And This Too Shall Pass

by E. Lynn Harris

  Her parents had even offered to help find her birth parents, but she had declined. Emma had told her that her mother was a teenager when Mia was born, but that was all she knew. Emma and Ellis had decided to adopt when they were told they couldn’t have children, but three years after they had brought Mia home, Tanya was born.

  Mia and Tanya were close, but they had had their moments of sibling rivalry. When they were teenagers they fought over clothes, telephone time, and the pink Volkswagen their parents had bought for them to share. In recent years they didn’t see each other that often. Tanya had moved to Paris to pursue her career as a designer and every now and then Mia would receive letters, clothing, beautiful handmade ribbons, and expensive bottles of French champagnes. Mia, in turn, shipped her sister frozen Chicago pizza, magazines, and videotapes of “Soul Train,” as a reminder of their childhood.

  After “The Morning Show” and “Oprah,” Mia decided to take her mother’s advice and spend some money on a new outfit. She put on her gym clothes for a quick workout before heading to the Water Tower shopping center. Just as she was picking up her keys from her dresser, the phone rang again.

  “Hello,” Mia said.

  “LaDonna in the house,” Mia’s best friend sang into the phone.

  “Hey, girl. What are you doing calling me so early? What time is it out there?”

  “Oh, child, it’s early but I just got in. I went to a sneak preview of this new movie with that fine Allen Payne and Miss Jada whatsherface,” LaDonna laughed.

  “How was it?”

  “Oh, it was all that. Mr. Allen Payne had an ass from heaven, girl.”

  “You so crazy. Was it work-related?”

  “Oh, honey, everything I do out here in La La Land is work-related. I’m trying to get an interview with Allen, but he has this publicist from hell handling the movie. But you know me: I ain’t giving up. Are you excited about this evening?”

  “Naw, I’m okay. Ain’t nothing left but to do it,” Mia said casually as she looked at her nails and wondered if a manicure could wait one more day.

  “I know that’s right. Well, I’m getting ready to go to bed. But I just wanted to let you know that I was thinking about you,” LaDonna said.

  “I appreciate it, girl. I’m going to the gym, then to shop, and then it’s on,” Mia said.

  “Well, knock ’em on their butts. Bye, M & M,” LaDonna said.

  “Bye, LaDonna. Thanks for thinking about me.”

  “Oh, Mia, before I forget. That good-for-nothing Derrick called me at home and at the station, trying to get your number. Said something about a big business deal he was working on in Chicago. I told him I thought you and your new boyfriend were going to be in Europe visiting Tanya.”

  “Thanks, LaDonna. He called my parents’ home, too.”

  “You know for a brother with all them degrees, Derrick is stupid. If he really wants to get in contact with you, all he has to do is call the station and leave a message for you.”

  “I know, honey. But that’s Derrick. What he’s doing is trying to play one of those old, tired-assed mind games. You’ll see, he’ll put it out in the universe that he’s trying to get ahold of me, hoping that I will call him, or that one of my family or friends will tell him that they’ve talked with me and I would love to talk with him. I’m glad you told him that little lie that I was dating someone.”

  “Got to look out for my sister. Girl, that bed is calling my name. See ya.”

  “Bye, LaDonna. I will talk with you later this week.”

  “Deal,” LaDonna said.

  Mia picked up her address book and turned to the Smiths. She would call Derrick and tell him that she was going to be out of town and to stop bothering her family and friends. She was also going to ask him what his new fiancée had to say about him trying to contact her. After dialing the area code for Mississippi and the first three digits of Derrick’s office number, Mia stopped and hung up the phone. She knew Derrick. He would have some cute little answer that would be an out-and-out lie. This was her day and no one was going to spoil it.

  CHAPTER 5

  TRADE ALERT

  Tamela walked out of the Starbucks near her office with a steaming cup of coffee, no sugar, no cream. Coffee without pretense that would do what she wanted it to do. Wake her up and give her the caffeinated courage to follow her plan. Her situation had changed slightly since her Friday holiday of complete bed rest. There was no letter of resignation in her camel-colored leather briefcase, just a plan of action carefully mapped out on a yellow legal pad.

  She had reviewed her options on Saturday night with her parents and her best friend Desiree, a teacher at the Chicago Magnet School for the Arts. Tamela and Desiree had been tight since eighth grade when they both made the B-team cheerleading squad. In high school, they had consoled each other when they failed to make the varsity squad, whose only two black girls were regulation light-skinned. They did make the drill team and Desiree convinced Tamela to run for senior class president, which she did, becoming the first black and first female student to hold the position. It was during her stint as class leader that Tamela first considered the law or politics as possible career choices. Until that point, she figured she would become a schoolteacher like her parents.

  Even though they went to different colleges, Tamela to Southern and Desiree to Fisk University, they spent all of their holidays and school breaks together. As adults they had a Sunday ritual of church and then champagne brunch at one of Chicago’s fancy hotels along Michigan Avenue, followed by window shopping along Mag Mile. They were members of a black women’s literary club and Delta Sigma Theta, which they had both pledged in college, and were now active in the local alumnae chapter.

