His First Wife (20 page)

But then, one late night I got an e-mail from Coreen that scared the shit out of me. It was maybe two, three, or four nights before Tyrian was born and she sounded like she'd just given up hope on life. This both worried and frightened me. I didn't want anything to happen to her, and I was afraid she was going to do something to herself. I didn't even want to mention the word
suicidal
, but damn if the letters didn't sound that way. Her anger had gone from me to the world. And she was talking about checking out altogether.

I read the e-mail a few times. I didn't want to respond. Kerry was acting very erratic with her hormones and I didn't want to do anything to piss her off. But then I kept having these visions of Coreen hanging from a rope in her kitchen with some note about me leaving her on the table and I knew I couldn't just sit back and do nothing. I didn't know much about Coreen. I had no way of knowing how to handle her emotions, but I knew I couldn't let something happen to her when I was a part of her pain.

I called. But she didn't answer. I called again. No answer. Then I decided to write. I figured she would at least respond to that. But nothing. The silence was killing me. And walking around the house all day, all I could think of was that body swinging in the kitchen. Her giving up and my being involved.

It was after 7
PM
on Thursday when I decided to roll over to Coreen's house. I hadn't heard anything from her and I had to make sure everything was okay. When I got there, her car was in the driveway, but the house was dark. It was late, and every other house on the block had a light on but hers. I tried her cell from the driveway, but there was no answer. Then I went to the door and peeked inside. I couldn't see anything, but I knocked anyway. I stood there for five minutes knocking, then I decided that maybe I was overreacting. The girl could've been on vacation for all I knew. Maybe she'd moved on to another man. Good for her. I headed back to my car, ready to leave. But then I heard her voice.

“Jamison,” she said. I turned to find her standing in the doorway naked. I ran over to Coreen to block her from the street and push her into the house.

“What are you doing?” I asked, noticing that her eyes were red, her face was sunken in and her skin was ashy. She looked like she hadn't eaten in days. “Get in the house. I've been calling you. I was worried.”

“I've been here,” she said weakly. “I've just been thinking about things.”

“Are you okay?” I sat her on the couch and headed into the bedroom to get a sheet or something to wrap around her. When I pulled it from the bed, a bottle of pills rolled from beneath the pillow. It fell to the floor and pills scattered everywhere. I walked over to see that they were sleeping pills.

When I came back into the room, Coreen was crying and rocking herself on the couch.

“I love you, Jamison, and I can't let you go,” she cried.

“Coreen,” I said, sitting down beside her. I didn't know exactly what I was going to say next, but I knew I had to say something. Something to comfort her. “I told you how I feel. But I don't want you to be like this. I want more for you.”

“There's no more for me,” she said. “I can't seem to do anything right. Duane died and now you left me. I can't get anything right. I'm just going to die. That's it. Just stay here in this house and die.” Her crying turned to a sad grieving. She fell into my arms and I began to rock her back and forth.

“There's much more to life,” I said. “Your career. What about school? You seemed so excited about that.”

“I'll just fuck it up.”

“You won't know until you try.”

She was quiet. I wiped her tears with a piece of the bed sheet. “Coreen, you're a beautiful woman. You can have and be anything.”

“But not you,” she said.

“Not me.”

We sat there on the couch talking like that until the last bit of sun in the sky set and the evening turned to night. Every time I seemed to lift her spirits, she'd turn another emotional corner and start crying again and ask why we couldn't be together. I wanted so badly to look at the time. I knew Kerry had to be looking for me. But I was dealing with life and death. I didn't want to risk one for the other. And I didn't know what else to do. Every time I asked Coreen if there was someone I could call, she'd get mad and start crying again.

I finally got her to agree to take a shower and get some clothes on. I thought this, along with some soup, would at least make her feel good enough to get back into bed. And then I could talk to her reasonably and get her to a hospital or something. But when she stood up, it was clear she wouldn't make it in the shower alone. The girl was weak.

I carried her into the bathroom and stood there in the shower with her, fully dressed, washing her body with my hands as she cried. It was one of the most sobering moments in my life. I realized at that moment that what I had done in my selfishness was ruin a piece of someone else's life. I didn't know if most of what Coreen was going through was about me, but I'd gotten her to that place somehow. Damien was right that the affair would ruin my marriage, but he'd forgotten to mention what it would do to the other woman.

When I got Coreen into the bed, I took off my shirt and pants and went into the kitchen to make her some soup. I looked at my cell phone. It was already 12
AM
.

I carried the soup into the room and fed Coreen myself. She seemed to brighten in the face immediately as that heat hit her.

