My Husband's Girlfriend (4 page)

4

Anya

Every day we try to stick to a routine. I wake up at six, put on the coffee,
and throw together some breakfast. Neil is out the door by six-thirty. Sharvette gets up, eats, showers, and gets dressed to attend a few courses she’s taking at the University of Houston’s main campus. Sometimes I wake Reesy and, because she doesn’t do Metro, I’ll drive Vette to school. Other times she may have someone swing by and pick her up.

But by eight, I want everyone gone so I can begin my day with Reesy.

Our daughter looks like Neil with a dress. Her eyes are wide and large like she wants to take in everything around her. Her face is beautiful and round, and her hair is mounted with braids. Let’s face it: Braids for little black girls are just easier to deal with. Reesy squirms and complains that braiding “hurts like hell,” but I overlook her silly comments.

We start our day belting out a little prayer.

“Dear Lord, bless this day, protect us from harm, let us be grateful and not complain, lead and guide our steps. Amen.” We say this Monday through Friday, no matter how we feel, no matter what has gone wrong the day before.

“Each day is a brand-newww day,” Reesy will say. She says it because it’s what I’ve instructed her to say over and again no matter what. Not that it’s a total lie, but neither is it something that’s necessarily true merely because I proclaim it all the time.

This morning I walk in Reesy’s room and tickle her bare feet with my fingers. She sits up, rubbing her crusty eyes with brown fists.

“Hi, Mommy.”

“Hey, baby.”

“I’m not a baby.” I look at her, wondering if she realizes what she said. I wonder if she knows about her little brother. Nah, I can’t see Neil telling her something she couldn’t begin to understand.

“Right, you are not a baby. You’re six—”

“Going on twenty,” she giggles. Reesy has no idea what that means. She just repeats what Vette says, what anyone says.

“After you get dressed and eat breakfast, you can start working on your letters, okay, sweetie?”

“Mommm. I already know letters. Can we do something else? Something fun?”

I don’t say anything.

Later we’re in the kitchen. A corner of this room is designated for Reesy’s lessons. Although I am tempted to run off into the laundry room, the den, or back to bed, I’ve promised myself that between eight and one, most everything we do will center on this cubbyhole.

She has a tiny red desk, a computer, a box filled with toys and books, art supplies, and other learning tools.

“Mommy, why can Tamika go to the real school and I hafta go to the fake school?”

Tamika is our eight-year-old neighbor who has a big, fat mouth.

“Mika doesn’t know what she’s talking about, sweetie.”

“Will you tell me why?”

“You’re special, Reesy.”

“I don’t want to be special.”

I feel guilty. Again. I can’t make my daughter understand that I am trying to impart to her what Argyle Elementary might not. And it’s days like this that I wonder if I should re-enter the workforce and return to my job as a tourism specialist. But when I think about how people go postal in the workplace and can kill folks over nothing, or when I consider how a child can be sent home for bringing a butter knife to school because it’s against HISD policy, that’s why I choose to be Reesy’s mother
and
her teacher. I can nurture my own daughter and instill in her the values that are missing from public school. Moreover, I believe Reesy and I are better off at home, the supposed refuge.

So I get this eerie feeling when the phone rings mid-morning and this woman’s voice is at the other end.

“Anya, in spite of everything that’s happened, I really am a nice person.”

My ears prickle. “Who the hell is this?”

I hear this breathy sigh like the caller is frustrated and has no more words. Then there is a click and a dial tone.

Caller ID indicates the number is unavailable. “If she’s unavailable, why can’t I be, too?” I say out loud.

Even though I haven’t heard her voice in a while, I feel it was
her.
I wouldn’t be surprised if it was. When two women have stakes in one man, a confrontation is always inevitable.

I pick up the phone and dial Neil’s job. Kyra patches me through to him. He isn’t at his desk. I leave a message after the beep.

“Neil, handle your business. What’s-her-face called here. I don’t know what she wants, but she should be dealing with you only ’cause I doubt seriously that she’d want to deal with me.”

