by Don Noble
Maybe she would throw up after all. At least the bathroom was clean. When she was done she would rise from her knees and go outside to her car and come back in with her bleach and her brushes and get to work.
Another thing nobody told you about being a mother: you never really stop.
XENIA, QUEEN OF THE DARK
by Thom Gossom Jr.
Avondale, Birmingham
The sliver, a lone ray of sunlight, slipped inside the crack of the door, cutting into the pitch-black darkness inside the building, and shined on the thick black curtains she hid behind. Where in the hell was Justin?
She was scared! Pissed and scared. She had told herself she would not be, but . . . She had promised her therapist she would not be, but . . . Her brain raced uncontrollably. She could not slow it down. What ifs chased each other in circles. She had to face it. That was part of the agreement with her therapist. But . . . what if it was going to start all over again? What if they were all waiting outside, cameras and microphones? What if it was a joke?
"You leaving?" asked Arnold, the big reliable engineer, her bodyguard, the closest thing she had to a friend other than Justin.
Mentally occupied, she heard him but didn't. She looked right through the massive Arnold, but didn't see him. Would mass hysteria again be a part of her life?
"Yes, waiting on Justin," she finally answered.
"You okay?" Even though Arnold knew the whole story, he pretended he didn't. She pretended she didn't want or need Arnold to be standing there looking after her. Arnold pretended he didn't notice.
Arnold was a Birmingham native, and like many Birmingham natives he was a daily lunch customer at Niki's West on Finley Avenue, a popular buffet restaurant featuring home-style cooking. It was part of his daily itinerary and his three-hundred-pound legend. When he wasn't working, he was eating. When he wasn't eating, he spent many hours in porn chat rooms where women knew him by name but not physical appearance. He used his handsome cousin's photo to entice the older, more mature women he preferred.
Justin and Arnold were Xenia's entourage, confidants, and support system. Arnold, a childhood friend with no family of his own, was a brother to both Justin and Xenia, as well as a part-time bodyguard to Xenia. Justin trusted Arnold with Xenia's life. Arnold saw it as an honorable calling.
Arnold opened the curtains and let in the morning sunshine. It shined brightly in the big window that was blacked out from the outside. Xenia gave him a look.
"I'll just be right here," he reassured her as he stepped into the next room. "Get my phone and call Justin."
Call Justin. That had not occurred to her. Fear does that, she thought.
The juxtaposition of the beautiful sunshine and the ugly fear crawling inside of her . . . would have made her laugh if she was not so terrified. Now that she was back, the terror, like last time . . . struck a nerve.
Where was Justin? He was supposed to be here! DAMNIT, JUSTIN!
Six hours earlier
The hands on the old-fashioned black circular Seth Thomas clock on the faded green wall sat still. No motion. Time literally stood still.
There had been so much anticipation of this night, the return of Xenia, Queen of the Dark. The Internet world buzzed. Websites and social media platforms crashed around the world. Media of all types descended onto Birmingham, where she had resurfaced to claim her crown.
A nervous twinge tickled her insides.
Slowly . . . but definitely, the big hand on the old clock shifted right, made a loud click, and covered the minute hand, striking midnight. The theme music kicked in.
"Girl on Fire" by Alicia Keys brought the room and the international audience to life. The Queen was back! Arnold grinned at her through missing teeth, from his technical sanctuary in the accompanying booth. The new studio Justin had built for her, in a nondescript office park in Birmingham's Avondale community, was perfect. Xenia had a condo she called home, with underground parking so she wouldn't be seen outside. But she was so excited to be back; she often spent her days at the studio working.
Diana Krall's aptly named "I've Changed My Address" was next.
It was almost as dark inside the building as it was outside. "The Queen of the Dark likes it that way," she said.
She'd inherited her fondness of the dark from her dad, who had been one of the first black deejays in the 1970s to work at a white station in the city of Birmingham, when AM radio dominated the dials. His handle, "Ronnie Dodd up here in the dark," fit his midnight-to-six shift in a downtown high-rise. Because of his tales, Xenia had never considered a daytime gig.
