And This Too Shall Pass
Page 1
BOOKS BY
E. Lynn Harris
INVISIBLE LIFE
JUST AS I AM
AND THIS TOO SHALL PASS
IF THIS WORLD WERE MINE
ABIDE WITH ME
NOT A DAY GOES BY
ANY WAY THE WIND BLOWS
A LOVE OF MY OWN
WHAT BECOMES OF THE BROKENHEARTED
FIRST ANCHOR BOOKS EDITION, MARCH 1997
Copyright © 1996 by E. Lynn Harris
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Anchor Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto. Originally published in hardcover in the United States by Doubleday in 1996. The Anchor Books edition is published by arrangement with Doubleday, a division of Random House, Inc.
Anchor Books and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
This novel is a work of fiction. Any references to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. Other names, characters, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, as are those fictionalized events and incidents that involve real persons.
The Library of Congress has catalogued the Doubleday edition as follows: Harris, E. Lynn.
And this too shall pass: a novel / by E. Lynn Harris.
p. cm.
1. Football players—Illinois—Chicago—Fiction. 2. Chicago (Ill.)—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3558.A64438A53 1996 95-38844
813′.54—dc20
eISBN: 978-0-307-83174-3
www.anchorbooks.com
v3.1
Dedicated in Loving Memory
FOR MY GRANDMOTHER, BESSIE ALLEN HARVEY (1912–1995)
FOR HER LEGACY OF UNCONDITIONAL LOVE
AND FOR TEACHING ME THE POWER OF PRAYER
and
FOR CARNEY “BUTCH” CARROLL (1955–1995)
FOR THE JOY OF FRATERNITY AND FRIENDSHIP,
FOR BEING MY BROTHER AND IN THE END
TEACHING ME THE MEANING OF COURAGE
IN MEMORY
Ellis H. Smith, Jr. • Anthony F. Rogers
Marcia Phillips • Michael Buckner • Keith McDaniel
Pearline Morris • Stephen Corbin • Teddy L. Morris
Jerry Jackson • Bill Britton
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
For much I am grateful, to many I am thankful. My faith: I am grateful to my Lord Jesus Christ for His many blessings in my life and for being the center of my joy. My family: My mother, Etta W. Harris, whose pride, support, and unconditional love came not with my literary success but with my birth. My aunt Jessie L. Phillips, for being the best aunt in the world and the best friend I’ve ever had. My uncle, Attorney Charles E. Phillips (who came up with the book’s title), for being a role model in every sense of the word and one I can talk to. My sisters, Anita, Zettoria, and Jan, for being wonderful mothers to my nieces and nephews, who bring much joy and love in my life. Also Wanda McAdoo and my special godson, LaMark. And to the rest of my large and supportive family, most especially two cousins, Jacquelyn Y. Johnson and Kennie L. Phillips, two wonderful people I want to be like when I grow up.
My friends, who in many respects have become part of my family: Tina and Joneé Ansa, who inspire me as artists and humble me as being among the finest people I’ve ever had the pleasure and honor to call my friends. Vanessa Gilmore, Lencola Sullivan, Robin Walters, Cindy and Steve Barnes, Tracey and David Huntley, Overtis Brantley and Regina Daniels, who have been there for me for more than a decade and surround me with friendship and love. My boys, prime examples of the three out of four we never hear about: Timothy Douglas, Troy Danto, Keith Thomas, Carlton Brown, Kevin Edwards, Martin Christopher, Brian Chandler, Ken Hatten, and Anderson Phillips.
