A Love of My Own

by E. Lynn Harris

  When I walked into his office, I smelled the strong scent of food, like somebody had been slaving over an oven or grill.

  “Zola, glad you could make it. I hope you like ribs,” Raymond said.

  “I do,” I said as I looked to my left and noticed a table with a red and white tablecloth covered with a wooden picnic basket. There was a bottle of red wine standing beside the basket with two wine glasses. I hoped my new boss wasn’t trying to get me drunk in the middle of the day and try and have his way with me. I would hate to have to sue him for sexual harassment during his first month.

  “Great. I thought instead of going to a noisy restaurant we could have lunch here in my office. I want us to have a chance to get to know one another,” Raymond said as he pulled out a chair. Hmmm, I thought to myself, I like this. Raymond was a gentleman, unlike that fool Seth Matthews, who held the position of CEO before he went wacko and was quickly escorted out of the building.

  “Thank you.” I smiled as I took my seat. “Whatever’s in that basket smells good,” I said.

  “I hope so. I ordered ribs from a place around the corner called Virgil’s. Bristol said they have great food, although I’m sure their ribs aren’t as good as the ones we cook down in Alabama,” Raymond said.

  “So, you’re a Southern boy. I should have known,” I said, wondering if Raymond would be insulted by my referring to him as a boy.

  “True and true,” Raymond said.

  I breathed a sigh of relief that I hadn’t offended my new boss. “I’m from Nashville,” I said.

  “I know. Davis gave me a copy of your bio,” Raymond said.

  “Why am I not surprised,” I said.

  “Zola, I don’t really want to talk a lot of business over our little picnic. The two of us are going to be working pretty closely together, and I want to get to know the real Zola. Not the magazine editor or the person in the bio,” Raymond said as he took a seat and opened the basket and the scent of the meat became stronger. It reminded me of my parents’ kitchen when they had just brought meat from the grill on holidays or summer evenings when Daddy had a taste for beef.

  “Sounds good, although I’ll tell you, I’ve never had a picnic before like this in my career,” I said.

  “What was your relationship with the guy who had my job before me?” Raymond asked as he pulled a plastic container from the basket that looked like it held coleslaw.

  “Seth and I really didn’t have a relationship. He was Davis’s right-hand man, but he was too weak and let Davis literally drive him crazy. Maybe it wasn’t Davis but his wife and girlfriend,” I said, laughing. I didn’t know why, but I felt totally comfortable talking with Raymond. I looked over at him and scrutinized his face. His smooth skin glowed like a warm stick of butter, and his eyes were a startling shade of grass green.

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “About Seth?”

  “Yes.”

  “I wish I was. Everybody in the office knew he had a mistress, and sometimes she would come up to the office when he thought everyone was gone. He let this job and Davis get to him. Mr. McClinton’s shadow can be cold and overpowering. There are some stories I could tell you, but I’ll wait until I get to know you better,” I said.

  “Would you like both baked beans and coleslaw?” Raymond asked.

  “Sure. It looks good. Did black folks make this?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure. I took a peek at the ribs and they looked like they’d pass the Slap-Yo-Mama’s test,” Raymond said, smiling. He was wearing a starched white shirt with a rose-red tie with a thin strip of royal blue. I noticed a navy blue pinstriped suit coat on a hanger over the door that led to the private bathroom and shower, which I had actually used when the office had been empty while Davis found a replacement for Seth.

  “What kind of wine is this,” I said as I picked up the bottle and read something in French. I thought about Davis and how pompous he sounded when he ordered in French.

  “A very nice French Merlot. Can I pour you a glass?” Raymond asked.

  “Sure, but just a little corner. I got a lot of work waiting on my desk,” I said.

  Raymond walked over to the bar area and picked up a corkscrew and then went back over to the table, where he opened the wine. He smelled the cork and then poured a little taste in my glass like we were at an expensive restaurant.

  I took a sip and enjoyed the dry fruity taste.

