A Man Inspired

by Derek Jackson

  Jermaine immediately shook his head. “No, I wouldn’t go there. I’m not serious politically like Malcolm was. My thing is to get people excited and inspired about life, remember?” He flashed his smile again, but this time Candace thought she could see right through it.

  You’re hiding something, Mr. Hill . . . “Yes, I remem—”

  “What’s your favorite book?”

  Both the interruption and the question itself caught her off guard. It was as if he was playing a chess game over who controlled the interview. And she had only asked one question thus far.

  “Are you going to do this to me after every question?”

  He smiled slowly, almost lazily. “No, not after every question. Only the ones I really want answers to.”

  Isn’t that wonderful . . . She purposely took a considerable amount of time, pretending to be in deep thought. She didn’t have to do that, of course. Every writer had a favorite book. Several, in fact. “Well then, in that case I would have to say The Color Purple.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Hey, who’s interviewing who, here?”

  Jermaine held up his hands. “Thought we had a deal. I’m just asking you the questions you asked me.”

  “You’re right by technicality only—you know that, don’t you? Okay, why is it my favorite? Let’s see—it deals with complex issues surrounding a woman’s coming-of-age, there are rich, colorful characters and dialogue, great Southern history, Alice Walker won the Pulitzer from it—I think you’re getting the picture here.”

  He nodded. “You’re painting a pretty clear one.” He cleared his throat and with an amused expression added in an oratorial voice, “God gets pissed off if you walk past the color purple in a field and don’t see it.”

  “Very good, Shug Avery. You read the book?”

  He shook his head. “Naw. Saw the movie, though. Should’ve won Best Picture in 1985. Don’t know what the Academy was thinking of, giving it to Out of Africa. Probably snubbed it because Spielberg was directing it.”

  “A film buff, huh? Interesting. Well, the Academy Awards are always political; I know a friend of a friend who could tell you some wild stories about that whole process. But back to books, Jermaine, what’s the last one you’ve read?” Another one of her favorite questions. This time, though, there wasn’t any hesitation in his response.

  “A Lesson Before Dying.”

  What? “The Ernest Gaines classic?”

  “Yeah, that’s the one.”

  It took a few moments for Candace to realize the always-churning gears in her brain had temporarily shut down. She found herself in a little state of shock because of the what-are-the-chances-of-that coincidence that the last book she, too, had read was A Lesson Before Dying. The Houston Public Library had just implemented a citywide reading push featuring the former National Book Critics Circle award winner, and she had been a guest panelist for one of the local PBS discussions. She had first read the book in high school, but re-reading it had proven to be a great delight for her.

  Slowly and hopefully inconspicuously, she took a deep breath. “Why . . . why did you happen to read that?” It was only then that she realized the very real possibility that Jermaine might ask her the name of the last book she had read, as well. And the last thing she wanted to do was answer identically.

  Stupid little interview stipulation . . . I don’t know why I ever agreed to this . . .

  To her relief though, Jermaine just shrugged indifferently, as if the question bored him. “I guess I just found the title to be kind of interesting . . .”

  THE OPERATION WAS NOW running smoother than the engine of a well-oiled stock car, although Myra admittedly had some major worries initially. Would they have the capability and resources to put Song of Solomon on every newsstand and bookstore across the country? Could their small staff handle the public relations and advertising blitzkrieg that was inevitably coming? And after years of praying and waiting for a breakthrough opportunity to cross their path, were they in fact prepared and ready now that such a chance had come?

