“Dr. Fairchild, please.” I chewed on the inside of my jaw. “Yes, I’ll hold.”
The line picked up to another receptionist.
“Hi. I’m calling for Dr. Fairchild.”
“He’s unavailable. May I take a message?”
“Please tell him Venus Pars … Johnston called and would like to speak with him. It’s urgent.”
“Regarding?”
“Um, the hospital. The closure. Public relations,” I said, tapping my short nails on the desk, wondering why I had to explain anything to a receptionist in the first place.
“Venus Johnston?”
“Yes.” I began to spell the last name.
“That’s not necessary, Venus. This is Kandi, Clint’s wife. I didn’t realize you were in Los Angeles.” She patiently waited for a response.
I had none. I swallowed hard and forced myself to speak. “I didn’t realize you were in Los Angeles either,” I lied.
“This is where my husband is, so naturally I would be with him.”
“Naturally,” I said, noticing I’d drummed my fingertips numb and stopped.
“Is there anything else?”
Tension filled the telephone line.
“Umm, he has my number.”
“You take care,” she said, reminding me of the day I’d first set eyes on her. Bambi lashes and spear-arched brows, her broad shoulders covered with overflowing hair. Female perfection. Large breasts, childbearing hips, and still insecure.
Anyone else would have seen this as a warning, a danger sign with a large detour arrow pointed to take another route. Surely there was another worthy cause, a building to save, a fur dealer to shut down, maybe a political party to campaign for, something not involving my ex-fiancé and his she-whore wife.
I called and left a message for the administrator of the hospital requesting a meeting, explaining Dr. Clint Fairchild of Pediatrics and Neonatology referred me. I pictured my magnificent entrance, strutting through the hospital doors wearing a suit that screamed diva with an exclamation mark, pointed-toe Via Spigas and a matching shoulder bag.
I had a fabulous career before succumbing to mother and wife-hood. I had an office that overlooked the Potomac River. I had a staff of three that reported to me and occasionally hung on my every word. In the words of the great Martin Luther King Jr., “I am somebody.”
Or at least I was.
Entering my walk-in closet I realized it was past tense. My business attire, all dated and ill-fitting, hung dusty and worn. Motherhood T-shirts and plenty of yoga pants hung where my good stuff used to be.
“You throwing all that stuff out?” Trina stepped into the closet doorway. She held Mya against her hip.
I raised up with a handful of hangers with heyday blouses and rayon-blended suits. “Yep. You know you don’t have to carry her around all day. She can walk.”
“You mind if I take a look before you throw that stuff out?” she said without so much as loosening her grip on Mya. She and Jake had gone to school together, same age, nearly ten years younger than me, which would explain her stamina. Carrying Mya around all day was a workout.
“Sure, but, most of them are fours. Some sixes.” I didn’t want to state the obvious.
She flagged a hand for my assumption. “Not for me. I have a friend.”
Trina put Mya in the playpen nearby and rushed off. She came back with lawn bags. Plenty of them. Mya stacked blocks in her playpen and sang songs that didn’t exist. When we were through, nothing hung on the closet rods except a couple of sundresses picked out by Jake on our honeymoon. Sentimental value and the fact I’d never worn them kept me from tossing them out.
“What about the shoes?” Trina asked, looking up at rows upon rows of shoe boxes.
“My feet haven’t changed.”
“You sure?” she said. “Most of my friends agree, once you have a baby, your feet grow at least one size bigger.”
I resisted the urge to snarl. I pulled down a pair of my favorite slingbacks as a test and stuck my foot inside. Pain rose up, sprouting through every pore on my scalp.
“Tight,” Trina confirmed.
“Tight,” I agreed. I pulled down a few more shoes. A few more. Before long I was left with one single row of shoe boxes. None of which were my favorites.
I stepped over the mess, grabbed my purse, and told Trina I was going shopping. For backup, I called Jake and told him, too. The mission would go far into the night hours, I didn’t want him putting out a search posse.