  “How is it?”

  “Wonderful,” I said.

  “I’m glad the lady approves,” Raymond said as he poured me half a glass and about the same into his and sat down and gave me a polite smile. I guess the no cocktail rule was made to be broken.

  “So what do you want to know about me?”

  “Who came up with the name Bling Bling?”

  “I tell you, it wasn’t me. Davis came up with it. I hate the name, but Davis thought that young kids spend more money on music and the products we advertise in the magazine. I guess I’ve gotten used to it. What do you think of it?”

  “It’s different,” Raymond answered quickly.

  “So is that the only business question? Nothing about future issues, advertising revenues, or personnel issues?”

  “That’s it. Now it’s Raymond and Zola.”

  “So I’ll ask again. What do you want to know about me? My family? My friends? What I do for fun or have I been involved in covert activities?” I teased.

  “Tell me what you want me to know. Did you pledge while you were in college?” Raymond asked.

  “No, I didn’t.” A surprised look crossed Raymond’s face. “I just knew you were greek,” Raymond said.

  “I started to, but I couldn’t decide. At first I wanted to pledge Delta, but their lines were always so long. I didn’t want to be a small fish in a big sea. Then I was stuck on pledging AKA and really liked the girls on the yard, but they were a large group as well. The fish theory again. I had this professor who I just loved and she was a Zeta, and I decided that’s what I wanted to be. Just when I thought I had made up my mind, I became really close with a Sigma, Lorraine, who was majoring in journalism. That sista was bad. She was one of the smartest girls at Tennessee State and could dress her butt off. In the fall, girls couldn’t wait to see what Lorraine was wearing the first few weeks of school,” I said. I couldn’t believe I was sitting there, chatting easily with Raymond, but there was a warm quality about him that made me feel comfortable and safe. Nothing like being around Davis. With him I always felt I had to think about everything I said before it left my mouth.

  “I guess I can understand your not being able to make a choice. They’re all great organizations. I also know a lot of it depends on what school or part of the country you’re in,” Raymond said.

  I took a bite of the rib, which was so good that the meat was falling off the bones. I poured a little of the barbecue sauce and dipped the meat in it like I was eating chicken wings. Raymond was using the black and gold china with the official McClinton Enterprises crest that Veronica, the wife, had insisted that Davis purchase for the few formal dinners we held at the office.

  “Did you pledge?” I asked Raymond after I had finished one rib and dipped my hands into the box for another one.

  “I’m a member of KAQ,” Raymond said calmly.

  “Why am I not surprised?”

  “Why do you ask that?” Raymond asked.

  “Two words. Pretty boy,” I said. I noticed Raymond blushing and thought maybe I had crossed the line, but I still thought it was wonderful to know my new boss was bashful and seemingly not conceited.

  “That’s not true,” Raymond protested.

  “Raymond, this is one thing you need to know about me. I am brutally honest. I call them as I see them. I’m sure your wife or girlfriend would agree with me.”

  “I’m not married and I don’t have a girlfriend,” Raymond said matter-of-factly. I stopped eating my food and gazed at him for a moment.

  “Zola, is there something you want to as
k me?”

  “Is there something you want to tell me?”

  “I just broke up with my partner of several years,” Raymond said.

  I was thinking he didn’t have to hit me over the head with a rib bone. My new boss was gay, which certainly didn’t bother me. Still, I didn’t think I should tell him I knew just yet in case Raymond wasn’t comfortable talking about his sexuality. If he was, then it would be quite refreshing if he was open and honest and not trying to trick a sister by living his life on the d.l., which I called the d.l.d.—dirty low down.

  I wondered for a moment if Raymond would be somebody Hayden might be interested in but quickly remembered my friend was interested only in the low down.

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Are you okay?”

  “I’m a big boy. I’ll be fine,” Raymond said.

  “Breakups can be a bitch,” I said.