My agent, John Hawkins, who has to be the best in the business, for his support, guidance, and being the type of man I am proud to call my friend. Special thanks to members of his staff, Moses Cardona and Sharon Freidman (my audio agent), for their support with a touch of class. I am blessed to have a publisher who supports me in every way possible: Martha Levin not only discovered me, but publishes me with great care and wisdom and remains one of my staunchest supporters. Also at Doubleday: Steve Rubin, for his support and leadership at a company I’m proud to be associated with. Emma, the receptionist, who has always made me feel at home, even when I hadn’t sold a single book, and who makes sure I get all the wonderful letters. My publicists, Tracey George and Sherri Steinfeld, for two successful tours; and Janet Hill, for being a friend I always know I can talk to. And even though he doesn’t like clichés, here is one that’s appropriate: last, but certainly not least, I give many, many thanks to my brilliant Doubleday editor, Charles Flowers, not only for his valuable editing skills, but for being the type of person with whom I would trust not only my words, but my life. Who said you couldn’t find friends in this business?
I have to thank all my escorts who make the road bearable, most especially Esther Levine, Kathleen Livingston, Lenore Markowitz, and Lorraine Battle. Thanks to the many African American booksellers who have become my friends and family (you know who you are—read the novel closely). Thanks also to Linda Chatman, Wayne Kendall, and Taurus Sorrells for much needed support. A special “You’re the Best” Award to Laura Gilmore and Runabout Errand Services for keeping my chaotic life in order. I’m grateful to my bankers, Gwen McCants Allen and Allen Jones, at NationsBank for realizing that I’m still a struggling artist, and to my special friends who provided assistance with the book’s technical facts: Deborah Crable, Dyanna Williams, Michael Richmond, Lajoyce Hunter, Dr. and Mrs. Arthur Smith, and Attorney Rowana A. Williams. Special thanks to Delta Sigma Theta, Alpha Kappa Alpha, the Arkansas Razorbacks Basketball Team, and the Radiojocks who pump up the volume about my books: Tom, Paula, Sybil, Bonnie, and Wendy.
Writing is a lonely job, so I know how blessed I am to have friends whose input I trust and admire. They help me pull it together, hold it together, and make sure I am never really alone, so special thanks to Phyliss Perry for our wonderful coffee talks and a new friendship I treasure. And a Standing Ovation Award to Blanche Richardson, whose love, friendship, and novel surgery are appreciated more than she will ever know and make me wonder how I managed life before I met her. The E. Lynn Harris Music Awards and special thanks to Toni Braxton (“You Mean the World to Me”), Kevon Edmonds and After 7 (“Till You Do Me Right”), and Vanessa Williams (“The Sweetest Days”), for their support and wonderful music to listen to while I write. And a How Do You Mend a Broken Heart Award to Everick, for being a blessing in my life and giving me a loving and safe place for my heart. Maybe a house and a dog aren’t such a bad idea.
Finally, a Simply the Best Award to all of you who have supported me from the very beginning by purchasing my novels, spreading the word about my work, writing me letters, and keeping me in your prayers. I’m humbled by the support and love you have shown me. I will try to the best of my abilities to never let you down. Thank you and hold tight to your faith, family, friendship, and the power of prayer.
CONTENTS
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
PRELUDE
1 She Dead!
2 I Shall Not Be Moved
3 People and Preachers
4 Am I Black Enuff for Ya?
5 Trade Alert
6 VBD’S
7 The Ladies Who Lunch
8 Boom with a View
9 Am I Ri
ght or Am I Wrong?
10 Only Human
11 Take a Look
12 Lips, Hips, and Fingertips
13 One More Picture, Please
14 Promises, Promises
15 The Walking Wounded
16 Don’t Go There
17 In My Solitude
18 A Day of Beauty, a Night of Bliss
19 Until You Come Back to Me
20 Still on the Throne
21 You Ain’t Sanging
22 Fat Meat Is Greasy
23 Shake Your Groove Thang
24 Never Keeping Secrets
25 If It Ain’t One Thing, It’s Another
26 When You Smile
27 If God Is Dead
28 Merry Christmas, Baby
EPILOGUE
About the Author
Where there is fear … faith cannot exist …
PRELUDE
Zurich had dreams. Tamela had secrets. Sean had questions. Mia had demons. And MamaCee had answers. Dreams of passion he had never known. Secrets she had never shared. Questions about love and God. Demons, deep and dark. And MamaCee had answers.