  As Myra finished approving the third set of comps to the cover for the next edition, the all-too-true adage of “Be careful what you pray for” stuck in her harried mind like peanut brittle to sore gums. Over the past few days, she had made and answered more phone calls, sent and received more faxes and e-mails, approved more invoices, and signed more operations checks than a high-level manager for a Fortune 500 company. And though she was presently dog-tired, though her ankles last night had swollen to the size of tennis balls, though she hadn’t slept more than three hours in the past week, nevertheless she felt an exhilaration in her fulfilled soul that she had never before experienced. For it had been worth it—all the rejecting phone calls she suffered while trying to persuade venture capitalists to invest in her magazine. The “girl you must be crazy”looks she did her best to ignore from her former coworkers as she cleaned out her desk on that last day working for corporate America. The subsequent months of eating Ramen noodles and hot dogs for dinner because the bulk of her money, meager earnings that they were, stubbornly were committed to the financial well-being of the fledgling magazine.

  “This magazine is a ministry, and it’s bigger than you,” she would remind herself every day as she watched dollar after precious dollar be poured into the initial production setup. Her own personal bills and credit had suffered because she refused to be late or delinquent with anything concerning Song of Solomon. She had almost as much love and commitment to it as she had to her only son. For this publication was her child, too. And in many ways, giving birth to her dream had been much, much harder than giving birth to Tyrone.

  With a sigh, she slowly stood up from her desk and limped toward her living room. The swelling in her ankles had gone down slightly from yesterday; she would stay off her feet as much as possible for the next several days. As much as possible, of course, being the operative words, now that the edition with the Jermaine Hill interview would be ready for distribution in four weeks. One month. Candace Clark would finish the interview in another week and a half and have the story done in time for the July edition of Song of Solomon, as per the contract. And for Myra, that was perfect because summer was always the ideal time for peak sales. The magazine industry knew this as much as the book and movie industry did. And while the latest Hollywood talk coming through the grapevine centered on the Fourth of July blockbuster movie featuring Will Smith and the latest model heartthrob, the talk in the equally competitive magazine industry was even more heated over the Jermaine Hill interview. It was much anticipated, that was for sure. And there was buzz about her magazine, with its core mission statement of aiming to publish articles and information of urban societal interest in a manner and spirit that glorified God.

  “To You be the glory,” Myra breathed as she settled back in her La-Z-Boy recliner. She picked up a large remote control resting on the sofa table beside her and pointed it at her stereo system. Seconds later, the melodious sounds of CeCe Winans’s worship-inspiring ballad “Alabaster Box” filled every nook and cranny of the living room. Yes, Myra Washington was tired and her swollen feet hurt, yet her face wore an expression of sheer contentment.

  “I’m finally here, Lord. I’m doing Your wonderful will for my life . . .”

  It had been during the summer of 1965 when she had asked Jesus Christ to be the Savior and Lord over her life. At just seven years old, she certainly had not grasped the full extent as to what such a prayer truly meant. Nevertheless, she believed that God had something special in store for her life. And as her Uncle Po weekly taught the Sunday school lessons to her in an easy, uncomplicated manner, her knowledge of God’s Word and will for her life grew each year.

  Later, when she’d left tiny Macon for the big city of Atlanta to attend Spelman College, her Uncle Po had faithfully written her weekly devotionals to help her stay focused. She’d kept those letters and even now, after all this time, she still occasionally pulled them from her desk to r
e-read them.

  As CeCe Winans continued to sing about the symbolic cost of oil in her alabaster box, Myra couldn’t help but sing right along, albeit off-key. Not that such a trivial issue mattered. Who cared if she couldn’t sing like CeCe?

  I paid a high price to get here . . . Lord knows I’m now going to enjoy every minute of it . . .

  “CANDI! GIRL, YOU are starring in my dream! Living in Hollywood with that fine-looking Jermaine Hill, spending—”

  “I am not living with the man,” Candace corrected her friend over the phone, wondering once more why that crucial fact was not registering in Tasha’s brain.

  “Yeah, girl. Whatever. So you met him already, huh? Spill it, sis. Give your girl some details.”

  As Candace stretched out on the luxurious recliner, she was torn between telling Tasha the truth or what the poor girl wanted to hear.

  How ’bout this, Tasha—the man’s built like a bodybuilder and last night we fed each other chocolate-covered strawberries in his private Jacuzzi . . .

