Breaking the Ties That Bind

by Gwynne Forster

“Yes, sir. Stations two and five are already working, and I’ll have the others up in a few minutes.”

  Howell stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets. “Good. Come in my office, Kendra.” He had never called her by her first name, so she didn’t know what to expect. She followed him. “Have a seat. Tell me why it was not your fault, and start at the beginning.”

  “That would take too long, Mr. Howell, because it started before I was born.”

  He stared at her. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “It began when my father wouldn’t let my mother abort me. That was my mother who created the fiasco.” His face reddened, his eyes widened, and his sharp whistle split the air. Kendra repeated Ginny’s transgressions ending with her threat of suicide in the studio. “Mr. Howell, I’m too upset to be embarrassed.”

  He leaned forward. “Do you think she’ll commit suicide?”

  “I don’t believe anything she says, so why should I believe that? I’m no longer going to allow her to manipulate me.”

  “And you shouldn’t.” He flicked on the eight-by-ten screen on his desk and pushed several buttons. “I’m checking our security cameras. Lean over my shoulder and let me know when you recognize her.”

  She stood behind him. “That’s Mama walking into the building.”

  Howell pushed a button on the intercom. “Bob, check out this picture on eight. You see it? Good. If that woman ever puts one foot into this building again, I want her arrested and charged with trespassing, and no deal for leniency. Got it?”

  Howell turned off the screen. “Sit down, Kendra. I don’t know how you made it this far in life, and I especially can’t understand why you’re such a principled person.”

  “My late grandmother and my father have been the stabilizing forces in my life.”

  “My hat’s off to them. I admire you. When I think of what you’ve lived through, I’m humbled. My parents are wonderful people.” A smile flashed across his face. “I’ve been a husband and father for two decades, and my mother still calls to tell me to dress warmly when it’s cold, to take my vitamins, and to eat a hearty breakfast. I’m going to stop complaining about her mothering a fifty-six-year-old man.” His phone rang.

  “Yes, June.”

  “Tab said to tell you that everything’s working.”

  “Thanks.” He looked at Kendra. “Go back to work and forget what happened this morning, but be careful at home.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you so much, Mr. Howell.”

  On the way back to her station, she met Tab walking out the door. “I don’t know how to thank you, Tab.”

  “It’s okay, doll. You’d do the same for me. I just don’t see how you made it this far with that shrew for a mother.”

  “My dad and my grandmother. Ginny will keep trying, but she’ll never stop me.”

  Chapter Three

  Half an hour after Kendra got home from work, the doorman of the building in which she lived buzzed her intercom. “Ms. Richards, there’s a lady down here to see you. She won’t give her name.”

  “Thanks, John. Ask to see her identification, two pieces. If her name is Ginny Hunter, I’m not at home, and please don’t ever send her up here.”

  “Thanks, ma’am.”

  “I have to check your ID,” she heard him say over the speaker phone, which he’d flipped on obviously for her benefit.

  “Oh, come on,” she heard Ginny say. “I’m her mother. I’ll just go on up.”

  “No you won’t. You don’t get on one of these elevators unless I say so. Show me your ID, something with your picture on it, or leave before I call the police.”

  “Oh, the hell with you.”

  “She refused to show me the ID and left, Miss Richards. I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not. That’s what ID is for, John. Thanks.”

  Unhappy because of the measures she’d had to take against her mother that day, Kendra hung up the intercom receiver and telephoned her uncle, her mother’s brother. Ed Parks owned an accounting firm that supported himself and his family very well, and he kept his sister far from his business.

  “Hello, Kendra. Good to hear from you. How are you?”

  “I don’t know, Uncle Ed. I hope things are good with you.”

  “They’ve been better, and they’ve been much worse. I can’t complain. What’s going on with you?”

  She told him about her trials with Ginny over the previous months and added, “I’m at my wits’ end, Uncle Ed. I don’t want anything else to do with her. She’s trying to ruin my life. Imagine having a mother who has no feelings whatever for you. I can’t stand it, Uncle Ed.”

