Chances Are (2 page)

“Yes. But I had you.”

Betsy clucked her tongue and patted Dione's arm. “I have work to do,” she fussed. “I know my early birds Denise and Kisha are waiting on me to take those babies so they can get to school.”

Dione grinned. “You have a good day.” She kissed the older woman's cheek before they parted, a ritual that began nearly eighteen years earlier, when Betsy was her landlady for the rooming house she and her infant daughter Niyah lived in.

She remembered walking for what seemed like forever to find that building. Ms. Langley had given her the address after she'd spent a week in a shelter and refused to go back. She'd had to sleep on a cot with a mattress no thicker than the thin blanket that covered her. She heard things—noises in the night and the soft sobs of the young women around her. The second day she was there she'd awakened to find most of her clothes missing and five dollars out of her wallet. When she arrived at school with what she had on her back and stormed teary-eyed into Ms. Langley's office, she swore she'd kill herself if she ever had to go back.

Ms. Langley jumped up and shut the door. “Dione, what happened?” Her green eyes raced across Dione's ravaged face and body to assess if there was any damage.

“I'm not going back there, Ms. Langley. I won't.”

“Dione, you can't live on the street. You're going to have that baby in two months. You have to have someplace to live.”

“I'll live on the street if I have to. I did it before. But I can't go back there, and you can't make me go.”

“Yes, I can, Dione. By law you're still a minor. I should have had you placed in foster care instead of sending you there.”

Dione looked at her defiantly. “You can't send me anywhere I don't want to go. Nobody can. I'm eighteen.” Her eyes filled and she felt her throat constrict. “Today's my birthday.”

It was Betsy who cared for Niyah while Dione returned to finish high school, and worked part-time at the local supermarket three days per week after giving birth to her baby girl. And Betsy always made sure that when Dione dragged herself home after her long days at school and then at work, there was a meal for her to eat.

Humph, that building.
It was an old, raggedy building that was hotter than Hades in the summer and could rival the Arctic in the winter, located smack in the middle of the notorious East New York section of Brooklyn, one of the most dangerous areas of the borough. But it was inexpensive. The only thing she could afford. The check she received from Public Assistance for her and Niyah and the small salary she earned at the supermarket just about made ends meet.

One thing she was always grateful for, Ms. Betsy was real careful about choosing her six tenants, so Dione always felt safe, and Betsy seemed to have taken an instant liking to her and Niyah. She always went out of her way to make sure that they had enough to eat and extra blankets during the bitter winter nights.

 

When Dione graduated from high school, it was Betsy who sat in the audience cheering for her, with Niyah squirming on her lap.

Dione promised herself that if—no, when—she made a success of her life she would get Ms. Betsy out of that building and take care of her the same way she had taken care of her and Niyah. And Dione had kept her promise. She smiled as she walked toward the main office. Yes she had.

 

When Dione entered the office, Brenda was busy pulling files that were scheduled for the monthly review.

This was one of the aspects of the job that was a mixture of triumph and disappointment. When the girls' progress files were brought before the staff for review, Dione always believed that the results, whatever they may be, were a direct reflection on the staff and the program, and ultimately on her.

If the girls were unable to achieve the goals set out for them, Dione felt the staff should have done more,
she
should have done more. The comprehensive program that she'd developed for the residents relied on all of the pieces working together: continuing education, finding employment, attending on-site housing preparation classes that taught budgeting, cooking, housekeeping and parenting skills.

In the five years since the house had been opened, thirty young women and their children had come through the doors and lived under that roof. Most of them took the opportunity, love and support that was give them and multiplied it when they went out on their own. But there were those who were beyond saving. The ones who'd come to her too late, too damaged by life. The ones who kept her awake on so many nights.

She pushed the thoughts aside as she crossed the rectangular room. “What time is the case review meeting scheduled for?”

Brenda looked briefly over her shoulder. “Four-thirty.”

Dione nodded. “What about the house meeting?”

