“Oh,” Ms. Stovall said softly. “Do you mind if I ask what happened to your mother?” Madison appreciated the sensitive way that the teacher raised her eyebrow and asked the question as if she didn’t want to bring up any bad memories for her new student.
“My mother gave me up at birth,” Madison said with a matter-of-fact tone. She glanced down at her blue jeans, her favorite pair of True Religion with the white stitching. “Oddly enough, so that she could pursue a show business career. I don’t think she ever wanted to be a mother.”
Sympathy warmed Ms. Stovall’s eyes. “How sad. I wanted my career, but I always knew I wanted children. I’m so happy the good Lord was great enough to give me both.”
Madison was intrigued. She wanted to envision what this beautiful woman had done on stage and on camera. “What did you do in business? I mean you look young now, but when you were, say, my age.”
Ms. Stovall told Madison how she had started in the Miss America system, won a state title and then came to New York and appeared on Broadway. When Madison asked her what shows she had done, the only one Madison recognized was Dreamgirls.
“Which role did you play?”
Excitement beamed from Ms. Stovall’s face as she remembered her time in the spotlight. “I played several roles in different companies but mostly I played Deena Jones.”
“Oh, the role Beyonce played?”
“Not Beyonce, but more Sheryl Lee Ralph,” Ms. Stovall said with a smile. “Many, many years ago.”
Madison tried to picture her teacher in a starring role. “Was that a movie, too?”
Ms. Stovall shook her head, making the diamond solitaires in her ears sparkle in the sunlight. “No, there was always talk about a movie back in the day, but it never happened until Jennifer Hudson and Beyonce came along.”
“Oh,” Madison said. Now it was her voice that rang with a bit of sympathy. “So did you do movies and television, too?”
“Lots of commercials, small roles in films.” As Ms. Stovall spoke, she glanced down at her elegant manicure and the wedding ring on her left hand. “Have you decided what you want to do with your career? Have you thought about doing Broadway? You have the voice to be able to give a winning performance every night.”
“You think so? That’s so nice of you to say that.” Madison smiled at her teacher, thinking how lucky Ms. Stovall’s kids were. She would have done anything to have a mother like her. If Nicole weren’t married, Madison would call herself Cupid and introduce this lady to Daddy. They were even around the same age.
“Strong pipes and sweet sound,” Ms. Stovall exclaimed. “I’m going to teach you how to protect it like the instrument that it is so that you can have a long career. Here, drink this.” Ms. Stovall handed Madison a bottle of water. Then she reached in her purse, pulled out a packet of honey and instructed Madison to pour it into her water.
“So this is good for me?” Madison asked as she followed her instructions.
“Very good for you, Madison. You’re a very pretty and talented young lady. I think your mother might be sorry she missed this.” Ms. Stovall pushed back Madison’s hair from her face with a motherly touch.
Madison, her eyes round with the wonderful feeling, simply mouthed, “Thank you.”
MADISON BOUNCED INTO THE hotel suite and did a not so perfect ballet leap across the living room floor.
“Daddy,” she sang, “I’m home!”
“I see, Miss Dance Theatre of Harlem,” Derrick said as he walked out of his bedroom. With his dark chocolate complexion and rugged coolness, Madison thought he was the most handsome man in the world.
“How was your day?” she asked.
“It was great,” he said. “I take it the voice lesson went well.”
“It was amazing!” she said. “Ms. Springer-Stovall was wonderful and really loved my voice. I’m so glad we hired her. She was in the Dreamgirls from a long time ago.” Madison gave her father a speculative look. “Nicole is her first name and she is gorgeous and seems like a perfect mom. I can’t wait for you to meet her, Dad. I wish you could find a woman like that to marry. Too bad Ms. Stovall already is.” Madison plopped down on the sofa. “Ms. Stovall, this is my dad, Derrick. He’s the most coolest in the world.”
