“Did I what?” Ava asked, looking away. I knew this meant she was getting ready to tell me a big fat lie.
I walked over and directly confronted her. “You heard me. Did you tell someone that I didn’t want to sell my house?”
“Who told you that?”
“Ava!” I screamed, stomping my feet. “Just answer my question.”
“You don’t need to sell this house. This is a nice place, and since I gave you the down payment, I felt like I had a say. It’s as much mine as yours.”
“I paid you back. How dare you do that without my permission?”
She mumbled, not meeting my eyes, “They wanted to bring someone over to see the place and I needed a bubble bath. Besides, where are we going to stay?”
“We? Ava, we don’t do well together for long periods of time. I figured you were going back to California. I’m going to find me something smaller, maybe in Harlem.”
Ava wiped sweat from her face with the towel she held. “You know full well I can’t move back to California.”
Was I losing my mind? “Why can’t you go back to California?”
“Because they would only release me if I had a place to go,” she confessed. “The prison officials think you called them and said I could live with you.”
At last we were getting to the truth. “Now, how did that happen? I never agreed to that.”
She looked at me like I was dumb. “I got one of my friends to call and act like you. I guess she did a good job.” Ava laughed.
I groaned. Why didn’t I guess she’d pull some stunt like this. “I wish you would stop using my name in vain.”
“Besides, how are you going to buy another house? I bet your credit is worse than mine.”
“Let me worry about that,” I said sharply. “And in the future if you’re going to answer my phone, don’t pretend you’re me. Just take a message and write it down. Do I make myself clear?”
“Honey, you must have me confused. I would never pretend to be somebody else, especially you,” Ava said.
“Whatever. Need I remind you some years ago you went to an audition with Robert DeNiro pretending to be me?”
“And your point is?”
She was deliberately playing stupid. “I will make this simple: just don’t answer my phone. Also, I’m having company in a couple of days, and if you’re not going back to California, then we’re going to have to find you a hotel.”
“I’m sure the Four Seasons has plenty of rooms.”
“Who’s got Four Seasons money? You told me you lost all your money to your lawyer filing appeals.”
“Maybe your visiting friend has money. Is this the guy who’s been sending you all these flowers and texting you every five minutes? You need to tell that nigga to send us some food and drink.”
When in doubt, Ava copped an attitude. “That is none of your business. Look, get on the computer right now and check hotels.com. Nothing over two hundred dollars a night,” I said.
“Where in the hell am I going to find anything decent in New York for fewer than two hundred dollars? I know it’s been a long time since I’ve been in a hotel but they were way more than that before I went to the joint. Otherwise, I’ll just be quiet as a church mouse when your company comes.”
“Oh no, you won’t. I want my house empty.”
“Then get me some suitable accommodations.”
I’d had enough. I know how she played, and I wasn’t going to be drawn into her game. “I’m going to the gym.”
“Bring me back a chicken sandwich with some curly fries,” Ava said.
“Is that on your diet plan?”
“It sure is, darling. Why don’t you bring me a milk shake, made with skim milk, of course,” Ava said.
Exasperated, I shook my head and went out the door. My mother was back and already wearing my nerves thin.
CHAPTER
8
Ava is not feeling this at all. She is hanging on to an overhead rail as the subway train bumps quickly across the tracks, tossing her this way and that, practically sending her falling to the floor. She had not traveled by public transit in decades, when she, too, was a struggling actress looking for jobs. She heard how terrible it had become, how dirty and unkempt the trains are now, but she had no idea it was this bad.
The plastic seats are filthy. The windows are coated with such a thick film of dirt and dust, she can hardly see through them, and the floors … she doesn’t even want to think of all the germs crawling around down there. Isn’t there a cleaning service that could be called? Where are city tax dollars being spent?
