by Joy Copeland
Be nice, Jahi reminded himself. “Ah, Milton,” he said when the somewhat breathless man with carrot-red hair styled as “unkempt chic” appeared at his side.
“Jahi, someone told me you’d arrived. I’ve been searching for you. Nice turnout, huh?” Milton turned to view the attendees.
“Always is.”
“Crayton has three tables, as usual.”
“Where’s Ray?”
“Ooh, Ray couldn’t make it. Something came up at the last minute.”
“Gee, that’s too bad.” In a phone call just two days prior, Ray Gaddis assured him that the Foundation would be making its usual contribution to the Shelter, pending the Board’s confirmation, of course. Ray had also intimated that that confirmation step was a fait accompli. “I hope everything is okay,” Jahi said.
“Sorry, last minute change. He really didn’t explain,” Milton said with a nonchalant flick of his wrist. “You’ll be sitting with one of our new Foundation members. Just down from New York. Come on. I want to introduce you.”
Jahi let Milton lead him along the edge of the crowd and to the opposite corner of the room, where a woman was waiting. With military precision Jahi made mental notes about the Foundation’s newest staff member. Standing alone, she appeared aloof. In a navy-blue business suit, she was underdressed for the black-tie affair. He guessed that she was Ray’s last minute fill-in. The drink she held looked like seltzer. She wasn’t much on make-up or jewelry—in fact, nothing on her sparkled. She was plain with keen features, what his father would have described as a handsome woman. Petite but not cutesy. As he shifted his glance to avoid staring, her dark eyes caught his. She was not afraid to look at him.
“Jahi Khalfani, I’d like you to meet Zoie Taylor. Zoie is our new staff attorney,” Milton said. “And this morning Zoie was elected the Foundation’s new Board Secretary.”
“Congratulations, Ms. Taylor,” Jahi said, gesturing with a slight bow of his head. She had not extended her hand.
“Thank you, Mr. Khalfani.”
“Zoie, Jahi here is one of our repeat grantees. He’s done marvelous things for the homeless over at the Mahali Salaam Shelter.”
Jahi could feel her surveying his dreadlocks. Women always seemed to be fascinated by his hair.
“Oh, yes, I remember reading about your work in our annual report,” she said.
“It seems that Ms. Taylor has done her homework,” Jahi said, turning to Milton.
“She’s on the ball, all right. The Board took to her right away,” said Milton, but then his attention shifted to someone across the crowded room. “I’ll let you two get acquainted. I need to catch up with an old friend. See you at dinner.”
The two stood silently and side by side as Milton’s red top disappeared back into the crowd. Out of the corner of his eye, Jahi could see Zoie’s fingers drumming against her glass. He checked his watch. Dinner was still thirty minutes off.
“Do you do this often? The cocktail parties, the banquets?” he asked.
“Not really. But I’m afraid I’m going to be doing this more than I expected.” She sniffed as if she were getting a cold. “What about you?”
“I’m on a tight budget. I attend when Crayton or one of our other sponsors pays my way, and then I can rent a tux for half the price.”
“I imagine these events don’t jive with feeding and sheltering the homeless.”
“What this place scrapes off the plates tonight could feed my Shelter’s residents for several days. At least we’ve arranged for the untouched leftovers to go to our kitchen for tomorrow’s meal.”
“Glad to hear it,” she said.
“The funds spent on this shindig could underwrite another shelter.”
She turned and looked at him. “You’re obviously passionate about you work. This must be awkward for you…I mean your being here.”
Had he said too much? They had just met. He had to be careful.
“Ms. Taylor…”
“Please call me Zoie. ‘Ms. Taylor’ makes me sound like a schoolteacher.”
“By all means, Zoie,” He bit his lip. The name didn’t fit her conservative dress. “Zoie, maybe one day you and I can bring the absurdity of it all to the attention of the dinner’s sponsors.”
“Is Crayton a sponsor?”
“Of course. And you’re in a prominent position to effect change. It’ll take some time to change that thinking. In the meantime I’m here to network with the people important to my project.”
