A Love of My Own

by E. Lynn Harris

  Cyndi stepped inside my office and told me Hayden was on line two.

  “What’s going on, Hay-den?” I asked.

  “My feet are killing me,” he said.

  “Where are you?”

  “At rehearsals for the Dreamgirls benefit,” Hayden said.

  “Are they still doing that?”

  “Oh, yes, honey. The show must go on. They don’t call us troopers for nothing,” Hayden said.

  “I guess you’re right. When am I going to see you?”

  “Hopefully soon. I just called to share some good news,” Hayden said.

  “What?”

  “Looks like I got a job.”

  “In a show?”

  “The biggest show,” Hayden said.

  “The Lion King? Did you get the part?”

  “I sure did.”

  “That’s great. When did you find out?”

  “My agent called me a couple hours ago. I got it by default.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They were going to give it to this guy from Los Angeles who had flown in for the audition, but when they offered him the part, he said he wasn’t flying or living in New York,” Hayden said.

  “Oh, that’s sad for him but good for you,” I said.

  “You got that right. Hey, I got to go; we’re getting ready to start back.”

  “Bye Hayden.”

  After I got off the phone, I checked my e-mails. The first one was from the corporate office, about how Davis and Veronica had given five million dollars to the 9/11 relief fund. I was impressed, but I thought both Davis and Veronica probably spent just as large a sum of money on a stylist to pick out the right outfit when they posed for the cameras. There was an e-mail from Jabar, which I didn’t read because they always required a thug-boy interpreter. He always used words like kwel and U and a bunch of other words and phases I didn’t understand, like I think I will parlay at your crib dis evening. I once asked him what did he think the word parlay meant, and Jabar explained it meant to chill at the highest level. Whatever.

  A couple hours later I was looking forward to the bus ride home. I had given up on the subway. I didn’t want to be stuck underground if there was another terrorist attack.

  I kicked off my flats and was reaching for my tennis shoes, when my cell phone rang. The caller ID read Private.

  “Hello. This is Zola Norwood,” I said.

  “I guess it is,” Pamela said. I recognized her slow, weighty voice immediately, even though we hadn’t spoken for over five years. Was she calling to find out how I was after 9/11?

  “Pamela, how are you?”

  “There you go, forever the little polite debutante. You know I ain’t doing good. I know Mama told you I was still hittin’ the pipe,” Pamela said.

  “So you called up here to ruin my day,” I said.

  “Mama said you wanted me to call you,” Pamela said.

  “I did not. She said you wanted my phone number.”

  “That was a while ago. I wanted to see if you’d pay for me to go back into rehab, but I figured you’d try and send the check straight to a clinic I wasn’t going to. I know how you think you’re smarter and better than everybody,” Pamela said.

  “If you called up here to start something, then this is the wrong time. I have work to do. . . .”

  “I know, and people to meet. Little Miss Zola, who always could talk the stank out of shit,” Pamela said.

  I didn’t respond. Instead, I clicked the end button on my phone and turned the power off.

  6

  __________________

  There was a handsome leather binder on my desk with a note from Davis instructing me to review the contents and call him to discuss. Inside the binder was a three-day itinerary for London.

  Still, the thought of getting on a plane of any kind caused a sudden surge of panic to pulse through every part of my body. I was trying to think of some reason I could give Davis as to why I couldn’t make the trip, when I noticed an airplane in the sky from my office window.

  It looked strange and scary, like a flying tube vulnerable in the vastness of a pale blue sky. I picked up the phone, put it back in the cradle and fumbled with my keys resting on the edge of my desk. I thought about the mayor and the police chief on television all day on 9/11 encouraging New Yorkers to get back to life, to take their business trips, go to restaurants and Broadway shows, and in my heart I knew they were right.

  The day before, I had gone to a Broadway show I never would have attended before 9/11. Members of the Broadway community were encouraging New Yorkers to attend a show, since the city seemed tourist free. There was a list of shows in trouble and I decided to go to the Neil Simon Theatre, where The Music Man was playing, and buy a couple of tickets. I wasn’t really interested in seeing the show, but I thought my ticket money would give the community some hope.

  I often did this during the opening weekend for black movies when I didn’t actually have the time or any interest in seeing the film, because I felt it was sending a message to Hollywood to keep making black movies.

  The second Sunday after 9/11 was a gloomy, rainy day, like the city was still shedding tears. When I got to the theater I was happy to see the lobby packed. I walked up to the ticket window and asked what was available. A friendly white lady with gray hair told me she had only one single seat left, in Row T, center, the last one. “I’ll take it,” I said as I slipped my credit card through the tiny opening.

  After I had signed the receipt and was deciding what I wanted to eat for a late brunch, I decided I would at least check out the first act of the show. I realized I didn’t want to spend a rainy Sunday alone, so I entered the theater and gave the usher my ticket.

  The theater was packed and buzzing with excitement. I was in the middle of a row and thought if the show was just too corny, it was going to be tough getting up and heading for the exit. But soon after the curtain rose and after a few songs, I found myself actually enjoying the show, whose cast included several African Americans in ensemble roles.

