PLATINUM
Aliya S. King
A Touchstone Book
Published by Simon & Schuster
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2010 by Aliya King
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Touchstone Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.
First Touchstone hardcover edition July 2010
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Designed by Akasha Archer
Manufactured in the United States of America
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
King, Aliya S.
Platinum / by Aliya King.
p. cm.
1. African American women—Fiction. 2. Sound recording industry—Fiction.
3. New York (N.Y.)—Fiction. 4. Urban Fiction. I. Title.
PS3611.I5713P57 2010
813'.6—dc22
2010003780
ISBN 978-1-4391-6025-1
ISBN 978-1-4391-6500-3 (ebook)
Dedication
This book is dedicated to three people (and one collective group of friends in my head) who inspire me to write every day:
Dr. Gerald Davis: my professor of African American literature at Rutgers University. In 1990, I wrote in a paper that I hoped to one day write a novel that he would teach in his class. He wrote in the margins: “I’d leap at the chance!” My heart swelled. Someone believed it was possible! He made me believe it was possible.
Dr. Gerald Davis passed away in 1997.
Mrs. Lillie Gist: My English teacher for both ninth and twelfth grade at Clifford Scott High School in East Orange, New Jersey. When I returned as a teacher, she became my confidante. When I left to pursue a writing career, she was my biggest cheerleader. The tiny clips I sent her from small magazines thrilled her. I can’t even imagine how proud she’d be to hold this book in her hands.
Mrs. Gist passed away in 2006. I’m still heartbroken.
And, Mrs. Rita Z. King. She gave me my first job as a writer for The Fifth Ward Quarterly (circulation: 250). She was my first editor. And I learned from her not only the basics of writing but the tenacity and determination it takes to follow your dreams.
I walked with her to the mailbox as she sent off pitches to Reader’s Digest and Essence. We crossed our fingers and dreamed of seeing her name in print on the walk home. I read the rejection letters that were sent back, all worded very nicely, that she collected in her bureau.
Every time I get a story accepted, I feel like I’m sharing the byline with my mom.
Thankfully, Mrs. Rita King is very much alive and kicking. She works out every morning at 5:30 A.M. Drinks water and eats oatmeal and stays away from sweets. She’ll outlive us all. This woman takes no tea for the fever.
Finally, this book is dedicated to my dear readers at aliyasking.com. The ones who always comment, (Hey Katura!) and the ones who lurk and never say a word. Knowing you log on and read what I have to say is inspiring. I’m humbled by your support, and I love you all for being a part of my online world. I won’t run away again. I promise.
PLATINUM
BETH DIPPED HER HEAD AND SLID HER SHADES FROM HER FOREHEAD to the bridge of her nose. It was out of habit, not necessity. There wouldn’t be any photographers in the parking lot of her gynecologist’s office at seven a.m. on a Saturday.
She’d only been photographed alone once, last summer, when she went to Riker’s Island after Z punched out a cop at a concert at Madison Square Garden. The paparazzi caught her speeding up to the courthouse to post bail, her dirty blond hair covering her eyes and tears streaming down her face.
In the doctor’s office, Beth kept her eyes straight ahead, grabbed a clipboard, scanned it quickly, and signed it. She returned the paperwork to the receptionist, who gave her a look of half boredom and half disdain. Beth wondered if the look was especially for her. Or if every patient got the same look.
It could have been that she recognized the name Beth Saddlebrook and wondered what it was like to be married to someone like Z. Or she could have noticed that she marked off “specific problem” instead of “general wellness checkup” as the reason for her visit.
She sat in one of Dr. Hamilton’s examining rooms, her long legs dangling over the side of the vinyl-covered table. A nurse came in to ask preliminary questions. Beth told her she thought she might have a yeast infection, something she knew was not true. The next nurse gave her a cup for a urine sample and then took a vial of blood. They’d test it for whatever they could right in the office and Dr. Hamilton would look over the results before she came in. She’d be able to tell Beth what she really needed to know.
Sweat dripped down the small of Beth’s broad back. She was built like a linebacker—and sweated like one. She wasn’t fat. But her mother always said she came out of the womb as solid as a concrete wall.
The central air in the doctor’s office made the examination room feel like the inside of a meat locker. But the beads of sweat on her forehead kept popping up. It was as if her body didn’t believe it had escaped from the thick, muggy August heat.
Dr. Hamilton didn’t do the courtesy knock. She opened the door with such force that it banged against the wall and slammed shut before she was facing Beth.
“You have trichomoniasis,” she said, and then folded her arms tight across her chest. Like Beth, Dr. Hamilton was one of those white girls from West Virginia who could neck-swivel better than most black girls from Jersey. And like most white women with roots in the South, she had a no-nonsense demeanor that belied her ethnicity. She had been Beth’s first and only gynecologist. She’d known her since Beth was twelve.
Beth pretended to be shocked and confused, raising a hand to her mouth and looking around the tiny room as if the explanation for her latest malady could be found in the glass container of cotton balls or the box of disposable gloves.
