Any Way the Wind Blows (29 page)

“I’ll stop acting like a little boy when I finish with Bart,” I said.

“I bet you will, because from what I hear prison changes boys into men or into something I know you don’t even want to hear. And jail is where you’re headed if you don’t deal with this fool in a civilized way.”

“So you think it was civilized of him to call my clients, my friends and most importantly my family? What if someone did that to you?”

“They can’t! I tell the truth to the people I love. Life is full of surprises, and they sure don’t need any new ones from me,” Raymond said calmly.

I thought about what Raymond was saying about living a life of truth, when suddenly I was distracted by a rush of memories of a night I had spent with Raymond at the pool of my rented Atlanta town house. It had been more than seven years ago, but I remember the night like it was yesterday.

It had been a humid night, with Anita Baker’s voice filling the air, under a full moon, and stars sprinkling the sky like tiny pins in a black velvet cushion. I was wearing neon-green shorts and a jock to keep my jimmie tight. Raymond, who had not come prepared for a swim or seduction, was wearing his black boxer briefs. I remembered feeling the solidness of his body pressed against mine and the sensual warmth of the water. I thought of the ripples of pleasure my body felt when Raymond practically forced me to kiss him. A kiss I will never forget, because it was the first time I had kissed a man. I hadn’t kissed a man like that since.

“Basil? What are you thinking about? Did you hear what I said?” Raymond asked with concern.

“Yeah, I hear you, but that works for you,” I said.

“And it can work for you.”

“All I know is it makes me realize that there are two kinds of men I don’t know whether to envy or hate,” I said, trying to keep my voice even and not let my anger creep in. I knew Raymond was only trying to help.

“Two kinds?”

“Yeah, men like yourself, who have accepted their fate in life and still found a way to love themselves and find love. And mofos, like most of the men I know, who have never ever spent a second thinking about hittin’ it with another hardhead.”

“I have my days of doubt,” Raymond said; his voice was deep and soothing as a massage.

“And there is one type of mofo I most certainly hate—mofos like that fucked-up Bart. Those type of niggahs needed to be destroyed.”

“Why? Because he’s not ashamed of being gay?” Raymond asked.

“No, because he’s a mutherfuckin’ evil asshole,” I said.

“So you’re determined to get revenge. Sounds like you and that girl you were going to marry were a perfect match.”

“You don’t understand people like Yancey and myself. We had tough childhoods, and it made us tough. We didn’t have a
Father Knows Best
life like you and your brother. Your father would never turn his back on you. He’s too proud of you,” I said.

“And your Pops wouldn’t turn his back on you. He’s just as proud of you. What’s the worst thing he could say or do?”

Silence chased Raymond’s question and a heavy emotional weight covered the room for a few minutes. Finally I said, “He would probably ask me how can I bring this kind of shit into our family. He would tell me I’m not the son he raised. Alone.”

“And he could say what my mother said: ‘You’re my son and I love you no matter what.’ Have you thought about
him saying that? Besides, if he knew what your uncle did, and I believe deep in his heart he knows, he would have to accept you. I mean, why else would he take Bart’s words so seriously?”

“I will never tell him what Mac did to me,” I said firmly.

“Why?”

“Because it would hurt him. I have never brought pain to my father, and I never will. I can still remember his face the first time I scored a touchdown in Pop Warner football. I saw that same face in junior high, high school, college and in the pros. It’s the only look I ever want to see on his face.”

“That’s joy for him, but what about some joy for you? Think of all the pain you’ve gone through. Think how your uncle made you feel nasty about your sexuality. It’s like you’re still trying to purge him from you. I think that’s why you have to sleep with all those women and even the men. Why you’re never able to say ‘I’m gay’ or ‘I’m bisexual.’ And Basil, as sure as I’m sitting here, it won’t get any easier. There will be more Barts and Yanceys,” Raymond said.

“Why can’t there be more Raymonds and Yolandas?” I asked Raymond, reminding him of the woman I loved before Yancey.

“You have to be ready when they show up. And as much as I love you as a friend, I can tell that right now, you’d chase them away if they landed on your doorstep.”

