Mama Dearest (10 page)

“Can I help you?” a squeaky-voiced woman said from behind a high counter on the other side of the room.

“I have an appointment with a William Lomax at ten
A.M
.”

The overly made-up middle-aged woman chewed a wad of gum like a cow munching on cud, occasionally popping it between her teeth, much to Ava’s disgust. “Let me see, let me see,” she said, dragging an index fingernail that was painted bright red down an appointment list. “You Ava Middlebrooks?”

“That would be me,” Ava replied, suppressing her impatience.

“And you said you’re here to see Mr. Lomax?” the woman asked,
looking up at Ava with a crooked smile, her two front teeth smeared with lipstick.

“Yes, that’s exactly what I said,” Ava said, becoming annoyed.

“Okay, that’s what I thought you said. Have a seat over there,” the woman said, gesturing toward the sofa. “And I’ll let Mr. Lomax know you’re here.”

Ava glanced at the soiled sofa and said, “Thank you, but I’d rather stand.”

“Suit yourself, but he might not be ready for you right away.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

Ten minutes later, Ava heard a man yell from down a hallway to the side of the receptionist’s counter. “Send my next parolee in.”

The receptionist giggled and said, “You can go in now. Right down there, last office on the right.”

Ava started down yet another hallway, a thin, dirty, worn carpet that exposed the hardwood underneath. A bare bulb hung overhead, and chipped paint flaked from the walls around her, making her ask herself, wasn’t there a nicer office they could’ve sent her to, maybe in midtown Manhattan?

Ava approached the last office on the right. The door was open, and she stepped into the small room. A large, round man sat at a desk, his back turned to Ava, as he searched through a file cabinet.

“Have a seat, Middlebrooks,” Mr. Lomax said, without turning around to address her properly. Ava continued standing until he pulled a file from the drawer, slammed it closed, then swiveled around to face her.

“I said have a seat,” Mr. Lomax said.

“The name is Mrs. Ava Middlebrooks. And
please
?” Ava suggested coolly.

“What?”

“I would appreciate you calling me by my given name and asking politely.”

Mr. Lomax is a fat man. His skin is the color of an eggshell, and his body is shaped like one. His head is bald on the top, and long strands of hair grow out from the side of it. In Ava’s opinion, he is dirty and unshaven, and it looks like he still has food crumbs on his mouth from the breakfast he must’ve eaten not long ago. He’s wearing a brown tweed jacket that appears too tight for him over an open-collar shirt that exposes a white V-neck undershirt. A man like this has no business talking to someone like her the way he had.

Mr. Lomax looks Ava over a moment and then starts to laugh. It sounds more like a series of coughs. “Did the warden call you Mrs. Ava Middlebrooks in prison?”

“Excuse me,” Ava says.

“Did they say please in prison?”

“No, but this isn’t prison,” Ava says, looking around his mess of an office.

“Then I ain’t calling you Mrs. or saying please now. Get it straight, Ava. You’re an ex-con, and I’m a parole officer. My job is to tell you what to do to keep you from going back inside, and make sure you do it.” He looks Ava up and down again, taking in the expensive jewelry, her clothes and her bag. She looks like she is going to a Junior League meeting. He probably has no clue what it is all worth, but she is sure he isn’t fool enough to think it was cheap.

Mr. Lomax leans forward on his desk. “See, let me explain something. I’m not your personal assistant, your therapist, and I’m definitely not one of your suitors. So if you’re looking for compassion, or understanding, or a shoulder to cry on, you’re definitely talking to the wrong man. But since you have no choice but to be here, you need to do exactly what I say. Now let me repeat myself, which, for further reference, I don’t enjoy. Have a seat, Middlebrooks.”

Angrily, Ava took a seat, placed her purse in her lap, folded her hands on top of it and watched as William Lomax typed a few key-strokes on the computer in front of him. After a few minutes he
looked at Ava and said, “So, the obvious things you can’t do, unless you want to trade in those fancy clothes you’re wearing for another prison uniform, go as follows: You can’t do drugs. You can’t associate with any other known felons. No stealing, no firearms, or committing any other crimes.”

