Any Way the Wind Blows (16 page)

“What did you say? I think I’m losing you,” I said as I pushed the End button on my phone.

B
asil you need to look at this,” Kendra said as she passed me a large legal-sized piece of paper.

“What is it?” I asked as I took the papers from her hand.

“It’s Daschle’s credit application,” she said, and smiled. I had promised to co-sign a loan for Daschle to get himself a car before the draft. I didn’t like to do this, especially for players who hadn’t been drafted yet, but the big boys did it, so on occasion for special players I would break my rule.

“What’s that smile about?” I asked as I looked over the neatly printed credit application. I knew from Daschle’s limited correspondence that this wasn’t his handwriting.

“Does Daschle have a girlfriend?” Kendra asked. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but Rosa called.”

“Why do you ask, and who filled out this application? This looks like your handwriting,” I said, ignoring her mention of Rosa.

“It is.” Kendra smiled. “He asked me to fill it out for him, and I had a little extra time, so I didn’t mind.”

“You need to let that clown fill out his own applications.
And be careful with him. He’s a baller in training,” I said.

“I’m not up on the latest jock lingo. What’s a baller?” Kendra asked.

“You know, a good-looking dude with a woman in every city. Two or three in the big cities. Got money to spend and don’t mind letting everybody know it,” I said.

“You think that’s how Daschle is going to end up?”

“I know a baller when I see one. I used to be one,” I said, laughing, as Kendra walked out of my office looking slightly disappointed.

I was looking over Daschle’s application and getting ready to have Kendra fax it to my banker, when she walked back into my office and said, “There’s a LaVonya Johnson on line two. She’s with the
Daily Press
and said she has a few questions about the Pro Football Hall of Fame.”

“The Hall of Fame … huh. Didn’t we just go through this? Maybe they’ve recounted the votes and I’m in.” I laughed. “Put her through.”

“You got it,” Kendra said.

“Wait, Kendra. Here, send this over to Keith at my bank. And let this be the last time you fill out a credit application for a client,” I teased. Over the two years Kendra had worked for me we’d developed a big brother/little sister relationship, which I found myself needing more and more since my own sister, Campbell, had moved to Pittsburgh.

“I hear ya talking,” Kendra said as she closed the door to my office. I picked up the phone and pressed the button next to the flashing red light.

“This is Basil Henderson,” I said.

“Mr. Henderson, thanks for taking my call. This is
LaVonya Young from the
Daily Press
. I had a few questions about the Pro Football Hall of Fame induction,” she said.

“Sure, but you know I didn’t get in this year. Next year will be my year,” I said confidently.

“No, I didn’t know that,” she said.

“Are you a sportswriter? I thought I knew most of the female sportswriters in the country.”

“No. Let’s just say I am interested in the entertainment aspect of sports,” LaVonya said.

“Okay. What do you want to know?”

“What do you think your chances are for getting inducted next year?”

“I’m real hopeful. I got the stats. A lot of guys don’t get in the first year they’re on the ballot. It’s just an honor to be nominated my first year out. I was personally pulling for Lynn Swann. He was long overdue, and I was really psyched that he got in,” I said.

“Lynn Swann? Who’s he?”

“You haven’t heard of Lynn Swann? He’s just one of the greatest receivers, present company included, to ever play the game. Lynn played college ball at USC and pro ball with the Pittsburgh Steelers. He had been nominated for the Pro Football Hall of Fame a number of years in a row, but he never made the cut. This had to be his year,” I said, wondering why I was spending my time talking to a reporter who obviously hadn’t done her homework. Maybe I should keep this call short. She was probably a homely-looking female trying to use her position in the media to sneak up on a little sexing.

“I see. So how well do you know this Lynn Swann? Are you two close?”

“How well do I know him? To be truthful, I really don’t know him, so you can’t call us close. I’ve been introduced and we’ve chatted at a few Super Bowls, but I don’t really know him,” I said. I was trying to figure out how to get out of this conversation without cussing this woman out for wasting my time.

“Have you decided once you’re inducted into the Hall of Fame who would introduce you?” LaVonya asked. Now she was asking some questions that meant something.

