On the Line

by Donna Hill

  “Yeah,” I replied. “I’ve always loved the library.”

  “Really?”

  “Mmm-hmm. Ever since I was a little girl.”

  “We are a little understaffed and could use some help a few times a week,” she hinted.

  “I’d love to,” I piped up, needing no other prompting.

  “When could you—”

  “Tomorrow,” I interrupted, happy to reenter the land of adults once again.

  The next day, after dropping Tatiana off, I did a quick workout before showering at the gym and heading to the library. The head librarian gave me a tour before pointing me toward a cart that I would use for reshelving books. As she spoke I was thinking, I have an MBA, and I’ve won awards for some of my ads, but here I am pushing a cart of books around. The thought vanished just as quickly when I remember that this was a way for me to spend my time usefully before my brain turned to mush from watching another kids’ television show.

  I’d been at the counter, checking out some materials for a patron, and I went over to the front desk to answer the ringing phone. I was transferring the call to the circulation desk when I felt someone standing in front of me. When I looked up, I saw a man with skin like carob standing before me. His slanted, almond-shaped eyes were reminiscent of Tyson Beckford, and looking at his succulent lips made my own twitch. The goatee framing his mouth was etched with precision, and when he smiled at me, I felt myself flush. He wore faded jeans whose waist kissed the top of his hipbones. The neckline of his cream thermal undershirt peeked over the top of his red flannel shirt. His ears were tucked under the sides of his red-and-black baseball cap.

  “I’m looking for some books on starting a business,” he said, responding to my standard greeting.

  “Okay. Is there any specific book that you’re looking for?”

  “Not one in particular, but I’m starting from the ground floor, so any books that you could recommend would help.”

  “So what kind of business is it?” I asked.

  “Huh, oh, it’s a coffee shop slash bookstore,” he said with an uncertain smile.

  “Okay. What are some of your marketing strategies?”

  “I hadn’t thought that far in advance. Hey, can I pick your brain over coffee?”

  “Sure. I finish working at noon. That’s a half hour.”

  He looked at his watch. “I’ll be finished getting books by then.”

  I sauntered away smiling.

  A half hour later I was sitting in my truck with my shades on watching him walk down the sidewalk to his car. His walk was smooth and sexy, like he had someplace to be, but he was confident that whoever he was meeting would wait. I backed out of my space when I saw that he was in his car behind me, and I exited the parking lot heading toward Panera. Inside, he sat with a small notepad open and his pen poised, ready to take notes.

  “I just realized that I don’t know your name,” I said, then sipped my weak tea.

  “It’s Marcus.”

  “Marcus, I’m Chelsea.”

  “It’s a real pleasure meeting you.”

  “Enchanté,” I replied with a smile.

  He laughed. “I certainly would love to have you around as a consultant. I can’t afford to pay you anything now, though.”

  “I’d give you my services for free,” I said with a wink. “In my past life I was in advertising before I got married and had a child.”

  Marcus smiled and rubbed his goatee.

  I’d finished my tea and, after checking my watch, I saw that it was time to pick Tatiana up from school. I usually picked her up before nap time so that we could go home and sleep together, and it was nearing one, when all of the other kids were getting ready to pull their sleeping mats out.

  “I have to go get my daughter,” I said, gathering my purse and taking out my keys.

  “Would it be out of line if I asked you if I could see you again?”

  “I’m a married woman,” I said with a sad smile.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t…”

  “I’m just making sure that you know what you’re doing.”

  Marcus nodded. “I think I know.”

  “Okay.”

  I picked up his pen and leaned in close enough to write on his notepad. I scribbled my cell phone number down.

  “You smell good, too. What is that?”

  “It’s my natural scent. It smells like strawberries,” I ventured further.

  Grinning broadly, he said, “It’s my favorite fruit. I suddenly got a taste for them.”

  I stood up and walked away, not bothering to look over my shoulder. I could feel the heat of his eyes as he watched me walk away.

