Not a Day Goes By (3 page)

3

YANCEY WAS jolted awake by the sound of Basil’s voice whispering, “Wake up, baby. I’ve got a surprise for you.”

“What?” Yancey asked in a sleep-thickened voice. She rubbed her eyes and focused them on Basil, who was already dressed. It was the morning after Yancey’s final performance in
Fosse,
which had been followed by a festive party with several cast members and too much wine. Basil knew Yancey would sometimes go through a mild depression after a job ended, especially when she didn’t have something else lined up, so he decided to arrange a day of her favorite things.

“I have a surprise for you, but first I need to put this on you,” Basil said as he revealed a black satin scarf.

“What are you up to? It’s not my birthday.” Yancey giggled.

“Just trust me,” he said, gently wrapping the scarf around Yancey’s eyes. He then stood up and took Yancey’s hands and led her into the dining room of his large loft. She was wearing one of Basil’s silk T-shirts sans bra and a pair of his white cotton boxers. Yancey could hear soft jazz music playing and smelled the aroma of breakfast food.

“Are you ready for your surprise?” Basil whispered and kissed the back of her neck.

“Yes.”

Basil removed the scarf from Yancey’s eyes and she was greeted by a dining room filled with pink tulips and a table covered with red rose petals and china service for two. Shafts of the morning sun were filling the apartment with warm light. A handsome Hispanic man dressed in a black tuxedo and looking like the headwaiter in a five-star restaurant welcomed her. “Good morning, Ms. Braxton, welcome to a day designed especially for you.” He had a white linen napkin draped over his left arm and with his free right hand he then pulled back the chair and motioned for Yancey to take her seat. Yancey smiled and nodded toward him, then looked at Basil. His smiling face glowed with pleasure. Basil’s eyes widened when he saw the smile on Yancey’s face, which was both seductive and sincere, her eyes filling with tears. She picked up the linen napkin and dabbed her eyes, then noticed a small plate filled with sections of tangerines, kiwis, and pink grapefruit drizzled in champagne. Basil had hired a small catering service his firm often used to prepare a brunch of fruit, eggs, waffles, and an array of breakfast meats for Yancey and himself. A florist had been commissioned to decorate the apartment in the flowers Yancey loved.

“Why did you do this?”

“Because I love you,” Basil said.

“What did I do to deserve all this love?” Yancey asked.

“You were born,” Basil replied quickly. At that moment Basil’s heart was filled with so much love for Yancey he thought it would push right through his light-green cotton stretch sweater.

“Stop saying stuff like that! You’re going to make me start bawling,” Yancey said.

“You know I don’t want to make you cry, it’s just a special way to celebrate your new job,” Basil said.

“But I don’t have a new job. Don’t you remember? Last night was the end. I’m unemployed. Again,” Yancey said as she started to frown. The waiter moved close to Yancey and asked, “Can I offer you a mimosa or some coffee?”

“Let me have both,” Yancey said, gazing at Basil with a quizzical look on her face, without even looking at the waiter.

“I know that look,” he said. “You’re wondering why I went through all this effort.”

Yancey nodded her head and waited for his explanation.

“I just want you to know that I not only love you but I appreciate your talent as well. I don’t want you to spend today or any other day wondering when the next job will come along.”

“I love you,” Yancey said, cherishing Basil’s every word.

“And I love you more. Now eat up. I have a whole day planned.”

“Tell me,” Yancey demanded with an eager smile. She raised her fork daintily and took a small portion of the eggs.

“As soon as we finish breakfast, I’m going to draw you a bath. And guess what?”

“What?”

“I’m going to bathe you with my clothes on. I don’t want you to think about hittin’ the skins,” Basil answered gently.

“Then it’s not going to be the bath I have in mind,” Yancey said.

“Next we are going to the gym and work out. After that, I think we should stop by this store I know you love on Fifty-seventh and Fifth Avenue and see if they have something for my special lady.”

Yancey clapped her hands in delight and asked, “Please tell me you’re talking about Tiffany’s?”

“If it’s on Fifty-seventh and Fifth. Then we’ll come back here for a candlelit dinner and I’ve bought DVD’s of a couple of your favorite movies, including your all-time favorite,
All About Eve
.”

“Stop it. I can’t stand any more. Let’s just finish breakfast so we can get started.”

“Whatever you say, baby. This day is all about you.”

