Somewhat Saved

by Pat G'Orge-Walker

  But Bea’s ridiculous sense of humor was just what Sasha needed. Sasha stopped her self-pity fest and joined Bea in the laughter.

  “I could just kick my own butt when I think about how I let that man mess things up,” Sasha reiterated.

  “So you don’t care about him?” Bea asked, “even though he’s the father of your niece?”

  “I couldn’t care less,” Sasha replied, “but I do have to love him just like Jesus does.” She smiled and nodded at Sister Betty, showing that she still had her new relationship with God.

  “So,” Bea asked, “you won’t mind if I go back to my room and have his rich, flea-ridden, asthmatic behind removed?”

  “I thought he was dying,” Sister Betty blurted. “At least that’s what Sasha said.”

  “What do you mean that he’s in your room?” Sasha flicked away Bea’s arm from her shoulder. “Hussy, you mean to tell me that you’ve got me and my sister’s old boyfriend in your room?”

  As old as Bea and Sasha were, they learned immediately how quick they could jump if provoked. As they leapt off the sofa, the old women looked like two old Kung Fu fighters. Each had her ghetto style and neither one was about to play by the rules.

  That outburst, no doubt, shook the Luxor, and it certainly shook Sister Betty. She fell back against the sofa with her arms flailing, fighting invisible demons. Sister Betty looked like an old palm tree assaulted by a tsunami as the winds of disorder tossed her from side to side.

  At that moment, Sister Betty was certain that God must’ve been on His second bottle of Aleve for that day.

  36

  “Perfect pitch” was the phrase accompanying Zipporah’s reviews. Everything about her that night was flawless, her makeup, cascading hair, vibrantly colored and beautiful costumes, just everything.

  Zipporah took more standing ovations than she’d ever imagined possible in her life. There was no resentment or jealousy among the performers that night. There was no need. Each knew exactly who carried the show and they treated Zipporah like the star she was.

  Even Alicia offered sincere accolades. What she’d seen Zipporah do at rehearsal wasn’t even close to what she’d seen on the stage.

  Of course, Alicia didn’t know that Zipporah wasn’t singing so she could just keep her new job. Zipporah wanted to ensure that the entertainment industry people who’d come to check her out weren’t disappointed; no way they would leave thinking she was just ordinary.

  Zipporah chatted a moment with her fellow performers, changed into a butter yellow, low-cut dress and matching shoes, and left the dressing room. Chandler was waiting by the door. She saw him beaming, obviously proud and not afraid to show it.

  “Oh, my goodness,” Chandler exclaimed. “I knew you were good, but you blew me away. Now I’ve got to act like I knew you were going to do that all along.”

  “We’ll both be acting,” Zipporah whispered. “I prayed and dug real deep to find some of those notes. I knew I was singing for my supper.”

  They both laughed as Zipporah allowed Chandler to embrace her and then lead her to the VIP section to meet her new fans.

  As usual, upstairs in another hotel suite, all hell was still breaking out. “I wanted to hear her sing!” Bea was livid, and she was giving Sasha and Sister Betty an earful. “Y’all messed it for me.”

  “Shut up!” Sasha had had enough of Bea for one evening. Bea was about to make her backslide from a place in God she’d only hours ago arrived.

  They’d been too tired to continue their petty fight in Sister Betty’s suite. Plus Sister Betty had threatened to call security if they didn’t quiet down. So they called it a ghetto draw, which meant that each had better watch her back. Sister Betty also reminded Bea that Jasper was still in her room and would probably try to get to Zipporah. So they had dashed back to Bea’s suite to check up on him.

  When they’d arrived back at Bea’s room, they’d found Jasper half on and half off the sofa.

  “He’s coming around,” Sister Betty said as Jasper began to mumble.

  Jasper was trying to wake up but then Bea ran over to him and crimped his oxygen tube. He passed out again.

  Bea, not fully trusting the other women to have her back, quickly came up with an explanation. “I thought I was supposed to do that. I saw it done on that medical show, Grey’s Anatomy.”