She knew they were all waiting: fans, friends, and newcomers.
Not yet ready to fully engage, and to pace herself for the next six hours, Xenia came back with "Everything Must Change" by Randy Crawford.
The worldwide promotion for her return had been off the charts. The big sponsors, their briefcases full of financial promises, hustled aboard their corporate jets and headed to Birmingham International Airport. They all wanted her: Good Morning America, The Today Show, Hollywood, the fashion houses. The same sponsors who'd abandoned her when the trouble arose now wanted back in. They would have to pay! Justin would see to that. He had the whip hand.
"Less is more!" bellowed Justin in one of their backyard sponsorship meetings over spicy Popeyes chicken and beer. "We make Xenia super exclusive!"
It had been shameless, but strategic. Xenia would be everywhere and nowhere at the same time. There would be no appearances—she would not be seen in public (without a disguise). No television interviews. Yet she would be seen all over television, social media, and heard on radio in carefully crafted messages promoting her return.
"Everyone will know Xenia, of the Dark, but no one will know Xenia, Queen of the Dark," Justin bragged.
The strategy fit Xenia. She'd had enough of the spotlight the first time around. Besides . . . everything was changed, different. She didn't need or want that anymore. Fear brings humility.
The show's format would be the same. Xenia would command the midnight-to-dawn hours and she would talk, interact with her worldwide audience, play music, interview celebrities, interview whomever, until six a.m., five nights a week.
Arnold counted her down to the new beginning, their future: "And three . . . two . . . one." He pointed his big stubby finger at her, and she went into full Xenia mode.
"Hey, everybody," Xenia's smooth melodious voice cooed across the Internet. She breathed seductively into the microphone, "I am Xenia, Queen of the Dark."
The Queen was back! If it was possible, the world shook.
* * *
She had been born beautiful. Everyone in the hospital agreed. The green eyes set deeply in her mocha-colored skin and wavy, flowing, jet-black hair made her stand out among the other newborns. "What a beautiful baby!" the onlookers all exclaimed. They were Xenia's first audience.
She grew to be more beautiful. Her smile, her full lips, her body cried out for attention. The charisma that flowed from her character, her personality, and her kindness highlighted her physical beauty. Kindness was the most important thing her dad had taught her.
As a teen and young woman, modeling was her foundation. It came easy to her. Stand there, put some nasty thought in your head about some boy you know, and pose. She was good at it and it paid her well. As one of the world's most sought-after supermodels, she did promotions, advertising, and runways at all the major fashion stops in Paris, London, and New York. Her mixed ethnicity made her seem exotic and she was accepted all over the world. When asked about her background, Xenia exclaimed, "I am Xenia, I belong to the whole of humanity!" Until . . . she started to feel like a piece of meat.
"When that happens it's time to get out," her parents had warned.
Ronnie Dodd, her dad, had come to Birmingham from Opelika, where he had been hired for the midnight-to-six time slot by the local radio station because no one else wanted it. "Give it to the young black guy," management had reasoned. Ronnie became Op
elika history, the first black guy . . . thing. Ronnie then turned the opportunity and the station into a moneymaker. Within a year he was scooped up by WSGT, the largest and most popular station in Birmingham. WSGT broadcast from a downtown high-rise, which looked out over the city. Ronnie was once again given the midnight-to-six slot. It wasn't long before "Ronnie Dodd up here in the dark" was born.
Within a couple of years of arriving in Birmingham, Ronnie knocked up his girlfriend. It caused a stir.
Mariessa was her own melting pot, Anglo mixed with Greek, Italian, and Latino. In Alabama, if you weren't black you were white. Being white, she wasn't supposed to be Ronnie's girlfriend. Not openly in the 1970s, in Birmingham, Alabama. Hell, it was still illegal for blacks and whites to marry.
Her world was the over-the-mountain upscale neighborhoods and country clubs of Birmingham's suburbs. Her family, without hesitation, barred her from ever bringing Ronnie home again after that first time, after dating him in the shadows for a year. Plus, Ronnie was ten years older and already had a son, eight-year-old Justin, with his high school girlfriend in Opelika.