“Shopping where?” Jake breathed into the phone when I thought I was doing a good deed by at least telling him where I was headed. A change in my usual plans, no Gymboree, no grocery shopping. I had to count to five not to scream in his ear, Stop asking me where I’m going every five minutes !
“The Galleria, sweetie,” I sang out instead. “I can swing by and pick you up if you’d like. We can shop together.”
“No. Just wanted to know.”
“Okay, then.”
“Hey, Venus…”
“Yes, dear?” I said, sarcasm dripping from my every pore.
“Thanks for checking in with me.” Jake’s sweet sexy voice deepened. “You know it’s just because of the accident. Ever since then, I get nervous when you’re out all day. I don’t want to ever lose you.”
Moistness built up in my eyes, and my bottom lip quivered a bit. “I know I scared you when you didn’t hear from me while I was off to see Wendy. It was stupid. Thank you for putting up with me. So I’ll see you tonight, okay. I’ll have a surprise for you.”
“Oh yeah, I like your surprises.” His voice fell softer.
I wasn’t sure if he was going to like this one. But enough was enough. It was time to get my career back on track and moving again.
Two Sides
Jake shoved the profit-and-loss statement he was reading to the side and leaned back in his large leather chair.
Beverly Shaun leaned in, knocking lightly. “You don’t look good.”
“Thanks.”
“No, I’m serious. You look like you might have a fever or something.” She sat at the edge of his desk, close enough to brush against his leg. She placed a cool hand against his forehead then moved it lightly from cheek to cheek.
“I’m fine.” He nudged her hand away. “Did you get the production schedule straightened out?”
“Yep.” She tossed her silky mane from one shoulder to the other. Her top barely covered the sparkling diamond in her pierced belly button. “Is that what’s bothering you?”
“I’ll tell you what’s on the brotha’s mind.” The voice of reason came from Legend, who’d just plopped his well-dressed self into the leather chair. “Too many women, not enough time.”
“What’s bothering him … not your horny ass.” Beverly moved off Jake’s desk and took a respectable seat next to Legend. “And stop looking at me like you haven’t eaten, ’cause I am not your next meal.”
Legend leaned in and stared harder. “You dress like that because you want me and every man within viewing distance to look at your goodies. Now if they’re not eatable, you need to wrap ’em up and put ’em away.”
The antics of Beverly and Legend put a smile on Jake’s face. They were the three musketeers. It felt good to have them by his side, especially while things were tough.
“Somebody bring me some good news. That’s all I ask.” Jake folded his hands over his chest.
“The new line is selling. What else do you need to know?” Legend leaned forward. His dark heavy locks were tied back, showing off his baby-fine side burns.
“I need to know why I’m still losing money.”
“I didn’t major in accounting, my brotha. That’s our boy Byron Steeple’s department.”
“You went over budget on the marketing. Byron’s a number cruncher. He’s not responsible for how it comes in and how it goes out.”
“Marketing and advertising are a mainstay. You can’t cook without fire. You try to cut back on face time,
you become invisible.”
Beverly rolled her eyes, twice. “Don’t look at me. I can’t cut back any further or the pants will be closed with Velcro instead of zippers.”
Legend stood up and adjusted his tie. “All right, then maybe it’s the—” Something caught his attention out the large picture window. He clapped his hands together, his stark white teeth showing his enthusiasm. “Since when can number crunchers afford Bentleys? Should’ve been an accountant ’cause brotha man is rolling.”
Jake and Beverly both rushed to the window. Byron Steeple got out of the large shiny automobile with his briefcase, looking like he’d won the lottery.
“Mr. Suspenders is looking mighty happy.” Legend cut his eyes toward Jake.
Jake went back to his chair, leaned back, and tried not to panic. His heart was racing.
Beverly sat back down, too. “I know what you’re thinking. Byron wouldn’t do that. He’s been with us from the very beginning.”
