Feelin' the Vibe (9 page)

“Yeah, I know.”

“So if you have time, look through some of these pamphlets we just got today. Or if you need me to, I’ll look through them.”

I blushed. “Thanks, I think I got it. It’s so good to have great employees.”

“Oh, whatever, Clark. Don’t try to get me all hyped. You wouldn’t have it any other way.”

She was right, because I’d had my share of losers, people who could care less about the girls. These girls were definitely
my calling. After Tanisha was killed, it was revealed to me what my life was really about. It means nothing if you aren’t
helping anyone. So I’ll be damned if I’ll have people in my own camp speaking to or treating these girls like they’re nothing.
I try to hire mainly young people straight from college so that they care, and I can pay them a much higher rate than most
sociology, psychology, and social work majors earn straight out of college. While we were doing the ground research, it appeared
that pay correlates to the way the children are treated. I take cuts on what I earn to ensure I pay my employees at a competitive
rate. That’s why it hurt me so bad when Kenneth showed his true colors. It partially dehumanized him. Why do I even want to
make it right with him? Each time I got amped up and angry, I would remember that he’d been doing this a lot longer than me.
Maybe he should have the privilege of being fed up, too.

“Ms. Teeny, what’s up for the day?”

“Your husband still ain’t giving you any.”

“Nope,” I said, laughing.

“That fool is crazy. He just as mean as he wants to be. Why he so mad?”

“You tell me.”

“If I was you I would just walk around the house naked.”

I laughed. “Tried that.”

“Well, hell. Maybe his ass is gay or he’s sleeping with somebody else.”

“Who knows?”

“Just plain ol’ crazy,” she said, standing up. “I’m going to lunch. You going to stay here working or you going to lunch?”

“I’ma stay here.”

After she walked out, I began flipping through some of the pamphlets. There were several nature retreats that I thought were
good, but I would have to check the budget. I entered the registration deadline into my calendar, so I wouldn’t forget. My
intent is always to get donations to take the girls on trips, but if I don’t get what I expect, I usually just go into my
own purse. It’s worth it to me, though, when I see the looks on their faces when they are out of Baltimore, getting new experiences
and meeting new people.

Just as I reflected on why I do what I do, my eyes bulged out of my head. I flipped an envelope over:
Girl Power, a girls’ empowerment conference, brought to you by Love My People.
I slowly slid the envelope back over.
Devin Patterson, Democratic Candidate, U.S. Congress, Maryland, District 4—2008.
I swallowed, but a lump got stuck in my throat. Ripping the envelope apart, I tried to calm my excitement. When the pamphlet
fell out, it confirmed the pounding in my chest. The head shot of my first love stared at me. I folded my lips in to constrain
the emotions. My eyes watered, but not from sadness. I was overjoyed. Devin was everything he said he would be. We used to
talk about life and our expectations out of life for hours at a time. It felt like he was smiling at me. I had sudden amnesia
about all he’d done to hurt me—or maybe after so many years, after getting married, after suppressing all memory of him, I
was finally at peace with our past. Even well into my marriage, the thought of Devin Patterson invoked so much anger in me
that I had to pray every night to erase that part of my life from my mind.

I flipped through the pamphlet. Love My People, a nonprofit organization run by Devin Patterson, was funding a free one-day
girls’ empowerment seminar. There was no way that my girls could miss this. More important, there was no way I could miss
the opportunity to see Devin. Everything else was on hold while I reminisced. While I daydreamed about the what-ifs, the office
door opened and I nearly leaped from my chair. I giggled slightly when I looked up to see one of my workers. “Girl, you scared
me.”

She squinted and pulled her neck back, questioning my peculiar behavior. I laughed a little harder, because I felt suspicious,
but I didn’t know why.

“Oh, Dr. Winston is on the phone.”

“Why didn’t he call my cell phone?”

She shrugged and handed the phone to me. I answered, “Hey, babe.”

