His First Wife (6 page)

“There he is,” Marcy said, pointing toward a small group of men in black suits. She drew me close to her and pulled a tiny compact mirror from her clutch. “Do I look okay?” she asked.

“Yes, lovely. Perfect.”

“Makeup is soft? Not too makeup-y?” She was never worried about being overdone before she'd met Damien, but now everything was toned down.

“Yes.”

“Too makeup-y?” she whined.

“No, I mean it's fine. Soft and not too much. Just right.”

“Okay.” She stashed the mirror and straightened her dress. “Now, we're going to walk over there really calm-like and say hello. But let's not look like we're going over there, but just kind of end up there. Okay?”

“We?”

“Yes, we! You have to come with me.”

“Why?” I asked. “He'll see me over here. Isn't that enough?”

“Kerry . . . I need to look casual and I told him I was coming with you. I don't want to seem like I'm alone and came here just for him—”

“Okay, fine,” I said.

“Do you promise to be nice to his friends too?” she begged.

“I'm always nice to his friends.”

She shook her head.

“I'm not?” I wasn't.

“They call you Killer Kerry,” she said and gave me the “go to hell” stare.

“I do not give them the stare!”

“Look, just promise to be nice today. Please! I really need this.” She was pleading as if the future of the relationship depended upon that one night. It was so cute seeing people in love . . . even if I wasn't.

“I'll be nice,” I said. I knew why she was so anxious. We were about two months from graduation and Marcy had to make some strong leeway with Damien. After he left the confines of campus, there was no telling where he was going or who he'd meet there. His parents might even have had someone handpicked for him.

“Hello, Damien,” Marcy said casually when we made our way over to the group.

“Marce,” he said, turning to her. I'll admit I wasn't the biggest Damien fan, but he was quite a handsome man. Just a few shades lighter than a bit of cocoa butter, he had a friendly face that looked like he was always flirting, thick brown eyebrows with thin, secretive eyes that smiled with his lips. He had the kind of confidence in his eyes that made you wonder what he'd seen and where he'd been in his life, even though he was only twenty years old. “You ladies look lovely tonight,” he added, kissing both of us on our cheeks.

“Thank you,” Marcy said, digging into my arm with her nails.

“Fellas, you all know Kerry, right?” Damien asked the guys behind him. “Marcy's roommate?” In usual Morehouse fashion, all of Damien's friends were just as handsome as he was. Drones of each other, they all had the same laugh, the same gait, and the same privileged, confident demeanor. I was sure I'd seen them all before, met three or two at a dorm room party, probably even went on a bad date with one, but then, as they all nodded their heads in agreement that they knew me, one came pushing to the front of the group and smiled at me.

“I don't think we've met,” he said. He put his hand out for me to shake it, but I was too busy looking into his eyes to return the sentiment.

Marcy nudged me hard in the side.

“Oh, I'm Kerry,” I finally said, extending my hand. “But you probably already know that. I mean, he just said it and that's my name. Kerry. That's me.” It would be short to say I sounded like a mad woman. Both Damien and Marcy were looking at me like I was insane. But there was something about the face in front of me. It was fine . . . yes. It was friendly . . . yes. But there was something else there. Something promising. Something real. Something familiar in a haunting way. Something that made me wonder what his name was.

“I'm Jamison Taylor,” he said as I noticed that a twinkle of the strobe light was dancing in his eyes, hypnotizing me. “And you probably don't know that because no one said it, but now you do because I said it.”

Both he and I laughed at his little joke in response to my nervous blunder, but no one else seemed to get it.

Damien rolled his eyes and looked back at Marcy.

“Well, great then,” Damien said dryly, “Marce, you want to dance?” Before she could answer, he snatched her hand and began pulling her to the dance floor.

“Hold this,” she said, handing me her clutch.

I watched her walk away, nervously wishing I was escaping too. But not because I wanted to leave. I was standing there alone with Jamison, this beautiful man, and had nothing to say. It was like one of those dances in prep school where I'd be standing right beside the one guy I liked and butterflies rose and fluttered in my stomach until I did the only thing my body would allow: walk to the punch bowl. Only I didn't want to do this. I wanted to talk. To say something. To grab his hand and take him to the dance floor too. But I couldn't, so I just watched Marcy and Damien find their place in the crowd. The other guys began chatting amongst themselves, and a few found partners and were also headed to the dance floor. Time was ticking fiercely in my ear. Just say something.

