Not a Day Goes By

by E. Lynn Harris

  The queenly bed boasted four regal high posts. The armoire, vanity, and chest of drawers were carefully arranged, adding to the splendor of the room. Because the furniture’s color and bulk were so heavy, Yancey chose soft pastel fabrics to give the room balance. Her duvet, bed ruffle, and drapes were ivory damask. Filling her linen closet were 350-thread-count cotton sheets in beautiful colors of lavender, peach, mint green, and sky blue. Four big lace-edged pillows were propped in front of the two small pillows dressed in the colored linen of the day.

  A nightstand graced each side of the bed. Fragrant candles, fabric-covered boxes, and crystal bowls of potpourri sat atop each table. The table on the side where she slept held a telephone and a silver-framed photograph of Basil, looking handsome as usual. On the wall that greeted her each morning was an ode to Yancey. She had carefully arranged photos of herself in various shows and framed magazine covers from In Theater, Playbill, The Paper,and Interview, when Yancey had adorned each magazine as cover girl. There were spaces anxiously awaiting the covers from People, Ebony, and of course, Vanity Fair.

  The room itself was painted in a soft gold. There was a corn-yellow leather chaise lounge covered with several dolls and stuffed animals. The hallway between the master bedroom, living room, and servant’s quarters was a sea of chocolate walls covered with Playbills from Broadway shows and beautiful paintings by Deborah Roberts and Paul Goodnight. Yancey’s penchant for tidiness, as well as the maid’s biweekly visits, ensured her domain sparkled brighter than any star in the heavens.

  For over a year, Yancey had had a roommate to help with the cost of her townhouse and expensive tastes. She had run an ad in Backstage and New York, but the applicants were beautiful up-and-coming divas and a couple of gay men. Yancey wasn’t having any part of that, so she was happy when someone she vaguely knew came back into her life.

  Windsor Louisa Adams was a broadly built woman, about five seven and 165 pounds, with reddish-brown medium dreads framing her plain nut-brown face. Windsor had met her when Yancey transferred from Vanderbilt University to Howard University and moved onto the same dorm floor. The two weren’t close friends, because Yancey didn’t let other women get too close, but they had been in a couple of university theater productions and had once organized a Christmas party for an old folks’ home near the campus. But the only thing it seemed they had in common was that each had legally changed their middle names. Yancey changed her middle name from Elizabeth to Harrington after her favorite character from the movie All About Eve . Windsor just made a small alteration to her birth middle name of Louise, changing it to Louisa.

  Windsor was not considered beautiful by most standards, but she ruled Howard University with her mesmerizing personality. She was president of the dorm, the number-one tennis player, and Homecoming Queen her junior year. The last time Yancey had seen Windsor was at a Greek show after she had pledged Delta Sigma Theta. She had even tried to get Yancey to pledge, but Yancey said she wasn’t interested in joining a sorority because she thought sisterhood would go right out the window the first time some soror’s boyfriend looked at Yancey longer than a minute. Windsor didn’t know Yancey had been turned down for membership in another sorority, Alpha Kappa Alpha. Yancey was so crushed that she moved off campus with her boyfriend, Derrick.

  When Windsor greeted her at the stage door when she was performing in Chicago, Yancey assumed she was just another fan. She startled Yancey when she raced up and gave her a big hug and said, “Honey, you worked that stage! You were the best one and this is a long way from some of our HU productions.”

  Windsor had put on a little weight since college, and she no longer sported the long, layered hairstyle with hazel contacts. She realized Yancey didn’t remember her, so Windsor reminded Yancey of the night they had sung a duet at the annual spring talent show. “Remember? We sang ‘Enough Is Enough’ and wore them out!”

  “You’re from Detroit, right?” Yancey asked, finally remembering the overly friendly dorm mate.

  “Yeah, that’s right. Remember, my mother used to send me fried chicken and coconut cakes in the mail and I used to share them with the floor?”

  “Oh yeah,” Yancey said as she looked Windsor up and down, thinking her mother must still be sending her food through the mail.

  After a few minutes, Windsor suggested they go for a cup of coffee and talk about their days at Howard. When Yancey resisted, saying she needed her rest, Windsor simply locked her arms in Yancey’s, gave her a big smile, and said, “I won’t keep you out that long.”

  Over coffee and deli sandwiches, she told Yancey how she had moved to New York about a year earlier from Wilmington, Delaware, where she had taught school after graduation.

  “What made you move to New York?” Yancey asked. She remembered Windsor had a set of lungs on her and used to lead most of the songs for the gospel choir. Yancey figured she had come to New York to pursue music and sought out Yancey for advice. Yancey was prepared to tell her to get rid of her dreads and about forty pounds when Windsor announced she had moved to New York to get married, but quickly realized she was about to make the biggest mistake of her life.

  “So you’re not getting married?”

  “Not now and probably not ever,” Windsor said.

  “So, do you still sing?” Yancey asked.

  “Oh sometimes, but mostly I just sing for the Lord in my church choir.”

  “What are you doing to make ends meet? New York is an expensive city.”

  “I teach at a wonderful alternative school in the Village, the Harvey Milk School, and I do some volunteer work.”