YANCEY
almost dropped the crystal salad bowl when I asked her a question at the end of her day. It was hard to believe after two years and the countless conversations we had had about our families that it had never come up. The question just sorta popped out of my mouth as I watched her rinse and pull apart the lettuce while we prepared my favorite meal of salad, steak, and baked potatoes. In her black tight-fitting pants, and cashmere V-NECK sweater, Yancey looked like the most glamorous housewife on earth, particularly since she was wearing her Tiffany gift, dangling diamond earrings the size of hazelnuts.

“How many children do I want?” she asked.

“Yeah, how many children do you want?” I repeated.

“Well, how many do you want?”

“I asked first,” I teased.

Yancey placed the bowl filled with lettuce, cucumbers, and tomatoes on the counter and walked over to where I was leaning against the refrigerator. She stood between my legs and placed her long, elegant arms on my shoulders and quizzed, “What brought this on?”

“You
do
want to have children, don’t you?”

“Of course I do,” she said, telling a little white lie. “But I also want my career and I have to be married first,” she said firmly.

“But of course,” I replied.

“I want a family one day also, but not one like mine,” Yancey said.

“Me neither,” I assured Yancey.

“I don’t think you can call what you and I had a family,” Yancey added.

“We’ll create our own special family,” I said. I kissed her gently on the lips and then her forehead.

She kissed me back and said, “And only when we’re both ready.”

I
couldn’t sleep that night. I kept thinking about children while stroking Yancey’s face as she slept. The children Yancey and I would have. I knew they would be beautiful. I mean with Yancey’s beautiful face, my gray eyes, our children would be the envy of any parents. When I think about having a family, I realize how I want it to be different from my childhood, and I know Yancey feels the same way. We both had f’d-up childhoods. I want my kids to wake up every morning knowing that both of their parents will be there to greet them. The same thing at night and at any activity they participate in. I could picture having a little boy who had mad football skills like his bad-assed dad.

I hoped that one day I would be selected for the Pro Football Hall of Fame. The other day I realized that I will be eligible in a couple of years. When I dream about being inducted, I always imagine a wife and a couple of kids right there in the front row. Maybe I could have my son introduce me, like Walter Payton’s son did. When I saw Walter’s young son, Jarrett, introduce his father, well, it almost brought me to tears. And for a man who never cries, that’s a hard thing to do.

I know if I’m going to start a family then it means marriage. I’m pretty sure I’m ready. My finances are in order and I love Yancey more and more each day. I know her career is important, but I think she would give up just a little something to marry me and have my children—make that
our
children. The only question that lingers in my mind is can a diva and a dude like me ever settle down?

4

I THINK IT would be a waste of time for you to read for this part,” the unsmiling casting agent said to a stunned Yancey.

“Why do you say that? I’d be perfect for the part,” Yancey said. She was sitting on the edge of a leather swivel chair in a large and modern conference room in midtown Manhattan.

The dark-skinned, small-boned, and wiry lady with full, plum-colored lips picked up Yancey’s head shot which was sitting on top of a stack of other pictures and said, “You’re much darker in person than in this picture. The role calls for a mixed-race black woman.”

The part was the lead role in an upcoming miniseries on the life of Sally Hemings, the alleged slave lover of President Thomas Jefferson. Yancey had heard about the audition not from her agent Lois but while eavesdropping on a backstage conversation between a couple of light-skinned beauties during an audition for a Broadway workshop. Yancey thought even though it was television, this was a role she needed on her résumé, so she wasn’t going to let the casting agent get in her way. She was also thinking of the fifteen percent she could save with no greedy agent holding out her hands. So Yancey began to release a waterfall of charm, which she could turn off and on like a shower.

“I heard you’re one of the top African American casting agents in the country. I love to see smart sisters taking control in this business,” Yancey said. The woman didn’t respond while she studied Yancey’s picture, turning it over to review her résumé. Yancey was thinking how much she hated when black folks in charge acted so condescending and arrogant. She also assumed the casting agent was envious of every light-skinned woman she had come across. Especially the beautiful ones. Over a year ago, Yancey had turned down an audition for a film for two reasons. One, her agent said it was an ensemble piece, and two, the casting agent was an African American female. The film,
The Best Man,
written and directed by Malcom Lee, had become one of the year’s biggest hits. Yancey remembered how she seethed while sitting through the film and would have walked out had Basil not been enjoying it so much. In fact, he had seen the film three times. Twice alone. Yet all Yancey felt while she watched the film was the sting of jealousy every time the strikingly beautiful Nia Long, with high cheekbones and the perfect short hairstyle, graced the screen.
I should be
playing that role,
Yancey told herself over and over.

