Any Way the Wind Blows

by E. Lynn Harris

  “Very beautiful, indeed,” he said. “And here, too,” he added as he placed his hand over my heart. He took my face in his hands and brushed his lips softly across mine. He pulled back for an instant and studied my face, running his thumbs over my eyelids, along the scar on my eyebrow, over my mouth, and then leaned in and gently parted my lips with his tongue.

  It was a kiss I didn’t ever want to end, even though I knew it could lead to something better. Desmond’s pillow-soft lips suddenly left mine, and he took my hand gently and walked me into the ocean. Goose bumps rose all over my body as we entered the deep, cool weightlessness of the water. Before we began to swim, I pulled Desmond toward me and looked into his eyes and said, “I haven’t done anything in my life to deserve someone like you.”

  Desmond smiled at me and touched my bottom lip and said, “Just be Yancey. The Yancey no one has ever seen.”

  You’ve Got a Friend

  Bart was hiding from me, and my anger was still very much alive. I came home the next morning around nine when it was clear he wasn’t going to show. I got undressed, crawled into bed and drifted into a heavy childlike sleep.

  I woke up renewed, determined that I was not going to allow life to wrestle me to the ground. I ate a bowl of cereal and then took a shower. I stood for a long time and let the warm jets of water beat on my body in full force.

  When I came out of the shower, I wrapped a beach towel around my waist and readied myself for some important calls. I needed to speak with Brison. He had called several times to express his concerns and assured me I was still wanted and considered a partner. When I reached him, I asked, “What about Nico?” He took a moment before replying, “Nico is an idiot. We got the votes to overrule him. Don’t walk away from what we’ve accomplished.” I asked him to give me a couple of days to think and I would get back to him.

  I called my Pops to make sure he was all right, and he didn’t even mention our last conversation. When I mentioned I was thinking about moving back to Florida, he sounded excited, and talked about the two of us going fishing. That was a good sign, I thought, unless he was simmering like me.

  I went into the kitchen for some orange juice, but there were only a few drops. I was getting ready to get dressed and run to the store when the doorman rang the intercom phone. I started not to answer it. The day before, Rosa had shown up. Why I don’t know, but I’d told the doorman to tell her I wasn’t feeling well. Even when she told him it was important, my response was a firm no.

  I figured it was probably Rosa again, so I decided I might as well deal with her. Her constant phone calls during the last couple of days and then showing up unannounced probably meant only one thing. She had gotten a call from Bart too.

  “Yeah.”

  “Mr. Henderson. I have a Mr. Tyler here to see you,” the doorman said.

  “A mister who?” I heard the doorman ask someone to repeat his name, then a voice in the background say, “Raymond Tyler.”

  “Mr. Raymond Tyler,” he repeated.

  “Are you sure?”

  “That’s what the man said.”

  “Send him up,” I said.

  I raced to my bedroom and then decided it was too late to get dressed. Damn, Raymond had seen me half-naked before, anyway. But what was he doing here? I wondered as I moved to my bathroom to brush my teeth quickly. Just as I was getting ready to wash the excess toothpaste from my mouth, the doorbell rang, so I quickly wiped my mouth with the back of my hand.

  I went to the door, and I felt my heart pounding. I took a deep breath and pulled open the door. There he stood, Raymond Tyler, looking handsome with cool grape-green eyes and unblemished skin. He looked at me with a nervous, sexy smile. I looked at him in disbelief.

  “Raymond, what are you doing here?” I asked.

  “I came to collect my pay. You didn’t get my messages?”

  “I haven’t checked my machine in a while. You called?”

  “Several times.”

  “Why are you here, seriously?”

  “If you let me in, I’ll tell you,” Raymond said.

  “Dang, I’m sorry, come on in,” I said as I grabbed hold of my towel to make sure it was tucked tight.

