And This Too Shall Pass

by E. Lynn Harris

  In the dream a heavyset white man with long white hair was sitting at a large bench with a gavel in his hand. Tamela gave him her completed bar exam and without even looking at it, the man started laughing and pounding a large gavel across her exam.

  She didn’t understand the dream and couldn’t get it out of her mind during the second time she took the exam. When she told Desiree Brown, her triple G—(good-good-girlfriend)—about her dream, Desiree had advised, “Girl, you need to forget about that dream and go in there and kick ass and take names, like I know you can.” There were no dreams before Tamela’s third try.

  Still, she knew that in the minds of the partners and other associates, Tamela Coleman didn’t have the right stuff to become a member of Chicago’s legal elite. She feared it was only a matter of time before they informed her of that fact.

  She had chosen the firm because it was one of the few large practices that had not only another minority woman, an Asian-American, but a black partner as well. Never mind that Tim Franklin was a black Republican who was clueless when it came to his racial heritage. A Yale Law School grad, Tim was constantly embarrassing the few blacks employed by the firm, mostly paralegals, secretaries, and mailroom clerks. Tim would comment on their clothes and was fond of saying, “Excuse me,” at the top of his lungs when they used what he considered substandard language. To make matters worse, he only did this when white associates were in earshot of his reprimands. Once, when a couple of white partners were close by, he said to Bettye, one of the senior and most popular black secretaries, “It’s a shame you didn’t take English as a Second Language while you were in high school.” He pulled stunts like that on almost every black person working at the office, except, of course, Tamela, who had given him a don’t-go-there look the moment he fixed his mouth to comment on one of her new braided hairstyles.

  There were other reasons Tim didn’t come after her. In her first six months at the firm, Tamela had made the error of dating Tim for a short period. Huge mistake. She almost laughed out loud the first time she saw his chubby body in boxer shorts. He strutted around her bedroom with knock knees and titties bigger than her own. Throw in his IBM (itty bitty meat), and Tamela felt as if she were with a woman while he grunted and flapped on top of her. This educated Negro couldn’t even grind good. Initially, Tamela was attracted to him because he was so damn smart when it came to the law, but she soon learned he had no common sense. Her father used to say all the time, “You can have all the book sense in the world, but it don’t mean jack if you ain’t got common sense.” At times she wanted to just haul off and pimp-slap him when he started talking Republican nonsense and bragging about his boy Clarence Thomas, make that Justice Clarence Thomas. She made a point of reminding him she still had her I Believe Anita buttons.

  He didn’t protest when she suggested that their dating was not such a good idea with him being a senior partner and especially in their field, with the constant worry about sexual harassment claims. Tamela figured he had some white woman stashed away in his Gold Coast condo, since he had never invited her there during the three months they dated. Their misguided attempts at sex had always occurred at Tamela’s apartment. She found herself pleased at the possibility of some white woman having to put up with Tim’s dumb shit. Regardless of their personal relationship, however, Tamela still respected Tim’s skills as a lawyer.

  After a day of mindless talk shows, Tamela went to her bathroom to draw water for a soothing evening bubble bath, complete with candles. As Tamela relaxed in the warm bath, her thoughts went from her possible resignation, her own practice, and finances, to the absence of a decent male companion. She leaned back in the water, and drank some wine, relaxing as a warm buzz spread through her body. Tamela had enough in her checking, savings, and money market accounts to last maybe four months before she would have to consider moving back to her parents’ Hyde Park home. Her only major expense besides rent and her student loans was her Marshall Field’s account. Moving back home would not be that bad since her mother, Blanche, was her best friend and her daddy, Henry, was the most remarkable man she had ever known. To the best of her knowledge he had been a faithful husband to her mother for over thirty-five years and had been a wonderful father to Tamela and her brother, Hank Junior.

