Always (21 page)

To say the least, I was too shocked for words as Sarah
said, “So, Ma . . . this here is Aww-stin.” I forced myself to smile, and I must say it warmed my heart to hear my daughter call me anything other than Cheryl for the first time in years.

“Austin . . . it's nice to meet you.”

“Yo,” he said, and tipped his shiny head. She'd told me just how cute she thought he was one night, but as I sat looking at his slanted eyes and sharp mouth, he looked like a human salamander.

Sarah sat so close to him it was hard to see where her body ended and his began. After staring at him with big doe eyes, she glared at me to keep the conversation going. Grasping for straws, I continued. “Sarah tells me you're in the computer industry?”

“The what industry?”

“No, Ma, I didn't say he was
in
the computer industry,” she said, knowing that's what she had led me to believe. “I just said he worked at IBM. He's in the environmental control division.”

“Environmental con-what?” he said, looking down on her head. Then he sucked his nasty silver-plated teeth and looked at his nails as he said, “If that what you wanna call being a fuc—I mean if that's got anything to do with a mop and a bucket, then that's what I do.”

Sarah tilted her head and widened her eyes as I begged myself not to go off on both of them. Sarah had very few boyfriends in high school. Actually she only went out on one date and went to the prom alone where she got into a fistfight with a baseball player, so I was determined to give him every benefit of the doubt.

“So do you like working for IBM?”

“It's a job.”

“I hear the benefits are good.”

“It's a job.”

I tried once again. “I had a friend who worked there. She said—”

“Like I said.” And then he looked at his watch. “It's a job. Yo, Big Baby, if we're gonna make that concert on time, you might wanna get dressed.” Before he came, Sarah had
spent an hour picking out her clothes and putting on makeup. She even asked if she could try to squeeze her size tens in my size-seven imported leather boots, to no avail. Too embarrassed to even look at me, all she could say was, “Okay.” Then walking to her room she said with a sad smile, “But I don't care what you say, I don't look like no Notorious B.I.G.!”

I glared at him as he said, “Sure you don't,” with his eyes fixed on my child's behind, and then looked at me, shaking his reptilian face.

When Sarah returned that night, I decided just how I had to talk to her about Mr. Aww-stin. I tried to put my words together carefully, making sure I got my point across without patronizing her. When she walked in the door, I said, “Can we talk?” and she said, “Not now, Cheryl.” She proceeded to walk into her room and lock her door; she did not come out the rest of the evening.

The next morning she was in the kitchen eating breakfast and I said good morning in hopes that she would initiate the discussion.

“We broke up last night.”

“What happened?”

“I, umm . . .” And then she stared at the microwave pizza on her plate and balanced the Coors can on her knee. “I didn't like the way he talked to you, so I told him to go to hell.”

I was astonished. I pulled up a chair, sat beside her, and said, “But why, honey?” knowing all along that I wanted to kiss her for making the decision.

“'Cause he was in here acting like he was all that and it was just . . . I don't know. Disrespectful and shit, I guess.”

“Well, darling, if that's what
you
wanted to do. He seemed like a nice enough kid to me. He was a little abrupt and misdirected, but I'm sure it was because he was nervous.”

With a sarcastic smile she said, “Yeah, nervous. That's what it was.”

I went back in my room to watch
Good Morning America
because they were running a feature story on a guy from
Miami who was due to be electrocuted and I'd read about the case in the newspaper. Brandon had actually worked at the crime scene and gave me a few of the gory details. Then I heard the phone ring. Before I could reach for it, Sarah was saying hello in the kitchen.

“What? Fuck you! Well, that's yo problem. What? No, see, you don't disrespect me like that.”

I was shocked. Had she really quit him because of—

“Nigga, please, that bitch was all over you last night, and no, you were not blitzed. Nobody had to tell me anything, ‘cause I saw her. What? That
was
you, fool! How many niggas look like . . . That was you, Austin! I guess now my eyes lying too?”

