“We’re fine,” Marlon says, his voice sounding tired and defeated. He takes a deep breath. He’s been running his mouth a mile a minute, talking to me about some picture his wife was in last year, and the journalist he had Malcolm blackmail so that it wouldn’t get released. And now, as he says, he can’t for the life of him understand why Jasmine would still go out and cheat on him, after all he’s done to protect her from herself. And I can’t argue with the man. Let’s just think about it, Marlon forked over a quarter of a million dollars to Rossi’s daughter during that whole blackmail incident a few years back. And then he goes and works with the devil’s army, or as I call them, the Blairs, to get her out of her most recent scandal, that involved, yet again, that infamous picture. Rightfully so, he’s angry but…
“I don’t get it,” I say to Marlon. “If you don’t have any proof that he’s sleeping with your wife then why am I here?”
He leans back in his chair and runs a hand over his face. “What other reason is there for her to go out one night a week, every week? Where is she going? Why is her hair a windblown mess when she comes back? Like she’s sweat it out from a night of fucking? Why is she coming back singing songs, rapping and carrying on? Was that the music they were playing when they were in bed?”
“Circumstantial.”
“What?”
“That’s circumstantial evidence.”
“Here you go with your lawyer lingo.”
“Marlon,” I move into the table so no one will hear me. “You’re concerned that your wife leaves the house once a week and doesn’t come back until late. She could be doing anything. She’s writing a cookbook, right? She could be at Barnes and Noble doing research. She could be at a cooking class learning new recipes. Needing weekly time alone is not enough information to validate an affair. You say her hair looks a mess when she gets back. Marlon, it’s February in Boston. It’s cold. It’s snowing. It’s windy. You live in the Waterfront district. The wind’s always stronger near a body of water. How do you know it doesn’t get windblown between her car and your front door? She comes in singing. So what? She’s just had time away from a house with two kids and a man who keeps looking out of the corner of his eye at her. She probably can’t wait to get away from you.”
“So now I’m stressing her out?”
“Well, are you hounding her?”
“I’ve asked her if there was anything on her mind and of course she said no. She claims she’s perfect. Her life is perfect. She’s happy to be writing a cookbook. She’s happy that she and Danielle are on speaking terms again. She’s happy to be alive.” He rolls his eyes. “Something doesn’t sound right about that.”
“Marlon,” I sit back in my chair and smile at him. “You’re paranoid. And as your attorney, I have to tell you, if you keep harassing Jasmine, she’s bound to leave you. And if her divorce attorney is as good as me, and let’s face it, she’ll get one of the Blairs to bleed you dry and they know exactly how to do it, then you’re up shit creek without a paddle. More than likely, since you’re accusing her of having an affair with Jacob, she’ll get Malcolm to represent her and believe me, you don’t want that. Malcolm’s dirty. He has connections all over the East Coast. He’s the goddamn lawyer to the President of the United States of America.”
Marlon’s eyes narrow in on me as I say that. Good. I’m glad he’s listening to me now. I continue: “Malcolm finds shit: papers, pictures, keys, files. Whatever he wants, he gets. He taps into your email accounts. Your bank statements. Your flight schedules. He enters your home. Your office. Your hotel room. Your mother’s home. Your life. He cleans up his trail; you’ll never know he was there. He goes for the jugular. Every civilian lawyer out here knows that. They cringe when they have to go up against him in court, which is why most of them settle. I’m even willing to bet that he knows I’m here. I’m willing to bet that he knows we’re sitting right here in this window, in Starbucks, on Tremont Street, right now. So you keep pushing your wife for a confession and she’s bound to run to Malcolm, once again, to help clean up the mess that she’s found herself in. And please believe me, you won’t have shit left fucking around with him. Everybody knows that he took his wife’s ex-husband, your friend Jon, to the bank. And then he married his woman.” I let out a laugh but Marlon’s eyes are still narrowed in on me. “Malcolm’s dirty as hell. I suggest you stop harassing his client.”
Marlon sits back in his chair, looking defeated. He thought he was marrying a good girl. He thought he was marrying someone without connections. He thought he was the man in his relationship.
“She’s got me by the balls,” he finally says.
“She sure does.” He lets out a deep breath and rests his head in his hands. He looks up at me again with red-rimmed eyes.
