“Why not? My major is communications, and I’m focusing on radio and TV rather than on print media.”
“All right. In that case, I’ll groom you, but if you want to switch to radio right now, I don’t have a spot open. When Tab moves to TV, my six-to-twelve jock will take Tab’s seat, and I’ll put you in the evening slot. If that proves too much along with your studies, I’ll switch you to the weekends.
“Now. Do you want to stay with me, or do you want to go with Jack?”
She laughed. His office seemed to swirl around at a dizzying pace, and she felt as if she were on a merry-goround. “Excuse me, sir, but I don’t often get a chance to feel this good. Thank you. I’ll call Mr. Meriwether and tell him that I appreciate his offer, but the hours are not suitable.”
“You’re welcome. Any more trouble with your mother?”
“I spoke with my uncle, her brother, about it, and I don’t think she can get around him. He won’t tolerate her foolishness.”
“Thank God for that.”
She went back to her station, took out her cell phone and called Jack Meriwether. “I’m sorry, Miss Richards. I thought you’d be perfect for the morning spot. If you ever want to leave Howell, let me know. Thank you for getting back to me.”
“Thank you for considering me, Mr. Meriwether.”
On the way home that afternoon, she stopped at a bookstore and bought a book on the history of jazz and blues and their relationship to spirituals. “From now on, my reading matter will have to support my career goals,” she said to herself as she left the store. “When I know what’s in these books, I’ll start on biographies of major musicians. Whoopee! For two cents, I’d dance right here on Fourteenth and F.”
The following Saturday, she attended the local chapter meeting of SRDJ again, and Charley Brighton greeted her as if she were an old friend. “You’ve just learned one of the crucial laws of success,” he told her, after she told him of her conversation with her boss. “If you’ve got a job, you can get a job, and if you want your boss to promote you, let him know that somebody else wants you. You made the better choice for you.”
She’d learned something else, too: the jocks who had ignored her or refused to talk with her the previous Saturday sought her out. But she soon became aware that they didn’t like or respect her more; they figured that if Charley Brighton knew her, she had to be someone important who could give them a lift up the ladder to success. She didn’t bother to correct them.
She bought a book on the life of Louis Armstrong and told her girlfriends—The Pace Setters—to buy the book, read it, and be prepared to discuss it the next time they met.
“I’d love that,” Flo said, excitement coloring her voice.
“Why don’t we become a book club?”
“Because Suzy isn’t going to read anything about sex, and Kitten isn’t going to read anything but sex. Let’s stay as we are, four women on the loose.”
Laughter poured out of Flo. “You say the funniest things, sometimes. Maybe you should have become a writer.”
“No thanks. I’ll have my chances when I become a radio disc jockey.”
Kendra pursued her new life without interference from Ginny, developing a widening group of acquaintances among the disc jockeys in the local SRDJ, and polishing her craft through the Saturday workshops and conversations with her peers. But she had begun to feel that she had to have more in her life.
If I had a mother, I could discuss it with her, she thought, with not a little bitterness. Needing a kind of anchor, she went to her father’s shop after work one evening just prior to his closing time.
“Hi, Papa.” She hugged him and handed him a bag of Snickers, his favorite form of self-indulgence. “Want to have supper together? I can cook something, and we can eat at my place.”
“Thanks for the Snickers. What would you cook? I’d welcome supper with you, if it doesn’t take you too long to cook it. Or we could eat out.”
“I can make a great choucroute garnie. What kind of German sausages and wieners do you have?” He told her. “I need two of each and a piece of smoked pork tenderloin. I have sauerkraut, onions, and potatoes at home. Let’s go.”
“How long will that take?”
“Twenty-five minutes in the pressure cooker. It’s great with beer.”
“Yeah,” he said, his eyes lighting up, “and with some fine horseradish.”
