by Candice Dow
My condo was within walking distance of Capitol Hill. So I went to the Hill first and stood there looking at the tourists, being filled up the same way I was when I came here in high school with the Junior Black Caucus. The large white building, the long stairs, heading toward the large doors, still stirred up excitement in me. I remember standing in the exact place at fourteen, thinking that I would be Congressman Patterson one day. In fact, I knew I wanted to be a politician since I was a little kid.
My parents started their firm right after they graduated from Stanford Law, and one of their first cases was a case that major law firms stayed clear of; it was defending a community living near power lines, and many of the kids had terminal illnesses. After they won, they went on to earn millions trying more cases of injustice, malpractice, and equal opportunity. While I saw the benefit in what they did, I always felt my purpose was to make a difference before the injustice was done, and politics was the one way I felt I could do that. And how ironic that my opportunity had been served to me on a silver platter. This was my chance to be heard and I owed this to myself. The bitter cold wasn’t even a factor as I stood and visualized myself running up those stairs as a Maryland congressman.
Finally, I snapped out of my trance and headed to my condo for some heat. When I swung the door open and stepped in, the loud echo of my shoes clacking on the hardwood floors made me feel that a herd of people had entered with me. I’d moved most of the living room furniture out and into the basement of my house. I stood in the middle of the floor, in my four-thousand-dollar-a-month headache. The real estate market had practically crashed, and I couldn’t sell this place even if I accepted a hundred-thousand-dollar loss. So it sits here pretty much empty, and I use it as a place to escape.
The dent in the wall remained from when Jason zapped out at the bachelor party. No matter how many times I’ve stepped in this place since that night, I question everything. I think about calling him and often I dial the number, but as always, I get the answering machine. Each time, I say, “Yeah, dawg. It’s D. Hit me back. We need to talk.”
Then I headed into my office, sat in my leather executive chair, and contemplated the pros and cons of this election. I’d worked my way deeply into the political scene in a Democratic state where Democratic congressional seats don’t become available frequently. It was now or never.
By the time I rolled up to Sonoma for lunch, I had made up my mind. When I got there, Curtis was the only one there. If he didn’t have a mild speech impediment, he would have been the prime candidate. He was a young, bright political consultant like myself, but he spoke extremely fast, almost incoherently. Ironically though, if you could catch on to what he was saying you could gain a wealth of knowledge.
He stood up as I approached the table half-smiling. He looked like a little lemon in a snug pinstriped suit. I shook his hand and patted his shoulder, which was about a foot below mine. He was a little guy with a big personality. The moment we sat, he started.
“Yeah, D, man. You the guy for the job. You got what it takes. You got flavor. You got compassion. You dress nice. You got it. It’s up to you. So, what’s it gonna be? Can I start getting the campaign in order or what?”
“Man, I just got settled. Just got married. You know?” I said, just to see if he could rationalize my earlier apprehension.
“Don’t get used to normalcy, dawg. If you gonna do it, now is the time. You gotta do it now. They are loving strong black men with a message right now.”
I laughed. “Yeah, that’s true.”
“You know your stuff. You’re about the people. You’re handsome, you’re charming. Get in the game or quit.”
I nodded.
“So, what’s it gonna be?”
I laughed. My spirit was feeling good. I reached out and shook his hand. “Man, I’ve wanted to take this step my entire life. Just needed a slick talker like you to push me in the pool.”
“It’s time to swim, my brother. It’s time to swim,” he said, rubbing his hands together like he was prepared to start a fire.
Taylor and Courtney met at least two days a week for happy hour, and I felt that would be perfect timing to make my announcement. Considering she discussed everything with Courtney, I figured I’d save her the trouble of repeating the story. The good thing about it, Courtney didn’t always agree with Taylor because they were friends. She stood for what was right, so it could possibly work in my favor with her around.
