Читать книгу Chances Are - Donna Hill - Страница 8

Eighteen years later

Dione Williams sat in her small, but neat, afrocentric office, located on the basement level of the four-story brownstone she’d purchased five years earlier in the Clinton Hill section of Brooklyn. Laid out from end to end on the gray metal table she used for a desk—purchased at a discount city auction—were utility bills, invoices from vendors, taxes due and another pile of rejection letters for the three proposals she’d written for additional funding.

She rubbed a hand across her forehead, then began to massage her temples with the balls of her thumbs.

Chances Are was in trouble. Serious trouble, and according to her accountant if she didn’t secure a solid influx of capital within the next four to six months, the ten teen mothers and their babies who’d come to live at the reconverted residence and who depended on her for their survival would be put out onto the street, and her staff would be out of jobs.

All around her, she felt the doors closing, and that old fear underscored by more than a decade of anger resurfaced like a swimmer gasping above the water for air. She looked up and out of the small basement window, catching a glimpse of the near-barren trees, the branches reaching out at her, begging for her help and the grass that was turning a honey brown before disappearing until next spring, were all symbolic of her life.

Sighing, Dione tucked a wayward strand of shoulder-length auburn hair behind her ear, her hand brushing against her damp cheek. There had to be a way to save her dream. Unfortunately, she’d completely run out of original ideas. And the one alternative was too far-fetched and much too risky. Absently she toyed with the tiny gold stud that adorned her lobe. There had to be another way.

The soft tap on the door momentartily drew her attention away from her disturbing thoughts. Quickly she wiped her tears away.

“Come in.”

“Hey, Dione, I had a feeling I’d find you down here.” Brenda Frazier, her assistant director, right and left hand, breezed into the room and shut the door. “Do things really look as bad as the expression on your face?” She eased her hip along the edge of the desk.

Dione tried to smile. “I’m afraid so.”

“What about the bank—can’t we get a loan?”

“The building is mortgaged to the hilt. Without any substantial flow of capital, the bank won’t front another loan.”

Brenda folded her arms beneath her breasts. “Dee, we may have to go with the documentary thing. I mean if it works and we could get the attention we need and deserve—” Brenda’s eyebrows rose.

Dione shook her head. “I can’t do that to the girls, Brenda. Some of them are here because they’ve had to get out of abusive situations. There are others who don’t want anyone to know where they are, or that they’re homeless and living in a shelter.”

Brenda threw her hands up in the air in frustration. “I wish I had such hard living. We may be categorized as a shelter, but these apartments are plenty fit for these queens. I wouldn’t mind living in one of them myself. You’ve done miracles with this place and with these girls. People need to know that.”

Dione pressed her lips together. “Not at the expense of the girls’ privacy, Bren.”

If it was one thing that Dione was always adamant about, it was the privacy of the residents, Brenda knew. Dione guarded it as fiercely as a lioness governing her cubs. But even a lioness had to let her cubs out into the world. Dione couldn’t protect the girls forever. “Why don’t you put it to the girls for a vote? Have a house meeting. We all have a lot to lose if we have to close down. You more than anyone. You put your whole life into this place. And what about Niyah? Your salary pays for her education. And mine keeps a roof over my head. So, I don’t know about you, but I’ll be damned if I’m leaving without a fight.”

Dione grinned. If there was one thing she could depend on Brenda for, it was a challenge. “All right.” She blew out a breath. “Set up a house meeting for tomorrow night after dinner. And would you pull out the proposal for me? I want to take another look at it.”

“Now you’re talking.” She patted Dione’s hand. “It’s going to work out, Dee. This may be just the opportunity we need.”

“I hope so. For everyone’s sake. What was that producer’s name again?”

“Garrett Lawrence.”

Slowly, Dione nodded. The last thing she needed was someone taping, and snooping into all of their business. But if it could save Chances Are, and the girls were willing, she’d have to take the risk. She’d just deal with the repercussions when they came, and she was certain they would. She only hoped that this Garrett Lawrence didn’t have the sensitivity of a gnat.

Upstairs, the house, as usual, was full of activity for a Monday morning. The young mothers and their babies could be heard in their one-bedroom apartments dashing around in preparation for their day. On each of the four floors were three apartments, except on the ground floor where there were two. One of which was where Ms. Betsy lived, subbing as housemother during the night and child-care worker during the day. Each of the apartments was fully furnished with a small living room/dining room, bedroom, washer/dryer unit and full-sized bathroom. When Dione had purchased the house, she’d had it completely gutted and renovated to accommodate the number of rooms she needed. Although the original sprawling rooms had been cut down substantially, they still maintained a sense of warmth. She’d painstakingly selected every piece of furniture, every crib, bed, dinette set, sheet, towel, pot and pan. When the girls arrived they came into a place that they could immediately feel was home.

