The One That Got Away (5 page)

Charles smacked his lips before saying, “It is if you're thinking of cheating on him.”

It may have been the heat or it may have been the question, but Serena felt herself sway, her sense of balance slipping away. “Cheating? Me? Why would you think that?”

Charles's neck swiveled discreetly, making sure no one was nearby. “I hear things, Serena.” The anger beneath his words let the last embers of his Liberian accent out to play, adding a judgmental bite to his tone.

“Well, you're talking to a bunch of lying assholes, Daddy.” As Serena stared at her father in shock, an independent-minded tear squirted from her left eye. It was halfway down her cheek by the time she croaked out the rest of her response. “Mr. Jamison, your friend who works in the administration building, right?”

Nodding slightly, his eyes still locked onto hers, her father's usual shield of calm certainty seemed like an act.

“He thinks I'm carrying on with our head of security, right? Levi Little?”

Still struck mute, Charles confirmed Serena's words with a clearing of his throat.

“Oh, Jesus,” she whispered before raising her voice. “Levi flirts with
me,
Daddy. That's it.” She stepped so close her forehead bumped up against her father's chin, then folded her arms to help fight back two new tears that had sprouted against her will. “I have never cheated on Jamie and never will. I thought you knew me better than that—”

Her self-defense was interrupted by the purr of her cell phone. “Dammit,” she said, still looking her father dead in the face. She felt like throwing the life-interrupting device against the hot pavement, but instinctively raised it to her ear. Her father, for his part, stayed right where he was, his only show of emotion the slow scratching of his nose.

“This is Serena.” When silence greeted her, Serena huffed a curse under her breath. “Hello?”

“Serena?” The voice was shaky, barely audible, but she instantly recognized her girl Kym's voice.

“Hey, it's my favorite newlywed,” Serena said, stripping the bitterness from her voice. “You two are back safe from the honeymoon?”

“Yes,” Kim said, sniffling, “but we came back to some bad news, Dee.”

“Oh, God, Kym. What happened?”

“Devon and I argued about it,” Kym replied after pausing to blow her nose. “You need to know, though. It's about Tony.”

N
ursing his father through a mild heart attack hadn't done it. Turning thirty hadn't done it. Same for the sight of Colette's positive pregnancy test, and his own doctor's warnings about his high blood pressure; they'd all failed miserably. For thirty-two years, Tony's confidence in the life he led survived shake-ups that provoked self-examination and even transformation in his closest friends. Untouched and unchanged by the passage of time, impervious to trials and tumult, Tony had proudly proceeded with his life game plan.

Within hours of his trampling on the dance floor of Excursions, though, Tony Gooden met his match. When he came to, he was strapped to a mattress on wheels, a bed hurtling down a crammed hospital hallway.

“Move aside, please!” The impatient shout rang from over Tony's left shoulder, the impassioned instruction of a man draped in a baggy pale blue shirt. The word “orderly” flitted across Tony's mind before a sharp pain in his chest bum-rushed his thoughts.
C-Can't breathe,
he thought, wishing he could form the words for the four people surrounding him, each with a hand pressed to his bed's railing.

As they shoved him into a waiting elevator, Tony began
coughing violently, his pain intensifying. Tears sprouted in the corners of his eyes and he picked up snippets of the staff's conversations about him.
All this from a club stampede?

None of the others are in this type of shape, damn!

You know how those fools get at the clubs over there. I mean, I love my people, but . . .

Punctured lung . . . fractured ribs . . . left leg must have been trampled by everyone in the club, so mangled . . .

Maybe it had been horror at the extent of his plight, or maybe he was just eager to shut them the hell up, but that's when Tony shot forward and let loose the stream of vomit he'd felt convulsing within. Within seconds he saw the flash of a needle; then all went black again.

 

He'd had time now to recount this experience to several people, but as he sat across from Nana Quay, the chief of the southern Ghana village where he'd been assigned, Tony could see that it impressed even a man who'd survived war and famine. “For a privileged child of middle-class America,” Nana Quay said once Tony had replayed his brush with death, “coming face-to-face with your mortality must have been a life-changing experience.”

Leaning back on the couch they shared in the local office of the Searchlight Mission, Tony felt too shy to maintain eye contact with the chief. “Nana, I can't say I've lived up to that description quite yet. I'm still sorting a few things out.”

The short, round man stroked his grizzled beard, grinned. “But you are here, young man. That was a big step for a capitalist heathen such as yourself.”