“So, it’s either I shut the hell up and accept the fact that she’s having an affair-”
“You don’t know that she’s having an affair.”
“With Jacob Blair. Or I threaten to leave her and then her team destroys me.”
“Marlon, by the time it’s all said and done, it’ll be Jasmine’s name on those buildings of yours.” He shakes his head at the thought.
“She’s got me by the fucking balls.”
“She’s more powerful than you thought.” He and I stare at each other. There’s nothing more I can say or do. Jasmine has Marlon’s life in the palm of her hands. “So now, on to the real reason why I’m here.”
“Winnie,” he says, almost defiantly, as he locks eyes with me. “If Jacob’s going to ruin my fucking life, the least I can do is fuck around with his.” He clenches his jaw. “You get Winnie in a compromising position, that gives me leverage with Jasmine.”
“Leverage?”
“Jasmine has the power, right?”
“Right.”
“But what happens if Jacob’s wife gets caught with her skirt up?”
“Or her pants down. This is Gwen we’re talking about here.”
“Then if Jacob is having an affair with Jasmine, I can divorce her in peace.”
“Because you’ll have dirt on Blair’s wife.”
“Exactly. Winnie’s got all twenty of Jacob’s kids, the last thing he wants people to know is that she’s had an affair with a black senator while she was married to him. The same one she was with five years ago. Word would be that she’s probably been seeing you the entire time. That white boy’s ego would be crushed. Nah, he wouldn’t let that get out. He’d get Jasmine to cut a deal.”
“Here’s the problem, Marlon.” I move into the table. “Sammie would murder me if she caught wind of this. And I’m not fucking Gwen over.” He rolls his eyes and takes a heavy breath. Gwyneth Yates was my first love. She’s the first person I ever slept with. She’s the first girl I ever cried in front of when my friend Taylor had to move off base because his father died in the Gulf. She’s the first woman that I could roll hard with like she was one of the guys. I once thought I’d marry Gwen. Now Marlon wants me to set her up? “Marlon, her brother is still my best friend.”
“Yes, I know this.” He lets out a deep sigh.
“Oh okay, so you do remember that this isn’t cut and dry for me? Listen, her brother is a Navy boy who lives in Annapolis. I’m a senator who works out of DC. I see Kurt on a regular basis, Monday through Wednesday. We have drinks on K Street. We eat the Tuesday night special at McCormick and Schmicks. We go to Vegas with the rest of the fellas once a year. He comes to Charleston once a year, when congress is out. I talk to this man every day. I’m not fucking his sister over. Not only would he break my fucking neck, but this man is my brother. I’ve moved around this entire world with him and his family. There’s no way I’m setting his sister up. I’m here this weekend strictly as your friend and legal counsel. That’s it. There’s no way I’m fucking Gwyneth while I’m here. I’m not on that. Sammie would-”
“How would Sammie know?” he says as he leans into the table.
“Marlon, Sammie is the fucking man back at home. She’
s the damn troop leader of the Carolina feminists. The Danielle Rouge of Charleston. In fact, she and Danielle email each other back and forth every now and then to check in on the feminist scene. I fuck Winnie and that story is only one person away from Sammie finding out. There’s no goddamn way I’m doing that.”
“Well what the fuck am I supposed to do!” he screams out. A mom and her cocoa-drinking toddler look our way. I give her a smile and a light wave. She rolls her eyes at Marlon.
“Calm your ass down.” I lean into the table and whisper to him. “I don’t have to sleep with Gwen in order to get a rise out of Jacob. My mere presence is enough to rattle Blair.” I lean back in my chair and smile. “Trust me.” Marlon leans into the table.
“So what are you going to do?”
“Well, first things first. Where’s Gwen?”
JACOB
“Starbucks,” Winnie says as she points to the door. “Let’s go grab the kids some hot cocoa.”
“Cool,” I say as I head in front of my family, wade through a crowd of people who are about to leave and open the door for everyone. We just left the AMC movie theater after seeing a Disney movie. Winnie and I sat next to each other, eating out of our own tub of popcorn (there’s no telling whose nose the kids’ fingers have been in), sharing a margarita, cracking our asses up at the adult humor in the cartoon. The kids sat on Winnie’s side eating nachos and cracking up as well, like they knew what was going on. Jaden, our two-month-old, was asleep on my chest, occasionally stirring when I laughed at one of the talking animals.
