What You Sow

by Wallace Ford

  It was with amazing speed and skill that the doctors and nurses freed me from all of the medical tethers that had been a part of my life for almost two years. I watched them, admiring their handiwork and wondering what was going to happen next. And then it occurred to me. Perhaps they knew about my trips to the Purple Dragon with the Dark Lord.

  Maybe there was a camera somewhere that revealed that I really had not been in a coma, that I had just been biding my time, plotting my comeback, plotting my revenge against Paul and Diedre and Jerome and, most of all, absolutely most of all, that beautiful, one-eyed bitch whore of a mother-fucking wife of mine—Kenitra.

  They would pay. They would all pay. But first, I had to officially get my ass out of the hospital bed. And I had to be sure that the move to take me off life support was not some kind of trick.

  And that’s when things got crazy. I could have sworn that I could see Kenitra through the window that looked out from my room onto the hospital hallway. And she was being held in the arms of fucking Sture Jorgensen, and he had just kissed her on her forehead.

  And there was that stuck-up, holier-than-thou Jerome Hardaway. And there was that smart-ass Paul Taylor. And there was that know-everything bitch Diedre Douglas. It was like a convention of my enemies, right outside the door of my hospital room. Why were they there?

  And then things suddenly got very dark. It was like I was cast into some kind of tunnel with a light at the end. And I could have sworn I heard something that I had not heard for over thirty years. It couldn’t have been, but it was.

  It was the voice of my father.

  CHAPTER 34

  Paul

  I Only Have Eyes for You

  From the time that I got the call from the hospital until the moment that Kenitra gave her consent to Gordon being taken off life support, I thought that everything was proceeding routinely, given the circumstances. After all, in my view, it was only a matter of time before the day came that Gordon would have to live or die on his own.

  And I thought that Kenitra made the best decision for herself. By giving Gordon a chance to live, however slim that chance might be, his almost-certain death would not be her choice or the result of her decision.

  Yet, as soon as Kenitra made the decision, I started having the feeling that things were going to go wrong—horribly wrong. I started feeling that the smartest thing that Kenitra could have done was to keep Gordon on the life support systems if that meant that he would die. Suddenly, the thought of Gordon surviving, being alive, walking among us again, was just too awful a chance to take, especially for Kenitra.

  I was about to walk over to where she and Sture were standing to tell her what I was thinking when I heard it. Actually, we all heard it. One of the nurses gasped loudly and covered her mouth in shock at what she saw. Instantly, all eyes turned to Gordon through the window. And it seemed as if Gordon had turned his head toward us, and his cold, reptilian eyes were looking right back at us.

  Dr. Krishnamurthy had assured me on several occasions that, although Gordon’s eyes were almost always open, he was unable to see, and that he was not conscious in the least. I tried to remember that advisory from the doctor as I looked into Gordon’s eyes and saw what I could have sworn was a flicker of recognition and a flash of hate.

  Kenitra and Sture took a step backwards as Gordon turned to look at them. It was almost as if they thought he might come right through the window. Jerome and Diedre both froze in their tracks. And we were all transfixed by what we saw next. And I know that I will never forget it.

  After Gordon slowly scanned the scene outside his hospital room, his eyes rolled up so that only the whites could be seen. As the last tubes were removed, he turned his head back onto his pillow so that he was facing the ceiling. He started to breathe heavily, as if he were running a race or were engaged in some kind of struggle. He also started to foam at the mouth, which was just before the convulsions started. It was a horrible sight to see. And then it got even worse.

  The convulsions caused Gordon to flail and thrash in his bed, and two orderlies had to stand by to make sure that he did not throw himself onto the floor. The blanket and sheet that were covering him were thrown across the room as if hurled by some unseen hand. And, as the convulsions progressed, the foam continued to pour from his nose and mouth, and his eyes remained rolled up in his head so that only the whites were showing. Dr. Krishnamurthy and his colleagues stood by the bedside watching Gordon with shocked eyes.

  As a nonmedical person, it was clear to me that Gordon was about to die before our very eyes. Kenitra looked like a rabbit trapped in the presence of a wolf or other all-powerful predator. She couldn’t have run if she wanted to, and she certainly didn’t want to stay to see anything more than she had already seen. She was trapped.

  Jerome, Diedre, Sture and I watched without knowing exactly what we were seeing. But we all knew that Gordon would not be alive on this planet for more than another few moments. Quincy Holloway and his camera crew, who had been mercifully silent and unobtrusive up to this point, sprang into action. The video camera lights came on, and Quincy started praying very loudly.

  And then Gordon started to shake and vibrate as if a couple of giants had taken hold of his hospital bed and were trying to dump him onto the floor. He shook and vibrated as if he were being administered thousands of volts of electricity, but that had not been the case. And at this point, I gave up trying to figure out what the hell was going on.

  Quincy Holloway kept praying, however. And as he rambled on and on, I was reminded of The Exorcist. That’s how crazy the entire scene was. Thankfully, the furniture did not start moving and Gordon’s head did not start spinning around.

