War.

by Shannon Dianne

  Dena and Danielle’s social statuses are miles apart.

  The look on Dena’s face, the way her eyes teared up and her hand began to shake when she realized Danielle had heard her speak her version of French, had nearly killed me. I tried to think of something to say, but Danielle beat me to the chase. “Malcolm said he’ll be down in a second,” she said in Dena’s low-grade French, without an ounce of condescension. “He’s on the phone with the governor.” She gave a light smile before standing next to Dena and me and making small talk, in English, about the restaurant we were all getting ready to head to.

  Both Danielle and Dena have never mentioned the incident again. But one evening, while Dena and I were preparing dinner together and drinking her favorite red wine, she mentioned that Danielle isn’t “all that bad” and maybe Jasmine’s “a bit too hard on her”.

  Dena had always wanted to forget her ancestry and upbringing. Her parents moved to Boston while Dena’s mother was pregnant. They came to Boston for a different lifestyle that didn’t include living in shotgun cabins on dirt roads and killing their food instead of buying it at the local butcher. So, up to Boston they came with their Cajun English accents they’ve since lost, Catholic ways and Southern etiquette. Dena’s parents made their living by running the biggest farm in Cambridge and opening up a bed and breakfast on the grounds. Dena shudders when her parents remind her that she grew up on a farm, but it made the Fletchers a household name. Especially when President Reagan began making the bed and breakfast his respite. Once Reagan came, the bed and breakfast attracted one politico after the next. Soon the Fletchers closed the bed and breakfast to anyone who wasn’t a government official and within a few years it became the go-to spot for governors, presidents, mayors and Senators.

  The Fletchers had arrived.

  Dena became friends with the daughters of presidents, governors and mayors as they ran around the farm together. She became a debutante, like them. She became a Kappa Chi, like them. She became a member of my circle, like them. Unlike them, she became my wife.

  But I didn’t love her. I wanted them.

  “Doesn’t matter,” my father said one night. It was the night that Dena and my parents sat us both down and told us that we were to marry within the year. “The Fletchers know every fucking body. You marry Dena-Jo, you’re immediately a household name, from the council members on up to the President.” He leaned back in his office chair and puffed smoked out of his cigar. “You’re marrying her.”

  “Listen Dad, I was just thinking I’d marry someone more…or someone less…naive.”

  “Son, every man wants slick pussy. I get that. You can still marry Dena-Jo and have what you want. No big deal.” He smiled and puffed on his cigar again. Malcolm’s father and my father are best friends but when it comes to women, they’re worlds apart. My father discreetly cheats on my mother without her knowing. He likes ‘slick pussy’. Uncle Wynston’s different. ‘You’ve had one pussy, you’ve had ‘em all,’ he told Mac and me one day, ‘Don’t make a big deal out of it. Pussy’ll get you in trouble every time.’ And while I know my father wanted to soften the blow of me having to marry Dena, I wasn’t thrilled about cheating on the woman I was set to marry. It’s just not…me. I don’t have it in me. So, I asked Dena to marry me, realizing that there would be no other woman, ever, besides her.

  My father was right; she was good for business.

  She and I had an old-time love, to say the least. She was a virgin who left her dorm every Friday to go back home and help her parents around the farm. I’d come out to Cambridge during the weekends and watch her with the horses as she spoke to them in her Cajun French, her waist-length hair in one long black braid tossed over her shoulder. She liked that I was 6’2 ”, since she was 5’7”. She liked that I knew folk music, since it was secretly her favorite:

  “I love Bob Dylan, but that’s between us,” she said to me one night.

  My grandparents were big into the New York folk scene in the 60’s; I grew up on the sounds of Bob Dylan and Peter, Paul and Mary. Dena liked that.

