[EIGHT]

IT HAS BEEN a blessed life for me, I have to say, when I look at where I came from, and where it’s landed me today. Along with the enormous income I pull down from securing contracts for entertainers, churches, and corporations, I currently have partnerships in a few Atlanta nightclubs, a nice chunk of stock in Comcast cable, and two commercial properties in downtown Atlanta. I now live in a twenty-two-room mansion on two acres in Cascade. I keep just two vehicles, and a motorcycle that I sometimes feel adventurous enough to drive. And I can even claim all that through my hard work ethic. It wasn’t given to me by my parents and I didn’t inherit from a rich uncle. Well, correction: I had to repossess the motorcycle from a client who was lunching on his bill. But everything else, I assure you, was earned fair and square.

The thing is, I tend to feel like an angel a lot of times, protected and blessed by the Most High. I’ve never had any major tragedies in my life, I’ve never been to the bottom of the well in terms of my finances or my living arrangements, and only up until recently could I say the same for my health. It’s all been pretty much peaches and cream the whole way. I won’t say there weren’t challenges, ‘cause that would be a lie. Yes, the breakup with my husband was horrible. He was my first boyfriend, my first true love. And the loss took a toll on me mentally. I was in the most unlikely situation, trapped by single parenthood. Something I never, ever expected for myself. Here I was, playing the good girl all through my teenage years, never steppin’ out on my man; and never did I consider any alternatives. I was that ride-or-die chick that you always hear about in the hip-hop community. Then, from left field, here came Darius, home after what was supposed to be a long day at work; I’ll never forget the words:

“Baby. I don’t know how to tell you this, but I’m leaving you.”

The words threw me into a spell, and they echoed in my head for so many months thereafter. I thought about us as teenagers and how I had to sneak in and out of our back door just to see Darius, back when my dad would threaten: I’ll shoot him dead if I catch him in my house! I thought about school and being a cheerleader, and Darius running all over the football field like some superjock, maybe trying to win my approval. But he didn’t need to go that far; I was sold from the day he enrolled in our school. He was such a champion in my eyes with his tall, athletic build and his GQ facial features. He was the type of hunk who a girl just wanted to touch, much less have as a first love. He was the type of guy who you wanted everyone to know was yours, especially all the jealous girls in my classes who just couldn’t keep up with me in grades. In the end, he was the type of guy you wanted to bring home to Momma, and eventually marry. And when I did just that, I can honestly say my dream came true. A fairy-tale life that was handed to me at age nineteen was the life I lived up until I was thirty. For eleven years.

Meanwhile, my daughter, Dancer, was, I guess, the greatest benefit from my relationship with Darius. That girl is my pride and joy; the spitting image of me. And no matter what I had to do to grow her into a strong, responsible woman, I was gonna do it. I intended to see that Dancer had the absolute best of everything. The best schools. The best clothes. The best childhood. And maybe it was a blessing that Darius and I went our separate ways, because I probably wouldn’t have ventured into law if I was left to live as his kept house wife. I wouldn’t have earned the Teflon-tough way of life I have, or the aggressive, no-nonsense attitude I bring to the courtroom. In fact, I wouldn’t be involved in law at all.

Being a lawyer was a mere childhood dream. I would watch those cop and law TV shows, and I would imagine myself in those roles. I could always figure out who did what, and way before the truth was revealed. I did the same when I watched game shows, wishing they would dare call me one day to be a contestant. But I never took my dream any further. It was always my agenda to take care of Dancer, and my man. So, when the my man part of my life took a detour, I basically had to get over it. When I did, it was still early enough that I could attend college, study what I had to, and step up to the court house stairs. Ophelia King is here! And not to brag or anything, but if nothing else, the timing was just right. There is the old law, there are the new laws, and then there’s Ophelia’s Law! And really that’s nothing more than all the old-school stuff combined with the advent of technology. I just happen to be planted in law at the right time, right in the middle of that curve. I’m no stranger to e-mails and the Internet. I’m no stranger to law books and the ritual of reading. I was studying law at an age that was just right, if you asked me. I was also in school with those who were much younger than I. They were either fresh out of college or grad school, while I was more experienced in the ways of life. And now it was time to bring that to the world of law.

