All About Eva (20 page)

A new year rolled in, and with it came a renewed hope that somehow, some way, I was going to get my proverbial shit together, once and for all. I was especially optimistic because it was a time when barriers were being broken left and right. Change had come to America, and anything you put your heart and mind to was possible. Not only was the incoming president African-American, but New York also had its very first African-American governor who also happened to be legally blind.

God bless David Paterson because I mean, really. What are the odds? It was stories like Paterson's and Barack Obama's that inspired me into thinking and feeling that I would not be the underdog who was always coming up short for very much longer.

This was my year. Shit! I could feel it in the air. My exuberance caused me to have a little extra pep in my step when I walked into the lounge at the Four Seasons hotel, where Vance was waiting for me at the bar just like he'd said he would be. “Vance, is that you?” I teased, noting that he was dressed casually, which made him look younger and much more relaxed. He looked good. “I was starting to think you were born in Armani!”

Was it me, or did his eyes really light up when he saw me?

“Look at you!” said Vance, kissing me on the cheek. “You've got this laid-back, stress-free aura about you now.”

“It must be the Midwestern air.”

“In that case, bottle it and sell it 'cause you're even more gorgeous than usual.”

I shrugged off the compliment and tried not to blush. For some reason, seeing Vance again was making me feel some kinda way. Horny, to be specific. Especially since I had seen him naked in all his glory and there was a photographic, pornographic image of what he was working with seared into my brain.

However, it was useless to even entertain lustful thoughts of getting to know Vance better, because he was Donovan's lawyer—as well as mine (even though I had yet to pay him for his services).

“Happy belated New Year,” I said, sitting on the bar stool next to Vance. “It's so good to see you here in my neck of the woods.”

“You were kind of in a bad way the last time I saw you, so I just wanted to check in on you and make sure you're doing okay.”

“Much better,” I said. “My friend Tameka was right. Nothing like family to give you a whole new perspective on things.”

“Would you care for a drink, ma'am?” the bartender asked, sliding a square white napkin in front of me.

It was a Monday, and barely noon, so I ordered a virgin strawberry daiquiri with extra whipped cream.

“Have you heard anything from Donovan?” Vance asked.

“Not a word,” I said with a shrug. “So, how long are you going to be in town?”

“Just until tomorrow afternoon,” he said, “but the real questions is, when are you coming back to New York?”

Like promises, New Year's resolutions were made to be broken, so I had not made any for 2009. I did, however, make a huge life decision that I hadn't shared with anyone else yet.

“I'm not going back to New York,” I said, letting Vance in on the secret. “I have some loose ends to tie up back there, but after that, I'm here in Chicago to stay.”

Vance looked crestfallen, but what could he say? I was grown, and it was my life and my decision. “Is there anything I can do to change your mind?”

“No, my family needs me, so it's pretty much a done deal.” I never thought I would hear myself say those words. All of my life, it was all about Eva and what
I
wanted and needed. I was actually looking forward to making my family the focal point instead of just myself. “But enough of all that. How do you want to spend your time here in Chicago?”

“Well, the bartender says there's some good fishing out at the Chain of Lakes.”

“Fishing? This time of year?”

“Illinois is the ice fishing capital of the world,” Vance said. “I'm surprised you didn't know that, Ms. Chi-City.”

“Oh, I knew that, it's just that most folks I know save themselves the hassle and go get their fish battered and fried from Shark's Fish & Chicken joint.”

“Ah, that's for wimps!” Vance said. “Where's the fun in that?”

“Dousing that fresh, fluffy fish with hot sauce, and eating it with some cole slaw and hush puppies—that's where!” I laughed. “And anyway, what does a city boy like you know about fishing?”

“Plenty! When I was a kid, my grandfather used to take me and my cousins up to the Catskills to fish all the time,” said Vance. “It's fun and relaxing, and we're going to get some great fish out of it to share with the family.”

“I don't know who's going to clean it, because I'm sure not!' I said, which was a disclaimer, and also my way of agreeing to the fifty-mile road trip out to the Chain of Lakes.

Global warming being what it is, the temperature that day was an unseasonably warm sixty degrees.

We took Vance's rental car over to Henry's Sports and Bait Shop on Canal Street and picked up fishing poles, bait, a tackle box, a portable heater, and two of those camouflage head-to-toe snowsuits with the rubber boots built in.

All this for some damn fish? I wondered when the total came out to be $347.67. If Vance had been my man, I would have put my foot down, but since he wasn't my man, and was a guest in my hometown, I felt it was my duty to oblige him in whatever he wanted to get into while he was in town. Complete foolishness or not.

The ride up to northern Michigan was as beautiful as it was scary.

There were canyons and valleys that stretched as far as the eye could see with nothing but big thickets of trees that I imagined would be beautiful come springtime.

On the other hand, it was scary because the two-lane “highway” that we were traveling on was so narrow that I suffered a panic attack each time a huge semitruck whizzed past us at a high rate of speed, headed in the opposite direction.

Following the GPS instructions, Vance took an exit that led us through a town with a population of 544, and that had a teeny-tiny cemetery where it seemed as though the families were trying to outdo one another with their extravagant flower arrangements and headstones.

Most of the homes were ranch in style, and some of the yards were even decorated with wooden wagon wheels and cheesing, black-faced lawn jockeys. I had never seen anything quite like it, and to be honest, it felt like we had somehow wandered onto the set of
The Andy Griffith Show.

It had been many years since I had last seen a soda machine outside, but this one was outside of an auto parts store that was right next door to a two-stall carwash that only cost fifty cents. The town had a one-truck firehouse with a hand-painted sign seeking volunteers, and when we passed it for a second time, that's when I knew we were lost.