“No argument there,” Tony replied, chuckling at himself. A week after his final surgery at the University of Chicago, he had submitted his letter of resignation to WHOT. From the moment those doctors and nurses pronounced him near death, he'd been haunted by the thought of an obituary listing increased radio ad revenues as his chief contribution to this world.

With the resignation behind him, his path to a life of
meaning was cleared, if only he could figure out what path to seek. Two nights after his resignation, he had seen a local news feature about Searchlight Mission. The Christian evangelicals were in the last week of a fund-raising campaign, recruiting sponsors for volunteers headed to Ghana for an economic development project. Turned out they also needed someone with administrative skills to organize the laborers and serve as liaison to the local villagers; the assigned staff member had gone down with a brutal case of pneumonia. They were thrilled first by Tony's call, then by his resumé; not only were they willing to let him sign up as a late volunteer, he got to earn his way by serving as the on-site project leader. His complete ignorance of scripture meant he couldn't present the gospel to the villagers, of course, but the senior missionaries were confident he'd eventually be converted through osmosis.

The strong, comforting grip of the chief's hand on his shoulder interrupted Tony's reflections. “You are already half of the way through this project, Anthony,” he said, insisting still on using everyone's birth name. “Please do not even think of cutting your mission short, regardless of what Ama says.”

“She's hurting, Nana,” Tony said. “And it's probably my fault somehow. I don't want to jeopardize her support of the Searchlight Mission, all the good she's helped accomplish for you and the village.”

“Nonsense,” the chief admonished. “Your first instinct in coming here was correct. Already the Lord has used you in ways you do not appreciate. The construction of the new health clinic and the new school are weeks ahead of schedule because of your leadership.”

“Simple management skills,” Tony replied, sighing and pawing at the side of his short Afro. “But given my missteps with Ama, sir, it looks like my presence here is more disruptive than helpful.”

“Well, I was a bit surprised to see such, eh, drama?” The uncharacteristic smile on the chief's face reminded Tony of how ludicrous the past few hours had been. He was here at this moment because Ama, an activist from the nearby metropolis of Kumasi
and an invaluable liaison between the Mission and the village, had fallen in love with him. Tall and lithe with angular features and skin the complexion of freshly poured peanut butter fudge, Ama was a world traveler with a master's degree in public policy from Princeton. She'd been immediately fascinated by Tony, and while he'd been a total gentleman, he hadn't done much to discourage her interest, either. That is, until the night before, when she'd cornered him in the master suite of her three-bedroom split-level home.

When he politely declined the invitation to climb into her towering four-poster bed, poor Ama—the type of woman who'd been worshipped sexually by men of French, German, Japanese, and Arab descent—was outdone. As his answer to her intimate offer set in, the educated, cosmopolitan woman morphed into a sister on the corner of your nearest hood.

“You like men, Tony, is that it?” She asked the question with the full force of accusation, her usual efforts to flatten her accent gone. “No sin being gay in my book, honey, but, please, just be honest about eet. Won't hurt my feelings.”

Even now, not twenty-four hours later, Tony couldn't recall his response. In truth, he was still processing the mental image that had blocked his path to Ama's bed, to her overheated, half-dressed body.
Serena.
The same vision of her in the pink strapless gown from Devon's wedding, the same one that had followed him from the night of his trampling through those weeks in the hospital. The vision he'd thought would recede once he enacted his plan to do something important with his life. Once he slept with a new woman.

Tony had come to admire Nana Quay in the few weeks they had been acquainted, and the next minutes cemented his opinion. With very few words, the chief not only got him talking about the previous night's controversial events, he lured the complete truth from the very pit of Tony's evolving soul. Words poured forth as he talked about Serena, about his impression that there was unfinished business there, an agenda demanding to be addressed even as they stared each other down in that receiving line. He'd
convinced himself into ignoring her cellular call by reminding himself of Jamie's presence, but why was he respecting that pimp's rights, exactly?

Before he knew it, Tony had told the chief about the baby: Colette's, the one that never saw the light of day. Thoughts of that precious, preempted life visited him at odd times, but they didn't end there. For a man who was still childless at thirty-two—as far as he
knew,
that was—Tony found himself occasionally dreaming of what his first child might look like. There was only one problem; the children never resembled him. They were, however, always the spitting image of their mother. Serena.

“There are two answers to your quandary, young man,” the chief said in a near-whisper as Tony's confessions wafted through the air. “The first is to immerse yourself in the Christian faith and in your work here. You could take a newfound focus on Christ and a focus on community service back to Chicago with you, and trust that in time God would free you of these thoughts of this woman from your past.”

