A Love of My Own (31 page)

“Would you like me to talk to him?” I asked.

“Who?”

“Davis.”

“I don't know. I need to think. I mean, I can't tell you how many times I've practiced what I would say to him or what I would do if I ever found him. Now that it's happened, I don't know if I even want him to be a part of my family.”

“Why don't you sleep on it?” I asked as I looked at my watch and saw that it was almost two
A.M
.

“Damn!” Sebastian said. When I mentioned the time, he jumped up from the sofa.

“What's the matter?”

“I missed the last train to Jersey.”

“You can crash here on the sofa,” I said.

“Thanks, Raymond. Can I use your phone to call my boo and tell her I won't be home tonight?” Sebastian asked.

“Sure, use the phone in the kitchen,” I said.

While Sebastian was talking on the phone, I was looking for another set of sheets and a blanket to drape over the sofa, but then I realized I didn't have a clean set. The apartment had come with only two sets, and I'd just sent the extras to the laundry. I thought about just staying up and cruising the Internet while Sebastian slept, but my body was tense and my muscles were telling me I needed to carry my ass to bed. The day and evening had been draining.

Ten minutes later, Sebastian hung up the phone and walked into my bedroom, rubbing his eyes. “Yo, Raymond, you got something I can put on the sofa?”

“Dude, I just realized I have only one set of sheets. But don't worry, I'll sleep on the sofa,” I said as I kicked off my shoes.

“Yo, Ray, you don't have to do that. I can sleep in here with you.”

“Are you sure?” I asked quickly.

“Unless you mind.”

“If you're cool, then it's fine with me,” I said.

Sebastian started to take off his clothes, and I went into the walk-in closet to see if I had any pajama bottoms. When I walked back into the bedroom, there stood Sebastian butt naked with his heavily muscled shoulders, chest and powerful thighs covered in milky brown skin.

“Yo, Ray, I hope it's not a problem, but I don't sleep in draws,” Sebastian said.

I averted my eyes and headed toward the bathroom again, where I could talk to God privately and ask Him what was up and pray that it wouldn't be me.

7
__________________

After two days Hayden came through for me, locating not one but two phone numbers for Ava Middlebrooks. Hayden also discovered that Madame Ava had a Web site, and I pulled it up before making my call.

Ava Middlebrooks, or Madame Ava, as she called herself on her site, was a good-looking middle-aged diva. She had several photographs on her site with her wearing everything from mink coats with matching hats to her lying out on a yacht with a sun-yellow two-piece swimsuit. There was also a list of her cabaret dates, all of which were in places out of the country.

Madame Ava also presented a sample of her singing, which was okay, but I can safely say Whitney Houston and Mary J. Blige didn't have to worry.

For the first number I called, I got an answering machine, where a female voice I assumed was Madame Ava's was talking to someone whom she referred to as Josephine, her maid, telling her to get the phone and tell whoever was calling to speak with her agent for booking information. I hung up because I couldn't keep myself from laughing.

I regained my composure and then dialed the second number. After about three rings, a voice that sounded like the one on the answering machine said hello.

“May I please speak with Madame Ava?”

“This is Madame Ava. To whom am I speaking?”

“Should I call you Madame Ava or Mrs. Middlebrooks?”

“Please identify yourself and then I'll let you know,” she said.

“This is Zola Norwood of
Bling Bling
magazine,” I said.

“I bet you want to write my life story. Sorry, sister, but I'm going to write my own memoirs,” Ava said.

“No, that's not why I'm calling. I'm sure you're more than capable of telling your own story, which, after visiting your site, I think should be very interesting,” I said.

“Don't I look and sound fabulous?” Ava asked.

“I'm sure you've heard that before,” I said, avoiding Ava's question.

“So what can I do you for you, Nola?”

“Zola. My name is Zola Norwood, and you spoke with one of the writers from my magazine who did a story on your daughter, Yancey B.,” I said.

“Yancey B. is my daughter only because she came out of my womb. If there was any way I could stuff her somewhere, I would,” Ava said, laughing. I hoped her laughter meant she was kidding.

“Are you aware that Yancey B. is denying most of the information in the story?”

“I'm not a bit surprised. She's a lying little bitch.”

I had heard of mother-daughter conflicts, but this sounded like the mess that was going on in the Middle East. Nothing but venom and hate.

“Would you be willing to speak with my lawyer?” I asked.

“Will this be in the newspaper?”

I didn't know if it would, but I could already tell that Miss Ava loved publicity, so I decided to stretch the truth a bit. Any little-known cabaret singer with her own Web site loved publicity.

“I'm sure this will not only make the newspapers and magazines but television as well,” I said.

“Then I am there,” Ava said. “When do you need me?”