“You want to dance?” Jamison asked.

“Me?” I asked.

“You're the only you there is,” he joked.

“Very funny.”

“Well . . . do you?” He was confident, but not self-important. The question was really a question.

“I don't really dance a lot here,” I said, turning him down. I wasn't quite sure why I was doing it this time. I wanted to dance with Jamison. Shoot, I even wanted him to gyrate on me. Feel my butt. Kiss my cheek. All that and we'd just met. This man was making something rise, heat, inside me. But that didn't change my fear. I was so used to saying no; yes seemed hard.

“You sure?” he asked. “I mean, you look like the kind of person that wants to dance. You have on a pretty dress. Got your hair done all nice and put on makeup.” He pushed a lock of loose hair behind my ear and I could see the muscles in the top of his arm tighten. He was built. Even his suit couldn't hide that. I felt weak. “You're sending out all of the signs of someone who wants to dance.”

“You have no idea,” I said, gasping.

“Well, maybe you want to dance, but perhaps just not with me . . .” He gave me a sad frown and shook his head. “I guess a brother just embarrassed himself, so I'll just sit down in shame and”—he turned to walk away—“pray some ugly girl will take pity on me.”

“No,” I grabbed his arm. “That's not it. I just don't—”

“No, don't lower your standards,” he said jokingly. “I'll just sit alone and pray the brothers don't laugh at me too hard on the way home. They'll all know you turned me down. But I'll have to live with it.” He wiped a fake tear from his eye.

“You're crazy,” I said laughing. “Look, I'll dance with you, but just promise not to touch my butt and stuff.” I couldn't believe what I was saying. I wanted him to touch my butt! I was screaming inside, but my words were quite different.

“Just one dance?” He turned to me, still wiping fake tears. “Not two?” He was so charming. He kind of reminded me of how my father used to toy with my mother when he wanted something from her. He'd put on one of his records in the den and pull her close to him as her complaining quickly turned to coos. It never took him long.

“Okay, two dances,” I said, putting my hand out. “But that's it! And no butt grabbing!”

He took my hand and we walked to the dance floor. Jamison Taylor and me. Together for the first time. I was becoming unstuck and it was magical.

T
he worst thing about being pregnant is that you have to get used to the fact that you're sharing your body with another person. Yes, it's a person you made. And it just happens to be a tiny person. But that little person that's a part of you pushes your body to the limit—first hormonally with the nausea and fatigue and then as the teeny tiny person grows, he continues pushing by stretching and kicking at your insides like he could make more space, simply by wanting it.

By the time I was eight months, the tiny person inside of me who was to be named after his father became a beautiful struggle. I was happy he was there and seeing his little body on the monitor was wonderful, but I could never get comfortable with him inside of me and sometimes I would just sit back and look at my fat black belly that had a platoon of stretch marks on it and pray that he would come out already. I felt bad, but I was getting tired of sharing my body and wanted out of the pregnancy thing. I wondered if I'd ever get my shape back and knew I'd have to jog a thousand miles before I'd wear my skinny jeans again.

Laying in bed in Marcy's guest room, I just couldn't get comfortable. If the baby wasn't turning and kicking, I was thinking about Jamison and crying. I took a long, hot shower when Marcy and I got in from the precinct. And while Marcy dutifully found one of her old maternity sweat suits and laid it out for me, I just climbed into the bed, wet and naked as the day I was born. I wanted to feel my skin against the crisp linen, shock my body with the empty coldness waiting beneath the sheets, curl up like the little baby inside of me and cry myself to sleep in the middle of the day.

With the lights off and the curtains closed, sleep came quickly to my exhausted body, but after two hours, rest faded and I was up again, tossing and turning, trying to get comfortable with my body and the situation. I wondered if being at Marcy's was a mistake. I couldn't let Jamison run me out of my own home. It belonged to both of us. But I knew if I went home, he'd be there. I didn't want to see him. And I also kept wondering what I'd do if he wasn't there, if he never came back. I wasn't ready to face either situation—seeing Jamison or not seeing Jamison. I needed time to think. Time alone.

