Any Way the Wind Blows

by E. Lynn Harris

  “So, Yancey B, how much rent do you pay to live here?” Windsor’s aunt asked me.

  “Toukie! You know you ain’t supposed to ask questions like that!” Windsor’s mother said.

  I ignored Miss Toukie’s question and said, “What’s that scent you’re wearing?”

  “It’s my new perfume. My first since Youth Dew!” Miss Toukie said proudly as she patted the side of her hair.

  “And we’re all thankful you switched scents,” Windsor’s mother teased.

  “What’s it called, Miss Toukie?” I asked.

  “Call me Aunt Toukie, baby. My scent is called Zandria by Anthony Mark Hankins.”

  “Oh, I know who he is. He made a dress for me once.” It was actually my engagement dress, but they didn’t need to know all that.

  “So Yancey, Windsor said you used to be in plays. Have you seen the musical play One Monkey Don’t Stop No Show?” Aunt Toukie asked.

  “No, I don’t think so. Was it on Broadway?” I was trying to be polite; I knew she was talking about those bus-and-truck shows making money off black folks who didn’t know better.

  “How would I know that, since I ain’t never been to Broadway? It was playing at the Fisher in Detroit. That girl who used to play Thelma on Good Times and all the Winans except CeCe and Bebe,” Aunt Toukie said as she sat down at the table and kicked off her shoes.

  “How many times did you see that show, Toukie?” Windsor’s mother asked.

  “Oh, ’bout four or five. It was so good. What about Why Don’t Mama Sing? You seen that?” Aunt Toukie asked.

  “Was that at the Fisher also?” Windsor asked.

  “No, I saw that in Flint. My church group took a bus trip down there. It was good, too, but not as good as One Monkey,” Aunt Toukie said.

  “So I guess you’ve become a patron of the arts,” Windsor teased.

  “You could say that,” Aunt Toukie said, as she walked out of the kitchen, and I started to follow her.

  Windsor and her mother were alone in the kitchen; at least they thought they were. I stood in the hallway between the dining room and kitchen and listened in. I didn’t have a relationship to speak of with my mother, or any other members of my family, so I was curious about theirs. Through the crack in the door I could see Windsor put her arms around her mother as she asked, “So what do you think about your future son-in-law?”

  “It don’t matter what I think. You the one gonna marry him. What do you think of him?” Mrs. Adams asked.

  “I love him, Mama. I love him a lot,” Windsor said.

  “Then that’s all that matters, baby girl.”

  “What about Daddy?”

  “What about him?”

  “Has he said anything to you about Wardell?”

  “Now, Windsor, you know your daddy and I don’t do no talkin’ until we go to bed. You know that’s when we do our personal business kinda talking,” Mrs. Adams said.

  “Will you let me know what he says?”

  “Not unless he tells me to,” Windsor’s mother said as she pulled the pitcher of lemonade out of the refrigerator. “Now, come on and let’s go on out there. I’m hungry and I know your daddy is starving.”

  That was my cue to hightail it to my seat.

  “I still think you should have let me and Toukie cook,” Mrs. Adams said under her breath as she approached the table.

  Windsor followed her mother out of the kitchen, and everyone else was already seated at the table. Mr. Adams was at one end of the table looking miserable, and Wardell was at the other end, forehead shiny and covered with sweat. Aunt Toukie was sitting in the middle, spreading butter on a piece of corn bread.

  “Windsor, I hope you don’t mind, but I’m having a little smidgen of your corn bread. Your auntie is famished,” Aunt Toukie said.

  “Toukie, why can’t you wait for everyone else? And in front of company, too!” Mrs. Adams asked.

  “’Cause she wouldn’t be Toukie,” Mr. Adams said, his voice sounding like he was coming out of some kind of trance.

  “Louis, don’t start with me. Don’t let me remind you who drove you to the airport and who is supposed to take you back. I wouldn’t feel nuthin’ putting your ass on the airport bus when we get back to Detroit,” Aunt Toukie said while pointing the butter knife sideways toward Windsor’s dad.

  “Toukie! Stop with that filthy language,” Mrs. Adams screamed. “You know we don’t talk like that.”

