A Love of My Own (9 page)

10
__________________

I located the gothic brownstone on Eighty-eighth Street between Columbus and Amsterdam avenues. I pulled a yellow piece of paper from my suit jacket pocket and looked at the number 105 and then the number on the building. I walked up slowly, like I was getting ready to enter a haunted house, took a deep breath, and rang the bell.

After a couple of weeks of restless nights, I decided I should get some help before I quietly had a nervous breakdown. At first I thought I was having trouble sleeping because I missed having Trent's warm body next to mine, but I realized I had some anger brewing inside. Many of those nights it took everything I had not to pick up the phone and call Trent and yell at him about what he'd done to our relationship, what he'd done to me.

A few moments passed and I rang the bell again. This time I heard a buzzing sound, and I pushed the door open and found myself in a cluttered foyer with several newspapers lying on the floor and a coatrack that held several jackets and a couple of nondescript umbrellas. I saw three doors and a set of buzzers with last names on two of them. Dr. Carolyn Few was on the bottom. I pressed the button and heard another buzzing sound and the release of several locks. A few moments later, a medium-size white lady with a pale complexion and long, stringy black hair opened the door. She was wearing a pale green top with a matching skirt.

“Are you Raymond Tyler?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“I'm Dr. Few. Come on in. You're a little early, but my appointment before you canceled, so we're fine,” she said.

I looked at my watch and realized that it was ten minutes before six. I'd left my office early to make sure I was on time after Dr. Few told me she didn't take kindly to latecomers. I had found her through a referral service on the Internet, and she had been the fifth doctor I'd called. The first four weren't taking new clients, and I felt I really needed to talk to someone quickly, and didn't have the luxury of finding an African American doctor.

I followed Dr. Few into her office, which looked more like the living room or work space of an artist. There were several paintings on easels, a comfortable-looking melon-colored sofa with pastel pillows, and a rocking chair in which Dr. Few promptly seated herself.

“Have a seat,” Dr. Few said.

“Thank you,” I said as I sat down and crossed my legs and laid my hands across my lap, but I didn't feel quite comfortable.

“Since this is your first visit, I need to go over some housekeeping details. I charge a hundred and fifty dollars an hour. I expect to be paid at the end of each fifty-minute session. I accept insurance, but that's only after you have been a patient for three months. I have a forty-eight-hour cancellation policy, and if you don't show up or call, then you will be billed. Leaving a message on my answering machine is okay, but I would prefer to speak with you when you need to cancel. Do you have any questions for me?” Dr. Few asked.

“No.”

Dr. Few picked up a yellow legal pad and pen from a cloth covered ottoman next to her chair and asked, “Have you been in therapy before?”

“Yes.”

“How long ago?”

“Oh, about eight years ago,” I said.

“Do you mind sharing the circumstances?” she asked.

“It was after the death of my best friend,” I said.

“Did you take any medication?”

“Briefly. The doctor gave me something to help me sleep.”

“Are you on any medication now?”

“No.”

“Do you drink?”

“Socially, maybe a couple of glasses of wine to relax,” I said.

“So tell me why you felt the need to resume therapy,” Dr. Few said.

“I've been having trouble sleeping, and my stomach always seems full with nervous energy when my day ends at the office,” I said.

“What do you do?”

“I'm a CEO of a magazine.”

“And you moved from where?”

“Seattle.”

“For your job?”

“Sorta,” I mumbled.

“What does ‘sorta' mean?”

“I sought out the job.”

“You didn't like Seattle? I hear it's a beautiful city,” Dr. Few said. I didn't remember my last doctor offering editorial comments. But this was New York, where everybody had an opinion.

“I love Seattle. I didn't like the situation I was in,” I said calmly.

“Why don't you tell me about it?”

I spent the next ten minutes telling Dr. Few about my relationship with Trent. I also told her how I'd found out about his affair, his pending fatherhood, and how basically he had made the decision to end the relationship.

“How did that make you feel?” she asked when I had finished speaking.

“Like shit,” I said.

“Are you still in love with him?”

Was I still in love with Trent? The question startled me, because I wasn't expecting it and didn't really have a yes-or-no answer. I thought about Dr. Few's question for a few minutes and then I said, “I guess you've heard this before, but here goes: I still love Trent, but I don't think I'm in love with him anymore.”

“Are you angry with him?”

“Yes,” I said quickly.

“Have you told him?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I didn't think it was important. I thought it was best to move on.”

“Do you have any problems with your sexuality?”

“No.”

“That's good,” Dr. Few said. I guess she was thinking that would save us some time, but I thought there were some things she needed to know about my self-acceptance.

“I dated women for most of my young-adult life. When I was a senior in college, I realized that I was attracted to men when this football player seduced me. For several years I hated being attracted to men and continued to date women. When I fell in love with Trent, all the feelings of shame seemed to go away,” I said.

“Was it a good relationship?”

