Chances Are

Chapter 2

Garrett Lawrence sat in the tight editing suite of his production studio, facing three television monitors, the video player and recording decks, putting together the final touches on an instructional video for a collection agency. The piece was well done, all of the important points were highlighted with animated graphics over narration. He knew the client would be pleased with the finished product—and he was bored. He wanted a project he could really sink his teeth into, something that had meaning, substance.

When he’d opened his production company four years earlier, he saw himself as the next Spike Lee, doing important, controversial work. The day had yet to arrive. It had taken all of his savings and a major bank loan to get G.L. Productions up and operational. For a small facility, it had all the latest in digital equipment and could easily compete with the bigger houses if it had the chance. But a small, black company already had two strikes against it right from the starting gate. Small and black.

If he could only get that Williams woman to accept the proposal, he knew that would be his ticket. Although, he had to admit that wasn’t his thought two months earlier. But now he had thirty days to get her to agree, or he would lose his grant, unless he could miraculously find another shelter for wayward girls that fit the grant criteria. And grants like this one were few and far between.

In the two months since he’d made his telephone pitch, which he followed with a formal letter and the outline of what he wanted to accomplish, he’d called several times to try to get an appointment, but he’d never been able to get past her assistant. He knew if he could sit down face-to-face with her, he could convince her to go for the project.

Garrett made an adjustment to the image on the screen. Who did she think she was anyway that she didn’t even have to give him the courtesy of a reply?

Satisfied, he turned off the equipment and stood, stretching his arms above his head hoping to loosen the kinks from hours of sitting.

Chances Are. Hmm. Wonder where they came up with the name? Chances were, loose girls wound up in places like that, or worse. People needed to see that. See them for what they really were: a burden on society.

When the request for proposals from the funding agency had been sent out, he originally had no intention of going for a contract documenting the lives of teen mothers—glorifying them. The very idea resuscitated the anger and the hurt he struggled to keep buried every day. It was his business partner and best friend, Jason Burrell, who’d finally convinced him that with the money and the exposure, it was the ticket they needed to take the company to the next level. “Get away from this instructional BS and do something worthwhile,” he’d said.

Reluctantly, Garrett had agreed. He knew it would be hard working with and talking to a group of females who epitomized everything he despised. But he knew Jason was right. So he did his research and found Chances Are, and wrote his proposal based on the premise that the director would agree to be filmed. Ha. So much for assuming.

“Hey, man. Whatsup?”

Garrett turned toward Jason who stood in the doorway. “Just finishing up the collection agency piece.”

“Hmm, glad that’s out of the way.” Jason stepped into the room and straddled an available stool. “Hear anything from the shelter?”

“Naw. Not a word. She doesn’t even have the decency to return our calls.” He sneered. “Probably too busy trying to keep those girls out of trouble—again.”

“I say we start looking elsewhere before we blow the grant, man. It’s a lot of money to lose.”

“Yeah, I’ve been tossing around the same idea. Problem is, the grant was real specific about what it wanted: a documentary on teen mothers living in a residential setting and how they got there. Chances Are is the only one of its kind not funded by the government. And we dug the hole deeper by detailing how we were going to do it.”

“I hear ya. That does limit our choices. But we gotta make a move. And soon. You want me to try to call again? Maybe I’ll get lucky and get past that guard-dog assistant of hers.”

Garrett blew out a breath. “Let’s give it another day or two. I’m going over to the research library this afternoon, do some more hunting. Maybe I’ll get lucky and find someplace else that meets the guidelines.”

“I sure as hell hope so.” Jason stood. “Well, I have a shoot at New York University. I’m gonna pack up the equipment and get rolling.”

“Who’s on the crew?”

“Najashi, Paul, and Tom.”

Garrett nodded. “I’ll probably see you in the morning, then. I’ll lock up when I’m done in here. Make sure they give you our check before you guys leave.”

“I’m getting the check before we start. I don’t want to hear nothing about how ‘the person with the check is gone for the day’ after we’ve done the work.”

Garrett chuckled recalling the many times they’d been stiffed and had to wait weeks, sometimes months, after a shoot to get paid.

“All right, I’m out. Good luck with your research.”

“Yeah.”

Garrett switched off the lights, checked the studio where they did their on-site shooting and the adjoining rooms, set the answering machine and the alarms and stepped outside to the lukewarm October afternoon. He stood in the doorway of his West Village office space and watched the passersby.