“Hey. Why didn’t you answer your cell phone?”

My eyes shifted to my cell phone and I noticed two missed calls. I shrugged as I looked at the log. “I don’t know. I didn’t
hear it ring.”

“Well, I was calling to see what we’re eating this evening.”

“I’m thinking leftovers.”

“Leftovers?”

“Yeah, I have a lot of work to do.”

“Okay, well, I’ll see you when you get home.”

Hanging up from the obligated but empty phone call made me pick up the pamphlet again. Before I slipped too deep into the
fantasy, I pulled up Google and plugged in
Devin Patterson.
He was newly remarried to a chick named Taylor, daughter of Bishop Jacob Jabowski. She was also an attorney.
Just like Devin
. He married image again. My pressure rose as I tried to convince myself that I was happy for him and was hoping she was really
the one.

His skin was so smooth, caramel and yummy. My mouth watered as I gazed at him on the screen. He still had a nice, even haircut
with a meticulous shapeup, and his face was clean-shaven. It was like he had matured without aging. I stared into his chestnut
eyes and it felt so familiar, so recent. Momentarily, I wished I’d found him eight months ago, when he was still single.

I snickered to myself. Like what would I have done with him? Eight months ago, I was adamant about starting a family with
my husband and in what I thought was marital bliss. Since Kenneth and I hadn’t really communicated over the past couple of
months, I began to wonder what we ever had in common.

The number to Devin’s campaign office beamed from the screen. I minimized the window and thought about the consequences. Then
I opened it again. I looked at the cordless phone and dialed the number. It was nothing more than getting in touch with an
old friend. I took a few quick, deep breaths, not sure where all the emotion was stemming from. Finally, a young lady answered,
“Devin Patterson 2008. May I help you?”

My mouth stretched wide, but nothing came out.
What if this is his wife?
I cleared my throat. “Good afternoon. My name is Clark Winston. I am the owner of an all-girl group home in Baltimore, and
I just registered eight girls online for the Girl Power conference.”

“Yes,” she said slowly, as if she was trying to understand why the hell I was calling.

I hesitated. “Well, I’m really impressed how the organization was able to pull this off for no fee and that’s something that
I’ve considered doing in Baltimore, but…”

I took a deep breath, because I didn’t know what the hell to say next. She said, “Well, I don’t know who’s here that can help
you, but I can have the event coordinator give you a call back.”

I hesitated because I wanted to speak to Devin, not some event planner. “Uh, is it possible for me to speak with Mr. Patterson?”

“Well, he’s really busy, and you may make out better speaking with his campaign manager or the event coordinator to get your
questions answered.”

“Is it possible that you can just give Mr. Patterson my message and if I don’t hear from him, I’ll call back and speak with
the event coordinator?”

She huffed like my request was senseless and didn’t make sense to her, but I didn’t care. I left my name and number despite
her irritation and hoped she really gave it to him. I wanted my number in Devin’s hands and I prayed that he would use it.
If not, maybe that was good, too. Maybe that meant that I didn’t need to talk to him. My hands covered my face. I couldn’t
believe what I’d just done. Did I open up a great big can of worms? My heart raced and I couldn’t think of anything but how
happy I used to be when I was young, problem free, financially free, and in love with Devin Patterson.

T
here was just me and a no-name on the Democratic ballot for the primary election. So I clinched the nomination hands down.
As of February 6, 2008, I was the nominee and the campaign was on. Most experts suggest closer to Labor Day is the time to
heavily campaign for a congressional run, but Curtis and I had new ideas, and we wanted to put them in motion ASAP. We held
our first The Vibe Happy Hour last night, two weeks after the primary, and it was a major success. Raheem DeVaughn performed,
and he donated his fee to the campaign. We promoted through the typical party promoter channels and mass mailings, and tickets
sold like hotcakes. Since many of the targeted voters living in the Maryland district worked in DC, we held the event at the
Posh Supper Club. People came mainly to party and unwind after a rough day’s work, but I made sure they knew the purpose of
the night. We worked with the restaurant to have a signature drink of the evening, the DP Congressional Cosmo, and it seemed
to be a big hit, especially for the ladies. We had a voter’s registration station at the front door and pamphlets for each
person who entered.