Bert Richards sat on a stool in her kitchen and watched her prepare the one-pot meal. She didn’t try to explain to herself the reason for her contentment, the inner peace she felt, temporary though it might be. When the food was ready, she arranged it on a large turkey platter and put it on her dining table, which she had set earlier. Bert said the grace, and they ate in contented silence. At the end of the meal, he said, “This was wonderful. You can serve it to the most discriminating eater.”
He made coffee, put two cups of it on the coffee table, and sat down. “Let’s talk, Kendra. You’re in the dumps. Has Ginny done something to you lately? What’s the matter?”
She told him about her job and its prospects for her future, her efforts to hone her craft, her plans to enter Howard in the fall semester, her uncle’s assurance that her mother wouldn’t interfere with her again, and his reasons for doing so.
Bert had focused intently on her words and her demeanor as she spoke. “What you’ve been through these past few months would rattle anybody’s cage, but you’re a woman of iron strength, so none of it explains your demeanor when you walked into my shop. You came to me for comfort.”
“I don’t like to dump on you, Papa. I just felt like . . . like my ship is finally coming in, but it . . . it isn’t giving me the happiness I thought it would.”
“That’s because you’re missing something important. You need someone to love and who loves you. When you find that, you’ll feel as if you’ve got the world by its axis.”
“But, Papa, I don’t meet any interesting men. There was one who came to the restaurant alone every Wednesday. I thought I could like him. I saw him the last time I went to church with you, and I still thought so. I don’t think he would have gotten interested in a coatcheck girl, but—”
“Then come to church with me next Sunday. Maybe he’ll be there. You’re not a coatcheck girl anymore.”
“I’ll be in school starting late September. Then I’d like to find a way to meet him.”
“All right, but don’t set your heart on it. He could be married, gay, or a hard-nosed bachelor, in which case he’ll string you along forever and never marry you.” He sipped the coffee, musing over what she’d told him. “If your boss gives you evening hours so you can go to school during the day, I’ll meet you when you get off, and drive you home. That’s the least I can do. You sure you’re going to have enough money for your tuition?”
“Yes, sir. I’m sure I’ll get an academic scholarship after the first semester. But if I don’t, I’ll have enough for my junior year. I know I’ll get one for my senior year.”
“If you’re short, I’ll do what I can to help you.”
When he rose to leave, she hugged him and walked with him to the door. “I can’t imagine what I’d do without you, Papa.” With tears in her eyes, she hugged him again.
He looked down at her, and she thought his eyes seemed to sparkle with unshed tears. “You’re the joy of my life, daughter.” With that, he opened the door and left.
He’d barely reached the front door of the apartment building, when Kendra sat down at her computer, accessed Howard University, and downloaded an admittance form for former students. Kendra didn’t anticipate any problems, because she’d dropped out with a straight-A record and had no demerits of any kind. She completed the form before going to bed and mailed it on her way to work the next morning. Two weeks later, she received notification of permission to continue her studies there.
She got her wardrobe in order, mending and altering some things and shopping for needed essentials. With an income to cover her living expens
es and a good part of her tuition and other school expenses and working hours from five to eleven in the evening, she considered herself blessed and at last on the road to achieving what she had longed for.
However, her life was not to be smooth no matter how carefully she planned each move. The day before Kendra was to register at Howard, she received a telephone call at eight o’clock in the morning. She answered the phone while puzzled at the unfamiliar number on the ID screen.
“Kendra, this is Ginny.” She shrank away from the phone as if it were on fire. “Did you hear me? This is Ginny and I’m in jail. They don’t allow me but one phone call, so you’ll have to come down here and bail me out.”
She sat on the edge of her bed, and breathed deeply, in and out.
“Say something. I only get one phone call.”
“I heard you. I’m trying to figure out what you want me to do about this.”
“Get me out of here!”
“Really, Mama. What did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything. They say I broke the law.”
“Then, you probably did. You’d better tell me what they’re accusing you of. I may not want to get involved.”
