Any Way the Wind Blows (27 page)

Two hours later and still no sign of Bart. He must be shaking his ass at some gay bar in the village, I thought. I was listening to
The Quiet Storm
on WBLS, when I decided to check my messages at home. Another call from Rosa, and one from Raymond saying he was just thinking about me. I looked at the clock and saw that it was only 10:20 in Seattle, so I dialed Raymond’s number. I knew from the events of the last thirty-plus hours that with my luck, Raymond’s partner would probably answer the phone. So I was a bit surprised when Raymond picked up himself.

“Hello?”

“You lookin’ for me?” I said.

“Just checking in. How are you doing?”

“Chillin’.”

“Where are you? Sounds like you’re on a portable.”

“I’m in my car.”

“Is it cold there?”

“It’s winter, so you know it’s cold. But I’m hot as hell,” I said.

“Why?” Raymond asked. It sounded like he was whispering. Maybe old dude was close by.

“Would you take a criminal case if it was somebody you loved?”

“Who are you talking about?”

I spent the next ten minutes telling Raymond about my
day and evening. I told him how difficult it was hearing the pain in my Pops’s voice and how I had never been so mad in my entire life. I wanted to punish Bart and Yancey for making me look weak and soft in front of my Pops and business partners.

“Why didn’t you just tell your father the truth? You know he loves you. Basil, what your uncle did to you wasn’t your fault,” Raymond said.

“And it wasn’t my Pops’s fault either.”

“Basil, do me a favor. Turn on your car and go home. Don’t make matters worse. How is your father going to feel with you in jail? He’ll know you were lying to him. What about your business? Please don’t do this.”

“I got to, dude. People can’t fuck me over and expect me to just walk away. You know that’s not how I roll,” I said.

“Would you do it for somebody who cares a great deal for you?” Raymond said.

“Who?”

“Me.”

I thought about what Raymond had asked. The sincerity and concern in his voice were powerful, but I couldn’t stop thinking about Bart. I pictured him and Yancey celebrating as they completed each call. Finally I said, “Naw, Raymond. I know you’re right, but I can’t do it. Not even for you.”

S
o, Bart, are you really going to move down here?” Yancey asked.

“I’m pretty sure that’s what I need to do. I really don’t have much of a choice,” I said. Yancey didn’t respond as she took a bite of the salmon omelet we both had ordered. We were having breakfast on a deck near the hotel pool. With the state of my finances, I realized the three-egg omelet with skillet potatoes and onions might be the last decent meal I was going to enjoy.

I had spent the previous evening trying to reach Ava, without success. I tried her cell phone number when I woke up, but a recording told me the number had been disconnected. Ava had pulled a fast one. I was very depressed, and I was overdrawn by $33,000. I figured I could buy a little time by not returning to New York right away. With all the criminals in New York, I didn’t think my bank was going to send the police to South Beach to get me. Besides, they couldn’t prove that I was trying to defraud the bank. I deposited the check from Ava in totally good faith. I decided
to move into one of the cheap hotels on South Beach and try to find work as a waiter and model.

The only saving grace was that I had paid my Visa down to a zero balance, and the $7,500 check had cleared. After a few bites of my omelet, I looked over at Yancey and thought how wonderful her life must be. Adored by fans both male and female, she was most likely blessed with a big bank account as well.

Yancey was wearing all white, a sleeveless sweater and capri pants. Her face was beat to perfection, like she was getting ready for a photo shoot. She had her hair styled in a long sophisticated ponytail fastened with a tortoiseshell clip. Her eyes were a warm brown, with little flecks of gold and long lashes. Yancey stopped eating and looked over at me. Her smile was soft, like she was watching a newborn baby sleep. She touched the top of my hand and offered, “Cheer up, Bart. Things will work out.”

“I wish I had your confidence,” I said. “I guess I’m getting what I deserve. I did a horrible thing.”

“Are you sorry for going after this guy?” Yancey asked.