  But what about her sex life? That probably wouldn’t be a major problem since Tamela had decided two years ago to remain celibate until she found the right man. All the STD’s floating around and the threat of AIDS scared the hell out of her. She had never had sex in her parents’ home and since she was very vocal during sex, Tamela couldn’t foresee doing the nasty there. Besides, along with a clean bill of health and condoms, Tamela wanted a man with his own place. Men who lived with their folks or who boasted of their permanent potential or protested using a condom didn’t get far with Tamela Faye.

  But Tamela was getting ahead of herself. One day off wouldn’t solve the shortage of black men, so maybe she should concentrate on making sure she had money in the bank. There were still a number of medium to small firms interested in her services, although as she had said to Desiree, she didn’t want to have to get used to some new white folks or stuck-up black folks for that matter. If she made a move then it would be to her own suite of offices. Even though Tamela hadn’t discussed opening her own practice in detail with her parents, she knew she could count on their support.

  Blanche had wanted to be a lawyer but settled for a career in teaching when she married a month after graduation from college. She taught English at Southside High, one of Chicago’s most dangerous high schools. But nobody messed with Blanche because they knew her husband and her massively built son were just minutes away, coaching the Washington High football team. She was elated when her firstborn decided on a career in the legal field, instead of becoming a starving artist, painting, or attempting to write the great American novel.

  Tamela had to decide what she was going to tell her parents about wanting to quit such a good paying job. Well, she thought, the truth might work. Her parents could always tell when she and her brother were skirting the truth. She would tell them how the firm showed her no respect and treated her like a first-year associate.

  Most of her time was spent on what Tamela referred to as shit work—the few personal-injury cases the firm took, trust accounts, and probate work for the firm’s pampered clients. These clients were usually rich, old, gray-headed white ladies whom none of the men wanted to work with. The assignments were always very tedious and required a lot of paperwork, but very little court time, and Tamela loved her moments in court. One of her lead cases had involved representing a prominent African-American woman suing a white franchise beauty salon for damaging her hair when they left a relaxer in too long. The partners assigned her the case when she mentioned in the staff meeting that she, too, had experienced problems with the product in question. After only two meetings with the attorneys representing the salon and hair care company, Tamela was able to resolve the woman’s case for a nice six-figure settlement. She took a little extra pleasure in the fact that it wasn’t a black-owned hair care company, but a white counterpart trying to exploit the lucrative black hair care market.

  But after that settlement, it was back to the ladies, wills, and paperwork. The only cases that brought her in front of a judge were the many pro bono cases she handled from the overworked Legal Aid Society or the legal assistance Tamela provided for members of her church who couldn’t afford an attorney. Most of these cases were criminal matters, and Tamela loved the challenge and rewards they provided. These cases made her feel as if she were making a contribution to her community.

  She was confident that her parents would understand her thinking and feel that she was making the right decision by leaving. The thought of having their daughter at home in this dangerous city would also influence their support. Even though she was thirty years old, her father called her almost every night after the news to make sure that she was safe. He would always say something like, “I just got
through watching the news and saw where this girl had been raped. I just wanted to make sure that my pumpkin was all right.”

  After her bath, Tamela brushed some of the day’s food crumbs from the light blue sheets. She arranged the pillows carefully for neck and back support and climbed back into her bed. With her remote, she changed the channel to WGN’s “Evening News” with Allison Payne, the beautiful black anchorwoman whom both her daddy and brother had secret crushes on. Reminded of her father, Tamela reached for the phone and hit the speed dial button for her parents’ home.

  “Hello, Coleman residence,” Tamela’s mother said.

  “Hey, woman. What’cha doing?” Tamela said.

  “Hey, baby. I was just thinking about you,” Blanche said.

  “Something good I hope,” Tamela said.

  “Of course. How was your day?”

  “Just wonderful,” Tamela said.

  “Oh. What happened? Something good at work?”

  “No. Nothing happened. I didn’t go to work. Matter fact, Mama, I didn’t leave my apartment today and it was wonderful.”

  “What? You’re not sick, are you?” Blanche asked, concerned with her little girl’s health.

  “Naw, Ma. I just needed a day to make some decisions about my life. What I’m doing with my life and where I’m going,” Tamela said.