Life these few weeks has been good to me and today was exceptional. A nice day at work. A case won. Leaving the office early. Taking my family to a movie. Laughing at the funny scenes. The popcorn with extra butter. The margarita. Winnie. My two daughters. My oldest boy. My newborn snug and attached to my chest, in this little book bag contraption I carry him in. Walking under light snow that’s floating down aimlessly. My kids picking up slush with their mittens on. Hot chocolate at Starbucks. The coffee that Winnie and I will order. The Valentine’s Day hearts in the windows…
I have never in my life felt as happy and content as I do right now.
“Come on, let’s go into Starbucks,” I say to the kids. “I’m feeding you all black coffee, dark roast.”
“YES!” They all say as they run past Winnie and damn near kill each other trying to fit into the door at the same time. “Sorry,” I say to the crowd of people waiting to get out. They smile at me and give me that ‘kids’ look.
“That’s Jacob Blair,” a couple of them say as Winnie makes her way in past me.
“Ooooh…” Winnie says sarcastically as some guy takes over holding the door. “Jacob Blair.” She looks at me and gives me an ‘are you serious’ look.
“I’m a hot commodity, baby.”
“Oh please, Jacob Blair.” She swats me on the chest as we walk past two gay guys holding hands. “Did you see that?” she whispers to me. “One of them was totally looking at me.”
“Winnie, they’re gay.”
“What’s your point? Ooh! I think I’m going to order a quad, venti, half caff, breve, no foam, with whip, two splenda, stirred, skinny, three pump peppermint mocha.”
“What the fuck?”
“Danielle and I like coming in here and ordering stupid shit.”
“Yeah, no kidding.”
“Look at the kids, they almost knocked over that old lady with the walker. She was in the way, but still… Hey, Baby Blairs! Chill out.” Goddammit. Why did she say that? At the sound of the words Blairs, the entire left side of Starbucks turns around. “Shit,” she mumbles.
And the camera flashing begins.
This is the normal routine here in Boston ever since Rossi became president. I give everyone a small smile and a hold up a hand to those who are currently waving at me and pointing. Look, a Blair! Winnie gives an awkward smile and then rushes to gather the kids who are spread out, looking into Starbuck’s pastry case. Instinctively, I rest a hand on Jaden’s back. The bad thing about being well known in Boston is that there’s some crazy muthafuckas out here that’ll do stupid shit like kidnap your kids for money or media attention. Before I had kids, my only dream was to be a household name. Now that I have four of them, my greatest fear is that everyone knows me. I watch Winnie as she gathers Ralphie, Harper and Beckett.
“Aww, come on!” Harper, my six-year-old, or as we call her, Winnie Jr., whines. “No one’s gonna kidnap me without getting a punch to the face.”
“Don’t say punch to the face,” Winnie says to her.
“She’s right, Mom,” Ralphie, my nine-year-old, and the brains of our family, says. “The probability of us getting kidnapped in Starbucks is a hundred and forty-eight to one.”
“Why do you know that?” Winnie asks Ralphie as she drags all three of our kids into the back of the line with me.
“Why don’t you know that?” he asks with a shake of his head. “I’m starting to feel less safe with you by the day.”
“I’m thinking I’m going to be a dandelion for Halloween this year,” Beckett, my hippie five-year-old daughter says, as though we’ve been having an entirely different conversation altogether.
“Alright pops,” Harper says to me, “order me a babycino and I’m telling you now, they better not shortchange me on the cinnamon.”
“Harper, don’t say shortchange,” Winnie says.
“Well, I hope they know what’s best for them,” I tell her.
“You and me both,” Harper responds.
“Okay, Dad,” Ralphie says, “I’d like a hot chocolate with an eighth of a cup of warm milk added, three teaspoons of whipped cream on top, and a quarter teaspoon of chocolate shavings. Though the probability of them getting that order right is one hundred and fifty to one.” He shakes his head with deep sadness.
“Ralphie, why in the world do you know that?” I ask him.
“So that I won’t be disappointed later.”
“Ralphie, stop talking about probabilities,” Winnie says. “They’re all so depressing.”