Ava averts her eyes from the many stares she is getting. Stares from men and women in cheap work outfits, carrying poorly made briefcases and purses. They had to know that she doesn’t belong here among them. She is special, above having to wait at subway stops, above having to tolerate the kids at the back of that subway car, wearing baggy jeans and hoodies, cracking vulgar jokes and acting ghetto. People can look at her and tell by the expensive jewelry she wears, the sparkling gold bracelet that hangs from her wrist, the watch her last husband had surprised her with that cost more than ten thousand dollars, the huge diamond ring she bought on Rodeo Drive, that she isn’t one of them.
These people don’t know that I was once damn near royalty, Ava thought to herself. Then why haven’t any of the men jumped up, quickly offering their seat when they saw a woman of her stature step through those sliding subway doors? Maybe it’s the fifteen pounds she put on while she was incarcerated. No, she isn’t a perfect size four anymore, but she still has the body of a woman half her age, or she will very soon.
If this was Rome or Paris, even Beverly Hills, she tells herself, the men would’ve behaved as gentlemen, begging her to take their seats. But these workday commoners act like they haven’t seen her in the social pages in newspapers across the world. By the vacant looks on their faces, and the time of day, Ava knows they are heading to jobs they hate. Poor trash, she thought. Ava is so thankful she has never had to live that life.
Yes, over the last seven years she had lost touch with many of her social connections, hasn’t been to a dinner party or high tea, but she is free now. It is only a matter of time before her wealthy friends learn of her release and begin calling her for brunch and vacations. Maybe she can even revive her show business career.
She’ll do one spectacular performance, then another, and another, and her phone will never stop ringing. She’ll be back on top, and this momentary misstep will be a thing of the past.
The conductor’s voice came over the train’s speakers: “Harlem, 125th Street.”
The train lurched to a stop, and Ava thankfully prepared to de-board behind a wall of other riders.
On the subway platform, she pulls out the slip of paper she had written her parole officer’s address on. She looks left, then looks right at the signs pointing up toward two separate sets of stairs. This is the stop where she is supposed to get off, but she has no clue as to which direction to continue in. People busily crossed back and forth in front of her, still paying her no mind.
“Excuse me,” Ava finally said to a man wearing a T-shirt so long it looked like a nightgown. “Can you tell me where to find the Adam Clayton Powell Building?”
The man looks at Ava like she is crazy, hunches his shoulders and says, “Lady, quit playing. Everybody knows where that building is.” He turns and keeps walking.
Fine, she thought. Ava decided she’d find it on her own. How could she expect to get any useful information from anyone making minimum wage?
Half an hour later, Ava steps off an elevator into a long, sour-smelling hallway of the Powell Building. She passes several open-door offices until she finally reaches her destination. She enters an office with drab walls, a split-pea soup color, a ratty sofa in one corner and in front of that, a chipped and marred coffee table covered with outdated magazines fanned across its top. Ava can’t believe this is the building that houses the offices of former presiden
t Bill Clinton.
“Can I help you?” a squeaky-voiced woman said from behind a high counter on the other side of the room.
“I have an appointment with a William Lomax at ten A.M.”
The overly made-up middle-aged woman chewed a wad of gum like a cow munching on cud, occasionally popping it between her teeth, much to Ava’s disgust. “Let me see, let me see,” she said, dragging an index fingernail that was painted bright red down an appointment list. “You Ava Middlebrooks?”
“That would be me,” Ava replied, suppressing her impatience.
“And you said you’re here to see Mr. Lomax?” the woman asked, looking up at Ava with a crooked smile, her two front teeth smeared with lipstick.
“Yes, that’s exactly what I said,” Ava said, becoming annoyed.
“Okay, that’s what I thought you said. Have a seat over there,” the woman said, gesturing toward the sofa. “And I’ll let Mr. Lomax know you’re here.”
Ava glanced at the soiled sofa and said, “Thank you, but I’d rather stand.”
“Suit yourself, but he might not be ready for you right away.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
Ten minutes later, Ava heard a man yell from down a hallway to the side of the receptionist’s counter. “Send my next parolee in.”