  “Oh, baby, you’ve got the rest of your life.”

  “Not really. You’ve forgotten that your baby girl turned thirty this year,” Tamela said.

  “You’re still a baby. So did you come to any conclusions?”

  “I think so. But I want to talk with you and Daddy about them. Is he there?”

  “No. He and Hank Junior went bowling,” Blanche said.

  “You mean Daddy and Hankie are missing their girlfriend Allison on the news?”

  “Oh no, your daddy got me taping the news. I was expecting him back by now. He didn’t even eat dinner and you know he will want me to fix him something when he comes in. And he will want me to sit there and watch him eat every bit. I certainly have spoiled that old man,” Blanche laughed.

  “And you love it,” Tamela added.

  “You think so? Well, I guess you’re right. You want us to call you when he comes in?”

  “Naw, Ma. It can wait,” Tamela said.

  “You sure?”

  “I’m sure. I love you. Tell Daddy I called and that I love him,” Tamela said softly.

  “We love you, too, darling. And whatever decisions you make, you know your daddy and I will support you. We are very proud of you,” Blanche said.

  “I’m going to hold you to that. Night, Ma.”

  “Sleep tight, baby. Don’t let the bedbugs bite. Oh, baby, I forgot I needed to ask you something,” Blanche said.

  “What’s that Ma?”

  “You remember Dora Lee Morris?”

  “Dora Lee? No, what about her?”

  “Remember, she used to teach Sunday school with me,” Blanche said.

  “Naw, come on, Ma, don’t go there,” Tamela said.

  “Go where?” Blanche laughed.

  “Don’t give me Dora Lee’s history. Net it out. Why did you ask me if I knew her?”

  “Her son, Pede, is in trouble and she asked me at church if you could help out. They don’t have much money,” Blanche said.

  “What kind of trouble is he in?”

  “Well, he slapped his girlfriend and the DA is talking about prosecuting him for assault. Pede is a good kid, only sixteen, and his mother is worried about him going to jail and having a record,” Blanche said.

  “How did the DA get involved in a slapping?”

  “One of the teachers reported it and then the principal demanded that the police come to the school and arrest Pede.”

  “It sounds like he not only needs a lawyer, but some counseling too,” Tamela said.

  “Yes, I feel the same way. But he’s really a good kid; it just seems like to me the DA is overreacting. The girl doesn’t even want to press charges.”

  “I don’t know what I can do, besides calling over to the DA’s office and seeing who’s handling the case. I could talk with, what’s her name, Dora Lee?”

  “Yes, Dora Lee Morris.”

  “I’ll talk with Mrs. Morris and her son, if we can agree that he’s going into some type of counseling. These young boys have to realize they just can’t go around slapping people,” Tamela said.

  “You’re absolutely right. I will call Dora Lee tomorrow. Is it okay if I give her your number at the office?”

  “Sure, Ma, that will be fine. All right, it’s bedtime. I love you,” Tamela said.

  “Thanks, baby. Expect Dora Lee’s call. I love you.”

  When Tamela hung up the phone she felt an overwhelming sense of serenity. It had been a perfect day. No matter what decisions she made, life, like the day, would be blessed.

  CHAPTER 3

  PEOPLE AND PREACHERS

  “I believe in God. It’s preachers and people I don’t believe in. That’s who I have a problem with,” Sean said.

  “But come on. Just come once. Give my church a chance. It’s different. Trust me,” Anja pleaded.

  “Your church … do they have a preacher?”

  “Yes, dufus. You know the guy I’m dating, Reverend Wilder. He’s great!”

  “First of all I’d be nervous ’bout a dating preacher. But that’s a whole other conversation. They do have people at your church, right? People as in ushers who roll their eyes at you when you don’t want to sit in the tight-fitting pews they point you to? People as in deacons who are always begging for money like ugly men beg for pussy, and people in choir robes who jump up shouting and waving every time your Reverend Wilder says something negative about certain groups? People as in members whose mission is to get heaven to keep other people out?”