To quote one of my professors: “The legal world needs Ophelia King.”

And so it was.

FROM MY point of view, the law is no different than reading and comprehending an entire shelf of encyclopedias. There’s an enormous job of studying it all, and it’s tough to recall. And I guess that’s what makes lawyering such a prestigious trade, since not everyone can master it. What makes for that specialty that a lawyer embraces as their own is nothing more than (as with the encyclopedias) the particular area or subject matter or topic that he or she chooses to focus on. Constitutional law. Criminal law. Real-estate law. Tax law. Family law. Property law. Corporate law. Entertainment law. Federal. State. Municipal. Ordinances. There’s so much. And, even if you do know all of that? None of it would prepare you in the courtroom. In that arena, you nearly have to be a boxer, a scuba diver, and a football player. The thing is, by the time I learned how impossible the legal “ride” would be, I was already in too deep. I think if I’d known how difficult it would be to grasp, I might’ve gone a different route in life. But there was this article I read in Upscale Magazine about the legal giant named Johnny Cochran. Everyone knew who Johnny Co-chran was. And who could miss his aggressive approaches in the OJ trial? Who could miss his many appearances on CNN and when he had his own show on Court TV, going head-to-head with that right-winger Nancy Grace? So, inspired by Johnny’s godlike presence in national and international media, I stayed on my grind. It didn’t matter how much work I had to do, or what I needed to study. I was game! And since I now had no partner in life, the law became my new first love and my life.

I had to learn that what they teach us in law school is more theory, and not necessarily the focus on any one type of law. More so, I learned how to find my way to answers that are favorable to my position and my case. And because the law is ever changing, I also had to determine and challenge situations based on new laws, decisions, and revelations in the Supreme Court. Such decisions must be accounted for. Certain appeals that are relevant must be researched. Research is really what law is; intelligent, surgical research that will bring hard conclusions to be affirmed in the courtroom, by a judge and/or jury of our peers. Add to all my studies that I was older and wiser than most anyone else in the class, remember I had also been an athlete, bouncing and flipping around as a cheerleader. Taking my turn at basketball and soccer and track. If a boy could do it, Ophelia could do it! So, I had that very same state of mind, that very same skill set as a resource in law. From being awarded medals and trophies in our debate teams to being voted valedictorian of my class, I was living my dream, all the way up to working at and then running Atlanta’s biggest law firm.

STACY

I was so fuckin’ mad that Danté up and left me like he did. And his reasons were weak, just like his faith in me. One day I’m gonna find me a nigga who will ride with me, no matter what. And all of that stuff about how I spend money was not for him to say. I mean, he ain’t the boss of me. I make my own rules, live by my own set of standards. And if he don’t wanna be part of my equation, then to hell with him.

But I really do miss me some Danté dick. Plus, his tongue was a dream come true. I sometimes wish that, as women, we could cut the fat and have the dick without the big-mouth men that come along with it. Maybe some kinda switch can be invented?

“Stacy, what happened to that man of yours? He did a damn good job around this house. We need more men like him in the world. Hope you don’t mess that good thing up.”

Oooh, I could kill my mother for sayin’ shit like that! As if I mess it up with every man. As if it was my fault for the last—oooh, I could just KILL HER!

And if it wasn’t my no-good mother, it was my kid.

“Mommy, what happened to Danté?” My baby was asking me this question continuously for the weeks since Danté disappeared. I almost wanted to slap the shit out of him at one point. But something told me not to turn my aggression on my kids. It was Danté who I had the beef with. I really loved that man. I can’t believe he’d break my heart like this. And, now that I think about it, I need to tax his ass for leavin’ me and for stealin’ my heart. There’s no question who would have the last laugh when I’m through.