Legend laughed. “Good thing you’re pretty, ’cause you’re not too bright.”
Beverly was gunning up for something evil to say, but Jake interrupted. “I got things to do. You mind taking your little love–hate thing out the door?”
Legend stood up and extended his hand. “After you.”
Beverly sidestepped his assistance. “I’ll be downstairs if you need me, Jay.” She pushed past Legend as they both left quietly.
Men were simple creatures. They needed two basic things in life: sex and money. Two big hands washing the other. Just paying the bills wasn’t enough to inspire a man to hit the ground running each and every morning. He did it for one reason: access to good lovin’. If he didn’t have legitimate means, then he’d steal for it, bottom line.
After a few minutes, Jake picked up the phone. “Byron, come talk to me for a minute, man.” Jake reached inside the drawer and pulled out his inhaler. “Yeah, I’ll be waiting.”
Jake studied the statement, looking for any clues that he may have missed. He was being robbed right underneath his nose but couldn’t prove it. Where else would Byron get a hundred-thousand-dollar vehicle? Jake himself drove a sports coup Lexus, and he made sure he got a good deal. He wasn’t the extravagant spending type. He wore a carat in each ear and his wedding band, the extent of his need to shine. Other than that, he took care of business and family first.
Byron entered Jake’s office, nervous, closing the door behind him. “Was I late for a meeting or something? You sounded upset.”
“Yeah, you could say that.” Jake pushed the profit-and-loss statement across the desk to Byron. “Why is my shit still red?”
Byron put up both hands. “You know I only report. Don’t shoot the messenger,” he said, attempting lighthearted humor.
“This can’t be right. This is the third quarter in a row. Sales are strong. I’ve got more orders than I can handle, and the numbers still show me losing money. I want you to go through the accounts, find the problem, Byron. You know what I’m saying.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“That’s all I ask,” Jake said calmly, but he wanted to get up and throw Byron’s ass out the window.
“I’ll get right on it,” Byron said as he closed the door.
“You do that.”
Bigger Bully
The interview at Jackson Memorial was scheduled for the late afternoon. I arrived wearing the soft pink Donna Karan suit I’d purchased on my shopping spree. My hair was smoothed back in a tight bun. I was ready to put on a good show. It’d been years since I had to interview for a job, be put under scrutiny and assessed by someone—always less qualified than myself, as it turned out.
I did a quick scan of the hospital lobby. Floors shined, plants watered, and sprawled bodies cleared from the waiting room floor.
“I’m here to see Morgan Taylor, the Deputy Administrator. I have an appointment.”
“Administration. She’s on the second floor.” The receptionist paused. “What channel are you from?”
I shook my head. “Channel?”
“What station? You’re a newscaster, right?” She used her long acrylic nails like extended fingers and handed me a guest badge.
I put the plastic clip on the hem of my jacket, not wanting it to interfere with my newscaster ensemble. Not sure if it was the look I was going for, but it was better than housewife-starting-over.
I took a long deep breath before entering the elevator. Certainly, I was qualified. Getting the job seemed like a slam dunk until I entered Morgan Taylor’s office. She was the woman who’d given the botched press conference on the news.
She extended a straight arm without pleasantries. “Have a seat.” Hair pulled back in a tight chignon. Pearl drop earrings hung a small distance from her neck, resisting movement. No lighthearted swing. “Dr. Fairchild has told me good things about you. I’m almost ready to move past the formalities and offer you the job.” She sat upright in her fabric-covered chair, pushed all the way to the desk, ramrod straight. Which could explain the stiffness in her voice and demeanor.
“That’s a huge compliment. Thank you.”
“But of course, that would be wrong and unfair to the other candidates.” She poised her pen over a yellow tablet to take note of anything of interest I said.
Other candidates. I did my best to look unfazed. I unclasped my hands, reached down into my leather case, and whipped out my résumé. I attempted to hand it to her.
