Mark My Words: A Christopher Family Novel Book 3

By W. D. Foster-Graham

Allan Beckley Christopher is a self-made, African-American multimillionaire. Starting out with nothing but family, very high intelligence, ambition and drive, he succeeded against the odds. He dealt with racism, discrimination and the naysayers, Black and white, who were convinced he would never make it as an entrepreneur in the 1960s. Opening a fix-it shop in southside Chicago, through hard work and determination he turns it into a multi-million-dollar corporation.

Hes made his mark. His home is a thirty-room estate. He is among the Whos Who of Black America. His company is listed in the Fortune 500. He is a mover and shaker in the community, and all the connections that accompany it. He faithfully attends church on Sundays.

But has he made it?

With the advent of his sixtieth birthday, his character, his past and his beliefs come into focus, honor and question as his story is told through the eyes of his family--including his four LGBT children--and with it his impact on their lives.

Find out if Allan made it through Vickie, Allison, Bernie and the conclusion of Mark My Words...

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jul 31, 2018
• ISBN: 9781546246008

W. D. Foster-Graham

W.D. Foster-Graham is a native son of Minneapolis, Minnesota. He received a B.A. in psychology from Luther College, with a minor in Black studies. He is an original member of the 3-time Grammy Award-winning ensemble, Sounds of Blackness. He has also been recognized by the International Society of Poets as one of its “Best New Poets of 2003,” and is a guest writer for Wyatt O’Brian Evans (The Huffington Post, the Washington Post, the Advocate). He is the book review editor for Insight News, a Black community newspaper in the Twin Cities. His passion for writing was inspired by his father, who read voraciously. His tastes in writing run to historical fiction, family sagas, and romance, seasoned with his own brand of African American flavor—at the end of the day, it’s all about the love. He shamelessly admits to a love of romance novels, whodunits, and classic movies of old Hollywood. He also received inspiration from the late novelists E. Lynn Harris and Toni Morrison. In Toni’s words, “If there is a story you wish to read, and it hasn’t been written yet, then you must be the one to write it.” Retired from the field of teaching, he loves travel on the open road and time with his husband and son when not in writer’s mode. This is the 7th novel in his Christopher Family Novel series.

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© 2018 W. D. Foster-Graham. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 07/30/2018

ISBN: 978-1-5462-4601-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-4600-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018906707

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Acknowledgments

Author’s Note

Victoria Lorraine Christopher (April 18, 1954)

Allison Maureen Christopher Davis (September 21, 1955)

Bernard Mays Christopher (June 9, 1969)

Reunion

What Goes Around….

Coming to Terms

We Are Family

Epilogue

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

To Melvin Burnside, Abaree Rayfield, Don Roman, Darrel and Natasha Polk, Rev. & Mrs. Walter Kimbrough and all the folks at Cascade United Methodist Church, Atlanta; Janice Griggs (my favorite female friend), Roberta Talley, Toni Favors and the crew at Southern Bell MAC (1990-1993); my Uncle Funny’s family; my brothers and sisters at AALGA; the Atlanta Writers’ Resource Center; Pastor E.W. Alvin and my church family at Freedom Christian Tabernacle; Florida 44; Albert Sanders (who helped me find a way around the glitch in my old computer program); Rev. S.L. Williams; my friends at First Church of Deliverance and Travelers Rest Spiritual Church, Chicago; Yvette Hay-Rachal; my brother, Arthur Foster; my extended family; Marci Rubin, Brett Merl, Dora Zayas, Richard Howe and the gang at Legal Club of America; and to Paul Borrmann; thank you for your support, your encouragement, your best wishes and your prayers. And thanks be to God for making what was once a dream a reality.

This book is dedicated

to Dad

my No. 1 fan, for his continued love and support;

to Fabian

who planted the seed;

to Stanley

who wanted the first copy;

to Edward Lee and Walter

my amazing husband and son.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is purely coincidental.