  Raymond followed me to the living area, and we both took a seat on the sofa as I maneuvered my towel to make sure I didn’t get Raymond excited. Although the boy looked good, I knew he hadn’t come all the way from Seattle just to get a little piece.

  “Be real, why are you here?” I asked.

  “I was worried about you,” Raymond said seriously.

  “Why? You know me. I can handle my business.”

  “I’m glad to see you’re not in jail or something.”

  “That’s ’cause I haven’t caught up with that mofo Bart. But trust me. His days are numbered.”

  “What’s that going to solve?”

  “It’s going to show a mofo he can’t fuck with my family and then just walk away. How would that make me look?”

  “Don’t know. You tell me,” Raymond said.

  I didn’t answer, and my loft began to vibrate with the still air of our unspoken words. A few moments later, the stillness was beginning to feel overpowering, so I finally said, “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “You got any OJ?”

  “Naw, I was on my way to get some,” I said.

  “Why don’t you get dressed and let me take you to breakfast,” Raymond suggested. Maybe my towel and I were getting to him.

  “So you came all the way from Seattle to take me to breakfast. I’m impressed,” I joked. But Raymond wasn’t going to let me take things lightly.

  “Basil, when are you going to really deal with life? Are you going to joke, fight or fuck yourself out of every situation?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Basil, I got on a plane and left my home and job to come here to check on you, because the last time I talked to you, you were talking about beating some dude’s ass because he did something you didn’t like. Dude, this is a new century. We’re getting older. We’ve got to stop playing and acting like little boys.”

  “I’ll stop acting like a little boy when I finish with Bart,” I said.

  “I bet you will, because from what I hear prison changes boys into men or into something I know you don’t even want to hear. And jail is where you’re headed if you don’t deal with this fool in a civilized way.”

  “So you think it was civilized of him to call my clients, my friends and most importantly my family? What if someone did that to you?”

  “They can’t! I tell the truth to the people I love. Life is full of surprises, and they sure don’t need any new ones from me,” Raymond said calmly.

  I thought about what Raymond was saying about living a life of truth, when suddenly I was distracted by a rush of memories of a night I had spent with Raymond at the pool of my rented Atlanta town house. It had been more than seven years ago, but I remember the night like it was yesterday.

  It had been a humid night, with Anita Baker’s voice filling the air, under a full moon, and stars sprinkling the sky like tiny pins in a black velvet cushion. I was wearing neon-green shorts and a jock to keep my jimmie tight. Raymond, who had not come prepared for a swim or seduction, was wearing his black boxer briefs. I remembered feeling the solidness of his body pressed against mine and the sensual warmth of the water. I thought of the ripples of pleasure my body felt when Raymond practically forced me to kiss him. A kiss I will never forget, because it was the first time I had kissed a man. I hadn’t kissed a man like that since.

  “Basil? What are you thinking about? Did you hear what I said?” Raymond asked with concern.

  “Yeah, I hear you, but that works for you,” I said.

  “And it can work for you.”

  “All I know is it makes me realize that there are two kinds of men I don’t know whether to envy or hate,” I said, trying to keep my voice even and not let my anger creep in. I knew Raymond was only trying to help.


  “Two kinds?”

  “Yeah, men like yourself, who have accepted their fate in life and still found a way to love themselves and find love. And mofos, like most of the men I know, who have never ever spent a second thinking about hittin’ it with another hardhead.”

  “I have my days of doubt,” Raymond said; his voice was deep and soothing as a massage.

  “And there is one type of mofo I most certainly hate—mofos like that fucked-up Bart. Those type of niggahs needed to be destroyed.”

  “Why? Because he’s not ashamed of being gay?” Raymond asked.

  “No, because he’s a mutherfuckin’ evil asshole,” I said.

  “So you’re determined to get revenge. Sounds like you and that girl you were going to marry were a perfect match.”

  “You don’t understand people like Yancey and myself. We had tough childhoods, and it made us tough. We didn’t have a Father Knows Best life like you and your brother. Your father would never turn his back on you. He’s too proud of you,” I said.

