War.

by Shannon Dianne

  “If I don’t marry Danny, I won’t marry at all.” That was all Jon said. Nearly twenty years later, he still means that.

  Danielle married him. Dressed him in Tom Ford. Moved him into a million-dollar home in Houston. Had his son. Got bored. Summered in Hilton Head. Met an East Coast aristocrat. Divorced Jon. Moved from that million-dollar home. Married her lover. Had two of his children. And yet…Jon still loves her. Today was the proof I needed. Jon came back to me after Danielle left him and I foolishly thought his heart was with me. But no. It couldn’t have been.

  He and I will never have children.

  I drag two suitcases, a carry-on bag and a toiletry bag out of the bedroom and into the living room. Jon’s standing in the kitchen doorway, slowing drinking a glass of water. He raises his eyes when he sees me walk past. I get as far at the front door when I hear him clearing throat.

  “Marla.” I stop and turn around. He stares at me and says nothing. Don’t ask me where I’m going Jon because I don’t know. I only have the money you give me. I only have the friends I met from you. Sure, I have some soccer moms that I go to lunch dates with, Trish and Janice. But those friendships are thanks to Nicky. I don’t have anywhere to go but I know I’m not staying here. I turn around and open the door and head out.

  I’m walking. I’m on the elevator. I’m trying not to cry. My arms hurt from my bags. My head hurts from this evening. The bing lets me know that the elevator is on the ground floor and now I’m walking towards the front doors. I don’t know where I’m going. I have absolutely nowhere to go. I could be pathetic and ask Dan to stay with her. I can ask the East Coast aristocrat to save me. But my pride won’t let me. She already sent me to college. Must she give me a home too? Should I go to a hotel? I can go there but what about next week? What about the rest of my life? I have no job. My art history degree isn’t ushering in the offers. I was an assistant at an art gallery when I moved in with Jon. I could get a job but how long will that take? Will I have enough money to live on until I find one? Will Jon cut my credit cards off tomorrow? Will I just go back to Philly? What about Nicky? I pick him up from school. I take him to soccer practice. I have lunch dates with the moms of his teammates.

  I stand outside in the cold and look around. It’s too cold to cry. I could cry but it’s much too cold. I close my eyes instead to keep the tears away. I breathe in deeply. The air sends a sharp pain through my nose. I breathe out. I breathe in again and that’s when I smell it — something expensive and European. Something French. I open my eyes and see Dan standing there. Another bored look on her face. She says nothing as she brings a leather-gloved hand out of her coat pocket and holds out a key. I lock eyes with her as I take it. She points off to the side. I see a cab on the curb, the cabbie, freezing, blowing on his hands, standing by the back door, waiting for me to enter. She turns around quickly and heads to her town car. Her chauffeur closes the door tightly once she’s safely inside. And then she’s gone. So I head for the waiting cab.

  “Ms. Rouge has already paid me, m iss,” he says to me with a smile as he points to my bags. “Please, just leave them there.” I nod, drop my bags and head towards the back of the cab, still trying not to cry. The cabbie packs my bags in the trunk and I instinctively look up towards Jon and my condo. I wish he were standing on the condo’s kitchen balcony, watching me leave. So strong. So silent. So proud. And so heartbroken over my departure.

  He’s not there.

  I get in the cab.

  “Did you see her leave?” I hear a voice ask. I look towards the front doors of the building and see Jacob standing there. Frazzled, flustered, his coat unbuttoned. He’s standing next to the valet, darting his head from side to side. Now he’s run onto the curb, looking around confused, nervous, anxious. What happened? My cabbie hops in the car, slams the door and starts to slowly pull away from the curb.

  “She left, Attorney Blair,” the valet calls out from the doorway. “She, Mrs. Blair and Mrs. Beauvais. Just pulled off.” Valet points to Dan’s towncar. Jacob runs a hand over his face and closes his eyes. Is he looking for Winnie?

  MALCOLM

  “Mr. Fulton.”

  “Now, Malcolm?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “I know it’s late but I had to call you on this.”

  “Okay…”

  “There’s a woman here—medium build, average height, a lot of hair on her head. Don’t know if it’s hers or mine, but she’s got it and looks like she’s not giving it back. Anyway, she’s here with luggage and a key.”

  “At Danielle’s.”

  “Right. Now I would hope that you all wouldn’t go and sell that place without consulting Mrs. Fulton and I first. We don’t plan on living next to just anybody now. This girl seems pleasant enough…said hello, smiled, but still. I’d rather just buy Danielle out of her condo if she plans on giving it away. My brother and sister-in-law would be interested. Willing to pay you top dollar for it.”