“Like who?”
“Well, like people from other organizations that represent the homeless.”
“Like?”
“Other shelters in the DC area.”
“Aren’t they your competitors?”
“I’d like to think that we work cooperatively.”
“But aren’t you all vying for the same scarce grant dollars?”
“Aren’t you the inquisitor!”
“Sorry,” she said with a deep sigh. “I’m learning this whole corporate-charity thing. Charitable giving as an industry is very new for me.”
Industry—she hit it right on the head, he thought.
“Questioning is the way I learn,” she continued.
“The Socratic method, huh?”
“I guess so.”
“Well, I’m glad you explained yourself. I was beginning to think I was on the witness stand. Does the Crayton Foundation realize it has hired a trial attorney?”
They both laughed. Her broad smile revealed a beautiful set of teeth.
Ah! That smile is her sparkle. “Well, I hope I can help,” Jahi continued. “It’s important to have informed members on the Foundation’s Board. Now to answer your question about my network, Ms. Taylor—I mean Zoie—there are representatives here from all aspects of my business: private and government social service agencies that send us the clients, as well as the job banks and psychiatric and medical services to which we refer clients. Including drug programs.”
“And you feed your clients and provide them a place to sleep?”
“In a nutshell, we try our best to keep them from dying.”
“Oh,” she said, looking into her glass. “I’d really like to understand more. Maybe I could have a tour of your operation.”
“The Foundation folks came over in May.”
“Sorry, that was before I started. Oh, I don’t need anything special.”
“Well, sure, a tour can be arranged. But tell me about yourself,” he said. “How did you land at the Crayton Foundation?”
“Well, I was at a New York firm—Fairday and Winston. I don’t suppose you’ve heard of them?”
“Can’t say that I have,” he answered, scratching his lip.
“The work was mostly administrative and dealt with corporate law. We handled the overflow cases from in-house attorneys. I was involved in a number of suits filed by our clients’ own employees. Really dry, textbook stuff. I needed a change.”
“And you think that charity board work is going to prove more exciting?”
“You say that as though you don’t think it’s possible.”
“You see I’m biased. I prefer action to—pardon the term—paper pushing. I like to help people. I like to see it actually happen. I know we have to jump through the political hoops to get funding and all. Naturally, I do the political stuff so that the Shelter gets what it needs. But I’d rather leave fund raising to somebody else.” He took a final sip from his glass.
She was following his every word and hadn’t touched her own drink. “I’m hoping my part of this process will be interesting. And I’m hoping that I can make a difference. But I’d like to hear your story. Tell me, how did you start the Shelter?”
Jahi was about to give his canned speech—the one aimed at donors, the one that revealed his having been homeless in the past—when he felt a tap on his shoulder.
“Jahi, I thought that was you.”
The woman standing next to him was molded into her gown. Her hair was pulled back
from her tan face in an elegant bun. Her dress was a shade of mesmerizing purple, a color whose name he couldn’t recall or maybe he didn’t know. He was surprised.
“Why, Jahi, it hasn’t been that long,” she said in a sultry voice, probably deepened by drinks she’d had earlier in the evening.
“Lena!”
“That’s better. I’m in no mood for rejection. Rejection can be a bitch. Isn’t that right, Jahi,” Lena said, rubbing her gown’s heavy beadwork against his thigh.
The scene was awkward. Taking her cue from her nonintroduction, Zoie moved to make her exit. “Jahi, I’ll see you later at our table.”
“Wait, don’t go,” Lena said. She was now hanging on Jahi’s arm. “Don’t I know you?”
Zoie shrugged.
“No, really, your face is so familiar.” Lena’s face contorted while she searched her fuzzy memory bank.
“Lena, this is…”
“Shhhh, Jahi. Don’t tell me. Just give me a second.”
Jahi looked up at the ceiling, and Zoie sighed.
“Bingo! You’re Zoie Taylor.”
“You got me,” said Zoie, who was actually surprised. This person knew her, but she was baffled.
“You don’t remember me, do you? Lena…Lena Christian.”
