I Say a Little Prayer (20 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

M
y
parents left Atlanta happy that they’d come to hear me sing, but they didn’t say much about the service. Mama smiled as we walked back to the car and said, “Well, that sure was something, wasn’t it?” None of us responded; we just smiled at each other. Right before they left, my daddy commented on how well Vincent played the organ. He said, “That young man had the organ sounding like New Orleans jazz. I didn’t know whether to pull out my Bible or a shot of good bourbon.”

After they left, I made a salad out of some of Mom’s leftover fried chicken and enjoyed it with a glass of strawberry lemonade Belinda had made. Just as I got ready to go to bed, the phone rang. Before I picked it up, I wondered how Damien’s sermon had gone and if he and his wife were still in town. I looked at the caller ID and recognized Vincent’s number.

“Hello.”

“Chauncey, this is Vincent.”

“Hey, Vincent, I was thinking about you earlier. My daddy loved the way you played today. You had the old man tapping his feet,” I said.

“Thank you, but you were the star. You sang up in that make-believe church. I was calling to thank you. You really made the service soar,” Vincent said.

“Thanks, Vincent. That’s so nice of you, but you didn’t have to say that.”

“You got a minute for a little gossip?”

“Gossip?”

“Well, I heard the bishop and his wife packed them in over at the service, but we were missed. I heard the choir didn’t have nothing but women and three men, who all sang baritone. They didn’t have enough ushers, and a couple of deacons who normally lead praise service were missing, too, but we know where they were,” Vincent said, and laughed.

“So I guess we made our point,” I said.

“Yes, I think we did.”

“Did you hear anything about Damien—I mean Bishop Upchurch’s sermon?”

“You know, I had a couple spies there. I heard he mentioned something about the controversy but that he wasn’t going to stop because he felt he was doing God’s work and sometimes it meant speaking out on unpopular topics. I understand he was mild compared to his missus.”

“She preached?”

“My source said she had all the sisters shouting and amening. Talked about how unnatural homosexuality is and that gay people were responsible for the last days approaching. She had all the sisters stand and shout, ‘The down low is low down.’”

“Sounds like a mess,” I said.

“A hot mess, if you ask me,” Vincent said.

“Well, I hope they’re good and gone.”

“I’m sure that’s not the last we’ll hear from him. I understand that he’s twenty points ahead in his race, and I bet he plans to use the Senate as a bully pulpit against us.”

“I’m tired of talking about the Upchurches. I wanted to ask you something.”

“Holla.”

“How tough is it being celibate?”

“Not tough at all. It ain’t like I hadn’t had my time in low places doing mess I know I didn’t have no business doing. Put things in my mouth, well, I won’t go there,” Vincent said.

I was glad, because I was thinking he was getting pretty close to the share line.

“But don’t you miss having sex? And feeling another human being next to you?”

“I miss it, but I’m not living like a monk. You can have somebody sleep with you and not do the do. I just try and live my life without drama and in a way God might smile on. If He wants someone in my life He will send him,” Vincent said.

“What if He sends you a woman?” I asked.

Vincent let out a loud scream and said, “Honey, God knows me and He ain’t gonna do something crazy like that. Haven’t you heard? My God is a smart God.”

I felt myself starting to laugh, so I thanked Vincent and said, “Good night.”

A couple of days after the Day of Absence service, I was on my way to fulfilling my dreams. I was headed into the studio to record an eclectic CD, a collection of music that would include not only some R & B cuts but some inspirational ones as well. I was going to do it my way. I hired Big John, one of the top producers in the industry, who had come to the Day of Absence service at the hotel with his gay sister.

I checked my messages before leaving home. The first message was from an organization called AIDS Atlanta thanking me for the donation that had been made in my name by Phillip. He was truly growing and changing. There was one from Pastor Kenneth saying he wanted to talk to me and he also wanted me to sing at a surprise birthday party he was planning for his wife. It was good to hear his voice, and I decided to call him later to tell him I would be honored.

The next message startled me. It was Damien. He sound hurried: “Chauncey, you don’t have to call me back, but there are some people out there trying to ruin my ministry and my campaign. They might try and use you to do it. Please don’t let them. Try and remember the good times we shared.”

I quickly erased his message and smiled to myself as I thought my good times were only beginning.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

I
t
was a lovely late-October evening, the time of year when cool wind held the faint hint of fall and the days slid slowly one into another. I was just entering my building from the parking garage after a four-hour recording session that I thought went really well. I was looking forward to having a drink, taking a warm bath, and listening to the tracks I’d laid down.

I went to the mailroom and found my box filled with bills and advertisements. When I walked into the lobby, I noticed a tall black man with his back toward me looking out of the window. Heading toward the elevator, I suddenly heard Reggie, the doorman, call out my name.

I turned and said, “You called me, Reggie?”

“Yes, Mr. Greer. That gentleman has been waiting for you for a couple of hours.”

“Who?”

“Him,” Reggie said as he pointed to the guy looking out the window.

