Any Way the Wind Blows (8 page)

“So what are you going to do? Raise your child in a broken home?” I asked as I took a bite of the piping-hot fried chicken leg.

“Yancey, the way I see it, it’s better to be a product of a broken home than to live in one,” Windsor said as she picked up a fork and nibbled on some rice.

“I hear you, girl. But you’re a better woman than I am. I mean, having kids is hard enough with two people. And these kids today are demons. Shooting up each other. I hope you’re going to send your child to private school and move to the suburbs.”

“I think that’s the big problem. Perceptions. I won’t have any problem sending my child to an inner-city school. Those kids might get beat up and someone might take their lunch money, but at least their parents see them in the evening,” Windsor said.

“I hadn’t thought about that, and you make a good point.”

“So how are you doing? I mean, I know you’re all happy about your music career, but how is your soul?” Windsor
asked as I thought about the improbable friendship Windsor and I shared. We were as different as lemons and watermelons. Even though it was relatively new, just about two years old, my friendship with her was something I valued. Before Windsor, I’d never had a close female friend.

“I don’t know how my soul is doing, but my career, the most important thing to me, is doing just fine,” I said.

“Have you talked to Basil?”

“I don’t want to talk to Basil,” I said quickly.

“Do you still love him?” Windsor asked, ignoring me.

“Why do you ask?”

“It must have been hard to leave him on your wedding day,” she said. Windsor was so damn polite, she was still sticking to my version of the breakup, even though I was sure she knew better.

“I loved Basil, I think. He loved me more than I loved him, but it wasn’t a totally lopsided love. Do you love Wardell more than he loves you?”

“I just love Wardell. I know he loves me, but who loves who more is a difficult question, especially since I only know how I love him,” Windsor said.

“That’s deep, Windsor. I’ve always focused on making someone love me more,” I said as Windsor placed her hand on top of mine.

We sat in silence for a moment and then I said, “Windsor, there’s a lot of stuff about Basil you and the public don’t know. That boy has lots of secrets, and my new song might just tip off the world.”

“What secrets does Basil have that the world needs to know?” Windsor asked.

I looked at Windsor with a cat-who-ate-the-canary grin and said, “If either one of us had a good-looking brother, we would be wise to keep him away from Basil.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Let’s put it this way. If Basil were still in high school, he’d fit right in at that school where you teach.” I laughed.

“Are you telling me Basil’s gay?”

“Not really all the way. I guess you could call him gay-lite.”

“No, that’s called bisexual. Which should surprise me, considering how fine and masculine he is, but teaching at Harvey Milk has taught me a lot about stereotypes. Still, I don’t think that’s something you need to tell the world. Basil has enough trouble, because no matter how gorgeous he is, he’s still a black man. That’s burden enough. Let him keep his secrets if he chooses.”

“I hear ya talking, but his little secret might help my singing career get off to the right start,” I said defiantly.

“Yancey! Why would you want to act so ugly? Great things are happening for you. Your voice will sell itself. Release the thought of revenge and you’ll be blessed,” Windsor said.

It was no wonder Windsor was pregnant—she was always acting like someone’s mama. But I couldn’t be too mad at her, since she did have a point. So I just looked down a moment and said, “I don’t know, Windsor. His secret hurt me a lot, and I learned as a child not to let people mess over me. When they strike, you’ve got to strike back. Catch them unaware, after they’ve forgotten the pain they’ve caused.”

Windsor took my hand in hers, looked into my eyes and said, “Whoever taught you that, Yancey, was flat-out wrong.”

• • •

T
he traffic surrounding Carnegie Hall was hopelessly congested with limos and taxis, but I didn’t care. I was floating on a magic carpet after witnessing my peers put on a show, each trying to outsing the others: Whitney Houston, Mary J. Blige, Macy, Beyoncé and her backups, Stevie Wonder, Marc Anthony and Eric Clapton.

But they were not the main reason I was floating. When I walked down the red carpet to enter the hall with Michel, photographers started screaming out my name, “Yancey B, would you stop for me, please?” “Who designed your dress?” “How does it feel to be the new pop diva?” “Why aren’t you performing tonight?”