“I'll draft up the notice and have it under everyone's door. The proposal is on your desk downstairs.”

“Thanks.” She turned to leave, then stopped. “Bren?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you really think this documentary is the way to go?” She folded her arms and leaned against the door frame.

Brenda laid down the file and faced Dione. “We've pretty much run out of options. The proposal sounds good and if marketed properly could get us the financing we need. That's what we have to focus on.” She waited a beat, looking at Dione's faraway expression. “What's really bothering you, Dee? I don't think it's just the girls.”

Dione straightened. “Why would you think that? Of course that's all there is. I don't want them exploited.”

Brenda looked at Dione for a long moment. “If you say so.” She turned back to the file cabinet.

“I'll be downstairs if you need me.”

“Sure,” Brenda mumbled.

 

Dione returned to her basement office, leaving the door partially open. Even though Brenda and Ms. Betsy had insisted that she close her door while she was working, Dione never wanted any of the girls to feel that she was inaccessible. Her steadfast policy interrupted many a thought process, but she stood by it.

She turned on the small lavender and white clock radio that was given to her as a gift from one of the former residents the previous Christmas. As the sultry sounds of Regina Bell overcame the static and filled the room, she thought about the question Brenda asked.

How could she tell Brenda that yes, she was right, the girls' privacy wasn't all that she was concerned with. She was concerned with her own privacy and what the probing of this documentary may uncover, that the lie she'd woven for the past eighteen years would become unraveled.

That's what she didn't want to risk, hurting Niyah with the truth. But at what cost?

She blew out a breath and opened the folder that contained the proposal. G.L. Productions stared back at her in thick, black capital letters. A tiny jolt shot through her. She wasn't sure why. Blinking, she turned the page and began reviewing what G.L. Productions had proposed to do in order to fulfill the requirements of the granting agency.

According to what Mr. Lawrence wrote, his intention was to get personal interviews with some of the residents and ask them all about their backgrounds and how they found themselves at Chances Are. She wrinkled her nose and shook her head. “That's out.”

She continued to read, becoming more agitated by the minute. She was right when her first thought told her to scrap the whole documentary idea. Not only did they want to interview all of the girls, but the staff as well. They also wanted to take footage of the activities in the house. And with the girls' permission, get interviews from any family members.
She couldn't see that happening.

Closing the folder, Dione leaned back in her chair and rubbed her eyes with the tips of her index fingers. She'd only given the proposal a cursory glance when it had come in two months earlier and dismissed it as something she had no intention of participating in. But after a careful review, she had even more doubts than before. Only now, the dire situation at Chances had escalated.

Well, she conceded, if she was going to go through with it, as she was feeling compelled to do, she'd have to outline her own set of requirements. But she'd let the girls decide at the house meeting.

G
arrett Lawrence sat in the tight editing suite of his production studio, facing three television monitors, the video player and recording decks, putting together the final touches on an instructional video for a collection agency. The piece was well done, all of the important points were highlighted with animated graphics over narration. He knew the client would be pleased with the finished product—and he was bored. He wanted a project he could really sink his teeth into, something that had meaning, substance.

When he'd opened his production company four years earlier, he saw himself as the next Spike Lee, doing important, controversial work. The day had yet to arrive. It had taken all of his savings and a major bank loan to get G.L. Productions up and operational. For a small facility, it had all the latest in digital equipment and could easily compete with the bigger houses if it had the chance. But a small, black company already had two strikes against it right from the starting gate.
Small
and
black.

If he could only get that Williams woman to accept the proposal, he knew that would be his ticket. Although, he had to admit that wasn't his thought two months earlier. But now he had thirty days to get her to agree, or he would lose his grant, unless he could miraculously find another shelter for wayward girls that fit the grant criteria. And grants like this one were few and far between.

In the two months since he'd made his telephone pitch, which he followed with a formal letter and the outline of what he wanted to accomplish, he'd called several times to try to get an appointment, but he'd never been able to get past her assistant. He knew if he could sit down face-to-face with her, he could convince her to go for the project.