“You're a good man,” she said. I was sitting beside her on the bed in my boxers and a T-shirt.

“Thank you,” I said, handing her the bowl. As she ate, I cleaned up the pills from the floor and stashed them in my jacket pocket, so I could take them with me when I left. I brought up the topic of counseling, saying I would find someone, and she finally sounded as if she was willing to give it a try. She admitted that she did actually miss Duane and that she'd never dealt with his death. She'd gone to all of the memorial services and accepted the calls and concerns from everyone, but in all that time, she felt like she just had to be strong. She had to put her best foot forward because with all the attention, she felt like all eyes were on her. When she was finally ready to talk to someone, she turned around and realized that there was no one there. Just her and the house she'd bought with the money from Duane's death.

“I know you're going to leave,” she said. “But I just want you to hold me a little while before you go, until I fall asleep.”

“Coreen—” I tried, but she cut me off.

“I just need someone to hold me,” she said. “Just for right now. I promise it's nothing.”

It had to have been at least 2
AM
by then, but her request was so simple. So easy. I could see that she could get better, and she'd already opened up and agreed to get help. I couldn't turn her down. I climbed into the bed and rocked Coreen to sleep. It was peaceful and quiet. And I knew in my heart that while my part in her life was over, she was beginning something else. Soon, I drifted off to sleep as well, but I was awakened by a knock at the door. Kerry.

PART THREE

 

—Paul,
2 Timothy 4:6

C
heating is bad. Cheating is really bad. But, in the beginning, I think what was worse about Jamison's cheating wasn't the actual act, it was the lying.

Jamison, who championed himself for being a hardened man from southwest Atlanta, was mostly a creature of habit. He did things in a certain way and was no fan of change from his normal schedule. I fell in love with him for that. In college, Jamison microwaved Hamburger Helper, saying it was the best meal in town on Friday night and I only needed to try it. I protested, but Jamison ate this meal every Friday night. And even after we graduated he still craved the mushy treat. So, on cold Fridays when I knew we'd be sitting at home in front of the television, I learned to make Hamburger Helper and have it waiting for him when he got in from work. Now, one Friday night, just days before Jamison was supposed to be beefing up a proposal for a big contract that would take our services to a string of law offices throughout Tennessee, I had a pot of Hamburger Helper (made with ground sirloin and extra cheese) waiting on the stove for Jamison.

“Oh, I'm going out with Damien tonight,” he said when I offered to make him a plate. “I'll be back later.”

“Damien?”

“Yeah, we're going to have some beers,” he replied.

“Well, then you need to put something in your stomach,” I said, getting up from the table to get the plate.

“No.” He stopped me. “We'll eat too. Just put the food in the refrigerator and I'll get some when I get back.”

He kissed me on the forehead and left the room.

Now we'd been married for a long time, and not once had Jamison been caught in a lie or cheated on me, so I had no reason to worry or be suspicious. But in those years, I'd also “learned” my husband. He never turned down food. Not even if I'd made it. So, while suspicion was the farthest thing from my mind, when he nonchalantly rejected that plate, my ears immediately raised. Not only was it strange for Jamison, but I'd been to Pilates with Marcy earlier that afternoon and I knew that Milicent had her first fencing class on Saturday at 8
AM
. Damien was so excited about the class because he'd fenced as a boy and he'd broken out all of his old gear on Thursday night, claiming he was going to “teach Mili the basics” on Friday night before the first practice. Now this could've changed, but the odds were small.

These kinds of questionable exchanges occurred in our kitchen for weeks. And after a while, Jamison seemed tired of my constant interrogation and actually tried to turn the thing around on me. He said I needed to be more trusting and made it seem as if I was going crazy with my suspicions. Now I was going a bit crazy; I can admit that. He'd been lying to me and I just knew. I didn't need him to admit anything.

The lie was beginning to pull us apart. I didn't want Jamison to even touch me. I stopped having sex with him, claiming I was sick and feeling bloated. Then, the funny thing was that I actually did start feeling sick and bloated. I was vomiting during the day and my stomach felt queasy all night. I might've thought I was pregnant, but we hadn't had sex in a while and vomiting after lunch didn't qualify as “morning sickness”—I'd later be proven wrong.

