Usually, talking to Clayton gave her a boost. Tonight though Vicki was troubled, and some of the joy she took in their conversations diminished. He wanted to move to the next obvious step in the relationship. But Vicki couldn’t do that. Not now. Maybe not ever.
Then a thought darted through her mind, a delicious, wonderful, why-didn’t-I-think-of-that-before kind of thought. It was wicked and she knew she shouldn’t do it, but its very appeal was its simplicity. And who would know?
She pushed the salad aside and downed the remaining wine in a single gulp. She’d need more than the false courage brought on by half a bottle of Chardonnay to take this next step with her cyber boyfriend.
Glancing back at the glowing monitor, she contemplated the e-mail from him. It would be so much easier to know just with whom she was dealing. Sorely tempted, she positioned the mouse on the e-message.
Then she double-clicked.
“So am I tripping?”
Lance accepted a boxful of tennis rackets from Tyrone “T.J.” Joplin. He’d just filled T.J. in on the salient details of the I’m-cutting-your-ass-off lunch he’d had with his grandmother. Next to Cole, T.J. was his best friend. On the surface, the two men had little in common.
“I don’t know, bro. You know your relatives better than I do. Sounds like a power play to me.”
Lance put the box on a table and grunted when an even larger one was thrust in his arms.
“How many kids are coming?”
“I can usually count on about twenty-five regulars, but they all won’t be playing tennis.”
“That’s a lot.”
Tyrone nodded. “Yeah, but I’d rather have them here than hanging out on Twenty-third and Chestnut or Thirty-sixth Street.”
As director of a recreation center in one of the city’s most crime- and drug-ridden neighborhoods, T.J. led a one-man crusade to give kids and teens an alternative to crack habits and rap sheets.
“What’s wrong with Thirty-sixth Street?”
“Man, don’t you read the paper or watch the news?”
“I told you, I’ve been a little preoccupied.”
“Two boys got shot last night. One of ’em died. Fifteen and seventeen. That stretch over there is a killing field.”
T.J. jumped down from the chair he’d been standing on to reach the sports supplies. He locked the gate that led to the equipment room then hefted his own box and followed Lance to the gym floor of the rec center.
They deposited the boxes at a side door that led to the two outdoor tennis courts.
Located in the heart of the city’s East End, the recreation center was one of the few shining spots in the community. A lot of that was due to T.J. Joplin’s work as athletic director. He’d started out with the Boys & Girls Club. Then, when an abandoned grocery store was turned into a recreation center, he’d applied for the director’s job and got it. He’d told more than one reporter if he could get a kid turned on to sports, the kid would be less likely to turn to a crack pipe.
Lance glanced around. A few boys were playing a pickup game of basketball at the far end of the gym. “You think some of your kids were involved?”
T.J. shrugged. “I don’t know. Chances are they knew one or both of them. The kids who go to school will know. Word is those two were arguing over a girl. The dispute started in the cafeteria at their high school.”
“And ended with bullets.”
“That’s how a lot of things end around here. That’s why the center is so important. It gives ’em something else to focus on.”
“So what do you do? Have a counselor in to talk to them?”
T.J. shook his head. “Not this time. Funding got pulled. If she comes back, it’ll be on volunteer time. But that’s where you come in, bro.”
“Huh?”
“Look, you’re a businessman. You’ve got money. You’ve been to college. You can be an inspiration for a lot of these kids. A third of them won’t finish high school. Half of them will never leave the projects where they were born and raised. And a lot of them are just gonna be negative statistics. State and federal numbers on unwed mothers, drug addicts, criminals. Unless . . .”
Lance eyed him with suspicion. “Unless what?”
“Hey T.J., send the ball back,” somebody yelled. A moment later, a basketball rolled toward them. T.J. grabbed it and tossed it back down the court on a jump shot.
“Unless there’s somebody there to run interference, to show them there’s more to the game than hoop dreams.”
Lance shook his head. “I’m nobody’s role model, T.J. I just finished telling you my grandmother is cutting me off because she thinks I’m a fuck-up.”
Tyrone tapped his head with a single finger. “Doesn’t matter what she thinks, man. What do you think?”
Lance was starting to think Cole and his grandmother had a point about him. His primary interests in life—all carnal—had little to recommend him for anything of lasting value. On the outside, his main purpose appeared to be strolling from one good time to another.
He wasn’t like T.J., committed to a cause. T.J. grew up in the East End of Newport News. He felt a connection to the people and the streets. If it hadn’t been for a flat tire years ago in the parking lot of the gym where they both worked out, the two probably would never have met. Unlike T.J.’s hard-scrabble early years, Lance had been groomed at prep schools and polished at expensive private colleges, all so he could be steered into the family business, a business he’d been expected to lead one day.
Lance had not the first clue about dealing with these kids or their problems. He couldn’t relate—and didn’t necessarily care about learning how to.
“I think I’ve had enough guilt trips for one day.”
T.J. pushed him. “I wasn’t putting a guilt trip on you. Just pointing out that you have something to offer. Something that these kids don’t see or get enough of.”
“And that would be?”