Victoria Lorraine Christopher (April 18, 1954)

I’m so glad I didn’t have a telephone put in this car. Work is work, but it’s good to have time to unwind and collect my thoughts, Vickie thought as she threaded her fire-engine red Corvette through the rush-hour traffic on North Lake Shore Drive. The extreme congestion of cars in the northbound lanes coming from the Loop gave her reason to be thankful that the main offices of Christopher Electronics were in Evanston. The traffic along Sheridan Road between Loyola University and Bryn Mawr Avenue was something she had long gotten used to going home from work; just drop in a tape, turn up the sound and chill out for the duration of that bottleneck area until she reached Lake Shore Drive and a reasonably clear shot home.

She had just spent the last two hours in a meeting with her executive vice-president, Celestine Brooks, to review the upcoming division meetings and the updates on their customer satisfaction survey before she left on her vacation, plus some time to chit-chat about Celestine’s children and Daddy’s forthcoming birthday. The two hours before that had her up in Mr. Fixit’s office (the name Daddy was fondly known by around the company), discussing the candidates for the vacant seat on the board of directors, ideas to boost the research and development area and finalize the recipients of the Lorraine Beckley Christopher Scholarship Fund for minority students. After that, she was more than ready to leave for the day and start her holiday time.

As Vickie cruised down the road, enjoying her favorite Luther Vandross cassette, she caught sight of a rusty, raggedy Ford sedan coming up on the driver’s side of her Corvette. The man in it was almost as ragged and unkempt as his car, but he didn’t seem to care, not even to be discreet about the marijuana cigarette he was smoking. Leering at her, he opened his mouth―teeth missing, cavities and all―and Vickie saw his lips form the old but oh-so-familiar phrase, He-e-e-e-e-e-e-y-y, foxy mama! Her jaws tight, she glared at him for a couple of seconds, her unspoken message loud and clear: "Don’t try it. Don’t even think about looking this way again." With her pedal to the metal, she changed lanes and took off, leaving him and his ancient car to eat her exhaust fumes.

The image of the man in that decrepit sedan was enough to send a shiver down her back as she increased the distance between them. There, but for the grace of God, go I, she thought as the smooth, velvety voice of Luther put her back into her relaxed state once more. She’d received this particular brand of unwanted attention from men before, enough to regard it as just another fact of life. Older sisters Champ and Tanya would have punched their lights out, and younger sister Allison would hang the threat of her husband over their heads. Vickie, however, had taken lessons from her mother in the art of freezing water with a single glance. Although she and her sisters had gotten the best traits from their parents and she had what many men called sassy hips, that stare of hers had kept many an unwanted admirer at bay.

She reached her exit at North Avenue, continuing southward on the service drive to her building. Peace and quiet, if only for a brief time today, were waiting for her in her condominium. The cabin Daddy owned in northern Wisconsin held great appeal for her after the celebration ended. She wasn’t much on hiking and fishing like Champ and Tanya and her brothers, but she loved the lake and the relative seclusion it offered. Perhaps Travis might be interested in going up there if he gets back to Chicago next week……

Jerome, the garage attendant, greeted her with his usual charming smile as she got out of her car, helping her with her briefcase and coat. She tossed her shoulder-length auburn hair back as she stood up, returning his smile and thanking him for his help. At 5'9, Vickie could easily look Jerome in the eye, as she did now when he complimented her on her outfit. She’d observed his behavior with other tenants in the building and it was always polite and courteous, but with her he gave a little extra in the way of a compliment or a mild but tasteful flirtation. Accepting his compliment graciously, she asked Jerome about school, as she did from time to time. She had learned that he was attending Roosevelt University, and was impressed by his determination to see it through and do his best in school. Ambition, drive, determination to make something of himself. Where have I heard that before?" Vickie mused, smiling at Jerome and to herself. She wished him well on his finals plus a few words of encouragement, and got on the elevator.

Her stiletto heels made no noise as she walked down the 35th floor hallway, which was exquisitely carpeted in Oriental rugs and soundproofed to a fault. There was no sass in her hips or her tailored, curvaceous figure that was heading for her condo now, only a desire to rest for a while and unwind. Her unit, No. 3520, was at the end of the hall, beckoning her to come inside and leave the cares of the business world at the door, and upon entry, Vickie’s coat, briefcase and shoes were left at the brass coat rack.