  And then, as suddenly as it began, all the commotion halted. All that could be heard was the beeping of the monitors, which seemed to indicate that Gordon remained alive, although barely. Kenitra was now sobbing loudly, and Sture put his arms around her in a vain attempt to provide some kind of comfort to her. Diedre and Jerome did not move an inch.

  Gordon’s breathing was very faint at this point. There were no more convulsions. There was no thrashing. His heartbeat and blood pressure went from impossibly high levels to normal and then to below normal. Gordon was dying.

  The video camera continued to focus its single eye on Gordon. Quincy Holloway continued to mutter prayer after prayer into the microphone that he held. The doctors and nurses said nothing. The rest of us remained transfixed. The lights from the camera made this bizarre scene seem even more surreal.

  And then, Gordon sat straight up in the bed as if propelled by some kind of infernal spring-action contraption in the bed itself. This caused even Quincy Holloway to be quiet. Finally, even the doctors looked a bit surprised. I remember taking an involuntary step back. Quincy Holloway’s little beady eyes looked like they were going to pop out of his head.

  Gordon, still sitting up, grew very still. His eyes rolled back down, and he seemed to focus on his surroundings for the first time. He turned his head slowly to face the window where we all stood, and he looked from Quincy Holloway to me to Diedre to Jerome to Sture, slowly recognizing each one of us and beginning to comprehend his environment. And then he saw Kenitra.

  He stared at her for what seemed like a full minute. And then he smiled a horrible, twisted smile. It was a smile that I hope to never see again.

  “Hello, Kenitra,” Gordon croaked. “Did you miss me?” Those were his first words in almost three years.

  Kenitra screamed and bolted, running down the hallway as if she expected Gordon to get out of the bed on his withered legs and pursue her to the ends of the earth. Sture followed her, and Quincy Holloway and his camera crew brought up the rear chasing her and Sture.

  The doctors and nurses finally moved toward Gordon and began to examine and assist him as he returned to the world of the living and the conscious. There was no question about it. Gordon was back, and all of our lives had just changed forever—again.

  CHAPTER 35

/>   Jerome

  Sombrero Sam

  The madness of the night that Gordon returned to the land of the living is something that I don’t think any of us will ever forget. The sheer spectacle of his resurrection was like something out of a B horror movie. The primordial, visceral fear that absolutely consumed Kenitra was almost visible as she fled from the building, and I was glad that Sture was there to try to comfort her as best he could.

  Once the shock of Gordon’s revival was absorbed, everything suddenly took on a life of its own, and the routine of the hospital took over. Gordon was now simply another patient in need of care and attention.

  The doctors, the nurses and the rest of the medical personnel sprang into action and began to minister to him, trying to make sure that his unexpected resuscitation did not put too much stress on his system. Amazingly, within minutes, Gordon had quieted down, and he was now reclining comfortably, sipping some ice water from a cup that a nurse held for him.

  As I tried to take in the entire scenario, I could hear the voice of Quincy Holloway as he spoke breathlessly into the camera. He and his team had been unable to catch up with Kenitra and Sture and they had returned to position themselves outside of Gordon’s room. It came as no surprise to me that Holloway, who had managed to turn the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr. and the near-tragic disappearance of a U.S. soldier into career-building events, would turn the bedlam surrounding Gordon’s recovery into another résumé item.

  “Through the power of prayer and the mercy of God, we have witnessed a miracle.” The breathlessness and rapture that could be heard in the tiny reverend’s voice would make a casual observer believe that he had encountered some kind of religious experience. “As Gordon Perkins found himself about to cross over the threshold of death and take that eternal walk into the Great Beyond, he reached out to God, he reached out to Jesus, he reached out to me as his spiritual advisor and guide, and, working through me, God brought him back. Brought him back to his friends, and brought him back to his loving, faithful wife.”

  I looked at Quincy and could see that he had worked himself up into such a frenzy that he might actually believe that he was personally responsible for some kind of miracle. There were tears in his eyes (which the video cameraman was sure to focus on), and beads of perspiration crowned his forehead. He desperately clutched the microphone with both hands and looked as if his own life depended on his getting the story of Gordon’s recovery out to the rest of the world.

  “His loving, faithful wife, Kenitra Perkins, who kept a vigil at Gordon’s bedside for these three years, was so overcome with the ecstasy of joy that she ran out of the hospital to go to the closest church to offer her thanks to God. We will be joining Kenitra in a few minutes, as I know that she will want to share this miracle with the rest of the world.”

  As he was speaking, Quincy looked up for a moment, and I caught his eye. An expression passed over his face that seemed to say, “What can I tell you? This is what I do.” Taking advantage of any and every situation was ingrained in Quincy Holloway’s DNA. His behavior was neither shocking nor surprising. It was simply what Quincy did.

  All I could do was nod and acknowledge his gaze and walk away. It wasn’t with disgust; rather, it was with the realization that there is a little bit of Quincy Holloway in all of us and a lot of Quincy Holloway in some of us. There clearly was very little that Quincy would not do to advance his own interests, and in the years when I was first building my career and then my own business, and now, as I was trying to manage Morningstar Financial Services, I rarely let anything or anybody get in my way.

