“We’re relatively new—Song of Solomon is just three years old—so we don’t yet have the established readers like magazines that have been around for much longer do, and I understand that. But don’t think that I’m not jumping at every chance I see to put our name out there where a larger number of people can see it. I guess it’s kind of like my granny used to tell me when I was a little gal growing up in Macon—you ain’t no better than nobody else, but ain’t nobody else better than you.”
Candace smiled. “That’s funny. I had an aunt that used to tell me the very same thing.”
Leaning forward a little on the couch, Myra continued, “You know, when I started this magazine, I didn’t have a whole lot of formal training. There was no one to show me what to do or what not to do. All I was holding on to was the dream I first had at Spelman to someday run a magazine that focused on the issues of our people, and do so with moral integrity and a spirit of excellence. And that dream was toughened over twenty years working in corporate America and raising a son by myself, let me tell you. Since starting Song of Solomon, I’ve been waiting for an opportunity just like this to come my way, so when it did, I couldn’t get down here fast enough to talk to you. Mario Jordan has stated that he wants you to be the one to interview Jermaine Hill. But neither he nor you has indicated which magazine will be publishing the interview. So I came down here because . . . well, because I would very much like you to write the feature with us, with Song of Solomon.”
Candace nodded her head slowly like she had foreknown what was going to be said. “As you know, Myra, I am a freelancer, so it’s not my nature to sign a contract with any one magazine.”
“Yes, I am aware of that. We wouldn’t ask you to sign a contract or have any obligations other than for this feature.”
Candace nodded again. For a moment she was silent, seemingly lost in thought as she absently rubbed the face on her watch. “Myra, I’m afraid all I’m able to tell you right now is that I will have to get back to you with my response.” She held up her hands in a show of mock defense. “I know, I know, that sounds like the usual run-around answer, but I will definitely be contacting you within the week on the decision. My publicist is working with Mario Jordan right now on an itinerary for Mr. Hill and as soon as they have the dates, a magazine will be announced.”
“I see. Well, can you at least tell me what will be factored into the decision?” Myra wasn’t grasping for straws just yet but she hadn’t come all the way to Houston to not dig up as much information as she possibly could.
“Yes. Of course we’ll be looking at the overall distribution numbers and the target demographics. And there will be other criteria that . . . how can I say it? That . . . aren’t as easily quantified.” She looked directly at Myra.
Myra saw a slight, reassuring smile cross the young woman’s face. Or maybe she was just imagining that she had seen one.
Chapter four
THE TUNE THAT Bell was singing this morning was one of those old Negro spirituals that were somehow becoming easier and easier for the saints of God to forget. But not for her, even with her Alzheimer’s disease. She probably stood no chance of ever forgetting because her great-granny, granny, and mother had all sung the same thing in her hearing for as long as she could remember. And though Bell used to loathe that somewhat depressing-sounding melody, wouldn’t you know—she now found herself walking around telling Mary not to weep and Martha not to moan. Funny, that thing called life.
“Don’t you be forgettin’ God, Bell honey,” her mother would tell her nearly every day as she hummed and sang in the tradition of their ancestors—no matter if she was braiding Bell’s hair, washing the pots and pans, or steam-ironing those long, billowy dresses that Bell used to hate wearing. Bell knew better than to complain though—she learned quickly that any extra lip granted her a stinging slap across that same mouth.
“You sassin’ me, missy?”
That’s just how it had been in the Davis house—theirs was a sanctified family of holy rollers and tongue talkers who went to church just about every day of the week.
“Don’t you be forgettin’ God . . .” And she had not. Nor would she let Jermaine forget about Him, either.
“Saa-aavve my so-on, oh God . . .”
THE LIVELY RADIO ANNOUNCER began his much-hyped introduction of the Jermaine Hill show, ending with his typical directive for America’s people to turn up their radios as loud as possible.
Candace balked at turning up the volume as loud as possible, but she did nudge the sound up a bit on her car’s stereo as she waited for a notoriously long red light to turn green at an intersection in the Medical Center district. She had just picked up a suit from her tailor in the Village and was now on her way to Rice University to finish an article she was working on for the M. D. Anderson hospital system. Although she was a celebrated alum now, she still found writing in the university’s library perfect for her, particularly when penning pieces for the medical field. She could picture the stately, ivy-covered buildings that were gloriously alive with academic brilliance and wisdom permeating their historic walls.
She had been drawn to Rice eight years earlier during her initial visit. Rice had been the first school to offer her a full scholarship—she had gone to the open house only because it had given her a wonderful excuse to leave home for a weekend. It was a mere four-hour drive from Highland Park, the upscale Dallas suburb where she had been raised, to Houston.
So it had come as a huge surprise when she had immediately taken to the school’s quaint atmosphere and student life. And although Rice was generally not known for a strong journalism program, one of its professors, Dr. West, had immediately offered to mentor Candace after reading one of her features written while she was still in high school. Dr. West, in a twist of incredible fortune for Candace, just happened to be a Sunday features editor with the Houston Chronicle. Consequently, much of Candace’s vital hands-on training during her tenure at Rice had come from working with the veteran editor at the Chronicle, and she was grateful and indebted to Dr. West for all her successes.