When I went to Atlanta the following week with Brandon, I was concerned about my daughter and hoped she would be okay while I was away. I felt guilty dating a man only a few years older than she was, and even talked myself out of going more than a few times. But then knowing my daughter, who always had a problem sharing her feelings, I thought a little distance might do both of us some good.

Once in Atlanta, I read in the newspaper about a special taping of
The Phil Donahue Show
in the CNN Center. I wasn't a fan of the show but I noticed that the controversial murder case from south Florida would be one of the topics of the show that week. When I shared that with Brandon he made a few phone calls to friends he knew in the Sheriff's Department and was able to get a security clearance and a couple of complimentary tickets.

Once inside the studio, I was shocked by the number of people who'd actually shown up. Everything looked like it does on the television except the set seemed a lot smaller. The topic that day was the death penalty and we could hear people discussing it all around us as we walked around the multimedia, state-of-the-art complex. In a hot dog line a lady with very dark roots, no eyebrows, and a tight halter top talked about how it wasn't a deterrent to crime. In the bathroom another lady repeated the eye-for-an-eye axiom from
the Old Testament. And as we took our seats, a black man who looked like he was in the Nation of Islam sat beside us and told his friend loud enough for all to overhear the percentage of black men on death row. He knew statisically how many black men were executed for killing whites and how many white women were ever put on death row for killing a black man. “Did you know that ninety-eight percent of men on death row for rape are black men who raped
white
women!”

Phil walked in before they started taping. The room was buzzing as a few people said, “There he is! It's him,” and all heads turned toward the middle-aged talk-show host with the signature white hair.

“You having a good time so far? You like that seat?” Brandon asked me, thinking I was annoyed by the facts being spewed by the Muslim in the next seat, who then started telling his friend and whoever else would listen just how electrocutions were against the will of Allah.

“I'm fine,” I said, looking at the bright lights over the makeshift stage and leaning my head on Brandon's shoulder.

“Y'awll just wait,” the brother repeated as he tapped his finger in the air as if he were tapping on a door. “Wait till I get my chance to speak. I'm going to tell them how it tis. You can kill the man, but you can't kill the truth, my brother. Truth lives on. The truth shall never perish,” he said, shaking his head and then tapping his fist on his thigh.

I noticed Phil with his wife, Mario Thomas, on the floor level speaking to a few members of the audience and then talking to his staff. And then from nowhere it seemed, he appeared like a bright light in a tunnel. He was in the midst of and head and shoulders above about five other people and he looked stunning. If Hollywood had directed the moment it would not have been more memorable. For the first time in more than twenty years I saw Henry Louis Davis in the flesh. When he walked out, although he was a senator, he looked presidential. His staffers were talking to him and showing him color-coded index cards, but he seemed more concerned with looking into the crowd. I'd told Brandon I
knew him from high school, but I never told him just how well I knew him. As his eye scanned the crowd, he looked right at me, but then his attention was diverted by a lady holding her face and stammering as if he were one of the Beatles.

“Well, look who showed up,” Brandon said, patting me on the knee. “Your schoolmate. Can you see him?”

As I moved my leg I didn't want to tell Brandon about the relationship Henry and I had shared because I didn't want him either to think I was full of it or feel I was comparing him in some way to a childhood boyfriend. I also feared that if he knew me as well as I thought he was starting to, when he asked me about him, he'd see just how deep the feelings ran.

“Yeah, I see him,” I replied with nonchalance.

“Do you think he remembers you?”

“It's been a while. I don't know.” Henry ignored his staffers and started talking to people who were near the stage. A few came over with cameras and asked him to pose for pictures or to sign various objects for them. Then someone in the audience called out his name and said, “Over here.” Even from sixteen rows up, I could see this was what he lived for. He went to the young lady who'd screamed out his name and shook her hand as her friend searched for something to write with. After signing his name, he walked up the next row and started talking to people as if he'd known them for years. Women were especially excited to pose with Henry and allowed their husbands or boyfriends to take their picture with the first African-American senator from the deep South since Reconstruction.