  “No worries, Mr. Fulton. She’s just a guest of Danielle’s.”

  “Oh, okay now.”

  “I’m not sure how long she’ll be there but she’s a good friend of ours.”

  “Alright, just checking. How’s that redhead of yours?”

  “Sleeping right now.”

  “On your chest?”

  “Of course.”

  “Uh-huh, that’s what I thought. You give her a kiss for me and Mabel and I’ll come visit you and Danielle tomorrow.”

  “Yes sir.”

  WINNIE

  “Winnie? Please, baby.”

  “Jacob!” his mother hisses. “You’ll wake the children.”

  “Jake,” his father says. “Relax, son.”

  “I just wanna talk to her, okay?” I can hear Jacob say.

  “Jake, it’s one in the morning, son.”

  I’m sitting at the top the winding staircase inside the mayor’s mansion in Cambridge. Jacob’s mom picked our kids up from Aunt Angie and brought them here. Figured I’d come here, too. I damn sure wasn’t going home.

  Who the fuck does Jacob Blair think he is? Let me tell you a little something about me: I am thorough. Bobbed hair, cherry lips, bounced back after four goddamn kids…I keep my shit tight. And this muthafucka wants to fuck around on me? Gwendolyn Yates? His ass must be stupid. Do you know how many men come up to me on a daily basis? Do you know how many drinks get sent to my table at a bar? Do you know how many men would risk death by a Blair just to fuck me one time? And then you tell me that Jacob had the nerve to act like I wouldn’t find out about him and Jasmine? Now, that’s what I call the audacity of hope. Somebody should write a biography about that shit.

  Let me get you up to speed about who I am.

  I was born an army brat, the only girl of three kids. My father is a beast, in fact, that’s what the soldiers around the base call him. The Beast. He’s been through four wars and came out all of them kicking. My mother is His Woman. That’s what she’s called around the army bases. The Beast and His Woman. She’s perfect: red lips, small waist, Blanicks on her feet, diamonds on her wrist. She’d dare any woman to fuck with her man and she’d dare any man to fuck with her. She doesn’t play that shit. No one is, was, or will ever come between her and my dad.

  These are the people I grew up with. So imagine how hard it was for me to find my own Beast; someone remotely similar to my dad. Someone who can handle me like my dad can handle my mom. Boston is home to some weak muthafuckas and to be honest, I’ve searched this world over and no one comes quite as close to being a Beast as Jacob Blair.

  But he’s prideful.

  He’s arrogant.

  He’s much too confident.

  I, Winnie Yates, will bring him down to his knees. I’m going to make that son-of-a-bitch wish he was never born. How dare he fuck with Jasmine’s tired ass? Those pearls. Those A-line dresses. Those phony ass smiles. That high-pitched laugh. Get the fuck out of here. I will destroy Jasmine Kyles! And I mean destroy her.

  “Winnie,” I hear
Jacob saying. “All I need is five minutes. Just five minutes to talk to you. Please, Winnie.” Nope. Beat it, bitch. I don’t have shit to say to you. You were with Jasmine after I left the bar? Are you serious? Are you that bold? Are you that seduced by her? Are you that in love with her? And now the rage is hitting. I’ve been feeling sorry for myself all day but now, at the thought of Jacob loving Jasmine, the rage hits. Do you know you would be nothing without me! Do you know that if you married Jasmine, you’d be an average Joe? You’d be sitting around the dinner table, calling her dear and watching her A-line dresses twist as she turns to get her casserole out of the oven? Is that what the hell you want! Then go get her!

  “Jacob, I swear before God, if you wake my babies,” his mother, Pammy, says.

  “Ma, please. Okay? Please. Please just go get Winnie.” Beg, bitch. Beg.

  “Jake, give it day, alright?” I hear his father say. “Come on. Let Winnie have a day to calm down.”

  “Dad-”

  “No, Jake!” his mother snaps. “I’m not about to let you run Winnie and the kids out of here. You got that? She could have gone to anyone in her family, but she came here. And rightfully so. Those are Blair kids. All she asked was that your father and I keep you away from her and dammit, that’s what we’re going to do. We won’t risk losing those kids!”

  “God, Jake…” his father says, his voice low.