“You haven’t had enough, Beth?” Dr. Hamilton’s eyes bored holes into the top of her head. “Will you leave him before or after he gives you HIV?”
Beth flipped up her head to the ceiling and then leveled it at Dr. Hamilton.
“My period is late,” she said. “I thought I should come in because—”
Dr. Hamilton let out a loud rush of breath—a snort that had tinges of a scream. She turned her back on Beth and went to the door.
“Yeah, you’re pregnant too. Get undressed. I’ll be back to examine you.”
Beth carefully took off her tracksuit. Beth’s closet was lined with her uniform: tracksuits in vinyl, cotton, and velour. She knew a Juicy sweat suit wasn’t exactly the height of couture. Especially among the other wives in the New Jersey enclave she lived in, also known as Rappers Row because so many artists lived there. But Beth couldn’t compete with those women anyway. They bought new bags eve
ry three months, something Beth couldn’t understand. If it was still functional, why would you buy a new pocketbook? Because it was seasonal? And Beth couldn’t fathom wearing stilettos, skirts, or dresses any more than she could fathom buying a new purse just because the season had changed. Beth had enough money to walk into Gucci and leave it completely empty. She was sent dresses and sumptuous leather boots by designers every week. They were all dutifully boxed up and sent to her friends back home in West Virginia. Tracksuits were good enough for her. They were easy and comfortable and hid her body well.
Beth was from Miracle Run, a mining town in West Virginia. Halfway between Ragtown and Bula, Miracle Run didn’t quite live up to its name. No miracles. And nowhere to run. Nothing but dirt, rattlers, and of course coal; a thin layer of dust hung in the air at all times, clogging your ears, your brain, and your way of thinking.
Now, in Dr. Hamilton’s office, Beth was many years and five hundred miles away from Miracle Run. She lived in a McMansion purchased with the profits of her husband’s tour dates and royalties. She had a staff of people running her massive house, just three doors away from Reverend Run. But she still felt like she needed to protect herself from dirt. In her life, it was everywhere. She knew women like Kimora Simmons snickered at her. But she wore her jumpsuits anyway. And Timberlands too.
Beth closed her eyes tight and stripped off her bra and panties, stuffing them inside the folds of her tracksuit. On Oprah she’d once heard that almost all women were fussy about the way they arranged their clothing before a gynecological exam. No one ever left panties on the outside of that sad little bundle of clothing. Even though they were about to have their legs splayed and their orifices probed, somehow visible underwear would make them feel even more vulnerable. Beth pulled the gown over her body and scooted her butt down low to the edge of the table so Dr. Hamilton wouldn’t have to tell her to. She stared at the ceiling, calculating. If I’m pregnant, the baby was conceived in early July. Had to be like the first of the month, ’cause that was the same day Z came back from Anguilla.
She listened closely to see if she could hear Dr. Hamilton out in the hall. When she was sure she heard nothing, she hopped up, went into the pocket of her track pants, and took out a crumpled sheet of paper. She positioned herself back on the table just as Dr. Hamilton did a courtesy one-knock and came back in.
“You’ve had seventeen urinary tract infections,” said Dr. Hamilton, sitting on the wheeled stool and rolling herself up to Beth. She put Beth’s feet in the stirrups and snapped on a pair of gloves.
“That’s genetic,” Beth said, bracing herself for the doctor’s touch.
Dr. Hamilton didn’t even pretend she was paying attention. “You’ve had gonorrhea, syphilis, and you may have HPV, which is the virus that causes cervical cancer. You’ve had seven yeast infections in the past two years because your husband refuses to get treated for it so he can stop passing it back to you.”
Dr. Hamilton did not tell Beth that she was going to put her hand inside her. Without warning, her left hand was deep inside Beth, probing. Her right hand was pressing into Beth’s abdomen. Usually Dr. Hamilton was quiet during the actual examination, her head cocked to one side as if she could hear Beth’s body speaking to her. But this time she talked straight through like she was giving a lecture.
“You come in here with things I can treat,” she said, her fingers on Beth’s cervix. “And then you come in here with things I can’t. Like herpes. Which, by the way, you will have forever, as I’m sure you know.”
Dr. Hamilton removed her fingers from Beth, peeled her gloves off, and let out a deep sigh. Beth pushed herself up to a sitting position, trying to keep the gown from slipping off.
“I’m not sure if I can continue to treat you,” said Dr. Hamilton, looking over Beth’s file. “If you won’t take any measures to protect yourself and stay healthy, I really don’t want any part of—”
“How far along am I?” Beth asked.
Dr. Hamilton rubbed one hand over her face, put her clipboard down on the counter behind her, and gave Beth a wan smile.
“About eight weeks.”
Beth grimaced. “Eight? Are you sure? We didn’t start trying until six weeks ago, which means the baby was conceived when? Like around the first? It couldn’t be mid-July, right?” Beth’s eyes swept the office for a calendar. “It would have to be around the first of the month—” Beth had her mouth running so fast, trying to get confirmation that she’d conceived during the right time, that she forgot about the paper in her hand until Dr. Hamilton took it away from her.
