Between Brothers Read online

  “We’d like to begin, people. Let me thank you for taking time out of your busy schedules to help fulfill the promise of our candidate for Highland Student Association president, Mr. Larry Whitaker!”

  As Mark began to rev the crowd up, Brandon eased into a seat in the back row. Having avoided Highland’s political circles as if they were hell itself for his first three years here, he was still a little uncomfortable at these types of events. Not helping his unease was the fact that Monica Simone was sitting three rows up and two seats over. Brandon knew that Monica and Tara had run with some of Larry’s crowd in the past, so he had no reason to be surprised to see her. That still didn’t stop his heart from galloping all over again. Sinking into his seat, he accidentally locked eyes with the woman sitting one seat over. The sister, her face partially covered by the bill of her white Detroit Tigers baseball cap, was working valiantly to make herself invisible. In fact, Sheila Evans, editor of the Highland Sentinel, had scooted so far down into her seat that her shoulders were parallel to the armrests of her chair.

  Deciding to have some fun, Brandon leaned over and tapped Sheila’s left shoulder. “Hey, how’d you get past Chuck Dawkins? You know you’re not welcome here. Your editorials have been all over Larry’s back.”

  Turning her rich brown face, which was free of any trace of makeup, Sheila looked at Brandon like a kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar. “Now, look, I am completely in my rights to be here. I know you, right? We had an English class together or something. Look, friend, I already had this discussion with Dawkins.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Yeah, the big lug tried to put me out like he did those punk freshmen, but I set him straight. Told him I am a professional, impartial journalist, and he had no cause to keep me from covering this campaign.”

  Brandon smirked. “And he bought that?”

  “Let’s just say he was swayed by my promise to highlight his bouncer act in the Sentinel, if he didn’t treat me like he had some sense. I may not be a fan of a corporate wannabe like Whitaker, but I’m here as a reporter, not an editor. When I write my editorials, I can speak from the heart. Today, I’m just recording the five W’s for the Highland public.”

  “The five what?”

  “When, where, who—never mind.” Sheila paused as Janis completed her treasurer’s report. Clearly amused at the proceedings, she turned again to Brandon. “Look at Whitaker. So smug, so full of himself. Knows he’s fine. Had a silver spoon lodged in his spoiled mouth from Day One. If I hear one more woman on this campus include him in her top five most desirable men, I’ll be sick. That’s not what this university needs.”

  Brandon was enjoying this. “Oh, I agree. The brother’s revolting. Can’t stand him myself.”

  “Look at the way he handles himself. Some sisters say he reminds them of a young Harry Belafonte, though I think the Will Smith comparison is probably apropos. Unfortunately, as I’ve found the hard way, pretty usually also means prick.”

  Brandon licked his lips with glee. This woman must be short a few friends, to be sitting here spilling her feelings about Larry to a virtual stranger. Looking toward the front of the room, he admired Larry’s poise. This was a man who relished having the eyes of the entire room fixed on him. His photogenic, clipped smiles and winks at various audience members were tailor-made to impress, and they were clearly hitting their mark. Larry was a natural-born politician and charmer. And Sheila Evans was fooling herself if she thought she was impervious to his charms.

  Brandon leaned into Sheila’s left ear as Mark called Larry to address the audience. He noticed that she smelled like fresh toothpaste. “Sister, I hear every word you’re saying about Larry. By the way, I’m Brandon Bailey.” He extended his right hand. “Larry and I are housemates.” A rush of triumph swept over Brandon as Sheila’s face flushed with a hint of red.

  Up front, it was time to whip the troops into action. Larry removed his Ralph Lauren jacket and began to roll up the sleeves of his Eddie Bauer oxford. “My brothers, my sisters, those of you who know me, and I would hope that includes everybody, know that I am first and foremost a businessman. What things are important to a businessman, you ask? I’ll give you my vision of a successful business: one that puts out a good product, on time, at the most efficient cost, with the maximum return to its shareholders.” Pausing and whipping his slender frame around to the front of the table, Larry accelerated his rate of speech. “Now, don’t go silent on me, people.” As the crowd shifted and buzzed in reaction to his change in style, Larry pressed forward.