  “Well, he’s nice, I guess. Tall. He smells good, too. I can’t place that particular cologne right off, but—”

  “Well then, ask him what he wears! I mean, you’re supposed to be interviewing him, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good! Girl, go on.”

  “What else do you want me to say? We talked about his favorite books, foods, colors, sports teams—just surface information for right now. I didn’t want to overwhelm the guy on the first day.”

  “Good thinking. Keep it simple at first, then go in for the kill.”

  “Tasha, this is a simple celebrity interview. No kills or anything like that. I really don’t see why everybody goes crazy over him in the first place.”

  “Oh, come on! You mean to tell me that when you’re looking at him, you don’t just wanna rip his clothes off and—”

  “Tasha!”

  “I’m just saying, girl. Anyway, if you don’t care for him, you’re still gonna hook me up, right?”

  Candace sighed. “What, exactly, was it you wanted me to do again?”

  “Slip him my number and picture, Candi! And not that one from college where my thighs are showing those few extra pounds. Give him the one we took when we went to South Padre Island. After putting in four months at the gym, I was looking real sexy.”

  “Tasha . . .”

  “C’mon Candi . . . I’d do the same for you.”

  No you wouldn’t . . . because I’d never stoop so low as to do something like this . . .

  “So, you gonna hook me up?”

  “Yeah, Tasha. I got you.” And I’m praying for you, too . . .

  Chapter ten

  THE SCRAPBOOK BULGED, overflowing with countless faded and yellowing pictures that did not fit into the plastic sleeves. The book itself was extremely dog-eared, but that didn’t concern Bell much. Because to her feeble mind, these pictures were one of the last things she could hold on to. And even her grip on these was tenuous.

  Sadly, she didn’t remember most of the people in the old photographs anymore, scores of people who were hugging her, laughing with her, crying with her. Who were all these people who had touched her life, even if only for a moment? It had taken almost seventy years and a crippling mental disease to remind her that the sum total of life equaled nothing but memories. And what was she to do as those memories slowly diminished, like flower petals leaving the protective, nurturing stem in a gusty breeze?

  Oh, Jesus . . . oh sweet Jesus . . . I’ll never forget you . . .

  One solitary picture, like that airborne rose petal, fell to the floor at her feet. With an effort, she reached down with trembling fingers and retrieved it. Turning it over, she saw the smiling, confident face of her Jermaine on his high school graduation day.

  Such a handsome, handsome man . . . you made your mama proud that day . . .

  That boy had grown up much too fast. He’d almost had to, given the tumultuous conditions of his early childhood. Bell had done all she could to help, though seemingly all the love she had poured into him wasn’t making much of a difference.

  Train up a child in the way he should go . . .

  She had done that, though. Lord knows, she had done that. So it was in her Father’s hands now.

  Save my son, Jesus . . .

  “TELL ME ABOUT your childhood, Jermaine,” Candace asked. “Your parents, your friends . . . your life growing up. What were some of the good things you remember?” A sly grin crossed her face as she added, “and while you’re at it, you can throw in a couple of bad things, too.”

  She would have preferred riding like royalty again in the limousine, but Jermaine insisted on driving his Escalade everywhere he went. This drove Mario crazy because his client was almost always late for his appointments, but Jermaine was as stubborn as a blind mule with bad legs on that issue. He maintained that it was the one little bit of freedom and privacy he still had.

  “There’s not much to tell.”

  “Then tell me what little of it there is to tell,” she quickly replied. No way was he going to get out of that one so easily.

  “Alright. Well, I was born in Brooklyn, right there off Twenty-third and Stillwell. Don’t remember much about New York, though, because I was outta there by the time I was three years old. My parents—Shirley and Jermaine Hill Sr. . . . they, well . . .” As his words trailed off, he shook his head in what Candace thought might be disgust.

  “Those people hit that crack pipe so much and so hard that when they weren’t raising hell in the ’hood trying to score that next hit, they were somewhere on the street passed out. Child Services was threatening to come take me, so my mom’s oldest sister, Bell, came and got me. Took me to Baltimore to live with her.”