  “I’m sorry, Kendra. When Ginny was little, three or four years old, she was as pretty as a human being could be, and everybody with whom she came in contact told her so. Daddy gave her whatever she wanted, and Mama dressed her like a fashion doll. Nobody said no to Ginny. By the time she was ten, she was a little monster, and as soon as she got a bosom, she began seducing men for the hell of it. I don’t see how Bert stood being married to her for five years.

  “I’ll speak with her, and I’m going to tell her that if she doesn’t stop trying to trash your life, I’ll have her committed to a mental institution, because that’s where she belongs.”

  “But Uncle Ed, she’s not crazy.”

  “That depends on your definition of the word. Listen to me, Kendra, and listen carefully. A parent cannot abuse an adult child without that child’s consent and cooperation. You don’t owe Ginny anything, because she’s already squeezed from you all that was ever coming to her. I want you to take stock of your feelings about her. Ask yourself why you feel you need her affection and good will, which you’ve obviously been trying to buy . . . yes, buy . . . when you know she’s incapable of giving either one.”

  “But, Uncle Ed, I thought I was trying to be a good daughter.”

  “Then you were fooling yourself. The Lord tells us to honor our parents, but He did not tell us to be their doormat. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I didn’t know you’d gotten that job with Howell Enterprises. I’m glad for you. Let me know when you’ve registered at Howard. Dot and I will take you out for champagne and dinner.”

  She thanked him, said good-bye, and hung up.

  Did Ginny really think she was trying to buy her affection? Kendra thought about that for a long time, gave her uncle credit for being right, and felt a heavy weight slide off her.

  Ginny was counting the number of days that had elapsed since her second visit with Dr. Elms. Nearly a week. She sat at her kitchen table and dialed the doctor’s office. If she was clean of HIV/AIDS, she could have a decent date. She wouldn’t have waited to appease her appetite, if she hadn’t read that a man could trace the infection back to the woman who gave it to him.

  A voice said, “This is Dr. Elms’s office. How may I help you?”

  “I’m Ginny Hunter, and Dr. Elms has a report for me.”

  “What kind of a report, Ms. Hunter?”

  “Well . . . uh . . . I’d like to speak with Dr. Elms, please.” Damned if she was going to give a receptionist personal information that could be used against her.

  “And you may speak with her, but she won’t talk with you unless she has your complete file in front of her. I need to check whether a test for you came in today.”

  Getting angrier by the moment, she took a deep, calming breath and asked, “Can’t you check by name?”

  The silence lasted a bit longer before the woman said, “I don’t have time for coyness, Miss. Was this an STD or an HIV / AIDS test?”

  “HIV / AIDS,” she said, gritting her teeth.

  “Hold on. I’ll see if she’s busy.”

  “You have the test?” Ginny asked the woman.

  “Obviously.”

  A click told Ginny that the woman had her on hold. “If this test is clean,” she vowed, “I’m going nowhere unless I have a couple of condoms in my pocketbook.”

  After about five m
inutes, she heard, “Ms. Hunter, this is Dr. Elms. Your HIV test was negative, but you have chlamydia, which is easily treatable.” She told her the symptoms. “We treat that with antibiotics. It’s the most common STD. I suggest you be more careful. A good quality condom will keep you clean. The fact that you won’t get pregnant is not a reason to neglect use of protection. Come in tomorrow for a shot, and I’ll give you a prescription for pills. If you neglect this, it will become serious, and you will infect your partners.”

  Ginny hung up. Damned bastard. If she ever saw him again! She sat back down, rubbing her chin thoughtfully. It needn’t have been him. Suppose she gave it to him! Where was she going to get the money to pay that doctor? She had four hundred and sixty dollars, and she planned to put that on a gray Dior skirt that she saw at Saks. Oh well, at least she didn’t have AIDS.

  “Now who is that?” she asked aloud when the phone rang. “Hello?”

  “Ginny, this is Ed. I hope you’re well.”