  “What did I say? All I said was ‘ass.’ We all got one. Wardell, do you use the word ass?” When he didn’t answer quickly, Aunt Toukie looked in my direction and said, “Miss Yancey, I know that word has crossed your lips a time or two, hasn’t it?” I didn’t answer but gave Aunt Toukie a polite that’s right, girl smile.

  Wardell still seemed a little startled but looked at Aunt Toukie, smiled and said, “I have used it on occasion.”

  “What about shit?”

  “Toukie, please,” Mrs. Adams said.

  Before Wardell could answer, Mr. Adams looked at Windsor and said, “Let’s hold hands and say grace. Father, we thank you for this food our body is about to receive, amen.”

  Mrs. Adams and Aunt Toukie looked at Mr. Adams in shock. Windsor had told me many times that her father was known for giving a five-minute sermonette at every meal.

  “Eula, if you can get him to say grace like that in New York, then maybe y’all need to move here,” Aunt Toukie said, and laughed.

  For about five minutes, the dining room was filled with the sounds of utensils hitting plates and the subtle smacking of lips. Then Wardell looked up and said, “Windsor, the food is just delicious. You did a wonderful job.”

  “Thank you, Wardell,” Windsor said as she put another spoonful of the macaroni and cheese on his plate.

  “Can you cook, Wardell?” Mrs. Adams asked.

  “Not that well, Ms. Eula,” Wardell responded.

  “You can call me Eula,” Windsor’s mother said. Her father was silent and eating very slowly, like he wasn’t feeling well.

  “Are you all right, Daddy?” Windsor asked her father.

  “I’m fine, baby,” he said softly.

  “Windsor, honey, everything is just dee-lovely,” Aunt Toukie began. “I would have put some onion and chives in my macaroni and cheese for more flavor, but you’ll learn. I need to send you some of my recipes. You know, I been thinking about doing me a cookbook. What do you think, Wardell?”

  “Can you cook as well as Windsor?”

  “Honey, pleeze. What is Windsor puttin’ on you besides food?”

  Before Mrs. Adams could chastise Aunt Toukie, Mr. Adams’s voice took on a deep and soulful tone. “Toukie, stop your foolishness or else you might not make it back to Detroit or anyplace else.”

  “Y’all know I’m just being playful. Why is everybody so uptight?”

  After we finished dinner, I breathed a sigh of relief. I was tired and wanted to go to bed in a quiet house. To speed things along, I got up and helped Windsor clear the dishes. As Windsor reached for her aunt’s plate, Miss Toukie looked up and said, “Now, I know we just got through eating, but Windsor, I thought you had been doing that Weight Watchers, baby. The last time I saw you I thought you had lost so much weight, Jet magazine was gonna be calling you to be their next beauty of the week.”

  Windsor was wearing a black turtleneck sweater and pants and didn’t look to me like she’d gained any extra weight. But Windsor had always been a big girl, so who could tell if she’d picked up a few pounds?

  “Aunt Toukie, I might have gained a pound or two over the holidays,” Windsor said softly. She looked a slight bit embarrassed, as she was always proud of her shape.

  “We all do that, Toukie,” Mrs. Adams said.

  “I know good black don’t crack, but I guess it stretches pretty well,” Miss Toukie said, and laughed. I thought she had finished, but then she looked at Windsor and asked in front of everyone, “Windsor, you ain’t pregnant, are you?”

  I was stunned. I co
uldn’t believe Miss Toukie had come out of her face like that. I looked at Windsor. Then I glanced at her father and mother, and then at Wardell. They were all waiting for an answer. I don’t think Windsor had ever lied to anyone, let alone her parents and Wardell. Was she pregnant?

  Now, I liked drama, but this was more than even I could stand. I felt sorry for Windsor. She looked like a child who just got caught stealing gum from her mother’s purse. Her eyes moved around the room like she was searching for an answer. Trying to decide between fact and fiction.

  “Yes, I’m going to have a baby,” Windsor said in a voice barely louder than a whisper.

  Windsor’s father put down his coffee cup and looked at Wardell. Mrs. Adams covered her mouth. Wardell glared at Windsor with a tightness in his face. But Miss Toukie had the final words for a little while: “Looks like our family is going to have our first Viagra baby.”