Tony let the chief's silence separate them for a minute before finally meeting the elder's gaze. “And the other answer, sir?”

“Resolve the unanswered questions,” Nana Quay replied, his brown eyes growing increasingly somber with warning. “Very dangerous in this case, but there is a respectful way to find out whether her feelings match yours, to learn whether her marriage is bound to end regardless of your involvement. But tread with great care.”

“Nana,” Tony replied, scooting forward to the edge of the couch, “I'd love to think I could pursue her, but I'd have to be nuts. We don't even live in the same place. I'd have to invent some reason to even visit her city. Have you heard of Cincinnati, Ohio? It's not exactly the center of the universe. I'd look pretty suspect showing up just for the sightseeing.”

The chief's eyebrows arched, flexed. “My impression, Anthony, is that you are neither lacking in creativity nor in the ability to withstand a little scrutiny. You mean to tell me there's no other reason you would have for visiting this city?”

Who could explain it, but somehow the chief's words popped loose a fact embedded in Tony's memory.
Larry Whitaker
. O.J.'s friend, the one who'd extended him a job offer days before the accident.
A job in Cincinnati.
At the time, the connection to Serena had been a mere coincidence, a “what do you know?” of no significance while he was still spending his nights romancing Colette and his days fleeing collection agencies. Everything had changed now; Tony found himself speechless at the opportunity lying before him.

“Mmm, not so fast,” Nana Quay said, waving a chunky finger in front of his face. “Whichever road you choose, you do owe Ama an apology first. After that, may the good Lord be with you.”

H
e wasn't quite sure it qualified as a real city. As his taxicab rolled north on I-75, leaving downtown Cincinnati in the rearview mirror, Tony pulled out his BlackBerry handheld. Three days after his discharge from the hospital, he had vowed to keep a daily journal for the rest of his days, and he had plenty of motivation as he took in what some called the “nasty Nati” for the first time.

He jotted down his immediate impressions, rewinding to the moment the cab hit the expressway: the rolling hills of Kentucky, the wrought-iron and cement bridges and railways connecting Covington and Cincinnati, the Reds' Great American Ball Park, the circular stone face of Union Terminal, all of which bled out into a blander landscape dotted by rows of aged manufacturing plants.

Tony was still taking notes, trying to count how many billboards for Fifth Third Bank he'd passed, when the taxicab bounced to a sudden stop. The cabbie, a forty-something grizzled white guy with flawless grammar, whispered calmly without turning to face him. “This is it, sir. That will be forty-nine dollars.”

“This is Blue Ash, huh?” A quick look around confirmed he'd missed the crossroads from urban Cincinnati into its affluent suburbia, but he was clearly on the other side of the line now.
Leaning forward to pass three twenties to the driver, he stared at the spotless sidewalk and the gleaming six-story glass office tower before saying, “Keep the change.”

“Do you need any help getting out?” The flicker of concern in the man's eyes surprised Tony, though he'd seen it numerous times since his release from the hospital.

“Hell, no—I mean, I'm fine.” Tony reached to his left, grabbed his leather satchel and shoulder bag, and slid out of the cab. As he stood, his weight hitting his left leg with full force, he winced at the pain for a second before blocking it out. He was still shifting his weight and getting his balance when he heard the cab door slam. The cabbie had climbed out and shut it for him, before hustling back to the driver's side.

Tony stifled a twinge of humiliation and took careful, barely competent steps toward the lobby's double doors. He was halfway there when they swung open, revealing a tall, voluptuous woman with rich brown skin. Dressed in a bright maroon pants suit flecked with gray, her gold-highlighted hairdo gleaming in the early-morning sun, the sister smiled and held the door open. “Tony Gooden?”

“That's me,” he replied, stopping as he stepped to within a foot of her. His left leg felt like acid had been poured through its veins and he was struggling to keep his shoulder bag steady, but he wasn't copping to that. He was a new man and all, but he was still
the
man.

“Let me take that satchel at least,” the sister said, extending a hand and sending a shot of relief through Tony's soul. Grabbing it with one hand, she reached out with the other. “I'm Audrey Jacobs, principal of the Rowan Academy. Mr. Whitaker sent me down to get you.”

“Beautiful,” Tony said, shaking Audrey's hand and reveling in her beaming, confident eye contact. “I mean, that's beautiful of Larry to have you here to greet me, that wasn't necessary. I'm sure you have more important things to do at the school.”

