Zurich pictured MamaCee, whom everyone in Warm Springs called Miss Cora, wearing some floral print dress with her slip and bra strap showing, well-worn flip flops, most likely yellow, sitting on her favorite sturdy, wooden stool in the cluttered kitchen of her home, talking on the black wall phone with the rotary dial. She was probably looking out the screened door at her vegetable garden, gently tapping her ample hips with an old flyswatter she held in her other hand. MamaCee was a robust woman, a true size eighteen, with smooth raisin-brown skin and plain features that lit up like a movie marquee when she smiled. And she smiled a lot. Miss Cora was proud of the fact that she was seventy-five years old and still had most of her own teeth. She had one gold tooth, right up front, that sparkled with an aura of wisdom when MamaCee was doling out advice to her friends and family members. She still pressed her concrete gray hair with a pressing comb her mother had given her, but on special occasions she wore one of the two wigs she had purchased from a wig mail-order house.
After his mother died, Zurich had spent most of his youth in Warm Springs, chasing his brothers through MamaCee’s garden. It was in that garden and in the field beyond that he learned he could run fast and throw a football further than most boys his age and even his older brothers. At times, he longed for MamaCee’s dirty white five-room clapboard house, sitting under a sky of the purest blue and protected by trees that struggled to produce a few feet of shade during the summer. He missed the front porch, which always seemed drenched in some type of divine sunlight, with its swinging bench and MamaCee’s spit cup resting beneath her favorite rust-colored lawn chair. The cup stayed there even after MamaCee had given up dipping snuff.
“She dead,” MamaCee said calmly.
“What?” Zurich quizzed. Did she say this lady he couldn’t remember was dead?
“She dead,” MamaCee repeated.
“Who’s dead?”
“Baby, didn’t you hear me? Miss Bertha Joy. She dead.”
“She died?”
“Dead as that fish I fried last night,” MamaCee said. “Miss Mabel Joy been dead for ’bout five years. The mailman found Bertha Joy laid out on the floor of her kitchen. She hadn’t been dead long when he found her, ’cause she still had her color. Doctor said she had a stroke. You know she was never the same when she came back from up North. Started drinking, hanging in juke joints, sleeping with anything with three legs. But I don’t think she suffered much pain,” MamaCee said. She let out a short sigh and continued, “I guess the way she died was just as good as dying in your sleep. You know I have asked the good Lord, if it’s His will, that my last days will be my best and that I die in my sleep.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Zurich said. How he loved the stories his grandmother could tell, no matter how long, but he sure didn’t like to hear her talk about death so casually.
“Yeah, they gonna have the funeral tomorrow evening down at the church. I’m ushering. I hope them kids of hers don’t act a fool. Them girls of hers are young, but they some big heifers and you know how we can act at funerals. It don’t matter if we like the folks or not. I hope y’all don’t be actin’ no fools when I’ve gon’ on to glory.” She paused for a moment, as if she was taking a minute of silent prayer that her family would behave without her. After a moment, she remembered Zurich was the one who called, not her.
“What news you got for me? That team you playin’ for treatin’ you right? ’cause if they ain’t, you tell them don’t make your grandma charter a plane up there to git them straight,” MamaCee joked. It didn’t matter that MamaCee had never been on a plane of any kind and had turned down every opportunity her children and grandchildren had offered to fly her anywhere.
“You don’t have to do that, MamaCee. Matter of fact, I got some great news today,” Zurich said. At last.
“What’s your big news, baby?”
“I’m starting against the Bears,” Zurich said proudly.
“That’s wonderful, baby. Even though I don’t like my baby playing that brutal he-man game, I’m happy for you. Who are the Bears? I bet they’re paying you a nice chunk of change for that … huh, baby?”
“The Bears are Chicago’s other professional football team and yes, I’m doing all right,” Zurich said, remembering the bonus in his six-figure contract if he started an exhibition game and another bonus if he started during the regular season.
