Life Without Hope (26 page)

–
Hope –

Three years later, life couldn’t have been better. My child was in

preschool, I was attending law school and my husband, Marcus,

had a great job making excellent money. He was far from being

perfect, but he was a good husband and father. We had a big house

out in the suburbs, in a multi-cultural community. For the first

time in my life, a sista was truly happy. I worked as a counselor for

troubled kids for the Department of Corrections. The pay wasn’t

bad, thirty eight thousand dollars a year. I went to school at night

to earn my law degree. In a lot of ways I knew that I was neglect-

ing my child as well as my husband, but I was less than a year

short of earning my degree and all my hard work would come to

fr uition. Upon my graduation I already secretly made plans to

take my family to Walt Disney World and just act like one big-ass

kid with Marcus. At least that was my dream.

For now, the reality was that most days when I came home, I

would be so tired, all I could do was take a quick shower and col-

lapse in the bed. Thank God Marcus was one of them fathers that

enjoyed cleaning and cooking, like it was second nature to him. I

could never understand it. I was just thankful. With him, every-

thing had to be extremely orderly and neat. I wished that he felt

the same way about my body and our sex life. Our sex life suffered

miserably. No matter what I did, the man just did not want no

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nooky. I even went out and bought all kinds of expensive lingerie,

read books on how to rekindle love after marriage and children.

Even bought one of them lovemaking tapes you see advertised in

the back of the

Essence

magazine. Marcus was numb from his

brain down. I even tried to molest him, my own damn husband.

I had never per formed oral sex and was anxious to tr y it on him.

He flatly refused me, saying that it was nasty and sinful. Made me

feel like a slut. I went out and bought myself a woman’s best

friend, the ultimate toy. I named it Big Boy. All a sister needed was

two D batteries and an imagination. I convinced myself that

things would change, just give it time. Besides, I realized that not

being at home a lot of times was placing strain on our marriage.

In my heart I knew that once I started practicing law and we were

able to take a long vacation, Marcus would change. In a lot of

ways, like many other women, I learned to love without sex and

that would have to suffice. Marcus and I lived on two separate

islands. Our only real connection was our child and the sad truth

about that was, it wasn’t even his child. I knew that the only rea-

son I accepted my husband’s denial of my body was to purge

myself from a woman’s greatest sin–infidelity that resulted in

another man’s child. The last few years I had learned to cope with

my transgressions.

*****

On September 4

, Cathy McMillan, the Judicial Judge for the

th

Ninth District of Tallahassee Juvenile division retired. She was 62

years old. On that day the entire juvenile department held an hon-

orary celebration. A catering ser vice provided lots of good food,

with the state footing the bill. I left work three hours early. With

my son at preschool and my husband at work, I was going to catch

a few Zs in my king sized bed and enjoy some peace and quiet.

Something I learned as a new wife and mother, working and going

to school, you slept when you could, not when you wanted to.

Rest can be a commodity given away for the sake of motherhood.

As I pulled my Benz into the driveway I noticed Marcus’

Range Rover in the carport. He never parked in there.

What is he

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doing home so early from work?

I wondered. Then I had this idea,

it overpowered me.

Sex!

As I hopped out of the car my pace quick-

ened. It felt like I was about to have a hormone attack. Sex was no

longer an option, it was a demand that I was not going to com-

promise. Right then and there I decided that Marcus was going to

give me some or I was going to turn this mutha out. A woman can

only take so much. We hadn’t had sex in over six months.

As I stepped inside our spacious living room, the first thing I

noticed was Marcus’ clothes thrown everywhere, like he was in a

hurr y to take them off. I thought that was particularly strange of

him, since he was a neat freak. Hesitantly, I placed my briefcase

and purse on the floor. My woman’s curiosity piqued, my senses

acute to any sight, sound or smell. I kicked off my high-heeled

pumps along with my suit coat. In my stocking feet I followed the

trail of abandoned clothes … up the stairs … to my bedroom

door. My heartbeat was in my throat as I listened astutely. On the

other side of the door I could hear panting, groans and sighs. The

sound of lovemaking. My husband was in my bed, making love to

another woman, on the satin sheets that he would not make love

to me on, in my fucking house. I was enraged! Past the brink of

no return. Insanity. My first thought was to find a gun and blow

both their goddamn brains out! Then I had a better idea. Much

better. I retraced my steps, tiptoeing backward.