Her father shook his head. “Stop playing matchmaker, Madison.” He walked over to the desk where they kept not only the hotel room service menu, but several takeout menus from nearby places that delivered. “What do you want to eat for dinner? I feel like some real good sushi.”
“Sushi would be good,” Madison said, not to be distracted from her subject. “I’m just saying, if you’re not going to get back with Shanice, we gotta come up with another plan.”
“I told you to leave my social life alone, Maddy.” Derrick felt a surge of protectiveness toward his daughter when she met a woman she liked or when he introduced her to someone he was interested in. Of all the gifts he could shower on his daughter, there was no way he could give her the one thing she longed for the most—a mother who would love her as much as Madison was capable of loving in return.
While Derrick was dialing, Madison leaped up from the sofa.
“I know what I’m going to do,” she announced. “I’ll google Ms. Nicole and see if I can pull up a picture of her, so I can show you, Daddy.”
Derrick smiled with amusement as Madison sashayed like a Broad-way star to her bedroom where her laptop awaited.
CHAPTER
6
In her quest to meet Madison, Ava turned to the computer again. The little money she had was steadily shrinking, and soon enough, she feared Yancey would sell the house and she would be homeless before she could complete her mission. It was imperative that Ava get in touch with the golden child.
She spent an hour sifting through several Madison B. fan websites, reading the childish mess that was written on different blogs about Madison and the American Star show. Finally Ava found a site that listed Madison’s booking information and manager—she was being handled by the Thurston Silas Agency. Ava scribbles the name and number at the bottom of her notepad, then punches it into the phone. She’s trying to think of what approach she should take with the manager. She remembers when she was in show business, her manager was always protective of her and wouldn’t give out information to people just wanting to meet her. This was going to take some skill.
The phone rang once, then twice, and then during the third time, Ava told herself she had to make something happen. She was a talented actress. She hadn’t used her skills in years, if you didn’t count all the performances she’d put on trying to get her way while in prison. If her skills worked in the joint, there wasn’t any reason Ava couldn’t fool some talent manager.
“Good afternoon, Thurston Silas Agency,” a pleasant-sounding voice answered.
Ava decided on a tone of authority. “Thurston, please.”
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“This is Ava Middlebrooks, owner of the Parker Agency of Beverly Hills.”
“May I tell Thurston what this is in reference to?”
“Is she in?”
“I’ll first need to know what this call is regarding.”
“I’ll tell Thurston myself.”
This girl was no dummy and knew how to handle the strong come-on. “Why don’t I take your number and have her call you?”
“Is she there?”
“Is this your number that came up on our caller ID? The area code is 917. I thought you said your company was in Beverly Hills.”
“We are bicoastal, little girl. Your agency manages Madison B., doesn’t it?”
“Yes, we do.”
“I need to get in contact with Madison,” Ava said.
“Is this regarding a booking?”
Ava thought for a minute and then answered, “Yes.”
“Do you have a date? I would need to give that to Thurston.”
“I need to speak with Madison directly.”
“I don’t think that’s possib
le. We handle all of Madison’s booking ourselves.”
“Well, I have a very rich client whose daughter is having a sweet sixteen party. She is Madison’s biggest fan. What is her booking fee?”
“A sweet sixteen party?” the girl asked almost incredulously. “Can you hold on for a second?”
“Yes, but be quick. Ava doesn’t have all day.”
A few seconds later, Ava heard the voice from the phone talking to someone else in the office. “There’s some crazy woman on the line wanting to book Madison for a sweet sixteen party. Should I tell her that’s impossible or just take her number?”
Crazy? Who did this bitch think she was talking about? Another female voice said, “Yeah, take her number. We got bigger problems than some birthday party. I just got off the phone with Madison’s dad. Her assistant quit and we got to hire one quick before the tour this summer. Call some personal assistant employment firms.”
When Ava heard that, she thought the perfect plan had just landed in her lap. She hung up the phone before the young lady came back.