“You watchin’ your money right, baby? Giving your ten percent to the Lord? Can’t forget Him. He’s brought us from a mighty long way,” MamaCee said.
“I’m being real careful. But I’ve got to run, MamaCee,” Zurich said.
“You been praying, baby?” MamaCee asked.
“Every day. First thing in the morning and right before I go to bed,” Zurich said.
“That’s my baby.”
“Well, I’ve got to run. I love you, MamaCee.”
“And I love you, too, baby. Have you talked to your daddy? I haven’t talked to him in ’bout a month. Every time I call down there I get that answering contraption. What ’bout your brothers. You talked to your brothers?” she asked.
“No, ma’am, I haven’t talked with my brothers. I’ve been real busy with practice. Did you leave a message for my dad? I just tried calling him,” Zurich said.
“Naw, I don’t like talkin’ into that mess,” MamaCee said.
“If I talk with him soon, I’ll tell him to give you a call.”
“Okay. But tell him not to call tomorrow. I’ll be at the funeral. And then I’m going to take a case of Co-Cola over to Bertha Joy’s house. Maybe I should make some tater salad and take that over there too. I know it won’t go to waste. They may be in grief but them heifers still like to eat.”
“You do that, MamaCee. Please give the family my regards. Tell them I’ll be praying for them,” Zurich said.
“See, I knew you ’member Bertha Joy,” MamaCee laughed.
“I love you, MamaCee. Bye.”
“Bye, baby.”
Zurich looked at his watch and raced back to the locker room where he saw a couple of players getting taped by trainers and a few others sitting in the whirlpool. He tried to identify a friendly face with whom he could share his good news. Mark Traylor, a huge offensive lineman with golden blond hair and crooked teeth, walked up and patted Zurich on his shoulders. “What’s up, Z-man? How’s my favorite rookie doing?”
“Mark, guess what? I’m starting against the Bears,” Zurich said.
“Get the fuck outta here. That’s great, man! Cool. Yeah, that’s real cool.” He gave Zurich a powerful embrace, which startled him. Pleased at Mark’s affection, Zurich stood stiffly in front of his locker, as several of his teammates started congregating around Zurich, patting him on his shoulders and butt, and offering their congratulations. For the first time the Cougars’ locker room was festive. The team was 0–3 in their first exhibition season, and football pundits had not expected them to win any games against established NFL teams, though they had surprised people when they actually came close to winning their second game against San Diego in overtime. Zurich had played a few downs in each of the losses, but didn’t really feel as if he was making a contribution to the team.
Chicagoans were excited to have two professional teams like rival New York City. The NFL had surprised everyone when it awarded Second City the franchise over Memphis and St. Louis. Even more surprising, the city and the Chicago Bears’ management had agreed to let the team share Soldier Field with the Bears until a new stadium was built on the city’s North Side, facing Lake Michigan. The first game between the soon-to-be city rivals was the hottest ticket in town and had been sold out for over a year. Scalpers were selling tickets for no less than two hundred dollars apiece. There was even talk that the NFL commissioner was going to attend, which was unheard of for a preseason exhibition game. It was also going to be shown nationwide by ABC, with its regular Monday night crew announcing the game.
“With you starting, maybe we’ll have a chance against those punk-a
ss Bears,” said Mario Hunter, the team’s first-round draft pick from the University of Michigan. Mario and Zuri had been friends since their first meeting at a high school all-star football camp before their senior year. Zurich had tried to convince Mario to attend his alma mater, Southern Florida Tech, a small Division II black college in south Florida, but Mario had decided on Michigan. Zurich, too, had been recruited by some of the country’s top universities, including Michigan and Florida State, but none of them could promise he would play quarterback.
“Thanks, Mario. You think I’m up to it?”
“Do I think you’re up to it? Man, don’t worry ’bout what I think. ’cause you know what I think. You the man … my dog. Now gimme some love,” he smiled as he moved toward Zurich.