  Both Desiree and Tamela’s folks thought Tamela should have a secure job offer or a strategy for opening her own office before turning in her resignation. They agreed she needed to make a change, especially if she was not happy, but the three of them were more practical than Tamela when it came to decisions. “Headstrong,” Tamela’s mother sometimes called her. They all told her that no matter what she decided they would support her. Desiree even offered her spare bedroom, which was something for her because she loved her privacy. But the two of them had always agreed that rooming together might damage their friendship. Having witnessed several best friends turn mortal enemies after becoming roommates, they didn’t want that to happen to their relationship.

  Desiree’s voice of reason made even more sense when she informed Tamela that she, too, might be out of a job soon. There were serious talks of cutbacks in the school system’s budget and her principal had told her that arts programs were at the top of the list when it came to cost-cutting measures. Even if the dance department did survive, there would be no pay increase. Desiree was so worried about her job security that she had spent Sundays combing the Help-Wanted ads and had researched several temp agencies. She had also put out feelers for roommate possibilities just in case Tamela stayed put. Unlike her best friend, Desiree said she would move into a convent or a homeless shelter rather than back home where her mother would constantly nag her about finding a suitable young man to date and eventually marry.

  At Trinity United Methodist on Sunday, Tamela had run into Cassandra Crater, another one of her sorority sisters, who was working for a small black law firm on Chicago’s South Side. Tamela had recently read an article on the firm in the Chicago Legal Times, which sounded as if they were really up and coming. Cassandra told Tamela that they were looking to expand at the beginning of the year and she would love for her to talk with her partners.

  While talking with her soror, Tamela thought it might be exciting to work for an all-black firm, but realized it wouldn’t be problem-free. If she worked for a predominantly black firm, she wanted it to be a firm she started herself, or one she’d been involved with from the beginning. She thanked her, wished the firm continued success, and promised to keep in touch.

  Tamela walked into the huge suite of downtown office
s of MacDonald, Fisher, and Jackson, smiling and speaking to familiar faces like the maintenance man and the firm’s receptionist, Sonia. Instead of going to her office, she headed toward the area where most of the partners’ offices were located. As she turned a corner, she bumped into Tim Franklin. Just the man she wanted to see.

  “I need to speak with you, Tim,” she said boldly.

  “We missed you on Friday, Ms. Coleman,” he said sarcastically.

  “I was taking a personal day,” she said.

  “Why don’t you let us know in advance the next time?” he smiled. “You never know when a big trust or probate client will walk through the doors looking for someone with your skills.” Tamela couldn’t tell if he was being serious so she looked to see if there was anybody around. She wondered if Tim was the only one who’d missed her since no one from the office had called to check on her whereabouts.

  “Oh, you didn’t get my message?” Tamela asked innocently. Her tone and arching eyebrows gave away the fact she had not called, but Tim just stood there with a sly smile on his face.

  “Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t,” he answered. “Come on into my office. I have something I need to talk with you about.”

  Tamela followed him into his office, one of the largest in the firm. A huge maple desk dominated the room, with a mismatched swivel leather chair. During her interview, Tim had told Tamela the desk belonged to his grandfather, one of the first black Republicans in Chicago. His walls were lined with shelves filled with all types of books, both legal and nonlegal, while pictures of Illinois Republican governor Jim Edgar and Justice Clarence Thomas held prominent places on his walls. Tamela didn’t sit down, but walked over to the huge window behind Tim’s desk. Lake Michigan spread out, gleaming and flat in the morning sun. The dozen or so sailboats that dotted the water looked like miniatures from her lofty perspective.

  “Can I say you look nice today or is that considered sexual harassment?” Tim asked.

  “You tell me. Isn’t that your area of expertise?” Tamela asked.

  “Yes, it is, and that depends on how you take the compliment.”

  Looking down at her well-tailored, blue pinstripe pleated skirt with matching jacket over a collarless silk shirt and simple strand of fake pearls, Tamela replied, “I’ll take it in the spirit it was given, so thank you, Mr. Franklin.” Tamela played with her pearls as she thought that something was up with Tim. He wanted something, but so did she.

  “Let’s talk,” Tim said.

  “What do you want to talk with me about?” Tamela said as she took a seat. For a moment she chose to forget that she needed to talk to him.

  “Well, you know I’m a member of BMU, right?”

  “Black Men United? Yes, I remember when you joined,” Tamela said. Black Men United was a national social and service organization founded in Chicago in the mid-sixties by a group of African-American physicians and lawyers. It was a way to get many black men from different fraternities together for a common cause. Tamela’s father had been invited to join the group, but the one-thousand-dollar initiation fee was more than his budget could stand. Nevertheless, he had attended some of their events with his Omega brothers who were in BMU. In recent years the group had made efforts to expand the somewhat elite organization by recruiting more men like Tamela’s father and young men graduating from college. Their Boys to Men mentor program had been recognized by former President Bush as one of the Thousand Points of Light, after Tim made someone in the Bush administration aware of this group of well-connected black men.