“Everything's important at this company,” Audrey said as she ushered him across the lobby's black-and-gold marble floor. “
Day-to-day business matters, but things since Mr. Champion's announcement have been crazy.” From his hospital bed months earlier, Tony had read of Champion's now-legendary visit to Cincinnati, where he'd simultaneously announced large matching donations to the Cincinnati public schools and to the Rowan Academy, which he called the “brightest light of hope” for American education. “Right now,” Audrey said, “with Champion pumping us full of cash and insisting we expand Rowan into a nationwide phenomenon, we need someone with your skills more than ever.”

“Okay, then,” Tony said, stroking his bushy beard as they stepped aboard an elevator with black doors. “No pressure, though, right?”

The elevator whisked them to the top floor, allowing just enough time for Tony to trade thirty more seconds of small talk with Audrey and bask in the smooth jazz piping over the building's speaker system. When the elevator doors opened, they stepped off and nearly ran over their boss and his slightly wealthier friend. Larry Whitaker, the executive vice president of Whitaker Holdings and CEO of the Rowan Academy, stood opposite the increasingly infamous Arthur Champion. Hoisting twenty-ounce cups of Starbucks coffee and carrying on with boisterous, lighthearted conversation, each man looked as if he had stepped off the cover of
Black Enterprise.

As Tony limped off the elevator, Larry cut his joke short and swiveled toward his new employee. “Tony, welcome aboard, man. Got someone here you need to meet.”

“This man needs no introduction.” His nostrils tingling at the smoky vanilla scent permeating the office, Tony matched Larry's firm handshake and glanced respectfully at Champion. On the outside he was cool, but inside his heart raced. Ever since Champion had held that press conference announcing his multimillion dollar donation to Rowan Academy, Tony knew this job would grant him the chance to meet his hero in the flesh.

On his first day of work, though?
Damn.
Very impressive, but he wasn't prepared to maximize the moment. Improvising, Tony
squared his shoulders and resisted the urge to behave like an ignorant fan. “Mr. Champion,” he said calmly as he turned toward the legend and applied his best power handshake, “it is an honor.”

Champion squeezed back, then pivoted toward Larry. “Uh, little Whitaker,” he said, glancing in Tony's direction, “you didn't tell me you hired a dark-skinned Cornel West as your chief operating officer. You want your organization represented by a man who hasn't shaved in weeks?” Champion threw his hands into the air. “If I didn't know any better, I'd think you didn't hear a word of what I've been talking about this past year.”

As Audrey cleared her throat, clearly embarrassed for Tony, Larry rocked back onto his heels, arms crossed. “You heard the man,” he said, flashing a smile as he stared toward Tony. “Defend yourself, big guy. Prove you're up to the job.”

Tony planted his feet and met Champion's judgmental glare. “Help me understand, sir,” he said. “If I may be frank, I'm wearing a suit tailored in Paris, one that's probably worth more than Mr. Whitaker's—no offense, Larry. My hair and beard are combed, my hygiene impeccable. So, your problem with my look is what exactly?”

Champion crossed his arms, bobbling his cup loosely in one hand. “For hired help, you've got quite an ego, son,” he said. “In case you missed the idea here, Larry has hired you to implement the vision I've laid out for Rowan Academy.” Champion set his coffee cup onto the smooth marble counter of the receptionist's desk and stepped forward until he nearly stood atop Tony's shoes. “Your role, if I let little Whitaker bring you aboard to fill it, will be to get shit done. You should see to it that we're able to establish a branch of the academy in every major city across this country.” His voice rising, he jabbed a finger toward Tony's Adam's apple. “While Larry and Audrey focus on the educational aspects, you'll be making sure we can get buildings purchased or constructed, hire good people, get positive media coverage, all that. You will
be
Rowan Academy in the eyes of most politicians, contractors, suppliers, and journalists before they meet any of the rest of us. You've done this before, right?”

“Get shit done?” Tony flinched, but only because another spasm of pain had traveled up his left leg. “Oh, I've done it many times, sir.”

“That's absolutely great,” Champion replied, “but it doesn't excuse that mess on your face. Are you really telling me you ran a mayor's office and a radio station with a scraggly forest sprouting on your cheeks?”

Though Champion was no taller than he was, the man's forceful energy drove Tony to plant his feet again. Neither his voice nor his stare wavered as he replied, “You're gonna have to excuse me, sir, but shaving wasn't exactly a priority in the Volta Region.”

“Volta Region?” Champion paused for a beat, thrown off his game, then recovered. “Ghana, right? I've been there.” He crossed his arms, leaned forward again. “Have you?”

“Barely been back a week,” Tony said. “I spent the last two months there, doing economic development work for a mission. I actually split my time between three different communities.”