The girls were taught how to take care of their apartments, do laundry, shop on a budget, and cook and clean. All in preparation for them eventually leaving and moving out on their own. Dione’s vision was to provide the girls with an environment that they wanted to aspire to. So many of them had come from places that only nightmares were made of. They hadn’t been taught how to do anything, and even though they balked at the cooking classes, parenting and permanent housing workshops, she knew they appreciated it—appreciated the fact that someone had finally taken enough time to care about them and about their future.

Dione went up to the second floor and knocked on apartment 2B. Gina, their newest resident, was notorious for oversleeping, which always made her late for her GED classes at the local high school.

Ms. Betsy, “mother in spirit” to Dione, refused to coddle Gina by giving her a personal wake-up call every morning. It was Dione and Betsy’s biggest bone of contention. So Dione had to sneak upstairs every morning and do it herself. There was no way she would sit back and let Gina sleep through opportunity. Maybe Gina did need some tough love, but Dione painfully remembered how desperately she’d needed love and nurturing and how she was turned out into the street. She couldn’t let that happen to anyone else.

She pressed the bell that sat like a wad in the center of the heavy wood door and listened to the chime echo against the stillness inside, a sure sign that Gina was still asleep. Dione looked from side to side and peered over the railing while she waited, crossing her fingers and toes that Gina would get to the door before Ms. Betsy spotted her.

“Yes?” came a very groggy voice.

“Gina, it’s me, Ms. Williams.”

Gina cracked the door open, her micro-braided extensions that nearly reached her waist, shadowed her seventeen-year-old turning twenty-five face like a black veil, but couldn’t hide the spark of intelligence in her brown eyes.

“It’s past time to get up, sleepyhead. Where’s Brandy?”

“She’s still asleep,” Gina mumbled, rubbing sleep from her world-weary eyes.

“Get her up and downstairs to day care, and you hurry up. I don’t want to hear any excuses about you being late for class. I expect to see you downstairs in a half hour. Understood?”

“Yes, Ms. Williams.”

“Good. Now get moving before Ms. Betsy catches me.”

Gina giggled. “Okay.”

Dione turned away, smiling. Gina had potential. She could see it in her schoolwork, in her conversation. Gina had a future that Dione didn’t want to see her lose because of having a baby too young. She just needed someone to remind her that she was worthy and worthwhile. They all did.

Walking down the hall and then upstairs to the third floor, Denise and her two-year-old son Mahlik were on their way down, followed by Kisha who carried her six-month-old daughter Anayshia in her arms.

From the moment Kisha moved into the residence, three months earlier, she and Denise were inseparable. It was like watching a modern-day miracle. The once recalcitrant and hostile Denise began to bloom, watered and fed by Kisha’s friendship and outgoing personality.

“Good morning ladies, and gentleman,” Dione greeted, bending to give Mahlik a quick kiss on the cheek.

“Mornin’, Ms. Williams,” they chorused.

Dione took a peek inside the pink bundle in Kisha’s arms. “How is Anayshia feeling?”

“Much better. I took her to the doctor like you said and I’ve been giving her the new formula.”

“So it was the formula that was making her sick?”

Kisha nodded. “Just like you said, Ms. Williams.” She grinned. “You should have been a doctor.”

“I don’t think so.” She smiled. “But I’ve seen the symptoms enough. My daughter was allergic to her formula when she was a baby, too.”

“I didn’t know you had a daughter, Ms. Williams.”

“Sure do. Almost eighteen years old. She’s away at college.”

“Wow. How old does that make you?” Kisha quizzed.

Dione put her hand on her hip. “Old enough not to have to answer. Now get moving all four of you.”

“Bye, Ms. Williams,” they chimed as they brushed by her and down the stairs.

Dione shook her head and smiled. “How old am I? Ha.”

She continued up to the top floor, making certain that everyone was up and about, then headed back downstairs. It was her regular routine and she had yet to grow tired of it.

Brenda was right, she thought, making her way down. This was hers, her baby. She’d given birth to Chances Are as sure as she’d given birth to Niyah. She loved and nurtured the girls and their children who came through her doors seeking help, the same way she’d finally found the love she’d needed.