  “Yeah, they can,” Raymond said as he stood and walked over to his desk and picked up a photo. He came back and sat down and asked me to look at the picture. It was a sepia-toned picture of two African American boys and two girls on the back of a truck. It looked like a photo taken in the fifties or early sixties.

  “Who is this?” I asked as I studied the photograph closely.

  “I don’t know. I thought you might know. I found it in my desk, mixed in with some letterheads,” Raymond said.

  “Did you ask Bristol?” I noticed the names Norman and Scooter printed in a child’s handwriting.

  “No, these people look black,” Raymond said.

  I looked at the picture again and said, “Yeah, they’re light but not white. Even though sometimes I think Bristol might be an undercover brotha. You know, passing,” I said, laughing.

  “You’re crazy. But Bristol does have a sense of what’s right about our culture. He picked up all these great CDs for me. Maxwell, Joe, Angie Stone. I guess he reads your magazine.” Raymond laughed.

  “Yeah, Bristol is cool people. I talk to him every now and then. Did he tell you he used to work at Vibe and Vanity Fair?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m pretty sure Davis stole him from over there by offering him a lot of money and making a lot of promises,” I said.

  “Do you think it belongs to Seth?”

  “What?”

  “The photograph,” Raymond said.

  “I doubt it. Seth was very dark, blue-black,” I said. “I personally love every shade we come in. From light-bright to blue-black.”

  “I hear you. Are you sure it’s not a family photo that belonged to Seth?”

  “Besides, he was an only child like Davis. The two of them started off really tight. I think they went to college together. You should have seen the two of them together when they had a couple of drinks. Styling and profiling, smoking big cigars, talking about the good old days at prep school and Harvard,” I said.

  “What happened to them?”

  “Just between you and me, I think Seth resented Davis’s success. I think he wanted to be just like him, but Seth wasn’t as confident or aggressive as Davis and gradually got annoyed by that. He knew Davis was looking to replace him because people in their social circles were talking about it. His job was so important to him he couldn’t take the pressure. I guess that’s why old Seth lost it. I wasn’t here when it happened, but office lore has it that when Seth cleaned out his office he did it in a yellowed T-shirt stained with coffee, a tie around his neck, and plaid boxer shorts,” I said.

  “That’s sad,” Raymond said.

  “Yes, sad would be the word. Just make sure you don’t leave here that way,” I said.

  “Thanks for the warning,” Raymond said.

  “Thanks for the ribs,” I said as I got up to go back to my office.

  * * *

  From Bling Bling Confidential

  People often spent so much time looking at how beautiful Raymond’s green eyes were that they never noticed they were stained with loneliness.

  * * *

  10

  __________________

  I located the gothic brownstone on Eighty-eighth Street between Columbus and Amsterdam avenues. I pulled a yellow piece of paper from my suit jacket pocket and looked at the number 105 and then the number on the building. I walked up slowly, like I was getting ready to enter a haunted house, took a deep breath, and rang the bell.

  After a couple of weeks of restless nights, I decided I should get some help before I quietly had a nervous breakdown. At first I thought I was having trouble sleeping because I missed having Trent’s warm body next to mine, but I realized I had some anger brewing inside. Many of those nights it took everything I had not to pick up the phone and call Trent and yell at him about what he’d done to our relationship, what he’d done to me.

  A few moments passed and I rang the bell again. This time I heard a buzzing sound, and I pushed the door open and found myself in a cluttered foyer with several newspapers lying on the floor and a coatrack that held several jackets and a couple of nondescript umbrellas. I saw three doors and a set of buzzers with last names on two of them. Dr. Carolyn Few was on the bottom. I pressed the button and heard another buzzing sound and the release of several locks. A few moments later, a medium-size white lady with a pale complexion and long, stringy black hair opened the door. She was wearing a pale green top with a matching skirt.

  “Are you Raymond Tyler?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Dr. Few. Come on in. You’re a little early, but my appointment before you canceled, so we’re fine,” she said.