  “I’m sure that was CPR they were giving when they did that,” Sister Betty snapped.

  By the time they gathered their wits and all the evidence of Jasper having been there, which included his portable oxygen pack and his cell phone, placing them by the door to discard if they had to, it was too late to see Zipporah’s performance.

  Each woman sat exhausted in a chair in the living room. Sister Betty clutched her Bible. Sasha held her cane by its end with the hook ready for action. Bea sat and fluffed a pillow. If Jasper woke and tried to escape, they were ready for battle, again. No one said a word. They kept their eyes trained on Jasper. A couple of times he moved, and when he did, they did, too.

  “I say we kill him.”

  Sasha and Bea’s heads turned so fast they almost got whiplash. They looked over at Sister Betty. Her mouth was twisted as she sat clutching her Bible and talking of murder. They didn’t know she had it in her. Again, it broke the ice and the women giggled until each nodded off.

  None of them woke when Jasper finally did.

  The deejay was doing his thing as the people in the Luxor theater room danced and chatted. Chandler couldn’t have planned nor asked for a better reception for Zipporah. There were men in their ultra-expensive suits and diamond-studded watches, with women glued to their sides, and they were all over Zipporah. And, to her credit, she’d refused to answer many of their questions or accept their praises without including Chandler.

  “I’m so thrilled that you enjoyed the show,” she’d say. “It was Chandler who secured the opportunity for me.” Or she would turn the conversation around when asked about her future projects. “Chandler has that pretty much mapped out. I stay in my place as an artist and I let him handle any and all business dealings.”

  Chandler sat back and watched Zipporah do what most managers wished their artists would; she derailed any plans to separate her from him.

  For barely twenty minutes Chandler and Zipporah had been entertaining the powerful group of men who’d been enraptured by her when Alicia sauntered over to their table. Her perfume was heavy, pre-announcing her arrival. She’d changed into a spectacular form-fitting chocolate brown dress that was shaped like a sarong. She’d seen the opportunistic wolves dressed in Armani and Giorgio suits surrounding Zipporah. If they were there to steal her premiere performer, she was going to stop it. It was nothing personal, just business.

  Chandler rose and gave Alicia a quick peck out of respect. After introducing Alicia, he moved over to make sure she didn’t try and sit between him and Zipporah.

  At that moment, Alicia could care less about coming between Zipporah and Chandler. She’d already sized up her biggest threat before she’d sat. He wasn’t the larger of the men, in fact, he was the smallest. She knew his face and that he was a megaplayer in the industry, but she couldn’t remember exactly what he did. Alicia watched him as he watched her sit. He’d smiled showing perfectly white teeth with a small gap. So while everyone chatted, the usual industry chitchat, Alicia watched her prey.

  Chandler was very good at what he did. And whether he was dealing with clients at the conference center today, or at a promotions meeting of a recording industry back then, he could smell blood in the water. His mood remained steady. His body language never gave away the fact that he knew silent deals were being made at the table. No one had to speak. With a slight nod of a head, at a particular question or remark, a deal could be secured. And, he wasn’t having it.

  “Alicia,” Chandler said as he leaned across Zipporah. He’d touched Zipporah’s hand, under the table, to let her know to remain quiet. “The hour is growing late, so I’m about to escort my artist, f
rom this point on to be referred to as Miss Zipporah, to her suite. . . .”

  “You’re leaving already?” one of the men asked as he pulled a card from his pocket. “Here’s where I’ll be for the next two days, Chandler. You call me. Call me real quick.”

  Chandler took the card and without reading it, placed it in his pants pocket and not the pocket in his jacket. It was a power move that was seen by the entire table. If he’d placed it in his upper jacket pocket he’d be perceived as being too anxious. So he’d placed it in his rear pants pocket to let the man know that he’d need to come correct.

  Chandler smiled at the other men knowing he’d gained more respect with that move, even from the man who’d given him the card. Laughter suddenly broke out and it permitted him to continue.