  “What part of town do you live in?”

  “I live in the Bronx, in Riverdale, but I’m looking for something a little closer to my job. My ex-boyfriend was nice enough to let me keep the place we had picked out, but I can’t afford it without working two or three jobs.”

  While Windsor asked Yancey questions about how exciting it was to be on Broadway and television, Yancey was thinking how harmless Windsor might be for a roommate, and how the rent could help with making ends meet when she was unemployed.

  “I think I might be able to help you out,” Yancey said.

  “How?”

  “I have servant’s quarters in my house. You come by and see it,” Yancey said as she pulled the check from the black leather binder and reached in her wallet for a credit card. She looked at the bill and saw it was under twenty dollars, so she put the card back and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill.

  “Oh, I would love to see it,” Windsor said.

  “How much are you paying for rent right now?” Yancey asked.

  “Fifteen hundred.”

  “Well, if you like it, I could let you have it for a thousand,” Yancey said.

  “That sounds great. When can I come by?”

  “Tomorrow. But in the afternoon. I’m a late sleeper,” Yancey said. She wrote her address on the back of the bill.

  “I’ll come by after work.”

  “Great.”

  Windsor moved in a week later.

  3

  YANCEY WAS jolted awake by the sound of Basil’s voice whispering, “Wake up, baby. I’ve got a surprise for you.”

  “What?” Yancey asked in a sleep-thickened voice. She rubbed her eyes and focused them on Basil, who was already dressed. It was the morning after Yancey’s final performance in Fosse, which had been followed by a festive party with several cast members and too much wine. Basil knew Yancey would sometimes go through a mild depression after a job ended, especially when she didn’t have something else lined up, so he decided to arrange a day of her favorite things.

  “I have a surprise for you, but first I need to put this on you,” Basil said as he revealed a black satin scarf.

  “What are you up to? It’s not my birthday.” Yancey giggled.

  “Just trust me,” he said, gently wrapping the scarf around Yancey’s eyes. He then stood up and took Yancey’s hands and led her into the dining room of his large loft. She was
wearing one of Basil’s silk T-shirts sans bra and a pair of his white cotton boxers. Yancey could hear soft jazz music playing and smelled the aroma of breakfast food.

  “Are you ready for your surprise?” Basil whispered and kissed the back of her neck.

  “Yes.”

  Basil removed the scarf from Yancey’s eyes and she was greeted by a dining room filled with pink tulips and a table covered with red rose petals and china service for two. Shafts of the morning sun were filling the apartment with warm light. A handsome Hispanic man dressed in a black tuxedo and looking like the headwaiter in a five-star restaurant welcomed her. “Good morning, Ms. Braxton, welcome to a day designed especially for you.” He had a white linen napkin draped over his left arm and with his free right hand he then pulled back the chair and motioned for Yancey to take her seat. Yancey smiled and nodded toward him, then looked at Basil. His smiling face glowed with pleasure. Basil’s eyes widened when he saw the smile on Yancey’s face, which was both seductive and sincere, her eyes filling with tears. She picked up the linen napkin and dabbed her eyes, then noticed a small plate filled with sections of tangerines, kiwis, and pink grapefruit drizzled in champagne. Basil had hired a small catering service his firm often used to prepare a brunch of fruit, eggs, waffles, and an array of breakfast meats for Yancey and himself. A florist had been commissioned to decorate the apartment in the flowers Yancey loved.

  “Why did you do this?”

  “Because I love you,” Basil said.

  “What did I do to deserve all this love?” Yancey asked.

  “You were born,” Basil replied quickly. At that moment Basil’s heart was filled with so much love for Yancey he thought it would push right through his light-green cotton stretch sweater.

  “Stop saying stuff like that! You’re going to make me start bawling,” Yancey said.

  “You know I don’t want to make you cry, it’s just a special way to celebrate your new job,” Basil said.

  “But I don’t have a new job. Don’t you remember? Last night was the end. I’m unemployed. Again,” Yancey said as she started to frown. The waiter moved close to Yancey and asked, “Can I offer you a mimosa or some coffee?”

  “Let me have both,” Yancey said, gazing at Basil with a quizzical look on her face, without even looking at the waiter.

  “I know that look,” he said. “You’re wondering why I went through all this effort.”

  Yancey nodded her head and waited for his explanation.

  “I just want you to know that I not only love you but I appreciate your talent as well. I don’t want you to spend today or any other day wondering when the next job will come along.”

  “I love you,” Yancey said, cherishing Basil’s every word.

  “And I love you more. Now eat up. I have a whole day planned.”

  “Tell me,” Yancey demanded with an eager smile. She raised her fork daintily and took a small portion of the eggs.

  “As soon as we finish breakfast, I’m going to draw you a bath. And guess what?”

  “What?”

  “I’m going to bathe you with my clothes on. I don’t want you to think about hittin’ the skins,” Basil answered gently.

  “Then it’s not going to be the bath I have in mind,” Yancey said.

  “Next we are going to the gym and work out. After that, I think we should stop by this store I know you love on Fifty-seventh and Fifth Avenue and see if they have something for my special lady.”