Zurich gave Mario a bear hug and turned to see Craig Vincent walking toward them. A tall and gangly white guy with brilliant red hair, Craig had started in all three of the Cougars’ preseason games. He had been in the NFL as backup quarterback for the Dallas Cowboys for four years and was expected by everyone to be the Cougars’ first quarterback. He had not started the season off that great, but no one put the blame on him, especially since the Cougars’ offensive line was inexperienced even by college standards. He had not been that talkative with Zurich on the field during practice or in team meetings. As a matter of fact, Zurich could count the words they had exchanged on one hand. Craig was from Miami, and he and Zurich had been rivals in high school. Zurich was All-City in Tampa, while Craig was All-City in the greater Miami area. Craig went on to become the starting quarterback for the University of Florida during his sophomore year and had led the Gators to two Sugar Bowl victories. Named All-SEC quarterback in his junior year, Craig had finished in the top five in the Heisman Trophy voting. It was Craig who was drafted in the first round, with a million-dollar signing bonus. Zurich was left with nothing but impressive statistics. Despite losing only once as a starter while in college, Zurich was ignored by the NFL in the draft. Several teams had encouraged him to go the free agent route if he was willing to try another position, like wide receiver or free safety. Pro scouts often commented that with his speed and that chiseled six-four, two-hundred-and-twenty-five-pound body he could play many positions in the NFL, just not quarterback.
Zurich realized professional sports had an unwritten racial code. They justified their racism by pointing out the many blacks hired in other positions and how well paid they were. When it came to quarterbacks, blacks who had led their teams to victory in high school and college suddenly had their intelligence challenged. Then there was the dubious question of whether the fans would accept a black quarterback. Athletic ability versus strategic skill hovered over any young black man who aspired to play quarterback on the professional level. Black NFL quarterbacks like Warren Moon and Rodney Peete were the exception. Black quarterbacks in the NFL were still as rare as black players in the National Hockey League.
Zurich ignored the advice and subtle racism of NFL coaches and stayed an extra year at Southern Florida Tech, taking classes and assisting the coaching staff while working out daily and honing his already impressive skills. He also managed to get his degree in Communications and made the dean’s list every semester. When Zurich graduated and the NFL was still unimpressed, he headed to Canada, where he led Montreal to two Grey Cup Championships. And now, it all seemed to be coming together.
“Congratulations, Zurich,” the white quarterback said stoically.
“Thanks, Craig,” Zurich replied.
“But don’t get too comfortable ’cause I’m right behind you.”
“That’s fine. I welcome the challenge,” Zurich said.
“We will see,” Craig said with a slight edge.
“Come on, Gee, let’s go celebrate with some brews,” Mario said.
“I’ll buy,” Zurich said.
“Cool. We can get you some milk or Kool-Aid or whatever it is your square ass drinks. I might even arrange to get your timid ass some pussy,” Mario said.
Zurich looked at Mario and shook his head, but he was used to the constant ribbing about his clean lifestyle. Zurich reached into his locker for the keys to his rental car and noticed Craig sitting alone at the opposite end of the locker room. Craig stood up, ripped off his mesh practice jersey, slammed his fist against the metal lockers, and yelled, “Oh, fuck.”
As happy as he was, Zurich empathized with Craig. He knew how it felt to be rejected by a team. Zurich removed the coach’s note from his locker and briefly considered sharing his feelings with Craig, but he realized maybe now was not the best time. He tucked the note in his wallet to save and show to his father, and walked briskly out of the locker room and into the brilliant sunlight.
CHAPTER 2
I SHALL NOT BE MOVED
Tamela Coleman had some major decisions to make regarding her personal and professional life, but she decided to start with a minor one. On the last Friday in August, she broke a precedent for her five-year legal career. She did not show up at her office nor did she call in sick or inform her secretary she was taking a personal day.
Instead, Tamela muted the ringer on the phone, turned down her answering machine so low she couldn’t hear incoming calls, and with a feeling of pure defiance laid her uncombed head against six fluffy pillows on her king-sized bed for her first annual “I’ve Had It Up to Here Day.”