  “What’s your point, little brother?”

  “My point, big sister by only two weeks, is that I know you mean well, but I have had my fill of organized religion. Let’s not talk about this anymore. Okay, baby?”

  “Can we at least pray over the phone before you hang up on me?” Anja asked.

  “Sure we can, but it will have to wait until tomorrow.”

  “Why, may I ask, Sean?”

  “ ’Cause someone is knocking at my door,” Sean lied.

  “I’ll pray for you.”

  “Good, then I’m covered. Got to go. Peace out, my sweet sister.”

  Somewhat troubled by the conversation with his sister, Sean hung up the phone and spread himself over the plaid sofa under a hanging lamp, one hand on his exposed stomach, the other nursing a lukewarm beer. He wanted to take a nap so he set the bottle on the hardwood floor, crossed his legs, and nestled his head in his hands behind his neck. Sean couldn’t fall asleep. He opened his eyes and stared at the cream-colored ceiling, listening to the sounds of the city coming from his open window. Though it was one of summer’s last humid days, the large room was cool, flooded in a gentle breeze, aided by a small portable fan.

  Sean’s midtown Manhattan studio apartment was untidy. The sign of a brilliant writer, he told himself. With a name like T. S. Elliott, he was destined to become a writer. Even though he spelled his surname differently from the famous poet’s, he had on occasion written poetry, but he made his living writing about arrogant and overpaid athletes. The curtainless windows were dusty, the floor un-swept, and stacks of books and old magazines filled each corner. Empty beer bottles and dirty clothes littered the floor. He started halfheartedly to get up and straighten the place, but decided he could better use this time to map out a strategy for finding work. When drowsiness clouded his thoughts, he decided that maybe a short nap would give him the extra energy he needed to plan out the next couple of months.

  Sean was not your typical unemployed black man. He chose not to be on the payroll of a large organization. A year ago, he had left a good paying job as a senior sportswriter at the conservative-minded Atlanta Chronicle to take a chance in New York
City. He was drawn by the lure of lucrative freelance assignments, problems with his prior position, and the chance to be close to his half-sister Anja and nine-year-old nephew, Gerald. He had plenty of freelance articles lined up when he moved to New York City, but the baseball strike had erased some of his richest possibilities. At first he didn’t mind because, though he loved baseball and had played himself for a year in college, Sean found the players extremely boring. The Age of Athletic Arrogance he liked to call the current professional sports climate. A group of clueless prima donnas who put their own goals above their teams and the sports they played.

  During his down time, Sean had found a New York literary agent and written a book proposal on racism in professional sports management. It was not the book he wanted to write, but his agent had convinced him that such a book was a potential best-seller. And Sean was about making money. He had developed friendships with several professional players in the hope of one day ghost writing one of those premature, quick-to-the-press memoirs that publishers sometimes churned out.

  In many ways, Sean was relieved that fall and football were approaching. He knew his phone would begin to ring off the hook with assignments—or at least he hoped so. Even though he liked New York City, he was ready to visit other great cities and spend nights in hotels much nicer than his Tenth Avenue walk-up apartment. For the right assignment, he was even willing to return to his hometown of Decatur, near Atlanta. Decatur stirred up many memories for Sean, both good and bad, but recently, every time he thought of his hometown, he obsessed over the bad memories.

  After six years of award-winning work, Sean had resigned from his newspaper job there when a promised column of his own failed to materialize. The paper’s management made feeble attempts to keep him, assigning interns and cub reporters to work under him. But, when they failed to give him a definite timetable for a column, Sean decided it was time to leave. He just could not understand why his editors had failed to see the merits of such a column, a column he had wanted to write since he was a freshman at University of Georgia’s School of Journalism. Editors at the paper said they didn’t understand Sean’s constant complaining and explained that they only had room for the two sports columnists who had been at the paper for decades. They pointed out that Sean had one of the most coveted beats, covering the Atlanta Falcons, as well as the Atlanta Braves, the hottest team in Atlanta.