“It was a great relationship ninety percent of the time,” I said. “We both had very demanding careers. Besides practicing law, I was also teaching and working on my MBA. Trent's job required him to travel, and mine did also for extended periods. But we always talked with each other, trying very hard to keep the lines of communication open,” I said.

“Are your parents still living, and do you have any siblings?” Dr. Few asked. This question also caught me off guard, because I tried not to think about a time when my parents might not be alive.

“Both of my parents are alive and I have a younger brother.”

“Do they know you're gay?”

I started to tell Dr. Few I didn't necessarily like the word
gay,
but then she would want an explanation of why and that would take up too much time.

“Yes, they know and they're very supportive.”

“What did they say about the breakup?”

“I haven't told them yet.”

“Why?”

“I don't want to burden them,” I said softly.

“If they're supportive, then why would it be, as you say, a burden?”

“I don't know.”

“Have you told your brother?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Same reason.”

“Is that really the reason?” Dr. Few asked.

I didn't answer. I just glanced around the room, focusing on her bookshelf, looking for books I might recognize, and then back at her. I wondered if she could help me deal with my feelings without involving my family. I wanted to prove that I could handle this on my own. Dr. Few didn't repeat her question, but after some time had passed she looked at her watch and said the four words all therapists must love: “Your time is up.”

From
Bling Bling
Confidential

Davis loves women for the same reasons a lot of men do. They make him feel strong and powerful. His wife, Veronica, is the love of his life, but he finds her life as a black socialite boring. So there's Zola, who he enjoys because of her looks and the fact that if he or any man raised a hand to her, Zola would cut it off. There was also Annabelle Boyd, a white socialite friend of Veronica's who Davis enjoys because she totally believes the myths about black men, you know the one about size. He is amused by LaKecia because she's straight-up ghetto, thinks five hundred dollars is a lot of money, talks shit, doesn't like to cuddle and gives the best head in town.

11
__________________

I was running about ten minutes behind, and Davis didn't like my being late. He didn't understand that sometimes it was just as hard for a sister to get a cab as it was for a brother. Besides, he usually sent a car for me, but had paged me about an hour before I left the office and suggested I get a cab because his driver had to take his wife and daughter to dinner. I started to say “You're rich and you know the rules. Get another driver to cart your wife and kid around.”

I raced through the lobby of the Four Seasons hotel and went to the front desk and told the clerk there should be a key waiting for me under the name Mrs. McClinton.

A few minutes later she came back with a smirk and said, “Oh, yes. Your husband is waiting for you in the Presidential Suite. I'm sure you know where the elevator is.”

“Thank you,” I said as I snatched the card key and raised my eyebrow and gave her my best
don't-try-me
look
.

Moments later, I was in the marble foyer of one of the best suites in town. Davis and I had stayed there once before. He'd bragged how he'd once forced Michael Jackson to cut his stay short or move to a smaller suite. Another time he said Michael Jordan and his family were in the suite when he wanted it, but he decided to take something smaller since Michael Jordan was one of the few men he had respect for as an athlete and businessman. I told him Michael Jackson wasn't a slouch in the business department either, since he'd bought the Beatles' music catalogue.

I heard soft music playing, and as I entered the master bedroom I saw Davis sitting on the bed in a cobalt-blue robe with his computer on his lap. There was a Palm, two cell phones, and several files on the side of the bed where I would eventually end up laying my head. Davis wasn't handsome, but he wasn't unattractive either. His body was firm and well proportioned with powerful shoulders and a nice chest. Davis wore his hair short and he didn't have any hair on his face, which was the color of a toasted bagel.

“Sorry I'm late,” I said as I leaned over and kissed Davis on the cheek.

“No problem. I just kept myself busy by making a few more million,” Davis said.

“How was your day?” I asked as I took off my jacket and heels.

“Now, Zola, you can make better small talk than that. You sound like a suburban housewife who just came in from cheating on her husband,” Davis said.

“Cool. You're going to make love to me tonight the way I like it, big daddy?” I asked.

“Now you sound like some ghetto whore,” Davis said.

I didn't answer. I just stared at him for moment. I don't know why I let him bother me at times. He could be such a split personality. Sometimes he would talk to me like the lover he thought he was, and there were times when he sounded and acted like a judgmental father.

“Would you like something to drink? I had room service bring up a couple of bottles of Cristal,” Davis said.

“A little later. Is that what you're drinking tonight?”

“I'm sipping hundred-year-old cognac my valet found for me on the Internet.”

“I guess that sounds good,” I said. Davis looked at me firmly. I became uncomfortable under his stare, and soon I stood and turned and faced the huge picture windows and unzipped my skirt from the back. I loved the view from this room. I recalled the first time I had met Davis here and how we watched the sun drop down slowly and beautifully and the dusty yellow light cover the city.

That night was one of the times when Davis seemed interested in my life. He'd asked about my parents even though I had told him more than once what they did for a living. He seemed to understand why I didn't hold my sister in high regard.