  Each time that I’d seen Marcus it had been in the safety of a small crowd, in a restaurant, a coffee shop and along the exercise path called Kelly Drive in Philadelphia. I’d been saved by those other people. Rather, he’d been saved, because I had so much pent-up passion I probably would have broken him in two.

  But today when he called at nine o’clock, asking simply, “Are you available?” I did something I didn’t I think I’d ever do. I invited him to my house.

  It was ten o’clock when he called from the entrance of our gated community, and I buzzed him in, readying myself to meet him at the front door.

  I opened the door when I heard him knock, ushering him into the spacious foyer. I smiled nervously as he looked around.

  “This is nice,” he commented. “No wonder you stopped working.”

  I flinched, hearing his last comment.

  “Do you want to see it?” I asked.

  “Sure. It’ll be a long time before I can live like this.”

  I walked him around the first floor, opening doors to offices, dens, sitting rooms and the other rooms that went virtually unused. I took him to the basement where he checked out Clay’s weight room, home movie theater and wine cellar, gaping at them in awe. Then we toured the second floor, where I walked past Clay’s room with no explanation. I paused in Tatiana’s doorway, breathing in the smell of the baby lotion that I still used on her over the expensive cream that was all the rage among the moms in our circle. I didn’t care what the jet set was using. I liked my baby to smell like a baby.

  “This is my angel’s room,” I said, nodding at the black-and-white photos of her on the wall over her mini table and chairs. The table was still set from the tea party we’d had that morning before I took her to school.

  I backed out of the room, nodding in the direction of the spare bedroom. It was supposed to be for another child, but I certainly wasn’t about to let that happen again. I was already the married single mom of one. I wasn’t going to double the fun.

  The last room on the tour was my bedroom, and as I opened the door to it, I shuddered involuntarily. Marcus stood behind me with his hand on the small of my back.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  I nodded, not wanting to verbalize a lie. The truth was, as I opened the door, I visualized myself spinning around the retractable pole that came out of the ceiling. It was one of the many tools that Clay had outfitted my room with. There was also a swing that hooked into the ceiling over the bed. It was in the closet now, but I still could see the place where the hooks went. The feather boas, diamond-studded and lacy undergarments were packed away in the closet, but as long as they were in that room, they were with me.

  So when Marcus turned me around and kissed me, I couldn’t respond. Instead, I collapsed in his arms and wept. He led me out of the bedroom and toward the steps to go downstairs.

  Downstairs, I didn’t explain anything. Wiping my tear-streaked face, I said simply, “Not in there. Clay’s heading for Tokyo on Friday. He’ll be gone for two weeks. Let’s connect then.”

  “Okay,” he said gently.

  I called my mother and asked her to keep Tatiana for a few days. She agreed without hesitation.

  Marcus lay panting, tangled in the sheets of the bed in the Ritz-Carlton hotel room where we’d been holed up for three days straight
. The only break from our intense lovemaking sessions had been to eat, get massages, shower, talk and sleep.

  “I don’t know how you do it,” he’d said over and over. “I’m, what, five years younger than you, and I can’t keep up.”

  I smiled when he said it, unwilling to let him know that this marathon was going to have to last me because I was about to go back to the damn circus where I’d been walking on tightropes and jumping on trampolines but getting no thrills of my own.

  Truthfully, it had been a little strange having Marcus in my space continuously.

  But even though I wasn’t accustomed to sharing so much of my space with someone else, it wasn’t a bad kind of strange. It felt good.

  But all good things must come to an end. Mom called me on my cell phone after day five. I had been calling there twice a day to check in on Tat, and she sounded happy. My mom had been keeping her busy, but by day five, my daughter said that she didn’t want to live with Grandmom forever because she missed me.

  With three more days until Clay’s return, I was moody and withdrawn. I worked out and went to the library as usual, but I lost the spring in my step. I couldn’t make sense of my emotions.