When the “Today” show ended, Tamela used her remote control to switch to Chicago’s own “Oprah Winfrey Show.” Miss Oprah was looking good, Tamela thought as she reached under the covers to see how much fat she could grab on her own hips. She stopped before her hands touched her skin. No, she was not going to worry about her weight today, as she did on occasion. Besides, her refrigerator was filled with ice cream, half a chocolate cheesecake, fresh fruit, and leftover hamburger pizza, all of which she planned to devour during the day.
Tamela’s hips were rounder than those of the models she saw on television and in fashion magazines. She knew they could be reduced a little without harm to her supple, sistah girl figure, which she assumed was about twelve pounds too much for her five-six frame. But she refused to allow thoughts of health club and StairMaster to spoil her day.
Tamela was a subtle, almond-colored beauty, with intense brown eyes, high cheekbones, and full lips. She changed her hairstyles with the seasons. Summer found her hair swept into a sophisticated french twist. Fall would be dangling curls.
She had a wicked sense of humor, with a tongue to match, but very few people were aware of her acid wit. The good girl in her didn’t want to hurt other people’s feelings. Sometimes in conferences with clients, especially those talking about how much wealth they had, she would have a concerned, interested look on her face, but in her head she would be thinking, Bitch, don’t nobody care how much money you got.
In the overcast of the morning, Tamela settled into her comfortable bed and surrendered herself to her thoughts, soothed by her bedroom’s pastel haze, which she had proudly painted herself. Her favorite childhood dolls and stuffed animals watched her from an old-fashioned overstuffed chair, as she lazed through the morning with the craziness of the guests on Montel, Sally, Rolonda, and Ricki. So this is what went on during the day, and where did they find these fools, Tamela thought. And why did the majority of them have to be black? “Telling all their business like somebody cares,” Tamela said, laughing out loud at some of the antics of the guests. She could not believe one young black girl with blond hair would let a talk show put her name up on the screen over the words Self-Proclaimed Mall Whore. When an older black woman from the audience asked the teenager how could she be on television talking about going to malls and picking up men to have sex, the young lady told her, “You need to sit down and mind your own business. How can you be on TV lookin’ like a box of Fruit Loops?” The audience hooted and hollered in support of the fast-talking young lady.
In the afternoon, Tamela flipped by the soap operas because she didn’t dare become hooked on “All My Children” again.
When she’d been an undergrad, she’d almost failed her biology lab class because it was at the same time as her soap. So Tamela put the television on mute and began to read from cover to cover all the magazines she only thumbed through during visits to the bathroom. Later she picked up the Walkman resting on her nightstand and listened to the last of Ruby Dee’s narration of Zora Neale Hurston’s Their Eyes Were Watching God.
Afterward, while savoring the comfort of her bed and half asleep, Tamela suddenly sat up straight. What if her superiors decided to fire her for taking the day off without telling anyone? Maybe she would beat them to the punch and walk in the office Monday morning, dressed to impress, and hand them a letter of resignation. For months she had been unhappy with her position at MacDonald, Fisher, and Jackson. She had dreamed of a private practice since her first day of law school, but always came up with more reasons why she shouldn’t than why she should strike out on her own.
What would their reaction be? Would they be pleased or would they be concerned about how they were going to replace a double minority?
Five years ago she had joined the prestigious firm with high hopes. After finishing in the top quarter of her class at Northwestern Law School, Tamela had done the unthinkable at MacDonald, Fisher, and Jackson when she failed the Illinois bar exam twice. It did not seem to matter that she scored the fourth-highest grade after she passed on her third try. The firm usually made a big deal when associates scored in the top five on the test, but in Tamela’s case, they simply seemed relieved that she had finally passed.
Failing the bar had surprised everyone who knew Tamela and it had left her in a state of shock. Tamela had graduated from Southern University magna cum laude with a dual degree in Political Science and English. She had always done well on standardized tests, but she had psyched herself out on her first attempts at the bar by a recurring dream that had started weeks before the exam.
And This Too Shall Pass Page 2