She smiled a big, self-satisfied grin. “I think it’s time for the Ava Parker Personal Assistants Agency to open for business,” she announced, writing the name of her new company on the pad just to see how it looked in print.
Ava went to her purse and pulled out her cell phone, looked up Lyrical’s number and pressed Talk .
After a few rings Lyrical answered. “I thought you were trying to trick a bitch and not call a muthafucker.”
“Now, why would I do that, darling? I’ve just been real busy. Listen, I have something important to discuss. Can you meet me at the bar at the W Hotel in the theater district?”
“What’s the theater district?”
Ava closed her eyes in disbelief, wondering how this child could have lived in New York all her life and not know about the theater district.
“I mean Times Square,” Ava said with emphasis.
“Oh shit, why didn’t you say that?”
Ava shook her head. “Can you meet me around six-thirty?”
“Is this about my music career?”
Ava paused for a moment and said, “Yes, Lyrical. It sure is.”
“Then a bitch will be there with bells on, Ava.”
“Great! See you then.”
A LITTLE BEFORE SEVEN, Lyrical walked into the midtown bar and spotted Ava sitting at a high corner table by a window. Ava took a sip of her drink and waved at Lyrical to join her. When she approached the table, Ava looked at her watch and asked, “Why are you late?”
“I was trying to figure out how to record my favorite show. Have you seen Housewives of Atlanta? I love those crazy bitches.” Lyrical laughed.
Ava was offended by the trifling show. “Why are you wasting your time watching that show? Those women are so fake. Trust me when I tell you real society women don’t act like that. I bet they are up to their elbows in debt in those cheap-looking houses.”
Lyrical took a seat facing the window. “I don’t care. I want to be like that one day. NeNe is my favorite and I even like her husband the best. Now, her son, he is ghetto, but I like that. Can’t stand Kim and Sheree. They are so fake.”
“Whatever, Lyrical,” Ava said with a knowing smile. “You know I didn’t come here to talk about wannabes. I came here to talk about me. I want to open my own business and I want to hire you as my personal assistant.”
“What kind of business?”
“I don’t know yet, but it will deal with the entertainment area. Have you heard of this Madison B. girl?”
Lyrical sat up straight. “The one who won American Star?”
“Yeah, that’s her. What do you think of her?’
“I don’t know much about her. I don’t like that pretty black girl trying to be white type of music. That ain’t my thang,” Lyrical said.
“I’m trying to get in touch with her management because you make a valid point. Maybe she needs to be marketing to black people only. This is our time, you know.”
Lyrical got right down to business. “How much are you going to pay me?”
“I won’t have a lot of money at first, but my train is coming in soon, so you’re going to have to trust me,” Ava said.
“What about what you promised?”
“What are you talking about?”
“About teaching me how to be a lady and shit.” She pounded the table with a solid thump. “You promised. Since I never had a mother to teach me those things I’m depending on you, Ava. If my own mother had lived, I wouldn’t be in this position,” Lyrical said.
“I know, boo,” Ava said, picking up her drink. How was she going to avoid this conversation? The one she’d had with Lyrical many times while they were in prison. How Lyrical had lost her mother to AIDS when she was ten, when her mother got mixed up with the wrong guy and became hooked on drugs. If Ava had to hear that story one more time, she was going to scream.
“So when are we going to start our lessons?”
“Very soon, hon.”
Lyrical didn’t sound happy being put off like that. “What will I do as your personal assistant, and will I have time for my music?”
“You will do a little bit of everything, and sure, you’ll have time for your music. Besides, you work on that basically at night. Am I right?”
Lyrical nodded grudgingly. “Yeah, that’s right. Let me think about it for a couple of days.”
“Okay. Do you think I can meet your boyfriend Donnie Ray?”
Lyrical appeared crestfallen. “What do you want to meet him for? I thought this was about my music career and your new business.”