I went out to the garage, retrieved the small gas can Marcus

used for the lawn mower. It was full. On my way back in I stepped

in an oil spot in the garage, tracked it back in on my eight thou-

sand dollar Persian rug that I was still making payments on. In the

living room I stopped and got the lighter out of the drawer. I

walked back up the stairs, gasoline in hand, footsteps smearing my

carpet with oil. At the door my hands trembled as I turned the

doorknob. The hump in the sheets confirmed the nightmare. The

two people did not even notice my entrance. I walked closer and

closer with murderous intent. Gas in one hand, lighter in the

other. I began to pour gas all over them and the bed, to set their

bodies into human flames. In their fevered frolic they did not even

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notice me. Then, to my utter disbelief, it was Stan’s hateful eyes

that stared back at me. He threw back the covers and I saw my

husband Marcus underneath him lying on his stomach. They both

looked back at me, then to the gasoline can in hand and it took

only a second for it to dawn on them what I was about to do. The

fumes were a dead giveaway. Can you say, extra crispy courtesy of

gasoline and fear? I flicked the cigarette lighter.

“
Noooo!” Stan shrieked and stood up in bed throwing the wet

gasoline covers off of him like that was going to save his ass from

the fire that I was going to ignite. As he stood there, from the size

of his huge erect penis as it dangled in front of my face, I realized

that my husband was definitely more woman than I was to take

that up his rectum.

“
Hope, this is not what you think!” Marcus screeched in ter-

ror.

“
Hope please don’t do this!” Stan pleaded for his life.

In my mind, in that moment of insanity, it would have been

better if I caught my husband with a woman. This only seemed to

infuriate me more. Two men packing shit, and with Stan of all

people. I reasoned all those years, that was why he hated me. He

was fucking my husband and was jealous. Now as I took a step,

lighter in hand, like some demon-possessed woman, I was fully

intent on torching his ass. Like a trapped animal he began to plead

and cry, begging for his life as his eyes frantically searched the

room, looking for a way out. I stood between the door of death

and his fiery hell. There was no way he was going to get past me

and the wrath of a woman’s vengeful anger. I flicked the Bic

lighter, stalking him with my movements, deliberate, measured.

Each step I took for ward he took two backward. Cat and mouse.

There’s something so sinister about death’s imminent demise, and

it registered in his face. The sweat, the tears mingling with fear.

“
Please! Please!” Hands outreached, face scowered in painful des-

peration.

“
I don’t believe this! How could ya’ll do this to me? Faggot-ass

fuck boys!” I screamed, irate.

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Stan was against the wall. Gasoline and perspiration gleamed

off of him like shiny wax. I could hear noise behind me and

turned just in time to see Marcus scrambling for the door. During

his haste, he fell, slipped, tried to get up and fell again. He busted

his ass. Once he was halfway steady, he hauled ass out of there. I

looked back at Stan, just as he lunged forward, leaped, took flight

and jumped out of my window, shattering glass. I stood there

huffing full of rage. I walked over to the window and peered out.

Stan was sprawled out in my driveway in obvious pain. In the fall,

he had broken both of his ankles and his spine. A few of my neigh-

bors were now standing outside their homes gawking at the naked

Black man now lying face down, ass up, in my driveway.

In a fit, I ran through the house searching for Marcus. I found

him cowering in the bathroom with the door locked.

“
Marcus, bring your pussy ass out here. Now nigga!” Yes, I

used the n-word but if you came home and caught your husband

in bed with another man with a dick the size of a log shoved up

his butt, you would be mad, too. Now that I think of it, maybe I

should have been jealous, my husband could take more dick than

me.

“
Marcus, bring your faggot ass, out here!” I screamed pound-

ing and kicking on the door like a crazed maniac. I listened. All I

could hear was water running at first.

“
Hope … Hope I was going to tell you,” Marcus whimpered

from the other side of the door. I had to strain to hear him.

“
Tell me what, that you a goddamn faggot and all the grips is

worn off your asshole? Muthafucka open up the damn door!” I

pounded, until a few minutes later I broke down and sobbed, cry-

ing uncontrollably like a baby. This was just too much.

“
Mar-cusss, Marcusss! We have a baby, a life … a family. How

could you do this to us?” Right there I plopped down on the floor,

my resolve shattering. I was only 24 years old and the brotha was

giving me a ner vous breakdown.

Marcus unlocked the door and peeked out to see if I still had

the gas can. Deciding it was safe, he came out into the hall.

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“
Hope, I’m sorr –”

I threw the cigarette lighter in my hand at him.

“
Muthafucka, you ruined everything!” I cried, looking for

something else to throw at him. Marcus now had on a pair of jeans