  For several moments the room remained quiet and no one, not even Aunt Toukie, said a thing. I didn’t know what to say, but I knew I wouldn’t get any sleep in this house tonight. As much as I wanted to stay and help Windsor, this was her family drama. So I picked up the phone and called the Trump International Hotel and Towers and asked for Megan, one of my dressers from my Broadway days, who worked part time at the front desk. I needed a nice little room for the night, and I needed one quick.

  Bart’s Big Day/ A Change in the Weather

  I’d had a bad day. I had been on three model calls and I knew I wasn’t going to get any of the jobs. All three clients had thumbed through my book and dryly replied, “Thanks for coming.” It must have been high-yellow Tuesday. On my last call of the day, I heard a couple of models talking about a go-see for a sports campaign at an office located on Fifty-ninth Street near Columbus Circle.

  As I rode down in the elevator, I pulled my cell phone from my bag and tried to reach my agency. I wanted to find out why I hadn’t been notified about this potential job. My booker was constantly telling me that if I wanted to do more catalog work, I needed to lose some of my muscle mass. I resisted and sought out jobs where an athletic body was an asset, and now it looked like I wasn’t even getting those opportunities. It was a little after 6:30, so I got the answering machine at the agency. But since I was my best advocate, I decided to take matters into my own hands and started moving toward the West Side.

  The evening sky was heavy with snowflakes, some as big as rose petals, falling around me to the ground. The streets were filled with people, and yet a winter stillness had settled over the city. I reached the building on Fifty-ninth and walked into the high-ceilinged lobby. I went to the directory and my eyes moved to the X’s. I had overheard the guy say something about XFL. After a few seconds, I didn’t see XFL listed, but I did see a company called XJI. I walked over to the security guard and told him I was going to the twenty-ninth floor.

  “I think they’ve all gone home,” the security guard said. “Who are you going to see?”

  I didn’t know the name of the contact, but with my quick-thinking confidence, I said, “Ginger.”

  “I don’t know everybody’s name up there, but sign in and go on up,” he said.

  I signed my name and rushed to the elevator before the guard had a chance to check his directory and discover that there wasn’t a Ginger on the twenty-ninth floor. As I rode the elevator up, I pulled out my portfolio and moved up a stunning picture of me wearing white nylon boxer briefs that covered everything but concealed nothing. I called it my money shot. I also made sure some of my more tasteful nude shots were in their proper place.

  I walked off the elevator toward the double maple doors that announced XJI Sports Management in bold brass letters and rang the bell. A few minutes passed, and I began to knock on the door with balled fists. The day’s frustrations had finally taken over, and my body began to slump toward the floor. This shit was tough. I was sitting with my back pressed against the door, when I felt a force pushing toward me. I quickly jumped up, and a few seconds later, I was standing eyeball to eyeball with a very handsome man. For a few seconds I couldn’t stop looking into his mesmerizing gray eyes.

  “Can I help you?” he asked.

  “I came for the modeling call. I think I’m a little late,” I said.

  “The modeling call?” he said with a quizzical look on his face.

  “Yes, sir,” I said politely.

  “Oh, that was over around four,” he said.

  “Did you hire someone?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. The ladies in the office were in charge.”

  “Can I leave my book or maybe one of my comp cards, just in case there’s still a chance?”

  “Sure, come into my office, and I’ll give you the name of the person to contact.”

  I walked into a set of well-decorated offices. The wood paneling and leather furniture made the space feel masculine. Gold trophies and sports photos lined the walls. When the phone rang, the man said, “I need to get that,” as he dashed into an open office. A few minutes passed and I took a seat in an armless black leather chair, picked up a copy of Sports Illustrated and mechanically thumbed through the pages. I had closed the magazine and put it back on the rack when His Flawlessness walked back out of his office.

  “I’m sorry. That took a little longer than I expected. Here’s our marketing director’s card. Give her a call and see what she can work out,” he said.

  “Who shall I say gave me her number?” I asked.

  “Tell her Mr. Henderson, Basil Henderson. I’m one of the partners.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Henderson.”