The receptionist giggled and said, “You can go in now. Right down there, last office on the right.”
Ava started down yet another hallway, a thin, dirty, worn carpet that exposed the hardwood underneath. A bare bulb hung overhead, and chipped paint flaked from the walls around her, making her ask herself, wasn’t there a nicer office they could’ve sent her to, maybe in midtown Manhattan?
Ava approached the last office on the right. The door was open, and she stepped into the small room. A large, round man sat at a desk, his back turned to Ava, as he searched through a file cabinet.
“Have a seat, Middlebrooks,” Mr. Lomax said, without turning around to address her properly. Ava continued standing until he pulled a file from the drawer, slammed it closed, then swiveled around to face her.
“I said have a seat,” Mr. Lomax said.
“The name is Mrs. Ava Middlebrooks. And please?” Ava suggested coolly.
“What?”
“I would appreciate you calling me by my given name and asking politely.”
Mr. Lomax is a fat man. His skin is the color of an eggshell, and his body is shaped like one. His head is bald on the top, and long strands of hair grow out from the side of it. In Ava’s opinion, he is dirty and unshaven, and it looks like he still has food crumbs on his mouth from the breakfast he must’ve eaten not long ago. He’s wearing a brown tweed jacket that appears too tight for him over an open-collar shirt that exposes a white V-neck undershirt. A man like this has no business talking to someone like her the way he had.
Mr. Lomax looks Ava over a moment and then starts to laugh. It sounds more like a series of coughs. “Did the warden call you Mrs. Ava Middlebrooks in prison?”
“Excuse me,” Ava says.
“Did they say please in prison?”
“No, but this isn’t prison,” Ava says, looking around his mess of an office.
“Then I ain’t calling you Mrs. or saying please now. Get it straight, Ava. You’re an ex-con, and I’m a parole officer. My job is to tell you what to do to keep you from going back inside, and make sure you do it.” He looks Ava up and down again, taking in the expensive jewelry, her clothes and her bag. She looks like she is going to a Junior League meeting. He probably has no clue what it is all worth, but she is sure he isn’t fool enough to think it was cheap.
Mr. Lomax leans forward on his desk. “See, let me explain something. I’m not your personal assistant, your therapist, and I’m definitely not one of your suitors. So if you’re looking for compassion, or understanding, or a shoulder to cry on, you’re definitely talking to the wrong man. But since you have no choice but to be here, you need to do exactly what I say. Now let me repeat myself, which, for further reference, I don’t enjoy. Have a seat, Middlebrooks.”
Angrily, Ava took a seat, placed her purse in her lap, folded her hands on top of it and watched as William Lomax typed a few key-strokes on the computer in front of him. After a few minutes he looked at Ava and said, “So, the obvious things you can’t do, unless you want to trade in those fancy clothes you’re wearing for another prison uniform, go as follows: You can’t do drugs. You can’t associate with any other known felons. No stealing, no firearms, or committing any other crimes.”
“Who do you think I am?” Ava gasped, offended. “Some common street criminal?”
“You might not be common, and you might not be street, but you are definitely a criminal. I’m sure Raymond Tyler, the man you shot, would concur,” Mr. Lomax said with a straight face. “And that brings up our next issue. You got an address, a place to stay?”
“For the record, the shooting was a simple accident and yes, I’m living at my daughter’s town house on the Upper East Side. She’s a big Broadway star, you know.”
Mr. Lomax pushed a notepad to the front of his desk, set a pencil on top of it. “I’m sure she’s a big star. Write down her address and a number where you can always be reached. You know you’re going to have to remain at that residence for at least six months.”
“What?” Ava said, surprised. “I don’t plan on staying there that long. It’s just temporary.”
“Yeah. If you consider six months temporary, or have you forgotten that this is a condition of your parole and early release?”
“Why do I have to stay there? What if I find housing of my own, like back in California?”
