Yvette sat in the booth, spinning a napkin on the table with her fingers. She should have never agreed to meet him. Yes, Cory had helped her out financially after Isaiah got sent away. But that's exactly what it was—the past. If there was one thing Yvette hated it was the past.
She did have it
all, once upon a time: A loving husband, or so she thought, respect as an
activist for the African American community, and no money worries. Now she
worked at the Piggly fucking Wiggly after being turned down for every job she
had applied for. Was it her color? More than likely it was her past. Until she
could get a job worthy of her talents she wanted to keep a low profile and had
hoped the graveyard shift at the supermarket would preserve her minimum wage
anonymity. What respectable person would do their shopping in the middle of the
night?
Then she got
unwanted recognition when she was named Piggly Wiggly Pioneer for the month of
May for crying out loud. Now her picture was posted on the wall for all to see
her in that stupid uniform with a pig carrying out a sack of groceries
plastered on her uniform. Talk about a fall from grace. Once an iron maiden,
and now she was selling bacon at a twenty-four hour supermarket. Good Godfrey.
She hoped by
July her stupid "Pig Woman" title would be forgotten. Maybe she
should have put the pioneer thing on her résumé, and then Bill 'Butthead'
Montgomery would have hired her. But she wouldn't have wanted to work with that
type of person anyway. She needed respect and dignity. So why the hell was she
waiting for Cory Logan? He was her past. She needed to move on.
She slid toward
the edge of the booth to make a hasty exit when Cory walked in. His broad
shoulders reminded her that he'd made his money in a barbaric manner. In fact,
he'd made millions of dollars beating the crap out of other people. Mostly
black people. He'd said it himself. Boxers tend to be black, and as a white
man, he was a minority in the sport. Another confirmation of her stupidity for
agreeing to meet him. But she owed him civility if nothing else. She glided
back into her seat.
He slid into the
booth opposite her. "May I say how radiant you look, Mrs. Hightower?"
"Cut the
crap, Logan." She tugged at her work blouse. "I've just worked an
eight-hour shift and I'm sitting here in a pigging polyester jumpsuit. And
unsurprisingly, I've reverted to my maiden name. It's Miss Tyson now."
"Riiight …
I should have guessed. Sorry. I'll stick to Yvette. Cool?"
His understanding
planted dimples in her cheeks as she smiled. "Cool. So what's up Mr.
Millionaire?"
"Not much
new."
The waitress
came around and filled up their coffee mugs.
She brightened
her tone. "I recently applied for a job with the city council. The
position was in marketing and I could've used my skills to raise funds for a
sanitation project they have going, but … well, I didn't get it."
"That's too
bad. I could use an ally in City Hall."
"Why? What
do you have going on?"
"At the
moment, nothing. The mayor is blocking a facility I want to build. Contrary to
popular belief, the mayor's a dick."
Yvette laughed.
"Oh, I believe you. His city manager is an idiot as well. He suggested I
take up playing golf with Mayor Dick if I want any kind of job with the
city."
Cory smiled.
"Do you play golf?"
"Ha. Not
hardly. Isaiah took me to play mini-golf once. There was a six-shot limit per
hole. We played eighteen holes, and I scored a one-hundred-and-eight. That's
eighteen times six, in case you're slow with math."
They shared a
laugh.
"So you
have to get a job the old-fashioned way, eh?" Cory submitted. "Use
your brain and charm."
"I did
that."
"So why
didn't you get the job?"
"Do you
think calling a group of people 'you people' is racist?"
Cory pressed
himself back in the seat. "Are you serious? They called you 'you people?'
Of course it's racist. That's outrageous. You should sue them."
"No,
actually … I called them 'you people.'"
"Oh."
His clumsy attempt to conceal his grin failed.
"I simply
called a bunch of incompetent male politicians 'you people.' Not because they
were white, they just happen to be white. I was merely calling attention to the
fact that they're inept."
"As I
recall, you classed me as 'you people' once."
She cocked her
head to one side. "Did I? You might be white and incompetent, but you're
not a politician." She smirked. "Not yet, anyway." She rested
her arms on the table. "Aren't retired athletes supposed to go into public
service to validate themselves as human beings?"
"What? Like
Butch Kimber? No—thank—you."
Yvette's face
lit up. "Yes! Do it, Cory. Why don't you run for mayor? Then you can get
me a job with the council. You're rich, you're white, and you're a Hilton Head
native — a famous one at that — even if for losing."
He smacked his
palm on the table. "Goddammit! Am I the only person on the planet who ever
lost at something? Is that really how I'm going to be remembered?"
Yvette shuddered
back in her chair. "Sorry, I didn't know it was a sore spot."