  “Of course I’m well. I’m just broke, and I have a big doctor bill.”

  “If you’re well, why do you have a big doctor bill?”

  “Never mind. I have to come up with a lot of money by tomorrow.”

  “You have my prayers for the best of luck. I called you to tell you to stop trashing Kendra’s life.”

  “What? That dreadful child won’t even—”

  She heard him pull air through his teeth, a sure sign that he was going for the jugular. “Cut the drama, Ginny. I’ve known you since you were born. If you ever behave again with Kendra as you did yesterday at that studio where she works, I’m going to court and petition to have you committed to a mental institution. And I have enough documented evidence to do it. Only an insane woman would do to her daughter what you’re doing to yours. You’re trying your best to ruin Kendra’s life, but I’m not going to let you succeed. That’s all I have to say to you.”

  He had some nerve, Ginny thought. “I’m the one who was forced to have those horrible pains. I’m the one who had that agony for sixteen hours, not you. And for what? She makes plenty of money and won’t give me a few thousand when I need it.”

  “She owes you nothing. You are not too good to work a steady, full-time job and take care of yourself.”

  “Don’t make me laugh. Your halo gets brighter with the years.”

  “If you won’t earn a living honestly, you’ll have to make it on your back, because I am not going to let you destroy that girl. Any other mother would be proud of her, but you’re doing your best to drag her down. People who don’t want children should either use protection or remain celibate. Remember what I said, Ginny. One more time, and I’ll have you committed.”

  Ginny hung up and kicked the stove with all the energy she could muster. “Damn him! He’ll do it, too. He’s always been jealous of me.” She limped to the bathroom, poured some Epsom salts into the tub, and turned on the hot water. After half an hour of soaking, the toe still hurt, so she limped to her bed and crawled in. But her thoughts were soon focused on choosing the next bar where she could find a competent and willing sex partner, one likely to reward her with some money.

  If Ginny had erased from her thoughts the probable consequences of her behavior in the studio at which her daughter worked, Kendra had not. She had discovered that she enjoyed working as a disc jockey, and she longed to have the pleasure of contact with her listeners. At lunch with June one day, she told the receptionist of her goal to attain a degree in communications and then to have contact with people.

  “I’ve discovered that I like being a disc jockey,” she said to June, “but I would really love it if I had contact with my listeners.”

  “Why don’t you join an organization of professional disc jockeys? You could probably learn a lot and make some connections, too. There ought to be one here or in nearby Virginia or Maryland. Tab might give you some tips.”

  Kendra was certain that he could, but he might not want her to move so fast. She found SRDJ, Society of Radio Disc Jockeys, on the Internet and sent that organization an e-mail.

  She attended the next meeting of the local club and, at once, she noticed the paucity of women. She already knew this was a field in which men ruled overwhelmingly, but she didn’t care. She’d make her listeners like her.

  “You mean you work for Howell Enterprises?” a man asked her after she introduced herself during the Saturday afternoon meeting.

  “Yes,” she replied, “but I’m in the canned music studio, and he’s phasing that out.”

  “Yeah. It’s old hat. But that’s a beginning. He’ll eventually move you to live music. Start now to read all the information that comes with each CD. Listeners like to know everything past and present about the performers. If you tell ’em it was Carl Perkins and not Elvis Presley who wrote ‘Blue Suede Shoes’ or that Duke Ellington and Billy Strayhorn worked so closely together that they sometimes didn’t know which one of them wrote a piece, they’ll think you know something. That’s the way you get a following. If you get a note or an e-mail from one of your listeners, answer it when you’re on the air. That’s the way you get fans. But remember that you can’t fool ’em.”

  “Thank you,” she said, “for being so kind. Most of these fellows are downright rude to me. I was beginning to think I wouldn’t come back.”

  “Don’t let ’em get you down,” he told her. “These young Turks come and go. Every one of ’em thinks he’s the Latterday Messiah. Next year, half of ’em will be looking for a job. I’ve been in this business for almost forty years. Do your job, treat people with respect, be honest and friendly, and you can’t miss. You got a nice voice and a warm personality. That’s what you need. By the way, I’m Charley Brighton.”