  I didn’t even get up during intermission; instead, I spent the time reading the biographies of the actors and a list of songs still to come in the second act. At the end of the show, the audience gave the cast a rousing standing ovation, and I was among the first to my feet. Then something happened that surprised me. During the curtain call, all of the actors played instruments like a real-life marching band and a huge American flag unfurled on the stage. I didn’t know if this was a part of the show or something special the cast had decided to do in support of the city and the country. All I knew was that it took everything I had to blink back the tears forming in my eyes as I cheered loudly. It was like I was at the Super Bowl and my team had just won in overtime. I realized how much the city, the nation and I had endured since 9/11, and the tears somehow released feelings about my country that I had ignored. I felt pride in being an American. It didn’t matter one bit that the people cheering alongside me and those in front of me didn’t share my color or anything else about me. We were one.

  But now this. Was I ready to get on an airplane, or would the fear the terrorists had intended become a reality? My reality. I picked up the phone again and this time I dialed Davis’s private line. He picked up after a couple of rings.

  “Davis here.”

  “Davis, this is Raymond.”

  “Did you get the schedule?” he asked.

  “Yes, I did. I haven’t heard of the airline listed,” I said as I scanned the information closely. “Is it a foreign carrier?” I asked.

  “Only if you consider a black man owning his own jet foreign,” Davis said, laughing.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Are they allowing private planes back in the air? I thought there were some restrictions,” I said.

  “Restrictions for those who don’t have the money to make things happen,” Davis said.

  “So you’re ready to get back in the air?” I wanted to ask him how long his pilot had been flying, but I didn’
t want him to know that I was still holding on to my keys to keep my hands from shaking. I was trying to remember the very first time I had flown and if I’d had any fear. Probably not, since my first flight most likely occurred when I was a fearless little boy.

  “Of course I’m ready to fly. We’ve got a deal to close. People in Europe are supporting us, but they’re also conducting business. We need to close this deal before somebody else realizes what a steal it is and slips in and buys the company while Americans are over here, acting like punks.”

  “I hear you. So we’ll be gone three days?” I asked.

  “That’s the plan, but I would pack for at least a week. I’ll attend the first couple of meetings, but then I’m coming back and allowing you to handle all the business matters. It’s up to you when you come back. All I expect is for you to come back with signed contracts.” It was business as usual for Davis; it seemed that 9/11 didn’t cause a blip on his radar for buying and selling companies.

  “So will I fly back commercial?”

  “You can. Is that a problem?”

  Again I didn’t want to sound like a punk, so I quickly said, “That’s fine.”

  “Good. I’ll see you in the morning. My driver will pick you up around seven.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said before I hung up the phone. I loosened my tie and the top button on my shirt so I could wipe away the film of sweat that was surrounding my neck. I made a mental note to pick up a turtleneck for the trip just in case the same thing occurred on the plane. The last thing I wanted was to have Davis see me sweat.

  7

  __________________

  It had been about three days since I’d talked to Justine, and we had been engaged in a serious game of telephone tag. I had decided against asking Jabar to Dreamgirls because I was really scared he might show up in sagging jeans and combat boots.

  I finished looking over a story I had asked one of my staff members to rewrite, and I was going to make some herbal tea but decided to call Justine and see if she wanted to attend the performance with me.

  I hit speed dial number three and a voice that sounded like Justine’s answered quickly, “Praise the Lord in the name of Jesus.”

  I was taken aback for a moment, but I said, “Justine. What are you doing, girl? And what’s with that greeting?”

  “Oh, hello, sister Zola. How is the Lord blessing you today?” Justine asked. I looked at the phone like I wasn’t hearing her correctly. She had called me sister, not sistah.

  “Come on, girl. Why are you using the Lord’s name in vain? What kind of joke are you playing?”

  “Sister Zola, I would never use the Lord’s name in vain. I have been born again in the blood of Jesus: Thank you Jesus,” Justine said sternly.

  “Come on now. Stop playing.”

  “Zola, I am not playing. Sunday I was baptized in the blood of Jesus and I was reborn. The old Justine is gone, praise the Lord. Thank you, Jesus. I need to take you to this wonderful church on Ninety-third and Broadway, where I found Jesus.”

  “What was he doing?” I joked.

  “Now, Zola, I can’t have you using the Lord’s name in vain. I will pray for you.”

  “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “Devoting your life to Jesus is serious, Zola. I just wish you understood how I feel.”

  “How do you feel?”

  “Wonderfully blessed.”

  “Then I’m happy for you.”

  “Thank you, sister,” Justine said. The voice sounded like Justine’s, but the words coming out didn’t sound like my childhood friend’s. This was not the woman who said she didn’t want anything to do with church unless she was certain that it was filled with good-looking, well-hung single men.

  “I called to see if you wanted to go to this special concert performance of Dreamgirls. Hayden is in the chorus and he gave me his comp tickets. It should be big fun, girl. Tickets are going as high as twenty-five hundred dollars,” I said.

  “I can’t go. I will be at church,” Justine said quickly.