  I can honestly say that I have never cheated anyone and I have never tried to take unfair advantage in my business dealings. But I have always focused on coming out ahead, and that has meant that my competition—in school and in business—had to come in behind me. And I have never squandered my time worrying about whose feelings I might hurt as I left them behind.

  And as I walked down the hospital hallway toward Paul and Diedre, I realized that, on some level, there wasn’t a lot of difference between Quincy and me, except ... there was nothing Quincy wouldn’t do to advance his interests. On the other hand, I felt that I had my limits. At least, I hoped that was the case.

  I remembered that a few years ago, soon after we had started Morningstar and had survived the New Orleans Fiasco, a senior executive from a rival firm asked to meet with me privately. Rather than go to Dorothy’s By the Sea, where we were guaranteed to be seen by countless members of The Pride, the surreptitious banker suggested that we meet at Fresco by Scotto, a very stylish and discrete Northern Italian restaurant located on Manhattan’s East Side.

  Fresco, which is still run by the Scotto family, presents its Northern Italian cuisine in an array of dishes that helped me to change the perception of Italian food so that it encompasses a whole lot more than pasta and pizza. The Scotto family and its chefs and cooks have been featured in all of the cooking publications and shows, and the celebrity of the restaurant has attracted celebrities from around the world.

  Over the years that I have eaten there, I have sat at tables next to Katie Couric and Donald Trump and Bill Clinton and George Steinbrenner and Rudy Guiliani and Johnnie Cochran. And the amazing thing about Fresco is that whoever might be in the restaurant, it was never a big deal. People come for the food and the wine. Unlike with other places, people did not come to be seen.

  And I guess that’s why Domino Oakley thought that Fresco would be the perfect place for us to meet on this important and clearly secretive matter.

  Domino was one of the most successful black women in the world of investment banking. She had parlayed her brilliance and fabulous good looks into superstar status in the world of finance.

  I remember first meeting her after I spoke as a returning alumnus at a career forum held at Columbia Business School about ten years after I graduated. Even then, Domino had the kind of look that was irresistible to any man with a pulse. As happily married as I was to Charmaine, and as in love as I was with Charmaine, I could barely take my eyes off Domino during my entire presentation—making my presentation a bit more challenging than I had anticipated.

  It was one of those experiences that you just don’t forget. Soon after I began speaking, I saw a woman dressed in a very red and very tight and very short dress walk down the aisle of the auditorium as if she owned the entire building. Without hesitation or recognition of the fact that she had missed the opening remarks (as well as the beginning of my speech), she sat down in the very first row and crossed a pair of the longest and loveliest legs that I had ever seen, legs encased in silk mesh stockings that seemed to shimmer with promise and temptation. She looked up at the stage and fixed me with a pair of coal black eyes that could make any man feel as if he were the only man on earth at that moment. She casually tossed her very long, very black hair to the side as she settled into her seat, and I considered myself very fortunate to have been able to continue my presentation without faltering.

  At the end of the conference, she casually walked up to me and asked if she could apply for a job with my firm. She had a smile that danced to a slow samba and a complexion that reminded me of coffee with just the slightest acquaintance with rich, sweet cream. And as I breathed in a fragrance that somehow reminded me of mango and chocolate at the same time, I knew instantly that the smartest and safest thing I could do would be to introduce her to one of my former colleagues at Merrill Lynch.

  It most certainly was the smartest and safest decision that I ever made, and it was not one that I regretted. But I must confess that I had reconsidered that decision from time to time over the years.

  In the meantime, Domino Oakley did indeed end up working at Merrill Lynch, and then at Goldman Sachs. She became a noted hedge fund specialist who was as brilliant at structuring deals and transactions as she was effective at securing and maintaining high-profile clients. Simply put, Wall Street had never seen anyone like Domino before.

  And it
wasn’t long before her name was appearing in the pages of the Wall Street Journal, the Economist, Essence and “Page Six” of the New York Post. Her brilliant achievements on Wall Street were almost overshadowed by the glamorous side of her life, as she was linked romantically to several high-profile entertainers and sports figures, as well as at least two senior Wall Street types who were supposed to be as happily married as I was.

  From the moment she came to New York from her hometown of St. Louis, she took the local chapter of The Pride by storm. Eligible and not-so-eligible men thought nothing of almost groveling in her presence. Many of the single women sought to be her friend in the hope that her glamour and brilliance were contagious. The married women in The Pride simply despised Domino, for all that she represented to them was Danger with a capital “D.” A real and present danger to the marital comfort zone into which they had settled.

  At some point, however, Domino started to tone down her act. Or maybe it was simply a matter of true love shining down on her. Whatever the case, she met and married Roger Hansley, the founder and chairman of the Hansley Group, arguably the most successful black investment-banking firm in Chicago.

  And just like that, Domino was gone from New York, returning only occasionally for a business meeting or dinner or a shopping excursion. She and Roger bought a fabulous six-bedroom triplex condominium in the same building in which the fabulously wealthy Oprah Winfrey lived. They had a small mansion on the north shore of Jamaica, just east of Port Antonio, and they traveled around the world on various exotic holidays.