DANTÉ

She was coming at me with some kind of weapon in her hand. I pretended not to notice, but just the same took a deep, relaxed breath. When she reached five feet and closing in, I could see from the corner of my eye that it was a knife she had snug in her palm. I turned casually, as though I might be easy prey, as if to accept a friendly greeting. But the truth is, I was waiting for her to swing her weapon. Little did she know, in my left hand was my own weapon, a short, heavy crowbar with a pointed edge. The crowbar was out of sight. And had more life (and history) than this woman was ready for. The first thing to come to mind was Dad’s words: never hit a woman. But, so help me, Dad, this particular woman was about to catch it, big time. Although my weapon was bigger and more threatening than hers, I had an even bigger weapon, and that was the element of surprise.

Her distance from me was now three feet. Strike.

I wasn’t about to wait another millisecond. If I did, there might not be a second chance. Better to be judged by twelve than carried by six, Grandpa use to say. I wonder if Grandpa and Dad agreed, and if this applied to women as well. No time to consider those options, I immediately pivoted, with my crowbar level with her face; in particular, I was trying to put an eye out. But I merely connected with her temple. Except, I didn’t stop there. As she cried out and stumbled backward, and as the knife skittered across the concrete, her threat to me dropped to less than zero. I swung again, this time aiming for the knee. A louder scream, and now she folded to the floor. I would’ve gone for the knee first if she hadn’t posed such a threat with the knife. But that didn’t matter now because things were working in my favor. It was time to put my foot on her neck (so to speak) and finish this tramp. The thing is, I could fin-ish her now and never have to worry about her again, or I could leave it at that, hoping the injuries would teach her a lesson to never fuck with me again.

Next thing I know, I’m kneeling at an altar, hands folded, eyes closed:

The woman’s face (the one who I’m defending myself against) is not recognizable to me; it’s not as if I know her, and I can’t see why she’d come after me or why she’d want to hurt me, but I have to say she’s cute, with nice tits. And as usual, whenever I’m attempting to recall the possibilities, just when a clouded memory is starting to focus, an idea of where I might know this woman from, the splitting headaches start again. I’m wincing and squeezing my fists tighter than ever. I want to punch a wall, but I’m instead burying my face in a pillow. I want to yell but the yell is trapped deep down inside my belly. When I finally let it go, I realize I’m in confined quarters. Soon, I’m looking at all this as an outsider. There’s a cargo van that says MISTER FIX-IT. As if I have Superman’s X-ray vision, I can see through the now-transparent exterior of the van, where there’s a man trapped inside. He’s banging on the walls— walls with posters and pictures of that same psycho woman in the attack. The man is rocking the van and trying to escape like some caged animal. Upon closer look, the man in that van is no stranger. That man is me.

These dreams have been consuming me for some time now. Or for at least as long as I can recall, which is about three weeks— I think. I’m told I was in an eleven-week coma and that I barely made it out alive. But I honestly don’t remember any of that. All I know is these headaches that come every so often, and these nightmares that haunt me with some crazy woman always hunting me. And they’re driving me mad. On the other hand, my whole body’s numb. I’m feeling so stiff and my knees are killing me when I get up to go to the bathroom.

The bathroom. That’s another thing. I don’t know where the hell I am. They tell me this is Fulton County in Georgia. They tell me Ophelia this, Ophelia that, and I’m being cared for by Ophelia. Something about her being in the hospital at the same time I was. She supposedly was being treated for some dizzy spells and was on the same emergency wing as me.

Emergency? How’d I end up there?