Zoie raised her brow. “Forgive me. I can’t place you.”
“Zoie’s new in town,” Jahi explained, trying to be helpful.
“New my ass!” Lena said. “We went to high school together. Woodrow Wilson.”
Jahi turned to Zoie. “So you’re a DC girl?”
“Yep. Born and raised. I left for college,” said Zoie.
Jahi let that new information about Zoie sink in while continuing to slip from Lena’s grip. Her preoccupation with an old classmate rather than him was just the opportunity he needed.
“We were in several classes together,” said Lena, “gym and something else. We graduated the same year. We even attended the same church. Don’t you remember?”
“It’ll come back. I’m a little hazy tonight,” Zoie answered.
“Listen, ladies, I see someone I need to talk to over there.” Jahi was making his escape, but Lena was still clutching his arm.
She whined. “Stay, Jahi. How often do I get to see you?”
Zoie rolled her eyes and sipped from her drink.
Lena turned her attention back to Zoie. “I remember you were one of the smartest kids in school. Jahi, this girl was “Ms. It’s Academic.” But didn’t some guy beat you out for valedictorian? You had it, and then you lost it, or something crazy like that happened.”
“It was a technicality,” Zoie explained.
“Yeah, technically you didn’t get it.”
“Lena, Zoie was about to tell us the real story.” Somehow Jahi managed to loosen Lena’s hold. He wished Lena would disappear or, better still, he could disappear. But on second thought, he considered the risk of leaving Lena alone to spew venom about him at a key member of the Foundation’s Board. Obviously, Lena had had a few too many. Who knew what she might say?
“I’m only saying what I know to be true,” Lena insisted. I also heard you went off to Yale.”
“Boston University,” said Zoie, correcting her.
Jahi added, “Then she went to law school at—”
“Columbia,” said Zoie.
“And now she’s on the Crayton Foundation’s Board,” Jahi said. As soon as the words left his mouth, he was sorry. He knew this information only added fuel to Lena’s sarcasm.
“Well, la dee da,” Lena exclaimed. “I’m just a city reporter for the Washington Times. And you don’t remember me. But Jahi here remembers me—don’t you, baby? Jahi and I are products of local academics—UDC.” She fiddled with the end of one of his long locks while stretching her hand with her wine glass behind her. “Jahi, you better watch out for this one. If she’s the Zoie Taylor I remember, she’s too smart for her own good.”
Jahi surmised that Lena’s words ranked as high school jealousy mixed with liquor. Still, he made a mental note of Lena’s warning.
What transpired next was a bad dream on steroids. A hurrying waiter balancing a tray of refreshments sideswiped Lena’s outstretched arm, sending her teetering on her stilettos. The waiter struggled to regain control of his heavy tray; in the process he stepped on the hem of Lena’s gown. Battling gravity, Lena grabbed a fistful of Jahi’s dreads, but instead of saving herself, she pulled Jahi to the floor along with her. Within seconds bystanders helped the two to their feet. The distressed waiter pleaded for mercy in broken English in at least two other languages and then ran for towels. The incident happened so quickly, and it appeared that only the people in the immediate vicinity even noticed.
A little stunned, hobbling on one heel, Lena circled the mess while scanning the floor for her missing shoe. A bystander retrieved the shoe for her.
In stone-faced disgust Jahi brushed greasy scallops wrapped in bacon from his tux. “Lena, are you okay?” he asked.
“Yeah, now that I’ve got my shoe back,” she said. Miraculously the greasy food had missed her dress. “Some night, huh! I always thought we’d be together again, but not like this.”
A few feet away, Jahi spotted Zoie. She’d dodged the whole mess. With a hand covering her mouth, it was clear that she was laughing.
“Jahi, are you all right?” said Zoie, managing to say the question between giggles, and tears rolling down her cheek. “I wish I had a camera. It all happened so fast. She had you in an incredible headlock.”
“Well, Ms. Taylor, I’m glad you enjoyed it.” Jahi assessed the damage to his shirt. “As you can see, I’ve already had my dinner.”