  She prefers drive-in movie theaters to cinemas, so I’d fly in from Princeton most weekends and take her to one. Afterwards, we’d sit in my car listening to a mix of old and new folk music, outside of her parents bed and breakfast, as governors and presidents laughed loudly inside. We’d be in the comfort of rolling fields of green grass, crickets chirping, stars shining, the moon glaring, the fireflies lightening up the space around us. It would be during those times when I’d look at Dena and think, maybe I can do this. Maybe I can love her. No, she wasn’t the stiletto-wearing girls that Mac, Cadence, Jake and I always liked. The three of them were about to marry Laura, Winnie and Lola, the kind of women we all liked: Old Money girls from old families who wore high heels and French perfume. Dena wore shoes she referred to as ballet flats and smelled like lavender and rose oil. But maybe I could give up the idea of the city-slick Boston girl and love Dena-Jo, I thought.

  So she and I would sit in my car on the weekends, listening to politicos sing American classics from inside the Fletcher bed and breakfast. Songs like This Land Is Your Land and sometimes Dixieland if Southern politicos were inside. And then one night, when they were inside singing a round of Deep in the Heart of Texas, Dena caught me looking at her. I was taking her in. Her blue plaid shirt. Her strand of pearls, her long thick dark braid that was wrapped around her head like a crown. She gave me an awkward grin and then shifted in her seat.

  “I know…I know what you’re probably thinking and I promise you Nathaniel, I don’t have anything else in me. I’m just…dark. I don’t know why. I guess it’s true, everyone has their griefs to bear.”

  “You’re beautiful, Dena.”

  “It’s just that you’re…you know, light and you have that, you know, auburn hair and hazel brown eyes and I was just thinking that maybe you were worried that your people would-”

  “Dena. You’re beautiful.” She closed her eyes and shook her head. She was a Boston girl but she still had a Southern heart.

  As soon as we became engaged, Dena lost her plaid shirts, pearls and braids and became that stiletto woman that I wanted to marry. The kind of woman all my friends were marrying. Not in temperament, because she was still Dena-Jo, but in style. She acclimated into my world. But still, love didn’t come like a lightning bolt for me; it came like a slow summer rainstorm…slowly and then suddenly, all at once. But, she’s loved me from the first moment we met, she tells me. I tell her that I felt the same, though I didn’t. The fact is that now, in light of everyone else’s marriage and the chaos that they all seem to be in, Dena-Jo Fletcher is a relief. The way she takes care of me, our kids. The way she rolls over at night in bed, when I come in late from work and asks me if I need anything. She’ll then slowly open her legs while pulling down the straps of her silk slip. Even in her exhaustion, she’s always thinking of me.

  I’m grateful every day for Dena-Jo Fletcher.

  I didn’t love her then, but now I can’t imagine living without her. I give her one last kiss on her lips and then watch her smile.

  “I love you,” she whispers as she moves her cell away from her lips.

  “I love you too.” I back away and she lets her hand slide down my chest.

  Now let me head to my office, log into the firm’s phone network and record this call she’s on.

  MARLON

  “Look! You guys busted my lip!” Jasmine screams into our bathroom mirror. She’s already showered and dressed for bed in her cotton two-piece Lauren set. She buttons the top button of her shirt as she continues to look in the mirror. She just finished having a fit on the phone with Dena for about a half hour about the scratches she got from the tussle. Battle scars from trying to get Jacob’s brother-in-law off of me. “I mean, I look a mess!”

  “Jasmine, I can’t even tell you have scratches or a cut on your lip until I get all up on you.”

  “Still. They’re there.” I’m standing in the shower, washing off t
onight’s stress, Scotch and sweat. Washing off the memory of my wife walking into Pirahna’s and seeing Jacob there. Wiping off the memory of him grabbing her by her arm.

  Jacob Blair wants my wife. And it looks like he won’t rest until he gets her.

  “That’s what I get for trying to save your life,” Jasmine continues.

  “Oh, is that what you did?”

  “You know, I’m usually on Jon’s side but I don’t think I agree with what he did tonight. I think he purposely messaged Marla and asked for us to meet you guys at Piranha’s. Dammit, I should have texted you and told you that I was on my way. It sure would have avoided that whole scene.”