Though the carpet inside her condo was plush and elegant, Vickie loved the look of Persian rugs both big and small, like the one she stood on as she poured herself a tonic water and lime from her bar. A tall, frosted glass with an extra twist of lime should do the trick, she thought as she brushed her bangs to the side of her forehead and soaked in the stillness around her. Taking a sip of her drink, she looked down at the rug and lazily traced one of the designs with her big toe, the mocha brown of it complementing the deep reds and yellows in the pattern as she went along. Intrigued, she went on to trace several more of the designs, until she finally signed her name to her work. That’s probably the closest I’ll ever get to being an artist, she said nonchalantly. Even doing it in her spare time Tanya can paint and draw rings around me. Besides, I’m much better suited for shopping at I. Magnin’s, Water Tower Place and all of my favorite stores on North Michigan Avenue.

She strolled lazily to her answering machine on her kitchen counter, taking more sips of her refreshment along the way. Working with Daddy has rubbed off in many ways; I never liked this stuff before because it was too tart. Most of the messages she received were work-related, from colleagues and a couple of last-minute details from her executive staff. One was from Tanya, anxious to tell her about the results of her latest court case and to remind her about dress rehearsal at Champ’s this evening. I’ll bet she struck a blow for justice again―that’s my sister, Vickie thought proudly. The last message was from Travis, and a warm smile played upon her face as she listened to the soft tenor in his voice. Even though he only called to say he’d be back in Chicago next Friday, he always had to leave a smooth line with his messages.

Vickie felt a lightness in her size nine feet as she went over to the stereo in her entertainment center. She searched through her albums for something mellow, easy on the ears. She settled upon the Stylistics―if Travis could sing, that was the closest range his voice would fall into. Picking some of their early albums, she placed them on the turntable, allowing for a moment to dust them lightly. She studied an album cover while she turned on the music, and it filtered through her home as she sought out her favorite easy chair in the living room. 1972―that seems like almost a lifetime ago, she thought as she sat down, bringing her feet up to rest upon the ottoman.

She took another sip of her drink, taking in the calmness of Lake Michigan as it spread out before her through the living room window. Daddy may have his fortress, but this was her space, that special part of her condo. Like other tenants in the building, she paid a pretty penny for this panoramic view of the lake, but to her it was worth it. Like her choices in music, it helped her in the winding-down process, even when she just needed to sit and think, and many times the beauty alone was enough. She loved the warm colors in her living room―the dusky reds, subtle oranges and yellows helped make the spaciousness of it more cozy. She had redecorated it recently, discarding all her pit group furniture in favor of love seats, a glass coffee table, a bamboo screen, two easy chairs and hanging plants to augment the potted ones around the room. African artwork dominated the walls, and in prominent display was the Asante mask on the far wall that she purchased at an art auction during Black History Month, something she wouldn’t have known about had it not been for Tanya and Champ.

Vickie nestled further into her chair, her lustrous brown eyes studying the picture on the wall next to her. It was a portrait of the family, taken a couple of years ago. It was a time of celebration in the Christopher family, for Daddy had just announced that he had made her chief executive officer of Christopher Electronics. She beamed as she noted the joyous faces of her parents and her brothers and sisters. As for herself, she looked as though she had been walking on air for days. Her eyes then came to rest upon her father, sharp and distinguished, dressed in a new burgundy suit, about to bust open with pride―in her, in the family and their successes in life.

Daddy, we’re so much alike in certain aspects, Vickie thought, sipping on her tonic water and lime, concentrating on his image. It’s apparent to anyone that I’m your daughter because I look like you, yet I know it doesn’t stop at just physical genes. We share the same spirit and determination businesswise to continue the success of the company you started. We all know you wanted my brothers to take over the business, especially Marty, but that wasn’t what they wanted. I did eventually, and I’m glad you finally saw that. Strange how standards work sometimes. I’ve even made some of the same mistakes you did during your early days in the Big Apple when you got free with your money to spend in nightclubs, shows, the racetrack, dance halls, and all the rest, usually with some fine showgirl on your arm. I sowed my wild oats, as you call them, only when I did it you called me a tramp. Maybe I was at the time, but just as you changed, so did I in favor of a better life and with God’s help.