Once he asked me if I was saving any money and I proudly told him how much I had in my checking and savings accounts. Davis told me I should take the money out of my accounts and invest it. I told him I had some money in mutual funds, but Davis suggested I live a little and play the market. “Invest your money in companies who make products or provide services you can't live without. Stick by them until you notice the products are slipping or receive negative publicity.” I loved the fact Davis had an ego and brain that matched.

“Are you going to shower and start my show soon?” Davis asked, interrupting my thoughts.

“I'm on my way,” I said.

“Take your time,” Davis said. “We've got all night.”

“Oh, Veronica's out of town?”

“I have all night,” Davis repeated.

I walked into the bathroom, which was as big as my bedroom. There were three marble vanities, two tubs, and a shower for two. The room was mirrored, and there was a closet lined with maple and teakwood. I noticed three sets of panties and bras all lined up side by side.

On each visit, Davis would have someone purchase expensive silk or satin lingerie for me. Most times there would be three sets and he would have me model each one before picking the one he wanted me to wear to bed. I didn't mind his little crazy fantasy because I got to take all the items home and wear them for Jabar, and they were always beautiful things that I would never buy for myself. I wondered if this was the type of clothing Davis's wife wore to bed every night.

I didn't know a lot about Davis's wife, Veronica, or their marriage. I had heard she was a snob who could go ghetto if needed. She was cute, but you could tell she'd had some work done. Her face looked like she was always excited or surprised, and her breasts were a little too perky for a mother of two.

I had met her on only a couple of occasions, once when Davis gave a big party at Cipriani to celebrate the first year for
Bling Bling,
and again at the Black Charities annual black-tie event, which was one of the major social events of the year. Davis had given me a pair of tickets at the last minute, so I didn't have time to search for the proper outfit. I had worn a little tomato-red dress with spaghetti straps. I thought I looked good and so did Hayden, my date. I went into the bedroom to touch up my makeup, and as luck would have it, I ended up putting on fresh lipstick next to Veronica.

Veronica smiled at me and acted like she didn't remember my name. I could tell she had a personality similar to her husband's when she went from business polite to bitchy black girl in a matter of minutes. I told her how much I loved her dress and she turned toward me and thanked me and said my dress was cute and then asked if I had made it myself. If I hadn't been worried about causing a scene and making the gossip columns, Veronica would still be in that bathroom, picking up her face.

I took off my clothes and started the shower and walked over to feel tonight's selections. There was a white set the color of wedding-dress satin, a pair of soft pear-green panties and a bra with embroidered pearls and fringe, and a bright yellow set. I knew deep down that Davis was really a black-and-white kind of guy, so I decided to wear the white ones last.

I was feeling a little tired and thought a warm shower might put me to sleep, so I turned the water to the lowest level of cold. I stepped into the shower and felt it drowning me like cold ocean waves. When I got out of the shower trembling like a fragile leaf after a rainstorm, I realized I had left the address of my breakfast meeting on my desk. I knew Cyndi, my assistant, was working late, so I picked up the phone to call her and ask her to send the address to my pager. I heard Davis's voice on the phone, and he didn't sound happy.

“What do you mean, they won't cash the checks? Why did you wait so long to tell me?”

“Mr. McClinton, I . . .” a male voice said.

“Damn. Figure out a way to make sure they take the money. Make sure they don't know where it's coming from. Do you understand?”

Who was Davis paying off or buying, I wondered as I hung up the phone, hoping Davis didn't hear me pick it up.

I put on the pear-green panties and bra and walked down the long hallway and back into the bedroom. Davis's eyes traveled up and down my body with the speed of a subway train. He was still on the phone, but he put his hand over the receiver and said, “Those are okay. Put on the ones you know I like and I'll meet you in the library.”

I smiled and walked back to the bathroom so that I could change for the second act.

From
Bling Bling
Confidential

Some days, Davis will leave his office and have his driver take him to visit his fourteen-year-old son, Logan, at his Connecticut boarding school. Davis makes sure his visits are unannounced, because he wants to make sure Logan is following not only the school's strict rules but the ones Davis and Veronica have set up as well.

Davis won't accept second best for, or from his son. Logan is expected to maintain a grade point average that will rank him among the top five in his class. Logan can't participate in common sports like football or basketball but is only allowed to master elite sports such as tennis, lacrosse, swimming and golf.

Logan is only allowed to listen to classical music. Davis instituted this rule when an eleven-year-old Logan told his father he wanted to be a rapper. Davis Vincent McClinton was not going to let that happen.

On the way back to New York he instructs his driver to take him through some of New York's underprivileged neighborhoods in Brooklyn, the Bronx and Yonkers. Davis locates a playground or basketball court and passes out hundred-dollar bills to kids curious enough to inspect the black man riding in the immaculate black Mercedes sedan.