"Of course
it's a sore spot. Do you think that's what I want on my headstone? 'Cory Logan.
Professional boxer. Win/Loss record 27-6—but two of those losses were for the
world title.' I need a legacy!"
Yvette gave him
a sympathetic glint of hopefulness. "You're young. If you don't want to be
mayor, there are other avenues you could pursue to secure your legacy. Pump out
a couple of kids. You still have time."
There was fire
in Cory's eyes reminiscent of his fighting days as he stared her down. He
reached across the table and took Yvette's hands in his. "That's not gonna
happen. Besides, I like my life how it is. I'm thirty-six years old and not
looking for change. I'm wealthy but I don't have anyone to leave my money to,
so I want to build a sports arena for youngsters: The Cory Logan Sports Training
Facility. That should be my legacy—except Butch Kimber insists my arena should
be named after a modern-day Martin Luther Fucking King!" He slammed his
fist on the table.
Yvette jumped
back. Did he just blaspheme Dr. King? Maybe, but he was a friend, of sorts.
Rather than a lecture, he needed compassion. She donned her comfort hat.
She patted his
hand. "Don't worry, I don't think a garbage truck logo designer would have
made any inroads on the streets of influence where the mayor is concerned
anyway. But if I was on the council, I'd let you have your arena—even if you do
name it after a white guy." She snickered to remove any potential
sarcasm—or racism.
Cory engaged
Yvette's big round brown eyes. "You know, Yvette, if you really want to
get revenge on the council for shortchanging you on that interview, you should
run for mayor."
"What?"
she screeched. "I don't want to be mayor. I mean, I don't know anything
about being a mayor. I couldn't possibly be mayor."
"Of course
you could."
"No, I
couldn't. Don't you have to know about budgets? And quotas? And—"
"You'd have
administrators for that stuff. Think of the issues you could address. The
wrongs you could right from the inside. You could investigate police brutality,
or address equal employment issues, or women's rights. If you don't like
something, you could change it."
"Now you're
being ridiculous."
"No, I'm
being serious. You could do a lot to help the black community of Hilton
Head—"
"Ha! All
ten of us."
"Okay,
think about your female constituents. You could help them."
Yvette's eyes
darted around the coffee shop. She didn't want to look at him, but she couldn't
deny that the idea was appealing.
She wondered
what she would do after Isaiah got locked up. She needed a purpose to live, but
selling groceries and cheap vodka at the Piggly fucking Wiggly wasn't
satisfying her thirst for importance. She could get her self-respect back. She
could add dignity to her résumé. She could … never win …. What a stupid idea.
He slid forward.
He looked anxious to say something, then retreated, sliding back in the booth.
"You know, I think Mayor Kimber doubts his ability to get my sports center
passed by the council. He doesn't have the power of persuasion like you
do."
Yvette cocked
her head. "How's that?"
"It's easy
to name something after a hero: George Washington. Thomas Jefferson. Martin
Luther King … Me? I'm just an ordinary guy who made a good living out of a
sport I enjoyed. Just like golfers or tennis players who never won a major. Did
you know the golfer Rickie Fowler has won over forty million dollars but has
never won a major?"
"Is he
black?"
"No."
"Then don't
name the sports facility after him."
"What I'm
saying," Cory continued, "is there are a lot of great athletes out
there worthy of recognition who don't have the highest accolade attainable, but
people like Butch Kimber are too arrogant to recognize the also-rans unless
they're a minority. Then he feels he owes them something because they're not
good enough to earn it on their own merit."
"He said
that?"
"As good
as. He wants to give African Americans a free ride because his uncle was a
slave owner. He's treating blacks as second-class citizens."
"Eww,"
she growled. "If I was mayor—"
"If you
were mayor …" Cory interrupted, "no one could question your judgment
or integrity."
"Yeah, but
you have to have a lot of money to run for mayor."
"Not as
much as you may think, and we both know you're a terrific fundraiser. Besides,
I'll help fund your campaign."
"Boy."
She shook her head. "Those years in the ring really rattled your brain.
Why me?"
"You're
more than a Piggly Wiggly employee. You're better than that. Mayor Tyson. How
does that sound?"
"I don't
know …"
"You'd also
get to fire people." Cory grinned.
"I am not a
petty person, Logan. I wouldn't take a job solely to fire some bigoted old
man."
Cory shrugged.
"Fair enough. Fire him and name my building the Cory Logan Sports Training
Facility. There's two reasons. Now it's not so petty, is it?"
"Are you
using me just so you can get your sports center?"
"I wouldn't
say 'using' or 'just.' I trust your judgment. I think you'd be a great mayor,
and if you decided that a sports center would benefit the youngsters of the
island, and that the person who funded the project deserves to have his name on
it, so be it. But that would be your call. I'm thinking more about your
legacy."