One thing led to another, and I guess she was my savior of some kind because they needed someone to step in and take responsibility because I couldn’t? I still don’t understand it all, but Lord knows I want to because this is all so strange, and I feel so out of place. I’m suddenly in another world, around people I don’t know. But then, what about my family? I mean, this is all great to know these folks are out for my best interests, looking after me, and nursing me back to health. But I needed to call my dad. No doubt he’ll be needing me for somebody’s malfunctioning plumbing or an AC issue. And another thing: Grandpa can’t do everything himself. I know he acts like he can, but Dad and I know better. We gotta look out for him because he sometimes takes on more than he can handle. He did it last spring, trying to carry some Sheetrock up three flights. The next day we found out he had back pains, and he was out of work for the rest of the week. But regardless of Dad needing me, and Grandpa pretending he doesn’t, I miss both those dudes. If I could just find their numbers.

“You okay?”

My eyes were closed and I was rubbing my head when Toni peeked in. Toni is Ophelia’s niece, directed by her auntie to look after me. She’s probably twenty or twenty-one and (she says) tends to many of her auntie’s personal tasks, including the cleaners, shopping, bills, and whatnot. Somehow, even though Toni has the position of handling the menial deeds of her aunt Ophelia, I get the strange feeling that she’s too saditty to get her hands dirty. Maybe that’s just my sixth sense at work. So, I find myself saying, I’m okay, even if I’m not and I need something. It’s just that I’m big on getting things done myself; not a welfare case. Now, on this occasion, it was probably obvious that I was lying. Toni probably heard me yelling on account of my latest nightmare, and now she still had her head reaching in the door of the guest room.

My response started as a stutter. “J-juss-just—” I could barely get a word out as Toni looked at me with that flat expression— the one that says, I know you’re lying, but I’ll play along with you. My head jerked a couple of times, and that probably spooked her. I was sitting up in the bed now, trying to make sense of this. That’s when I blurted, “Is there any way I can make a phone call?”

“Uhh, sure?” She responded to me as if that option had always been there and I just hadn’t taken advantage of it. “Phone’s in the kitchen,” Toni said. “Need me to get it for you?” True enough, the room I was in didn’t have a phone, not even a dresser.

I wagged my head and tried to stand up to go get it myself.

The knees. Ouch.

It wasn’t until I limped through the mansion’s hallways, down the winding steps to the main level, and into the kitchen that I realized I had no numbers to call. I didn’t have a wallet, a phone book, or even a cell phone where numbers were stored. And now that I was in the kitchen, smelling some freshly made pecan pie, the refrigerator was calling me like a long-lost friend. I got sidetracked altogether. Some coffee, some pecan pie, and some CNN helped to ease the pain in my knees; or maybe it was my sitting on the plush couch and just taking the weight off that did the trick. Either way, my attention was diverted to the current events around the world. So much was going on and so suddenly, like it was all hitting me at once. I hadn’t seen a TV in what felt like years. And now that I had, it felt as though I’d been away, like on a spaceship, and a world of activities had come and gone before I returned to earth. I was surprised that Ms. Saditty had valid opinions and could hold a lengthy conversation about politics. I figured her age group was strictly music and movies and that’s all. But she was on point, I must say.

We watched the news and talked for a time. It was the first time we spoke at length since she had explained the pro cess of my recovery and how her aunt had virtually rescued me from oblivion. She explained how Ophelia was connected to the moon here in Atlanta and that she knew just about everybody and could get just about anything done with one phone call. She explained about the finan-cial responsibilities left at the hospital and how her aunt knew people and was able to orchestrate things with the hospital administrators so that the various financial obligations were attended to, or at least put on hold for later. “This way the doctors and nurses could get you back to normal,” Toni had explained a week or so earlier. And as I got to know her better, weighing in with my pros-and-cons judgments, the bleep-bleep sounded, signaling every level of the mansion that someone was entering the home. Moments later, all cheery and bubbly, the lady of the house walked in. This would be the first time we met face-to-face; the first time I could thank the woman who had cared for me when the hospital administrators had no next of kin to contact relating to me and my circumstances, my diagnosis, or my progress.