  “Alicia, I’ll leave you in the hands of my esteemed colleagues. I’m certain they’ll be as entertaining toward you as you’ll be to them.”

  “Thank you, Chandler.” At that moment Alicia was happy that any feminine competition was removed.

  “And you, sir.” Chandler motioned to the smaller man whom Alicia had obviously chosen. “Behave yourself.”

  “God is good,” the man replied and laughed.

  The other men joined in the laughter and of course, Alicia had no clue as to its humor or that she was the punch line.

  “Kirk, Hezekiah, John P., René, Rodney,” Chandler said, offering each a firm handshake and making eye contact as he spoke, “again, I thank you for taking the time out of your busy schedules to come tonight. I’m somewhat in your debt.”

  Chandler then offered his hand to Zipporah to help her rise while at the same time moving to allow Alicia the chance to get closer to the others. “Alicia,” Chandler teased, “watch out for Kirk Franklin. You’ll think you’re getting a Las Vegas show and it’ll turn out to be church.”

  A sign of final recognition crossed Alicia’s face. That’s where she’d seen the man. He was the famous artist and producer, Kirk Franklin. She had a slight dilemma. A gospel show was not something she could sell to the hotel but she didn’t burn bridges, either. If she got up too quick, she’d appear to be opportunistic, which she was. And, if she sat too long, the other men at the table might get other ideas, which some already had, she was sure.

  Chandler put an arm around Zipporah as she clutched a small purse to her chest to keep from laughing. She was amazed, again, at how Chandler handled situations.

  “You probably play a mean game of chess, don’t you?” Zipporah teased, after they’d left the table. They’d barely started walking through the room to the exit before she was nodding and accepting praises from the crowd again.

  “Probably as well as you do,” Chandler replied. “And I’m not above taking a risk or two.”

  Zipporah caught a glimpse of her reflection as they exited the room. She looked all cleaned up on the outside. But, inside she still wasn’t all that confident. Despite the glamour, she was still the homeless woman who could sing. The smile came quick to cover her uncertainty, as they walked out into the corridor. In her mind she was indeed a risk, but she was also worth it. She was a walking contradiction.

  They hardly spoke a word as they walked the corridor to Zipporah’s suite. Chandler had playfully hugged her several times as she giggled like a schoolgirl on prom night. He liked that about her. He knew she had plenty of questions about what had happened earlier at the VIP party, but she’d had the instinct not to ask. At least, she hadn’t yet and hopefully, not tonight.

  Neither Zipporah nor Chandler played the usual games men and women sometimes did when they stood in front of her hotel room. She didn’t linger and look adorably into his eyes. He didn’t pretend that he needed to use the bathroom or ask for a drink of water. No, they didn’t do any of that.

  37

  Chandler took the keycard from Zipporah’s hand and opened her door. He entered first, as though it were his room, and then gently pulled her inside. It was almost three o’clock in the morning and yet neither felt tired. Chandler took off his suit jacket and Zipporah kicked off her shoes, revealing the tiniest feet Chandler had ever seen on a grown woman. They were perfectly arched with each toe perfectly painted. He’d not noticed she wore an ankle bracelet until that moment.

  Zipporah knew her assets very well. Chandler wouldn’t be the first man to notice her feet. She turned her ankle slightly and as she did she noticed the blinking light on the telephone. It only blinked when a message was left.

  “Someone has left a message.” Zipporah stopped her tease and reached for the telephone.

  “It’s probably one of your admirers from downstairs trying to see if you’re serious about me as a manager,” Chandler said. He was only half teasing.

  “I doubt it,” Zipporah said. “You were pretty clear on where our business relationship stood.”

  Chandler liked her answer. He pointed toward the phone as if she needed his permission to continue.

  Zipporah laughed as she pressed the button for the message retrieval. She listened intently as she pressed another button to replay the message. She snapped her fingers at Chandler, indicating for him to come quickly and listen.

  By the time he’d replayed the message Chandler’s expression turned more sour than Zipporah’s. How could such a perfect evening have such a disastrous ending?

