Platinum

by Aliya S. King

  “Bunny? How are you?”

  “I just got my uterus scraped. How do you think I am?”

  “The paperwork is almost complete on our end. I just wanted to let you know: you did the right thing. We’ve got Kanye West, Timbaland, and Mark Ronson on board to produce for you. Cee-Lo loved your demo and is talking it up in the press—”

  “Melinda, I’m still cramping and bleeding heavily. Mind if we talk shop later?”

  Bunny flipped the phone closed and tossed it to Robert. “I need to talk to Zander.”

  “No,” Robert said. “No more Zander. That’s over.”

  “It’s my fault that he’s in trouble. I need to talk to him.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “I need to apologize. I was wrong.”

  Robert shook his head. “We’re this close to cementing a deal. I told Melinda there will be no more drama with you two.”

  “We have to talk about this now? Can I stop bleeding before you start telling me what to do?”

  “I just want you to focus, Bunny.”

  “I’m focused.”

  “We’ll be outside,” Robert said, pointing Sal toward the door.

  Bunny sat up straight, swung her legs over the table, and began to get dressed. She found her cell phone in the clear plastic bag with all her belongings. She pulled on her jeans and tank top before opening her cell phone. “Where are you?”

  “Home,” said Zander. “Where are you?”

  “At the doctor.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m going to rent a room at the Marriott in Brooklyn tonight. Meet me there.”

  “You forgot about the restraining order?”

  “Zander, I’m sorry. I’m gonna fix all of this.”

  “You can’t just drop the charges. The DA’s involved now and I might lose my deal.”

  Bunny was silent.

  “What time you checking in?” Zander asked.

  “I’ll be there by ten.”

  “Bet.”

  Zander hung up. Bunny finished dressing and gathered her things. Robert and Sal stood up when she came out into the waiting area of the doctor’s office. Robert draped an arm around Bunny and led her outside to the car.

  Jackson Figueroa, Kipenzi’s longtime personal paparazzo, stepped out from behind his pickup, pointed his telephoto lens, and shot twenty pictures in quick succession.

  ALEX HAD KNOWN CHINO SINCE HIGH SCHOOL. SHE HAD A CRUSH on him and let him cheat off her in algebra. He repaid her by drawing elaborate tattoos on her arm with a pen during study hall. A brilliant artist, she wasn’t at all surprised when she was assigned a story on him for a tattoo magazine. He’d had no idea that she was the reporter, and she didn’t tell him. She just waltzed into the tattoo parlor and laughed when she saw how shocked he was that the reporter was his old friend. He’d been the only person to ever tattoo her body. The morning she interviewed him had been her first anniversary—a full year of sobriety. In the course of talking to him about setting up his shop, he told her that he was a recovering alcoholic. Alex blurted out that she was celebrating her first year that very day. He got out of his chair and hugged her tight.

  Even after the story came out, he stayed in touch, sending her an occasional clipping about sobriety he came across or just a thinking-of-you card. The following year she flew out to LA to interview Nelly and the St. Lunatics and stopped in his shop to get her daisy tattoo and the first two petals to symbolize her two years of sobriety.

  It was now a ritual that every spring she flew out to Los Angeles and had another petal added to her shoulder. Chino had a six-month waiting list even for a consultation. And three months longer to get the artwork done. Alex always walked right in and he would take her on the spot.

  “Your tattoo is raised up,” Chino said, rubbing alcohol over her skin with a cotton ball.

  “I know. It’s been that way for a few weeks. Freaks me out when that happens.”

  “It’s normal. Could have irritated it with something.”

  “Maybe.”

  “But in my experience, it’s usually your body’s way of telling you to slow down. Are you under any stress?”

  Alex smiled. “I’m supposed to be getting married in two weeks.”

  “Supposed to be.”

  “Just found out he cheated on me.”

  Alex was always surprised at how easy the words flowed from her mouth when she was talking to Chino. She’d never dream of telling even her closest friends about what she was going through. But Chino’s eyes were so clear and calm and free of judgment that his voice was like a truth serum.