“Where did you hear that from?” the casting agent asked when she finally stopped looking at the head shot. Her voice was flat and emotionless.

“Around. You know how word gets around.” Yancey smiled automatically.

“Truth be told, I’m one of the tops in the business. Period.”

“I’m sure you are.”

“I still don’t think I’m going to let you read because I have about ten young ladies who we’ve already tested on screen.”

“That’s a lovely sweater you have on. Is it cashmere?” Yancey asked. She leaned closer, as if to admire the mustard-yellow turtleneck sweater.

“No, it’s a blend. Now, Miss Braxton, back to the role.”

“You can call me Yancey.”

“Yancey. I’m sure you’re a talented young lady, but like I said, you’re not the type. Sally Hemings was of mixed race.”

“My father was white,” Yancey lied.

“He was?” she asked with raised eyebrows.

“Yes.”

“I can put you in contact with the agent handling the extra casting.”

“I’m not interested in extra work,” Yancey said firmly. She wanted to take off one of her suede backless pumps and throw it at the lady, who had a self-satisfied look every time she gave Yancey a reason why she wasn’t right for the role. But Yancey reminded herself that she could get more with honey than with vinegar, so she offered a compromise after the agent mentioned her tight schedule.

“Who’s the executive producer?” Yancey asked.

“Why?”

“I was thinking maybe I could do a test with him while you see the other girls.”

“It’s being produced by CBS, and seeing the executive producer on your own is not an option. I’ll keep your head shot and résumé on file. You never know when I might be casting something you’re right for,” she said as she stood with an icy glare and extended her hand to Yancey. Realizing the meeting was over, Yancey tried to stop herself but couldn’t and said, “You people like playing God, don’t you?” and stormed out of the room.

5

I HAD JUST gotten home from dinner at Lola’s on West Twenty-second with a hard-drinking client when the phone rang. I was hoping it was Yancey calling to give me the word to come over for a late-night bath. It wasn’t.

“Dude! Where have you been?” a somewhat soft, trying-to-be-hard male voice said.

“Who is this?” I asked.

“This is Bradford. Remember, we met a couple of years ago at the gym on Sixty-sixth?”

I vaguely recalled this caramel-colored dancer with a real tight body who gave killer head. Bradford could deep-throat the jimmie like a fire-eating circus performer. We had hooked up a couple of times before I met Yancey and right after I gave up on Raymond.

“Oh yeah, whassup? I haven’t heard from you in a while,” I said.

“I know. I was doing a show over in London for a couple of years. I just got back in town a couple of days ago and you and that big ole dick of yours came across my mind,” he said.

I was thinking I should have gotten all my numbers changed after I met Yancey, but I said, “Yo, dude, I hate to disappoint you and that magic tongue of yours, but I don’t roll like that no more.”

“What?”

“Yeah, I met a young lady and I’m keeping things real.”

“I got the impression you liked what I could do. I’m not looking for romance. You don’t even have to look at me. Just close your eyes and imagine my sweet lips are those of your lady. I know she probably don’t get down like that. Before you open your eyes I will be gone and you can go to sleep with a smile on your face,” Bradford promised.

For a moment I started thinking about Bradford’s perfect bow lips, and as it had been a no-draws day I could feel my jimmie make his presence known by standing at attention and pressing against my suit pants at the mere memory of Bradford’s last visit. I started to think maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to give Bradford a go, and since Yancey was probably asleep, it would be kind of a no harm, no foul situation. So I was a little bit surprised at myself when I said, “You can’t even compete with my lady, so I think I’m gonna have to pass. Welcome back home,” I said and hung up the phone.

I stood silently for a minute and unbuckled my pants and let them drop, my jimmie not waving freely, but more like half-mast. I thought about getting it at full attention and then calling Yancey, but my thoughts went back to the phone call. Years ago, I wouldn’t have been so polite with Bradford. When men were forward with me, it pissed me the fuck off. Still does. Sometimes I call them all kinda faggots, sissies, and other times I just let it pass. Damn, I hope I’m not becoming one of those good guys like Raymond.