Chances Are, page 10
She and Terri had met every Saturday for the past three years—except those times when Terri was out of town—to ride their bikes along Prospect Park’s bike path. With their erratic schedules, it was impossible to join a gym. And when they’d hit the big 3-0, and gravity started working against them, the battle was on.
“Great. Come by here first. You can see the tape and we’ll talk about it while we ride.”
“Sounds good. I’ll be there about nine.”
“See you then.”
No sooner than she’d hung up the phone, it rang in her hand.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Ma.”
“Niyah! How you are baby?”
“Fine,” she giggled. “I just wanted you to know that I’m definitely coming home for Thanksgiving.”
“You’d better be. Do you need me to send you money for your ticket?”
“Ma—I have a job remember?”
“I know, but that’s for school expenses.”
“I can handle it.”
“Okay. How’s everything going with your classes?”
“Okay. The poli-sci class is murder, but I’m dealing with it.”
Dione smiled. To Niyah, murder meant a B. She’d always been an excellent student and had been able to get into college a year early as a result. “When’s the last day of class?”
“Tuesday before Thanksgiving. I’ll catch a train Tuesday afternoon.”
“When you know what time, let me know and I’ll meet you at Penn Station.”
“I’m aiming for a one o’clock train, which should put me in New York about five.”
“Wonderful. Can’t wait to see you.”
“It’ll be good to be home. At least for a minute. You find a boyfriend yet?”
“Niyah,” she admonished, feeling suddenly like the daughter instead of the mother. Niyah was always direct and to the point. Her honesty was often brutal.
“Well, did you? You need somebody, Ma. So you can get out and do something besides work.”
“I get out.”
“Oh, yeah,” she challenged. “Where?”
“For your information, young lady, I just went out to dinner the other night.”
“Get out! With who?”
“His name is Garrett Lawrence.”
“Oooh, is he cute?”
“Niyah!”
“Well, is he?”
Dione rolled her eyes. “Yes. He’s cute.”
“That’s a start. What does he do?”
“He produces videos.”
“Get out!”
Dione laughed.
“When will I get to meet him?”
“It’s not that kind of relationship, Niyah.”
“Don’t tell me, it’s just business.”
“All right, I won’t tell you.”
“Ma, you’re impossible. Do you at least like him?”
“I haven’t given it much thought.”
Niyah blew out an exasperated breath. “So what kind of business do you have with a producer?”
Dione explained about the PSA and the documentary.
“Get out! You on television. I can’t believe it. You’re so low-key. Were you scared?”
“Terrified.”
Niyah laughed. “Well, I’ve definitely got to meet him now.”
“And why is that?”
“Because any man who could get you in front of a camera and out of your shell, must be something.”
She hadn’t dated much during Niyah’s growing up years. She didn’t have time. When Niyah was younger, Dione was busy trying to finish school, hold down a job and give Niyah whatever free time was left. As her daughter grew older, and more independent, Dione focused her attention on working harder to save money for Niyah’s education, and her dream for Chances Are began to grow.
The few men who’d managed to get beyond the barriers she’d erected didn’t last long when they saw the competition: her fierce love for her daughter, her undaunting determination to succeed and her devotion to Chances.
Dione couldn’t say she’d been lonely over the years. For the most part, she didn’t think about it except when Betsy or Niyah reminded her about her lack of a love life.
But Dione always insisted that her life was full. She was complete. She had friends, her daughter, Betsy and Chances. She didn’t need anything else.
She blew out a breath as she undressed for bed. She thought about Niyah coming home for the Thanksgiving holiday and her last comment as she lay curled in her bed. Yes, Garrett “Gary” Lawrence was something. What that something was remained to be seen, she mused, finally dozing off, the vague images of her first Thanksgiving with Niyah materializing through the mists of her dreams….
Her public assistance check wasn’t due for another week and all she had in her pocket was ten dollars. The apartment was freezing. The temperature had dipped into the teens during the night after tornado-like rain. Ice hung along the frame of the rickety window, the whistling wind banging mercilessly, seeming to be begging to get in and creep beneath the three patched-up quilts that covered her and her baby.
Dione’s stomach growled from hunger and she mentally pictured the near empty cabinets and the refrigerator that held only Niyah’s bottles, a half dozen eggs, and the loaf of bread she’d stuck in there to keep it away from the mouse who’d staked out a claim in their little space.
The radiators rattled, futilely attempting to pump some heat into the building. Aromas of food being cooked throughout the building seeped through the cracks in the wall, and beneath the door that didn’t quite fit into its frame.
Her stomach knotted, and a silent tear slid down her cheek as Niyah stirred beside her.
For the countless time she asked how could her parents have done this to her—put her and, at the time, her unborn baby out into the street without a backward glance?
Some days when she was off from her part-time job at the supermarket she would pack Niyah up and take the number seventeen bus then the number forty-six back to her old neighborhood and walk to the corner of the block where she used to live, and just stand there. Hoping for what, she wasn’t sure. Maybe that her parents would walk outside and see her, realize how much they loved her and the mistake they’d made, and take her back. Love her again. And love Niyah.