  “What’s a good product for a historically black college? I’ll tell you. A well-educated graduate is the best product an HBCU can produce. A graduate who has been given the technical skills, the historical knowledge of his people, and the high quality service of this school’s administration. Why? Because this person will go out into that real world and do two things. Succeed, and give back!”

  “Well, all right!” From the midst of the crowd, O. J.’s churchy response rang like a bell. The crowd erupted in a peal of laughter.

  Obviously amused, Larry paused for a laugh of his own before resuming his message. “Sounds so simple, doesn’t it? But it’s not! We all know it! Every person up in here can tell a horror story about the way the administration has jacked them over in one way or another. If it’s not financial aid, it’s housing, or lack thereof! If it’s not a lack of course options in your chosen field of study, maybe you’re just tired of seeing your favorite teachers fired because they haven’t published their work in five journals this year!” Some members of the crowd were on their feet now, their appreciation for Larry’s insights made clear.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, as we go forward into the campaign, I assure you I am a realistic leader. We can’t do everything in one year. But we can lay the groundwork for future administrations, which, if done right, will leave them no choice but to follow in our footsteps. Are you with me?”

  The resounding “Yess!” nearly knocked Larry off his feet. “Well, all right, I’d like to take a quick minute then to talk about my key platform policies. You’ve all received a detailed copy of the platform, to which you can refer while you’re out spreading the good word. I think there are three policies we want to stress today as we go around.” Larry was now enunciating every word clearly, using the King’s English in the way he instinctively did whenever it was time to get down to serious business. By the time he was finished summarizing his platform, the crowd teemed with the blind enthusiasm of an Amway meeting. They were ready to go out and sell Larry to every student on Highland’s campus.

  “Okay, I need everyone to pay close attention as I read off the teams for the dorm visits!” Having summarized the platform brochures and scripts that the campaign workers were to use, Mark barked out the team assignments with the rapid-fire pace and energy of a drill sergeant. The partners were to trade off, going from door to door and taking turns serving as the key spokesperson. The teams had been assigned so as to show the authenticity of Larry’s student support; all people who were known to be close friends or associates were separated, so that Larry’s supporters would not appear to be one big clique. Team by team, Mark read off the names of the workers, who met up front to gather their materials before setting off on their assigned mission. Brandon couldn’t help but chuckle when the first pairing turned out to be Terence and his ex-girlfriend, Lisa. Lisa had broken Terence’s heart too many times to count, and here she was at his side again.

  As a frustrated Terence exited the room, Brandon shifted in his seat and hipped Sheila to Larry’s antics. “Hey, Sheila, check this out. Larry matched my boy Terence up with—”

  Up front, Mark’s green eyes danced as he read the next pairing. “Brandon Bailey and Monica Simone.”

  Brandon’s brain processed the words in slow motion. Surely he hadn’t heard right. This damn fool did not set him up to go out campaigning with Monica. As Monica, dressed in a wine-colored silk pantsuit, rose from her seat and flo
ated to the front of the room, Brandon remained glued to his chair, his brain nearly shutting down.

  Mark was obviously in on the joke. “Ahem, Mr. Bailey, paging the future Dr. Bailey.” The entire room collapsed in laughter as Brandon wobbled out of his seat.

  Brandon realized Larry had backed him into a corner, and now he had a choice. He could keep doing what he’d done for years, and cower in the heat of love’s glare, or he could bare his claws and attack the challenge before him. He reminded himself: She’s not Brandy.

  Brandon arched his back and stormed to the front of the room. Arriving at the front table, he wiped his palms on his navy blue Dockers and eyed Larry like a calm cat scoping a scampering mouse. He wanted to tell Larry where he could go with his matchmaking attempts, but he couldn’t do that with Monica literally standing on his heels. That only left one option.

  His mustache glistening with nervous moisture, Brandon turned toward Monica. “Monica Simone. Gee, I couldn’t have gotten a better partner if I’d picked you myself.” He emphasized the last few words, slyly cutting his eyes at Larry.