All up and down the avenue, folks strolled, stopped, peeked in antique shop windows, hugged, laughed. Everyone seemed to have somebody. Someone to experience and share their day with. He watched a young mother laughing with her son, then she bent down and picked him up and gave him a big hug before setting him back on his feet. The little boy looked up at her, a hundred-watt smile on his face.

A sudden, razor-sharp pain of hurt and betrayal sliced through his stomach. Why wasn’t he good enough to be hugged and kissed from the mother who gave him life to the wife who left him for greener pastures?

His chest filled. His throat constricted. Most times he didn’t think about those things. His work filled his days, and most of his nights. But this whole business with the documentary and the shelter brought back all the ugly memories. Hey, he’d get through it. He was tough. That’s what he’d been told the doctors said when he’d been found only hours old, wrapped in a sheet, wedged between two garbage cans.

He swallowed. Yeah, he was tough.

Chapter 3

The last of the girls, accompanied by their infants or toddlers, filed into the basement, which had been transformed from the day-care setting to a formal meeting space, the cribs, bassinets and playpens replaced with folding aluminum chairs.

Everyone tried to find a seat next to their buddy, whispering and speculating among themselves about why they were there.

“They’re probably going to tell us about the loud music again,” Kisha whispered to Denise. “You know how Ms. Betsy is about music.”

Denise sucked her teeth. “Pleeze. They wouldn’t call an emergency house meeting just to tell us about no darn music.”

“Betcha,” Kisha insisted.

“Probably gonna tell us about curfew again,” Gina said under her breath, knowing she was one of the culprits and hoping she wouldn’t be singled out to have her visiting privileges suspended. She wanted to see her boyfriend on the weekend. But she’d come in late two nights last week and had her toes and fingers crossed that she’d gotten over this time. Her daughter Brandy began squirming and whimpering. Gina stuck a bottle in her mouth and began bouncing Brandy up and down on her knee.

“If everyone will settle down, we can get started,” Brenda said from the front of the room. “If any of the babies are asleep, or you want to lay them down, take a sheet from the cabinet in the back and put them in one of the cribs or playpens.”

She waited while two of the girls leaped at the opportunity to put their bundles down. Once they were seated she began again.

“We have some serious business to discuss tonight and I want all of you to listen carefully to what Ms. Williams has to say. It affects all of us.” She turned to Dione, who moved from the side of the room and took Brenda’s place in front of the girls.

“An opportunity has presented itself to us. But as Ms. Brenda said, your decision—and it will be your decision—affects everyone.” She looked from one questioning face to the next before she continued. “A gentleman by the name of Garrett Lawrence would like to do a documentary, a short film, about you girls and Chances Are.”

“A movie!” Kisha beamed.

“Something like that,” Dione qualified.

A wave of murmuring rippled through the room.

“Okay, settle down. Nothing gets settled by talking among yourselves. It may sound exciting, but there are some other things to consider. He’s going to want to interview all of you, and your faces will be on film. I have no guarantees about who will eventually see it.”

Denise’s hand shot up in the air. “I can’t be on no film, Ms. Williams. I can’t.”

“Me, neither. None of my friends in school know I live in a shelter,” said another girl in the back.

“Yeah. Yeah,” chimed a few others.

“So don’t be in it,” snapped Kisha, looking behind her and giving the whiners dirty looks.

“Oh, shut up. It ain’t all about you,” snapped Theresa, one of the oldest in the group who’d been the victim of incest and held a blatant distrust of everyone and everything. It had taken Dione months to be able to get her to talk at all. The last thing she wanted for Theresa was a setback.

Kisha jumped up out of her seat, squaring off for a fight. She was always ready to defend herself or somebody and she was the smallest one in the bunch.

“Kisha! Sit down. Now!” Dione ordered.

Kisha blew out a breath and took her seat.

“Now just settle down. Everybody. Nothing is going to happen without everyone’s cooperation. I know this is a very sensitive issue for many of you. And you know that I’ve always done everything in my power to keep your privacy intact. We’ll put it to a vote.” She looked around the room. “All those in favor of the film being done, raise your hand.”

Four hands shot up in the air, leaving the majority of six in disagreement.

Dione sighed, partly in relief, partly in disappointment. “That’s it then. No film.”

There was a sudden outburst of conversation among the opposing sides, everyone trying to outshout the other.

“Quiet! Enough. End of discussion.” By degrees everyone settled down. “Thank you all for coming. The meeting is over.”

There was a lot of scraping of chairs and loud murmurs as the girls started to get up.