Around six, I sent Taylor a text asking where they planned to meet. She responded quickly and said they were headed to the M Street Bar & Grill. I considered taking a quick drink to loosen up before I got there, but I went sober. It made better sense to tell her with a sound mind.
When I entered the lounge, Courtney noticed me first and waved. Taylor’s back was to me, but I could see they were laughing at something. Courtney’s nearly pale skin was flushed, and Taylor was shaking her head. My palms felt like I was carrying two handfuls of water. I rested my hands on Taylor’s shoulders, hoping that her heather gray sweater would soak up the sweat. I leaned over her shoulder and kissed her cheek. “Hey, baby.”
“Hey, honey,” she said, kissing me on the mouth.
I stepped around the circular bar table and hugged Courtney. She was a five-footer, so her crinkly, dark brown hair rubbed against my chin. “What’s up, Court?”
“Nothing, DP. What’s up with you?”
I grabbed a stool from a nearby table and sat down close to Taylor. “Just the regular. Nothing new going on.”
I rested my hand on Taylor’s knee and she reached over to touch my face. “What made you decide to come out tonight, honey?” Taylor asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe I missed you.”
She laughed and curled her lips at Courtney. “He’s lying.”
I looked across at Courtney and she shrugged her shoulders. I glanced down at Courtney’s ring finger and noticed her engagement ring was off. I said, “So I guess you’re Courtney without the ring tonight. You trying to pick up something?”
That was a running joke between Courtney and me. She had been engaged nearly a year before I met Taylor, and she freely took her ring off and on, depending on the occasion. After four years of engagement, I assumed Courtney really wasn’t interested in getting married, and her ring was just a statement when she needed to make one.
“No, Devin. Why would I want to deal with another man’s issues? Mark is enough by himself,” Courtney said, laughing.
Taylor pushed me. “Baby, why you all up in Courtney’s business?”
“You know we play like that.”
I reached over and gave Courtney a high five. She smiled. “I’m not thinking about Devin.”
We all laughed, and they went back to chatting about their weight. I never understood their preoccupation with their size. They both went to the gym at least three times a week. They both were technically slim with weight in the right places, but I learned long ago to just mind my business during these conversations.
I called the waiter over to the table and ordered a drink. We ordered a few appetizers and decided we’d figure out what we wanted for dinner a little later. The Let It Flow band began to play, and I was enjoying the music. Taylor and Courtney usually followed the band around to various happy-hour spots, but I’d probably heard them play once or twice. The band had a “neosoul mixed with R & B mixed with go-go” style.
We were all nodding our heads and feeling the music. As we discussed our days and work, I kept trying to find the right segue into my announcement. It just never seemed right. Finally, Taylor asked me to dance and we stepped onto the floor. Once she started doing that little DC go-go swish thing with her hips, I put my hands on her waist and we rocked to the beat. She looked into my eyes, and her white porcelain teeth beamed at me as she danced harder. Her movement let me know how happy she was and how much she trusted me, and I just wasn’t prepared to let her down—not yet, anyway. I decided I would hold off another day or two. Maybe it would
be best to tell her alone.
6
CLARK
Boom! Boom! Boom! The sound of a gun unloading blasted in my ear and my head sprang from the pillow. I gasped. Then I began to take deep breaths to calm my racing heart. One hand covered my chest while the other reached out for balance. I was hot and cold and frightened as I searched for the remote. The television was the only thing to distract me from the effects of this reoccurring dream. There were never any visuals involved, just two or three shrill gunshots. But I’d awake to a silent house. The dream started happening nearly four years after Tanisha died. Clearly, it was some weird connection to her death, considering she was shot three times while in bed. Whenever I’d ask if anyone else heard them, no one ever did. I’d long since concluded this dream’s purpose. It always happened when something demanded my attention. It was an internal alarm clock that went off when I was being oblivious to something, the way I was the entire time Tanisha was with Fred.