A shudder of remembrance ran through her every time she thought about those lonely, frightening, difficult days when she’d wandered the streets after school and slept on the trains at night, sneaking into the girls’ bathroom at school first thing in the morning to wash up and brush her hair. She’d stashed her suitcase in her locker and changed clothes every day before class started. On Fridays she’d take the suitcase out of the locker and wash her clothes at the laundry, bringing the clothes back on Monday. If anyone asked why she always had a suitcase, she told them she was staying with her cousin on the weekends.

For nearly a month, she’d drifted through life not sure how, just by pure willpower. She could barely stay awake in class and constantly felt sick. She wasn’t sure how Ms. Langley, the guidance counselor, found out about her secret life, but she did and called her into her office.

“Please close the door, Dione and have a seat,” Ms. Langley said.

Reluctantly, Dione did as she was told, tried to smile and act nonchalant even as her stomach roiled and her heart bounced around in her chest.

“Is there anything you want to tell me, Dione?”

“No,” she muttered.

“Then I’ll start.” Ms. Langley folded her hands on the desktop and leaned forward. “I think you’re in trouble, Dione, and so do your teachers. We’ve all noticed the difference in your appearance, your mood and your classwork. If you’ll talk to me about what’s wrong I can help you, or talk to your parents for you if you want.”

Dione violently shook her head. “No!”

“I want to help you, Dione.” She came around the desk and put her arm around Dione’s shoulders, and the dam burst.

“Good morning, Dee.”

Dione blinked, shutting out the images of the past. “Good morning, Ms. Betsy.”

Betsy stepped out the door of her ground floor apartment. “I know you were up there checking on that lazy Gina,” she grumbled, wagging an accusing finger at Dione.

Dione tried not to look guilty. “I was checking on everybody.”

Betsy pursed her lips, then sucked her teeth. “You gotta get these young girls to stand on their own feet. Be responsible. What are they gonna do when they have to step out into the real world without you there to keep them under your wings?”

A surge of heartsickness swept through her. “I don’t even want to think about it, Ms. Betsy. You know how hard it is for me to let them go. They’re just babies themselves. And—”

“You’re not your mother, Dione. You’re gettin’ them ready for life, not throwing them out onto the street.” Betsy wagged her finger again. “You were just as young as these girls when—”

“Yes. But I had you.”

Betsy clucked her tongue and patted Dione’s arm. “I have work to do,” she fussed. “I know my early birds Denise and Kisha are waiting on me to take those babies so they can get to school.”

Dione grinned. “You have a good day.” She kissed the older woman’s cheek before they parted, a ritual that began nearly eighteen years earlier, when Betsy was her landlady for the rooming house she and her infant daughter Niyah lived in.

She remembered walking for what seemed like forever to find that building. Ms. Langley had given her the address after she’d spent a week in a shelter and refused to go back. She’d had to sleep on a cot with a mattress no thicker than the thin blanket that covered her. She heard things—noises in the night and the soft sobs of the young women around her. The second day she was there she’d awakened to find most of her clothes missing and five dollars out of her wallet. When she arrived at school with what she had on her back and stormed teary-eyed into Ms. Langley’s office, she swore she’d kill herself if she ever had to go back.

Ms. Langley jumped up and shut the door. “Dione, what happened?” Her green eyes raced across Dione’s ravaged face and body to assess if there was any damage.

“I’m not going back there, Ms. Langley. I won’t.”

“Dione, you can’t live on the street. You’re going to have that baby in two months. You have to have someplace to live.”

“I’ll live on the street if I have to. I did it before. But I can’t go back there, and you can’t make me go.”

“Yes, I can, Dione. By law you’re still a minor. I should have had you placed in foster care instead of sending you there.”

Dione looked at her defiantly. “You can’t send me anywhere I don’t want to go. Nobody can. I’m eighteen.” Her eyes filled and she felt her throat constrict. “Today’s my birthday.”

It was Betsy who cared for Niyah while Dione returned to finish high school, and worked part-time at the local supermarket three days per week after giving birth to her baby girl. And Betsy always made sure that when Dione dragged herself home after her long days at school and then at work, there was a meal for her to eat.

Humph, that building. It was an old, raggedy building that was hotter than Hades in the summer and could rival the Arctic in the winter, located smack in the middle of the notorious East New York section of Brooklyn, one of the most dangerous areas of the borough. But it was inexpensive. The only thing she could afford. The check she received from Public Assistance for her and Niyah and the small salary she earned at the supermarket just about made ends meet.

