A Good Man (6 page)

“You don’t have a car?”

“I suppose I could borrow one of the church vans.” Which reminds me: I have to get the oil changed and a new inspection done on both of them. I hate having to “pretty please” Rankins to pass the old boats. Neither one should be allowed on the road under any circumstances. “No, they’ll need the vans. Reverend Wilson might drop me off. Yeah, that could work.”

“You’re forty, and you don’t have a car.”

I had one once. Last time I saw it, it was wrapped around a tree on County Road 30. Only thing there now is the tree and a white cross. I should bring some more flowers to the cemetery, too. “Burnt Corn is a small town. I walk everywhere.”

“You … walk.”

“Yeah.” I use my legs and everything. I even jog.

“Um, well, that’s … that. Can you give me a time frame for when you could come out to LA, John?”

“I can be available after the second service this Sunday.”

“Give me an actual time, John.”

That isn’t easy to do. “We don’t go by the clock at New Hope. The service ends when God says it ends.”

“Could you maybe pray now and get a time from God for then?”

Good one. I’m beginning to like Larry. “No later than ten PM.”

“All right. We’ll put you on a red-eye from Montgomery or Mobile to LAX Sunday night. Give me a few moments to get your tickets. I’m going to put you on hold.”

John slipped his open cell phone into his back pocket and went to the ancient, rusted storage shed, flipping through his keys until he found the key to the padlock on the door. One day this lock will rust shut, and I’ll have to take a blowtorch to this old barn to get it open. He jiggled the key until the lock opened, hung the lock on a rusty eyehook, and opened the door, the moist smell of mildew rolling past him.

Looks like I’m going to LA. I haven’t been out there since my honeymoon. We only changed planes at LA for the flight to Kauai, but at least I can say I’ve visited there. Two days later, I had the sunburn of my life.

He gassed up a Weed Eater and checked the oil. This should be the last time I have to do this until spring. I don’t remember doing this at the end of last December. Maybe the world is warming up.

“John, you there?”

He slipped his phone from his pocket. “Yes, Larry.”

“Evidently it is impossible for you to escape Alabama on a Sunday night.”

I could have told him that. Alabama closes up shop on Sundays. I’ve always liked that about Alabama. Alabamans seem to keep the Sabbath very well.

“You’ll have to leave Monday morning from Montgomery at seven, fly to Dallas, sit around for three and a half hours there, fly to San Diego, sit there three hours, and then finally land at LAX by six.”

And that’s how Sheila and I got to LA back then. It’s good to know that some things never change.

“I wish I could do better than that, John, but this is on such short notice.”

“Sounds fine to me,” John said. “I’m in no hurry.”

“Your ticket will be at the American Airlines counter in Montgomery. Um, pack lightly. We’ll supply your wardrobe once you—”

“Thank you, Larry,” John interrupted, “but I’m bringing my own clothes.” He picked up the Weed Eater and left the shed.

“You are determined to lose, aren’t you?”

“I have some fly clothes, Larry.” Not really. I haven’t had anyone dress me for fifteen years, and I doubt any of the clothes Sheila bought for me are in style now. “And I promise not to bring any overalls or wear any boots.”

“John, please reconsider.”

“Larry, you’re talking to an old-fashioned WYSIWYG.”

“A wizzy-what?”

“A WYSIWYG. What you see is what you get. What the Nubian princess will see is what she will get.”

“Look, I’ve just sent you a link to the Nubian princess’s bio, John. Give it a read, and I’m sure you’ll change your wizzy whatever ways. Don’t miss your flight. We’ll have someone pick you up at the airport. See you Monday.” Click.

That was rude.

John closed his phone, pocketed it, and pulled the starter cord, the Weed Eater whining to life, blue clouds of smoke filling the air.

I’m going to California to find a wife, and on TV of all things.

Only in America.

“You got it if you want it, Sonya,” Michelle said. “They really want you, and everything is all set to go next week.”

Say what? “Next week?”

“Yeah, and, um, there are a few changes they want you to make.”

Why aren’t I surprised? “Changes? I haven’t even agreed to do it yet.”

“I want you to hear it all, okay? This will help you make that decision. First, they want to change your name and your bio.”

“What?”

“Sonya is so … so, you know?”

“I like my name, and it’s not so ‘you know.’”