“What is this?” Dr. Hamilton glanced at the paper and then her face flushed. “A Chinese birth prediction chart? What the—” She rolled her eyes. “Do I really need to refer you to a psychiatrist?”
“That chart was buried in China seven thousand years ago and it’s ninety percent accurate,” Beth said, reaching for the paper. “I tried it with my mother and me and all my brothers and it came out right every time.”
Dr. Hamilton’s shoulders slumped. She leaned against the door to the room and clutched the clipboard to her chest.
“You have four healthy boys,” she said in a soft voice. “Beautiful boys. I delivered every one of them.”
They exchanged a brief look. In her third pregnancy, Beth had been pregnant with twins. Only one survived. Z blamed Dr. Hamilton. Beth did not.
“You cannot continue to subject yourself to that man’s disease-ridden flesh because he wants a little girl. You just can’t.”
Beth smoothed her hands across her hair, calculating her due date in her head. She felt it this time. She’d never felt like she was having a girl. But this time was different. Beth had read How to Choose the Sex of Your Baby by some guy named Shettles. He said that boy sperms were faster and more aggressive, so if penetration was deep, the boy sperms had a head start. If you just did it missionary style, there was a better chance for the girls to make it.
She’d done everything in the book. She didn’t actually have the whole book. She’d never read a whole book. But she had a photocopied packet of all the important stuff that she’d gotten from her best friend, Kipenzi. Kipenzi didn’t believe a word of it but thought it was entertaining.
For the past six months, she’d only let Z have sex on top of her. No doggie style, ever. He whined, begged, and complained regularly. On one occasion, when he was drunk, he grabbed her shoulders, forced her onto her stomach, and then put one hand underneath her to lift her up. She fought her way out of bed and ran into the room of their oldest son, Zander, and slept on the floor.
Seventeen-year-old Zander found his father passed out in front of the door to his brother Zakee’s room, naked and with vomit on his chest and in his three-inch afro. Zander dragged his father to the master bedroom before one of the other kids saw him there and freaked out.
She’d had sex with Z every day in the five days of her ovulation cycle, which meant she had to drive an hour from home to Electric Lady Studios in the Village every day for a quickie on the couch in the studio lounge. She’d kept him away from caffeinated beverages (the caffeine gave those pesky boy sperms an extra boost), and she’d douched with water and vinegar right before they’d had sex. (According to Shettles, the more acidic the woman’s body, the better chances for having a girl.)
Kipenzi had highlighted one line from the excerpt. Something about the chances of having a girl being increased if the woman did not have an orgasm. In the margins of the pages, Kipenzi had written “How do you stop yourself from coming?” That was one tip Beth didn’t have to worry about. She’d had three orgasms in her life. And only one of them was during sex with Z. (She’d had sex with only two other men in her entire life, both experiences that she actively tried to wipe from her memory.)
“Bethie?”
Hearing the doctor call her by her nickname, the name her mother used to call her, made her head snap up. For a half second she thought it was her mother calling her name, and her brain rushed with an ov
erload of things she would tell her. I have four boys, Mommy. Just like you.
“I’m going to give you a prescription for the trich. Here’s some information about it,” Dr. Hamilton said, pressing some brochures into her hand. “Are you taking prenatals?”
Beth nodded. She’d been taking a prenatal vitamin every morning since she was fifteen and Dr. Hamilton told her she was pregnant with Zander.
“I’m going to refer you to Dr. Browning. He’s just joined this practice and he’s great. I want you to—”
Beth reached out and grabbed Dr. Hamilton’s shoulder. “No.”
Dr. Hamilton kept her eyes on her paperwork. “I really think he might be a better—”
“No.”
The doctor looked into Beth’s face. It was the same round, pasty face that had come into her office in Miracle Run almost fifteen years ago. At fifteen, Beth had already reached her full height, nearly six feet tall. Her mother had brought her in after finding her on the living room couch with Z.
“Caught her with that little nigger from New York City down here visiting family,” Beth’s mother said, her fat cheek packed with tobacco. “Need to know if she’s been fucking. So I can put her ass out directly.”
Beth’s mother told her to do a full pelvic exam. The young girl screamed bloody murder, bucking and jumping every time the doctor tried to put the speculum inside her.
When Dr. Hamilton told the mother that Beth was pregnant, the woman pulled her hand back as far as it would go and smacked Beth so hard that she rolled off the table and landed on the floor. Her gown came off and she was naked, crying and trying to scamper under the table to avoid her mother’s blows. Dr. Hamilton had to pull the woman off Beth and have her escorted from the office. The doctor had never allowed her back in.
But she continued to see Beth through the pregnancy and delivered her son, Zander, with her boyfriend Z standing right next to Beth, cheering Beth on and crying at the same time. Then Dr. Hamilton moved her offices to New Jersey, escaping coal mine country for her own reasons. She thought she’d never see Beth again.
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