But it never happened and she usually went back home feeling more lost and alone than before.
For seventeen years she’d lived in the big, rambling brownstone, with her own room, plenty of food and almost too much heat in the winter. She had a backyard to play in when she was little and a safe block to run up and down on when she grew older. She had friends just like her who lived the black middle-class life.
Humph. And then she thought she was in love and she’d given away the one thing she could never regain: her virginity.
He was a sweet talker, Michael Thomas. He was f-i-n-e as all the girls would say. He was the captain of the basketball team and every girl in Stuyvesant High School wanted to “get with” Michael. But he only had eyes for Dione.
And just that one time during a spring break had changed her whole life.
She never even told him she was pregnant. Michael had a basketball scholarship to North Carolina University, and she wouldn’t jeopardize his chances.
So she wouldn’t tell her parents who the father was. And her father tried to beat it and the growing baby out of her.
Well, Michael made it big at North Carolina. At least until his junior year. It was in all the newspapers and the television broadcasts that NBA hopeful Michael Thomas and two of his teammates were killed in a head-on collision. The driver had been drinking.
When she’d heard the news, she couldn’t even cry. Niyah was nearly three years old at the time, and she’d long ago expended her tears. At least a part of what she would tell Niyah over the years was true. Her father was dead.
Restless, she turned on her side and the images shifted, changed shape.
Now, here she was on her first Thanksgiving away from home in a one-room apartment with a baby, no food and a high school diploma.
She heard a knock at her door and would have ignored it if Ms. Betsy’s insistent voice hadn’t pulled her out of the bed.
Gently she eased away from Niyah’s warm little body and tiptoed across the cold plank-wood floor, every other strip creaked under her weight.
She cracked the door open and Betsy came bustling in, her arms laden with a huge aluminum foil-covered platter of food.
“Knew you and that child would be hungry,” she said moving past Dione and into what served as a kitchen. “Come on girl, don’t just stand there. Set the table and wake that baby up so y’all can eat.”
Dione, still standing at the door, finally closed it and moved toward the circular table. A knot built in her throat so big, so tight she couldn’t speak. Her eyes began to burn as she took out two forks and placed them on the table.
Betsy opened the cabinet above the sink, shooed away several roaches and took down two dishes, which she carefully rinsed then handed to Dione.
“Come on now, ’fore all this food gets cold.”
Dione walked around the wall that separated the kitchen and eating space from the bedroom to get Niyah who was wide awake and playing with her fingers.
Dione scooped her up and held her tightly against her chest, finally letting the tears fall. “Somebody loves us Niyah. Somebody.”
Dione’s eyes fluttered open. Her heart was pounding. It took her several moments to orient herself to where she was.
She was in her apartment, not a rooming house. It was warm. There weren’t odors seeping through the walls or howling winds knocking on the window.
There was food in her refrigerator and in the cabinets. She didn’t have to squeeze onto crowded buses and trains. She had her own car. Her daughter wasn’t playing with a doll made out of old socks that Betsy had darned together. She was at Howard University playing with a book about politics.
A shudder rippled through her. She curled into a protective ball. It could all dissolve. Everything could be taken away. And she could be that frightened teenage girl again, with nothing holding her together but thin strands of hope.
She couldn’t go back that way and she couldn’t open herself to emotions that meeting Garrett had awakened. Feelings, love, giving of yourself took you off course. And her path was set.
Wasn’t it?
Chapter 12
The television screen went black.
Terri let out a breath. “I think you missed your calling, girl. That was great. Mr. Lawrence did a fantastic job. I’d like to use him myself on some of my projects.”
Dione turned off the television. “So you can use it?”
“Of course. I’m thinking of some angles as we speak. But—I think better when I’m in motion. Come on, let’s ride.”
“I have an idea,” Terri said as they pedaled toward the park. “Let’s really burn some calories and ride down to the Promenade. There’s a great bike path and the day is perfect. Not too hot. Not too cold.”
“Girl, are you crazy? You know how far that is?”
“Yeah, about a half hour. Same amount of time we’d spend riding around in circles at the park. We can take the train back if you’re too old and tired to ride back,” she challenged.
“Sounds like a dare to me,” Dione said turning her head toward Terri and grinning.
“Last one there buys lunch.” Terri zoomed off, her dreadlocks whipping in the wind behind her.
Dione was hot on her heels.
Just as Terri had said, the day was glorious. The sun was high and brilliant in the sky warming their faces, embracing their bodies. Up and down the tree-lined, residential streets and commercial blocks, there were people out enjoying the fall morning.
As her legs pumped the pedals and they darted around and between cars, Dione felt exhilarated, free and suddenly filled with that intangible feeling—that elusive emotion—hope.
But the rational side of her knew that what she was feeling only stemmed from something tangible. Something she could see and touch. The finished product. And she’d witnessed Terri’s wizardry with marketing and promotions. She knew that Terri got results. That’s what she was feeling—reality. Because hope was only something for children, and those who didn’t know better.