“Why do you say that? Are you saying I’m not good enough to have love in my life?”

“Not when you’re consumed with lust and willing to do any- and everything to protect your secrets.”

“Were you ever in love with me?”

“I take the Fifth.” Raymond smiled.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“Basil, I know you. If we got together, I know that one day I could come home and find you in our bed with either a hot-looking lady or a guy. Being in a relationship with you would mean that I would have to accept your shit, even though it goes against everything I believe about love. Some nights I look at Trent and I ask myself, Who is this man I am in love with? Does he love me? Or does he love who he thinks I am? And when I don’t really know the answer, it makes me sad.”

“What do you do?”

“I keep breathing. I keep believing in love, no matter what the world tells me. I have my own standards for love. I don’t depend on anyone else to love me just because I say I love them. I have to feel it here,” Raymond said as he tapped his chest.

“So what do you think I should do?”

“Move on. Forget about Bart and concentrate on the people who love you. Like your Pops. Reconnect with friends who would love you no matter what. People who will love the whole you. People like me,” Raymond said.

“What if my Pops rejects me?”

“He won’t.”

I thought about the pain in my Pops’ voice when he had asked me if I was a homosexual. I thought how saying yes would have been like driving a stake through his heart. I know that. Raymond could believe in that “love will save the day” shit all he wanted to, but my life wasn’t his. I was getting ready to tell him that when he started to speak again.

“You know, a couple of years ago my Pops had a stroke and we almost lost him. And the only thing I could think about was the last thing I had said to him. Was it something loving or was it something out of anger? Was it the truth or was it a lie? Now, your Pops could outlive the both of us, but that’s not promised. Do you want that lie about your life hanging out there, unprotected from people like Bart? A lie that can be used to make you act in hate and not love? Let it go, Basil. Let it go!”

I suddenly felt the full weight of my sadness, all the years of never feeling anyone could love me if they knew everything about me. They could never love the whole me. How could I ever release those feelings? I looked at Raymond and the loving concern in his eyes. I felt tears come, and it startled me. I had not cried since I was a little boy. I didn’t cry at happy times in my life, like winning big football games, and I would never cry if we lost. Tears were a sign of weakness, I had always thought. I tried to blink back the tears with every fiber within me. I couldn’t let Raymond see me cry, and so I looked down for a few moments at the towel I was wearing. Then I heard Raymond repeat himself: “Let it go. True love can only begin with truth.”

And the tears I had tried to stop turned into uncontrollable sobs and Raymond moved quickly to embrace my naked shoulders. I couldn’t look at him, but I let him hold me as sobs racked my body like an earthquake. These tears felt cleansing, and I felt so intimate with Raymond, so secure in his strong, solid arms, and I wondered if this was what it felt like to make love with someone you knew loved you.

A
fter almost two weeks in South Beach I had learned-one thing. Today, yesterday and tomorrow had a couple of things in common: torrential rain and brilliant sunshine. And both were driving me nuts.

I did like a couple of things about South Beach. Like New York City, it was a city that never slept. I loved the calmness of the beach early in the morning and late at night. I had spent a great deal of time thinking over the last several days. Opening up to Yancey had brought back so many memories I thought I’d tucked safely away. I wondered about my parents and what kind of people they were. Were they sorry for what they’d done? Leaving me and my sister in the arms of a system that didn’t have time to care? Or was I just a wild plant from a family that only produced bad seeds? Why hadn’t my parents gone on welfare instead of robbing a bank and committing murder? Was I, their son, capable of killing another human being? There were so many times when I felt pure hatred for the men I fell for, as well as the women who welcomed them back into their beds.

I wondered if my sister, Amanda, had grown up in a family of people who loved her, and if she now had love in her life. Maybe she was some big superstar who had changed her name to Nia, Aaliyah or Brandy. Had her new mother educated her about the ways of the world so she didn’t fall in love with men like Brandon and Basil?