"Cute. The
childless black divorcee needs to cement her existence on this planet by
becoming a political pawn for your gymnasium." Yvette was very good with
her eyes and gave him a stare that made him noticeably uncomfortable.
Cory shifted in
his seat. "Forget about me. You could be the first black mayor of Hilton
Head … I think."
"Are you
sure about that?"
"I haven't
fact-checked it, but off the top of my head I don't remember any black mayors
of the island."
Yvette leaned
in, whispering. "I hate to tell you this, but half the council thinks I'm
a racist, and it's already going around town. It's hard enough being a black
woman, but a black racist? I've got no chance of winning."
Cory shook his
head. "No, I can see it. Yvette Tyson, the first African American to reign
over South Carolina's jewel city. You would have influence on any issue you
cared to address. You'd be respected, in your own right—not as a wife."
"But why
would people vote for me? I mean …" Yvette had trouble digesting that she
could be a woman of power. She had always supported her husband but was never
the focal point herself. She had been a great first lady and a
behind-the-scenes force to be reckoned with, but she had never taken center
stage. Could she do it? "I don't know, Cory …"
He reached over
and clutched her hand. "I'll be there for you every step of the way. I'll
back you one-hundred percent, and hold your hand when you need it."
She jerked her
hand away. "Do you really think I could get elected?"
"I know you
could. I'll be your campaign manager."
"But I'm
not—"
He cut her off,
pushing himself closer. "Okay, try this. The actor, Daniel Day-Lewis, was
a method actor. When he played the part of Abraham Lincoln, he pretended to be
Honest Abe on and off the screen the entire time while he filmed the movie. You
can be a method mayor. Start acting as if, from this day forward, and by the
time you're elected you'll already be in that mindset." He backed off,
giving her space. "And if you don't like how it feels, you don't have to
see it through. Simple as that."
They sat quietly
as Yvette did some soul-searching. She'd never even dreamt anything like that
could ever happen. She thought about running for the school board once, but her
husband wouldn't let her, insisting she wasn't smart enough. But now she had
someone who believed in her. She could be the boss of an entire community. A
woman of respect and power. A Michele Obama running a town. She could shape the
future of the island, making it an even better place to live and work. And she
could fire that butthead Bill Montgomery.
"Yes, I'm
in!" she shouted.
Cory reached
over and took her hand. "You're gonna do it!"
She looked at
his hand clutching hers. "We wouldn't really have to hold hands in public
or anything, would we?"
Cory's heart
warmed. "Only if your numbers slip in the polls."
Yvette enjoyed
the ride to church. What she relished even more than the passing green scenery
were the sly glances Isaiah threw her way "checking her out." He had
complimented her over breakfast on how nice she looked in her brown and white
dress. The brown was the same color as her skin making it look as if she simply
wore white strips covering her modesty. The look excited her—and obviously
Isaiah too. A million bucks, he compared her to. She was pleased she could
still wear horizontal stripes without looking fat. Not all women could do that
at forty-one. She was anxious to get to the church and tell Gloria Huntington
she still had what it took to get her husband to acknowledge her as desirable.
And while in church she'd pray that the good Reverend would keep his sermon
short—assure the righteous of their passage to heaven, damn the sinners to
hell, and get the heck out of there so she could get back home and screw the
principal's brains out.
They pulled into
the parking lot where Isaiah parked in one of the six spaces reserved for
deacons. Yvette waited for Isaiah as he walked around and opened the door for
her. He didn't do it all the time, but church was one place where he always
opened the door for her—Sundays and special occasions—that was their
arrangement.
Yvette got out
of the car, gave Isaiah a smile and a pat on the cheek, and then headed for the
church. She bounded up the stairs to the white wooden chapel in three-inch
heels in search of her friend, leaving Isaiah behind to shake hands with other
parishioners.
Gloria
Huntington stood at the entrance of the Hilton Head Evangelical Free Church
waving a Japanese paper fan in true Southern Belle style—with short, rapid
strokes—each stroke barely covering a two-inch span from start to finish.
Despite her fanning vigor, the South Carolina humidity threatened to penetrate
her makeup base. That would be unacceptable. God and Maybelline would have a
lot to answer for if her superior good looks melted on the steps of the house
of the Lord.
They first met
when Gloria was fighting to clear her husband's name of murder charges, crimes
she insisted he didn't commit. Isaiah donned his shining armor and raised the
profile of the case. He loved bringing national attention to injustices against
people of color. Yvette and Gloria became friends and both were delighted when
the Hightower's moved to Hilton Head, making it an even closer friendship.