  Smiling and brushing a wavy black lock out of her right eye, Monica placed her left hand on her hip as Brandon grabbed a stack of brochures and a couple of scripts from Mark, who was grinning like the Cheshire cat.

  Monica met Brandon’s eyes as he turned from the table. “Well, this’ll be an opportunity for us to talk for once. Seems like we normally just say ‘Hi, bye’ while your cousin Bobby pesters my best friend. You’ll have to tell me about the real Brandon Bailey.”

  His mouth set with courageous determination, Brandon inhaled deeply as he turned toward the exit. “Well, why don’t we set a date and time to do that right now? Monica, what say I take you out sometime?” Too far gone by now to be deterred by the look of shock that invaded her face, Brandon headed for the door. “Don’t feel pressured to give me an answer now. We’ve got work to do first. Larry, we’ll be back after we’ve gotten you a few hundred votes, all right?”

  Before Brandon could escape the room and the snickers and glares of those who had overheard, Monica raised her voice a notch. “Hold up, hold up, what is this about?” Her hands were on her hips and her right foot was planted solidly into the carpet. She didn’t exactly seem flattered by his approach.

  Frozen in place, Brandon looked helplessly at Larry and Mark, who were feigning complete ignorance as they handed out materials to other volunteers. Brandon was on his own, and he felt like he was up a very long, cold creek. “Uh, what do you mean? I asked you out, Monica. Capisce?” Capisce? Why the heck did he say that? Black men didn’t say “Capisce.” He was screwing up, bad.

  Monica’s captivating eyes were full of fire. She walked over to where he stood, just inside the doorway. “Let me hip you to something, brother.” Her sharp but proper New York accent sounded like a cross between Salt-n-Pepa and Robin Givens. “Women don’t appreciate being put on the spot. If you wanna ask me out, you keep it between me and you.” Her stare was full of indignation.

  This is exactly why I should stick with girls from the Disciples, Brandon thought. What was her major malfunction? He’d psyched himself up for this, and now she was ready to crucify him. It was time to stop giving a damn. “Excuse me, Ms. Simone, but it just so happens that I’ve got a jones in my bones for you. Now, you don’t have to like it—fact is, you don’t have to give a crap. But Larry set us up as partners because he knows how I feel about you. He thought I’d wilt like an old flower. I asked you out when I did to prove him wrong, and to make sure I didn’t talk myself out of doing it. How’s that sound?”

  The fire in Monica’s eyes began to die down. She tugged at a lock of hair near her right temple. “Well, that helps explain, but I don’t like having my business out in public, Brandon. Maybe I was too defensive. Let’s talk about this after we cover our route for the campaign.”

  Feeling his oats for having defended himself, Brandon swaggered toward the door with Monica in tow. “Deal. But I do want an answer.”

  As the pair made their way out into the hallway, Larry sighed with pride. He had led Brandon to water, and the boy was at least trying to drink.

  His needling of his housemates complete, Larry worked with Mark to clean up the extra brochures and materials. He’d had his fun; now it was time to get out there and start selling. There was only one question counteracting his upbeat mood: Who had really sent that note?

  CHAPTER 9

  . . . . . . . . . . . .

  PLYING THE FAITHFUL

  A few hours after Larry’s campaign meeting, the Interfaith Alliance annual church service concluded. The Reverend Joseph Batiste, pastor of Phillips Temple CME Church, a medium-sized congregation in the Deanwood section of Northeast D.C., was rightfully proud of the service his church had hosted. Apparently secure in his manhood and unconcerned with the impressions of the women flooding the fellowship hall, Batiste unzipped his black pastoral robe and allowed his healthy belly to protrude past the metal zipper. His graying, closely cropped hair still glistening from the sweat induced by his emotional performance just minutes earlier, he leaned against a wall near the buffet table. One of his deacons was preparing a plate of collard greens, hot cross buns, barbecued chicken, and potato salad, all of which were known to be his favorites. Once that hot plate was placed in his hand, he would sink gratefully into one of the plastic chairs lining the metal fold-out tables that congested the spacious hall.

  As he received the steaming repast, Batiste pointed a stubby finger at O. J., who stood a few feet away in the growing buffet line. “Peetahs!”