“How dare you! I’m your mother. I didn’t do anything. They said I was driving an unregistered car with a suspended license, and it’s a lie.”
“I’ll tell Uncle Ed. Maybe he has some money. I’m registering at Howard tomorrow morning, and that will take all that I have.”
“Listen here you . . . you . . . Get me out of here! Damn Howard University. I’m not staying in this place with all these crack heads.”
“I’ll tell Uncle Ed to call that number. That’s the best I can do.”
“He won’t do a thing!”
“I’m sorry. I advise you to get a professional bondsman and work out a plan to repay him.”
“They charge an arm and a leg. I don’t have any money to pay a bondsman.”
“Then you don’t have any money to pay me back, either. I can’t do it. This is my last chance, and I’m taking it.”
“Damn you. You’re just like your father. Fit for nothing.”
Kendra hung up, dropped her face in her hands, and let the tears flow. How could one woman be such a never-ending cross? She called her father, told him about the call, and, having second thoughts, she added, “Papa, I can’t leave her in that jail.”
“Yes you can, and you will,” he roared. “If you bail her out, how are you going to register at Howard tomorrow? She won’t even thank you, and you know it. I absolutely forbid it. Use your hard-earned tuition money to bail her out, and I’m done with you.”
“Oh, Papa. I know this is the last straw for you, and I don’t blame you, because I’ve had it up to here with her.” She sliced the air above her head as if he could see her. “I don’t really care about her discomfort, because she deserves that and more. It’s the idea of my own mother being in jail.”
“Humph. If she’d been a real mother to you, I’d bail her out myself. Let her go, Kendra. If you don’t break that tie, you may as well tie thirty pounds of lead around your neck and jump into the Potomac. My last words on this subject! I refuse to let that woman stress me out and damage the quality of my life. That’s why I divorced her. Call me when you have your class schedule.”
“Yes, sir. I will.” She’d promised Ginny that she would call Ed, and now she dreaded doing it. She dialed his cell phone number.
“Parks speaking. What can I do for you, Kendra? Your number just came up. Don’t tell me Ginny has interfered with you again. I told her—”
“It’s not like that, Uncle Ed. She called me from jail this morning demanding that I bail her out, but I can’t. I’m registering for school tomorrow, and I need what money I have. Right now, she’s probably mad enough to kill me.”
“Forget it. I’ll take care of it. What’s she in for?”
“Driving an unregistered car with a suspended license.”
“Well, I’ll be . . . She’s really done it this time. Forget about it and leave it to me.”
“Thanks, Uncle Ed. I appreciate this.” After she hung up, she realized that he hadn’t said he’d bail her out. Oh, well. The chickens always came home to roost.
Kendra strolled across Howard’s massive campus remembering the dreams she’d had as a teenager, thinking how she’d once run up that steep hill from Georgia Avenue to Rankin Chapel and Founders Library at the top of the hill. The early autumn wind pushed her hair away from her face and, for one moment, she spread both arms, embracing the wind and the future. Nothing was as she had remembered it, except the clock on top of the library. She wondered if it still gave forth popular music at one o’clock, announcing the end of lunch hour. The sun shone through the trees as her jaunty steps took her down the hill to the School of Communications, located in a building that had once been a part of the hospital.
“My Lord,” she said to herself after passing a group of students. “Everybody is so young, so fresh looking.” She didn’t like that.
When Kendra entered the John H. Johnson School of Communications, she thought she’d take wing and fly. But for some minor and attractive refurbishing, it had barely changed. She headed to the office of her favorite professor.
“Well, well. I was expecting you,” he said. “Seeing your application for readmission made me happy, indeed. I had feared that you’d fallen through the cracks. It’s good to see you. Tell me about yourself.”
She told him why she had dropped out. “I’ve been struggling ever since to get back, but one thing after another got in the way. I hope my work this semester will merit a scholarship.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that. How do you enjoy your work as a disc jockey?”
“I like it, but I won’t begin working as a live radio jock until Monday evening.”