“They want you to remain as anonymous as possible until the very end when they reveal all your secrets.”

Not all of them. “I have no secrets.”

“I know that. I mean your true age, your basketball career, your gold medals, your championship rings. Someone might recognize you if you use your real name.”

Doubtful. “What if someone recognizes me anyway?”

“We’ll cross that bridge if we come to it. Your new name is fabulous.”

Also doubtful. “What’s my new name?”

“Jazz.”

“Jazz?”

“Jazz.”

“Will I have a last name?”

“No.”

A single name. A mononym. That’s so conceited. “You know I’m not stuck up like that, Michelle.”

“Quit interrupting. They also want you to be twenty-five.”

“So would I.” In my dreams.

“They want you to be a twenty-five-year-old aspiring actress named Jazz.”

An actress? No way. “I can’t act.”

“That’s why you’re only aspiring. You attended UCLA, majored in drama, and did a few commercials in Japan. You’ve just returned from doing some modeling in Europe.”

These people are crazy! “You’re kidding.”

“Um, you enjoy traveling, shopping, and surfing.”

She has to be kidding. “Surfing? I don’t even know how to swim.” I’m a sinker, not a bobber.

“It’s all for show, Sonya. They promise they won’t make you surf or swim.”

“Don’t those shows have swimming pools at the, um, mansions?”

“So if you go in the pool, stay in the shallow end. You’ll be in the hot tub most of the time anyway.”

Yuck! “You know how nasty hot tubs are? You won’t catch me in there.” Half-naked men. Foam floating on top. Nasty!

“It’s an integral part of the show, Sonya.”

“Not gonna happen.”

“It might be fun.”

“It might give me some disease.”

“They use chlorine.”

Sonya shuddered. “No. So they want me to be a stuck-up, surface-dwelling airhead.”

“Who volunteers her free time at soup kitchens.”

Please, God, let her be kidding about this! “I do what?”

“You volunteer at soup kitchens.”

She wasn’t kidding. “This is all so fake!”

“I’m not done. Um, they have this part of the show where your best friend comes on the show and helps you choose your man. I told them you didn’t have any friends, much less a best friend, so I was kind of hoping that, well, that I could, um, be her.”

Uh-huh. The other shoe has finally dropped. Michelle, the publicist, lived in my limelight when I played ball. She answered more questions than I did, not that anyone wanted to interview me that often, and she even did a few interviews on my behalf while I was icing my knee after games.

“You want to be on TV, Michelle.”

“Right.”

“You be the Nubian princess, then.”

“No, no. I only want to be on TV as your best friend. I’m still your friend, right?”

Barely. “I haven’t heard from you in, what, five years, you put my name in for a sleazy reality TV show without my permission, you’ve all but signed my name to a contract I haven’t even read, you’re telling me I can’t be myself or even use my own name on that show until the very end, and now you want to be my friend on that show?”

“Yes. Oh, and you’ll have to do something with your hair, too. Bet it’s in a ponytail, huh?”

Well … it’s easy to manage. “Michelle.”

“And you’ll have to wear heels and dresses.”

That’s not gonna happen. “Michelle.”

“Don’t worry. They’ll supply them. I know you don’t have any.”

She didn’t even hear me. “Michelle!”

“Yes?”

“Do I have to have a best friend on the show? I mean, I can make up my own mind, right? How can I be a literate, intelligent role model if I can’t make up my own mind?”

“The BFF is a staple on these shows. So was the old boyfriend, but I told them you haven’t ever had one. Archie got married, by the way. Some girl in China half his age and height.”

And, hopefully, she has twice his IQ.

“So, can I play your best friend?” Michelle asked. “Please say yes.”

“Michelle, all you’d be doing is playing. No offense, but we’re not even friends.”

“It’s either me or some actress who will play your BFF. That’s part of the contract, and it’s non-negotiable.”

A fake best friend on a fake reality show. Figures. “Do I really have to have a best friend?”

“Yes.”

I know just where to find her, but will she put her attitude on hold and be willing to help me out on short notice? “I will find a BFF who knows me, okay?”

“You have a best friend?”

“Yes.” Sort of. I wonder if she’ll even hear me all the way through.

“I thought I knew everything about you. Is she someone from your church?”

