God's Gift to Women Read online

  Also by Michael Baisden

  The Maintenance Man

  Men Cry in the Dark

  Never Satisfied: How & Why Men Cheat

  Touchstone

  Rockefeller Center

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  SimonandSchuster

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters,

  places, and incidents either are products of the

  author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any

  resemblance to actual events or locales or persons,

  living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  “God’s Gift to Women” by Angela O. Guillory

  reprinted courtesy of the author

  “Fatally Yours” by D’Ajaneigh Emmanuel

  reprinted courtesy of the author

  “Moving On” and “Above Average” by B. R. Burns

  reprinted courtesy of the author

  Copyright © 2002 by Michael Baisden

  All rights reserved,

  including the right of reproduction

  in whole or in part in any form.

  This Touchstone Edition 2003

  TOUCHSTONE and colophon are registered trademarks

  of Simon & Schuster Inc.

  Designed by Stacy Luecker

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:

  Baisden, Michael.

  God’s gift to women / Michael Baisden.

  p. cm.

  1. Radio broadcasters—Fiction. 2. Rejection (Psychology)—Fiction.

  3. Stalking victims—Fiction. 4. Single fathers—Fiction.

  5. Houston (Tex.)—Fiction. 6. Chicago (Ill.)—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3552.A3925 G63 2002

  813’.54—dc21 2003269674

  ISBN 0-7432-4692-6

  0-7432-4997-6 (Pbk)

  ISBN: 978-0-7432-4997-3

  eISBN: 978-1-4516-5058-7

  This book is dedicated

  to my beautiful and sweet cousin,

  Monica Goree Adams,

  who passed away on December 11, 1999.

  You were the little sister I never had.

  When I think about your warm smile

  and the funny way you laughed, I can’t help smiling.

  You were always supportive of me and my work.

  I will never forget your kindness as long as I live.

  Love ya’, Cuz.

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue Consequences

  Houston, Texas New Year’s Day 2002

  Part I Chicago (September 2001)

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Part II Houston, Texas

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Part III (October)

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Part IV (October)

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Part V (November)

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Part VI God’s Gift to Women (December)

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Epilogue Nightmares

  Nine months later

  About the author

  Acknowledgments

  It’s been eight long years since I sat down to write my first book, and I am more grateful than ever for this incredible gift God has given me. The ability to create stories that touch people’s lives is truly a blessing. I appreciate all the love and support all my fans have given me since I sold my first book out of the trunk of my car back in 1995. I promise you I’ll always remain humble and remember how much that first ten bucks meant to me.

  I want to send a special thanks out to all the African American bookstores for doing such a wonderful job of promoting my work. I can’t list them all, but there are a few who have been outstanding in their support: Medu Bookstore in Atlanta, The Shrine of the Black Madonna in Detroit and Houston, Smiley’s Books and Malik’s bookstore in Los Angeles, Culture Plus in New York, Black Images in Dallas, Books For Thought in Tampa, Karibu Books in Maryland, Apple Bookstore in Detroit, and African American Images in Chicago. It’s very important that we continue to support these and other black-owned bookstores. They are the main reason for the success of many self-published authors, including myself.

  Of course, I have to thank all the radio personalities across the country who have allowed me to sit in on their show and raise hell over the years. Steve Harvey at the BEAT in Los Angeles; his producer, Hollywood Henderson; and the Angels, Shirley Strawberry, Nautica de la Cruz, and Dominique DiPrima, with whom I’ve had a love-hate relationship for years. Thanks for always making it hot in the studio and for appreciating how hard my journey was.

  A special thanks to Donnie Simpson at WPGC in D.C., crazy Chris Paul, and his producer, Reggie Rouse. And of course, Justin Love and fellow Cancer Todd B. for always inviting me to sit in on Lovetalk. To my good friends at WEDR in Miami: James T., Tamara G., and Maestro in promotions. My seminars in Miami have been some of the best I ever had thanks to your support. Thanks to Magic Man and Nikki Thomas at WBLK in Buffalo, New York. I appreciate you packing the crowds in at your expo every year. And I must shout out to the Dream Team in Philadelphia: Donya Blaze; Golden Boy; comedian Dee Lee; Colby Colb (who’s now at Power 105 in New York); and the Diva herself, Wendy Williams, who has moved on to WBLS in New York. Congratulations on your success. You go, girl!

  To Deneen Busby at Majic 104.9 in St. Louis: thanks for doing such a great job of promoting me and other African American authors. Your Sunday-morning talk show with the book club is off the hook! And last but not least, my homeboy from Chicago, Doug Banks and his cohost DeDe McGuire, J. J. Jackson, CoCo Budda, and his producer, Gary Saunders. Thanks for making me feel welcome every time I walk into the studio at six o’clock in the morning. Hey, Doug, you still got a Dan Ryan head!