“Should I be? I mean, is he sorry for what he did to me? I doubt it. He’s probably lying up in his fabulous apartment, in his big king-size bed, with someone else,” I said. I was so mad at Ava that I had forgotten about Basil in the last twenty-four hours. I wondered why Yancey was so concerned about the feelings of his bisexual ass. Maybe she was thinking about the man who had dumped her. Maybe it was a good thing I had added a little twist to my story by telling Yancey the guy was sleeping with both Ava and me at the same time. Women hated that. Besides, now I wasn’t so certain
Ava was telling me the truth about why she hated Basil so much.

“You must have really loved him,” Yancey said.

“As much as I’m capable of loving. I do think I learned something from this.”

“What’s that?”

“I think I fell for this guy, like most of the men I fall for, because I know deep in my heart they’re unattainable. These men are never going to be involved in a faithful relationship with another man no matter what. Maybe that’s why I love and
hate
bisexual men with such a passion. They don’t think they deserve love, and I know I don’t,” I said, suddenly wondering if my pineapple juice had some type of truth serum in it.

“Do you think Ba—I mean the guy—loved you?” Yancey asked as she coughed like she had something caught in her throat.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

“I’m fine,” Yancey said as she looked down into her lap and then took a sip of water.

“He loved what I did in bed,” I said.

“You don’t have anyone you can borrow the money from?”

“No, I don’t,” I said. I had decided against asking Wylie for the money because he would ask too many questions. If I told him the truth, not only would he not give me the money, but this would probably be the last straw of our already fragile friendship.

“How much do you need?” Yancey asked.

“About forty-five thousand dollars,” I said. My heart started beating rapidly at the thought of Yancey offering me
a loan. I figured I’d better inflate the figure in case she was in a generous mood.

“What about your parents?”

“What parents?” Yancey wanted to talk about parents, and I wanted to discuss a payment plan. Then I realized that unless she was independently wealthy, she probably didn’t have that kind of money. I knew it took most recording stars years to make any money, with all the expenses of promoting an album. Yancey had already spent a lot of money on the two videos. Not on me, of course, but I know she dropped a small bundle on her outfits alone.

“Your parents are dead?”

“As far as I’m concerned,” I said coldly.

“Why don’t you tell me about it?” Yancey asked.

I was silent for a few moments, and then I figured since I had told her so much, I might as well tell her the story of my miserable life.

“You know, I don’t know why I’m telling you all this stuff. But somehow I feel like I can trust you. Can you explain that to me?” I asked.

“Maybe we have some things in common,” Yancey said quietly.

“Children never forget,” I said, and then I paused for dramatic effect. I leaned back in the wrought-iron patio chair and enjoyed the warmth of sunshine on my face for a few moments. Then I began talking to Yancey like she was my therapist and she could make everything in my life right.

“The last time I saw my parents was when they dropped me off at day care. I think I was four or five. Well, that’s not exactly true. I saw them once again when I was seven. They
were on television. In handcuffs, being led out of a courtroom. My birth parents had robbed a bank. Who in the fuck did they think they were? Bonnie and Clyde?” I stopped for a moment. That was usually my punch line, but Yancey wasn’t laughing. Her eyes were full of sympathy, so I continued, spilling out details.

“Anyway, my father ended up killing one of the guards. When I became older, I went back and read some of the newspaper accounts. He was sentenced to life without parole, but my mother was given fifteen years. She’s probably out now, I don’t know. I haven’t tried to find her, and I’m sure she hasn’t been looking for me. I try not to think about them,” I said as tears began to form in the corner of my eyes. I began blinking repeatedly, like someone was flashing a bright unwanted light in my eyes. I couldn’t believe I had finally told someone the true story of my criminal parents. When Wylie had pressed me for details, I had told him an equally sad story, but in the version I told Wylie, my parents were drug addicts and had both died from AIDS.

Yancey had tears in her eyes. When she looked away, she picked up the linen napkin from her breakfast plate and dabbed the corners of her eyes. She then looked at me and said, “Bart, we can’t choose our families.”

“I know. But I couldn’t even catch a break when I was placed in foster care. Every time I came close to getting adopted, something went wrong. Where in the hell was Rosie O’Donnell when you needed her?” I joked, trying to lighten things up.

Yancey smiled and then said, “I hope this doesn’t sound cruel, but you’re not the only one who had a rough childhood.
I say that only because I really know where you’re coming from.”

“I know, but that still doesn’t stop me from being angry. I mean, there is another part of the story,” I said.

“I’m listening,”

“I had a baby sister. She was about eight months old. Amanda was her name,” I said softly.

“What happened to her?”

“She was adopted right away. The family didn’t want me. Neither did my grandmother on my father’s side. My mother’s parents disappeared too. So don’t believe that shit about black folks never turning their backs on family.”

“Oh, baby, you’re talking to the choir here. I know that.”

“And the foster homes were just like prison camps. I had to fight all the time to keep the boys off of me. I mean, the ones I didn’t like,” I said.

“Do you think that’s why you’re gay?”

“Oh, hell no. I’m gay through and true. I would have been gay even if Cliff and Clair Huxtable from
The Cosby Show
had been my parents. I spent so many years praying to God for parents, and when he didn’t answer that prayer, I began pleading that if I’m going to be an orphan and gay …” I paused, because tears the size of grapes were rolling down my face.

“It’s okay, Bart,” Yancey said as she patted my hand.

“… then let someone like me, love me,” I said as I tried to stop crying. I wanted to cut out this pity party, but all I could manage was a weak smile as Yancey held my hand. It was time, once again, to figure out yet another plan for survival.

I
wonder what people see when they look at me. I studied my face in the mirror after removing the ton of makeup I’d worn for the shoot. It had been a very long day, but if the dailies Desmond and I had just watched were any indication, the second video was going to be a bigger hit than the first!

My eyes looked tired. I wondered what Desmond saw when he looked at me. Tired eyes? Or the face of a cover girl? I guessed it was best that most people saw only what they wanted to see and no more. I was damn glad I didn’t have the kind of face that tells your whole life story. My career would be over!

I peered in closer and ran my finger across the faint scar over my left eyebrow. No one ever noticed it, but I always knew it was there. My grandmother had said it was an accident and that she hadn’t meant to break the skin or draw blood. What she had meant to do was beat the living devil out of me with an extension cord when I was eight years old. Whipping me was a common occurrence when my
grandmother thought I’d looked at her the wrong way or, even worse, “been fast” with a neighborhood boy.

On that particular day many years ago when I tried to pull away from her grasp, she let me go and I fell, hitting my head on the sharp corner of the kitchen counter. She’d never hesitated to raise big red welts on my legs and back, but when she saw the blood running down my face, it scared her so badly she put the extension cord away for at least a week.

Sometimes I can’t look at my own face. I’m afraid of what I’ll see there. I can brush my teeth, put on my makeup and fix my hair without ever looking into my own eyes. Most of the time people don’t look any deeper than my pretty face. But I’ve learned that beautiful people don’t always lead beautiful lives.

I thought Desmond had broken the family code earlier today, when he was looking at me so intensely that I wanted to tell him my life story. The true version—not the one I’d carefully crafted for the outside world. It made me nervous. I thought maybe Desmond could see Ava, my grandmother, or even Basil in my eyes; that he could see the lies I’ve told, the deceptions. Could he see the hurt little girl who lives inside of me? He kept looking at me and searching my face, but I realized suddenly that he was just trying to get the lighting right. I was so relieved that I let out a deep sigh. “You okay?” he asked. “Fine,” I lied, avoiding his stare and giving him one of my best diva smiles.

I surprised myself by being so concerned with what Desmond thought of me. Besides his looks, he’s talented, smart, down-to-earth and totally unimpressed with me as a
woman. At least, that’s the way it seems. He’s had plenty of opportunities to make a move. I know he knows how, but so far, nothing. I guess I should be glad that he hasn’t jumped all over me, like most of the men I’ve met. Desmond has a homeboy quality mixed with the air of a southern gentleman that makes him almost irresistible.

• • •

I
’d spent so much time working and thinking about Desmond that my stomach had to remind me it needed food to survive the long days. I was tired of the room service thing again, and Bart had already switched hotels. I walked out on the balcony and soaked up the amazing view in Miami: the pool, the beach and the open-air café and bar below. I decided that I needed to get away from Yancey B tonight, so I put on my peach-colored tube top to show off my tan, and a blue- and peach-flowered sarong that showed plenty of leg and thigh when I sat down. Then I slipped on some barely-there sandals.