  Yancey clapped her hands in delight and asked, “Please tell me you’re talking about Tiffany’s?”

  “If it’s on Fifty-seventh and Fifth. Then we’ll come back here for a candlelit dinner and I’ve bought DVD’s of a couple of your favorite movies, including your all-time favorite, All About Eve.”

  “Stop it. I can’t stand any more. Let’s just finish breakfast so we can get started.”

  “Whatever you say, baby. This day is all about you.”

  YANCEY almost dropped the crystal salad bowl when I asked her a question at the end of her day. It was hard to believe after two years and the countless conversations we had had about our families that it had never come up. The question just sorta popped out of my mouth as I watched her rinse and pull apart the lettuce while we prepared my favorite meal of salad, steak, and baked potatoes. In her black tight-fitting pants, and cashmere V-NECK sweater, Yancey looked like the most glamorous housewife on earth, particularly since she was wearing her Tiffany gift, dangling diamond earrings the size of hazelnuts.

  “How many children do I want?” she asked.

  “Yeah, how many children do you want?” I repeated.

  “Well, how many do you want?”

  “I asked first,” I teased.

  Yancey placed the bowl filled with lettuce, cucumbers, and tomatoes on the counter and walked over to where I was leaning against the refrigerator. She stood between my legs and placed her long, elegant arms on my shoulders and quizzed, “What brought this on?”

  “You do want to have children, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do,” she said, telling a little white lie. “But I also want my career and I have to be married first,” she said firmly.

  “But of course,” I replied.

  “I want a family one day also, but not one like mine,” Yancey said.

  “Me neither,” I assured Yancey.

  “I don’t think you can call what you and I had a family,” Yancey added.

  “We’ll create our own special family,” I said. I kissed her gently on the lips and then her forehead.

  She kissed me back and said, “And only when we’re both ready.”

  I couldn’t sleep that night. I kept thinking about children while stroking Yancey’s face as she slept. The children Yancey and I would have. I knew they would be beautiful. I mean with Yancey’s beautiful face, my gray eyes, our children would be the envy of any parents. When I think about having a family, I realize how I want it to be different from my childhood, and I know Yancey feels the same way. We both had f’d-up childhoods. I want my kids to wake up every morning knowing that both of their parents will be there to greet them. The same thing at night and at any activity they participate in. I could picture having a little boy who had mad football skills like his bad-assed dad.

  I hoped that one day I would be selected for the Pro Football Hall of Fame. The other day I realized that I will be eligible in a couple of years. When I dream about being inducted, I always imagine a wife and a couple of kids right there in the front row. Maybe I could have my son introduce me, like Walter Payton’s son did. When I saw Walter’s young son, Jarrett, introduce his father, well, it almost brought me to tears. And for a man who never cries, that’s a hard thing to do.

  I know if I’m going to start a family then it means marriage. I’m pretty sure I’m ready. My finances are in order and I love Yancey more and more each day. I know her career is important, but I think she would give up just a little something to marry me and have my children—make that our children. The only question that lingers in my mind is can a diva and a dude like me ever settle down?

  4

  I THINK IT would be a waste of time for you to read for this part,” the unsmiling casting agent said to a stunned Yancey.

  “Why do you say that? I’d be perfect for the part,” Yancey said. She was sitting on the edge of a leather swivel chair in a large and modern conference room in midtown Manhattan.

  The dark-skinned, small-boned, and wiry lady with full, plum-colored lips picked up Yancey’s head shot which was sitting on top of a stack of other pictures and said, “You’re much darker in person than in this picture. The role calls for a mixed-race black woman.”

  The part was the lead role in an upcoming miniseries on the life of Sally Hemings, the alleged slave lover of President Thomas Jefferson. Yancey had heard about the audition not from her agent Lois but while eavesdropping on a backstage conversation between a couple of light-skinned beauties during an audition for a Broadway workshop. Yanc
ey thought even though it was television, this was a role she needed on her résumé, so she wasn’t going to let the casting agent get in her way. She was also thinking of the fifteen percent she could save with no greedy agent holding out her hands. So Yancey began to release a waterfall of charm, which she could turn off and on like a shower.

  “I heard you’re one of the top African American casting agents in the country. I love to see smart sisters taking control in this business,” Yancey said. The woman didn’t respond while she studied Yancey’s picture, turning it over to review her résumé. Yancey was thinking how much she hated when black folks in charge acted so condescending and arrogant. She also assumed the casting agent was envious of every light-skinned woman she had come across. Especially the beautiful ones. Over a year ago, Yancey had turned down an audition for a film for two reasons. One, her agent said it was an ensemble piece, and two, the casting agent was an African American female. The film, The Best Man, written and directed by Malcom Lee, had become one of the year’s biggest hits. Yancey remembered how she seethed while sitting through the film and would have walked out had Basil not been enjoying it so much. In fact, he had seen the film three times. Twice alone. Yet all Yancey felt while she watched the film was the sting of jealousy every time the strikingly beautiful Nia Long, with high cheekbones and the perfect short hairstyle, graced the screen. I should be playing that role, Yancey told herself over and over.