  “And your Pops wouldn’t turn his back on you. He’s just as proud of you. What’s the worst thing he could say or do?”

  Silence chased Raymond’s question and a heavy emotional weight covered the room for a few minutes. Finally I said, “He would probably ask me how can I bring this kind of shit into our family. He would tell me I’m not the son he raised. Alone.”

  “And he could say what my mother said: ‘You’re my son and I love you no matter what.’ Have you thought about him saying that? Besides, if he knew what your uncle did, and I believe deep in his heart he knows, he would have to accept you. I mean, why else would he take Bart’s words so seriously?”

  “I will never tell him what Mac did to me,” I said firmly.

  “Why?”

  “Because it would hurt him. I have never brought pain to my father, and I never will. I can still remember his face the first time I scored a touchdown in Pop Warner football. I saw that same face in junior high, high school, college and in the pros. It’s the only look I ever want to see on his face.”

  “That’s joy for him, but what about some joy for you? Think of all the pain you’ve gone through. Think how your uncle made you feel nasty about your sexuality. It’s like you’re still trying to purge him from you. I think that’s why you have to sleep with all those women and even the men. Why you’re never able to say ‘I’m gay’ or ‘I’m bisexual.’ And Basil, as sure as I’m sitting here, it won’t get any easier. There will be more Barts and Yanceys,” Raymond said.

  “Why can’t there be more Raymonds and Yolandas?” I asked Raymond, reminding him of the woman I loved before Yancey.

  “You have to be ready when they show up. And as much as I love you as a friend, I can tell that right now, you’d chase them away if they landed on your doorstep.”

  “Why do you say that? Are you saying I’m not good enough to have love in my life?”

  “Not when you’re consumed with lust and willing to do any- and everything to protect your secrets.”

  “Were you ever in love with me?”

  “I take the Fifth.” Raymond smiled.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  “Basil, I know you. If we got together, I know that one day I could come home and find you in our bed with either a hot-looking lady or a guy. Being in a relationship with you would mean that I would have to accept your shit, even though it goes against everything I believe about love. Some nights I look at Trent and I ask myself, Who is this man I am in love with? Does he love me? Or does he love who he thinks I am? And when I don’t really know the answer, it makes me sad.”

  “What do you do?”

  “I keep breathing. I keep believing in love, no matter what the world tells me. I have my own standards for love. I don’t depend on anyone else to love me just because I say I love them. I have to feel it here,” Raymond said as he tapped his chest.

  “So what do you think I should do?”

  “Move on. Forget about Bart and concentrate on the people who love you. Like your Pops. Reconnect with friends who would love you no matter what. People who will love the whole you. People like me,” Raymond said.

  “What if my Pops rejects me?”

  “He won’t.”

  I thought about the pain in my Pops’ voice when he had asked me if I was a homosexual. I thought how saying yes would have been like driving a stake through his heart. I know that. Raymond could believe in that “love will save the day” shit all he wanted to, but my life wasn’t his. I was getting ready to tell him that when he started to speak again.

  “You know, a couple of years ago my Pops had a stroke and we almost lost him. And the only thing I could think about was the last thing I had said to him. Was it something loving or was it something out of anger? Was it the truth or was it a lie? Now, your Pops could outlive the both of us, but that’s not promised. Do you want that lie about your life hanging out there, unprotected from people like Bart? A lie that can be used to make you act in hate and not love? Let it go, Basil. Let it go!”

  I suddenly felt the full weight of my sadness, all the years of never feeling anyone could love me if they knew everything about me. They could never love the whole me. How could I ever release those feelings? I looked at Raymond and the loving concern in his eyes. I felt tears come, and it startled me. I had not cried since I was a little boy. I didn’t cry at happy times in my life, like winning big football games, and I would never cry if we lost. Tears were a sign of weakness, I had always thought. I tried to blink back the tears with every fiber within me. I couldn’t let Raymond see me cry, and so I looked down for a few moments at the towel I was wearing. Then I heard Raymond repeat himself: “Let it go. True love can only begin with truth.”