Mariessa announced her pregnancy to her family on a Sunday after church. Her mother, knowing how headstrong her daughter could be, accused her of intentionally getting pregnant. Had she? Mariessa smiled. Rather than fight it out, she and Ronnie packed up his VW bus, Justin, and the newly born Xenia, and headed to California. They were married on Venice Beach with Justin as his dad's best man and tiny Xenia in her baby carrier, the flower girl. Ronnie worked out a deal for the midnight-to-six job at KPCH in Santa Monica overlooking the Pacific Ocean. He was operating in the dark once again, this time in California.
* * *
Mariessa's mother led the way back.
Marcella, Mariessa's mother, an educator/artist, decided that being in her only child and grandchild's life was worth the friction with her husband John. She didn't confront him about bringing them back to Birmingham, nor did she ask him to visit them in California with her. She instead made the cross-country flight three times a year, rented a small cabin in Santa Monica, painted at a local studio, and enjoyed her family and the Southern California lifestyle. During these visits she came to think of Mariessa's stepson, Justin, as her grandchild as well. She grew as close to him as she was with Xenia.
John's resistance would last another fifteen years.
Working to piece her family together through the grandchildren, Marcella would pay for Justin to go to law school if he agreed to do it in Alabama. Justin consented. He alone moved back with his grandmother. Marcella leased an apartment for him. John insisted Justin stay with them, but in the gardener's cottage behind the house.
After law school, John bragged about his "black grandchild," who had finished atop his class and was recruited by every major law firm in the state. John's firm hired him. Justin was on his way to being a pillar in the New Birmingham.
* * *
The Temptations' "My Girl" ended.
"Hey, everybody! It's so good to reconnect. I love you all," Xenia told her fans around the world. Mentions, hashtags, and tweets all echoed their love back to her. "I'm back, stronger than ever. Better than ever," she assured all.
Xenia's voice sounded almost like Sade singing—smooth, soothing, and personal. Her listeners felt she was talking directly to each one of them. And she was.
She got right to the heart of the matter: "Hey, everybody, I want to be perfectly clear . . . I did not have an abortion." She dropped that bomb in a firm and even tone.
The rest of her soliloquy to "her people" around the world went smoothly. She went into more detail about her miscarriage than she could have ever imagined. The miscarriage had almost killed her. To then be accused publicly of having an abortion! How could she? Why would she? The pregnancy had made her so happy. So excited. Her life had meaning beyond herself. She had started bringing little baby trinkets to the studio.
It had begun with a phone call, "The Voice," and then the firestorm on social media. She was still on the air in Santa Monica, having taken over the midnight shift from her dad, who was semiretired.
"You're going to hell! Hellfire and damnation for you! I know your secret," the creepy voice had threatened. The Voice accused her of killing her baby. "A mixed-breed murderer, a whore," he had called her. He demanded that she reveal to her audience who the dad was and whether she had told him about the abortion. "You're going to hell," he repeated. "You got the devil in you. And I will be your judge and jury." When he was ignored he became more threatening, more menacing. I will be waiting . . . and when you least expect me, he texted.
There were not enough ways to stop him. Even when his calls to the studio and her cell were blocked, he used burner phones to text and e-mail. He dominated every night's show. Changing her numbers did no good. Somehow, he always found her . . . Every time she blocked his attempts he got angrier. "You will burn in hell!" he spit at her. They were the longest nights of her life.
"Who is this?" she would question him repeatedly. She had no idea. She had not dated steadily for some time. She was not interested in marriage. Her life would not be traditional.
One memorable night, each word of explanation triggered more e-mails, texts, tears, phone calls, tweets, and hate from the people she had thought were her fans. How could they be so mean, she wondered, when they don't even know the real story?
She wanted to explain . . . yet the artificial insemination was no one's business but hers. Tabloids splashed their pages with Xenia and her abortion. Is she a whore, a murderer? they asked.