“I need to speak with my lawyer. May I get back to you?”

“Sure, let me give you the number to my residence in Palm Springs, but make it quick. I plan to leave the country before Christmas,” Ava said.

After she gave me numbers to three residences, I thanked Ava for her help.

“Anything I can do to stop Yancey, I'll do. Somebody has to stop her before she becomes the cockroach of the entertainment industry,” Ava said.

8
__________________

I wasn't a bit surprised when I saw a handwritten note on my desk from Davis, instructing me to come to his office immediately. I poured myself a cup of coffee, added a little milk and headed to Davis's office. This was not a meeting I was looking forward to, and I didn't think Davis was either.

Davis's assistant wasn't at her post, so I knocked on his door.

“Come in, Raymond,” Davis said in his booming, authoritative voice.

I walked in slowly, avoiding eye contact with Davis, then I heard him say, “I guess you think you're better than me now?”

“Excuse me.”

“That little episode yesterday in your office made you feel good, didn't it?”

“Davis, what are you talking about?” I said as I started to sit down.

“I didn't tell you to have a seat,” Davis barked, and I jumped up.

“Davis, what do you want from me?” I asked.

“I want you to tell me how you met that little punk.”

“If you're talking about Sebastian, then I told you. He's a friend of my younger brother's.”

“Did he tell you he was related to me?”

“Before yesterday? No,” I said.

“What did he say when he left? What does he want? Money? Find out how much money he wants and get him to sign an agreement saying he will never show up at this office again.”

“Is that how you're going to settle this? With an agreement? Davis, Sebastian is a part of your family,” I said.

“You don't know that,” Davis said as he got up from his chair and started pacing behind his desk.

“I believe Sebastian,” I said boldly.

“I don't give a damn who you believe. You work for me, Raymond Tyler. You'll believe what I tell you,” Davis said as he continued pacing.

“Will your version be the truth?”

“It's my truth,” Davis said as he punched his balled fist on his chest.

“Why don't you sit down and talk to Sebastian?” I suggested.

“For what?”

“To get to know him. He's really a great kid,” I said.

“I can't do that. What did he tell you?”

“That's between Sebastian and me,” I said. I couldn't believe I was still standing up.

“I know he wants money. That's got to be it. He doesn't even know me. If you're his friend, then you should warn him he's not dealing with one of his boys. I'll destroy him. I'm Davis McClinton, and no one fucks with me,” he shouted.

“I think you've already destroyed him,” I said.

“Don't talk to me like that. You think because you come from some upstanding family you can look down on me. You don't know my side of the story. What I went through. The pain and the guilt I've had all these years,” Davis said.

“Then tell me. If not me, then tell somebody, Davis, before it destroys you,” I said.

“He didn't ask you where I live, did he? Is he planning to show up on my doorstep?”

“No, Davis, he didn't ask me where you live.”

Davis walked toward me and touched my shoulder and said, “Raymond, you've got to help me. Get him to leave the city. Tell him to forget whatever it is he thinks he knows. I'll give him whatever he wants. I just can't let my wife and children find out about this.” His voice lacked its confidence and was laced with pleading.

“I don't think I can do that,” I said calmly.

“You work for me. You have to. I don't care how much money it takes.”

“Davis, listen to me. I won't do that. I think there is a way for you to have both families,” I said.

“You don't know Veronica and her family,” Davis said.

“Give her a chance. She might surprise you,” I said.

“You're living in a fantasy world. If he doesn't want money, then maybe he still wants to play pro ball,” Davis said.

“How did you know he played football?” I asked.

Davis didn't answer my question. Instead, he began thinking out loud. “Yeah, that's it. I can buy a football team or get some coach to promise him a tryout. That will get him out of New York. I have a good friend who knows Al Davis in Oakland. Yeah, that's what I will do. I can get him out of town.”

“Davis, Sebastian is injured. I don't think he can still play football,” I said.

“Help me, Raymond. Think of something.”

“I can't, Davis.”

“Then you need to start looking for another job.”

“Suit yourself,” I said as I turned toward the door.

“Don't forget you signed a confidentiality agreement. You can't tell a soul about this,” Davis said.

I turned and looked toward him and said, “Don't worry. I would be too embarrassed to let anyone know I'd witnessed such a travesty.”

9
__________________

The air was ice cold as I stopped at a traffic light on Sixty-third and Lexington. I looked up at the late-afternoon sun and motionless clouds that hung in the pale blue sky. I had just left Chris Thomas's law office, based on Raymond's recommendation, and Chris had agreed to take a serious look at my case or have one of his associates handle it.