  Last, I have to thank Je’Caryous Johnson and Gary Guidry of I’m Ready Productions here in Houston. They shared my vision by bringing my novels Men Cry in the Dark and The Maintenance Man to the stage. It’s been a pleasure working with both of you. Looking forward to bigger and better things in the future.

  Prologue Consequences

  Houston, Texas New Year’s Day 2002

  I WAS FIGHTING to stay conscious as the paramedics rushed me down the corridor of my office building. In the distance I could hear gunfire and horns blowing.

  “You chose one helluva way to bring in the New Year, Mr. Payne,” the paramedic said.

  “Where’s my daughter?” I asked while trying to sit up. “And where’s Terri?”

  “Please lie still. You’ll only make the bleeding worse.”

  The radio station was on the twenty-fifth floor. I didn’t feel strong enough to make it to the ambulance—let alone the hospital. The bull
et had penetrated my left side and exited through my back. It burned like hell.

  “Am I gonna die?”

  They both paused, then looked at one another as if to seek the other’s opinion. That terrified me. Once we boarded the elevator, they began broadcasting my vital signs into the radio. I didn’t know the significance of the blood pressure and heart-rate numbers, but judging by the urgency in their voices, I was in trouble.

  “Where’s my daughter? And where’s Terri?” I asked again.

  “Relax, Mr. Payne, your daughter is—”

  He stopped in midsentence as the elevator doors opened on the lobby level. Suddenly, a wave of photographers and reporters rushed toward me. I was blinded by a barrage of flashing lights. Although my vision was blurred, I could see the outline of several husky policemen clearing a path.

  “Julian, can you tell us what happened?” a reporter yelled out.

  “Who shot the security guard?” another shouted while shoving a microphone in my face.

  “Fuckin’ vultures!” I tried to lift my hand to shield my bloody face, but my arms were strapped down. The yelling was deafening—like a continuous roar. The paramedics tried to move faster, but it was no use. The lobby was packed with policemen, reporters, and nosy fans who had come to watch. The atmosphere was festive, like a circus.

  “Get out of the way, please!” the paramedics yelled. “This man is in critical condition! Move, move, move!”

  The paramedics fought through the main doors, but once we made it outside we came to an abrupt stop. The crowd was even larger. People were jumping up on the hood of their cars trying to get a better look. As the brisk night air blew across my bloody face, their loud voices suddenly faded—replaced by sirens and the humming of the helicopter blades. I could feel the blood soaking through the bandages.

  It was obvious from the paramedics’ expressions that we were running out of time. The ambulance was only a few yards away, but the crowd was out of control. When they continued to push, the cops pushed back—violently. People were knocked to the pavement and trampled.

  “I love you, Julian!” a woman screamed as she struggled to get off the ground.

  “I’m your number one fan!” another woman shouted as she lifted her blouse, exposing her breasts.

  Suddenly a woman lunged toward me and ripped the sleeve off my blood-soaked shirt.

  “Aarrgh!” I screamed.

  “Now I’ll always have a piece of you,” she said. Her hazel eyes and deranged stare were all too familiar.

  “Move back!” the cops yelled as they pulled her away. “Move back, damnit!”

  The stretcher seemed to move toward the ambulance in slow motion. I was growing weaker. I fought hard to stay conscious—to stay alive. I gazed up at the flashing lights from the squad cars as they danced across the dark sky and against the nearby glass buildings. It reminded me of the Fourth of July in Chicago.

  I wish I had seen the fireworks on Lake Michigan this summer, I thought to myself. And I never did see the view from the top of the Sears Tower. I wish I had gone to Sam’s first basketball game when she was seven. I wish I could be with Terri when my baby is born. But most of all, I wish I had never met Olivia Brown. She was the reason I was bleeding to death in Houston, Texas, on New Year’s Eve.

  How could she go this far? I wondered as they lifted me into the ambulance. And why did she choose me?

  Part I: Chicago (September 2001)

  Chapter 1

  JASMINE-SCENTED CANDLES illuminated the studio, creating a spiritual ambiance. I reclined in my chair as I listened to the song “Is It a Crime” by Sade. The candles had become a ritual ever since I started at WTLK back in ’89. The flickering light and smell of jasmine were relaxing and made me more introspective—aromatherapy, they called it.

  The faint candlelight also served as camouflage for the dilapidated condition of the studio. The carpet was covered with decade-old cigarette burns, the plaster was falling off the ceiling, and the exposed water pipe leaked into an old Folgers coffee can. “Sade, your song is right on time,” I said as I glanced around the room. “This place is a crime.”

  Just before the song ended, I put on my headphones and adjusted the volume to the mic. The digital clock on the console read 11:55 P.M. “Five more minutes and I’m outta this dump!” I said with contempt. My producer, Mitch, was in the control booth next door setting up the calls. I could see him through the large soundproof window. I switched on the intercom to get his attention.