I walked toward the window, and as I got closer I recognized the profile. He was wearing a camel-brown trench coat, but I knew I had seen him with much less on. It was Griffin.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

Griffin turned around, and his eyes were the size of cookies. He looked like he was on drugs or something.

“Chauncey, I’ve been waiting to talk to you,” Griffin said. His voice was full of urgency and distress.

“What do you want with me?”

“Can we go up to your place to talk?”

“What is this about, Griffin?”

“I think we need to talk in private,” he said.

At first I was hesitant, and I thought about the last time we’d been together and how he’d given me the weird warning that turned out to be about Grayson Upchurch. I wondered if that’s what this visit was about.

“Ten minutes,” I said as I turned and started toward the elevator.

We rode up in silence. No small talk. No eye contact. I just watched the light hit the numbers on each floor as we went up.

A few moments later, I was turning the key to my apartment and could feel Griffin’s breath on the back of my neck as we entered the dark residence.

I hit the light switch and laid my keys and mail on the counter without looking in Griffin’s direction. I took off the lightweight jacket I was wearing and then turned around to face Griffin, whose eyes were still large.

I didn’t offer him a drink or suggest that he take off his coat. I wanted him to have his say and get the fuck out of my apartment.

“So what do you need to talk to me about?”

“Someone is out to get you,” he said softly.

I’d had enough, so I yelled, “Nigga, don’t come here with that shit again. I don’t have time to play games. If you’re talking about Grayson, then don’t worry. Is that who hired you the last time?”

“Sorta.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“You’ve been talking to Damien, haven’t you?”

“Who I talk to is my damn business.” How did he know Damien, and how did he know we’d spoken?

“Chauncey, listen to me. Grayson doesn’t play and she’s on the warpath. She tracks everything Damien does. It’s really out of control now, and I don’t think this time she’s going to just threaten you. If she thinks there’s any way you might talk to the media before the election, she’ll do anything to stop you.”

“I can talk to whoever I want to, and her threats don’t scare me. Now, if that’s what you came to tell me, then you’ve wasted your time. I’ve got work to do,” I said as I moved toward the door.

“Maybe you should talk to the media, and soon. That way if something happens to you the story will be out there.”

“So what are you now, a model slash public relations guru?”

“I know Grayson Upchurch very well.”

“What does she have over you? Why would you be her flunky?”

Griffin paused for a moment and then said something that shocked me. “Grayson is my sister.”

Now my eyes were as big as his.

“What? Did you say Grayson is your sister? What kinda sick shit is this? She sent her brother here to fuck me, then find out information on me?”

“That wasn’t work, and what she has over me is money. She’s the executor of my father’s will and, well, I had some financial problems and some bad investments and a boyfriend who was there during the good times but was gone once I ran out of money. Grayson sent some guy named Charles down here to seduce you, but I guess he wasn’t your type. So she told me she’d help me with my debts if I came and found out if you were still involved with Damien.”

“So if she’s your sister, why are you down here warning me? What about your money?”

“She double-crossed me, and I know Grayson—she wants that Senate seat and she’ll do anything to make sure it happens. I did my part, and the bitch gave me a check that wouldn’t even pay for my dog groomer,” he said.

“You don’t look like you’re doing so badly,” I replied, noticing the yellow plaid Burberry cashmere scarf I’d seen in Saks Fifth Avenue. I knew for a fact it cost over two hundred dollars.

“I do what I do, and even my sister should know better than to fuck me,” he said firmly.

I wanted to say, “I hear you talking,” but I didn’t respond with words. I just looked at him directly in the eyes, searching for a preview of his plan.

“So do you want me to tell you what I think you should do?” Griffin asked.

I remained silent for a few more seconds, and then I said, “I’m listening.”

“There is a producer I know over at CNN with
Larry King Live
. They want to do an interview with you the evening before the election. They would black out your face and distort your voice—all you’d have to do is to say you had an affair with Damien.”

“Now, why would I want to do that?”

“Because I know someone in Denver who’d pay you a pretty penny for that interview.”

“I don’t want that kind of money.”

“You don’t have to take the money, but think how that would force Grayson and her cronies to leave you alone.”

“What do you have to gain from this?”

“A little finder’s fee from the state Democratic Party and payback,” he said with a smile.

“I don’t think so,” I said as I moved toward the door again.

Griffin touched my arm and said, “Then if you don’t do it for me, think about all the people you’d be helping if we made sure Damien was not elected. You know how he feels about men like us. If this comes out, there’s no way the people in Colorado will send him to Washington.”

“So I guess you don’t like Damien,” I said.

“Let’s just say I think he’s a snake in the grass, and if he outlives my sister then it will be him and not me spending my father’s money. Besides, I’m not so certain he’s given up men.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I have my reasons. Starting with Charles. I mean, Grayson could have LoJacks built into Damien’s suits, but he’d still do what he wanted. He’s a man.”

So Damien was still saving souls with the personal touch like he’d done with me. I knew he hadn’t given up dudes. Once you sleep with and make love with another man the way Damien had with me, you never forget it. And no amount of pussy or money can change that. But why did he have to hurt people along the way?