It was wonderful as I turned this way and then the other way, smiling all the time while flashes blinded my view. When Patrick Stinson from the
E!
channel pulled me off the red carpet for a live interview, I knew I had arrived. When he asked me about my song and if the lyrics were based on a personal experience, I looked at him, smiled and said, “Patrick, that’s a great question, and I will answer it very soon, but right now I’m just here to support Wyclef and his kids.” Who said beauty pageants don’t serve a useful purpose?

When Wyclef himself invited me to a private after-party at Lotus, I politely declined, telling him I had an interview with Deborah Gregory of
Essence
the next morning and I wanted to be fresh. He gave me a kiss on the cheek and whispered, “Next time.”

As I pulled up in front of my town house, a thin dusting of snow was beginning to cover the city.

“My name is Ruland; here’s my card. It was nice driving you. Call me if you need me,” he said.

“Thank you, Ruland, and I will,” I said as I put my fur on and headed for my door.

Inside my house, it was dark as asphalt, and I figured Windsor was asleep. I was tempted to wake her up and tell her about all the stars I’d met, but instead I headed to the kitchen, when I heard the sounds of someone whimpering. I couldn’t tell if it was a human or some type of animal like a cat. I became a bit uneasy, since I had never heard Windsor cry and she knew my rules about pets of any kind. When I turned on the light in the dining room, I was startled to see Windsor sitting in a chair, bent over and holding her stomach.

“Windsor! What are you doing sitting here in the dark?” I asked as I moved toward her.

“Yancey, I’m not feeling well. I think I need to go to the hospital,” she said.

“What’s the matter?”

“I’m spotting, and my stomach is so upset. Look at my hands,” Windsor said as she moved her hands toward me. They were huge, obviously swollen.

“Do you want me to call your parents?”

“I need to go to the hospital. We can call them and Wardell from there,” Windsor said. Her eyes in the dim light were shiny with tears.

“Let me call the driver,” I said as I reached for the phone. I pulled out the card Ruland had given me and dialed his cell phone number. He picked up after a couple of rings.

“Ruland, this is Miss Braxton. You just dropped me off. I have an emergency. Where are you?”

“I’m crossing Madison Avenue. I can be back at your place in two minutes.”

“Hurry,” I said as I heard Windsor let out a huge moan, which sounded like she was in labor. But she couldn’t be in labor if she was only four months pregnant. I hung up the phone and sat next to Windsor. I hugged her tightly and said, “Don’t worry, Windsor, help is on the way.”

A
week had passed and I hadn’t been able to catch up with Wylie, but I was dying to tell him about my date. I had to tell someone about my evening, even though I had promised Basil I wouldn’t say a word. But didn’t Basil know that the gay boy code of silence meant you wouldn’t tell all of your friends? Just your top two, at the very least.

Wylie picked up the phone quickly, which meant he was probably on the other line.

“Who you talking to?” I asked.

“Well, hello to you, too, darling. I’m talking to LaVonya. Trying to find out the good tea before she publishes it in the paper. What’s shaking?”

“I got something to tell you. Tell Ms. LaVonya it’s a family emergency,” I ordered. LaVonya Young was Wylie’s resident fag hag and one of the city’s most popular gossip columnists. She had her own radio show, and a syndicated column called “Lines from LaVonya” in which she would drop juicy one-liners without revealing the names. Once a
month in her column in
Diva
magazine she would go into a little more detail but still no names. People would visit her Web site and post their guesses as to who LaVonya was talking about, but she would never confirm or deny. I liked LaVonya well enough, but I wasn’t as close to her as Wylie. I knew better than to have a lot of women around me. Like that old saying, “No need to take sand to the beach.”

“So what’s the emergency, Bart?”

“I had the most amazing sexual experience of my life.”

“I thought you had a couple of auditions today,” Wylie said.

“I did. And that’s where the story begins and ends.”

I told Wylie about how I’d seduced the handsome Basil Henderson, blow by blow, as it were. Wylie would occasionally interrupt me by saying, “No, you didn’t,” and “Nurse Bart, you gonna make me throw this phone out the window.”

“Are you going to see him again?” Wylie asked when I finally took a breath.

“Are grits groceries?”

“Last time I checked.” Wylie laughed.

“It was amazing. I think I might be in love.”

“I ain’t mad a cha!”

“There is one small problem, though.”

“What? He doesn’t have the monster, does he?” Wylie asked. Monster was what some people called the HIV virus.

“No. I mean, I didn’t ask him, but I’m sure he’s clean. Basil thinks he’s bisexual,” I said. “I feel like I’ve seen him somewhere before.”