Following
Gloria's lead, the two women air-kissed, leaving Gloria's makeup intact. Yvette
admired her spirit to use such a rich red lipstick to compliment her
light-brown skin. Large red and gold earrings dangled prominently over her
shoulders ensuring she would be seen as a woman of daring—and style.
"Darling,"
Gloria purred. "How delightful to see you. I must say, you look
adorable."
Yvette stood
back, opening her arms and smiling—showing white teeth worthy of a TV
commercial. "He noticed," she boasted.
"Darling,"
Gloria eyed her up and down, "Stevie Wonder would notice you in
that."
Yvette slid her
hands over her hips. "I do work hard to make him proud."
"And you
succeed. The man appreciates his wife. How wonderful is that?"
Even through her
dark skin, Yvette blushed. "You're too kind."
"Not kind,
observant. After all, you married a significant cog in the education of our
children, a champion of the African American community, and a deacon of this
very church. You have every reason to be proud of him. And isn't he up for the
Citizen of the South?"
"Yes, I
nominated him for the COTS award and had the Chief of Police in Savannah second
it. Isaiah is the most wonderful man I've ever known—and so driven."
"Yes, and,
girl, I bet he's driven you to some places most of us can't even imagine."
Yvette
play-smacked Gloria on the arm. "Stop it. You're so naughty." She
stepped closer and whispered. "And yes he has. He's driven me to some
places even God doesn't know about."
The women
giggled.
Yvette
straightened her posture. "But when the lights are on, I'm honored to hold
the title as Mrs. Isaiah Hightower."
"Of course
you are."
Isaiah stepped
between the women. "Good morning, Gloria." He attempted to deliver an
affectionate peck to her cheek but she pulled back, protecting her makeup. She
puckered her lips and simply kissed the air in front of her.
"Isaiah,"
she greeted him. "Slain any dragons lately?"
"I can't
say that I've disposed of any mythical creatures recently, no."
Yvette draped
her arm over her husband's shoulder. "But what he has done …"
He held a victorious
beam. "Well, only if you consider the Hilton Head Town Council a
dragon."
"Oh?"
"I've
persuaded them to close the Bare Trap on Madison Street."
Gloria smiled.
"I can understand with a wife as beautiful as yours you have no need for
strip clubs, but why would you invest your valuable time in such an
insignificant crusade?"
"Insignificant?
It's hardly that. We need to protect the children."
It was barely
noticeable through her packed foundation, but Gloria's face creased.
"Isaiah, why are you worried about strip clubs? As immoral as those places
may be, they have checks in place to ensure they are kept as a visual orgy for
adults; whereas all the children of today's world have to do is jump on the
pornographic gateway known as the internet and they can see all the nudity they
want—and heaven knows what other kinds of debauchery."
Isaiah shook his
head. "It's too near the high school. Young girls see the strippers
arriving at work in Corvettes and Mercedes and will give up their education to
make money the easy and uneducated way. No, God has spoken to me. He asked me
to shut down this particular playground of sin, and I answered. The council has
accepted my arguments and the Bare Trap was closed down two days ago." He
thrust both arms in the air. "Halleluiah!"
"And that's
your dragon?"
Isaiah dipped
his head. "No halo required."
"And they
did it on that argument? Your students may become strippers one day?"
"I may have
mentioned that a sophomore student was already a dancer there."
"What? At
sixteen? Was she?"
Isaiah shrugged.
"It's possible—one day … maybe."
Yvette stepped
forward. "And statistically, the ratio of minority dancers to white ones
was grossly out of proportion. The place is not only immoral; it discriminates
against people of color."
Gloria looked at
her friend. "And you researched this, did you?"
Yvette nodded.
"As you mentioned, Isaiah is a busy man. I help where I can when
discrimination is involved. Out of twenty-three performers at the Bare Trap,
twenty-one were white, one African-American, and one Native American—I believe
she dresses up as a squaw."
"I
see." Gloria continued flapping her fan. "And you want to see more
people of color taking their clothes off?"
Yvette
frowned. "No, you're missing the
point—"
Isaiah patted
her hand. "Not to worry, darling. Those Jezebels won't be taking their
clothes off for the underclasses of Hilton Head anymore."
"Thanks to
you," Yvette congratulated him, then turned to Gloria. "He's one of
God's angels."
"No halo
required," Gloria echoed.
Yvette looped
her arm through Isaiah's. "Let's go give God the thanks He deserves and
get the heck out of here. My pom-poms want shaking."
They entered the
church—Isaiah's favorite place on earth.
From working the graveyard shift at a grocery store to Mayer? sounds like a terrific read.
ReplyDeleteFascinating cover
ReplyDeleteWhat inspires your book plots?
ReplyDeleteI'm really curious.
ReplyDeleteinteresting cover
ReplyDelete