“Wait a minute.” Brenda stepped to the front of the room, her face a mask of barely contained fury.

Dione put her hand on Brenda’s shoulder in warning.

“No. They need to hear what I have to say,” she whispered.

She turned toward the assemblage. “Everybody take a seat.” She waited, tapping her foot with impatience. “I can understand some of you being reluctant about the whole thing for a variety of reasons. Ms. Williams didn’t tell you all everything, but I will.” She cut Dione a quick look from the corner of her eye and could see that Dione was fuming but resigned. “This is the real deal…”

Brenda told them plainly and slowly about the financial troubles Chances Are was in, and how making the documentary and getting it to important funders could be the key to saving the house.

“From the moment each of you walked through the doors, we have gone out of our way to make a home for you, help you in any way we could, get your lives and your children’s lives back on track. I think it’s about time you all began thinking about more than just yourselves and just today, but all the tomorrows and all the young women who will need Chances Are when you’ve moved out and moved on.” She took a breath. “I want you all to think about this. Think about it real hard.” She turned away and walked out, leaving them all in open-mouthed silence.

Dione found Brenda in the upstairs office, with the lights out, sitting in a chair by the window, her silhouette reflected against the moonlit night.

“Bren.” Dione heard her sniffle.

“Yeah,” she mumbled.

Dione stepped into the room. “Can I turn on the light?”

“I’d really prefer if you didn’t.”

Dione walked over to where Brenda sat and put a hand on her shoulder. “I think you really shook them up down there,” she began trying to get a chuckle out of her.

“I had to. They need to know the truth, Dee.” She sniffed again. “Our hearts and souls are in this place.”

“I know. We’ll find a way, Bren. Work on some more proposals, do some fund-raising. I’m not giving up.”

Brenda clasped the hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry. I know you didn’t want them to know how bad things really were. But—”

“It’s all right. You were right. They do need to know. It’s not fair to them to leave them in the dark. The reality is, if we can’t get some funding in here, we’ll have to start looking for placement for them.”

Brenda sighed. “I’m not looking forward to that, but it’s a reality.”

Dione squeezed her shoulder. “Something will work out. Go home and get some rest. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Yeah.” Slowly she rose and Dione could see her wiping her eyes in the shadowed room.

They both got their coats from the closet and walked out together to the front door.

Just as they reached the exit, Kisha came running down the stairs.

“Ms. Williams, Ms. Frazier. Wait!”

They both turned, fearing the worst, like a fight broke out upstairs or something.

“What’s the matter, Kisha?” Dione asked, holding her breath.

Kisha came to a stop in front of them. “We took another vote. We can’t let you lose Chances Are, Ms. Williams. It ain’t right.”

“Isn’t,” Dione corrected with a smile.

“Isn’t. But we want to help.”

Brenda turned to Dione and a smile broke out across her face. She grabbed Dione and hugged her. “Amen!”

Dione hugged her back as fear whipped through her. The racing of her heart had nothing to do with happiness.

That night Dione tossed and turned, her life, her youth, her lie tracking her like the most skilled of hunters. Everywhere that she tried to hide from the painful memories—there they were.

She ran, darting behind her successes, her degrees, her small cluster of friends, the security of Chances Are, but still the memories sought her out and found her. All in the form of Niyah who held out the accusing finger. “How could you have done it—lied to me all these years? I hate you,” she screamed. “Hate you!”

Chapter 4

When Garrett arrived at the studio the following morning Jason was already there setting up to shoot a public service announcement for the local historical society.

Garrett poked his head in. “Hey, how’s it going?”

“I should be asking you,” he said adjusting the teleprompter for the woman from the society.

“No luck if that’s what you mean.”

Jason stopped what he was doing. “’Scuse me a minute,” he said to the woman seated in front of the monitor. He crossed the studio floor to where Garrett stood in the doorway. “I’m telling you, man, call her. Lay the cards on the table. Just be upfront,” he said under his breath.

“Listen, I ain’t begging nobody for nothing. We got this far without this project, we’ll keep going.”

“Yeah, doing the same thing day in and day out,” he hissed. “What about our plans, man? Huh?”

“Listen, Jas. If we could get one grant, we’ll get another. I’m not going to sweat this. If she decides to call and accept, fine. If not we’ll move on.”

Jason tossed it around a minute and looked long and hard at his friend, knowing that once Garrett made up his mind on something that was it. “Yeah, all right, man. You’re the boss. Whatever you decide to do I’m behind you.” He slapped him on the shoulder. “Just don’t take too long to think up something brilliant.”