She waved it away. “I’ve seen your résumé, Mrs. Parson, and I’m quite impressed. But the experience you have does not tell me whether or not you could handle the pressures of Jackson Memorial.”
“Please, call me Venus,” I said, feeling the distance growing between us. “I know I’m capable of doing this job. I have an MBA, and with my emphasis in marketing…”
“As I said, I’ve read your credentials. This hospital needs someone who can reach out and be heartfelt. We’re on the television just about every day for one mishap or another. The county board of health is on a fierce campaign to shut us down. This hospital needs someone as close to a heavenly saint as we can find. Someone approachable and as sincere as they are knowledgeable, and I know for a fact it’s not me. Every time I set foot at that podium, I want to hurl myself at those crucifying monsters, claws and fangs ready for battle. Who do they think they are, condemning us? This hospital has done so much good, and no one wants to acknowledge that. This hospital stands for something. We will not be ridiculed any further.” By this time her eyes had turned into steely dark balls, her mouth tightened in a frightful straight line.
She pulled a Kleenex from the box on her desk and patted moisture from her neck.
I was afraid to speak. “I know I’m capable,” was all I managed to say. I felt rusty and out of sync. I tried to focus on what I’d already rehearsed and not let her high frequency interrupt my original intent. I took a short deep breath and told myself, Go. “I’ve researched every detail of this hospital and its history. I see a void and know I’m capable of filling it. This hospital established itself in the black community as the primary caregiver in 1965 after the Watts riots left hundreds of injured on the streets with nowhere to go. Jackson Memorial is an institution, a landmark in history. It can’t close or be threatened with closing every time an unfortunate incident takes place. The same kind of common errors happen in hospitals all over the country. I believe this hospital is receiving the wrath of righteousness due to the fact that it’s in an area servicing only people of color, staffed by a majority of black doctors and nurses. There are people who believe it’s not up to par. We know that’s not true. It’s time to let them see a stronger front, staff and administrators who won’t be bullied anymore.”
“Really, and how does one stop a bully?” Morgan Taylor relaxed a bit in her chair.
“Find a bigger bully, someone to back us up. Privatizing with a solid backer. Move from underneath the local government’s wing.”
“Who’s going to be our bigger bully? No one will spea
k up for us, not the county board of supervisors, not our so-called black leaders, no one.”
“For now we make one up just like the days on the school grounds. When you’re a kid getting stomped on at recess you have to start talking about the crazy uncle or big brother who coincidentally just got out of prison.”
A surprising snicker came from Morgan Taylor. I was winning, gaining speed.
“For now we pretend. Keep implying the message, a threat to privatize. Do a little PR magic. Image is everything. Once we look stronger, more stable, we’ll look like a viable company and I promise others will want to stand with us.”
Morgan Taylor smiled and shook her head. “You’re on the ball. I can see that. But as I said, there are other candidates.” She paused, as if she wasn’t sure about trusting me. “Well, one candidate,” she said truthfully. “I’m in a dilemma. The person who wants this position is the wife of one of our doctors. A doctor who has done a great deal for this hospital, and I feel obligated to give her a shot out of loyalty.”
My heart sank, my well of confidence suddenly filling with disappointment. I picked up my leather case and set it on my lap. “Thank you for your time,” I said with a genuine appreciation for the dress rehearsal.
She stood up. “Wait a minute. Really, give me a day or two before you approach another employer.”
“Sure,” I said, knowing to leave while I was still ahead. I shook her hand and marched off in my wobbly new heels feeling slightly off-kilter.
Before the end of the day, Morgan Taylor called. I answered the phone, already prepared for the letdown. No biggie, I was thinking. Jake would have killed me anyway if I took the position. No loss.
“Helloooo,” I sang out, preparing myself to say something polite after the disappointing news.
Morgan’s voice was filled with delight. “Venus, I want to welcome you aboard. Come in tomorrow, we’ll get you situated. Get your office set up and begin our search for a bigger bully.”
Nappily Married Page 6