  “Does it make sense to you?” Chandler asked her the same question repeatedly. Every time she’d answered no. But she was still adamant about getting to the bottom of it.

  “I’m going to the lobby,” Zipporah said. She’d already put her shoes back on and opened the door to leave. “Are you coming or staying?”

  Chandler threw up his hands and accepted her decision. It seemed every time he thought he was getting to second base someone hit a foul ball.

  “I don’t like it,” Chandler warned. “I just don’t like it. It might be some sick joke.”

  “Are you coming or staying?” Zipporah repeated.

  When they arrived downstairs, Chandler led Zipporah off the elevator directly through the mezzanine lobby toward a room to the side. He pressed the buzzer on the door, which was just under a silver-plated sign indicating that it was the on-site medical services room.

  Zipporah noticed immediately that she recognized no one. Perhaps Chandler was right. Maybe this was just a sick joke.

  “Zipporah Moses?” The pencil-thin man with bushy blond hair didn’t wait for her to respond before turning around. “I’m Mr. Phelpson, Luxor’s triage administrator. Please come with me.”

  The first thing that raced across Zipporah’s mind was the lie she’d told the shelter to keep her room. Even though she’d lied that she’d been hospitalized, what could that have to do with this situation? Was it some type of karma?

  “Can I come with Miss Moses?” Chandler asked politely, knowing he was going with her regardless.

  “It’s up to you,” Phelpson responded as he continued walking. He still hadn’t looked back to see if they’d followed. He led them to another room.

  The room was completely white and sparsely furnished, giving it a transitional setting. Definitely something temporary, Zipporah thought as she looked around. It was also very small, but the whirr of some type of machine seemed to fill it, making it seem larger. She stood in the entrance and watched, not yet questioning aloud why she’d been summoned there. The squeeze of Chandler’s hand upon hers reminded her that he was there. For a moment, she’d forgotten he was.

  Chandler and Zipporah stood still. Neither of them dared to move. They intently watched two people dressed in white uniforms who appeared to be working on something or someone. Their hands moved rapidly as though they were kneading dough. And then, the dough coughed.

  He was lying down and it felt like weights had been placed on his chest. Someone was hovering over him. He saw the shape of a man. The man’s face became a little clearer. He had cold eyes and cold, glove-covered hands. Jasper shivered slightly. He could barely make out whether the man was white, black, or w
hatever. He really didn’t care. At that moment, he needed to breathe.

  The woman was massaging something over his face. She was at the head of the bed and leaning over him. He could feel the massiveness of her breasts as she worked, no doubt, to save him. Her large breasts felt more like weapons to stop his breathing.

  Jasper began to struggle. He heard them say, “Calm down.” But he struggled more because he needed to live.

  “He’s a little more alert, this time,” the man said. “His BP is still high.”

  “At least two twenty-five over one-thirty,” the woman replied, lifting her heavy bosom off the patient’s face. She heard him breathe in and expel air quickly, which caused her to look down. She still didn’t know she’d almost, accidentally, stifled him.

  “He’s lucky he didn’t stroke.” The man squeezed the I.V. bag that hung over the bed. He straightened the line, checking it for air bubbles. “At least he was able to give his name and room number.”

  “He’s a willful one, that’s for sure. I’ve seen them stroke with a much lower BP.” She wrote something on his chart and then laughed softly. “He wasn’t in his own room. Whatever the woman laid on him must’ve been way too much for him to handle. At least he made it to the hallway.”

  If the two nurses saw Zipporah and Chandler in the doorway, they didn’t act as though they had. They continued with their inappropriate conversation not caring if the patient overheard them.

  “Did anyone call the next of kin?” She ran her pen across several lines on the chart before continuing. “Someone named Zip . . . I can’t make it out.”

  “Let Phelpson handle it.” The male nurse took the chart from her hand and laid it at the foot of the bed. “Let’s get coffee. He should be okay.”

  The female nurse had just started to turn when she saw strangers—a man and a woman watching from the doorway. Her professionalism kicked in quickly. “We’d better check him again before we go.”