I wiped my forehead and looked over at Kenneth sleeping peacefully beside me. A Jay Leno rerun played on the television. Just as I began to feel better, laughing at the show, a sharp pain rippled through my pelvis. I could barely lay back down. It felt as if the bullet had struck me in the midsection. I winced and tried to stretch out, but settled for a fetal position. The pain forced tears to well in my eyes. Suddenly, I felt like I had to go to the bathroom, but I didn’t want to get up. I wished I could summon the toilet to my bedside. Nearly rolling onto the floor, I stepped out of bed and staggered into the bathroom. When I pulled down my panties, I nearly fainted and my chest tightened. I panted as I stared at the clumps of blood pouring from me. It looked like a heavy period, and if that was the case, I was no longer pregnant. My heart shattered into tiny little pieces and the tears sat trapped in my eyes. I couldn’t yell. I couldn’t move. I just sat there, stunned, rocking back and forth, wondering: Why did it have to be me? Why would this be my Christmas present?
When I got myself together, I cleaned everything up and hopped in the shower. By this time it was close to five in the morning. Cramps still had me crippled over as I stumbled back into my room. I climbed in bed beside Kenneth and watched him sleep, waiting for the sunrise to tell him that we’d lost the baby at the near eight-week mark. Looking at him rest peacefully finally made me cry. He had no clue what he would awake to. The moment the sun peeked into our bedroom, I shook him.
He squirmed. “Yeah.”
“We lost the baby last night.”
“What do you mean?”
“I woke up with cramps and I came on my period.”
“That’s impossible,” he said, sitting up.
“It’s very possible.”
“This is unreal.”
“No, it’s very real.”
Finally, he said, “Are you okay?”
“I’m in a lot of pain.”
“Should we go to the doctor’s?”
“It’s probably a good idea.”
When we got up, we went straight to Dr. Battle’s office. He confirmed what I’d already known and he performed a D & C, which felt like he was removing my insides. After the procedure, he spoke with us and told us that it would be best to try in about three months. Kenneth listened intently, while I stared out the window. Try again was no longer in my vocabulary.
On the ride home, I found the courage to say, “Kenneth, I’m done. I’m not going to try again.”
He rested his hand on my knee. “You’re just emotional right now. You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“It has nothing to do with emotions. I don’t want to put my mind or my body through this anymore.”
“You’ll feel different in a few months.”
“I can promise you that I won’t. I thought about this a million different times in a million different ways and I still feel the same. I’m done.”
“Are you saying you’re giving up? You don’t want kids? You’ve always wanted kids.”
“I don’t have to give birth to be a mother. I’ve been a mother to Mia and Morgan, and I don’t have to be anyone’s biological mother.”
He grimaced. “You saying you want to adopt?”
“Yes.”
“Hell, no. I’m not having it.”
“What do you mean?”
“What do I do for a living?” he shouted.
I frowned, because I didn’t know where he was going. He said, “Talk to a bunch of nutcases all day and half of them are adopted. Messed up. Confused. Lost to the point of no return.”
The subject seemed to have opened up some sores that I didn’t know were there. “Kenneth, get the hell out of here. All your clients weren’t adopted.”
“Adopted. Abandoned. Foster care. Their parents don’t want them. It doesn’t matter if they get substitute parents. They’re still messed up. I’m not adopting. If you don’t want to try again, we just won’t have kids.”
I was in complete shock. How could a man that is supposed to be helping people say this? He didn’t know what the hell he was talking about. I always felt he cared about his clients, but I couldn’t believe my ears. Maybe he was just angry and wanted to drive his point home about not adopting. If that was the case, that would make Mia a basket case. Her mother abandoned her. Could this have been buried animosity from that situation? I didn’t know where it stemmed from, but I felt that he was a complete jerk.
I wondered how he could be so cold, especially hours after I lost our baby. I folded my arms and stared out the window. Why would I want to have a baby by this fool?