Garrett made an adjustment to the image on the screen. Who did she think she was anyway that she didn't even have to give him the courtesy of a reply?

Satisfied, he turned off the equipment and stood, stretching his arms above his head hoping to loosen the kinks from hours of sitting.

Chances Are. Hmm. Wonder where they came up with the name? Chances
were,
loose girls wound up in places like that, or worse. People needed to see that. See them for what they really were: a burden on society.

When the request for proposals from the funding agency had been sent out, he originally had no intention of going for a contract documenting the lives of teen mothers—glorifying them. The very idea resuscitated the anger and the hurt he struggled to keep buried every day. It was his business partner and best friend, Jason Burrell, who'd finally convinced him that with the money and the exposure, it was the ticket they needed to take the company to the next level. “Get away from this instructional BS and do something worthwhile,” he'd said.

Reluctantly, Garrett had agreed. He knew it would be hard working with and talking to a group of females who epitomized everything he despised. But he knew Jason was right. So he did his research and found Chances Are, and wrote his proposal based on the premise that the director would agree to be filmed. Ha. So much for assuming.

“Hey, man. Whatsup?”

Garrett turned toward Jason who stood in the doorway. “Just finishing up the collection agency piece.”

“Hmm, glad that's out of the way.” Jason stepped into the room and straddled an available stool. “Hear anything from the shelter?”

“Naw. Not a word. She doesn't even have the decency to return our calls.” He sneered. “Probably too busy trying to keep those girls out of trouble—again.”

“I say we start looking elsewhere before we blow the grant, man. It's a lot of money to lose.”

“Yeah, I've been tossing around the same idea. Problem is, the grant was real specific about what it wanted: a documentary on teen mothers living in a residential setting and how they got there. Chances Are is the only one of its kind not funded by the government. And we dug the hole deeper by detailing how we were going to do it.”

“I hear ya. That does limit our choices. But we gotta make a move. And soon. You want me to try to call again? Maybe I'll get lucky and get past that guard-dog assistant of hers.”

Garrett blew out a breath. “Let's give it another day or two. I'm going over to the research library this afternoon, do some more hunting. Maybe
I'll
get lucky and find someplace else that meets the guidelines.”

“I sure as hell hope so.” Jason stood. “Well, I have a shoot at New York University. I'm gonna pack up the equipment and get rolling.”

“Who's on the crew?”

“Najashi, Paul, and Tom.”

Garrett nodded. “I'll probably see you in the morning, then. I'll lock up when I'm done in here. Make sure they give you our check before you guys leave.”

“I'm getting the check
before
we start. I don't want to hear nothing about how ‘the person with the check is gone for the day' after we've done the work.”

Garrett chuckled recalling the many times they'd been stiffed and had to wait weeks, sometimes months, after a shoot to get paid.

“All right, I'm out. Good luck with your research.”

“Yeah.”

 

Garrett switched off the lights, checked the studio where they did their on-site shooting and the adjoining rooms, set the answering machine and the alarms and stepped outside to the lukewarm October afternoon. He stood in the doorway of his West Village office space and watched the passersby.

All up and down the avenue, folks strolled, stopped, peeked in antique shop windows, hugged, laughed. Everyone seemed to have somebody. Someone to experience and share their day with. He watched a young mother laughing with her son, then she bent down and picked him up and gave him a big hug before setting him back on his feet. The little boy looked up at her, a hundred-watt smile on his face.

A sudden, razor-sharp pain of hurt and betrayal sliced through his stomach. Why wasn't he good enough to be hugged and kissed from the mother who gave him life to the wife who left him for greener pastures?

His chest filled. His throat constricted. Most times he didn't think about those things. His work filled his days, and most of his nights. But this whole business with the documentary and the shelter brought back all the ugly memories. Hey, he'd get through it. He was tough. That's what he'd been told the doctors said when he'd been found only hours old, wrapped in a sheet, wedged between two garbage cans.

He swallowed. Yeah, he was tough.