“But that was just the appetizer,” Zoie said in a new round of giggles.
He didn’t smile. “Please give my apologies to Milton and the other Crayton folks. I’m sure you’ll provide them with the full account of this evening’s events.”
Zoie opened her mouth to say something, but he didn’t wait to hear her words. He turned and walked away.
CHAPTER 6
The Life and Death Test
The meeting of the Crayton Foundation’s Board was into its third hour. And they were still fifty thousand over budget. Zoie crossed her legs and rubbed her hands under the table. The attention of the seven-member Board was fading fast. Only Dylan Ross and Ray Gaddis were fully engaged.
“Dylan, I do understand your point about the Village Green Reading Program,” Ray said, his face a little red, his mouth still locked in a forced smile. “I wish we could give money to every program. But I’m questioning the wisdom of funding a start-up program at the expense of things that we know work already.”
“You mean the Shelter’s program?” Dylan Ross said. He was an entrepreneur in the Internet world. He’d been on the Board just six months and was still enthusiastic about his role.
“Well, yes,” Ray responded.
“We keep giving that place more money,” Dylan said emphatically. “Wasn’t it during the last meeting that we voted to shift our focus to children at risk?”
Several of the Board members nodded.
“Dylan, I think what Ray is saying is let’s not make one of our most successful grantees suffer because of our philosophical move.” It was Hilda Kaufman, a Crayton Industries’ vice president Hilda was in her third term on the Foundation’s Board.
“Our funding cap is identical to last year. If we’re serious about changing our charitable focus, something’s got to give. Someone’s program has to get less,” said Dylan, leaning back and twiddling his thumbs in his lap.
Zoie bit her bottom lip as she gauged the group’s reactions. The disengaged members were either slouched in their chairs or doodling. Ray, the Board’s chair, sat with curled lips, stroking the loose skin on this throat.
Keith Pastori, by all accounts the lowest-ranking member of the group, spoke up. “The Shelter aids homeless children. That fits our new theme.”
“Keith, dear, you missed the tour,” Hilda
said, fingering a strand of her platinum hair. “Their mission is strictly homeless adults—of which ninety percent are men.”
“Oh! That doesn’t fit the new profile,” Keith said, acknowledging his error.
“Bingo!” Dylan said, his blue eyes sending off sparks. There was a loud silence. He turned to Zoie. “What’s your opinion on this? Should we continue to fund existing grantees who don’t fit the direction we want to head?”
Zoie took a deep breath. She’d hoped to make it through this second Board meeting as the board secretary by staying on the periphery—listening, observing, and not making enemies. She glanced at Ray, whose lips were still curled.
“Well, it’s a difficult choice,” she started, waiting for the right words. “I think cutting Mahali Salaam’s grant might be a dangerous move.” She was now the center of attention.
“Dangerous? How so?” Dylan asked.
“It could put more homeless back on the streets this winter. By comparison I just don’t see anything that compelling or urgent in the reading program.”
Ray broke out in a broad smile and banged his palm on the table. “Exactly! That’s exactly what I’ve been getting at. The decision we make today may affect life and death. Our zealousness for this new direction could cost lives. When and if we cut Mahali’s funding, they’ll need adequate notice. Time to seek replacement funds. They depend on us.”
Other members nodded their heads in agreement.
“Well…I’ve said my piece,” Dylan sighed. “I guess the reading program doesn’t stand up to the ‘life and death’ test—if that’s the measure we’re using.”
“And neither does the senior’s day-care center,” Hilda added. “That should go.”
“By my count we’re still over by ten thousand—that is, unless someone here wants to make a private donation?” The voice was coming from Lloyd Story, a grocery-chain executive. His mention of private donations caused the others to mumble, bow their heads, and shuffle papers.
“Lloyd, don’t worry. I’ll take care of it. I’ll shave a few dollars from each grant,” Ray said. There were no objections. “Now I’d like to close this with a vote. All in favor of the slate of proposed grantees, with the adjusted amounts we just discussed.”