  “He cheated with his body or his heart? Or both?”

  “I think just his body.”

  “What else is going on?” said Chino, packing his needle with bright yellow ink.

  “A few disturbing overlapping assignments.”

  “Letting your subjects get into your head again. I’ve told you about that. Leave your work at work.”

  “Right. Couldn’t do it this time. Way too close to home.”

  Chino motioned for Alex to remove her shirt and had her straddle the black leather chair in his booth. There was a round vinyl doughnut-shaped pillow for her to rest her face in as he worked. For a full minute he just rubbed her shoulder, smoothing out the skin under her tattoo and relaxing her at the same time.

  “Have you learned anything new in the past year?” Chino asked, turning on his needle and filling his area with a dull hum.

  Alex sighed and then winced slightly as the needle hit her skin. “I’m done with collaborating and ghostwriting,” she said through clenched teeth.

  “Relax,” Chino said. He put the needle down and reached down to Alex’s hand, which she had clenched into a fist. “Relax your hands, your arms, your shoulders. Just give your body to the chair.”

  Alex slumped down and exhaled slowly through her mouth.

  “What else?” Chino said, bringing the needle back to her skin.

  “I love Birdie. No matter what. The blow job he got from that woman doesn’t change that.”

  “What if it happened again?”

  “I can’t think that way. He swore to me it wouldn’t. I have to take that at face value.”

  “Did you ever cheat on him?”

  “Probably. I don’t even know for sure.”

  “Understood. Has he forgiven you?”

  “Categorically.”

  “Do you think it should work both ways?”

  “Not necessarily. I mean, I did my dirt five years ago. And I made my peace with it all when I went through the twelve steps. I apologized to him back then for anything I did. What he did was recently, just a few weeks ago. It’s different. We’re engaged, for God’s sake. Or we were.”

  “Can you move forward?”

  “Can I? Yes. Will I? I don’t know.”

  “What else?”

  “I’m never going to get used to his ex-wife being a presence in our lives. And I’m never going to get used to the fact that I feel inferior to her.”

  “Okay. How will you manage it?”

  “Not sure. But I know she’s a trigger. When she drops off Tweet or picks her up, I want to pick up a drink.”

  “Why?”

  “Take the edge off, I guess. Not deal with the jealousy I feel.”

  Chino stopped and dabbed her shoulder with a white cloth. “You’re bleeding more than usual this time.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Doesn’t have to mean anything. Just interesting. I happen to believe that a bloodletting during this process is a good sign.”

  “I just wrote a story about women married to rappers.”

  “Women like yourself.”

  “Kinda. Birdie’s not there yet. Might not ever be there, actually.”

  “They must lead interesting lives.”

  “That’s not the right word. Bizarre is more like it.”

  “When is it coming out?”

  “I’m not sure. I handed
it in a few days ago. I should have heard from the editor for changes by now.”

  “Are you proud of it?”

  Alex closed her eyes and thought of a few passages in her story.

  “Here’s your quote,” says Josephine. “I wish I was flat broke. Living with my husband on the top floor of his parents’ home. I wish he still played guitar in Times Square for change. And I wish he’d never met Cleo and never got signed to a major label. I wish we had nothing but each other. I would trade every diamond I own, every home, every article of clothing, and every stupid fucking car to have our simple life back. All I would ask for is to be a mother. That is all. Write that down in your story.”

  “I’ll never write another piece like it,” Alex said.

  “You’re all done,” said Chino, dabbing her shoulder once more and then slathering it with ointment.

  Alex pulled herself up from the chair and backed up to the full-length mirror, covering her chest with her shirt.

  “Is it gonna be insane when I have, like, fifty petals all over this thing?”

  “I’m thinking we start a new flower in a few years. It can be intertwined with this one. You’ll have a bouquet before we’re all done.”

  “I don’t know if I’m gonna keep this up when I’m, like, seventy.”

  “You will. And I’ll be right here, looking forward to our annual get-togethers.”

  “It’s always good to see you, Chino.”