One thing she was always grateful for, Ms. Betsy was real careful about choosing her six tenants, so Dione always felt safe, and Betsy seemed to have taken an instant liking to her and Niyah. She always went out of her way to make sure that they had enough to eat and extra blankets during the bitter winter nights.

When Dione graduated from high school, it was Betsy who sat in the audience cheering for her, with Niyah squirming on her lap.

Dione promised herself that if—no, when—she made a success of her life she would get Ms. Betsy out of that building and take care of her the same way she had taken care of her and Niyah. And Dione had kept her promise. She smiled as she walked toward the main office. Yes she had.

When Dione entered the office, Brenda was busy pulling files that were scheduled for the monthly review.

This was one of the aspects of the job that was a mixture of triumph and disappointment. When the girls’ progress files were brought before the staff for review, Dione always believed that the results, whatever they may be, were a direct reflection on the staff and the program, and ultimately on her.

If the girls were unable to achieve the goals set out for them, Dione felt the staff should have done more, she should have done more. The comprehensive program that she’d developed for the residents relied on all of the pieces working together: continuing education, finding employment, attending on-site housing preparation classes that taught budgeting, cooking, housekeeping and parenting skills.

In the five years since the house had been opened, thirty young women and their children had come through the doors and lived under that roof. Most of them took the opportunity, love and support that was give them and multiplied it when they went out on their own. But there were those who were beyond saving. The ones who’d come to her too late, too damaged by life. The ones who kept her awake on so many nights.

She pushed the thoughts aside as she crossed the rectangular room. “What time is the case review meeting scheduled for?”

Brenda looked briefly over her shoulder. “Four-thirty.”

Dione nodded. “What about the house meeting?”

“I’ll draft up the notice and have it under everyone’s door. The proposal is on your desk downstairs.”

“Thanks.” She turned to leave, then stopped. “Bren?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you really think this documentary is the way to go?” She folded her arms and leaned against the door frame.

Brenda laid down the file and faced Dione. “We’ve pretty much run out of options. The proposal sounds good and if marketed properly could get us the financing we need. That’s what we have to focus on.” She waited a beat, looking at Dione’s faraway expression. “What’s really bothering you, Dee? I don’t think it’s just the girls.”

Dione straightened. “Why would you think that? Of course that’s all there is. I don’t want them exploited.”

Brenda looked at Dione for a long moment. “If you say so.” She turned back to the file cabinet.

“I’ll be downstairs if you need me.”

“Sure,” Brenda mumbled.

Dione returned to her basement office, leaving the door partially open. Even though Brenda and Ms. Betsy had insisted that she close her door while she was working, Dione never wanted any of the girls to feel that she was inaccessible. Her steadfast policy interrupted many a thought process, but she stood by it.

She turned on the small lavender and white clock radio that was given to her as a gift from one of the former residents the previous Christmas. As the sultry sounds of Regina Bell overcame the static and filled the room, she thought about the question Brenda asked.

How could she tell Brenda that yes, she was right, the girls’ privacy wasn’t all that she was concerned with. She was concerned with her own privacy and what the probing of this documentary may uncover, that the lie she’d woven for the past eighteen years would become unraveled.

That’s what she didn’t want to risk, hurting Niyah with the truth. But at what cost?

She blew out a breath and opened the folder that contained the proposal. G.L. Productions stared back at her in thick, black capital letters. A tiny jolt shot through her. She wasn’t sure why. Blinking, she turned the page and began reviewing what G.L. Productions had proposed to do in order to fulfill the requirements of the granting agency.

According to what Mr. Lawrence wrote, his intention was to get personal interviews with some of the residents and ask them all about their backgrounds and how they found themselves at Chances Are. She wrinkled her nose and shook her head. “That’s out.”

She continued to read, becoming more agitated by the minute. She was right when her first thought told her to scrap the whole documentary idea. Not only did they want to interview all of the girls, but the staff as well. They also wanted to take footage of the activities in the house. And with the girls’ permission, get interviews from any family members. She couldn’t see that happening.

Closing the folder, Dione leaned back in her chair and rubbed her eyes with the tips of her index fingers. She’d only given the proposal a cursory glance when it had come in two months earlier and dismissed it as something she had no intention of participating in. But after a careful review, she had even more doubts than before. Only now, the dire situation at Chances had escalated.

Well, she conceded, if she was going to go through with it, as she was feeling compelled to do, she’d have to outline her own set of requirements. But she’d let the girls decide at the house meeting.