“It is but I think he might be able to help me do a favor for a friend, who will in turn do a favor for me and you. Do you get my drift?”
“Oh, I see that’s how it works. Sure, I can make the hookup. When do you want to meet him?”
“As soon as possible. Do you want a drink?”
“No, honey,” Lyrical said, looking around the room. “No telling who might be in this joint scoping us bitches out. If I were you, I’d be more careful.”
“Ava is always careful,” she said with a sip. “Trust me on that one. So suit yourself. I’m going to get my drink on.”
CHAPTER
7
It had been five days since I’d returned from Miami and still no word from S. Marcus about whether he’d found the financing for my show. Things were getting tighter by the minute. Every time my cell or land line rang and an 800 or unfamiliar ZIP code flashed across the screen, I grew agitated that yet another bill collector had learned how to get in contact with me.
My mortgage company was trying to goad me into a quick sale of my town house, but I wasn’t going to do that because then there wouldn’t be money to buy something cheaper in New York or even Florida, where I had now decided I wanted to live if something didn’t come up acting-wise. And if the auditions I’d been going to were any indication, that wasn’t going to happen soon. I’d gone on several national commercial castings but wasn’t called back. There was one soap opera audition that I really wanted, but they decided to go with someone older. It seemed I couldn’t win.
So the reality show would serve two purposes: bringing me back into the public eye and shoring up my finances. S. Marcus told me that a lot of people with financial problems looming always bought property in Florida because of more lenient bankruptcy laws. I had to admit that as long as it was taking to get my show going, I liked being around S. Marcus. His age or lack of honesty at times was of no concern to me. If it was good enough for Demi Moore and Cher then it was good enough for me.
Just as I’m finishing the first half of my sandwich, my cell phone rings. I see it’s S. Marcus. I use the linen napkin to brush the side of my mouth and smile as I answer.
“Hey, baby girl. What’s shaking?”
“Just having myself a little lunch my housekeeper fixed for me,” I lied.
“I didn’t know you had a housekeeper.”
“Oh yes. He
r name is Tilda and she’s been with me for years. She must have been off when you visited me.” Sometimes when I make up these quick stories I think maybe I should consider writing a novel like Kimberla Lawson Roby, an author I started reading on long bus rides.
“Well I guess I’ll be seeing a lot of Tilda in the future.”
“What do you mean?” I asked. Having to hire some imaginary housekeeper was the last thing I needed to add to my woes.
“Are you sitting down?”
“Of course I am.”
“It looks like Jeff is going to finance your reality show. It certainly will get green-lit with financing. You brought your A game, Yancey, and he was impressed just like I knew he’d be.”
“You’re kidding,” I said as I jumped up from the table, spilling the cranberry juice and lime onto the tray. Now I really did need a maid to clean up this mess.
“Nope.” He laughed. “We even thought of a catchy title.”
“You did? What?”
“Diva-Tude. I love it, but I can’t take credit. It was Jeff’s idea. There are still a few things to work out, like with the cast. But I think since we’re not going to use your mother, your housekeeper might be an excellent replacement. Is she foreign?”
“Yes. Hispanic,” I lied quickly. I started to add that she spoke with a German accent but stopped myself.
“Okay. I have to check her out even though I like the idea of getting a quirky assistant like the one in the Kathy Griffin Show, maybe even two. We could have a guy and a girl.”
“Two,” I squealed. “That would be fierce, Marcus. Trust me, I can find plenty of stuff for them to do. Maybe one of them can be gay. Most likely the guy because a gay girl would surely spend her time trying to hit on me, which is understandable but not cool.”
“That might be cool. We’ll talk about all that when I come to New York and scout some locations.”
“I thought we’d film it here,” I said, hoping that part of the budget could be used to pay my mortgage and back taxes. I realized suddenly that I also needed a severe wardrobe makeover. It had been years since I was able to buy a nice dress or a pair of good shoes.
Mama Dearest Page 12