“What do you want me to do?”

“Call this lady,” Griffin said as he handed me a card with the name Lauren Masterson on it. “Just tell her your name and that you’re calling about Bishop Upchurch. She will take it from there.”

I stared at the card and then at Griffin and said, “I’m not sure I’m going to do this.”

“Think about it. Grayson and Damien have to be stopped, and it’s in your power to stop them,” Griffin said firmly.

I continued to stare at the card and tapped it against the palm of my hand. I was so deep in thought that I didn’t see or hear Griffin as he left my house.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

A
fter
a meal of rib-eye steaks, fries, and salad, Skylar slouched in the big leather chair right off the dining room and sighed. “I feel like a fat woman who just closed down an all-you-can-eat buffet,” he said.

“You did eat a lot for you. You getting a head start on your winter weight gain?” I asked.

“I don’t gain weight,” Skylar snapped.

I put the last of the plates in the dishwasher and stretched my arms toward the sky. I’d worked out before Skylar came over for dinner and my muscles were stiff and cold. I’d put off my workouts in recent weeks and now I was paying for it.

I wanted a drink, but instead I got a bottle of water from the fridge as the phone rang.

“Hello.”

“
Please hold on for a message from the Republican Party,”
an automated voice announced.

“I don’t think so,” I said as I hung up the phone.

“You got any red wine?” Skylar asked.

“Check the bar. The maid and butler are gone for today,” I said.

“Who was that?”

“Who?”

“On the phone.”

“Somebody from the Republican Party with a message begging for my vote. Do you know where you vote on Tuesday?”

“I’m not voting,” Skylar said as he headed toward the bar.

“What. Why not?”

“Is Jesse or Al running?”

“No.”

“Is Bill Clinton running?”

“He can’t run.”

“What about Hillary?”

“For the Senate in New York.”

“Then I ain’t voting,” Skylar said as he poured himself a glass of wine.

“Come on, Skylar, you’ve got to vote. If Bush gets to put two people on the Supreme Court, we might not have the right to vote,” I said.

“Bush or whoever that woodlike man is he’s running against—my little vote won’t make a bit of difference.”

“You gonna vote,” I said sternly.

“Let’s go out,” Skylar said.

“Where?”

“To a club. Let’s go look at some boys with slinging dicks,” Skylar said.

“You know I’m not going to a club. Why even waste your breath?”

The phone rang again.

“Let me get it,” Skylar said.

Before I could respond, Skylar picked up my phone and said, “Greer residence. How may I serve you?”

“Skylar, give me that phone,” I said.

“Yes, he is. May I tell him who’s calling? Who? A Mr. Gains from CNN. What is this regarding?” Skylar asked in a voice that sounded like it belonged to the perfect girl Friday.

“Skylar, give me that phone,” I said as I snatched the phone from his ear. I rolled my eyes at him, put the phone to my ear, and said, “Hello.”

“Mr. Greer, this is Terrence Gains, a senior producer at CNN for
Larry King Live
. I got your number from Griffin. He told me you had some information that we are interested in. Can I meet with you tomorrow morning to discuss this?”

“What do you want to discuss?”

Mr. Gains told me they were doing an exposé on Damien and wanted to interview me about our relationship. I told them that I wasn’t sure I wanted to do that. I wasn’t ready to air my dirty drawers in public.

“Mr. Greer, this is very important. The election is only a few days away, and don’t you think the voters of Colorado need to know everything about the man who might be their next senator?”

“I don’t know if that’s up to me.”

“Will you just meet with me? There are ways we could do this without you being identified,” he said.

“Give me your number and I will give you a call in the morning.”

I took the number and jotted it down, and when I hung up the phone I looked at Skylar and said, “The world just got more bizarre.” I told him about the phone conversation with the producer, and Skylar’s eyes perked up.

“Oh, this is so exciting. You’re going to be a celebrity like Monica what’s-her-name,” he said as he clapped his hands gleefully.

“I’m not going to do it,” I said.

“Oh yes, you are. That man messed all over you, and now you got a chance to get back at him. Better yet, let the world know who this gay-basher really is.”

“I’m through with it, Skylar.”

“Isn’t this just as important as me voting?”

“One has nothing to do with the other,” I said.

Skylar grabbed both of my wrists and looked me dead in the eyes and said in a serious tone I’d never heard him use, “Chauncey, you’ve got to do this. The hate the kids hear in churches and political organizations leads to violence against people like you and me. You got to do it. By telling your truths, it will make all these haters with less-than-perfect backgrounds reconsider who they trampled on. Do it for that young girl in Newark who got killed because she was a lesbian. Think about Matthew Shepard. Do it for me. If you do this I promise I’ll vote, even though I’m just going to write in Reverend Al.”

I didn’t answer Skylar. I just looked straight ahead and rested my eyes on the painting over my buffet. Could telling what I knew about Damien make a difference in the world?

Did I have the courage to do it?