“Positive black role models. We have the politicians, and they do some good. The churches are so-so, some better than others. But it’s the one-on-one connections that are so vital.
“Come on, man. Help a brother out. You’re down here at least once a week anyway.”
Their standing game of racquetball took place on the courts at the rec center. Though Lance made the drive down Jefferson Avenue to the East End, he’d never really given the place or its inhabitants much thought. He was in and out—sort of the way his grandmother described his relationships and his life.
“I’m not a shrink.”
“You don’t have to be. Ms. Epps wasn’t. She was a social worker.”
“I’m not a social worker either. What would I talk about with them?”
“Whatever comes up. Come on, man. I need your help. Whether they say it or not, these kids are going be scared and hurting when they get here. Just talk to them, okay?”
Twenty minutes later Lance was sitting in a classroom looking at five surly teenagers—two girls and three boys—glare at him. Two conference tables pushed together formed a square around which they sat. One girl with long braids rested her head on her arms on the table. For a minute Lance thought she was asleep. The other girl smacked gum loud enough to wake the dead. The boys all looked like they’d come straight out of a hip-hop video: cornrows, oversized shirts, baggy jeans and lots of attitude.
“You the new counselor? What happened to Ms. Epps?”
Lance took off his suit jacket. He deliberately ignored the pointed looks and whispering from the two girls. “Ms. Epps won’t be coming back.”
One of the boys smirked. “Told you that white lady was scared to come down here. Probably thought she was gonna get shot, too.”
Was getting shot one day all that these kids had to look forward to? They seemed to be taking it all pretty much as a matter of course.
“It had nothing to do with last night’s shooting,” Lance said.
“Bullshit.”
Lance slowly turned to face the girl who’d
said that, the one with the braids. “Do you have a boyfriend?”
“What’s it to you?”
Lance shrugged. “Well, I’ve dated a lot of women. And one of the things that attracts a man to a woman is how she perceives herself.”
The teen arched a bushy eyebrow at him in a hurry-up-and-make-your-point gesture.
“It’s not the outer package that makes a woman beautiful,” he said. “It’s what’s inside.”
The girl sat up a little straighter, but continued to eye him warily.
Lance had not a clue where he was going with this. But he instinctively knew he’d lose respect and credibility with this crew if he just said, “Don’t cuss.” He had to hit it home using another tack.
“And?” the girl challenged.
“And profanity is just a reflection of how a person perceives himself or herself.” Said Lance the philosopher, he thought to himself. Why he’d let T.J. talk him into this he didn’t know.
Just what the hell was he going to do with these kids for the next hour?
He’d grown up in a very literal lap of luxury, with private schools from kindergarten through high school, undergraduate and graduate opportunities at two of the country’s most prestigious colleges. He had the clothes, the cars and the bank account to do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted—Virginia’s threats notwithstanding.
But what did these kids have? And what could he offer them?
Racking his brain, Lance stumbled onto a topic that might engage them.
“If you could live anywhere in the world,” he started, “and all your bills and needs were taken care of, where would you live?”
“Paris,” a girl answered quickly.
“What bills?” one of the boys said.
Lance frowned. “Oh yeah. Well, you didn’t have to worry about money or food or a place to stay.” He smiled at the girl who’d had an immediate answer. “Why Paris?”
Suddenly conscious of the others, the girl shrugged.
“Go on, Shonda. Tell ’im.”
She smiled, and Lance realized that under the attitude, she was a pretty girl. And she probably liked one of the boys slouching at the table.
“I seened this show on BET.”
No grammarian himself, Lance winced at the language.
“It was about Josephine Baker,” the girl said. “She went to Paris and danced and sang.” She waved her arms as if performing before a legion of fans. “And they loved her over there.”
“So you’d like to be a singer, a dancer?”
She shrugged again.
“Shonda got the moves,” the other girl said. “My name’s Chrysanthemum and I’m going to New York.”
“Have you ever been there before?” Lance asked.
The girl nodded. “’Bout three years ago. We was s’pozed to have a family reunion down here, over in Portsmouth, but my mama’s sister got sick so we went up there for a coupla weeks. She died.”
“But you liked New York?”
“Yeah,” she said, a saucy smile at her mouth.
Lance folded his arms and leaned back against the wall. “What’d you like about it?”
Chrysanthemum shook her head then closed her eyes for a moment. “Everything,” she said, awe evident in her voice. “It was just off the hook. The food. Them tall buildings. I mean look, we got what? City hall? That ain’t no tall building. Up in New York, man, it’s just awesome.”
“A couple of ’em ain’t so awesome anymore,” one of the boys said.
“Shut up,” Chrysanthemum told him.
Lance ignored the byplay. “So what do you want to do there?”
She shrugged. “Just be.”
“Being ain’t no job,” the boy across from her said.
“Well, we’re not necessarily talking about jobs here,” Lance said. “For now, just a place you’d like to go.”
“Well, I’m gonna get out to California one of these days,” the teen said.
“What’s your name?”
“They call me Fly.”
“Yeah, ’cause he jet like he got wings,” Shonda said.