Things got serious when I finally told Marcy about my suspicions and she volunteered to help me follow Jamison during one of his nights out, which were now a part of his regular routine. We decided to rent a car and follow him one night. I felt bad for doing it, but Marcy kept telling me that if I didn't do something I'd really go crazy. And there was no need accusing a man of doing something when he was doing nothing. “He could be doing nothing,” she'd said. “But he could be doing something. You need to know either way.” I said maybe I could just ask him again and she frowned. “When most men cheat, they lack the ability to tell the truth,” she said. “And not because they don't want to—but because they don't want to risk hurting and losing you. The only time they'll tell the truth is when you catch them in the act, and even then, they might claim the woman in the bed is their aunt.”

So, there we were, in a rented car, driving behind Jamison, on our first stakeout. It was exciting and dramatic. And the whole time I was nervous and scared, but also, like Marcy had said, ready to confirm what I already knew. But this changed when we ended up outside Coreen's house. I'd pat Jamison on the back ten million more times, kiss him more, have sex with him every night, even make nice with his mother, to make this go away. But there it was, in front of my eyes, my worst nightmare, a reality. It wasn't a lie. It was true. True indeed. How would I ever be able to come back to loving Jamison from that? That was a Hamburger Helper recipe I simply didn't have.

F
rom the antique mahogany-encased Victrola in the living room, to the dramatic magenta French lace curtains hanging from ceiling to floor in the formal dining room, every day in Aunt Luchie's house was like living on the set of an old '30s movie. It was beautiful and timeless, unchanged in a world that seemed to always look for change.

When I was a child, my father brought me to Aunt Luchie's house most Saturdays. She had a great blues record collection, and he'd sit in her den listening to records most of the afternoon as Aunt Luchie let me play with her makeup and jewelry at the vanity in her bedroom. It was a great weekly journey for both of us. My mother hated the blues and constantly came into the room to turn down the music whenever my father listened to records at home, and I wasn't even allowed in her bedroom, let alone to sit at her vanity and play with her jewelry and makeup.

Tyrian and I moved in with Aunt Luchie after two days of staying at a hotel where he'd gotten his first cold. I swore that nothing had changed in that woman's house since the last time my father took me there. From the over-red lipstick lying on the right-hand side of the vanity top to my grandmother's pearls sitting in a tightly spun circle on her dresser, everything was in its place. It was as if Aunt Luchie wanted time to stand still inside that place. And this was a surprise, coming from a woman who was so full of life.

After putting Tyrian down for his afternoon nap, I went into the living room to find Aunt Luchie reading a book, as she sipped on a tall glass of brandy. We'd been staying there for about two weeks and I'd come to realize that whenever Aunt Luchie wasn't out trying to save the world and my mother with her bare hands, this was her afternoon routine.

“Whew,” she said when I walked into the room. She slammed the book closed and slid it on the coffee table sitting beside the sofa. “That was a good book.”

“You were done with it?” I asked. “You seemed like you were at the beginning. No more than halfway through.”

“I know, but the story was over for me, so it's done.”

“You're funny,” I laughed. “You don't have to stop reading because I came in; I can go to my bedroom and watch television.”

“Please. Who needs to read the entire story? I've read enough of them and seen enough of life to know how stories end.”

“And how is that?”

“The big gamble is taken and the protagonist either gets what she wants or not,” she said, sipping on her brandy.

“But don't you want to know what she gets?” I asked.

“I prefer to make that up for myself,” she said. “I don't like other people choosing fate for me. Sometimes I want a sad ending; sometimes I want a happy ending.”

“I know what you mean.” I walked over to the window and looked outside to see two children playing in the street. Aunt Luchie's house was just down the street from the Atlanta University Center. It was a gorgeous Queen Anne–style home with magnificent fireplaces and hardwood floors throughout. She'd bought it with her inheritance after she graduated from Spelman. My mother wasn't exactly excited that she'd used the money for that. She had enough money to buy a home right beside my mother. But Aunt Luchie's love with Red blossomed on the campus of the AUC, as he was a senior at Clark Atlanta when they started dating her freshman year. He was in the jazz band and caught her eye the first week of school. She was in love and felt that she'd always be tied to that place.

“So how will your story end?” Aunt Luchie asked.

“What?” I turned and looked at her.

“Your story with Jamison.”

“I guess I don't know,” I said, walking over to sit on the sofa beside her. I'd been trying not to think about it. It just hurt too much to consider my marriage being over.

“Well, there are only two options—either you stay or you go. You just have to decide if you will take the gamble.”

“Well, it's the gamble that I'm worried about. Taking Jamison back after this.... I don't know.”

“So, you're just going to walk away?” she asked.

“I didn't say that.”