She gazed at the smile on her father’s face while she fingered the diamond pinkie ring on her left hand. Daddy been at it again lately, dropping hints about sons of some his business cronies who were dying to get to know her. It’s almost as if he thought a woman was cursed if she remained single. That’s such an outdated notion, Daddy. I wonder if you’ll ever realize that marriage is not for everyone, and certainly not for every woman. When you saw this ring a few months ago, I know you thought it was from a guy I considered marrying―it wouldn’t occur to you that I’d buy one for myself. And besides, how does my being single have any bearing on being your daughter and your chief executive officer? You know it doesn’t, but you still believe all women should get married.

I know that in your day it was a thing about a husband providing for his wife and family. You taught us all how to be self-reliant―I have a career, I paid for this condo, the car, the stocks and bonds, my trips and shopping sprees, and like you I have nest eggs everywhere, so this attitude defies logic. It’s different today, what with so many working couples. The commitment side is an entirely different story. I may never take that step, but if and when I do that’s my decision. Sometimes you drive me up the wall with your matchmaking. You want me to marry, but no one’s good enough for me unless you hand-pick him. I love you, Daddy, you’re a brilliant man and crazy when you want to be, but you don’t know how to mind your own business. Mama’s gotten on your case about that so many times over the years it’s ridiculous.

Vickie shook her head in resignation and returned to her view of Lake Michigan. That was one subject she and Daddy had gone over numerous times―she felt it would always be in her mind. Maybe he’ll lighten up some once his birthday celebration takes place tomorrow, she hoped―vainly, but hoped just the same. A smug grin crossed her sensuous features as she recalled the first time she got Daddy to back off his marriage kick some. After a particularly long sales pitch about a guy he was trying to fix her up with, he made a remark about him not being the kind who drives around in a car with fur in the back window and gangster white walls. A strong desire to freeze him to the wall surfaced. Instead, she squelched it and calmly said, "Really? If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to find Tanya and Teresa and let you tell them what you just told me. I know they’ll be more than interested in this. And in the future, if you want to talk about women and marriage, remember them and their years together." A rat could have been heard peeing in cotton when she left, and for a while Daddy had left the subject alone.

She set her glass down on the small glass table next to her chair, and fingered the crystal sculpture on it. Bernie had given it to her for her birthday last year; when she first saw it, all she could do was grin and say, It figures. Her little brother had to have planned for it―one didn’t see a combination of a dollar sign and a large computer chip around much. Nor was she quite prepared for the life-sized birthday card waiting for her in her office of Madonna saying Happy Birthday, Miss M.G. (Material Girl) from him, strategically placed in her chair. Still, that was Bernie, and she wondered just what he’d have in store for Daddy tomorrow. For all she knew, Bernie could walk in with a large gift-wrapped box from Marshall Field’s, only to have it filled with black-eyed peas ’cause he needs all he can eat for his `new year’.

Images of Travis and other hot men in her life (from mellow yellow to the deepest charcoal) in recent years weaved themselves into a mental tapestry as the Stylistics gave way to Isaac Hayes, soothing and warming Vickie’s body and being. In spite of her determination not to take too much stock in their looks they were still hot, and had their respective charms and appeal. However, when it came to personalities, many of them were found wanting once she took a closer look beneath the surface. Some, like Steve Crowder, were insecure around her, intimidated by the success she had achieved as a Black businesswoman and unable to hold their own in dealing with Daddy. Others, such as Cleon Barlow, were very confident and could charm bears into hibernation, but their eyes were constantly on her bankbook while their brains were trying to figure out one way after another to access it. Then there were those men like Andre Lawson, who didn’t suffer from inferiority complexes over her position, nor were they money vultures. However, they considered their careers as the primary focal point, while hers was a secondary issue if it was taken seriously at all. As she continued to progress up the corporate ladder, Vickie became much more adept at spotting these kinds of men faster, even amongst a few of Daddy’s prospects. Travis Mitchell, however, took a departure from the others in her recent history.