I spent the majority of the time telling him about the Yancey B. story and how I had fact-checked it and had one of the lawyers at
Bling Bling
look it over. He seemed more than a little surprised that I'd been fired and that Yancey was suing me personally. When he asked about my employment history with
Bling Bling,
I decided to tell him about my personal relationship with Davis, and it made Chris a little uncomfortable.

“Do you think your ending the relationship had anything to do with your dismissal?”

I looked at Chris and said incredulously, “Duh. I'm sure it had everything to do with it.”

“Well, that won't help you with the suit Ms. Braxton has brought against you.”

“I know.”

One of the things Chris was interested in was the role Kirsten played. He told me she would be a huge asset and that I should do whatever I could to get her back on my team. I got a good feeling from Chris. He seemed like a good white man, even though I was surprised when he greeted me. I don't know why, but I just figured he'd be black. When I was leaving his office he asked if he could ask me something. I had no clue of what he wanted to know, but I said, “Sure.”

“I've been wanting to ask this for a long time and I know it might be a stupid question, but what does bling bling
mean?”

“It's not a stupid question. In the Hip Hop world it means people who wear their wealth on their sleeves, mouth, ears, and fingers, anywhere they can show off their expensive items. It doesn't mean they have money, but they want to be ghetto fabulous,” I said, laughing. Chris gave me a puzzled look and I thought I might need to explain ghetto fabulous, but he suddenly smiled and said, “Thank you.”

When I walked out of Chris's office, I realized that I wasn't that far from Kirsten's apartment, so since she wasn't returning my calls I decided I would pay her a visit. After I crossed Third Avenue, I pulled out my Palm and located her address. When I walked into the high-ceilinged marble lobby and saw the doorman, I thought maybe I shouldn't use my real name.

“May I help you, miss?” the doorman asked.

“I'm here to see Kirsten Dawson,” I said.

“Who may I tell her is calling?” the doorman asked.

“Lena Ford,” I said. I figured if Yancey B.'s people hadn't gotten Kirsten to help Yancey's team, this was one way to find out.

The doorman picked up a phone and pushed a few buttons, and after a few moments he hung up and said, “No answer.”

“Do you mind if I wait here?”

“Was she expecting you?”

“Yes,” I said quickly.

“Sure, have a seat,” he said as he pointed to a black leather bench.

While I was waiting for Kirsten I thought about my conversation with my mother about Pamela. I knew Mama wanted to have peace in the family and probably thought I was being selfish. I didn't know what it was like to be addicted to drugs, and maybe Pamela's birth mother being an addict had a lot to do with Pamela's problems.

I decided that I would write Pamela a short letter expressing my support and a promise for a new beginning. I was thinking about going home for Christmas, even though I didn't feel the holiday spirit. This time I wouldn't let anyone or anything keep me from my family.

I pulled a pad out of my bag and was getting ready to jot down some of the things I wanted to say to Pamela. We were still sisters, although the fact that we had different mothers explained why we were as different as sugar and salt.

I was looking for a pen when I heard the door open and laughter. I looked up and there was Kirsten with a big man with a thick neck and broad shoulders who resembled a pastry chef.

Kirsten saw me and the smile on her face was suddenly black with fear. She was wearing a turtleneck sweater the color of diluted watermelon, a long, flowing black skirt, and a leather jacket.

“There you are, Ms. Dawson,” the doorman said as he looked toward me. “You have a visitor.”

Kirsten rolled her eyes and then whispered something into the man's ear and handed him some keys.

“I'll see you in a minute, boo,” he said as he walked through the lobby. When he disappeared past two double glass doors, Kirsten walked over to me, pulled my arm, and whispered, “What are you doing here?”

“I need to talk to you and you won't return my calls. Where are you taking me?”

“If you want to talk to me, then it's going to be outside.”

Kirsten and I walked a few feet from the front door. I stopped and asked, “So, Kirsten, tell me what part of the game is this?” I kept my voice low but firm.

“What game? I'm not playing a game, and I shouldn't be talking to you.”

“Is Yancey B. suing you?”

“For what?”

“You wrote the story,” I said.

“She hasn't filed a lawsuit yet, not to my knowledge.”

“Then why aren't you returning my calls?”

“I was warned not to,” Kirsten said.

“By whom?”

Kirsten gazed impassively at me for a moment and then her eyes drifted toward the street.

“Kirsten, did you hear me?”

“I've got to go, Zola. I can't help you. I wish I could, but I can't. Please don't come back to my apartment, or else I'll be forced to call the police and tell them you're stalking me,” she said.

“Kirsten, bitch, have you gone crazy?” I screamed.

“I'm gone. You can stay out here and make a fool of yourself. Maybe I'll call the press,” Kirsten said as she walked swiftly to her door.