  Deep in conversation with an attractive coed from the Union Methodist Young Adult Choir, O. J. hoped Batiste would be satisfied with a smile and a wave. He could talk to the old man once he had gotten through the line and obtained the unsuspecting honey’s phone number.

  Batiste was having none of that. “Why you standin’ in line, son? One of my members will get you some food. Come here, I got to put a bug in your ear!”

  Called out in front of the burgeoning crowd, O. J. excused himself. Straightening his Chess King tie, one of many items he’d snapped up at a going-out-of-business sale last month, he smiled warmly at the young beauty. “Michelle, I hope we can continue this conversation later.” He smiled, hoping his interest was not too overt. Some Christian sisters were actually scared off by that. The knowing glint in Michelle’s eye suggested his interest was reciprocated. It would be on.

  Striding over to Batiste, O. J. shook the pastor’s hand vigorously. “Pastor, you all put your feet into this evening’s service! It was beautiful. As a representative of Light of Tabernacle’s clergy, I can assure you Rev. Grier will model his stewardship of next year’s service on the job you’ve done here.”

  His eyes fixed on the heaped plate before him, Batiste responded in the lilting accent of his Caribbean heritage. “Son, please, you and I bot’ know it was all de Lord’s work.”

  O. J. met Batiste’s eyes reverently. He knew this was no false humility on the minister’s part. The native West Indian sincerely credited Christ for working through him. He was completely devoid of ego, a rarity among the preachers O. J. knew.

  “O. J.,” Batiste continued, “I want to tank you again for taking part in de service. Your testimony and song put a hurtin’ on these people, brother. I’m sure you’ve been told dis before, but you have a real gift for de ministry.”

  Uncomfortable with such overt flattery, O. J. folded his hands together, thankful that a deacon had emerged with a plate of food for him. “Well, the Lord is good, and here’s a perfect example right here.” As O. J. bit into a candied yam, he artfully continued the conversation. “Let me thank you for the opportunity to minister, Pastor, as well as the chance to make that appeal concerning Ellis Center. I’ve already had ten or twelve people tell me they’ll be mailing checks to the lockbox account we’ve set up with the center’s board.”

  Deeply involved in his own meal, Batiste swallowed a piece of chicken and slapped O. J. o
n the back. He paused to acknowledge a few of the other visiting ministers who continued their way through the buffet line. “It’s my pleasure to see de center’s mission advanced. Did you know my associate, Rev. Webster, grew up in dat Shaw neighborhood? He swears by Ellis, say he’d be dead or in jail now if he hadn’t been tutored and exposed to some culture through dat place. Matter of fact, dere are several families here at de church who live in dat area and send deir children dere on a regular basis.” Glancing at the two ministers approaching them from across the room, Batiste cocked his head and scooted closer to O. J., lowering his voice to a whisper.

  “I don’t know if you’re aware, son, but dere are rumors about de stability of de center, and I’m not just speaking about de financial foundation. I hear dat de Nation of Islam is planning to set up a Fruit of Islam division there, dat would train those innocent kids up as Black Muslims. Do you know anything about dat?”

  Squaring his shoulders, O. J. let out a deep sigh. Even Batiste had fallen into the web of innuendo the center’s detractors had spun. “Reverend, now that Ellis will no longer be funded by public money, they are taking this as an opportunity to infuse limited religious concepts into the course and activity offerings, but no one religion will be favored. If you know what I mean.” O. J. winked at Batiste, a knowing smile on his face. “You see, the center recognizes that Christianity as well as other religions each offer some valuable lessons, and now they will be able to allow some facets of those religions in. But there will be no formal endorsement of any one, and more importantly, the majority of center administrators and board members are either Christians or heathens, so it’s only natural that the gospel will rise above the noise created by any other religions.”

  Leaning in toward Batiste and balancing a hot cross bun between his right thumb and index finger, O. J. dropped what he hoped would be a calming revelation. “Quiet as it’s kept, sir, I’ve been teaching them kids Bible lessons for the last two years, even while they were publicly funded. If that ain’t proof of Ellis Center’s true bias, I don’t know what is.”