“Who do you think I am?” Ava gasped, offended. “Some common street criminal?”

“You might not be common, and you might not be street, but you are definitely a criminal. I’m sure Raymond Tyler, the man you shot, would concur,” Mr. Lomax said with a straight face. “And that brings up our next issue. You got an address, a place to stay?”

“For the record, the shooting was a simple accident and yes, I’m living at my daughter’s town house on the Upper East Side. She’s a big Broadway star, you know.”

Mr. Lomax pushed a notepad to the front of his desk, set a pencil on top of it. “I’m sure she’s a
big
star. Write down her address and a number where you can always be reached. You know you’re going to have to remain at that residence for at least six months.”

“What?” Ava said, surprised. “I don’t plan on staying there that long. It’s just temporary.”

“Yeah. If you consider six months temporary, or have you forgotten that this is a condition of your parole and early release?”

“Why do I have to stay there? What if I find housing of my own, like back in California?”

Mr. Lomax took off his glasses in a no-nonsense manner. “Look, these are the rules, Middlebrooks,” Mr. Lomax said. “This isn’t hard. You do what you’re supposed to do, keep your nose clean, and you won’t violate your parole and I won’t have to send you back to prison. Understood?”

Seething through clenched teeth, Ava said, “Understood, Lomax.”

His face remained entirely bland. “You also need to get a job and I’ll need the name of your supervisor.”

“A job? Tell me you’re kidding. Ava doesn’t work.”

“Well, if Middlebrooks wants to stay out of prison, Ava will work. Tell her that if you talk to her soon. Will you?”

“You think this is funny, don’t you?”

“No, funny is the Soul Circus. I take my job very seriously. Now, unless you have any more questions, I need to get ready for my next appointment. I’ll see you in two weeks. Have a good day, Middle-brooks.”

Ava gave Mr. Lomax her best raised eyebrow, got up and stomped out of the office, mad as she had been the day the judge sentenced her to prison.

An hour and a half later, standing in front of a corner pawnshop in lower Manhattan, Ava is still incensed by the grimy fat man who is her parole officer. On the subway ride home, she realizes that the fare she paid was just about all the money she has left. Although Yancey hadn’t said so, Ava had determined she didn’t have much money either. Ava desperately needs money.

As she stepped through the pawnshop door, a bell rang, announcing her entrance. She had never been in one of these places before, but this one looked straight out of
Law & Order
. Ava had become hooked on that show while in prison, hoping for clues on how she might get out early.

The shop is long and narrow, with a floor-to-ceiling gate to her left. Behind the gate is all the merchandise—boom-box stereos, flat-screen televisions, small kitchen appliances and lots of jewelry, mostly watches.

A square is cut out of the gate; a wood counter protrudes from the opening. A brown-skinned man with straight black hair, a beard, and an East Indian accent asks, “Can I help you, ma’am?”

Ava stood with her back against the wall behind her, almost afraid to approach. This is nothing that she wants to do, but after considering all her options for making money, fast money, this is the only one
available. She steps up to the counter cautiously and says, “I need to pawn something.”

“Okay. What do you have?”

Ava had thought about this on the subway ride back. She is wearing four pieces of jewelry. She was especially proud of the watch, a gift from her former husband, so she simply would not sell that. The ring is too beautiful to ever part with; it was off limits. The thin gold eighteen-inch necklace, with the tiny gold cross charm around the neck, she has had since forever. Besides, she knew it probably wouldn’t fetch any real money. “This bracelet,” Ava said, unclasping it, pulling it from her wrist and handing it to the man.

“Real?” he asked, examining the jewels.

Insulted, Ava almost snatches it back from him, but she needs the money so badly she controls her temper. “Of course,” she says politely.

He studies it closely.

“I paid over five thousand dollars for it some time ago. I expect it would be worth at least—”

“Nine hundred dollars,” the pawnbroker said, interrupting her in midsentence.

She flashes him an incredulous look. “Are you crazy? What kind of scam joint is this?” Ava said, no longer able to control her outrage. “Did you hear what I just told you? I paid over five thousand dollars for this.”

“Then take it back to them,” the man said, holding the bracelet out to her.