  “Well, Mitch, in a few minutes it’ll all be over,” I told him. “The final episode of the Green Hornet and Kato.”

  “Don’t be so dramatic, Julian,” he said in his usual smooth tone. “It’s not the end of the world, just another phase in life.”

  “Listen to you, sounding all philosophical. That must be one of the benefits of old age.”

  “Who you callin’ old?”

  Mitch had smooth, dark brown skin and short black hair with gray streaks. He looked very distinguished but he had recently turned fifty-five and was getting touchy about his age.

  “Look, we can arm wrestle for your Viagra prescription later,” I laughed. “Right now, let’s get to work and try to wrap up the show on time.”

  There were five people on hold. Mitch printed their names in bold letters on a piece of paper and taped it to the window. That was our sophisticated communication system. “Five, four, three, two—” I heard Mitch count. Then he pointed at me to signal we were on the air.

  “Welcome back to Love, Lust, and Lies on WTLK,” I said in my deep radio voice. “We only have enough time for two calls, so let’s go straight to the phones. Adam, you’re on. What’s your question or issue?”

  “Hey, Julian! I just want to congratulate you on your new show,” he said. “I hope you don’t get big-headed and forget where you came from when you blow up.”

  “Negro, please! I’ve been struggling in this business for fifteen years. I’ve never been about money or fame,” I told him. “I’ve never owned a new car, don’t own a nice watch, I cut my own hair, and every night I go home to a ten-year-old girl who’s goin’ through puberty. Now, if that doesn’t keep you grounded, nothing will. Thanks for calling.” Click.

  Mitch was laughing his ass off because he knew I was telling the truth. I drove a beat-up 1994 Toyota Camry, which I bought used in 1996. And my scratched-up Gucci was ten years old. I laughed myself because when I looked down at it, it had stopped working—again.

  “Okay, Sharon. You’re my last caller!” I said as I pushed the button to line two. “What’s your question or issue?”

  “My question is about love and commitment.” She sounded depressed.

  “We don’t have much time, sweetheart. What’s your point?”

  “My point is, when you love someone you should stand by him—no matter what, right?”

  “I agree. If you truly love someone, nothing should come between you.”

  “Well, I thought my husband loved me, until—”

  She stopped in midsentence.

  “Come on! It can’t be that serious,” I said jokingly, trying to cheer her up. “What happened? Did you gain a little weight, lose your job, get a bad hair weave? What?”

  “No, Julian, he left me because I was raped. The doctors said the damage was so severe I’ll never be able to bear children,” she said. Then she began to cry. “And after going through that hell, can you believe that no-good bastard had the nerve to tell me it was my fault that I got raped? How’s that for love and commitment?”

  I hit the mute button on my microphone and buried my head in my hands. When I looked up at Mitch, I knew he was thinking exactly what I was thinking. Why tonight—of all nights? The clock on the console read 11:56. We were almost out of time. But I was determined not to end my last show on a negative note.

  “Are you all right, Sharon?” I asked. “Do you want me to put you in touch with a therapist?”

  “No, Julian, thank you. I’ll be fine. It happene
d a long time ago.” She quickly composed herself. “I’m just sick and tired of men using the word love at their convenience. The only thing they love is getting pus—”

  “Hold up”—I cut her off—“I get the point! And you’re right, love is a serious word—men shouldn’t say it if they don’t mean it.”

  “Have you ever been in love, Julian?”

  “Hold on a second, who’s interviewing who?”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you. But I was just wondering if there’s ever been a woman worthy of your love.”

  I paused for a second as I thought of my wife, Carmen. Her picture was right in front of me, the one we took in Vegas on our honeymoon. I never spoke about her on the air since that day— it was too painful. But I decided to open up. Maybe I was caught up in the moment or by the vulnerability in Sharon’s voice.

  “Yes, I’ve been in love—once,” I told her.

  “Are you still with her?”

  “No, she’s gone—cancer took her.”

  “I guess we have something in common, Julian,” she said, then she hesitated. “We’re both alone.”

  Mitch was nodding in agreement. We both knew why. But I wasn’t about to go there on the air.

  “Like you said, it happened a long time ago,” I told her. “You’ve got to let go of the pain in order to move on. And speaking of moving on, it’s time for me to get out of here.”

  The phone lines were ringing off the hook, but there was no time left for calls. The management at WTLK was strict about ending segments on time, especially since the station was programmed to go off the air at midnight. The clock on the panel read 11:58.

  “Before I go, I want to end the show with an inspirational poem, the way I always do on ‘Hot Buttered Soul Poetry Friday.’ I call this piece ‘Movin’ On.’ I reached for my notebook. “This one’s for you, Sharon, and all the ladies out there who are trying to move on.” I cleared my throat and began to recite: