I Say a Little Prayer (3 page)

CHAPTER FOUR

I
poured some pale pink sautéed shrimp over a plate of hot pasta, and the phone from the downstairs concierge rang. My dinner guest was on time.

“Hello,” I said.

“Mr. Greer, this is Tad from the desk. I have a Sir Skylar here. May I send him up?”

“Sir Skylar?” I laughed. “Yeah, send him up.”

I pulled a bottle of Merlot from the bar, opened it up to breathe, and then pulled out two wineglasses from the cabinet and set them on the granite countertop.

I took the Caesar salad I had made earlier from the refrigerator, looked around the kitchen-dining area, and declared myself ready for entertaining one of my best friends, Skylar Demond Roberts.

I’d met Skylar after I started my company and did an appearance on the local
Good Morning A-T-L
show. He was the makeup artist. Even though I have never been the type of person to walk up to someone and say, “Hello there, I’m Chauncey and I sleep with men,” Skylar immediately clocked me by quipping, “So, how many young boys’ hearts have you broken, Mr. Tall, Chocolate, and Handsome?” We’ve been friends ever since.

We’re quite different. Skylar embraces everything about being gay and hasn’t missed a black-gay-circuit party in years. Every year he treks to Washington, D.C., Los Angeles, Chicago, and Miami, where he tells me the finest black gay men in the country converge for a weekend of nonstop partying. He lives to fall in love, if only for a week or two. I live to avoid it. He laughs out loud every time I invite him to join me for church and teases me that I’m on the GL (the God Low). Meaning that the way I curse and love sex, he was certain that God didn’t even know my name. I wasn’t ashamed of my faith, but I did get tired of trying to explain to people how I could have sex with men, still believe in God, and consider myself a good Christian or at least a work in progress.

The doorbell rang, and I checked on the brownness of the bread in the oven before I rushed to the foyer.

“Chauncey, darling, darling,” Skylar said as he swept in wearing a tight knit pullover with a fake fur collar and a large black leather bag thrown over his shoulder.

“Let me take your wrap.” I inspected the dark brown fur and wondered why Skylar was wearing something like this in the summer—in Atlanta, in early July.

“What did you whip up? It smells great, like garlic,” Skylar said.

“Just some shrimp scampi. I hope you’re hungry.”

“I’m always hungry, and you know I love to eat, despite what my schoolgirl figure will tell you.” Skylar twirled around the room. He was about 5'7" and slim, with sharp features and the small waist of a high school twirler.

“Come on, let’s eat. Would you like some wine?”

“Do you have any beer?”

“I think I have a couple of Coronas,” I said.

“Oh, no—on second thought, that’s way too butch. Just give me a little white wine,” Skylar said quickly.

“How was your weekend?” I asked as I grabbed a half-bottle of Riesling from the back of the fridge.

“Fabulous. I had a date with another horse-dick boy I met on the Net. We spent the entire weekend together, but of course he has a lover—wife or something. I forget. I just know I most likely won’t see him again,” Skylar said as he took a seat at the counter.

“Are you still doing that online stuff?” I asked.

“Don’t try to
high-hat
me, Chauncey Dion Greer. Need I remind you that you tried it, too?” Skylar said.

“But I didn’t meet anybody,” I said, recalling how excited I was when I got my first response to my Internet ad. But I became quickly disenchanted when my date didn’t look anything like his picture.

“Your standards are too high, but you’ll get lonely one night and you’ll be pulling out that computer for comfort,” Skylar said, and laughed.

Maybe he was right. I didn’t consider myself lonely, and with my growing business, the gym, and church, I led a full life. The guys I communicated with over the Internet all seemed like such losers—they regularly used fake pictures or listed themselves as tops but sounded like California Valley Girls over the phone. Besides, I saw enough half-naked boys every day in photos of models and wannabes who submitted pictures to be the next discovery of CBCC.

“Earth to Chauncey,” Skylar yelled.

“What?”

“Didn’t you hear me? I asked you how was your weekend?”

“The usual, nothing special,” I said.

During dinner, Skylar chatted about some guy he was writing in prison (when it came to keeping a man, Skylar left no stone unturned) while I thought about what I had to tell him.

After dinner, I made tea and Skylar and I moved to the patio to enjoy the view of downtown Atlanta. A couple glasses of wine convinced me I was ready to share with Skylar my recovered dream to sing. I hoped he’d be supportive.

“So what are you working on?” I asked as I placed a berry-brown leather scrapbook under my chair.

“Another fucking makeover show, and trust me when I tell you I am sick and tired of trying to convince some short, nappy-haired, overpermed ghetto bitch that she doesn’t need a weave,” Skylar said. He was now an executive producer for
Good Morning A-T-L
and had a staff of five working for him. The only time he did makeup was when one of his favorites, like Patti Labelle or Jill Scott, was on the show.

“But aren’t those shows popular?” I asked.

“Yes, and they pay the bills.” Skylar took a sip of his tea and eyed the scrapbook I had brought out to the patio.

“Then I guess now is not the time to ask you to consider doing an executive makeover on Celia. We have a big presentation at Wal-Mart, and I want her to have a more professional look,” I said.

“Can I get rid of the weave and those microbraids?”

“That’s up to you two, but she got rid of the braids.”

“And the too-short blue jean skirt.” Skylar laughed and then asked, “What’s that?” as he pointed to the scrapbook.

“Something I wanted to show you. It’s a little secret from my past,” I said as I picked up the heavy book and handed it to Skylar. He opened it and looked at the first few pages, and his eyes grew big.

“I knew it.”

“Knew what?”

“I noticed how you’re always talking about how models bore you, and yada, yada. You used to be one of them.”

“You think I used to be a model? Get real,” I said.

“Oh, now, don’t be so modest. Look at that face, those eyes. Honey, you could put Tyson what’s-his-name on a boat back to the Islands selling fruit if you decided to strut the runway. Maybe I should suggest to the general manager that we do a show like Miss Tyra Banks, but for men. You could be my first winner and we both could make millions, since I would be your agent.”

“Stop talkin’ shit and finish looking at the book.” I got up and walked through the sliding glass door to put on some music.

A few minutes later, Skylar’s laugh and shouts blended with Luther Vandross’s soulful voice. I stuck my head outside the door and asked what was funny.

“You were in a group? And you were the star? Look at you on the cover of
Right On
magazine and
JET
!” Skylar said.

“I wasn’t the star, but we were quite popular,” I said as I sat down next to Skylar. I glanced at some of the yellowed newspaper clippings about the group, photos with me smiling and sporting a high-top fade like the other group members.

“All of you guys were fine. I would have had to give you all some. Who is that?” Skylar asked, pointing to one of the guys as we sat on a sofa in the lobby of some fancy hotel in Chicago.

“That’s Barron,” I said.

“And him?” Skylar asked as he pointed to the guy in the middle.

“Darron.”

“Were they related?”

“Twins.”

“And my, my, who is this cutie? I bet you two didn’t like each other because you were both trying to be the best-looking one. What’s his name and where do I find this rump shaker sho’ ’nuff baby maker?” Skylar asked.

I looked at the photograph and a flood of memories covered me. I was speechless for a moment.

“Chauncey, honey, who is he?”

I took a deep breath, looked at the photograph and then at Skylar. “That’s Sweet D.”

“Hmmph…I bet he was,” Skylar said.

I got up from my chair and stood close to the railing in silence, studying the city like it was a map that had come to life.

“So why the big secret?” Skylar asked.

I continued my survey, turning my attention to the cars, which looked like Matchbox toys from twenty-two floors up.

“Chauncey!” Skylar shouted.

“What?” I said as I turned quickly to face him.