It isn’t the first time she’s called. When she was pregnant, she’d call. I’d be on the other line and this woman would dial our house and ask to speak to Mr. Meadows. I was neither impressed nor fooled. She could’ve saved that. Because once she let Neil put his dick inside her, they’d long crossed the formality line. I wondered what she called him when he was on top of her. I doubt it was Mr. Meadows.

So I’d be talking on the other line, and this woman would ask for my husband. I’d say “Hold on.” I’d terminate my call, click back to her, and hand Neil the phone. I’d stand right there looking at him and listening to their conversation. What? Fucking my husband isn’t enough? She has to make house calls, too?

If I’d known what was going to happen, maybe my insight would’ve stopped me from encouraging Neil to get his rocks off with someone other than himself. Maybe I should have steered him to Main Street, or Calhoun Boulevard in the Third Ward, to find some tantalizing prostitute he could lay up with and then go home. Get some loving and don’t be worried about being in the whore’s face anymore.

But
nooo.
Sensible, naive Neil has to find some clingy young thing who works in his office. He didn’t volunteer this info up front. He dodged my questions about her, reminding me that although this wasn’t in the arrangement, I’d verbally promised not to press him for details about his lover.

Even though I pushed him into this, I resented that he had a secretive something he wasn’t eager to share. And I’m human. Who is she? I already figured she wasn’t overweight. No the hell way. That would defeat the purpose. At the time, I believed he’d probably found some weave-wearing, 115-pound, leggy thing who had a big, fat booty and some jiggling tits. Sooo typical. Not many respectable men go out of their way to search for a dog, so fault me for that one. I set this up all wrong. I put Neil on a chain but the chain was a little bit too long. Now I’m paying big-time.

Open-mindedness costs. There’s a huge price to pay when you love a man, tell him you’ll do anything for him, then watch your whole world crumble because you’re forced to prove the actions behind your words.

5

Neil

By the time my son marks his third week of life, I decide things between
me and Anya have settled down enough for me to make a little trip over to Dani’s. This is the first time I get to see him since he’s been born. I wanted to visit sooner, but Reese got sick with the flu and I didn’t want to spread her germs.

After I arrive at Dani’s place, I notice she’s lost a few pounds already. She looks relaxed; her long brown wavy hair is bound in a thick ponytail. She’s sporting a pair of distressed stretch jeans and a white cotton blouse that shows off her belly button.

“Well, look who decides to show up.” Her voice is gentle, so I don’t take offense.

“You know the deal, Dani. I don’t want the little man getting sick. He knows his father’s gonna be more than a ten-minute daddy. We’ve formed a strong bond already.” I grab the baby’s finger. He is asleep, eyes shut tight, and managing to look peaceful in a world filled with conflict. I want to climb in his crib, lie down, and cover both of us with a warm blanket. I bend over and stroke his soft forehead with my lips. He smells good, clean and powdery. A big knot expands in my throat, but I know better than to surrender to my emotions.

“Can you believe we did that?” Dani says. Her eyes are large and unblinking. She keeps shaking her head.

“I want him to have the best of everything,” she continues. “But he shouldn’t be totally spoiled. That’s why he hasn’t slept with me in my bed. I don’t even want to start all that.”

“What do you do when he cries?”

“I’ll wait awhile to see if he keeps it up. If he does, I go check on him, let him see my face. But I resist picking Braxton up.”

I flinch. A few days after the baby was born, Dani and I agreed to change his name to Braxton Frazier (Frazier is her last name).

I gesture at Dani that we leave the baby’s room.

When we settle in her kitchen, I notice a dozen wicker baskets. There is colored tissue paper, oils, scented powders, tiny bottles of jam, plus a whole bunch of other items covering the entire table. Dani creates gift baskets as a side business. She likes making beautiful things and is good with her hands. Her initiative is one of the things I admire about her.