“You know, there was a time when folks didn't just get up and leave over things like this. They stayed and figured it out—worked it out, no matter what. It was a disgrace for a black family to fall apart,” she said. “We'd fought so hard to stay together during slavery, only to have people pull us apart, so when we were free, being with family was a sign of strength.”

“Well, times have changed,” I said.

“Just because times have changed doesn't mean they should've. You know that boy loves you. He's done wrong, yes, but he still loves you and I know you love him. Whatever happened with that woman may not be what you think. You never know what all was going on.”

“Please, Aunt Luchie,” I said. “I don't want to think about them right now.” I sat back on the sofa, afraid I'd hurt her feelings. “And since we're talking about the past not changing, what about this place? Why haven't you changed anything here in like twenty years?”

“I don't know,” she said before swallowing the rest of the brandy. “I just kind of like these things here . . . the way they are. The way they were when my Red was here.”

“Do you think he'll ever come back?”

“Oh, he sends me flowers—”

“Flowers?” I recoiled. “I thought he was off in Paris living it up in love with some French white woman.”

“Yeah, he is,” she smiled. “But he still sends me flowers for my birthday every year. White lilies.” Her eyes went off to an old place. “The flower he bought me when we were together.”

“Well, do you think he'll come back?” I asked excitedly. “Maybe that's why you keep your place the same . . . like a part of the romance when he returns.”

“Oh, he's a grandfather now. Been married a long time. He's not going anywhere. That's done now,” she said. “I've accepted that ending.”

“Oh,” I sighed. “That's so sad.”

“Yeah, it's amazing how love will make you either accept the stone cold reality or run away from it,” she said. “Now, I just accepted that my only love was gone. I have never looked at another man like I looked at Red and that's fine by me. That's just the way love used to be back in the day. You didn't try to fill someone's shoes with someone else who clearly couldn't fit them. But your mother . . .”

“What about her? You think she's still upset about my father being sick?”

“You ever wonder why your mother is so hateful when it comes to your relationship with Jamison?” she asked. “Your mother can't accept the love you have until she finds her way back to her own,” she said as I poured her another glass of brandy. “Now, she never wanted your father to go away to that war. She told him not to go, said she'd heard they were killing men over there—poisoning their minds with gas and the government was sending them back home and not telling the families what happened.”

“I know,” I said, getting back up from the couch to go look out the window. I'd heard this in bits and pieces in the past whenever my mother got upset during the holidays or after our annual trip to see my father. She'd cry and retell how she'd told him not to go, but he was too stubborn.

“Your mother, she loved that man more than you could ever understand—even as their child. If ever the sun did rise and set on a man's temples, it did the day your mother met Eldridge that afternoon when our mother introduced him as her escort for the debutante ball. Lord, all Janie could talk about was Eldridge this and Eldridge that,” she said laughing. “And it wasn't so funny back then because my bed was only three feet away from hers and I had to hear her talk about him. Now, we had a big old house and plenty of rooms, but your grandfather was so old school, he'd always say the only privacy we'd ever see was when we got our own houses—that's how old folks back in the day would keep young people from getting beneath the sheets together—if you know what I mean.”

She winked and we both started laughing.

“Anyway, Eldridge promised Thirjane that he'd come back to her in one piece from Desert Storm. He wasn't going there for combat or anything. He was too old for that and his rank would keep him far from much combat. But when he came back . . . he just was never the same. And your poor mother had to watch his mind slip away from him one day at a time. I was there with her in that house every day, watching him forget and forget and get angry and lash out, until finally he just lost it altogether and your mother had to let him go. And when he left, when she had to send him away, I think she also lost a piece of herself. You both did.”

“Both of us?” I asked, turning from the window.

“I don't see you running to visit your father. Maybe it's just as hard for you as it is for Thirjane.”

“I go with my mother every year,” I said.

“Child, it's not like visiting a grave. He isn't dead. Just gone from his mind. And that's why he shouldn't be alone. Maybe if you went more, he'd find his way back,” she said. “Maybe that's why Jamison goes over there to see him.”

“Oh, don't defend him now. That's just more of his bull.”

“Is it? Or is it just him being the man you married? Trying to protect you and the people you love?”

I looked down at the slippers I was wearing and kicked at the floor.

“He had no right,” I said. “That's my father. If he wanted to see him, he could've asked me.”

“You don't think I want Thirjane to go see him? Eldridge was my friend too,” she said. “But if both she and you are acting like he's dead and standing on it, what can we do but accept it and let you live? I don't want to hurt your mother's heart no more than it's already been hurting. She's my baby sister and I just want to protect her. Maybe Jamison was just doing the same for you.”