  “I didn’t even say when it was.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I will be at church, praising the Lord, every evening. I have so much prayer to catch up on,” Justine said, her voice now sounding distant.

  “Okay, maybe I should ask Jabar or maybe Davis, but he probably can’t go out in public with something like that. Do you want to get something to eat tomorrow? It’s been a while since I’ve seen you, and I haven’t seen you since you’ve been reborn. Do you still look the same?” I joked, trying to switch the heavy conversation into something light.

  “I look the same, but I will never be the same. Thank you, Jesus.”

  “What about dinner?”

  “Not this week. I’m fasting. Maybe when it’s over.”

  “Are you trying to lose some weight for the Lord?”

  “I am cleansing my soul.”

  “Okay, well, I guess I’m happy for you,” I said softly.

  “Be very happy for me. God is so amazing.”

  “I guess so. Well, you take care of yourself.”

  “I will and I will pray for you, sister Zola.”

  “You do that. Good night, Justine.”

  “With Jesus every night is a good night.”

  I wanted to say whatever, but instead I ended the conversation with another good night.

  I didn’t even hang up the phone but dialed Kai’s number. She picked up after a couple of rings.

  “Hello, Zola.”

  I hated caller ID, because it took all the surprise out of calling your friends.

  “Hey, girl. What are you doing?”

  “Sipping on a little champagne, thinking about all the men that got away. What are you doing?”

  “I’m getting ready for bed. Have you talked to Justine lately?”

  “Yeah, I talked to Sister Jesus. Isn’t that the craziest shit that has happened since 9/11?” Kai let out a loud, exotic laugh.

  “I think she’s serious. But I guess I need to see what the minister and the deacons look like at that church. It sounds like somebody has taken over her body. Justine didn’t even sound like herself. I kept looking at the phone and around my bedroom to make sure I wasn’t in some crazy dream.”

  “It’s some strange shit. I was going to call you and warn you. I had talked to her just after she had walked on the water or whatever they do when they get saved. You want to go out and have some drinks and see if there are any new men on the scene?”

  “I can’t do that, honey. I wish I could, but I have a busy day tomorrow. I can’t believe you want to go out on a Sunday night.”

  “Zola, I am going out every night until I meet somebody I can bring home. I have had enough of this being-alone shit. Girl, I was so lonesome the other night, I almost called that good-for-nothing ex of mine. He was always good for holding me tight after I gave him some, and, honey, your sister needs to be held on a regular basis.”

  “I heard that, but I don’t think you should tell Justine that. She’s busy praying for my soul now. I don’t think she’s got time for the both of us. You know, since she’s Jesus’ new best friend.” I laughed nervously. I believed in God but wasn’t convinced Justine was now dealing with a full deck—I couldn’t really be sure until I was face-to-face with her.

  “Don’t worry about her, honey. Justine is just tripping. She will be back to her old ways in no time. Give this religion shit about a month. So I can’t talk you into going out?”

  “Not tonight, but maybe this weekend if you haven’t found your prince.”

  “Honey, you should see this outfit I am going to wear tonight. If I don’t find him tonight, this is going to be much harder than I expected,” Kai said.

  “What are you wearing?”

  “Let’s just say it involves a mini, something sheer and something leather.”

  “Sounds hot! Good luck, hon.”

  “I got a question to ask you,” Kai said.

  “I’m listening.”


  “Can women buy condoms, or is that like men trying to buy sanitary napkins?” Kai asked. Here I was, thinking what a normal conversation we were having, so I decided to ignore her question.

  “Talk to you soon. Love you.”

  “I love you too,” Kai said.

  When I walked into the elevator at work the next morning, fine-ass Raymond Tyler was there with a smile on his face. I wondered how long he had had to wear braces, since his teeth looked perfect. He had on a well-tailored blue pin-striped suit with an off-white shirt and matching silk tie, and he smelled good.

  “Good morning, Zola. Going up?”

  “Good morning. I think I’d better, since it’s such a beautiful day. I might be tempted to play hooky if I stay in this lobby a second longer,” I said.

  “I feel you. I’ve been on a plane all night,” Raymond said.

  “Oh, that’s right. You were in London. How did it go?” I asked.

  “Great. Now, Davis owns a part of the media in London,” Raymond said.

  “That Davis, even a national tragedy doesn’t stop him from making money,” I said.

  When we reached our floor, Raymond, ever the gentleman, motioned with a slight nod of his head and hand for me to go first. I thought about the times when I was on the elevator with Jabar and men like him and how they didn’t think anything about walking out before me. Davis did the same thing when we were alone, but never when there were other men present. He always strutted out front like he was the king of the world leading a parade in his honor.

  When he opened the door for me, I decided I loved this kind of treatment, so I turned to Raymond and asked him, “What are you doing this evening?”

  “I don’t have any plans. Maybe a little workout and some dinner,” Raymond said.

  “How would you like to attend a performance of Dreamgirls?” I asked.

  “Dreamgirls? I didn’t know it was in town,” Raymond said.

  “It’s only one night. It’s the twentieth anniversary of the show and they’re doing a benefit,” I said.