  And the tears I had tried to stop turned into uncontrollable sobs and Raymond moved quickly to embrace my naked shoulders. I couldn’t look at him, but I let him hold me as sobs racked my body like an earthquake. These tears felt cleansing, and I felt so intimate with Raymond, so secure in his strong, solid arms, and I wondered if this was what it felt like to make love with someone you knew loved you.

  There’s No Place Like Home

  After almost two weeks in South Beach I had learned-one thing. Today, yesterday and tomorrow had a couple of things in common: torrential rain and brilliant sunshine. And both were driving me nuts.

  I did like a couple of things about South Beach. Like New York City, it was a city that never slept. I loved the calmness of the beach early in the morning and late at night. I had spent a great deal of time thinking over the last several days. Opening up to Yancey had brought back so many memories I thought I’d tucked safely away. I wondered about my parents and what kind of people they were. Were they sorry for what they’d done? Leaving me and my sister in the arms of a system that didn’t have time to care? Or was I just a wild plant from a family that only produced bad seeds? Why hadn’t my parents gone on welfare instead of robbing a bank and committing murder? Was I, their son, capable of killing another human being? There were so many times when I felt pure hatred for the men I fell for, as well as the women who welcomed them back into their beds.

  I wondered if my sister, Amanda, had grown up in a family of people who loved her, and if she now had love in her life. Maybe she was some big superstar who had changed her name to Nia, Aaliyah or Brandy. Had her new mother educated her about the ways of the world so she didn’t fall in love with men like Brandon and Basil?

  I thought about the woman who had been like a mother to me and wondered if she was still alive and if she could ever forgive me. Her name was Hattie Kaufman, and I had spent five years with her, from age thirteen until I left for Morris Brown. Hattie was a wonderful lady with a big heart. She had over nine foster children, and even though I didn’t like any of them, Hattie made me feel like I was an only child. Back then I rejected her love because she was white and Jewish and I felt there was no way Hattie could love me like a real mother. Now I thought I had been wrong. It was
Hattie who had encouraged me to attend a black college because she wanted me to know my community. Our neighborhood and most of her foster children were white or Mexican, which to me, at that time, were one and the same. Maybe Hattie treated me special because in a house where I was the darkest thing there, I was special.

  So when I got to Atlanta and Morris Brown, I fell in love with black people. I soaked up every drop of being black, and in my new world, there was no room for white women with hearts of gold.

  Seeing all these old Jewish ladies take their daily walks along Lincoln Road and around South Beach made me think of Hattie, and I hoped that wherever she was, she realized I hadn’t known how to love her.

  I still hadn’t landed a job, although I had a second interview scheduled at the David Barton gym in the Delano Hotel. Being a trainer would allow me the flexibility to wait tables and do a little modeling on the side. If I was lucky I could support myself and start saving to replace the money I owed my bank.

  Most of my days had been lonely. A lot of gay men down here don’t speak English, or they don’t speak to black men, or else they suffer from the “too cute to speak” syndrome. I had spent the night before at a gay nightclub filled with synthesized R & B music, flashing lights and a lot of men looking for one night only. Love here in South Beach seemed the same as in New York: a guilty pleasure based on physical attraction.

  But this was the bed I had made for myself, so I was determined to make it work. I still had to get some of my possessions from my Harlem apartment without the risk of being caught in case the police were looking for me, and so once again I needed Wylie’s help. I hadn’t called him and told him I was moving, but I had to now so he could ship me my clothes.

  I booked a room at a hotel called the Betsy Ross. It’s a boutique hotel that looks like the big house on a southern plantation. It was an okay hotel—definitely not the Delano, where I had been staying with Yancey B and her crew—but for now it would have to do.