He was no Philip Michael Thomas or Billy Dee Williams―from outward appearances people saw a well-groomed but average-looking brown-skinned man whose stomach was starting to show his fondness for any and all baked goods. As a businessman he had become successful as a fashion photographer. Though his monetary gains didn’t match the millions she controlled at Christopher Electronics, he wasn’t overwhelmed by that fact―he was secure enough within himself to enjoy her success as his own and take an interest in her work. He had a way of being charming without really trying, much like the cologne he wore. It seemed to mix naturally with his body chemistry, and accounted for a good portion of the success he had with models at photo shoots. It was that kind of charm that could respect her work, yet pull her away from it when she got too bogged down. His work had gained more and more prominence in the fashion world because of its consistently high standard of quality, and it was not uncommon for him to call her from shoots in London, Paris, Rome, Morocco or other such locations.

With that success and ambition going for him, he was still a twenty-six-year-old dude from the West Side, who loved the way she cooked red beans and rice with ham hocks (one of the few things she could cook well) when he was in town with her, and had a warm appreciation for her figure when he held her. However, in doing so he treated her like a queen―his Cleopatra, as he started calling her after a photo shoot he did of her dressed as Queen of the Nile, using Aswan, Egypt as the backdrop for realism. She hadn’t wanted to do it at first―not until he made further comparisons about her intelligence and the power she controlled in addition to her beauty. Yes, Travis was a breath of the fresh air of spring to her, her relationship with him beginning to blossom like the buds on the trees.

The records had come to an end, and Vickie slowly opened her eyes and looked back at the portrait. Knowing you, Daddy, Travis wouldn’t fit your criteria―not as the husband of your CEO, she mused. If and when you find out about him that’ll be the first question out of your mouth, and I can just see the look on your face when I tell you we haven’t thought about marriage. When Allison brought Michael home for the first time, your blood pressure jumped twenty points when you saw him. Someone like Miles Davis might have fit in more comfortably with your idea of a musician-husband for her, but a Rastafarian-looking young man wasn’t it. It’s a wonder you didn’t run a drug screen on him, the way your mind works. Still, you have to admit that he’s good to her and for her, and you have two more grandsons that you’ve been dying to see. Russell was the only mate you picked for any of us that we accepted, and he and Champ have done all right together for the last fifteen years. He didn’t change her from being a tomboy like you hoped, but their marriage is solid. As for me, heading a corporation of three thousand employees is like being married to it in a sense―you wouldn’t have turned it over to me if you had any doubts about my ability. I’ve come such a long, long way from that young woman who was floating around with no direction in her life, Daddy…….

I have to wonder just how you took that verse in the Bible that says, Be fruitful and multiply―you and Mama sure were busy after the lights went out at home. I was born so soon after Tanya. I know you and Mama wanted a large family, but isn’t ten months pushing it between children? Then again, maybe that’s one of the reasons you called me a fast worker. Our family made quite a picture coming to church on that Easter Sunday of 1954―Marty, Josh and M&M dressed in their suits and bow ties, you holding Champ while she was fidgeting with the bows in her hair, Mama holding Tanya and very pregnant with me. Of course, that was typical in the neighborhood back then. After Uncle Dennis took those pictures of our family you took some of him and Aunt Bessie Mae and their six kids, and some of Uncle Franklin and Aunt Laura and their five.

I may have been an Easter baby like Marty, but I at least waited until church service was over before Mama felt labor pains. However, I didn’t wait long―three hours later there I was, your third daughter. You couldn’t name me Victor Lucas as you planned, so you and Mama were pondering over a name for me. You keep calling it inspiration, the moment you thought about me and Grandpa Joshua sharing the same birthday and seeing my eyes for the first time―or rather, the fact that I had Grandma Lorraine’s eyes. Anyway, you and Mama did agree on Victoria Lorraine Christopher for my name.