  She stared at him. “You? You’re the man who promises to brighten my day?” A smile creased her face. “You have indeed brightened my day. Many times. I’ve been listening to you for years. I’m Kendra Richards.”

  “Glad to meet you, Kendra. Come with me. I see someone you’d like to meet.”

  He walked over to a man who seemed too relaxed and laid-back to be one of the chest-banging disc jockeys that she disliked. “Jack, this is Kendra Richards. She’s a canned music DJ for Howell and working toward handling an open mike. Kendra, this is Jack Meriwether of WLLW. She may be just what you’re looking for, Jack. Be seeing you, Kendra.” The man shook hands with her and immediately began leveling a battery of questions at her.

  “Mr. Meriwether,” she said, “would you please slow down? Answers to some of your questions require careful thought, and I don’t want to misrepresent myself by answering from the top of my head.”

  Jack Meriwether nodded in the manner of one grasping a fact. “At least you’re honest. I’ve done that almost a dozen times today, well aware that I was moving too fast to be comprehensible. But you’re the only person to stop me. How’d you like to do the six to twelve slot at WLLW?”

  “You’re offering me the—”

  “If you didn’t pass muster, Brighton wouldn’t have introduced us. He knew I was here looking for a jock.”

  “Thank you for your confidence. Do you mind if I think about this and call you Monday?”

  “No, I don’t. But I can tell you it’s a more rewarding job than the job you’ve got, and it probably pays more.”

  “I know. May I have your phone number, sir?”

  He handed her his card. “I’ll be out from twelve till twothirty. I look forward to hearing from you Monday.”

  There was her opportunity. But could she take it? And should she? It occurred to her suddenly that Meriwether hadn’t said whether she’d be working mornings or evenings and that he might not be amenable to her having flexible hours. Clifton Howell treated her and the other young people who worked for him almost as if they were members of his family. Yes, she’d have to give it a lot of thought, and she’d have to discuss it with Mr. Howell; he’d been kind and considerate, and she meant to be straight with him.

  On her way to the Soft M
usic Studio the following Monday morning, she stopped at June’s desk. “I need to speak with Mr. Howell for about five minutes if he has time.”

  “Okay. Keep a stack ready for automation. I’ll call you.”

  About an hour later, she walked into Clifton Howell’s office on legs that felt like rubber. “Thanks for seeing me, Mr. Howell. I need your advice about something that I think is important. I attended the local chapter of SRDJ Saturday to join and to attend the workshops. I want to be good at what I do. Those guys made me uncomfortable, and I felt out of place until an older man walked over to me and started talking. His name is Charley Brighton. I told him what I did and where and, without my asking or suggesting that I was interested, he introduced me to Jack Meriwether, who offered me a job.

  “Since I’ve been here, I’ve realized that I enjoy being a disc jockey, and that I’d like it so much better if I had contact with my audience. That’s why I’m trying to learn more. By the way, Mr. Brighton gave me some good tips. Do you think I can have a career with Howell Enterprises? I know it’s too soon for me to think about moving to radio here, but from what you’ve seen of me, do you think I have qualities that will enable me to move to radio after you finish automating the canned music and do well?”

  With the butt of his hands on his desk, Clifton Howell made a pyramid of his ten fingers. Then, he flattened his hands and, just as she was feeling she’d like to disappear beneath the floor, he smiled. “You are the most disarming person I’ve ever met. Nobody in this business is as honest as you are. For that reason if no other, you’d better stay here, because I won’t take advantage of you. I don’t know what Jack is like to work for or what kind of terms he offered you, but . . .”

  When he paused, she said, “He didn’t mention terms, only the hours—six to twelve.”

  “Noon or midnight? I’ll bet my house it’s the morning shift, because that’s the most difficult one to staff. As for your career prospects, are you telling me you’d continue to work for me, let’s say, in radio, after you get your degree?”