“My Pops and college coach,” I said proudly.

“What about your teammates?”

“What about them?”

“Were any of them going to be in your wedding party?”

“My wedding party? What wedding?”

“You are the John Basil Henderson who was going to marry Yancey Braxton, aren’t you?”

“Next question,” I said.

“If you say so. Let me get back to the Hall of Fame. Do you think it would be a sign of progress if a bisexual man were to be inducted into the Hall of Fame?”

“What?”

“What if you’re inducted into the Hall of Fame next year? Wouldn’t it say that the world of professional sports isn’t as homophobic as the media would lead us to believe?”

“Why are you asking me some bullshit like that?” The tone of my voice had switched from polite to that thin edge before I started calling people something nastier than mofo.

“You are bisexual, aren’t you?”

“What? Who is this? Are you the one sending me those annoying e-mails?”

“Just answer the question, Mr. Henderson. I have sources that tell me they’ve been involved in a long-term relationship with you. A very handsome man, I might add.”

“Bitch, this conversation is over,” I said as I slammed down the phone. I was wondering who this crazy dame was, when I thought about Yancey and her song. Had Yancey put this lady up to calling me for free publicity? How else would she know about my connection with Yancey? Maybe I needed to get Yancey on the phone right now and remind her that I still had a recording of her and Ava plotting against me and other information, which neither of them would want to reach the public. If they expected me to continue to chill with the tapes, Yancey needed to keep singing and stop talking to the press about my life.

As I picked up the phone to give Yancey a call, Kendra walked into my office and said, “I’ve got a little problem.”

“What’s the problem?”

“Bart Dunbar is on the line. When I told him you were out, he said he’d hold until you got back. I asked to take a message, and he said it was a very important matter and he wasn’t going to hang up no matter how long you were gone. He sounds serious,” Kendra said.

I shook my head and told Kendra, “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of this. Why don’t you go to lunch.”

“Can I take a little extra time?” Kendra smiled.

“Don’t push it,” I said. After Kendra closed the door, I waited a few moments before I picked up the phone and said, “Bart, I told you to leave me the fuck alone!”

“Basil, I know, but I need to talk to you,” he said.

“I ain’t got time,” I said.

“It’s very important,” he said in an anxious voice.

“What is it?”

“I need to see you in person. Can I come over to your place this evening?”

“No. Anything you need to tell me, do it now. I’ve told you, nothing else is happening between you and me.”

“You might want to consider seeing me as soon as possible. I got a call from some lady asking questions about us,” Bart said.

“Us? There is no ‘us’! What lady are you talking about, and how in the fuck does anyone know ’bout you and me? Ain’t shit going on between us,” I said, suddenly wondering if Bart had anything to do with that bitch ass reporter. He was the
only
person who knew we’d dealt a couple of times, and since both incidents occurred at my house, there really wasn’t any proof anything had gone on. I wondered if he was taping our phone conversation now.

“There is this woman named LaVonya or something, and a friend of mine told me she’s a really powerful columnist. She told me she was doing a story on gay athletes,” Bart said.

“Then that don’t have shit to do with me,” I said. As I was preparing to hang up the phone, I thought that if I was being taped I should cover my ass so I added, “I’m sorry you didn’t get the modeling job, but I wasn’t involved in the process. My office manager and my firm are pleased with the selection.” Now let him use that tape, I thought as I hung up the phone.

I
was enjoying a glass of port, after a grueling day of interviews with
Ebony, Entertainment Weekly
and
Honey
, and it seemed all they wanted to talk about were the lyrics to “Any Way the Wind Blows.” When the music critic from
Honey
asked if the song was based on a personal experience, I looked at her and said, “Darling, do I look like a woman any self-respecting man would leave for a man?” I was relieved when she laughed along with me and moved on to her next question.

The house was quiet, and I missed Windsor. After the wedding, she and Wardell had moved to Columbia, South Carolina, and we had talked a couple of times on the phone. We made plans for me to visit a couple of months after the baby was born if my schedule permitted. I didn’t tell Windsor I was somewhat nervous about being around a newborn.

