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“Hey, that’s Reverend Dr. Hall to you, Mr. Money Bags,” he joked, taking my hand. “But you can call me Kyle.” He grinned at me and opened the door to the clubhouse for me to enter. “I am off the clock.”
As I passed by him, I could see that he had good taste. He had on a cream Polo golf shirt with khakis. It was a classic and unpretentious country club look—the direct opposite of my father, who seemed to be going for old man pastels and plaids these days. Kinda sexy, Rev, I thought, watching him walk by. But what the hell was he doing with my father on golf day? I’d told my father about my breakup with Julian over the phone. I’d told him I was coming to the course to spend time with him…alone. I wasn’t in the mood to share his attention. I just needed two ears, not four—I’d had enough of that the night before.
“Reverend Hall and I were about to have breakfast. You want to join us?” My father smiled, looking as if he was reading all of my doubts as they bumped around in my mind.
“But, Daddy, I came to watch you play golf,” I said, trying not to sound upset.
“I know, T.H. But Reverend Hall and I have a venture we’re working on down in Harlem and, well, I just can’t get this guy out here. This is really the only time. Do you understand?” my father asked in front of Kyle.
I always hated it when people asked me questions in front of other people. It was almost as if I was being forced to be the bigger person to save face. I mean, I couldn’t exactly say, “Hell, no. Tell his ass to go home so I can cry my eyes out on my daddy’s shoulder alone.” That would make me sound spoiled and selfish. So I had to settle…
“That’s fine, Daddy,” I said, gritting my teeth. He signaled for a table and off we were. Great, breakfast with a monk. That’s just what I needed after my breakup with the love of my life. Maybe Rev. Dr. Hall could bless my breakup and talk me into joining some nunnery upstate. I know it sounds bad, but give a girl a break. I go to church every Sunday and I tithe—and I don’t have a job! But there’s a time and place to spend time with your “sanctified” friends. For example, I wouldn’t invite my saved friend Sheena to a strip club, and it would be a bad idea to ask my pastor out for drinks on a Friday night. It’s wrong. Too much temptation for them; too much censorship for me. Point-blank, it just wasn’t a good time for me to sit across the table from Rev. Dr. Hall. I could just imagine what he would say when I stabbed my smoked salmon, Julian’s favorite, repeatedly with a knife. He wouldn’t understand. He’d probably want to pray over me…wash the demons away.
“I’m actually glad to meet you, Troy,” Kyle said, pulling out my chair. “Your dad talks about you so much.” I gave Dad the evil eye from behind my menu. “I think it’s great—the work you’re doing with the kids down at the Kids in Motion Settlement.”
I lowered my menu and looked across the table at Kyle. Had my father really told him about the volunteer work I do at the artistic community center? I didn’t think my father knew much about it. I mean, I talked to him and my mother about the little girls in the ballet class I taught, but I didn’t think he thought much of it. It wasn’t exactly bringing in any clear profits.
“Thank you,” I said. “So how’s Mom?” I asked, deliberately pointing a question at my father. I didn’t have him to myself, but I at least wanted to talk to him.
“She’s fine. Just busying herself with a bunch of stuff.” My father rolled his eyes playfully. “You know your mother.”
“Did she give you drama this morning about coming out?”
“No, she took Desta to her GED class this morning,” my father answered, referring to their maid. Desta was an Ethiopian immigrant my mother hired about two years ago. When she started, she could barely speak English and she’d never been to school. My mother made getting an education a part of Desta’s duties. Mom said that she didn’t see the sense in having someone clean her house for the rest of her life. She explained that she wasn’t helping her if all she gave her was a check and a broom. “That way she’ll always be a maid, cleaning people’s houses. That’s no way to live,” she said.
“That’s cool,” I said.
“Yep, she’s been stalking that poor girl,” my father said. “And it’s good too, because Desta finally got a divorce from that crazy husband of hers and they’re sending her kids over soon.”
“So what kind of project are you two working on in Harlem?” I asked, watching out of the corner of my eye as Kyle ordered his food.
“Oh, some real estate stuff,” Kyle jumped in. “Your dad and I are about to save Harlem.”
“Save it?”
“Oh, just buying some real estate, baby. Just a bunch of old forgotten buildings no one wants,” my father replied, sipping on a cup of coffee the waitress brought over.
“But they do want the buildings,” Kyle said. “The rich white investors want them and so do the black residents of Harlem. The residents just can’t afford them and the rich know that. So they buy low, renovate, and sell high to white buyers. Good old gentrification. The new whitewashing of Harlem.”
“That’s a bad situation,” I said.
“It’s not just bad, Troy. It’s wrong. Most of those people have been living in the very houses we’re buying for generations. They’ve been living there and renting for years—just throwing away money that could belong to their families through homeownership.”
“So where do you two come in?”
“Well, we plan to buy the land and start putting some of the money back into the community,” Kyle said. “First Baptist can do scholarships, fix up the block, get the people to really care about the community again. The church can get them to take ownership in making and keeping their Harlem nice. We’ll also keep the rent reasonable for the tenants who already live in the buildings. Many of the landlords over there are charging them exorbitant rates.”
“Why?” I asked, watching the passion grow in Kyle’s eyes. I could see that he really felt what he was saying.
“To be honest, I think they’re trying to drive them out. They’re charging them double and triple what the places are worth, trying to get a different crowd in there. It’s a real bad deal, too, for the people who live there. It not only makes saving money impossible, but it keeps their credit bad because they’re pretty much living off of what little credit they have to make ends meet—not to mention being late on alm
ost all of their bills,” Kyle went on. “So by keeping the rent low, we’re actually helping them, because then they can get into one of the homeownership programs at the church and work toward buying the property from us in the future. The sky’s the limit. All we need is this man right here to come on board with the investment money.” Kyle pointed to my father.
By the time we finished eating, Daddy and Kyle had shared their entire secret plot to save Harlem from ruin. I was so excited about their plan, I almost forgot about Julian and the reason I’d gone to the country club in the first place. Other than the fact that I kept checking my cell phone every five minutes to see if Julian had called, I was as cool as mint gum.
I also learned a bit more about the good Rev. Dr. Kyle Hall IV. A graduate of both Morehouse and Morehouse’s School of Religion—just like his uncle, father, grandfather, and great-grandfather, Kyle was what I like to call Holy Royalty.
Nana once told me that back in the day, the big black moneymakers were teachers, doctors, preachers—the latter making the most money. Folks like Kyle’s great-grandfather not only organized and owned churches, but they were also insurance men, real estate investors, and business owners. They were pillars in their communities. They had memberships in the best clubs and all the right connections in town. These connections included white people, who used the black preachers to get the favor of the community during election time.