“You’ll do fine. You have the voice, the personality, and the intelligence. Did you register for any supportive courses?”
“Yes, sir.” She gave him her schedule.
“Very good. I’ll see you in class.”
She went to WHUR-FM, the university’s radio station, an important commercial radio station in Washington with a hefty share of the local listeners. Standing in one of the studios or control rooms and recognizing that it almost duplicated Tab’s studio at Howell Enterprises, she hugged herself. She’d wager that she was one of the few students there who already had a job in radio.
“Well, what do you think?” a student asked her. “This sucker is state-of-the-art.”
“It sure is,” she said. “I’m a jock at Howell Enterprises’ WAMA-FM, and I can attest to the fact that this is absolutely the crème de la crème.”
“There you go,” he said. “Are you graduate, undergraduate, or teaching?”
“I’m a junior returning after twelve years.”
He held out his hand. “Cool. I’m Martin Epps. Notice any changes since you were here?”
“Yeah. Everybody’s so damned young. I’m Kendra Richards.”
His lusty laugh comforted her. “I’m gonna like you. This school is not loaded with down-to-earth people. These future image makers have highfalutin notions about their own images. I’m a grad student, and I’m in charge of the day shift. Drop in whenever you like.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it. I have to meet one of my favorite professors now. See you soon.”
He leaned against the wall and appeared to be examining his nails, though she knew he was about to ask a sticky question. “Which one and what subject?”
She answered truthfully. “Professor Hormel, Journalism 307.”
“One of the best. My favorite, in fact. You’ll enjoy it.”
She decided to take a chance and see how much of a friend he’d be. “I’m assuming from this that I’m fortunate.”
“Blessed would be more accurate.”
She waved at him. “Thanks. Bye for now.” Recalling the nature of campus gossip, she knew she would soon know what was at the bottom of Martin Epps’s statement
. If students considered a professor to be lazy, incompetent, or unduly harsh in judgments, they didn’t keep their thoughts to themselves. Kendra had liked Mark Hormel on sight, and after a ten-minute conversation with him, she didn’t doubt that she’d made a good choice.
She arrived at the Howell’s radio station Studio One at five-thirty, half an hour before air time. Clifton Howell had given her an easy evening shift, from six to twelve, since her first class didn’t convene until eleven in the mornings. About five minutes before she was to start, Tab got out of the chair, hugged her, and said, “You’re on your way, doll. I’ll sit back here for an hour in case you need me. You know the controls backward, so nothing can go wrong. But I’ll stay to give you moral support.”
She thanked him and sat in the chair that he’d just vacated. “I wish you were my brother,” she said. “Every girl should have a brother like you.”
Tab released a big roar of a laugh. “I know you meant that as a compliment, doll, but you’re wishing my mother was dead.” When her eyes widened, he laughed harder. “My bigoted daddy would’ve killed her as soon as he looked at you.”
“But you’re—”
He interrupted her. “Of course I’m not. My daddy is ignorant. I’m intelligent, and I’m educated. There’s your light. One . . . two . . .”
“Hi, everybody. This is KT speaking, your jock for the next six hours. Stick with me and I’ll fill your evening with beautiful music. You got a birthday, anniversary, lovers’ reunion, or just a beautiful memory, shoot me an e-mail, and I’ll play your song. Here we go with Buddy Guy’s ‘Feels Like Rain,’ and if you think you hear Bonnie Raitt and that slide guitar of hers in the background, you are absolutely right.”
She had thought that her voice would give out from the constant patter, but after an hour and a half, she had developed a modus operandi. Three records in succession gave her twelve minutes in which to rest her voice. Twenty minutes of a favored artist, such as Billie Holiday, Ray Charles, Aretha Franklin, Jennifer Hudson, or Rihanna, gave her twenty minutes in which to read her class material. The buzz of a small alarm clock brought her back to her reason for being there.
Breaking the Ties That Bind Page 6