Things were going okay for me. No more pictures or phone calls from that mystery wacko, and my song moved up the charts to number twenty-three and the album debuted at thirty-one. Motown was putting together final
plans for me to begin touring as soon as they found a suitable big-name male singer I could open up for.

I took the final sip of port and was on my way to the bar to pour another glass when the doorbell rang. I was listening to Erykah Badu’s new album,
Mama’s Gun
, because I wanted to see what the competition was doing, but I put Miss Badu on mute as I went to the door and looked out the peephole.

I saw a man with his back turned toward me, but with one glance I knew who it was. It was my ex-fiancé, John Basil Henderson. My body suddenly knotted up bone by bone. Why was I nervous? Should I open the door? I thought a few minutes, and when the doorbell rang again, I took a quick look at myself in the mirror and cracked open the door, keeping the chain lock on.

“Yancey,” Basil said as he turned and faced me.

“What are you doing here?” I demanded.

“I need to talk to you,” Basil said.

“Yeah, I know you do. But everyone wants to talk to me these days. You’ll have to get in line,” I said, sounding harsher than I felt. I knew he was bound to show up at some point.

“I just took a chance you might have some time,” Basil said in a solemn and defenseless voice.

“I’m really tired. I had a long day,” I said.

“All I need is a few minutes. Are you going to let me in?” Basil asked. There was an awkward silence for a couple of moments, and then I finally said, “Come in, but I’m putting your ass on the clock.”

Basil walked in and began pulling off his cashmere jacket. He was wearing a sweater the color of ripened limes and
draw-string black leather pants that fit his body like they were made for his ass and his alone. Damn, he smelled good, like he’d been lathered in soap and then glazed in a marvelous cologne. I couldn’t help but notice the hard roundness of his biceps testing the strength of the sweater’s fabric, and I wanted to push him out the door before I ripped off his clothing. Basil was the last great sex I had enjoyed, and I missed it badly.

There he was, standing in the foyer of my home with a hopeful smile on his face. A wave of mixed feelings took over my body. First was the powerful memory of our love affair and some of my own tender recollections. There were times I felt like the world was standing still and we were the only two people alive, when Basil would look into my eyes and tell me how much he loved me. Most times I believed him. I thought about how he used to shower me with flowers and beautiful gifts. But mostly I remembered our love-making and how we spent most nights sleeping like two Tiffany spoons. Yeah, Basil loved a beautiful ass; the only problem I had with that was it didn’t seem to matter if it belonged to a girl or a boy. Then I started to remember the morning of our wedding, when his eyes looked so cold and he told me he could never marry someone like me. When I tried to hold him that day, his body felt like a block of ice. Now, just as my life had calmed down, and the wounds of rejection had healed, I’d allowed Basil to walk into my home like he belonged here.

“You look great,” Basil said.

“Of course I look great. Did you expect me to turn into a broke-down stank ho ’cause you can’t decide which side of
the bread you like buttered?” I said while thinking, Give it to him, girl. Let him have it.

“Yancey, I could never look at you that way,” Basil said.

“What’s so important that you need to come over here and talk to me? You didn’t even call first! In case you’ve forgotten, women don’t like pop callers. So what do you want?” I had to get him out of my house fast before he started to ooze his dangerous arsenal of charm and sex appeal.

“This song of yours. Is this your way of getting back at me?”

I laughed out loud, like Rita Hayward in
Gilda
, making the object of her affection feel small.

“So you think I’ve been spending my precious time worrying about getting revenge on you! How dare you! Basil, let’s get one thing straight, if I can use that word with you. When I left New York, I left
you
and all the shit that came with our
alleged
relationship behind,” I said. “And you’d be wise to stick to my version of the story!”

“You know that’s cold, but I feel you. People are talking about your song, and I just wanted to ask you not to use my name when you talk to the press,” Basil said.

“Don’t you worry about that. All the publicity is about my talent and me. My CD. My career. This is not about you. But I will say this. If somebody puts two and two together, I’m not going to lie. Matter of fact, some woman called me asking about you. So I can’t sweep it under the rug, even if I wanted to.” I started to break into singing the Carly Simon hit “You’re So Vain.” But I wasn’t doing free concerts.