Mr. Lomax took off his glasses in a no-nonsense manner. “Look, these are the rules, Middlebrooks,” Mr. Lomax said. “This isn’t hard. You do what you’re supposed to do, keep your nose clean, and you won’t violate your parole and I won’t have to send you back to prison. Understood?”
Seething through clenched teeth, Ava said, “Understood, Lomax.”
His face remained entirely bland. “You also need to get a job and I’ll need the name of your supervisor.”
“A job? Tell me you’re kidding. Ava doesn’t work.”
“Well, if Middlebrooks wants to stay out of prison, Ava will work. Tell her that if you talk to her soon. Will you?”
“You think this is funny, don’t you?”
“No, funny is the Soul Circus. I take my job very seriously. Now, unless you have any more questions, I need to get ready for my next appointment. I’ll see you in two weeks. Have a good day, Middle-brooks.”
Ava gave Mr. Lomax her best raised eyebrow, got up and stomped out of the office, mad as she had been the day the judge sentenced her to prison.
An hour and a half later, standing in front of a corner pawnshop in lower Manhattan, Ava is still incensed by the grimy fat man who is her parole officer. On the subway ride home, she realizes that the fare she paid was just about all the money she has left. Although Yancey hadn’t said so, Ava had determined she didn’t have much money either. Ava desperately needs money.
As she stepped through the pawnshop door, a bell rang, announcing her entrance. She had never been in one of these places before, but this one looked straight out of Law & Order. Ava had become hooked on that show while in prison, hoping for clues on how she might get out early.
The shop is long and narrow, with a floor-to-ceiling gate to her left. Behind the gate is all the merchandise—boom-box stereos, flat-screen televisions, small kitchen appliances and lots of jewelry, mostly watches.
A square is cut out of the gate; a wood counter protrudes from the opening. A brown-skinned man with straight black hair, a beard, and an East Indian accent asks, “Can I help you, ma’am?”
Ava stood with her back against the wall behind her, almost afraid to approach. This is nothing that she wants to do, but after considering all her options for making money, fast money, this is the only one available. She steps up to the counter cautiously and says, “I
need to pawn something.”
“Okay. What do you have?”
Ava had thought about this on the subway ride back. She is wearing four pieces of jewelry. She was especially proud of the watch, a gift from her former husband, so she simply would not sell that. The ring is too beautiful to ever part with; it was off limits. The thin gold eighteen-inch necklace, with the tiny gold cross charm around the neck, she has had since forever. Besides, she knew it probably wouldn’t fetch any real money. “This bracelet,” Ava said, unclasping it, pulling it from her wrist and handing it to the man.
“Real?” he asked, examining the jewels.
Insulted, Ava almost snatches it back from him, but she needs the money so badly she controls her temper. “Of course,” she says politely.
He studies it closely.
“I paid over five thousand dollars for it some time ago. I expect it would be worth at least—”
“Nine hundred dollars,” the pawnbroker said, interrupting her in midsentence.
She flashes him an incredulous look. “Are you crazy? What kind of scam joint is this?” Ava said, no longer able to control her outrage. “Did you hear what I just told you? I paid over five thousand dollars for this.”
“Then take it back to them,” the man said, holding the bracelet out to her.
Ava forces herself to calm down again. “Please,” she said. She hates herself for behaving like this. Having been forced into this situation. This is worse than sitting with her mother in the welfare office as a child begging for more food stamps and government cheese. Lower than helping her mother clean wealthy white folks’ homes in Jackson, Tennessee.
“Look, I’ve run into some hard times. This economy is kicking my ass. I have no money. Can you give me a little more?”
The broker looks down at the bracelet again, then back at her.
“Please,” Ava says again, looking for something that resembled sympathy in his flat eyes.
“One thousand, then. That’s my final offer. Take it or leave it.”
Ava is getting one-fifth the value of her bracelet that today is surely worth more than she paid for it ten years ago, but considering she is flat broke and has no immediate means of changing that, she sighs deeply, then says, “Give me the money.”
Mama Dearest Page 7