The Pride

by Wallace Ford

  And it was at that point that the feeling that I had since driving back from Samantha’s grave showed me the way to feeling bad all the time. I found the way to self-pity. I reveled in that awful feeling for a few minutes.

  I thought of myself as all alone. Despite my many friends, my clients, colleagues, associates, the members of The Pride, my personal network of contacts … I thought of myself at that moment as being all alone. I could see no way out of this maze of bad feelings.

  That made me realize once more that not only would I miss Samantha for the rest of my life, but that for the rest of my life I would always compare every moment that approached happiness to my times with her. And that would mean that not only would I be alone, I would also never be happy again. And I found myself starting to cry.

  It was strange, crying like that. There have been times, like the funerals of my father and brother, when I did cry. But crying was not a part of my regular routine. But after Samantha’s death, something changed.

  Of course I cried in the hospital when the awful and final pronouncement was made by the doctors. And I felt more than a few tears coursing their way down my face during Reverend Wesley’s eulogy.

  But for some three or four months after Samantha died, I found myself crying in the morning. I simply cried at the beginning of each day.

  I imagine that I cried because dawn was Samantha’s favorite time of day. Whatever the reason might have been, for the next few months I was absolutely miserable in the morning. I found myself crying for no reason except that I felt the sadness and misery and desolation of missing a loved one who would never smile at me or be held in my arms again.

  And then, one evening, after a few months of inexpressible misery every morning, I had an incredible and wonderful visitor. I was in my office, on the phone, looking at e-mail and leafing through my mail. I was multitasking and working late as usual. And then Samantha walked in.

  “Hello, Paul. Trying to do too many things at once again, I see.” Her smile was like a stage spotlight, lighting up the stage and my soul. And she looked wonderful.

  “Samantha …?” I simply could not find the words. All the things I had wanted to say to her were colliding with each other, looking to be the first to present themselves.

  “Really Paul, I thought you might have a little bit more to say. Has it been that long?” The lilt of her voice, the tilt of her chin, the sparkle in her eyes. I thought I was dreaming at first, but it couldn’t be. It was Samantha! Somehow Samantha was standing in my office!

  “But Samantha … how? I thought that …” I felt like a puppy on ice … my mind had no balance. Nothing made sense. I was just starting to accept her being gone a little more every day. I was with her in the hospital that awful day. I flew with her casket to Gary. I placed a rose on her casket in the grave, for God’s sake!

  I knew that she was dead, but there she was, standing in front of me. She was smiling the smile that promised love and warmth for an eternity. I just could not comprehend the miracle that was before me. And I was so afraid to question my good fortune that all I could do was sit there, virtually speechless.

  It was as if she could read my mind. It had always seemed that she could do that. And she always knew what to say.

  “Paul, you were the one to teach me not to believe everything that people say.”

  “But Samantha, the doctors … Reverend Wesley …?”

  “Paul, look at me. I’m fine. Just fine.” She dismissed my doubts and questions like a fairy queen waving away the bad spirits with a magic wand.

  “I have missed you so much, Samantha. So very much.”

  “Why are you missing me, darling? You can see I am right here with you. And I always will be with you. That is what you want, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, Samantha. You know that. You have always known that.” I found myself starting to cry tears of joy and relief. I don’t know what the feelings were, but they were real. Feelings as real as her standing in front of me.

  “I have some things to do right now, Paul, but I’ll see you soon. I love you, darling.” And then she turned to walk out of my office.

  “I love you too, darling. But Samantha! Wait a minute …” And she was gone.

  And then I woke up.

  I sat straight up in my bed as if I had been catapulted from my pillow. I have walked on beaches around the world and have known the true sensation of feeling the grains of sand beneath my feet. I have smelled the smells and seen the colors of life and I know reality when I encounter it. And I will swear for the rest of my life that I was really and truly speaking to Samantha and that in some dimension, in some different space and time, in the dream, we actually met and spoke for a few minutes.

  Over time I have spoken to other people who have lost someone close to them. They all speak of that loved one returning in a dream a month later, four months later. There is no rule, of course.

  But at some point that loved one has returned to let someone know that it is O.K. to move on, that life and death must take their turn. Some call it closure.

  I just called it relief.

  CHAPTER 69

  Paul

  Jagged jigsaw pieces

  After that morning, I never felt alone. Many things have happened since then, including my getting married. Of course there is also the wonderful miracle of Paul Jr. But that visit with Samantha helped me to at least come to grips with the notion that life and death must indeed take their turn. From time to time, Samantha still visits, as do my brother and father.

  And I am happier for their visits.

  But as that plane landed at La Guardia that Saturday night, I did not know anything about closure or future visits from Samantha. I did know that there was work to be done.

  I went straight to my office to continue to work on the merger. There were lawyers’ documents with which I had been wrestling all summer. We were supposed to be meeting at Gordon’s place in Sag Harbor in three weeks to finalize the deal. Even with an agreement in principle between Gordon, Jerome, and Diedre, there was a hell of a lot of work left to do.

  As I walked into my office and spent my first Saturday night without Samantha in my life, I hoped that working on this deal of a lifetime might take my mind away from that cemetery in Gary.