Lance surreptitiously glanced at the girl. Hmm, was Fly the object of her concealed affection? He turned to the boy. “So, what’s waiting for you in California?”
“Babes, man. I’m gon’ be on the beach. But I’m only gonna rescue the pretty ones.” He hopped up and did a slow-motion run à la Baywatch that had them all laughing.
“He watch too much fucking television,” Shonda said.
“Shut up,” Fly said on a grunt.
Lance held up a hand. “Respect. All around.”
For a moment, none of the teens said anything. Then, Fly nodded toward Shonda. It was the best apology he’d offer.
The girl beamed and slid a smile toward Chrysanthemum.
“What about you?” Lance asked the next boy, a tall and broad youth.
The boy shrugged.
“Does that mean you’ve never given it any thought or you don’t have a place in mind?”
The big kid shrugged again.
“Blake don’t talk too much,” Fly said. “He’s whatchu call the strong, silent type.”
Blake took his hat off and hit Fly with it.
Lance smiled at the play.
“Blake don’t have a lot of words ’cause he put all his energy in his music.”
“You’re a musician?”
The boy’s face lit up. He’d apparently never quite thought of himself that way.
“Yeah,” he finally said.
“Do you play or sing?”
He shrugged again.
Lance looked to the others.
“Blake play the piano and the trumpet. He good, too,” Shonda said.
“Cool,” Lance said. “We have some talented people here. So far an entertainer in Paris, a student of human nature maybe a writer or philosopher in New York, an actor or lifeguard in California and a musician. What about you?” he asked the last teenager. “Where would you want to live?”
“I don’t know. I ain’t never lived no place else but Newport News.”
“The world’s a much bigger place than Newport News, Virginia.”
That seemed to bring them all down.
“But we stuck here,” Fly said.
That’s when Lance figured out just how he could help these kids. He leaned forward, placed both palms on the tabletop. “Not necessarily,” he said.
“What? You gonna take us on a field trip to Paris and New York and California?”
That comment brought snickers all around.
“Maybe.”
That earned him five sets of raised eyebrows, but a couple of the kids sat up.
“Meet me here next week,” Lance told them. “Same time. And have in mind something you might like to do in that place where you’d like to live or at least visit.”
When the kids left, Lance made a couple of phone calls. It took no time at all to set up his plan. Next week, he’d take them on a field trip. With luck, not a one of them would want to return home.
Lance grinned. He wasn’t sure if this was what T.J. had in mind. He’d come down to the rec center to whine about his grandmother messing up his life and ended up launching Lance’s Charm School for Inner City Pre-Delinquents.
8
“That boy just tries my patience.”
“Cut him some slack, Virginia. He can’t help the circumstances of his birth.”
“It’s not his birth that’s bothering me. It’s what he’s done since then, mostly running around like a stallion in heat.”
Lily Renaldi paused in the middle of folding a white linen napkin to look at her agitated friend. “I don’t think stallions go into heat. Aren’t they the male horse?”
“Lily, please.”
The two old friends were setting up for an afternoon game of bid whist at Lily’s home. If Virginia hadn’t been rich, she and Lily probably would be living next door to each other.
Lily put the unfolded napkin down and took
Virginia’s arm, steering her toward the sofa in front of a large fireplace. The two women sat side-by-side, close, reminiscent of the way they huddled together as teens to spin the tales of the dark knights who’d whisk them away to love and houses all their own with families to love and care for.
The only problem with the fairy tale they’d adored so much was how it had ended.
Virginia got the rich man, the supposed prince who showered her with all the material possessions she ever could have wanted, but he’d kept his love for the many mistresses with whom he’d dallied during their marriage. Lily’s life hadn’t been gilded either. Her first husband beat her and her second couldn’t give her the children she so desperately wanted. So they’d adopted two, one who’d died, the other who, like Cole, couldn’t stand his mother.
So now, at age sixty-four, the two women found themselves still waiting for happiness, but not expecting it to arrive anytime soon—if ever.
Lily patted Virginia’s hand. “I say this in love, Virginia. As your oldest and dearest friend.”
“What?”
“You, sister, need to get a life and stop trying to live Cole’s and Lance’s.”
Virginia snatched her hand away and stood. “Well, that’s not very nice of you.”
“I’m not supposed to be nice,” Lily said. “I’m supposed to be your friend.”
Virginia’s back stiffened. “You don’t know the humiliation I’ve suffered.”
“Yes, Virginia,” Lily said quietly. “I do know.”
Slowly, Virginia turned to her friend. She moved back to the sofa and clasped Lily’s hands in hers. “I don’t want to fight.”
“Neither do I. But what I said is true. And you know it. Let those boys live their own lives, make their own mistakes and learn the lessons they need to learn. Just like we did.”
Virginia clearly wasn’t buying it.
Lily leaned over and picked up a brochure from an end table. “Well, I have just the ticket for both of us.” She handed Virginia the brochure.
“What’s this?”
“We, my dear, are going on a cruise.”
Virginia rolled her eyes. She flipped the brochure over, glancing at and then dismissing the printed pitch. “Spare me the shuffleboard and honeymooners.”
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