Ava forces herself to calm down again. “Please,” she said. She hates herself for behaving like this. Having been forced into this situation. This is worse than sitting with her mother in the welfare office as a child begging for more food stamps and government cheese. Lower than helping her mother clean wealthy white folks’ homes in Jackson, Tennessee.

“Look, I’ve run into some hard times. This economy is kicking my ass. I have no money. Can you give me a little more?”

The broker looks down at the bracelet again, then back at her.

“Please,” Ava says again, looking for something that resembled sympathy in his flat eyes.

“One thousand, then. That’s my final offer. Take it or leave it.”

Ava is getting one-fifth the value of her bracelet that today is surely worth more than she paid for it ten years ago, but considering she is flat broke and has no immediate means of changing that, she sighs deeply, then says, “Give me the money.”

I got home around eight o’ clock after a very productive day of meeting with potential investors for my reality show. S. Marcus said that I should meet with them before he arrived in New York because it would speed things up. One of the men, Ron Preston, told me he liked the idea for the show but felt I needed a hook to make it successful. When I asked what he meant, he simply said, “Something exciting happening in your life in addition to your show business comeback.”

I didn’t know what that was but figured the producers and show runners would come up with something even if we had to make it up or, as the industry calls it, pollute reality.

I went into the living room to find Ava in burgundy silk pajamas carrying a tray with food and drink. Her hair was tied up in what looks like my Louis Vuitton silk scarf.

“Just in time,” Ava said in a very cheerful voice. The evening before my mother had been clearly depressed about her first meeting with her parole officer. I guess the meeting had gone better than she had anticipated.

“For what?” I ask, prepared for her to tell me anything.

Nodding to the tray, she said, “For caviar, crackers, imported cheese, some dried fruit and Veuve Clicquot.”

“What are we celebrating? And I thought you said you didn’t have any money. Did one of your ex-husbands have a change of heart about loaning you cash?”

Ava set the tray on the coffee table and announced loftily, “There is always money for caviar and champagne, and fuck my exes and their new wives too.” She picked up the remote control and flashed on the television. After flipping through several channels, Ava stopped on a show that really gets on my last nerves.
American Star,
a reality show that has become the launching pad for non-talent teens aged fourteen to twenty. How dare they leave out talented people like me?

“What’s this?” Ava asked as several teenage girls and boys, black and white, pranced on the television show that reminds me of a Disney stage show and America’s Junior Miss pageant rolled into one—and I don’t mean this in a good way.

“American Star
. Please change that,” I said as I plopped down on the sofa and went straight for the caviar on toast points.

“This looks interesting. I heard about this show, but I was never able to watch in prison because all the bull dagger inmates want to watch
Survivor
and shit like that. Let’s watch it, Yancey. If it’s not good, I will change it,” Ava said.

“Okay,” I said, not knowing if she really wanted to watch it or was looking for a chance to get another dig at me. “But I’m telling you, this is going to be painful.”

“I’m sure it will be fine. Can I pour you some champagne, my dear?”

That “my dear” sounded no more real than the first one she used the night I found her in my living room. But I was in no mood for a fight, so I let it pass.

“Just a little,” I said. “How did your meeting go with your probation officer?”

“Oh, let’s not talk about that, love. I want to end the day on a good note. How was your meeting?”

“It went okay.”

“What are you meeting about? Shouldn’t you be trying to get an agent and some auditions?”

“I’m talking with people about getting my own reality show,” I said, pleased to be able to impress her.

“Oh, that would be great!” she exulted. “Us having our own reality show. I’m going to be even more famous.”

“Us?” I said, shooting her an “are you crazy” look. “Ava, nothing is certain yet and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let you upstage me. Are we clear on this?”

“Yes, my dear. I can understand why you’d be afraid the television cameras would fall in love with me.” She shook her head. “Honestly, Yancey, I thought when you got older, you’d get over the jealousy you hold for me.”

I played that off, light as air. “Ava, darling, I’m not jealous of
you
. Trust me on
that
.”

Disappointed I hadn’t played along with her game, she changed her tune. “Whatever you say. You need to get that show so you can hire me. I have to get a job soon.”