CHAPTER 1
SHE DEAD!
Another grueling football practice was over and Zurich Robinson’s pumpernickel-brown face was a shower of sweat. As he opened his locker, he heard the voices and laughter of his teammates echoing against the cement walls of the locker room, the snapping of towels against skin, the slamming of locker doors. His stomach began churning like a washing machine when he saw the note inside his locker instructing him to report to the offensive coordinator’s office. Instead of heading to the showers, as he normally did after practice, Zurich removed his gray practice shorts, put on his jeans, pulled a mesh T-shirt from his locker and slipped it over his massive shoulders. He did not make eye contact with any of his teammates as he raced toward Coach Kennedy’s office.
When he reached the dingy area that served as a makeshift office for the coaching staff, Zurich stepped into the first open door, where he saw Dave Kennedy and Gene Tolbert, the head coach and general manager, sitting on the edge of a large gray desk. He became even more nervous when he saw them talking in hushed tones with grim looks on their faces. Zurich knew something was up, something that concerned him and his career with the Chicago Cougars, an NFL expansion team. Was his dream of becoming an NFL quarterback about to come to an end? Would he be going back to Canada, where black quarterbacks were as common as black running backs? He believed that he was practicing well. He was number two on the depth charts, and roster cuts, to the final fifty-three players, were more than a week away, after the final exhibition game against the Chicago Bears. But who knew when the coaches would make up their minds?
“Have a seat, Z-man,” Coach Kennedy said.
“If you don’t mind, Coach K, I prefer to stand,” Zurich replied. Standing, he could make a quick exit in case any tears welled up when he received the bad news.
“Suit yourself,” Kennedy said. He looked toward the Cougars’ head coach and asked, “Are you going to give him the news or should I?”
“You do it,” Gene said.
Kennedy nodded and looked Zurich straight in the eye. “Zurich, we’ve made a very important decision. A decision we think will have a big impact on our inaugural season in the NFL.”
“Yes, sir,” Zurich mumbled.
“Well, you might wish you had taken that seat, but here goes. Coach Tolbert and I have decided that you’re going to start against the Bears.” Now both coaches were smiling broadly, and Zurich’s muscular legs suddenly felt like Jell-O. Had he heard his coach correctly?
“What do you say, Z-man?” Coach Tolbert asked, as he slapped Zurich on the shoulders.
“I am, I am … I’m starting,” Zurich stuttered. It was not a question, just a statement of disbelief.
“You will be the starting quarterback the first time two Chicago professional teams play each other on the field. You, Mr. Robinson, will become a part of history.” Zurich decided he needed some support after all. He slowly slid his body onto the black metal chair near the door. He felt a tear forming in the corner of his eye and then suddenly broke out into infectious laughter.
“I don’t believe this. This is a joke … right?” he asked as he clasped his hands together and quickly released them, pointing toward his coaches. “This is a joke?” he repeated.
“It will be a joke if you don’t perform,” Coach Tolbert said.
Zurich leaped from his chair and started to hug both his coaches, but opted for firm handshakes instead.
“Thanks, guys. I promise not to let you down,” he said as he raced from the office. Zurich had some calls to make.
He located a pay phone in the dim hallway, but Zurich couldn’t decide whom to call first, his agent, Dan Cunningham, or his father. He remembered Dan was on the West Coast with one of his more prominent clients, so Zurich dialed his father’s number and when the operator came on the other line, he said, “This is collect from the NFL’s newest starting quarterback.”
“Excuse me?” the operator said.
“Collect from Zuri,” he said.
“Thank you,” she said.
After a few rings, the answering machine came over the line. As he listened to his father’s cheerful voice, he wondered where his father could be. He knew his father had finally convinced his sometime live-in lady friend, Rhona, of the merits of golf and they played often. His father had spent most of his life as a caddy at one of Tampa’s country clubs and was enjoying his early retirement. He now had his own caddy, thanks to his savings, the Florida lottery, and the generosity of his three working sons. But at times like this when he needed to talk to him personally, Zurich regretted giving his father a fancy answering machine. He would always leave him messages saying he was thinking about him and things were going great, even when they were not. If his voice sounded depressed, it never failed that his father would call him back and say, “Remember, son, it’s only a game.”