“This is Jermaine Hill once again coming to you live with an OD of inspiration for your soul. How’s everybody doing out there?”
“Just fine, Mr. Hill, just fine . . .” Candace responded aloud to herself. Already, she had begun a preliminary outline of some questions she had in mind to ask Jermaine, thanks in large part to always listening to Tasha’s ravings. Tasha had now taken to outlandishly proclaiming herself president of the Jermaine Hill Fan Club.
Tasha, you need help, sistah girl. Professional help, preferably.
Most of her questions so far were open-ended, as she imagined she would just give the man plenty of room and freedom to talk and see what happened. Seemed that’s what he did best, anyway. She was scheduled to fly out to L.A. for the interview in a few days, and although she was flattered that Mario Jordan had stated that he would work only with her, in a way she was still a bit uninterested in the whole affair. Celebrity scoops and tabloid journalism weren’t exactly her thing. She had built her name and reputation thus far writing solid, informational, and morally conscious pieces that tended to linger in the minds of her readers long after the last words were read. Still, though, she took some solace in the fact that she, as always, would be professional and honest. She would strive to give an objective, untainted view of this man whom the whole nation was talking about. Her personal ideas and opinions wouldn’t even come forth; she would simply be an observant, note-taking, celebrity-following shadow.
“Let’s get today started off with talking about love,” Jermaine continued on the radio. “Lovin’ what you do and doin’ what you love. Because isn’t that what it’s all about? A lot of people always complain about what they have to put up with on their nine to five. I have to ask these people, is it worth it to waste eight hours of your day at a place doing something or being around people who wear constantly on your nerves?”
Be realistic, Jermaine. Most people work
their jobs simply because they have to. Have to eat, pay rent . . .
“And I know what you are saying to that—you’re saying be realistic, Jermaine. You’ve got to work if you want to eat.”
Candace raised an eyebrow and her mouth almost curved into a small smile. Almost.
“But is that what our life has come down to? Work, sleep, eat. Work, sleep, eat. You get ahead on the right only to fall behind on your left. You get a raise, you buy a bigger car. You win some money in the stock market, you buy a bigger house. But then you have to keep working to pay for and keep all those bigger material possessions, and a lot of times you end up like a duck trying to swim.”
A duck?
“You ever seen a duck swim? It’s kind of like some of our lives. We’re trying to look smooth and unruffled on the top, but we’re furiously paddling those feet beneath the surface just to keep our heads above water. And in the end, we ask ourselves whether it was really worth all the trouble in the first place. But Jermaine is here to tell you that it can be worth it, if you do what you love and love what you do.”
That’s kind of a simple approach to take . . .
“I know, I know, it sounds simple.”
This time, a rather convincing smile found its way to Candace’s face.
“And the realists again are going to be calling in and writing to the show, telling me that it’s easier said than done. But I also know that you only live this life once, and you have to live it with no regrets. You feel me? So let’s talk about this some more. And let Jermaine give you some simple suggestions . . .”
He continued speaking, but Candace switched off the radio as she turned from Greenbriar onto the large parking lot behind Rice Stadium. Much of what the man was saying surprisingly made sense to her, causing her to briefly wonder why she hadn’t listened to the show before. Probably because she, jokingly, had teased Tasha so much about swooning over celebrities that she involuntarily had made up her mind not to even listen to Jermaine Hill. To her, he was just another one of Tasha’s boys, sadly meaning that he was doomed to be featured on one of Entertainment Tonight’s “WhateverHappened to . . .” segments. Of course, that was before she had been literally hand-picked to do this interview last week. That small fact had changed everything. Now, she was not only going to have to listen to his shows, but she would also have to do some more research about him to give her interview credibility.
Turning off the ignition, she pulled out her cell phone from her bag. Since meeting with the editor of Song of Solomon yesterday afternoon, she had been mulling over an idea that had originated in her head and was now curiously making its way into her heart.
You know you should do this . . . when was the last time you talked to Daddy, anyway?
Since her mother’s death six years ago, Candace and her father had grown a little distant. Harold Clark had relocated to his hometown of Longview, Texas, after Analee had passed, and Candace now saw him only during the holidays. If then, even. When she was growing up, her father had been the breadwinner of the family. And he did so while personifying the strong, silent type—he was never one to openly express his feelings with his wife and daughter. But not once could Analee or Candace ever question if his priorities were in the right place. His love for them had been shown by the fact that he had come home every night from his lucrative engineering job. Papa was no rolling stone. And in the later stages of Analee’s battle with cancer, he had spent every minute that he possibly could at his wife’s bedside.
Last Thanksgiving, when Candace had gone to visit him, she had taken note of several Song of Solomon magazines on the coffee table.
“I didn’t know you subscribed to this,” she had commented.
“Oh, I guess I’m just trying to get back in touch with my roots, Candi,” he had replied. “When you get a little older and things begin to happen to you in a way you never thought, well you just never thought could, you start to reevaluate what’s important.”