He walked up to the fourth level and I was nervous and excited. What would I say to him? I had no idea. I knew he had to go on TV, so I didn't want to startle him, but then I thought,
What if he doesn't even remember me
? As he walked up to row eight, he was halfway up to us and I could feel tumbleweeds rolling in my throat.

“Cheryl, looks like he's gonna come up here, so you'll get to see him again after all,” Brandon said with a smile. I had no idea what to do. I started worrying about my makeup,
but I didn't want Brandon to think I was trying to get cute for Henry. And then I thought,
What the hell
, and I reached in my purse for my compact. As I flipped it open and reapplied my face, Brandon laughed and said, “Well, check you out.” I could care less since he was on mute.

Then the brother from the Nation on my right stood up and said, “Mr. Davis! Senator! My brother! Can I have a minute with you? Can you explain why since 1990, eighty white convicted death row felons have been exonerated! Why the death penalty is just court-sanctioned genocide!” He spoke so loud every head in our section turned to his direction. “Yo! Can I get a minute?”

Henry looked at him with that smile I knew so well and then held up two fingers to indicate that he'd be with him momentarily. Then he glanced at me, or at least I thought he did. As I put my compact away, there was a panic riot in my chest. This man whom I'd fallen asleep thinking about most nights of my life was only four steps away from our level. And then I saw her. I'd seen her on television a couple of times, and while I hated to admit it, Leslie Davis was even more beautiful in person. She appeared to be two or three years older than he, but other than that, she looked like a television reporter dressed in a clearly expensive aubergine pin-striped suit. She called his name with a smile on her face and stepped down two steps so they could speak. Then Henry looked at Leslie's watch as a strawberry-blonde staffer huddled with them. Henry squinted his eyes as he looked in our direction when the Muslim to the right of me stood up again, waving his arms fanatically.

“There you are,” Henry said loudly so the brother would understand in the noisy studio. “I'm sorry . . . but I have to get ready for the taping.”

“See!” the Muslim replied with a smile. “That's how it
always
is for the black man in America! First to die . . . last to be heard!” As the section laughed, the brother sat down and Henry Louis Davis the Second walked down the stairs holding his wife's hand and my heart almost returned to normal. And then he quickly looked over his shoulder back
in my direction, and while our eyes did not meet, I knew he was looking for me.

Phil assumed his position at what looked to be a wooden dinette table, and Henry spoke to even more staffers with index cards before it was obvious he was telling them that he'd heard enough. Then a cosmetician came onstage and started to apply a few more dabs of makeup. As she was finishing, Leslie walked over to Henry, and we all watched as she told her to take off some of the makeup from certain places on his face. Then she looked up at the lighting and assumed the role of Henry Davis's personal lighting director as well. As the light shining directly on top of his head was dimmed, she returned to her seat just moments before the producer gave Phil a countdown.

“Hello, America, and hello, Atlanta!” The large orange portable applause signs beamed, and just as one of the producers had instructed us before the show, we all started to clap wildly. “I'm Phil Donahue and today”—he paused for effect—“we are going to discuss an issue that has been with us as long as we've had taxes. That's the death penalty. As many of you may know, in two weeks Juarez Bechuanas will be put to death in Florida's electric chair. We thank the warden at the Florida State Penitentiary for granting us the opportunity to speak with Mr. Bechuanas live via remote.” At the back of the stage and on several smaller monitors for the audience appeared the light-brown freckled face of a thirty-year-old prisoner who faced death. His eyes were closed. Other than the small tattoo of a dagger in a heart on his neck, and the bright orange prison attire, he looked just like the guy next door. However, he sat uncomfortably in a chair with his fingers laced and hands cuffed in shackles bound to a chain around his waist. After a short pause, he smiled and said, “Thank you, Mr. Donahue, for having me.”

“I should also explain,” Phil added in a deaconlike somber tone, “that Mr. Bechuanas was accosted by several inmates the first year he was incarcerated, and the brutal beating left him blind.” As Phil spoke, Juarez looked upward at a light in front of him and for the first time allowed the audience to see his disfigured eyes.