“So, I guess I’m forever in debt to you, Ms. Ophelia King. ” My announcement was animated, but my comments were a sincere and heartfelt introduction. And they were greeted with a smile that was enormous, even in its modesty. But, more than her smile, her eyes glistened so brilliantly, luring me into her warm hug.

“How ya doin’?” she asked in that rich, spirited southern drawl of hers. Her eyes danced in their sockets and sucked me in like an impressionable child.

“Not too bad, thanks to you, Ms. King. Except for my knees, that is. But I’m starting to get around a little. I would’ve thanked you sooner, but you’ve been in and out of town, I hear.”

“Yes, I practice in Florida as well as Georgia. I’m working this case out there and it’s really taxing me. Glad to see you’re up and around. Oh, and you can call me Ophelia. You gonna be okay?” Ophelia caught me wincing and expressed a momma’s concern.

I shook my head, knowing that her words were easier said than done; and again I backed off the complaining as an indication that this was nothing and that I could handle it.

Ophelia said, “Okay,” in a suit-yourself sort of way. Then she asked, “Would you care to come down into my of-fice?”

I half shrugged and half agreed, and we headed downstairs to the lower level of the home. I moved a lot slower than Ophelia, and for the first time that I could remember I felt inferior and handicapped. Damn, my knees were hurting.

When I finally reached the bottom floor, I was introduced to Ophelia’s para legal, Angela. Her first appraisal of me, I must admit, was offensive. I felt like a piece of real estate that she was appraising with her puny, speculative eyes. But I easily overlooked it, not judging the woman either way. After all, she was the para legal for the Ophelia King.

The office was a combination family room, kitchenette, and reception area. And, following Ophelia back to her of-fice, I was introduced to Ophelia’s cousin Ray Ray.

“He’s not as important as my Toni, but he—well, I s’pose he’s existing for a reason, right, Ray Ray?”

“Yup. Just a fly on your wall, cousin.”

The two relatives were crackin’ me up, Ophelia with her sarcasm and Ray Ray playing her yes man.

I was shown the gym, Jacuzzi, and sauna, and even a beauty salon that was positioned next to her office. The of-fice we stepped into had its own smoked-g lass doors, and was prestigious like any attorney’s office I’d seen on prime-time T V.

“Have a seat,” she said with a jubilant energy.

I absorbed great pain in doing as suggested, but the expensive leather chair soothed my senses. “So how was your much-deserved vacation?”

“Oh, great. Now if I could just be on vacation all the time, life would be perfect. I’m so glad we’re finally able to have this talk.”

“Me, too, Ms.— er, Ophelia. I have to say I’m humbled and really grateful for your hospitality.”

“I appreciate that, my friend, but this is really strange to sit with a man who doesn’t know his name. Do you have any recall at all?”

I responded with silence, knowing that this was indeed embarrassing.

“My niece mentioned something about your dad? Your grandfather? Were you able to contact them? Do you have a name, at least? I can have a private investigator look into this. I have a couple on my payroll.”

“My dad’s name is Preston. And his father, the same.”

“Okay! See? That’s a start. And where are you from? What city? ‘Cuz I know you don’t come from these parts.”

I squeezed my hand over my face as if this would help rub out the blank I was drawing.

“I only know repairs, Ms. Ophelia.”

“Just Ophelia is fine. Repairs?”

“Yes. My dad and my grandpa and I run a business and we fix apartments. Plumbing. Electrical. We fix washers and dryers. ‘You name it, we fix it. Mister Fix-It.’ “

“Okaaaay. So, is that your motto? Is there a business name?”

“Not sure, ma’am. That’s just the first thing that comes to mind when I think of my dad. You name it, we fix it. Mister Fix-It. ”

“And Preston is your dad. You’re sure about that?”

“As far as I know.”

“Well, if your dad and your granddad are named Preston, then I’m left to guess at the possibility that your name might be Preston, too. Ya think? “ Ophelia’s smile was infectious, and although I was drawing a blank, again, she made me want to agree with her, no matter what she suggested. Grass is always red, isn’t it, Preston? Absolutely, m a’am.