“Uppy, puppy?” Marcy said, pushing herself and the sunlight behind her into the room.

“Yeah,” I said, squinting.

She came and sat on the bed beside me, placing a warm cup of milk on the nightstand.

“I thought you might like that,” she said. “Something to calm your nerves.”

“A glass of wine will do,” I said.

“Um . . . We'll wait on that order!” She laughed and crawled to get into bed beside me. “So, how you doing?”

I didn't say anything. Fine would be a lie and bad hardly touched the surface. I was in disarray. I was unfurling. A disaster area. Hurricane Katrina. My father's mind. Was there a word for that? I started crying again.

“Oh, baby,” she said, reaching over me to get tissues from the nightstand on my side of the bed. “I didn't mean to upset you.”

“It's not that, Marce. I just, you know, just don't know what I'm going to do.”

“He called.”

“What?”

“While you were asleep, he called three times. Said he just wanted to make sure you were okay. He was going to come by, but I had Damien call him to calm him down. I think Damien went over there.”

“Damien knows?” I asked. It was a dumb question. Of course he'd know. Did he know about Coreen too?

“Well, someone had to get your car from in front of that woman's house.”

“He got my car?” I was actually relieved to hear that.

“Yeah, he brought it back over here and parked it right outside for you.”

“Thanks so much, Marce, for hooking me up. For everything.”

“No problem. I had to get him out of my hair anyway. He was driving me crazy about this party tonight. He's a bit nervous, I think.”

“Oh, I keep forgetting about the party.” Damien was finally leaving the ER and opening his own practice and they'd invited everyone in the universe to celebrate.

“Yeah, I've been downstairs working with the caterers for the last two hours.... We need everything to be perfect.”

“Oh, no, am I in the way? I could leave and go home or to my mom's or something,” I said, sitting up.

“Girl, please; this is your home. You don't have to go anywhere. Plus, it might be good for you to see some people. It'll keep your mind off things. And if both you and Jamison aren't here, people will wonder why. You know how they talk.”

“I know,” I said, “ but I'm not ready for all that.”

“Well, just think about it. You can mix and mingle or you can lock yourself in this room all night. I've got your back either way. I'll even smuggle a plate upstairs for you.”

“Now, that's love!” I forced a smile.

“I can't let you starve my godson.” We both laughed and I settled back into the bed.

“I know it's crazy, but for some reason, I keep thinking about when Jamison and I first met,” I said after a long pause.

Marcy turned to me.

“I don't think it's crazy at all. When you go through something like this, it's natural to wonder how you got there and think about how things began, the good times you never thought would end.

“You remember the Valentine's dance?”

“Don't remind me of that fiasco.” Marcy rolled her eyes and smiled. “You nearly broke that boy's heart.”

“No, I didn't,” I protested.

“All I remember is Jamison banging on Damien's car window, complaining about how you won't let him touch you and that he wouldn't have agreed to babysit you if he knew you were so stuck-up,” she said giggling.

Days after we met, Jamison admitted that Damien made him promise to babysit Marcy's “easy” friend at the party and that's the only reason he asked me to dance. Apparently, all of the other boys declined because they knew who I was, but they left Jamison in the dark as a joke. He was looking for a quick lay, but got me instead. He was less than happy . . . at first.

“That's what he got for trying to be the Mack!” I laughed.

“Yeah, but everything changed when he had to drive you home,” Marcy said. “Then he came back to Damien saying he was in love.”

“We couldn't stop talking. I sat in his car in front of the Spelman gates grinning for three hours before I told him I didn't live there. Then the sun was coming up and we were both laughing,” I said tearfully. “He said he didn't know why he assumed I lived on campus and I didn't know why I hadn't told him he was going the wrong way. We were in our own little world. We talked so much, I was sure we wouldn't have anything to talk about the next day, but we did.”

“And then he kissed you,” Marcy said.

“And then he kissed me.” Even in my anger, the memory of that first kiss, the innocence, made a butterfly flutter inside.