She knew better.
Before she realized it, they were riding along the path leading to the Promenade in what was called Brooklyn Heights.
The old-world apartment buildings, doormen-guarded hi-rise co-ops and exclusive boutiques were definitely out of her price range, but she couldn’t help but admire the cozy environment and eclectic blend of nationalities who resided there.
They biked along the path past the benches on one side and the railing that separated them from the East River on the other. Beyond was the mighty Brooklyn Bridge on one side and the Manhattan Bridge on the other.
It was from the docks below that the yearly Fourth of July fireworks displays were held, the brilliant explosions visible for miles around.
They pedaled leisurely now, taking in the atmosphere, inhaling the scents of hot dogs, pretzels with melted cheese and gyros from the street vendors.
Dione wanted to close her eyes, just absorb it all, forget her troubles, commitments—
“Dione!”
Her bike wobbled when she heard her name called. She slowed and looked quickly behind her. She blinked.
There was Garrett jogging along the path.
She slowed to a stop. “Terri, hold on,” she yelled to Terri who had pulled out ahead of her.
Dione planted her sneakered feet on the gray concrete, bracing the gleaming red racing bike between her thighs that suddenly throbbed from exertion. As Garrett drew closer she realized she must look a fright with her undone hair tucked beneath a baseball cap and sweat running down her face in a steady stream. She didn’t think she smelled too appealing, either.
“Hey.” He grinned, flashing that dimple, and slowing to a breathy stop. “What are you doing over here?”
“My ‘always-reaching-for-greater-heights-friend’ Terri suggested we ride over here.” She angled her head in Terri’s directions, who was pedaling toward them.
He ran the sleeve of his blue sweatshirt across his forehead. “You live around here?”
“No. I live near Prospect Park.”
“Whoa. That’s some ride.”
“You’re telling me,” she groaned, her muscles beginning to protest. “What about you?”
“I’m about three blocks down. On Henry Street.”
“Impressive.”
“Trust me. If I had to move into this neighborhood now, it would be impossible. I was sharing an apartment with a friend about ten years ago. When they moved out I took over. Been there ever since.”
A friend, she thought. Male or female?
Terri pulled up.
“Hi,” she greeted, quickly looking from one to the other.
“Terri Powers, this is Garrett Lawrence.”
Garrett wiped his sweaty palms on the legs of his sweatpants. He stuck out his hand. “Pleasure. I’ve read great things about you.”
“They’re all true.” She laughed. “So you’re the producer.”
“That I am.”
“I saw the video you did. Great stuff. I’d like to talk with you about some projects I’m working on. Maybe they’d be something you’d be interested in handling. My husband, Clint, purchased a cable franchise several years ago and we have yet to do anything with it.”
Garrett’s mind started racing with possibilities. Clinton Steele, CEO of Hightower Enterprises! “Sure. Dione has my number,” he said as casually as he could. “Give me a call. Maybe we can get together and talk.”
“I certainly will.” She looked toward Dione. “Um, I’m really beat, Dee. I think I’ll call it a day. I’m going to take the train back. But you can stay if you want.”
“That would be great,” Garrett jumped in, not giving Dione a chance to say no. “I mean if you want to. I could give you a tour of the neighborhood. Had lunch yet?”
“No, but—”
“There are some great little bistros around here.” He turned to Terri. “You’re welcome to come if you’re not in a real hurry.”
She smiled. “Maybe another time.”
Dione had the distinct impression that she was being set up.
Terri stuck out her hand again. “Good meeting you. We’ll talk soon. Dee, I’ll talk with you during the week.” She leaned across her bike and pecked Dione on the cheek, then sped off toward the Court Street train station.
“Well.” He turned toward Dione. “You certainly travel with a celebrity crowd. I’m humbled to be in your presence.” He gave her a mock bow that made her giggle.
“You may rise, peasant,” she said tapping him lightly on his bowed head.
He rose, smiling, and even in sweats that had definitely seen better days, and a sweat-streaked face, he was a sight to behold.
Her heart knocked, asking to be let out, held and caressed. She took a deep breath and shut the door.
“Are you finished with your run?”
“I am now. You want to ride while I walk—or we can do the two-on-a-bike thing.” His eyes picked up the rays of the sun and sparkled, she noticed, turning an inviting shade of warm brown.
“Why don’t we both walk?”
She angled the bike, bringing her leg over its center. And Garrett had a sudden, erotic vision that shot straight to his groin and throbbed for a moment before he could will it away.
“Good idea,” he mumbled.
They walked along the Promenade in an easy silence until they reached the exit.
“I’m over this way,” he said, pointing to their right. “Do you come down this way much?”
“About once a year for the fireworks.”
He chuckled. “Doesn’t everyone? That’s when I leave. Can’t take the crowds.”
“That’s what makes it fun.”
“So long as you’re not trying to sleep through it.”
“Sleep through it? That’s a time for celebration. That’s what holidays are for, people getting together.”