  “Well, it’s not just you,” I say to her. “I saw Jon texting. It never dawned on me that since Matt and I were sitting there, he probably didn’t have anyone to call but Marla. I could have stopped all that from happening.”

  “Well don’t blame yourself! You had no idea what Jon was cooking up. Cooking up, listen to me, everything is about food. That’s the makings of a true chef. Have I told you that I’ve decided to change my cookbook again? Instead of recipes of Italian food only, like I planned, I decided to go ahead and include Italian and French recipes in it.”

  “I thought you said that the French recipes were too difficult to make and that most people may give up on them once they see all they have to do.” I lather with soap.

  “Yeah, but then I thought, how could I possibly live in a world without Italian and French food? So…oh, will you just look at my lip!”

  “It’s fine, baby.” I’m feeling better about Jasmine. After I saw her walk into Pirahna’s and after I saw how she wanted nothing to do with Jacob, I now know that she must have been on the phone with Danny earlier. She must have wanted to catch the 11 p.m. movie instead of the earlier one. Not to mention that when she saw Jacob’s brother-in-law come after me, she damn near tried to kill him. In his defense, he wasn’t looking for a fight—he just wanted Jon and Malcolm to have a fair one. But still, the fact that Jasmine jumped into the rubble of men, got all of those scratches on her face and got her lip busted, just because she wanted to have my back, is flattering. I married the right girl, that’s for damn sure.

  “Oh, are you serious?” She says.

  “What?”

  “Why did Marla just send an email to my Gmail account? Wait, hold on.” She’s silent as she reads through message on her phone. “Oh my God, Marlon listen to this:

  Hey Jasmine, this is Marla. Hope you don’t mind but I got your number from Jon’s cell. He’s fine, by the way, sleeping the fight off. I think he has a concussion, but anyway…I really messaged you to talk about Dan.

  Dan? Are you serious?”

  “Stop being so hard on her, Jazz,” I tell her.

  “’I’m just so distraught about what happened. I went ahead and wrote Dan a letter and told her that I was so sorry that I dragged her there and that I was even sorrier that Jon had motives behind asking us to come. But I also told her that even though she’s mad, I don’t think she should be too mad. Malcolm wasn’t doing anything that all the others guys don’t do.’

  Oh really, Marlon?”

  “Leave me out of that, Jasmine.”

  “’So I just wanted her to hear a different side to the whole Malcolm-buying-that-girl-a-drink scenario because sometimes it feels good to get some affirmation from a friend. And Dan really needs us right now. So I just wanted to suggest that maybe you call or email her and say that you don’t think she should be too mad at Malcolm. I tried to call but she’s not answering, so I slipped a note under her door telling that I love and support her. I’ll be emailing Rena next. I guess we can just call this Operation: Help Dan. Ha! But seriously, whatever you can do to smooth over the problems Jon has caused would really help Jon and me out. I am just sick over what he’s done and as his partner, I feel just as guilty.

  Thanks Jasmine,

  Marl’

  “That was nice.”

  “Did you hear her, Marlon? She’s talking like she’s Jon’s wife! And Marl. Ugh. Would it have killed her to push the ‘a’ key? And Operation: Help Dan? Who does she think she is, making herself the founder of an organization to help Danielle? My Danielle! And how dare she make suggestions as to how I can be of assistance within her non-profit. ‘She really needs us right now.’ First of all, I’ve already called, texted and left Danielle messages telling her not to be mad at Malcolm for too long. Thirty-six hours would be sufficient enough. But I definitely didn’t need Marla advising me to do so. Let the record show that Danielle is my best and oldest friend, so not only do I know exactly what she needs right now, but I’ve known what she’s needed before now, right now and forever more. How dare she!”

  “You know how Marla is, she’s been down for Jon since day one. All she’s trying to do is smooth things over for him.”

  “Oh, please.”