  “No problem. Sorry about the mix-up,” he said.

  I was heading for the door when I turned to get one last look at Basil Henderson. I wanted to see if I could memorize his handsome face so I could remember it on one of my lonely winter nights. When I turned, he was standing so close to me I could feel his warm breath caress my face.

  “Would you mind looking at my book to see if I even have a chance at this job? I understand you’re looking for someone with an athletic body,” I said.

  “Yeah, we’re looking for an ex-football player,” he said.

  “Then I’m your man. Why not take a look?” I asked as I passed him my book.

  “You played ball?” He looked skeptical, but I figured I had nothing to lose.

  “Yes,” I lied.

  “Where?”

  “Morris Brown.”

  “What position?”

  I knew only two football positions, so I quickly said, “Tight end.”

  “That’s the position I played. Come on into my office, and I’ll take a look,” he said.

  I followed Basil into a large room with an oval-shaped glass table, a softly glowing computer screen and a breathtaking view of a snow-covered Central Park. He sat in a black leather chair and began looking through my book. He began nodding to himself and then he said, never raising his eyes, “Nice abs.”

  “Thank you,” I said. I wanted to tell him he could drop a quarter on my stomach and it would bounce twice before it found a home.

  “Yeah, you got some nice shots here,” he said. If I wasn’t mistaken, he had looked through my entire book and then started again. I didn’t know many straight men who enjoyed my photos, especially the nude ones, as much as Mr. Henderson appeared to. As he pored over my book, I had a chance to study him. His skin was so golden brown, he looked like he had been scrubbed in sunshine. He was wearing a cobalt-blue business shirt, a lemon-yellow tie, with dark suit pants. When he looked up at me, my knees buckled, and his sexy smile revealed two perfect rows of white teeth. Fuck this job. What I really wanted was a gig with the handsome Mr. Henderson, but I had to be quick.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

  “Bartholomew,” I said.

  “Is that your last name?” he asked in a very seductive tone.

  I prayed he was looking for something more than a last name, but I said, “Dunbar.”

  “As in Paul Laurence Dunbar,” h
e joked.

  “The same,” I said as his sensuously full lips mesmerized me.

  “Ahh … I don’t want to keep you. Give Sherrie a call tomorrow,” he said.

  “Sherrie? Who’s Sherrie?”

  “The marketing director. Her name’s on the card,” he said.

  “Oh,” I said.

  “Thanks again,” he said. I thought I detected some nervousness in his voice, like he might be fearful of my seductive powers. I decided there was only one way to find out.

  “Mr. Henderson, in case I can’t get in touch with Sherrie, maybe I should let you tell her what she missed.”

  I sat on the edge of the black chair, pulled off my Timberlands, and threw them like they were trick-me-fuck-me boots. I stood up and unbuttoned my skintight black jeans and pulled them to my ankles, then reached up and pulled off both my candy-red sweater and thermal nightshirt with one swoop. I was thrilled I wasn’t wearing any underwear. When I looked at Mr. Henderson with a confident smile, I could tell he was happy as well.

  “So what do you think?” I asked as I turned slowly to give him a view of the back. When I turned around, he was leaning back in his chair licking his lips. I stepped out of my jeans, then walked over toward his desk with the speed of a character from The Matrix.

  “You didn’t answer me, Mr. Henderson.”

  “Call me Basil. Your body is sweet,” he said.

  I took his very large hands and whispered, “Touch me.” His hands were both smooth and hard as I placed them on my stomach and then my ass.

  “Stand up,” I said.

  Basil stood up, surrendering himself as I unloosened his tie. I slowly began to undress him, like he was a long-lost lover. I undid his belt buckle and then allowed his suit pants to drop to his ankles. I slowly unbuttoned each button on his shirt like they were precious diamonds. I removed the shirt from his broad shoulders, then moved to my knees as I slowly pulled down his body-hugging gray-and-black boxer briefs. His dick was swinging like a saloon door, and my manhood was hanging stiff and long. Basil’s body was amazing, every muscle, so perfectly proportioned. I was about to climb on top of him like he was a ladder, when he finally spoke again.