Harold’s father had been a Baptist preacher from the South, the son of two generations of Baptist preachers before him. Candace always had supposed the pressure of becoming a man of the cloth like his forefathers had not sat well with her father, whereas the academic pressures he had experienced while pursuing his engineering degree had sat extremely well with him. All those hypotheses, theories, and scientific evidence had caused him to question the authenticity and meaning of Christianity in his life, and the results had not been pretty. He had walked out of his father’s church one Sunday in 1952 and had not looked back.
Remembering what her father had said about getting in touch with his roots, she now dialed her father’s number.
“Daddy? Hey, it’s Candi.”
“Candi?” Her father’s surprise was genuine, she knew. It was not her normal routine to call him during the day just to keep in touch and let him know how she was doing. Like a typical writer, she preferred sending letters.
“It’s good to hear your voice, sweetheart. Is everything alright?”
“Yes, yes, everything’s fine.”
“Well, I just asked because you usually don’t call . . .”
Candace laughed. “I know, Daddy. But you never know, I may call more often if they keep raising the price of stamps.” She laughed again. “Listen, I have a quick question for you. Do you still subscribe to Song of Solomon? You know, the whole getting back in touch with your roots thing?”
“My roots, hmm?” He was silent for a moment. “Yes, I still subscribe. The articles are really something else, you know? It’s . . . they . . . they’ve been helping me.”
“Good. I’m . . . well, I’m glad to hear that.” Talking about faith and spiritual issues was still difficult for them, she could see. So perhaps she could do something about this difficulty, something that might be the first step along the path to change.
“Well, Daddy, make sure you check out next month’s issue real closely, okay? There might be something in there that . . . that . . .” she was unsure of how to finish what she wanted to say. She was much better at expressing herself in writing.
“I’ll be sure to check it out, sweetheart,” he cut in, to Candace’s relief.
AMBROSE RIVERS WAS A complicated, oft-misunderstood man. Truth be told, most people thought he was plain crazy. But in his mind, he knew that he was not a mental case. The California Department of Corrections, however, had ruled otherwise and instructed him to be placed in Atascadero State Hospital eight months ago. Needless to say, it had been the worst eight months of his fifty-six years.
Prior to all this coming about, he had dutifully and tirelessly traveled the country as an itinerant evangelist, speaking charismatically at small churches, open-air tent crusades, and generally anywhere he was able to procure a crowd. The term crowd being relative, of course, because to him just two people would rightly define an audience to his liking. With a boldness and fire that invoked a measure of either fear or horror in the hearts of the people he preached to, he unashamedly called for repentance in a modern-day society where sin was rampant. Because of this unpopular message, his words were generally met with disdain and the unsympathetic raising of eyebrows, even among people who called themselves “Christians.” Not that he particularly cared, though. He thought of himself as a modern-day John the Baptist.
And the forerunner of Jesus Christ had his own share of haters, too . . .
With no family to speak of after being raised as a ward of the state, he had drifted through the California public school system without ever receiving a diploma. Again, not that he cared. By reading more books and literature than most college-educated businesspeople, he possessed a high level of enlightenment, along with a burning passion for calling God’s children back to the Father’s love—all in all, a dangerous combination.
The LAPD, however, had believed Ambrose to be a danger to society in other ways, finally arresting him on a disturbance of the peace charge after one of his typical “sermons” outside a Hollywood television studio. The misdeme
anor would have been dismissed by the studio’s executive if he had agreed never to set foot within five hundred feet of the property, but Ambrose wasn’t giving up any ground.
“Everywhere the soles of my feet tread, the land is mine,” he had emphatically argued in court. “And I refuse to be told where I may or may not step!”
The State of California thought otherwise. After various members of both the religious and psychiatric communities had performed tests on Ambrose, he had been ordered to undergo treatment at Atascadero.
Now, Ambrose paced firmly back and forth in his enclosed room, beads of sweat popping out on his forehead as he preached to no one in particular.
“And I will rain upon him, and upon his hands, and upon the many people that are with him, an overflowing rain, and great hailstones, fire and brimstone!” Ambrose now emphatically declared, his voice echoing loudly throughout the empty room. The inflection of his voice, as it rose and fell upon the thrust of every other word, eerily mimicked the preaching style of the late Martin Luther King Jr.
“Thus I will magnify myself, and sanctify myself and I will be known in the eyes of many nations, and they shall know that I am the Lord!”
“Shut up, crazy prophet wannabe!” came a voice from just outside the closed door. “Preach with your mouth closed! Mouth closed . . . mouth closed . . . mouth closed . . .” The phrase-repetition gave away the identity of the annoying voice. Ambrose knew his name to be Johnny Lee, and during the past months it had become his personal mission to open Johnny’s spiritually blinded eyes.
“The kingdom of Heaven suffereth violence, and the vio-o-lent take it by force!” Ambrose responded. “I claim your soul in the name of the Father, the Son, and—”
“Preach with your mouth closed! I don’t wanna hear you . . . can’t hear you . . . don’t wanna hear you! Mouth closed, mouth closed . . .” Johnny Lee was wailing now in a childlike sing-song voice that Ambrose would have thought funny if the poor fool’s soul hadn’t been at stake.
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