“Maybe the bathhouse or the park, you think?”

“I doubt it. He doesn’t seem to be the bathhouse/park type,” I said.

“So he’s one of those strays, can’t decide if he wants to be straight or gay. Mark my word, very soon there’s going to be more of them than us. Then we gonna be complaining like our sisters how black men are either in prison or can’t make up their minds,” Wylie said.

“I said he thinks he’s bisexual. He’s a top, but he liked me way too much to think he doesn’t know which team he’s on.”

“Did you get the job?”

“What job?”

“The modeling job.”

“You bet I got the job
and
a new man. I mean, Wylie, this may be the one! I feel that strongly about this.”

“For real?”

“For real.”

“But what if he is bisexual? You know he’ll never settle down,” Wylie warned.

“I can change him.”

“Where have I heard that before?”

“Wylie, don’t spoil this for me. Stop being a homo-hater.” I despised it when Wylie got jealous.

“I’m sorry. Describe him once more, and go slow on the good parts,” Wylie pleaded.

“Now, Wylie, sometimes a boy has to keep a little something to himself. I can’t have my best friend trying to go after my man.” I laughed.

“Be that way. I guess I need to go to Stella’s and see if I can’t find me a dreamboy for the night,” Wylie said.

“Good night and good luck,” I said. Stella’s was a midtown
gay bar where Wylie and I went when we wanted certain one-night-stand sex. I smiled, because after meeting Basil I knew my nights at Stella’s and cruising Mount Morris Park were coming to an end. No more nights of looking for Mr. Right or Mr. Right Now at the piers down in the Village. All the things I hated about being gay could end if I could get Basil to fall in love with me, and I was going to give it everything I had.

• • •

I
was walking from my kitchen with a bowl of microwave popcorn when my phone rang. I figured it was Wylie trying to talk me into meeting him at Stella’s, so I answered the phone, “I’m not going to go.”

“Is this Bart?” an unfamiliar male voice asked.

“This is Bart. Who is this?”

“This is David. I met you at the Viceroy about a month ago. We went out and had a drink. I’ve called you a couple of times,” David said. I remembered the tall and lanky man who I was certain was packing big beef, but when I grabbed between his legs all I felt was something the size of my thumb. Didn’t he know that’s why I wasn’t returning his calls? Any self-respecting little-dick man knew not to step to me.

“Yeah, David. I’ve been busy,” I said quickly.

“I was wondering if I could see you again,” he asked softly.

“For what?”

“You seem like an interesting guy,” he said.

“But you don’t know me. What do you want to see me for?”

“I thought we had a good time. But I guess …” “Listen, David, I’m sure you’re a real nice guy, but you ain’t packing enough for me to waste a minute of my time. And I’m dating a real man. Have a nice life,” I said as I hung up and put a handful of popcorn in my mouth.

I
almost cut myself shaving when I heard Yancey’s voice sweep through my loft. I was in the bathroom getting ready for work when I heard Doug Banks announce, “This is the fastest-selling song in the country, ‘Any Way the Wind Blows,’ by Yancey B.”

So old girl had changed her name and career path. The Yancey Braxton I knew wasn’t going to be stopped until her name was listed, large and bright, on the marquee. The song was smooth, but I got nervous when I heard some of the lyrics, “You want him and not me.” I better get a copy of this song quick.

When the song was over Doug asked Dee-Dee, his co-host, a question.

“So have you heard what this song is about?” Doug asked Dee-Dee.

“Yeah, it’s about brothers on the down low.” Dee-Dee laughed.

“But I wonder who she’s talking about.”

“I don’t know, but it sounds like ole Yancey B got a score to settle,” she joked.

“Well, you know she’s going to be here in the studio real soon. Do you think she’ll tell us?”

“If sister wants to sell some records, then she needs to do more than sing. She better talk.” Dee-Dee giggled.

I turned the radio off, and tiny beads of sweat started to cover my forehead and neck. Unwanted memories of my last days with Yancey began to flood my mind. I grabbed a towel, wiped my face dry and then rushed to my phone. I dialed the office and then hung up. At first I wanted to know if my assistant, Kendra, who listened to
The Doug Banks Show
religiously, had heard the song, but then decided I’d rather find out when I got to the office. I still had Yancey’s number on my speed dial. When a female voice picked up, I took a deep breath.