But instead of celebrating the success of the Vibe event, I was sending Taylor text messages, wondering what was taking her
so long. When she and Courtney finally arrived, they were dolled up in cocktail dresses as if they were coming to cop men.
I was pissed when she finally walked through the door. Meanwhile, Curtis’s wife and other female supporters were there from
the time we opened the door, handing out pamphlets and pens and soliciting e-mail addresses for our database.

Taylor tried to offer help, but I was irritated and basically didn’t acknowledge her existence. If she really wanted to be
there, she would have come at an appropriate time. After I practically ignored her, she and Courtney rolled out close to the
end of the event. When I got home, I decided to rest in the family room on the couch. I wasn’t in the mood to deal with her.

I woke up the next morning and went into the bedroom and said, “Taylor, things have to change.”

She pulled the covers over her head. “Tell me about it, Devin.”

I stood over her. “We need to talk.”

“You want to talk to me?” She sat up. “Really, I didn’t know. You make all other decisions on your own—what do you have to
talk to me about?”

I went into the bathroom to take a shower and think about what I wanted to say to her. I didn’t know how to approach it, but
I wanted her to play more of an active role. But on the other hand, I knew she didn’t ask for this. So, I decided the more
considerate route would probably be more effective than the angry approach. I came out of the bathroom and asked her if I
could meet her for lunch. She sucked her teeth. “Text me and tell me where.”

*  *  *

I sat at BLT Steak, waiting for Taylor to arrive, going over ways to get her on my side. She walked in bundled in a green
wool coat and her shades on top of her head. She removed her black leather gloves and stuck them in her purse. She offered
me a half-smirk as she took off her coat. “Hey, Devin.”

“Hey, you. What’s up?”

She adjusted the large belt wrapped around her tight-fitting black sweater dress before she sat down. Just then, my BlackBerry
buzzed three times in a row. She huffed and her forehead wrinkled; clearly she was annoyed. I pulled it out of my pocket and
cut it off.

She turned her lips up and I kidded, “Fix your face. You have my undivided attention.”

“Oh, thank you. I’m so honored,” she said sarcastically.

“So how’s your father’s rehab coming along?”

She shifted in her seat. “Do you really care?”

“Taylor? You know I care.”

“He’s doing fine. You know he’s a fighter. He says he’s going to preach this week.”

“Didn’t they say three months?”

“It has been almost three months, or haven’t you noticed,” she said defensively.

I could tell this conversation was getting nowhere fast. I’d hoped talking about her father would be an icebreaker, but clearly
I was still out in the cold.

The waiter came over and took our drink order. I asked for a bottle of Shiraz, her favorite red wine. She ordered a royal
red martini. I decided not to say anything. All I wanted was to have a glass of wine, toast, discuss my marriage. If she’d
rather have a different drink, what could I do?

When the waiter brought our drinks, he opened the wine and poured some for me to taste. I nodded and he looked at Taylor and
she raised her hand. “No, thanks.”

I lifted my glass and assumed she’d follow. My head tilted slightly. Finally, she lifted her glass, rested her elbow on the
table. “Okay, you do the toast,” I said.

Her neck rolled. “Oh, you don’t want me to do the toast.”

“Whatchu mean by that?”

“Well, I’m wishing for things that you’re not wishing for.”

“What?”

She said, “Devin, I want peace. I want the phones to stop ringing. I want to go out and have a drink and not worry about how
I’m sitting. I want to hang out with my friends and travel and have fun and not worry about my image or about being by my
husband’s side for promotional pictures, attending fund-raisers, community events, school board meetings, or”—she used her
fingers as quotation marks—“the damn campaign.”