Garrett chuckled. “Yeah, right. Thanks. No pressure. See you later. I’ll be in editing. Tom and Najashi in yet?”

“Tom is. Najashi should be here around noon.”

“Cool. Later.”

Dione had alternately been staring at the phone then at the proposal. Debating. Yes, the girls had re-thought the idea and had decided to go along with it. But what about her? She felt as if she were being squeezed like a lemon. There was no easy win. Either way she stood to lose a lot.

All during her restless night, she thought about her options, and her level of participation. The bottom line was she only had to reveal as much or as little as she wanted. Niyah didn’t have to find out how ugly her beginnings really were.

Resigned, she reached for the phone, just as it rang.

“Good morning, Chances Are. Ms. Williams speaking.”

“Hey, Dee, it’s Terri.”

Dione’s face and spirit instantly brightened at hearing the voice of her dear friend Terri Powers.

“Girl, it’s good to hear your voice,” she enthused, easily slipping into the sistah mode. “When did you sneak back into town?”

“Just got in last night,” she said with her barely there Barbadian accent. “Clint and I were overdue for a vacation. We’ve been burning the candle at both ends.”

“Yeah, I hear you. But it’s always extra nice when you have your own getaway resort to get away to.”

They both laughed. Terri’s husband, Clint, had opened a small resort several years earlier in the Bahamas and it had really taken off. Between Clint’s uncanny business skills and Terri’s public relations savvy, their careers and their finances were set. They’d gone through hell and back before finally getting together; from the kidnapping of Clint’s daughter, Ashley, to the resurrection of Terri’s brother, Malcolm, who she’d believed had been dead for years—but they did get together and they were exceedingly happy.

“So, what’s been happening? Any luck with the proposals?”

“No,” she pushed out a long breath. “But we’ve finally decided to go with the documentary.”

“Fantastic! I told you weeks ago it was a great idea. You know I’d be more than thrilled to put a promo campaign together for you once it’s done. No problem.”

Dione smiled. “I’m going to hold you to that. We’ll need all the help we can get.”

“If you hadn’t wanted to carry the weight of that place on your shoulders, I told you I would have worked out a P.R. campaign for you to pitch to those stuck-up funders.”

“I know, I know. Don’t rub it in.”

“When does it start?”

“That’s the thing. I’m not sure. Actually, we just decided last night. We put it to a house vote. I haven’t even spoken to the producer yet. He may not want to do it at this point.”

“He’ll do it. The story behind Chances Are is a gem. Your story especially.”

Dione’s stomach fluttered. “That’s my biggest concern, Terri. You know that. Niyah doesn’t know everything.”

“Dee, it’s time that she did. She’s almost eighteen.”

“I know,” she said, a sad hitch in her voice. “I just don’t ever want her to feel the same worthlessness that I felt for so many years. Or that my bringing her into the world was the cause of—”

“Don’t even go there. If anything, Niyah was and still is the catalyst for everything that you’ve become. Everything that you’ve done for so many other young girls who had no one and nowhere else to turn. That’s something to be proud of, Dee, not ashamed.”

“And how many times over the years have I had this very conversation with myself? It’s just easier said than done.”

“Well, sister-friend, it’s got to come out sometime.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of. But I’ll work it out.”

“You always do. Now make that call, girl. I’m itching for a new project.”

Dione laughed. “I will and I’ll call and let you know what happens.”

“Good luck.”

“Thanks, Terri. Talk to you soon.”

Slowly Dione replaced the receiver, a soft smile framing her mouth. She was blessed. That was certain. She was surrounded by people who cared for and believed in her. And they were depending on her. How would her life have been different if her parents had been there for her when she needed them most?

She took a long breath, picked up the phone and dialed Garrett Lawrence’s number.

Garrett was right in the middle of putting the crucial piece of a choreographer’s video together. Painstakingly he ran and reran the tape to get it in perfect sync with the music.

At first he ignored the ringing phone, intent on what he was doing, until he realized that everyone else was in the studio taping the pubic service announcement.

“Man!” He stopped the tape, silently promising himself for the millionth time to set the answering machine for those days when Marva, their part-time receptionist, was off. He snatched the phone from its base on the wall behind him.

“Hello,” he barked. “G.L. Productions.”

Dione frowned at the abrasive voice on the other end and hoped that whoever this was, wasn’t representative of who she’d have to deal with.