  The three weeks before that all-important meeting on Long Island moved like absolute lightning during the day. And time moved like some kind of macabre prehistoric glacier during the night. Thankfully, during the day there was a veritable avalanche of paperwork, phone calls, and negotiations.

  It was a great idea not to have Jerome, Gordon, and Diedre negotiate with each other. But, as the clearinghouse for all comments, concerns, issues and criticisms, I felt like I was carrying the weight of the whole deal.

  Given the circumstances, that was probably a good thing as it kept my mind off the pain I felt upon Saman-tha’s death. It was impossible to just sit and grieve when there were interminable faxes, conference calls from hell and a general state of pandemonium which converted my office into some kind of firehouse on permanent four-alarm call.

  And, there was other business to which I had to attend, of course. During those few weeks there were at least four round trips to Los Angeles, each trip for less than twenty-four hours, dealing with the sale of the dramatic rights of novels written by two different authors that I represented. Business was good and getting better. But those glacial evenings! And those doleful mornings!

  At some point, the workday ended. At some point it was time to go home. And at some point, while I sat at home in the middle of the night, all the fine wines, fine cuisine and fine women could not make me forget that Samantha would never enter my doorway again. And then, with dawn would come the tears.

  I remember taking on the task of packing up her apartment and shipping her personal effects to Mr. and Mrs. Gideon back in Gary. I tried to think of reasons to procrastinate. But it was my fate and responsibility to handle this task for her aggrieved parents.

  In a
strange, Catholic sort of way, I looked upon the whole experience as penance. Penance for the sins that I had committed and penance for the sins that I might commit in the future. As the great John Lee Hooker might have said, “It serves you right to suffer.”

  But somehow, some way, I was able to gently fold her clothes into the painfully plain and ordinary cardboard boxes that the moving company had provided. I took the framed posters announcing her performances in Gstaad and Nice and Compton off the walls and packed them carefully, as if Samantha might be looking at them again soon.

  And by the time I finished on that hot August night, I had said goodbye to Samantha in a very special, painful way. Even so, a part of my heart would be saying goodbye to her forever.

  And just like that, I was back at my desk, juggling phone calls and visiting clients. There were documents to be reviewed, deals to be completed, and deals to be chased. And then, there was that incredibly important meeting that was going to be held in Sag Harbor in just a little while.

  I knew that if Samantha were alive she would want me to live my life to the fullest. And so I chased the deal of a lifetime with renewed vigor and energy. By the time the Thursday before Labor Day arrived, all the relevant documents had been faxed and hand-delivered to the principals. Hard copies of all signature documents had been sent to Gordon’s Sag Harbor address via Federal Express.

  As you can imagine, Gordon, Diedre, and Jerome commiserated as best they could after Samantha passed away. In an incredibly uncharacteristic moment of humanity, Gordon even suggested postponing the meeting if that would help me.

  Of course I wouldn’t hear of it. The truth was that my pain and mourning would not be assuaged by a postponement. And I knew what Samantha would have wanted me to do.

  Diedre suggested a memorial service in New York for all of Samantha’s friends and admirers. I have to admit that I was being more than a little self-indulgent and selfish when I asked Diedre to wait awhile. I just couldn’t stand the public pain again so soon after Gary. Diedre understood and complied. And for that I was most grateful.

  Jerome and Charmaine had me over for dinner about a week after I returned from Gary. I came by, even though I knew that their mission—to comfort me—was doomed from the start. But I appreciated their concern. And, as I looked at Jerome and Charmaine and their family, I think I started to understand what was missing in my own life.

  CHAPTER 70

  Paul

  What a difference a day makes

  I had a Porsche 911, which I kept garaged and rarely drove anywhere, except in the summertime. I decided to drive out to Sag Harbor early enough on that Thursday before the Labor Day weekend so that I could avoid some of the holiday traffic and be alone with my thoughts.

  The 911 handled effortlessly on the cement ribbon that was the Long Island Expressway. I remember listening to the Modern Jazz Quartet play “Concierto de Aranjuez” with Laurindo Almeida from their “Collaboration” album. A true classic. It was the right music for the right time.

  I had the top down. The sun was shining. I was on the verge of a true professional victory. And the warmth of the summer breezes dried my tears.

  I also had some time to think. I could not forget that phone call with Sammy Groce back in January. I was still sure that it meant nothing. Nothing of note had surfaced since then that would back up any aspect of his story. But still …?

  And what about Ray Beard? Would he prove to be trouble, after all? He had been very quiet of late. And was this the right deal for Diedre, Jerome, and Gordon anyway?

  And then I had to laugh. I laughed because I knew that I was guilty of taking myself too damn seriously. Samantha and Diedre were two people upon whom I could count to make sure that I didn’t get too full of myself. But with neither of them around, I just had to laugh at myself. Whatever was going to happen was going to happen. I had a bright idea, and some very smart people thought that it was a good idea. We had all worked very hard to make it happen.

  If it did turn out to be a disaster, none of us would have been smart enough to see it coming. So all I could do was laugh at myself and my worries and speed toward that pivotal, fateful meeting in Sag Harbor.

