked over to my car and threw my purse inside.
“Why did you and Mom get back together? I mean, after your first divorce?” I asked, not even realizing that it was on my mind. He stepped up to the other side of the car.
“I sat up a couple of nights, reading old magazines and eating like a pig—all the things I promised I would do after the divorce. I even went on a date—”
“Daddy!”
“I’m telling the truth. Your mother knows.” He laughed. “But after all of that…I just got sad and I realized that I missed your mother. I really missed your mother. She can get to me at times, but the woman is just the kind of person you miss having around. That’s when it came to me.”
“What?” I asked quickly.
“I love her. Your mother can be crazy sometimes. Hell, she’s crazy most of the time. She drives me completely crazy.” We both laughed. “But she has a good heart and I love her more for it. That’s all that matters—that there’s only one Mary Elizabeth and I love her more than I could ever love anyone else.”
I felt tears coming to my eyes. I’d never heard my father speak of my mother so tenderly. It was nice to know a man could love a woman like that.
“Thanks, Dad,” I managed between my tears.
“Don’t get all teary on me,” he said. “Old Dad can take a lot, but not seeing his little girl cry.”
“Okay.” I took a tissue from my purse and blew my nose.
“See you later, alligator,” he said as I slipped into the car.
“In a while, crocodile.” I pulled off, watching him watching me in my rearview window.
I listened to my old Donny Hathaway mix CD in the car. There’s something about Donny and breakups that just goes together. This man must’ve been utterly depressed and miserable to sing the way he does, because anytime I listen to the CD, I cry like a big old baby. And that’s exactly what I did the entire way back to my apartment. As the trees rolled over the top of my car, I couldn’t help but think about Julian. I wondered where he was, what he was doing, whom he was with, and if he was, for only one second, thinking of me. I wondered if he even missed me and thought about how I was doing. I looked down at the phone peeking out at me from my purse and wanted so badly to call him. But I knew better. Calling him at this point would only push him farther away from me, I convinced myself, wiping tear after tear from my eyes.
I pulled the phone out and scrolled down to his number. I just wanted to hear his voice. I just wanted to hear him say hello. I dialed *67 to block my number and pressed the Call button. An anonymous hangup couldn’t hurt anyone.
“Hello,” a woman’s voice said. “Hello?”
I looked down at the phone to see if I’d dialed the wrong number, but it said “Julian” on the screen.
“Is anyone there?” the voice said, giggling. At first I figured it was Julian’s mother, but then I realized that I knew the evil voice well. It was the ghetto-ass voice of the chick from the park. It was
Miata! “Stop tickling me, Julian,” Miata said into the phone. I almost drove off of the bridge. “Someone’s on the phone. It could be someone important. Helloooooo?” It was like she was taunting me, like she knew it was me on the other end and she wanted me to hear her voice. “I guess it’s no one…no one special or they’d answer.” She laughed again and the line went dead.
I threw the phone into the backseat. What the hell was going on? It hadn’t even been a week since Julian broke up with me and that bitch was already answering his phone? It took him ten months to give me a key to his place and Miata was taking phone calls? Something was wrong. Tasha was right. The hussy had my man under some kind of spell, some kind of sick Louisiana spell. I didn’t know what it was, but what I did know was if Miata wanted a man war, she had one.
When I walked into my apartment I headed straight to the refrigerator for my emergency stash of Rocky Road ice cream. I forgot about the bowl and climbed into my bed with the gallon and a spoon. Who needs a stupid bowl? I thought, spreading myself out on the bed. I picked up the phone to see if I had any voice messages. There were two: One was from Nana Rue inviting me to a reception for the new play she was headlining, the other was from Daddy, making sure I’d made it home. None from Julian. None from Julian. None from Julian. None from Julian. I shoveled ice cream into my mouth.
After watching people parade down the street, laughing and smiling, going on with their lives, like Julian, I lowered the blinds in my bedroom and slipped the saddest CDs I could find into my CD carousel, the kind of music every woman listens to when her heart is broken by a man cheating with another woman. There was Jill Scott, Betty Wright, Mary J., Whitney, and, of course, the Waiting to Exhale sound track.
Next I put on an old dingy high school T-shirt, pulled my hair up into a lopsided ponytail, and got back into bed.
I must’ve plowed through half of the gallon of ice cream before deciding to force myself to sleep. I couldn’t cry any more. I couldn’t call Julian and I couldn’t see him. I just wanted to say goodbye to the world for a little while. Since I was just depressed and not psycho enough to kill myself over some man, sleep was the only option. I didn’t care if it was just 2 o’clock in the afternoon. I listened to the sad songs on the CD player and rocked myself to sleep.
Take Her Man Page 7
