Any Way the Wind Blows - E. Lynn Harris [90]
“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