“And then, just as I predicted before we even went to the dance, you lost your mind.”

“No, I didn't,” I protested.

“Please, both of you went crazy. Couldn't get enough of each other. If you two weren't together, you were on the phone, and neither of us had cell phones in '95, so I remember waiting for you to get off the damn house phone.” She playfully banged her fist on the bed between us. “In fact, I do believe that somewhere in a history book it says that was when Spelman officially accepted its first male student, because that man was missing all of his classes, coming to yours.”

“He sure did. We just couldn't get enough of each other . . .” I said with my voice sadly trailing off.

I rubbed my stomach and looked helplessly at Marcy.

“Then what happened? How did we get here?” I asked.

“You're going to ask yourself that same questions a million times and never get an answer until you ask him. Then you won't even be happy with that,” Marcy said. I could tell she was talking about her situation. In the eleven years they'd been married, Damien had cheated many times and even managed to have a stalker. In response, Marcy developed a private life of her own. Like many of the women in the big houses in Buckhead, she had lots of romantic gifts, private dinners, and late nights at hotels when her husband was away. All of it, Damien's cheating, Marcy's way of getting back at him, made me wonder why they were even together. But for some reason, the dispute, their secret lives, only made them more determined to stay married. Neither showed signs of wanting to leave. It was an odd understanding, but somehow they both kept breathing.

“Nothing is going to make it all right in your head,” she continued. “What you have to do now is focus on your baby and make some big decisions. And I can't do that for you.”

The door chime rang throughout the house, getting louder and louder as it found its way to the bedroom. Marcy and I looked at each other quickly.

“Probably the decorator,” Marcy said, knowing exactly what I was thinking. “The caterer will let him in.” She turned and looked to the window. The chime came calling again. “Maybe it's the—”

“Kerry, I'm outside,” a voice yelled far too loud for Marcy's Buckhead enclave. The sound of Jamison's voice made my heart race. “I need to see you.”

“Jamison,” Marcy said, jumping out of bed and running to the window. “Where's Damien?”

“Marcy, I need to see my wife,” Jamison said.

I watched Marcy struggle to open the window as I took much longer than I wished to get out of bed.

“This is not the time or the place for this, Jamison. She's fine. She's resting and she's fine.”

“I need to see her,” Jamison hollered so loud Marcy jumped and hit her head at the top of the window. “I need to tell her what's going on . . . why I was there.”

“You two can talk later when you calm down,” Marcy said as I came up behind her. She held out her hand to stop me from putting my head out of the window beside her.

“Kerry, is that you?” he called to me. “Please come out here and talk to me. Please!”

“Do you want to see him?” Marcy said, turning to me.

“I don't know.” I was crying again, standing there naked with tears streaming down my cheeks.

“Just come outside so we can talk,” he cried.

Covering my body with the curtain, I squeezed into the window sill beside Marcy. Jamison looked really bad. His face was completely red, and even from the window I could tell his eyes were as swollen as mine.

“Why are you here?” I hollered. “I don't want to see you.”

“Kerry, don't do this,” he said. “Hear me out.”

“Hear what? I don't want to hear anything from your lying ass. Did she know you were married? Did she know you had a baby on the way? You bastard!”

Marcy pulled me back from the window.

“Stop it, Kerry,” she said, wrapping me in a sheet.

I was bawling so hard my chest was heaving like a child's and I could feel my heart beating, pounding all the way in my uterus.

“He can go . . . he can go,” I kept rambling as Marcy sat me down on the bed, “go and be with her.”

She got up to close the window, but we could still hear Jamison yelling for me to come out.

“I have to get rid of him before someone calls the police,” Marcy said. “They're probably already on the way. Just promise me you'll stay here.”

“Let them arrest him like they arrested me,” I said, wiping my face with a little pink tissue she'd handed me.

“Just stay here,” Marcy said. She ran to the door and I heard her flip-flops clacking down the steps.

“Kerry, I need you,” Jamison hollered. His words flipped around in my gut.

I just sat there on the bed and waited to hear Marcy's voice on the other side. I slowly began to pull the sheet off my body. I needed to go back to bed.