  That’s Marla for you. In college she was just a regular girl from Philly. A no-name who was a couple of years older than us. There wasn’t anything remarkable about her; she definitely blended into a crowd. She wore weaves and clothes from those stores like that store ‘21’ or whatever it’s called…just real normal. It wasn’t until she moved in with Jon that she became the ying to Jon’s yang. Jon’s always been into a ‘peaceful’ existence, with the herbal teas instead of coffee, burning essential oils instead of candles, wearing oils instead of cologne and doing yoga to relax instead of smoking a joint. He was like a black Buddha. Marla then became one. But she’s taken it to another level. For example, there’s always a fine haze of smoke near Jon’s ceiling because of the incense fumes. She wakes Jon up at six each morning to do couples yoga in the living room. She has potted plants of rosemary, thyme and basil on their kitchen windowsill to season their food. She and Jon watch Oprah’s Super Soul Sunday and then go to the Buddhist temple on Sundays instead of church. She’s decided to name their first daughter India. She’s going overboard, but that’s Marla. When it comes to Jon, she’s down for the man.

  “Was she down for Jon when you slept with her?” Jasmine asks with a little smirk in her voice. Here we go with this.

  “First, that was three or four times in college, weeks before I met you. Second, she was bummed out because Jon dumped her for Danny.” Why Marlon? Why her? He just left me. Just left me! He just said: Marla, Danny’s the girl that I want. What does that even mean?

  “Do you blame him?”

  “Third, I felt bad for her and saw her crying in the dorm hallway and one thing led to another.”

  “Ugh, tell me no more.”

  “And need I remind you that Jon doesn’t know that? In fact you’re the only person besides Marla and Danny who knows so-”

  “Oh please, like I would tell anyone that my husband touched Marla.”

  But on the real, Marla’s not half bad in bed. In fact, she’s damn good. Out of all the women that I’ve been with, she’s in my top three. Actually, she’s number one. But I most certainly can’t say that to Jasmine…or Jon. “Thank you.”

  “But do you think Jon’s okay? She mentioned a concussion,” Jasmine says.

  “I won’t lie, he took a beating. That’s why I was trying to get over there to him.”

  “But it was a fair fight, ya know.”

  “Not at first.” Jon was getting jumped by six guys when Matt and I ran over there. The only person who didn’t jump in it was Nat. He was rushing towards the back of the bar for some reason. ‘Don’t need a murder case, Mac,’ Nat had said as he pulled Malcolm away. Malcolm and Jon had gone to opposites sides of the bar as if they were in a boxing ring: bloodied, struggling for air, drenched from sweat. But there’s no denying who came out on top. Malcolm: Rocky Marciano. Jon: Down goes Frazier.

  “Still,” Jasmine says. “Jon kinda started that whole thing.” I hear her take a deep breath. “I’m just glad no one was hurt…well, that is, except me and my poor face.”

  “I’m sorry, baby, I had no idea you were going through a tussle wit
h Jacob’s brother-in-law.” I rinse off my lather.

  “Wasn’t really a tussle; I just got in the way of everyone running for cover. Oh well. Could’ve been worse.” She lets out a deep sigh. “How long you planning on staying in there?”

  “Why? You eager for me to get out?”

  “I am,” she says before giving me her best Eartha Kitt purr.

  “You know you’re silly, right?”

  “Yep.” She peaks her head into the walk-in shower. “Or if you plan on being much longer, I can come in here.”

  “The more the merrier.” I gesture around the shower.

  “Hold on. Let me adjusts the towel and floor warmers.” That’s Jasmine Kyles for you; she insisted that I put heaters in the bathroom floor so her feet won’t freeze once she steps out of the shower. She insisted we have a towel warmer because she likes to feel ‘snuggly’. “Ready,” she says as she steps into the shower, her hair up in a high bun. I smile at the sight of chocolate brown skin and curly black lashes as she heads over to me and wraps her arms around me. “I like this.” She runs her hand over my abs before kissing me on the chest. Damn, I love this woman. I wrap my arms around her. She stretches up on her tiptoes to brush her lips against mine.