“Why did you keep this a secret? This is fantastic. I remember the remake of
Since I Lost My Baby
,” he said.

“It’s not a big secret. It’s just a part of my life that’s over,” I said.

“So why did you show me tonight? Are you guys getting back together? Can I be a part of the group?”

“Can you sing?” I asked, trying to lighten the mood, already knowing full well that Skylar couldn’t carry a tune in even his most expensive leather bag.

“You know I can’t sing, but I can shake my tail feather,” Skylar said as he stood, did a little dip, and then did a Beyoncé-inspired booty shake as he slapped his left cheek.

“You’re crazy.”

“Yeah, I might be crazy, but you still haven’t told me why you made me take a trip down memory lane. Did somebody die?” Skylar asked.

“What?”

“Where are these guys? What are they doing? Are they gay or straight?”

I hesitated for a moment. “They were straight and I haven’t talked to them in almost twenty years. Our last performance was at the Regal Theatre in Chicago in 1988. I haven’t seen them since,” I said.

“Oh, honey, we need to get another bottle of wine, because I know there is a story here,” Skylar said as he sat back down on the metal chair.

“There is no story and no more wine,” I said as I picked up the scrapbook. “I just showed you this because I want to sing again and I’m going to need your support.”

“You don’t have to ask me that, baby. You know I got your back. What do you need me to do?”

“Right now all I want you to do is to be honest with me when you listen to my songs,” I said. “Then I want you to tell me what you think.”

“Are you going to listen to me? Because you know I’m going to tell the truth.”

“Of course.”

“Good, ’cause the Lord knows if a certain female singer had listened to me, we never would have had to find out that all that glitters ain’t gold,” Skylar said.

I simply smiled and took in one more look at the city.

After Skylar left, I went back out to the terrace. A dark sky with a handful of stars covered Atlanta. I was wondering if I’d lost my mind. Would pursuing a career I had given up in my youth really be possible? Would words and melodies come back and clutter my head with ease?

Fear, is that you?
I thought as I strolled back into my house and did something I hadn’t done in years. The piano that dominated the living area and that I rarely touched glowed under the subdued ceiling light, and I felt drawn to it.

I played a few chords of Stevie Wonder’s “Overjoyed.” My fingers danced across the keys as if I played that song every day. Minutes later, I played and sang one of my favorite Richard Smallwood tunes, “The Center of My Joy,” a song that managed to bring tears to my eyes every time I heard it. Tonight was no different. The quiet of the night settled around me, but my voice filled the living room as if I were performing on the main stage at Carnegie Hall.

Sometimes the heart recalls things better than the head. While singing, I remembered how too much joy could sometimes lead to sorrow. I began to play a melody I was hearing in my head. Then I started to sing.

“It was an ordinary morning
,

I should have seen the warning
,

The air was clear, the sky not as blue.”

I hummed to myself as I waited for the words to emerge painfully, yet powerfully.

“
There was a coldness to your kisses.”

I felt an excitement as chords continued to come to me and flow through my body, to my fingers as they caressed the piano keys.

“
Was it my imagination?”
I sang.

Hours later and in the wee hours of the morning, I had done something I hadn’t done in years. I had written a song.

Wednesday came and I was on a roll with my songwriting, having completed three songs. I was sitting at my desk studying the lyrics of my latest song when Ms. Gladys walked into my office.

“I’m getting ready to leave and I wanted to check and make sure you didn’t need anything,” she said.

“What time is it?” I asked.

“A little before seven.”

“It is? I need to get out of here and get home and get something to eat,” I said as I stood up and stretched my body.

“What’s been going on in here?” Ms. Gladys asked as she looked around my office with a suspicious look on her face.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Well, you have been holed up in the office all day, and Celia and I were wondering if you were okay. I even came and listened at the door to make sure you were in here and I knew you was because I heard you humming so loud it sounded like sanging,” Ms. Gladys said.