Any Way the Wind Blows - E. Lynn Harris [57]
“We can’t let these men who call themselves ‘bi,’ continue to destroy the lives of people who are comfortable with their sexuality. Somebody has to pay,” I said as I shook her hand firmly. The sudden change in Gail’s stern demeanor gave me hope that she agreed.
Diva Dearest
I was getting ready to head up to Harlem for a run-through of my video when my doorbell rang. I figured it was the car service, so I opened the door without looking out the peephole. This was the second mistake I’d made since I returned to New York, the first was opening the door for Basil. Now standing at the door, wrapped in fur from head to toe, was my mother, Ava Parker Middlebrooks. When I didn’t hear from her again after her phone call, I figured she would get the message that I didn’t have time for her. No such luck. A deep disappointment bubbled up in my stomach. Ava’s visit was about as welcome as an early-morning snowstorm, but at least snow eventually melted.
“Ava, what are you doing here?” I stuttered.
“You need to get a two-way pager. Everybody who’s anybody has one,” Ava said.
“What are you doing in New York?”
“I got business here. Need I remind you that I have a big investment in this little career of yours? All the money I’ve spent on singing, dancing lessons, not to mention gowns for pageants where you always came in second. It’s payback time. I thought I’d drop in and surprise you. It’s all decided: I’m going to manage your career,” Ava said as she walked into my town house, removing her hat and coat and dropping them on an empty chair.
“I already have a manager, and Motown handles all my other needs,” I said.
“I’m sure whoever they got, I’m better, so just fire them,” Ava said flatly.
“I’m on my way out. I thought you were the car service,” I said, figuring it was best just to ignore Ava’s ranting.
“Car service … oh. I guess you’re back in the money,” Ava said as she sat on the sofa. She was wearing a too-tight black leather skirt and rust-colored scoop-neck blouse. Ava simply refused to dress her age.
“My record company is picking up the bills,” I said. I didn’t want Ava to think I had any extra money lying around.
“So it’s your record company now. Funny how I missed that announcement in the trades,” Ava said.
“You know what I mean.”
“Yeah, I do,” Ava said as she patted the sofa cushion. “Come sit down. Let’s catch up.”
“I can’t talk now. I’ve got to run,” I said as I went to the door and looked out, praying that I would see a limo outside with my name in the window. When I didn’t, I went over and sat next to Ava.
“So don’t you want to know what I’ve been up to? So much has happened since that sad, sad wedding day of yours. I’ve been doing a lot of singing engagements in Spain, and I’m thinking about starting my own record company. I have an agent who sent my demo to Hidden Beach Records—that’s Michael Jordan’s record company. I tell you, if I could get rid of all those secretaries and executive assistants and talk to Michael myself, I know I could get myself a deal. But at least with my own label I don’t have to take shit from anybody else. I think I’ll release my CD in Europe first and then bring it over here to the States. Who knows? You and I could be the first mother-and-daughter on the charts at the same time,” Ava said. She liked to fill the air with her own voice; it didn’t matter that no one cared or listened to a word she had to say.
“That’s nice,” I muttered as I looked at my watch and wondered where my driver was.
“So tell me. Have you heard from that sick ex-boyfriend of yours?”
“Who?” I asked. I knew she was talking about Basil. Ava gave me an are you stupid? look and said, “Yancey, don’t play with me. You know I’m talking about Basil.”
“He called, but I haven