  “Did you ever go back to live with your parents?”

  Jermaine shook his head. “Naw. My pops was killed in a drug deal gone bad two years after I left. Then, my mom got arrested after robbing a convenience store. Pleaded guilty to armed robbery, but it was her third strike so she got sent upstate to Bedford Hills.” He shook his head again. “She died six months after that. The doctors said she had a bad heart. She was like a time bomb for years and didn’t even know it.”

  With a sensitivity and empathy Candace didn’t even know she had inside her, she automatically reached out and lightly put her hand on Jermaine’s arm.

  “I’m so sorry, Jermaine.”

  “Thanks,” Jermaine replied. “She died on Thanksgiving Day, 1977. I remember the exact date ’cause we got the call from the hospital during halftime of the Cowboys-Lions game. But it wasn’t hard on me, though. I was just a kid, y’know? And I didn’t remember my moms or my pops that well, anyway. To me, they were a couple of addicts who just happened to give birth to me. Her death was harder on Aunt Bell. To this day, that old woman breaks down and cries like a baby whenever someone talks about her Shirley.” He bit down on his lower lip and Candace supposed he was fighting hard to not reveal much emotion on this obviously sensitive subject. “She’s one of the few people that old woman even remembers anymore.”

  That old woman? “Jermaine, are . . . are you close to her? Your Aunt Bell, I mean. She was the one who really raised you and all.”

  Jermaine turned and looked at her. “I’ll answer that after you first tell me a little about your family. Some good things and, while you’re at it, some of the bad things, too.” He smiled broadly.

  What? “Jermaine, I . . . I had a flow going here. You’re messing up the rhythm when you start asking me questions out of the blue like that. We . . . we were talking about your Aunt Bell.”

  “No, it was me doing all the talking about that old woman. And that’s cool. It’s just that now, it’s your turn to talk about your past.”

  I cannot believe I agreed to this . . . if Dr. West could see me now . . . Candace took a long, deep breath and closed her eyes, thinking for the umpteenth time since yesterday how this was definitely going to be her most challenging assignment to date. But
she refused to stress over Jermaine’s little interview-stipulation game. She would play along, if only to get the prized information she needed for this story.

  “I’m an only child, Jermaine, if you must know. I was born and raised in Dallas, although I traveled a lot all throughout my childhood. That was mostly to please my mother, though. All she ever wanted was for her little girl to see the world.” Predictably, she felt a tightness in her throat at the sudden remembrance of Analee, and she sensed her eyes beginning to get all moist. Quickly, she blinked away what would have been potentially embarrassing tears.

  “I take it you and your mom are close, then?”

  “Yes. Well . . . yeah. You could say that, I suppose. We, ah . . . actually we were close. Very close. She passed away six years ago from . . . from breast cancer.” God, did I just say that?

  Candace was both surprised and a tad horrified that she was revealing so much personal information. What shocked her the most was how easy it seemed to be to open up around Jermaine. And she wasn’t sure why. More than likely it was because she could sense and furthermore relate to his obvious pain of not having many people to hold a conversation with. She was in the same boat, and she knew it. Aside from Tasha (who definitely danced to the bizarre beat of her own music), Candace rarely was in an environment or a social setting where she could freely open up and simply be herself. Partly, that was her fault—she had somehow developed tunnel vision on her quest to win a Pulitzer and several relationships had been hurt along the way. Including a major falling-out with a man she had wrongly and misguidedly thought was the one . . .

  “Sorry to hear about that,” Jermaine offered, interrupting her wandering thoughts with his rich baritone voice. He really did have a nice voice, she had to admit. “And I can tell it was hard on you since you two were so close.”

  Candace nodded. “After she died, I had a lot of questions. I kept them inside because nobody was really there to answer them. Above all, I couldn’t understand why God took my mother like that. It . . . wasn’t fair.”