You loved the way I behaved when I was little. I was your little princess. You got such a kick out of the way I acted when Mama would make me a new dress; about the only time I ever wore pants was when I had to do chores. Champ and Tanya acted like it was sheer torture to put on a dress. Champ would jump in the nearest dirt pile while you stood over her with the belt, and Tanya would try plea-bargaining with you first. With me, however, you didn’t have that problem. I remember how you used to cut up on the dance floor with me when I was about four or five years old to that song called Little Bitty Pretty One. You taught me how to follow your lead, spin me around at the right spots and show me off to my uncles and aunts plus the neighbors. You were so tickled that you had a little lady, and you insisted that my brothers watch out for me and Allison.

Daddy, that was a license to get away with murder. I can’t remember how many times I mouthed off to the other kids on St. Lawrence Avenue, and then ran to my brothers for protection. Marty wanted to hang me from the streetlight by my pigtails, Josh kept threatening to tie me up and fart in my face, while M&M wanted to drown me in the lake. They didn’t dare carry out these threats because they had to answer to you, and you didn’t like snitches. It did get to the point where they’d had enough of my mess and turned me over to you anyway, and you showed no sympathy when it came to spanking me. In fact, you made it worse by talking through the whole thing. That was one of the main reasons why we were more afraid of your whippings than Mama’s. For lying, stealing, outright disobedience and other capital offenses Mama was the one who dealt out the punishment. She was merciful about it, though. She’d tan our behinds, serve us our sentence and that would be it. You dealt with the misdemeanors unless we were crazy enough to try and talk back to you. From then on, you’d emphasize each word you said with a swat from your hand or a belt. So much for taking out some insurance as a little lady. You spared no one when it came to punishment.

Charm didn’t help gloss over poor grades, either, and schoolwork was not my strong suit back then. You and Mama made such an issue about good grades and a good education. I wasn’t the kind of student that Marty, M&M, Champ and Tanya were. Shoot, M&M was skipped two grades in two years. Still, I have to admit I was lazy. I remember an example of that when I was in the third grade. By some strange coincidence, all of us except Marty and Lissa had book reports to do for our teachers in two weeks. You were putting in more hours at the fix-it shop and Mama had started student teaching, but you still made time to check on how we were doing in school. M&M went to the library, speed-read a book and finished his report that evening. Tanya did hers the next day, Champ a few days later, and Josh struggled through his until he finished it four days before it was due. Not me―whenever you’d come around for your inspection I’d be half-doing my arithmetic or staring at my social studies book and trying to answer a few questions. I didn’t even crack my library book until two days before the deadline; I’d say to myself, It’ll get done. It got done, all right―the night before in a last-ditch attempt by staying up late.

When the teachers gave us our grades, you were waiting for us at home. You were glad to see all those A’s and B’s roll in from us; Josh even brought home a B- on his book report. However, you weren’t smiling when you saw my paper with a big red D on it. I made some lame excuse about the book being too hard to write about, but you weren’t buying it―not when the book in question was Grimm’s Fairy Tales. I tried to cute my way around it, but all that accomplished was a disappointed look on your face and extra chores.

It got to the point where I’d forget to bring my report card home so you wouldn’t see it, Daddy. Tanya warned me not to do that, but I wouldn’t listen to her. That came to an end after you took off from work to talk to my teacher about my performance in school. I knew I’d be grounded, but I wasn’t prepared for being told that I wouldn’t get a new Easter outfit and couldn’t be in the Easter parade at church. I started to cry, but you weren’t finished with me yet. That’s when you gave me my first lecture about a good education, emphasizing that just getting by isn’t good enough. The punishment was enough for me to work a little harder and bring my grades up to C’s, but not much beyond that, even with your continued lectures on the subject. I can appreciate what you were trying to get across to me now, Daddy; you were only doing what you knew how to do at the time.

You were different from a lot of the other fathers in the block when it came to any of us getting sick. I was seven when all of us came down with the mumps,