Xenia became another fallen celebrity. The pitfalls of fame nearly ruined her. The social media rumors of an abortion and the harassing threats, on top of her miscarriage, sent her into a hole she could not crawl out of.
She stopped trying to explain herself. She fell apart. She refused to work. Refused to eat. Refused counseling. Refused to leave her bedroom. It was her right to grieve and give in to her terror, and she did.
Her doctor declared her physically fit, but still she wouldn't utter a word. She listened to the hip-hop artist snaPz's suicidal song "Dear God" over and over. Then it was Van Morrison's lyrics, "Just like Greta Garbo, I just want to be alone." Finally, on their fifth try, Mariessa and Marcella got her in front of the right therapist. Still, Xenia went two more months without speaking. At four months, she started crying, inconsolable weeping. At six months, she announced she wanted to go back to her show. "I have to," she declared.
Justin began the rebuild. He, Marcella, Mariessa, Ronnie, Arnold, and even John brought her back through love and reason. The new show would originate out of Birmingham.
"You're the girl," her mother and grandmother assured her.
* * *
The night rolled on. Three o'clock. Four o'clock. It was as if the Queen had never left. Xenia gave a shout out to her friends in Cumberland, Maryland, and the annual DelFest Music Festival that featured the folk group the Infamous Stringdusters.
Aretha Franklin's "(You Make Me Feel Like) A Natural Woman" . . . caused a sensation with many of the female listeners.
Women tweeted, e-mailed, and called with their own stories. Subjects were dear and personal. Men listened.
Xenia took a couple of calls. A guy flirted with her and then proposed. Xenia laughed it off.
The Internet blew up. Social media numbers set records, then more records. News media trucks roamed around Birmingham broadcasting from the many Xenia parties, receptions, and concerts. Xenia had not sought the attention again, but it felt good.
She soothed the Internet crowd with Dr. John's version of "In a Sentimental Mood."
Then . . . "I know where you live, whore! You can't get away from me. You're the devil." It was him! She knew it instantly. The Voice. She froze. Fear shot through every fiber of her body. The Voice, the one who had started the abortion rumor, the one who had terrorized her. "Yeah, I'm back, whore."
The last time he had stalked and terrorized her, nearly driving her crazy. She became
the victim of Internet bullshit and the many people who had nothing else to do around the world but share and forward Internet bullshit.
He had never been caught. Justin and John had tried. They'd worked with police and private cyber hackers. They'd invested in seminars. How to Bait and Catch the Anonymous Person Harassing You; How to Stop Online Stalking; How to Catch a Cyber Stalker. But the Voice was always two steps ahead. After it all became too much, Xenia had dropped off the grid.
Her mind now raced. What if he's here? In Birmingham? What if . . . ?
"You think you can move and get away from me?" the Voice threatened. "You think I won't bring the wrath of God Almighty down on you? I'll prove it to you—" The call abruptly cut off before he could finish.
Arnold had activated the security and tracking measures that John, Justin, and a young technology associate at the law firm had installed as they built the new studio. Arnold swiftly blocked another incoming call from the Voice. A call was immediately placed to the Birmingham chief of police, a good friend of Justin's. Arnold switched the phone line to another caller. A different man who expressed his admiration: "Hey, Queen, we love you." But the damage had been done.
Frozen, Xenia's look to Arnold asked if the security measures were working. Were they able to track him? Could they locate him? Turn him over to the police? Finally get rid of him? If only she could be certain . . . she would not be so afraid. What if he really does try to kill me?
In the lengthening silence, Arnold cued up "I Can't Quit" by Robert Cray.
She was surprised at how quickly the fear had returned. How quickly and immediately she felt threatened. Would she really be able to move on?
Arnold would not look at her. He nervously fidgeted back and forth between his iPad, cell, and laptop. His hands raced over the keyboard, clicked his mouse, and jumped from one piece of sophisticated equipment to another while red, green, and yellow digital lights flashed. Were the lights signaling that they had caught him? Did they have a line on him?