I thought about the woman who had been like a mother to me and wondered if she was still alive and if she could ever forgive me. Her name was Hattie Kaufman, and I had spent five years with her, from age thirteen until I left for Morris Brown. Hattie was a wonderful lady with a big heart. She had over nine foster children, and even though I didn’t like any of them, Hattie made me feel like I was an only child. Back then I rejected her love because she was white and Jewish and I felt there was no way Hattie could love me like a real mother. Now I thought I had been wrong. It was Hattie who had encouraged me to attend a black college because she wanted me to know my community. Our neighborhood and most of her foster children were white or Mexican, which to me, at that time, were one and the same. Maybe Hattie treated me special because in a house where I was the darkest thing there, I was special.

So when I got to Atlanta and Morris Brown, I fell in love with black people. I soaked up every drop of being black, and in my new world, there was no room for white women with hearts of gold.

Seeing all these old Jewish ladies take their daily walks along Lincoln Road and around South Beach made me think of Hattie, and I hoped that wherever she was, she realized I hadn’t known how to love her.

I still hadn’t landed a job, although I had a second interview scheduled at the David Barton gym in the Delano Hotel. Being a trainer would allow me the flexibility to wait tables and do a little modeling on the side. If I was lucky I could support myself and start saving to replace the money I owed my bank.

Most of my days had been lonely. A lot of gay men down here don’t speak English, or they don’t speak to black men, or else they suffer from the “too cute to speak” syndrome. I had spent the night before at a gay nightclub filled with synthesized R & B music, flashing lights and a lot of men looking for one night only. Love here in South Beach seemed the same as in New York: a guilty pleasure based on physical attraction.

But this was the bed I had made for myself, so I was determined to make it work. I still had to get some of my possessions from my Harlem apartment without the risk of being caught in case the police were looking for me, and so once again I needed Wylie’s help. I hadn’t called him and told him I was moving, but I had to now so he could ship me my clothes.

I booked a room at a hotel called the Betsy Ross. It’s a boutique hotel that looks like the big house on a southern plantation. It was an okay hotel—definitely not the Delano, where I had been staying with Yancey B and her crew—but for now it would have to do.

I picked up the phone and punched in the numbers from my phone card. It was early evening, and I was hoping I would get Wylie and not his answering machine.

After a few rings, I got my first break in a couple of days.
Wylie answered the phone, and I suddenly missed New York terribly.

“Wylie, this is Bart. How ya doing?”

“Where have you been? Do you know your answering machine is full and your cell phone is off? Where are you?”

“I’m in South Beach.”

“Are you still shooting that video?”

“We finished a couple of days ago.”

“Don’t tell me you met another confused man?”

“No, not yet. But I’m not going to let that stop me from moving down here,” I said, laughing. It was the first time I had cracked a smile in days.

“What? You can’t move down there. What am I going to do? I need you,” Wylie said.

“Oh, you’ll be fine. I need a change. It’s all for the best,” I said. I wrestled with the thought of telling him what I had done to Basil and what Ava had done to me, but I didn’t want to hear his “do right and good things happen” speech.

“Bart, you can’t do that. I’ve been calling you every hour on the hour. I have a problem,” Wylie said. I noticed his voice was unusually loud and trembling.

“Wylie, what’s the matter?”

“I don’t want to talk about this on the phone. When can you get back to New York?”

“I can’t do that,” I said firmly.

“I need you, Bart. For once in your life, stop thinking about yourself. How many times have I been there for you?”

“Then tell me what’s going on. You expect me to just change my plans for you because you say so?”

“You know me, I wouldn’t ask you if it wasn’t important.
I need to talk to someone, and you’re the only one I can turn to.”

“Tell me what’s going on.”

There was a long moment of silence, and then Wylie said, “I think something’s wrong with …” with hesitation in his voice, and then he was just silent.

“Wylie, are you still there?”

“Yes. Bart, please come home. I think I have HIV,” Wylie said.

I didn’t know how to respond, and my stomach began bouncing like a trampoline. I could hear Wylie crying softly on the other end of the line. He sounded like a little boy crying because he’d suddenly been separated from his parents in a huge mall or park. I didn’t know what to do or say, so I whispered, “I’ll have to call you back.”