  CHAPTER 71

  Gordon

  Hot fun in the summertime

  The history of Sag Harbor is interesting. It is as interesting as the story of any number of vacation enclaves established and developed by black Americans over the years. Just under the radar screen of most of white America, Sag Harbor, Oak Bluffs, Virginia Beach, and Keyport were just some of the places that blacks decided would do just fine as vacation getaways. The primary attraction of these locations has always being an absence of discrimination and the willingness of white property owners to sell to blacks.

  Over the years, Sag Harbor had become an exclusive refuge for many of the black elite in the New York City metropolitan area. You did not just win the numbers and move to Sag Harbor. Generations of families populated its environs, developing a class and caste system that would make the Cabots and Lodges pleased as punch.

  And then The Pride arrived. Wall Street money in the hands of younger blacks changed Sag Harbor forever . In what seemed like an instant, it didn’t matter whose mother knew whose grandmother. Fraternity and sorority and church memberships meant little or nothing.

  All of a sudden, people like Jerome Hardaway and I would show up with a million dollars in hand, preferring to live in a predominantly black section of Eastern Long Island rather than someplace in the Hamptons or Quogue. And that’s how The Pride moved into Sag Harbor, buying, building and changing that quaint little community in the blink of an eye.

  When I decided to buy a place in Sag, my firm was already doing very well. I was personally clearing close to ten million dollars a year. So the idea of paying a half a million dollars for a house so that I could tear it down and build an eight-bedroom place with a three-bedroom guesthouse, complete with pool, tennis court, Jacuzzi and private dock for my yacht, made all the sense in the world to me. And I just did it.

  Many other members of The Pride followed suit. Fabulous homes in Sag Harbor became one more badge of honor for charter members of The Pride to wear. And many wore it well.

  I saw Paul’s Porsche pull up the seventy-yard driveway that led to the house. He drove past my Benz limo and my idiot chauffeur who was polishing it. I still had not decided how to punish that motherfucker for even thinking about fucking my Kenitra. But his time would come, of that I was sure.

  I came down from the master bedroom into the foyer and hallway so that I could open the door to greet Paul myself. I always thought that, with the cathedral ceilings, multiple skylights and indirect lighting, the interior of my house resembled that of an alien spaceship newly arrived on the Planet Earth.

  “Paul. Welcome to Casa Gordon.” I embraced him and gave him a brotherly hug as he came in the door. “This is going to be a great weekend, brother. Just great. I remember what you said about history at the Water Club back in January. Paul, you’ve got me believing now.”

  “Glad to see you, Gordon. The weather’s great. I had a wonderful drive out here. No complaints at all.”

  I didn’t get to see Paul in too many casual settings, and I couldn’t remember the last time I had seen him in a sport jacket and jeans. I remember him mentioning the custom-made tab collar shirts that he had made in Hong Kong, and I made a note to myself to remember to get the name of the tailor that he used there. I think his name was Tommy Lo.

  “Did FedEx do its job and get all the paperwork to you?”

  “Everything is fine. Everything seems to be in order. Just fine, just fine.”

  Paul was cordial and pleasant. I knew that he had been through a lot, what with his bitch Samantha dying and still having to keep this deal together. I know I would have handled things differently. But then, Paul and I have always been different people.

  “Listen, man, I am sure that you want to get to your room, take a shower and change. Jerome and Diedre will be he
re soon enough and then we can have dinner and take care of business.”

  I showed Paul to his guest room which was actually a three-room suite on the side of the house opposite the master bedroom suite.

  “Here you go, brother. Private bath, balcony overlooking the sea. If you have any needs, please let the management know. We are here to serve you, Mr. Taylor.”

  I said the last part with a falsetto voice, trying to get a little humor going. Paul laughed, but I knew better than to try to get too funny.

  “Thanks, Gordon. Great house you have here, by the way. I am going to get settled and go for a run and then get ready for dinner.”

  “Make yourself at home. You should try running along the beach. It should be pretty good out there this time of day. When you get back you will find that there is a bar in your room. If you need anything, Hilda is in the kitchen and will fix you anything that you need. Kenitra is resting right now, but she will join us for drinks before dinner.”

  “Got it. Thanks again, Gordon.”

  CHAPTER 72

  Paul

  That’s the way of the world

  I could smell the salt air percolating off the surf as I ran on the hard-packed sand. Watching the seagulls and the petrels perform aerobatics in the azure sky helped me to forget just about everything for a little while. And I was more than grateful for that respite.

  I finished my run by sprinting up Gordon’s football field of a driveway and by then I was exhausted and spent. I was ready for a hot shower and a nap. I was not ready to eavesdrop on the loud, angry voices of a man and a woman in another wing of the house. It was damn sure none of my business, but I knew that it had to be Gordon and Kenitra illustrating one of the many facets of wedded bliss.

  I was grateful for the long hot shower and the sound system that was in my suite of rooms. I had brought “Pieces of a Man” by Gil Scott-Heron, another classic that I always enjoyed … as did Samantha. I fixed myself a gin and tonic with a lime wedge, had a few sips and slept the sleep of the just and innocent.