Ten minutes or so later, he said, “Maybe you should have had Devin’s baby and we wouldn’t be going through this.”
I reached over and pushed the side of his head. His glasses popped off his nose and the car swerved while he adjusted them. I yelled, “I hate you! I can’t believe you said that.”
He shrugged as if my anger didn’t faze him. He meant what he said; he blamed me for what we were going through. We rode in silence to our house.
7
DEVIN
My parents had already wired one million dollars into the campaign’s account. I’d designated Curtis as my campaign manager. He’d run Congressman Grayford’s campaign in 2004. He’d done a fairly good job, but Grayford was basically a household name. So Curtis would have to develop something new and fresh for me, and I trusted that he could. He was innovative and strategic and that was all I needed to make this thing happen. We were meeting nearly every day to discuss our plans. We had what it took; since we weren’t tainted with the old way of doing things, we brought young blood up into the mix. We were planning self-esteem seminars for the young people, because although they couldn’t vote we needed the ears of their caretakers, their teachers. We had bimonthly happy hours scheduled throughout the year at various venues. The happy hours would serve as a combination of town hall meetings, good times, and dancing, all while fund-raising for the campaign. Each one would have live entertainment targeting the twenty-five- to forty-year-old, up-and-coming African-American professional. We would call these happy hours The Vibe. There would be a light jazz set early in the evening, where people could discuss their issues, so we would be on the same wavelength. Which ultimately enhanced my campaign, The Voice You Can Trust. Everything was laid out; it was just a process of executing it. I rented a four-thousand-square-foot campaign office space in an office park in Greenbelt. We’d ordered the furniture and the phone lines were on. Curtis and I had pretty much settled in the place. We were ready to get this thing popping.
Despite all the plans, I had yet to mention to Taylor that I already submitted my application. She was going about her day completely unaware that shit was about to change, drastically. We rarely argued, if ever, and I just didn’t want to confront the opposition until I completely had to.
When I pulled up to the house, I didn’t press the garage door opener. Instead, I sat in the driveway with my car running, gathering my words, my thoughts. I needed her beside me, holding my hand, looking supporti
ve when I made the announcement. Women handle all news better with dinner, flowers, and a gift. I bought her a new pair of diamond earrings, I had had three dozen flowers delivered to the house, and my personal chef was coming over to cook dinner. I’d gone over the speech twenty times in my head. After maybe five minutes, my cell phone rang.
“Yes, TJ,” I said, assuming she was watching me from the window.
“Devin.” Her voice quivered.
I frowned. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s my father. He’s in Prince Georges Hospital.”
I hung my head, not that I’m not concerned about my father-in-law. But more important, that’s how life works. I get amped up to let her know that I have a press conference scheduled tomorrow and her father is in the hospital.
“What’s wrong?”
“Toni said they think it’s a stroke.”
“Do you want me to meet you there?”
“Yes, Devin. Please hurry up,” she said, and she abruptly hung up the phone.
“Damn!” I yelled, as if there were someone in my car who would hear me.
Banging my fist into my palm, I prayed that whatever was going on with Bishop Jabowski wasn’t terminal, because I had less than twenty-four hours to announce to the public my intentions.
When I walked in the hospital, I frantically called Taylor on her phone and it jumped to voice mail. Finally, I went to the information desk. Wouldn’t you know? He wasn’t in any damn room. He was in intensive care. I rushed up to the ICU.
Mrs. Jabowski stood when she saw me step off the elevator. She looked as if she’d rushed out of the house. Her short hair was on top of her head, and she wore a sweater that appeared a size too small and her slacks looked like she was in the middle of preparing dinner. It was shocking to see her without a face full of makeup, but surprisingly her brown skin looked smooth and even. In fact, I could see how much Taylor resembled her at that moment. Even as a plus-sized woman, Mrs. Jabowski had an hourglass figure. I rushed over to them, gave Mrs. Jabowski a hug. “What are they saying?”