“Such is life.”
“Yes my darling daddy,” Beckett says, “I would like a babycino with organic almond milk. I want organic almond milk, not regular almond milk. And if they don’t have it then I might cry.”
“Beckett,” Winnie says, “if you cry today, I’m pouring your babycino out onto the street.” Harper lets out a laugh.
“That’s called littering,” Beckett tells Winnie.
“The probability of you getting fined for littering is five hundred to one,” Ralphie says.
“Stop with those probabilities!” Winnie says as she yanks Ralphie’s hat over his face. Harper laughs.
“Beckett,” I say to her, “if they don’t have organic almond milk, I’ll run across the street, pick some up from the market and pour it into your babycino.”
“I love you, Daddy,” she says to me.
“Thank you, baby. I love-”
“No, perhaps I’ll be a tulip for Halloween.”
My newborn lets out a burp.
“Eww, stinky boy,” Winnie says in baby talk as she bends down into my chest to give Jaden a kiss. Ralphie trips over his boots since his hat is over his face. Harper laughs. As the line moves up, a crowd of shifting people separates the kids from Winnie and me and soon they’re lost in the shuffle.
“Winnie,” I say as I try to move in between some people. “Get the-”
“One. Two. Three,” Winnie says.
“Hold hands!” Ralphie, Harper and Beckett scream out at the same time. Winnie wades through the crowd and pulls the kids back towards us.
“Head count,” I say. “One, two, three, four.” I tap all of the kids on their heads. “Damn Winnie, do you realize that we’re just one kid away from being white trash?”
“I know. Awesome right?” She wraps an arm around me and then stands on the toes of her boots to give me a kiss on the jaw.
“You smell good,” I whisper to her.
“Will you be tired tonight?” she whispers back.
“Isn’t that something a husband asks a wife?”
“Will you?” She gives me another kiss. I lean over to whisper in her ear, while still keeping an eye on the kids.
“When have I ever been too tired for a good fuck?”
“Then it’s a date.”
“Attorney Blair?” I hear the barista say. I look up and see the Starbucks cashier smiling at me.
“What’s the probability of everyone knowing who Daddy is before he even opens his mouth?” Harper says with an eye roll. Winnie pops her in the back of the head.
“I’ll look it up,” Ralphie assures her.
“Hey,” I say to the barista. “Let me get two babycinos. One with plenty of cinnamon on top. The other with organic almond milk instead of regular milk.”
“Sorry, but we don’t have any almond milk left.”
“Oh no!” Beckett screams.
“Beckett,” Winnie warns. “Don’t start that crying.”
“Don’t worry, baby,” I tell Beckett, “I’ll head to the market and get some after I order.”
“I love you, Daddy.”
“Love you too, baby. And let me get another one with an eighth of a cup of warm milk added, three teaspoons of whipped cream on top, and a quarter teaspoon of chocolate shavings.”
“Pretty good, Dad,” Ralphie says.
“A tall coffee with two sugars and a little cream and…” I look to Winnie for her to order that nonsense she just told me.
“Same thing as him,” she says. After I hand the barista my bank card, and the barista promises that he’ll have our orders delivered, Winnie and the kids take a seat outside at the French iron tables that are right next to some outdoor heaters. I run across the street to the market and get organic almond milk for Beckett. As I’m in checkout, I see Winnie and the kids smiling, laughing at something Harper’s saying, huddled over their drinks and under an umbrella covering, as snows glides down around them.
I don’t know why it took me so long to see what I had. I don’t know why after all these years I can finally say: this is what I was given and this is what I want. I don’t know what made my mind click. I guess I had this romantically nostalgic image of Jasmine and our past, when in actuality, our past wasn’t as splendid as I remembered it. It’s kinda like that movie Gone With The Wind when the old South with its slavery, whips and auctioning blocks seemed much more beautiful than the new South with its freemen, registered voters, missionary workers and public schooling. Or it could be that Jasmine’s behavior last month reminded me of a woman that I’ve spent years trying to forget. A woman who went loco over me after months of meaningless sex. A woman who ultimately…damn, I can’t even say it. I remember my father trying to clean that shit up for me. I remember him trying to get a copy of the note.
War. Page 9