After freezing up for a time, she said, “Well, I’m gonna do some research and see what I can find out for you. In the meantime, my home is your home. Don’t you worry about anything. I have a full gym, Jacuzzi, and sauna. My pool outside. What ever. My house is up for sale and there may be a broker or two coming through now and again, but otherwise, make yourself at home. I don’t know what you know about me, Preston, but I’ve been truly blessed with good fortune. I have a growing successful law practice, I have quite a track record in the courtrooms of Georgia, and I have a number of investments that I can retire on. But, as I’ve learned, to whom much is given, much is required. I believe that I was brought into your life, and that you were brought into mine for a reason. And that brings me to another issue: do you remember at all what happened to you and what landed you in the hospital? You had a pretty bad head injury, and then there’s—”

“What, Ms. Ophelia? What’s wrong with me? Something I need to know?”

“The doctors say you have partial amnesia. There was some kind of disruption on your blood-brain barrier caused by the head trauma and subsequent coma. I don’t know all the particulars, but I do know that you’re an accident victim of some kind. And that’s what I do. I protect accident victims, I try medical malpractice suits, and I’ve seen people like you recover from neurological symptoms such as these sometimes within a few days. Only, your case is something special, Preston. You were in an eleven-week coma that you are lucky to return from, so say the doctors. And you seem to have all of your faculties except for—”

“Except for my brain?”

“Well, your memory. But I’ve met plenty of people who’ve been there, and I want to see you back to good health. And if there’s someone to sue over this, then I’m gonna get you that money, too. Preston, I’ve worked with some of the biggest attorneys in Georgia, so trust me. If there’s something amiss, I’m gonna find it.”

I nodded.

“Toni tells me you’re getting frequent headaches, and I checked with the doctors. Here. ”

She handed me a bottle of tablets. Thank God I could still read. Motrin. And the capsules were two hundred milligrams. “I’m told you should take two if the pain starts again. And if it gets really bad, take three, but not on an empty stomach.”

I was willing to go along with what ever she wanted, as long as I could get rid of these headaches. But I couldn’t help noticing how absolutely beautiful and together this woman was. She had to be at least ten years older than I was; if not, then I was not only absentminded but a numbskull. Ophelia was an achiever; that was clear. She was much further advanced in her life than I could ever claim to be. Especially now. And, to say the least, I was in total awe.

“Mom? I heard your voice.” I heard the younger female voice before I got a look at the face. And then I eventually did see the person behind the voice. Whoa. It immediately hit me that this was a younger version of Ophelia. The facial features. The body. The energy.

All that seemed to double up on me once these two hugged.

“How was your trip back, Ma?”

“Good, baby. Did you meet our guest? Preston, this is my daughter, Dancer. And Dance— I call her Dance — just happens to be one of Atlanta’s hottest female singers!” Ophelia’s face lit up when she announced this. I could see the pride in her expression. I could also see the humble demeanor of Dancer. Wow, what a name.

Dancer seemed to have a lot to talk about with her mom, including some type of recording collaboration with a local rap artist, and some other business about being a featured act at Atlanta’s Bronner Bros. Hair Show. I excused myself and began to back out of the office, but Ophelia help up her hand. Wait.

Don’t hafta tell me twice.

“Dancer, why don’t you show Preston the studio I built for you.”

And so it was. Just a little farther down the hallway was a combination studio and living quarters that Dancer seemed to fit comfortably in. It felt as though the two women had shown this jewel to many a visitor. I hardly blinked before Dancer flipped a few switches and lit up the sound board, computer screens, the sound booth, and seconds later music began to play.

Ophelia immediately rocked her head to the tempo of the music. It was clear to see that she couldn’t have heard this less than a thousand times. I didn’t see STAGE MOM on Ophelia’s forehead. But PROUD MOM was definitely broadcast from there.

“Nice,” I said. And I wanted to hear more.