  A few days later Clay arrived home looking like death on ice. One look at him when I picked him up from the airport, and I said, “You need to get to the hospital.”

  I drove to Temple University Hospital, where he was admitted after a battery of tests had been performed.

  “Your husband was a walking dead man,” the doctor told me as Clay lay in the bed.

  My mother had come to the hospital to get Tatiana and take her back to her house, but I surely needed Mom by my side for emotional support.

  “We’re trying to stabilize his blood sugar now, but honestly, I don’t know why he wasn’t in a diabetic coma. The normal range for blood sugar is between seventy and one-twenty. His was seven hundred.”

  My mouth dropped open as I looked at him. His eyes were closed as if he were trying to wish himself to be anywhere but there. I reached out to touch his hand, and I was surprised when his fingers gripped mine tightly in return.

  Clay was released after a weeklong stay, and when he got home, he seemed to see things for the very first time. On the first morning, when Tatiana and I went downstairs for breakfast, he was already down there in the kitchen drinking a glass of water.

  “Daddy,” Tat squealed excitedly, happy to see him by daylight on a weekday.

  He picked her up, startled but pleased with her display of emotion.

  I went into the kitchen to cut the fruit for her breakfast. I picked out a container of her yogurt and a package of cottage cheese and fruit puree for mine. After popping a couple of turkey sausages in the microwave, I poured orange juice for the two of us and began measuring Clay’s oatmeal. The doctor had told him that he should eat it for breakfast every morning, and I intended to follow the doctor’s orders. As nasty as Clay had been, I don’t know why I wanted him around for the future, but I did.

  When I returned to the table, Tat was telling Clay about school. I hadn’t told him that I had enrolled her, and I certainly hadn’t thought about how or when I’d tell him. But now seemed as good a time as any to clear the air.

  “She goes part-time every day,” I began. “It’s good for her socialization, and frankly I just needed some hands-free time. Some time that I could be an adult again.”

  I wasn’t sure what to expect in response, but “I understand” was the furthest thing from my mind. I blinked hard to make sure I heard him properly. He smiled in response.

  “Since we’re clearing the air, I have to tell you something, too. But it will have to wait until Tat’s not here.”

  “Okay,” I replied, going back to the stove to scoop up his oatmeal.

  After breakfast, I went upstairs to get Tatiana and myself dressed. To my surprise, Clay got dressed, as well, and he was waiting at the bottom of the steps for us.

  “I thought I’d ride with you to take her to school,” he offered.

  “Okay,” I said. I was already holding my daughter’s hand. Now I reached out to hold my husband’s, too.

  We drove to school, and Clay walked inside with us. We walked her to her classroom, and gave him a tour of the school, pointing out her artwork in the common gallery for all of the classes.

  When we settled back into the car, Clay grabbed my hand and looked at me earnestly. We drove home in silence. Back at the house, he popped in one of the educational videos about diabetes, and he seemed antsy, like he was avoiding the confession that he’d mentioned earlier.

  After the video, we left his home theater and headed up to the kitchen for a snack. With his back to me, Clay began to speak as he rummaged through the refrigerator.

  “You certainly don’t deserve what I’m about to say, but I’ve had an epiphany of sorts since my illness. I’ve been a rather bad husband in so many ways, but this takes the cake. I’ve been having an affair for the past three years, and I mean to end it today. You’ve put up with all of my garbage, but I intend to make a new start and be a new man. I just want to know if you can forgive me for the affair and everything else.”

  I looked at him, and I began to cry. It wasn’t about the affair or the bull that he’d dished out with regularity over the years. It wasn’t even about my guilt over Marcus. It was about making a fresh start, a new beginning. He was ready, and I was ready. That was great. But just in case he ever slipped back into jackass mode, I’d keep Marcus my little secret, that piece of joy I went to when times were hard, and I needed a sweet memory to keep me company.