  Chino bent down and embraced Alex in a tight hug. “Are you in town for a few days?”

  “Nope. Leaving right now. I need to be home when I get those changes from my editor.”

  “Godspeed. And good luck.”

  ALEX FUMBLED FOR HER CELL PHONE AS SHE FOLLOWED THE OTHER PASSENGERS off the plane at Newark Airport. She tucked her phone in her ear and dialed the number for her messages.

  “You have fifty-six messages.”

  Alex felt terror ripple through her. She knew she’d cleaned her messages out before she got on the plane. Fifty-six messages in six hours was not a good sign.

  As soon as she stepped into the terminal, she sat down on the floor and held the phone to her ear to listen. Before she could hear the first message, her cell phone rang. She quickly pressed talk.

  “Alex? It’s Maria.”

  “Hey. I know you want to talk about the story, but can I call you back because I—”

  “So you heard?”

  “Heard what? I just landed at Newark.”

  “Oh God, Alex.”

  “What’s wrong? Did something happen with my story?”

  “Alex, are you near a television?” Maria’s voice trailed off at the same time that Alex glanced up and saw a small crowd gathering around a wall-mounted television in the terminal.

  Maria said Alex’s name every once in a while for a full minute and got no answer. She could hear Alex breathing steady measured breaths. But there was no response.

  Alex finally snapped the phone shut. She pulled her knees up, her back propped against the wall in the airport, and looked around. The crowd of people standing near the television was growing. A few people were shaking their heads slowly and pointing at the screen. Some people were furiously text-messaging on their phones. One woman kept making the sign of the cross over her chest, her head bent low.

  Alex couldn’t hear the television but she didn’t need to. There was a helicopter shooting from directly above a wooded area where a small plane was in a crumpled heap. The fuselage was engulfed in raging flames and Alex could just make out what looked like emergency response people barking orders at each other.

  Alex stood up, leaving all her belongings on the floor. She told her brain to take her to the screen but could not feel the sensation of her feet taking actual steps. She glided over to the crowd to get a closer look at the text crawling underneath the image of the flaming mass of twisted metal.

  Breaking news … private jet believed to belong to superstar singer Kipenzi Joy Hill found just a mile out from the Wallblake Airport … not presently known if singer was on board … the authorities are confirming four deaths including the pilot and copilot.

  Alex looked down at the phone in her hand. It was ringing and she didn’t recognize the number. She pressed ignore and collapsed into a chair near the television.

  BETH HAD A FEELING THIS LABOR WAS GOING TO BE HARDER THAN all the rest. Harder than giving birth to Zaire, who’d died in utero, and then having to push Zachary out right afterward. Although this baby was the smallest, Beth struggled to stay on point with her breathing as she sat in her favorite armchair, timing her contractions.

  When it was time Zander drove her to the hospital and sat with her as the staff administered the epidural.

  Once the pain medicine kicked in, Beth was able to relax. She sat up in bed and chewed ice chips. Dr. Hamilton checked on her, marking how far along she was dilating and reminding her to relax.

  “Where is Kipenzi? Did she get back yet?” Beth asked Zander when he came in.

  Zander looked down at his cell phone. “She hasn’t called me.”

  “What about your father?”

  “He hasn’t called either.”

  “Call Kipenzi again,” Beth said. “This is not like her.”

  Zander looked down at his phone and read a text message. “Ma … ,” he said, walking toward the television and turning it on.

  “What, baby?”

  “Auntie Penzi …”

  Beth stared at the screen. An all-news station had a helicopter view of a plane on fire. Before Beth could scream, two nurses came into the room. One took away the television remote, led Zander out, and turned off the television. The other put her hand inside Beth’s gown.

  “She’s seven centimeters. Almost time to start pushing, Beth.”

  “Don’t fuck with me,” Beth said, her breath ragged. “What’s going on?”

  “Beth, I want you to focus on your breathing. It’s almost time to push this baby out.”