Champion raised an eyebrow suspiciously. “You a do-gooder by nature, or trying to assuage a guilty conscience?”

Tony expelled a brief but hearty laugh. “Quite frankly, sir, I can't answer that. I'm not really the same man I was a few months ago.” Calmly, with as much nonchalance as he could muster, Tony gave Champion a thumbnail sketch of the night that landed him in the hospital. Larry had already heard it, but Tony wasn't surprised to hear Audrey gasp several times. She even interrupted Champion, who listened with respectful intensity before getting off a question.

“How's your sister?”

“She's fine,” Tony said. “Recovered a lot more quickly than I did, at least physically.” Tony caught his breath, determined not to get worked up about Zora. “Psychologically, she's had a harder way than me.”

“Well,” Champion said, arms crossed, “maybe I judged you a little too quickly, Tony. That said, you've been back in the States a week.” He rubbed his own cheeks playfully. “Chop, chop, eh?”

Chuckling, Larry slapped Champion on the back and smiled
at Tony. “Already passed your first test. I'm impressed.” He turned back toward Champion. “Why don't you and Audrey go on into my office? Audrey, you can pull up the strategic plan. We'll review it as a team after I take Tony on a short tour.”

As Audrey and Arthur walked off, Larry led Tony on a tour of the top floor, where the hallway floors were the same color as downstairs, the walls to every office except the executives' were made of glass, and the thick maroon carpet was accented with golden-colored leaves. Their last stop before arriving at Larry's office was his father's corner suite. “The old man's vacationing in Rome with my baby sister and stepmom,” Larry said. “Even when he's back, though, he won't bother you much. To the extent he still runs things around here, the academy is his last priority. He says it's the last gasp of my ‘bleeding-heart liberalism.' Still, he may put you through your paces just for show, so be ready to sell him on your skills.”

“Larry,” Tony said, cracking a grin as his boss pointed him toward his own office, “you sound like I still need to close this deal.” During his last month in Ghana, he had chased O.J. down via phone, who hooked him back up with Larry. Tony had pitched Larry hard over a patchy phone connection, seemingly winning back the same job offer he'd spurned months earlier.

Sliding his hands into his pockets, Larry looked down at Tony. “I haven't forgotten your wisecracks from last time about the salary being too low, about wanting to work for the corporate office instead of the school.”

“And I explained,” Tony replied, reaching up to slap the taller man's back, “that I've come to see life in a different light since then. I'm for real about this.” Tony stopped in his tracks, forcing Larry to do the same. “I've shed my life back in Chicago,” he said, shrugging. “Rented out my condo, passed up several corporate job offers. I'm here because what Rowan Academy does
matters.
And I want the rest of my life—life I wasn't so sure I'd have a few months ago—to matter.”

“Well, I guess this was meant to be,” Larry said, nodding and shaking Tony's hand firmly. “You may as well know, if I'd found
a better candidate by the time you called back, I wouldn't have paid you any mind.”

“That would have been fair.” Tony rubbed his hands together, anticipation overriding the needle-like sensation spiking through his leg again. “Let's get to work, then.”

“Most definitely,” Larry replied. “We'll spend the morning with Arthur, updating our strategic plan for the school's expansion. His entourage will be here to get him around noon, then you and I are doing lunch with my wife, Sheila, and our kids.” He grinned in spite of himself. “They're the most important part of my life; if you're going to understand me and support me well, you need to know them.”

“I'm flattered,” Tony replied. “Sure you don't mind me being an extra wheel?”

“It's cool,” Larry said, pausing just outside his office door. He glanced inside, where Audrey and Champion stood in front of his computer screen, discussing something of concern. “I tried to look out for you, partner. I invited Audrey to accompany us, but she wasn't comfortable staying away from the school all day.”

“Totally understandable.” Tony looked into Larry's eyes, players exchanging glances. “She's available, is she?”

“She's a good lady,” Larry replied, his voice a near whisper. “I'm not trying to match make, but if you promise to treat her right, well, I sense she wouldn't be offended.” Larry chuckled suddenly. “Damn, that's presumptuous of me. You might already have a lady here, for all I know.”

Count on it,
Tony thought.
Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but eventually.
“I have no lady here, in Chicago, or anywhere else,” was what he told Larry. That was the definite truth; after his disastrous attempt to romance Ama in Ghana, he'd decided to swear off any women until things were resolved with Serena. After his counseling session with Nana Quay, Tony had apologized to Ama and won her forgiveness, but it hadn't been easy.