If I don’t squash this now, Michelle will play twenty questions with me. “No, and you don’t know her, okay?”

“Okay. Just let her know that she’ll have to give up her life for six months to a year, too.”

She’s already given up so many months and years. “I will.”

Michelle sighed. “In a way I’m glad you didn’t choose me. I would have had to lose at least fifty pounds in a week. Like that was going to happen without lipo. Wait. Does this mean you’ll do the show?”

“I guess it … sort of does.” Wow. I’m actually doing this.

“Yes!”

“I said ‘sort of.’ I’ll fly out and talk to them. But I still haven’t signed anything, right?”

“Of course not. I would never do that without your permission.”

“But you already signed something, right?”

“It was just an ‘I’m interested in pursuing this’ kind of thing. It isn’t the actual contract.”

“Well, you did everything else without my permission.”

“I’m just trying to jump-start your life, Sonya.”

“My life doesn’t need jump-starting.” And I said that completely without conviction. Maybe my life does need jump-starting.

“When can you be in LA?”

My schedule is so full these days. Let’s see … “Is Saturday night soon enough?”

“Yes! Let me know your flight schedule, I’ll get WB to have the tickets waiting for you at the airport, and I’ll pick you up when you get to LA. We have so much to do!”

“Okay.”

“This is going to be so much fun! Bye.” Click.

She is still so rude. You called me. You are supposed to wait for me to say good-bye before you hang up.

Sonya sighed. I can still say no. And if my bio doesn’t change significantly, I will say no. But I can’t do any of this without a BFF. If I’m really going to do this …

She picked up her cell phone.

I have to do this. She pressed the number two, held it, and waited for the beep. “Kim, this is Sonya. Please give me a call as soon as you can. It’s very important. Bye.”

Now, will she call back, or will I have to call her ten times a day for the next five days?

Back in his apartment, John read the Nubian princess’s bio and laughed at the twenty-five-year-old aspiring actress named Jazz.

No last name. How pretentious. How could a parent look at her child and give her that name? That’s as bad as naming a boy R and B. Oh, yeah. That has to be her stage or screen name. Her real name is probably something ordinary like Mary or Sue. I’ll bet she has an ordinary last name like Jones or Smith. Mary Jones. Sue Smith. I like ordinary better.

“Aspiring” most likely means that she isn’t good enough to get a part and this is her first major “role.” She’s probably using this show to start her career. “Attended UCLA and majored in drama.” She’s probably not very bright. She only “attended” UCLA. I’ll bet she audited a class or two. And she majored in drama. So many women seem to major in drama these days, whether they go to college or not. I’ll bet her life is full of drama and she dishes out the drama often. A few commercials in Japan and some modeling in Europe where no American has ever seen her.

He looked at her picture. Pretty. Nice hazel eyes. She probably wears contacts. Shy smile. Cute cheeks. Short hair. Not much makeup for a diva. Natural. And young. That’s a face I could wake up to every morning.

Sorry, God. She’s beautiful.

Oh, and sorry, Sheila. She’s not as beautiful as you are.

Let’s see … enjoys travel, shopping, and surfing. Shopping. Who enjoys that? The nearest Walmart is eleven miles away, and I go there as infrequently as possible, and only late at night. Surfing? I haven’t seen too many black women surfing. I suppose anything’s possible in America. But volunteering at soup kitchens? Who are they kidding? Maybe it was court-ordered.

Definitely cute, though. Even sexy. If I were fifteen years younger, even ten years younger …

Yeah, right.

It’s going to be a very short trip.

John called Reverend William Wilson, long-time pastor of New Hope, and one of Sheila’s many great-uncles.

“Reverend Wilson, this is John.”

“What broke now?”

John smiled. “Nothing, actually.” And that’s probably a first. “Everything’s working. I’m just calling to tell you that I’ll be taking a leave of absence.”

“A leave of absence. So it’s not a permanent absence.”

“No, sir. Just a year.” Or a few weeks. “Starting after second service on Sunday.”

“Where are you going?”

To my probable embarrassment. “I’d rather not say.”

“Folks are gonna ask.”

Are they? I doubt it. I sometimes think that the folks at New Hope want me to leave so I’m not such a constant reminder to them of Sheila. They all adored Sheila, even those who weren’t directly related to her.