  “Well, we are having our big fund-raiser for the scholarship program at the Swisshôtel this weekend.” He paused to gauge Tamela’s reaction. “And I’ve been nominated for president for the next calendar year,” he added proudly.

  “That’s great, Tim, but what has this to do with me?” she asked.

  “I know we agreed it might not look good, the two of us dating. But I’m in dire straits here, Tamela, and frankly I need a date. I don’t think it would look good me coming alone,” he said.

  Tamela smiled to herself. Tim was about to ask her out on a date. Should she go knowing how much she disliked being around him in a social setting, especially a black function where his being a nerd was even more apparent?

  “So you need a date, huh.” Tamela beat him to the punch. She was smiling on the inside saying to herself, Naw you ain’t asking me out. Where is that white lady you got stashed away? she wondered.

  “Yes, I need a date.”

  “How bad?” Tamela smiled.

  Suddenly Tim’s voice sounded shaky and nervous, like a sweaty schoolboy asking the homecoming queen to the prom, when the homecoming queen didn’t even know he existed. Tamela quickly decided that she would go, but first she was going to string him along. The BMU was one of the most powerful organizations in Chicago and one of the few all-male organizations besides the fraternities. If nothing else, Tamela would be able to make some valuable connections, both professional and personal. If the truth were told, she and Desiree had already talked about buying the two-hundred-dollar tickets and going without male escorts. Even though they both thought such social events were a bit tedious with all the frontin’ that could be expected.

  “Yes, I know it’s late, but I would forever be in your debt,” he said, trying not to stoop to begging.

  “What if I’m dating someone?” Tamela asked, playfully.

  “I could call him and explain my situation and tell him it’s not like a date-date.”

  “That won’t be necessary, Tim. I’m not dating anyone. But before I agree, I have a favor to ask you.”

  “Shoot,” Tim replied, now feeling as if he were on third base with the team’s home-run hitter at bat.

  “I don’t know how aware of this you are, but I’m really concerned about my future here. You guys have only given me what I consider busy work, the shit stuff,” she said.

  “Tamela, everybody here is pleased with your work. We’re always getting great reviews about your work from clients.”

  “But, Tim, anyone right out of law school could do the probate work and personal injury. I want to work with the big boys,” Tamela said.

  “What type of cases are you talking about?”

  “Well, you know I’ve been doing a lot of pro bono work over at Legal Aid?”

  “Yes. But I thought that was only for six months,” Tim said.

  “They still needed me when the exchange was over. Which is part of my concern. If you didn’t know I was still doing work over there in my spare time, then I know the other partners aren’t aware of all the criminal work I’ve done,” Tamela said.

  “You do have a point there. I didn’t realize you were so interested in criminal work.”

  “It’s not just criminal work, because from what I’ve seen, we don’t get that many criminal cases in the office.”

  “Agreed.”

  “But there are other high-profile cases that would get me more courtroom time,” Tamela said.

  “I hear you. What can I do?”

  “What I need is for you to see what you can do about getting me a good case to work on. I don’t care what kind of case it is. Corporate, criminal, or whatever. I’m willing to do whatever it takes to prove to these people that I can hang with the best of them.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Tim said. “I’d like to think they would listen to me.”

  “I hope so. I mean with all the money they pay you,” Tamela said.

  “What do you know about how much money they pay me?” Tim joked. Tamela wanted to say what she never said in public, Nigger, plezze.

  “Tim, now come on. You’re wearing a Rolex Presidential watch, driving a convertible Jaguar, and wearing very expensive suits. You can’t do that with what they pay me,” Tamela said.

  “I guess I do okay.”

  Tim walked over and sat on the sofa beside Tamela. His voice changed, suddenly confidential and intimate. He was so close she could feel his breath make contact wi
th her lips. Tim lowered his voice and said, “I tell you what. You help me out with the BMU function and I promise that when the next high-profile case comes in, you will get the chance to show us what you can do.”

  “Can I get that in writing?” Tamela smiled.

  “Now, Ms. Coleman, you know I can’t do that. But you have my word.” Tim relaxed and leaned back in his chair.

  “Your word.”

  “My word.”

  As Tamela was deciding whether or not Tim could be trusted, the voice of his secretary flooded his office on the intercom.

  “Mr. Franklin, Warner Mitchell wants to move your lunch meeting to one o’clock,” she said.

  “Tell him that’s fine and I’ll meet him in the reception area,” Tim said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So do we have a deal?” Tim asked.

  “Leave me a message with all the details about the dance,” Tamela said as she got up from the sofa, shook Tim’s hand, and headed back to her office.

  “Consider it done. Have a productive day, Ms. Coleman,” Tim said.

  “I already have Mr. Franklin,” she said. “I already have.”

  The sound of his own voice woke Sean from a restless sleep. His answering machine was on, announcing that he was unavailable and instructing callers to leave him a message. After the beep, Sean heard the familiar gravelly voice of his agent, Don Thomas.

  “Sean, give me a call ASAP. I’ve got a wonderful assignment for …”

  Sean quickly grabbed for the phone from his sofa bed. “Don, hold on. Let me turn this thing off.” He reached down to the floor where his machine was resting and clicked it off.