  I shake my head at the memory of her letter. I wonder if Clay has screwed up again. Her life was better than a late-night soap opera any day. I’d have to make sure her story got in the book.

  “Girl, I’m ’bout to starve to death,” Macy says all gangsta-like as she appears in the kitchen doorway.

  “All done. What’s that?” I lift my chin to indicate the papers in her hand.

  “I ran across this letter. I don’t remember you ever reading it on the show. It’s kind of kinky but touching.”

  Macy sits down at the table and I bring over our lunch and join her. “Let me see.” She hands me the letter….

  CHAPTER 20

  I tried to yell above the noise in the bar. A perky young blonde had plopped down beside me, crossing her long white legs and signaling for the barkeep to serve her one. I watched her motion at him regally, like she was entitled to be waited on hand and foot. She was dressed very simply, in a tight, short black dress, almost exposing her femininity. All of the men, all races, noticed her adjust her bottom on the leather stool, smiling innocently at me.

  “Do you come here often?” the blonde said, grinning.

  “No, not really.” I really didn’t want to be disturbed. I just wanted to get my buzz.

  “Are you coming from work?” She didn’t know how to quit.

  “Yep,” I replied.

  “What do you do?”

  “An electrician, and it’s a boring job. And you?”

  “A pawn,” she said quietly.

  “Like in chess, right?”

  “Almost. I obey orders for a living. I act out people’s fantasies without resistance or questions. You could say I answer wishes. Like a good fairy. I obey commands whether they are private or public.”

  My face contorted. “Do you always obey anything a person commands you to do?”

  “Yes,” she said, her blue eyes twinkling.

  As a savvy New Yorker, I knew not to make extended eye contact with her. So I stared at my drink, Scotch on the rocks, thinking about how timely it was that she would sit right next to me. I’d had a fight, a nasty verbal one, with the woman who was living with me. She told me things that curled my hair. About our love, about us, about our future, about her and her dreams. Her expression had the intent of a cold-blooded murderer in a killing zone, near the prey, close to the target.

  “Are you a nurse or a teacher in the city?” I
scratched my head.

  “No, I am a pawn,” she answered with a firmness that started me thinking. “Putting yourself into the clutches of a male can have tragic circumstances, don’t you think? Some people don’t have lofty goals or intentions. Being a pawn can really lead to trouble. You have to be careful who you choose. After all, the woman chooses a man and not vice versa.”

  I sipped the drink. “I know.”

  The barkeep put the drink, a Sex on the Beach concoction, on the counter, and when she pulled some bills to pay him, she flicked her long yellow hair into his brown face. Mr. Leong. He was a young Vietnamese kid, barely in his twenties, short stubby fingers. The son of the Boat People. A village near Saigon. We could both smell the strong lavender scent worn on her slender cranelike neck. I didn’t like it, but he seemed to prefer it, lurking nearby with his nostrils flared.

  “Why did you pick this seat?” I asked.

  “I liked you, Mister Man,” she chirped. I could see she had a nice figure.

  I really looked at the woman, very pale, big bust, tapered waist, flat boyish ass. All I needed was for my lady to think I was out here catting around. That would constitute an ultimate betrayal.

  Before I was with my wife, Melba, I was a dog. Oh, man, I nailed anything with a hole in it. I remember the cops raided a massage parlor and arrested me for soliciting a sex worker. They sent me to a school for johns in Brooklyn. It was in a high school with about thirty guys, all of them caught with prostitutes. The cops had a former whore who read them the riot act, asking them if they liked screwing girls who no longer cared about themselves and were victimized as kids.

  The guys nodded shamelessly and whispered that all they cared about was getting the orgasm. Getting that nut. But I was different. I never did anything like that again.

  Maybe I want to spice up my sex life by fooling around. However, only with pure, clean-cut women and girls. Not tricks or treats. No public sex. Very decent and polite.

  The blonde snapped me out of my fog. “Are you straight? I don’t want any switch-hitters, you know what I mean?”