When we first agreed to hook up, and once we got past the initial sexual attraction, I tried to see her for what she is: a beautiful, vivacious woman who gets testy at times, but is loyal. If she takes any missteps, they’re not taken willfully. She’s blessed with a decent heart and I didn’t want that to change.

“I see you’ve gotten some orders here,” I say, lifting a gourmet coffee packet and inhaling the strong, intoxicating aroma of coffee beans.

“Yep, the closer we get to the holidays, the more the orders pile up—usually more than six hundred. I don’t mind at all even though I am aching to get back to work.”

“When are you coming back?”

“I’m supposed to be there in four weeks, at the end of October, but I might come back a week early. I’m kinda looking forward to it, but some parts of me wish I could put in for a transfer.”

I don’t respond. At times I wish she’d put in for a transfer, too. I don’t know how long we can continue this charade. The way Dani used to come to work every day with a protruding belly but never mentioning the identity of her child’s father. Me trying to avoid her around the office, something I’m not sure my colleagues bought—not when they remembered how friendly Dani and I had been in the past. We’d do lunch, sometimes dinner, and always on the pretense of work. But no one ever saw me sliding my arm around her or ogling her in an inappropriate manner. During staff meetings, we sat on opposite ends of the conference table, and we didn’t arrive at after-work functions together.

Even though it pained me to play these roles in front of others, I always tried to make things up to her. Sometimes I’d go to her place in the evenings and rub her feet for a half hour. Or I’d offer to go grocery shopping or pick her up a hot meal, making sure she had everything she needed—anything to help ease the awkward situation. She never asked me to do this, I just did it.

And when we got to the core of our relationship, that’s when we were able to relax and be the way we felt we wanted to be. Our little trysts would take place during the lunch break. She lives a few miles from work. Every weekday, she’d show up at the office wearing her business apparel and my favorite string bikini underneath. A few minutes after noon, we’d meet at her apartment, go to her bedroom, and kiss and fondle each other. She’d let me partially undress her, removing her jacket, blouse, and skirt. Then she’d spread out on the bed with her legs open. She’d smile and untie the string so I could see part of her vagina. I’d stare at her for a moment and it would take no time for me to get heated up. When I couldn’t stand it any longer, I’d yank off her bikini top and bottom, and Dani would pull me against her breasts and let me bang and pound and thrash around wildly inside of her until I felt like I was losing my mind.

It was easy to hold Dani—a joy to squeeze her tight in my arms. Her flesh felt right to my skin, like we were body parts that fit precisely without awkwardness. She’d tell me I was hung like King Kong, which would make me blush every time. Sometimes I’d make love to her and imagine she was Anya. Other times I was happy Dani was just Dani.

One time, after we’d both climaxed and were too worn out to jump out of her bed just yet, Dani nudged me.

“Are we falling in love?”

She continued talking as if I weren’t there.

“This man and woman start out making love once every two weeks, but now they’re seeing each other three times a week with plans to meet on the weekend. This is so exciting for me. I’m having the greatest sex of my life, but I think I’m falling for you, Neil. I just wondered if you’re having those same feelings, or am I all alone on this?”

She looked at me, but when I didn’t respond, she rushed to take a shower.

I was glad she didn’t press me for an answer.

Tonight Anya calls me out of my library and pours a pitcher of icy-cold beer.

I have the sports section clutched in one hand. I study her and the pitcher she places on an end table in our living room. One lamp is on. It’s hard to see but I notice a wry smile on Anya’s lips.

“What you want?” I ask.

She points to the sofa.

I sit.

Anya makes a triumphant noise and kicks off her pink slippers decorated with gingerbread men. She flops on the couch with a grin so wide, it seems like her entire face is lit up. Anya reaches and grabs the pitcher of beer and sets it on the floor. The liquid sloshes so wildly that some of it leaps over the sides and splatters the rug.

“Watch that,” I tell her, but I’m not scolding.

“Watch
this,
” Anya says.