  A contraction overcame Beth and she leaned back and moaned, her head swinging from side to side. “Kipenzi …”

  Dr. Hamilton came up to Beth’s ear. “Her plane went down in Anguilla,” she said. Beth began to yell out and Dr. Hamilton squeezed her forearm tight. “Listen to me. Look at me.” Dr. Hamilton grabbed Beth’s jaw and turned her face around. “I just got off the phone with the hospital in Miami, where she was airlifted. Kipenzi just came out of surgery. And she is going to survive. Do you hear me? Let’s focus on getting this baby out, okay? Please, Beth? I have someone here to help you …”

  Z came into the room with Zander. Seeing him standing in the doorway took Beth’s breath away. He was, as his grandmother would say, as clean as the board of health—even more fit, toned, and clear-eyed than the day she had seen him at Eden.

  Z took his position on Beth’s left side, leaning into her neck to kiss her. They breathed together, screamed together, and when the baby, a seven-pound little girl with a full head of jet-black hair, whooshed out of Beth’s body, the doctor placed the baby on Beth’s chest and the three of them all clutched each other and sobbed.

  Thirty minutes later, after the baby was cleaned up and swaddled tight, Z dropped his head in his hands and cried.

  “Baby, what’s wrong?” Beth asked.

  Z clenched his teeth and raised his head to face his wife, his eyes bloodshot red. “Kipenzi …”

  “She’s okay, right?” Beth looked at Z, who had his mouth open but couldn’t speak. She looked at Zander. He had his head down and was crying softly.

  Beth dropped her head and cried. There was no need to hear the actual words. When she came home with the baby, Ian was there, holding a black binder in his hands, ready to make arrangements for Kipenzi’s funeral.

  “SHE WAS ALREADY GONE BEFORE THE BABY GOT HERE, WASN’T SHE?” Beth asked Z, as they lay in bed her first night home.

  “Yes. She was,” Z said, stroking his first daughter’s cheek.

  “What about Dylan?”

&nbs
p; “She survived.”

  “I want Kipenzi here. Right now.”

  “She’s gone, Beth.”

  Beth squeezed her eyes tight and forced herself to sit up, bringing the baby up with her. “Z, you don’t understand. When I came up here with you, those girls in Fresh Meadows weren’t fucking with me. The white girls said I was dirty and trashy. The black girls said I stank. Kipenzi was the first person to really talk to me.”

  “I know,” Z said.

  “I can’t even imagine living without her.”

  Z took his new daughter out of Beth’s arms and cradled her. “Hey, Kipenzi,” he said to the little girl. “Are you going to be a singer too?”

  “Z, this wasn’t supposed to happen. She was leaving the business. She was going to teach piano and travel.”

  “While I was in rehab, she wrote me a few letters.”

  “Really?”

  Z smiled and nodded, his eyes filling up. “She told me I had to get it together for you. Told me that you needed me. Kids needed me. Wanted me to really understand that.”

  Beth nodded. He cradled her head, stroking her hair. He stopped to peek into the blankets and stare at his little girl, whose mouth was pursed into a tiny O.

  Beth leaned on him and kissed him. “I love you, Z,” she said.

  “I know.”

  Beth leaned over and kissed little Kipenzi. Z motioned toward the television. Beth looked up to see Kipenzi on the screen, in a clip from a performance she’d given at the Grammy Awards the year before.

  Z turned the volume up and held his two women as tight as he could. Beth closed her eyes and pretended Kipenzi was in the room with them, singing to little Kipenzi, making her chin quiver so that Beth would laugh. As the song came to an end, Beth whispered a prayer into the top of her daughter’s head and hoped that Kipenzi heard her.

  SINGER, SONGWRITER, ACTRESS

  KIPENZI JOY HILL BURIED IN HOMETOWN

  OF HOPE, ARKANSAS

  The New York Times

  Monday, May 24, 2009

  by Alex Sampson Maxwell

  On a rainy Sunday morning in a town called Hope, Grammy Award–winning singer and actress Kipenzi Hill was transported to her final resting place. In accordance with her instructions, her casket was carried by hand from the Hicks Funeral Home, where her body was prepared, to the burial plot owned by the Hill family since the late 1800s.