“So much for GPS devices,” Vance spoke up, before I had the chance to point out the obvious. “I had heard these things weren't all that reliable out in rural areas, but this is ridiculous!”

Nightfall had come upon us quickly. The weather may have been springlike that day, but Vance had failed to take into account that it was winter and that the sun set around five in the evening. Now, I am sure it can be done, but I certainly wasn't up for fishing in the dark.

“Do you have any idea where we are?” I asked as we drove down what had to be the bumpiest back road in Illinois.

“Not a clue.... I was hoping you could tell me.”

“Umm . . . in case you haven't noticed this isn't exactly my hood,” I said with low-key sarcasm. “And it's really too bad we never even made it out to Chain of Lakes.”

“Yeah, I can tell you're all torn up about it.” He laughed, which caused me to join in.

“I am, actually,” I said, “but at least we got a chance to take a nice ride and enjoy the countryside.”

Just as I said that, a possum or some such creature darted across the road in front of us.

Vance said, “Now there's something you don't see every day in New York.”

I resisted the urge to scream, because after all, I had stared king rat eyeball-to-eyeball up in Harlem and lived to tell about it. Country roadkill wasn't nearly as menacing as the big-city variety.

Vance and I came across a main drag that consisted of a roadside diner, a seedy motel, a two-pump gas station, and an establishment with a flashing red sign that read
JAKE'S COUNTRY & WESTERN BAR & GRILL.

Vance pulled into the bar's unpaved parking lot, which was overflowing with pickup trucks and Harley-Davidson motorcycles.

It was clearly a redneck kind of place, but instead of running inside to get directions and continuing on our merry way, Vance found a place to park and said, “Come on, let's go grab a bite to eat.”

“You're joking, right?”

“We need someone to tell us how to get back to civilization,” Vance said, “and besides, I'm sure you probably have to use the restroom, so we might as well kill three birds with one stone.”

Vance got out of the car and ran around to open my door for me. I didn't budge. He was right. I did have to pee, and was starving like Marvin, but I didn't like the looks of the place. I listened closely and could have sworn I heard the banjo music from
Deliverance
playing somewhere in the background.

“It's generally not a good idea to stop at hillbilly bars out in the middle of Klan country.”

City slicker that he was, Vance was fearless and undeterred. “Come on, let your hair down,” he said as he pulled me out of the car. “How bad could it be?”

Walking inside Jake's Country & Western Bar & Grill was like entering another world, one where only cowboys and cowgirls exist. Folks were throwing darts, shooting pool, and riding mechanical bulls, and everyone in there was dressed from head to toe in Western attire, sending out the message that it was not a game, in case you thought otherwise.

“This looks like a happening place!” Vance said, and I was surprised that he was not being facetious. While his eyes took in the dozens of couples out on the vast dance floor, country line dancing in unison to Toby Keith, my eyes were glued to the huge confederate flag hanging behind the bar.

“Let's be in and out of here with a quickness!” I said out of the corner of my mouth like a ventriloquist.

A waitress came over dressed like Annie Oakley, and I was
dead.
“Y'all need a table?” she asked, chomping a wad of gum a mile a minute.

“Yes—” said Vance, but I interrupted him in a thick Southern accent.

“That'd sure be mighty fine, ma'am!”

A good percentage of the bar patrons openly stared as the waitress led Vance and me to a table for two. I guessed correctly that two black people this far back in their neck of the woods was an uncommon sight.

“Welcome to Jake's,” the waitress said, whipping out a notepad and pulling a pencil from behind her ear. “What can I get y'all?”

Vance and I decided to share a pitcher of Michelob and a platter of Buffalo wings and French fries. I went to the little girls' room after we placed our order, and when I came out, I saw that several good ol' boys were heading straight for our table. These were big, tough, mean-looking guys, but Vance was no slouch himself. He stood up as they reached the table, ready for anything.

“Can I help you gentlemen with something?” Vance asked, with a mean mug on his face as well.

The spokesman for the group stepped forward, with hard eyes, and a build like a WWF wrestler. There was a long pause as he sized Vance up, and then zoned in on me. “Yeah, you can help me all right.... We were just wanting to know if we could trouble Ms. Houston for her autograph.”

“WHO?” Vance and I asked at the same time.

“You're Whitney Houston, right?” asked another guy. “
The Bodyguard
soundtrack is one of my all-time favorites!”

While we were both beautiful, the only thing Whitney Houston and I had in common is that we were both black.

“Oh, my God, you guys, I can't believe you recognized me!” I said in a whispery voice.

It was for safety's sake that I indulged them. I smiled for pictures and signed “auto-graphs,” keeping in mind that no one knew where Vance and I were, and if we came up missing, no one would ever think to search for us in Butt-Fuck, Illinois, population 544.

After all the commotion died down, Vance and I dug into our dinner, which was greasy, but good. It was also, at the waitress's insistence, “on the house.”

“You know, you really ought to be ashamed of yourself.” Vance laughed, shaking his head at me. “Whitney Houston?”

“They said it, not me,” I said, keeping my voice down so no one could overhear, “but look, I did everybody in here a favor. I saved our lives,
plus
gave the locals Diva, and put some sunshine into their otherwise dreary little country lives. I don't know about you, but I call that spreading the love.”

“So since you're Whitney, what does that make me, Bobby Brown?”

“
Hey!
” I laughed. “Just don't get none on ya, all right?”

After we ate, Vance the party boy wasn't quite ready to leave his newfound friends, so we stayed a couple hours more, drank more beer, and rode the mechanical bull.

Kenny Chesney's hit “When the Sun Goes Down” came on, and Vance asked me to dance.

“Come on, cowboy! Let's see what'cha got!” I said, as we hit the dance floor and joined in on a line dance, which I was surprised to see that Vance did very well.