Anya guides her right foot. Her leg wobbles. She plunges her big toe in the pitcher. “Whew.” She shivers. “Cold.”

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“Yeah. Why? Doesn’t seem like me, huh?”

Anya makes a circle in the beer with her toe, then slithers to the carpet, lies on her back, and looks up at me.

“C’mere, Neil.”

I glance at my watch.

“Neil, c’mon now. You’re spoiling everything.”

I bare my teeth but lay the sports section on the couch. The only sound I hear is the steady hum of the air conditioner. I squat next to Anya. My wife, someone who I cannot figure out half the time, is still smiling mischievously. Her quirky ways enamored me when we first met, but sometimes what starts out as an attraction, a “that’s so cute” kind of thing, can become the source of annoyance years later.

Anya looks up and raises her foot toward my face. She giggles, extends her leg closer to my cheek. Her wet toe pokes me. I don’t move. She slides her toe until it bears down on my mouth. My closed mouth fights to keep her toe from prying itself inside.

“C’mon, Neil,” she pleads.

I can tell what she’s doing. Anya knows I love to suck different body parts, but she’s never stuck her toe in any of my favorite drinks before. Why is she acting like this? Maybe it’s because yesterday, for the first time in a long time, I came home late. Past ten o’clock on a weeknight. When I walked in the door and went straight to the library, I didn’t bother to call her from my cell phone to say I’d gotten in like I normally do, so she could then go to sleep.

Anya stares at me with a hardened face. “So you won’t even suck my toe?”

I look away until my eyes find the sports section.

“Neil, I’d do it for you.”

“No, you won’t, or at least you haven’t before,” I remind her. “Why the sudden change?”

“I was reading somewhere about how to combat my little problem”—she nods—“and it said a little sexual aggression could do the—”

“I doubt that,” I say. “Because when I’ve initiated—”

“Sexual aggression on my part, Neil. I was hoping you’d like it, join in…”

I shake my head at her like I don’t buy what she’s saying.

“I think the point is that I’m making an effort. But you—you won’t even try.”

Wanting to defuse the atmosphere, I’m tempted to grab the pitcher and start slurping the liquid until it’s gone, but I sense Anya won’t laugh.

Anya leans against the couch and folds her arms tightly across her chest.

“Neil, you never did tell me where you were last night.”

I stare into space, wondering if her little seduction attempt is due to my coming home late.

“Oh, so you’re gonna keep that info to yourself, huh? Cool.” She may say the word
cool,
but I know better. Women say that when they figure the ball is in their court and now it’s their turn to devise some strategy that will make a man regret his actions.

“Anya, I don’t want to lie to you…”

“Then don’t.”

“But I don’t want to tell the truth, either.”

“Oh, Neil,” she says. “See, all this isn’t even necessary. I just wish you wouldn’t act so different. I
hate
that you’re changing.”

“I’m
not
different.”

“Get real. A woman knows her man. I can perceive the subtle changes in you. Even the air feels different in this house, as if spirits are lurking about, and we’re sharing our living space with unseen forces. Sounds silly but that’s what I sense.” Anya shivers and rubs her arms with her fingers. She has a sad look on her face, like she’s distressed beyond comfort. I feel like an ass. I wish I could blame everything on someone else, but when I think of who that person could be, everything points to me.

“Anya, look, I don’t want to get into a detailed discussion. I just think that if your happiness depends on knowing where I am twenty-four seven, you’d be miserable. And as far as sucking your toes, you have some be-
yoo
-tiful toes.” I glance at her. “I’m just not in a sucking mood right now.”

“You’re not in the mood? Ha!”

I know better than to argue. If she accused me of being the mythical Bigfoot, I’d say, “Yep, you caught me.” Anything to keep the arguments from continuing.

I scoot closer to Anya, wrap my arm around her shoulder, and squeeze. Usually she leans against me, or puts her head against the crook of my neck, but now she sits stiffly, like a frozen painting, with a frozen, sad smile on her face, like she’s frozen in time.