“Sorry, sir, but there’s a recorder picking up,” the operator said.
“Thanks anyway,” Zurich said in a dejected tone.
“Well, I’m happy for you,” the operator said.
“Thank you. Thank you very much,” he said.
“What’s your name so when you become rich and famous I can tell my grandkids I talked to you?” she asked.
“Zurich Thurgood Robinson.” Saying his name out loud made him remember how MamaCee, his grandmother, had chosen the middle name of the Supreme Court justice because she had dreamed that Zurich, too, would become a judge. His mother got his first name from a postcard his father had sent from Switzerland, when he visited the country while serving in the Army. It looked like such a beautiful city, she told Zuri later, and she knew her newborn would be beautiful, too. It was one of the few memories Zurich had of his mother. Leola Robinson had died of breast cancer when he was only six years old.
“Ooh, I love your name! The best of luck, Zurich Thurgood Robinson,” she said.
“Thank you. Thanks a lot,” he said as he hung up. A broad smile crossed his face. He knew MamaCee would be home and happy with her grandson’s exciting news.
MamaCee picked up the phone on the first ring. She, too, had an answering machine, which he had given her, but she refused to install it and was firm about leaving the machine in its box in her closet alongside several other unused electronic gadgets.
Zurich could hear the excitement in MamaCee’s voice when she told the operator, “Of course I’ll accept the charges; that’s my grandbaby.”
“MamaCee.”
“Hey, baby. How you doin’?” MamaCee asked.
“I’m doing great!” Zurich said. But before he could share his news, MamaCee had some news of her own.
“Baby, you ’member Miss Bertha Joy?”
“Miss Bertha Joy. Naw, MamaCee, I don’t think so,” Zurich responded.
“Yeah, you ’member her. She lived down the road from me. You know, in that terrible-lo
oking pink house, the one with them dirty gray shingles on the front. You know, baby, cross the creek, where you boys used to play all the time.”
“Naw, I don’t remember her. Guess what, MamaCee?”
MamaCee ignored Zurich’s question.
“You got to ’member her, Zuri. Bertha Joy weren’t that pretty of a lady, not ’xactly ugly either, even though ugly was spread pretty even through that family of hers. She moved up to Detroit, but then she moved back home with her mama, six months after she followed that man up there, you know, that skinny fellow who used to collect bottles and sell them up at the Piggy Wiggly. Laroyce was his name; man wasn’t big as a Georgia peanut. But he was a real city slicker, him being from Detroit and all. I don’t think he’s been back down here since he moved back up North. I wonder what happened to him?” MamaCee paused for a second, but before Zurich could get in a word, she continued her story.
“Well, anyhow, when she got up to Detroit, Miss Bertha Joy found out that fool was married. A couple of months later his wife pulled a gun on her when she found out Bertha Joy was messin’ round with her husband. It was a shame ’fore God. That’s when Bertha Joy moved back home. Everybody down here was talking ’bout it. You know peoples in Warm Springs like to mind other folks’ business. But not me. I wouldn’t have known ’bout it ‘cept her own mama told me the whole story. I really felt sorry for her. Them kids of hers gave her so much trouble. Miss Mabel Joy, you know that’s Bertha Joy’s mother, used to say all the time, The good Lord gave me all these bad-assed kids just to mess with me.’ Not like my babies. I tell my friends all the time, none of my children or my grandbabies ever gave me an ounce of trouble. Can’t say that ’bout some of them women my sons married though.”
“I still can’t remember her, MamaCee. What about her?” Zurich asked. By now he realized it would have made more sense to say he remembered Miss Bertha Joy. Instead he leaned back against the wall and enjoyed the animated buzz of his grandmother’s lively conversation, or as his father called it, Mississippi storytelling. Sooner or later he would be able to share his good news.