  I looked at my watch and realized that it was ten minutes before six. I’d left my office early to make sure I was on time after Dr. Few told me she didn’t take kindly to latecomers. I had found her through a referral service on the Internet, and she had been the fifth doctor I’d called. The first four weren’t taking new clients, and I felt I really needed to talk to someone quickly, and didn’t have the luxury of finding an African American doctor.

  I followed Dr. Few into her office, which looked more like the living room or work space of an artist. There were several paintings on easels, a comfortable-looking melon-colored sofa with pastel pillows, and a rocking chair in which Dr. Few promptly seated herself.

  “Have a seat,” Dr. Few said.

  “Thank you,” I said as I sat down and crossed my legs and laid my hands across my lap, but I didn’t feel quite comfortable.

  “Since this is your first visit, I need to go over some housekeeping details. I charge a hundred and fifty dollars an hour. I expect to be paid at the end of each fifty-minute session. I accept insurance, but that’s only after you have been a patient for three months. I have a forty-eight-hour cancellation policy, and if you don’t show up or call, then you will be billed. Leaving a message on my answering machine is okay, but I would prefer to speak with you when you need to cancel. Do you have any questions for me?” Dr. Few asked.

  “No.”

  Dr. Few picked up a yellow legal pad and pen from a cloth covered ottoman next to her chair and asked, “Have you been in therapy before?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Oh, about eight years ago,” I said.

  “Do you mind sharing the circumstances?” she asked.

  “It was after the death of my best friend,” I said.

  “Did you take any medication?”

  “Briefly. The doctor gave me something to help me sleep.”

  “Are you on any medication now?”

  “No.”

  “Do you drink?”

  “Socially, maybe a couple of glasses of wine to relax,” I said.

  “So tell me why you felt the need to resume therapy,” Dr. Few said.

  “I’ve been having trouble sleeping, and my stomach always seems full with nervous energy when my day ends at the office,” I said.

  “What do you do?”

  “I’m a CEO of a magazine.”

  “And you moved from where?”

  “Sea
ttle.”

  “For your job?”

  “Sorta,” I mumbled.

  “What does ‘sorta’ mean?”

  “I sought out the job.”

  “You didn’t like Seattle? I hear it’s a beautiful city,” Dr. Few said. I didn’t remember my last doctor offering editorial comments. But this was New York, where everybody had an opinion.

  “I love Seattle. I didn’t like the situation I was in,” I said calmly.

  “Why don’t you tell me about it?”

  I spent the next ten minutes telling Dr. Few about my relationship with Trent. I also told her how I’d found out about his affair, his pending fatherhood, and how basically he had made the decision to end the relationship.

  “How did that make you feel?” she asked when I had finished speaking.

  “Like shit,” I said.

  “Are you still in love with him?”

  Was I still in love with Trent? The question startled me, because I wasn’t expecting it and didn’t really have a yes-or-no answer. I thought about Dr. Few’s question for a few minutes and then I said, “I guess you’ve heard this before, but here goes: I still love Trent, but I don’t think I’m in love with him anymore.”

  “Are you angry with him?”

  “Yes,” I said quickly.

  “Have you told him?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I didn’t think it was important. I thought it was best to move on.”

  “Do you have any problems with your sexuality?”

  “No.”

  “That’s good,” Dr. Few said. I guess she was thinking that would save us some time, but I thought there were some things she needed to know about my self-acceptance.

  “I dated women for most of my young-adult life. When I was a senior in college, I realized that I was attracted to men when this football player seduced me. For several years I hated being attracted to men and continued to date women. When I fell in love with Trent, all the feelings of shame seemed to go away,” I said.

  “Was it a good relationship?”

  “It was a great relationship ninety percent of the time,” I said. “We both had very demanding careers. Besides practicing law, I was also teaching and working on my MBA. Trent’s job required him to travel, and mine did also for extended periods. But we always talked with each other, trying very hard to keep the lines of communication open,” I said.