  Silence fills the room as Jacob swallows this information. Swallowing it, Jacob? Good. Because I came here on purpose. I’d like to be close but yet so far away. I’d like you to think that your parents are on my side. I’d like for you to feel alone. I’d like to be the one to sit here with your family, by the fireplace, enjoying hot tea and scones while you stand at the front door and beg to come in, like a fucking dog. I’d like to hear them tell you no. You’re a daddy’s boy aren’t you? I’d like for your father to tell you that you can’t come in his house. I’d like for you to feel as fucked up as I feel right now, you goddamn bastard. And then when it’s all over, when you’re walking around Boston with a five o’clock shadow, half turned-up collar, and wrinkled suit, I’d like to divorce your ass. I’d like to take you for the rest of what you’re worth. I’d like to show you the files I found in your office safe tonight. The files copied to a memory card off of your hard drive. The ones that mention cover-ups and mistresses and politicians. I’d like to blackmail you with them: Give me sole custody of the kids or I bring the entire city of Boston to its knees.

  I’d like to see the sick look on your face. I’d like to hear your begging turn into threats.

  I’d like to call your bluff.

  “I’ve got evidence, Winnie,” I hear Jacob say.

  Huh?

  “What are you talking about, Jacob?” his mother says.

  “I have evidence. Proof that Jasmine was texting me nonstop. Proof that Jon was the one who called the cops on us that night.”

  “The cops? What in the world!”

  “Proof that I wrote and told Jasmine that I couldn’t see her the night she knocked on our door. I’ve got video footage from the limo company that shows me in the car and then Jasmine coming in, uninvited. I’ve got proof, right here. Please, just let me show you the proof.”

  Silence.

  Wait, is he saying that Jasmine was harassing him? I slide down one step, lean forward and sneak a glimpse of him. He’s standing in the doorway, holding several manila envelopes. His face is blotchy, his eyes are rimmed red and he’s holding the envelopes so hard, his knuckles are red. He has proof? He has proof that he actually…didn’t cheat on me? I don’t believe it. He’s a Blair; he’s good. I don’t believe a stitch of evidence he has in his hands. He’s lying. All of that shit is fabricated. I inch back up on the stairs.

  “Winnie. Please.” I lean over and catch of glimpse of Jake.

  “Jake, just give her a night,” I hear his mother say, much softer now.

  “Maybe…maybe, I can talk to her,” his father says as he eyes the envelopes. “But your mother’s right. She needs a night alone.” I watch Jacob lower his head. I watch his Adam’s apple move from a swallow.

  “I’m tired,” he nearly whispers.

  And as much as I hate him right now, I hurt for him. The man actually has my heart suffering for him. Fuck you, Jacob Blair! We wouldn’t be in this situation if you were honest with me before we married! This shit is your fault! Why can’t shit just be easy with you? Why can’t you be happy with us being the perfectly insane married couple that we are? Why can’t you be happy with us riding the bike down the highway, buying the bar out and fucking all night in the hotel suite upstairs? Don’t you love when we do that? It sounds like you do when I’m bouncing up and down on your dick. It’s sounds like you do when you’re laughing at me, while I beg you to fuck me harder, faster. You feel like you do when your dick is throbbing in my mouth at the exact moment that my clit is throbbing in yours. You act like you do when we’re in Mass the next morning with a hangover: “Winnie, I feel sick, give me a Mentos.” You’ll rub your temples to prove that you’re truly sick. I’ll suck my teeth and dig in my clutch for a Mentos and then I’ll feel it: you’re softly elbowing me in the side. I look up at you. You nod towards the aisles. And there she is. Sister Agnes is walking down the aisle in her nun uniform and ‘pocket book’.

  And so it begins.

  We laugh at sister Agnes’ clutch. Since when do nuns carry purses? We laugh at that for hours…all throughout prayer: Your mother turns around and gives us a look. We laugh all the way home: This is getting ridiculous, Ralphie says…We laugh all throughout Sunday dinner at your parents. You two are so annoying, your sisters always say. But we continue to laugh…all throughout dessert at Sammy’s Chocolate Café. Listen, I’m not doing this all night with you, Harlow always tell us. But we continue to laugh…all throughout giving the kids baths…all throughout having our last glass of wine for the night, alone in the kitchen. And then all the laughter ends with one question: What the fuck does she keep in it? And then we laugh harder.

  Damn Jakie, are you laughing with some other bitch?

  “I can’t do this again,” he says. “Not another divorce.” He shakes his head. “I can’t do it.” And now I swallow to hold back the tears.

  Neither can I, Jake.

  MALCOLM

  “Rusty.”

  “Attorney Blair?’

  “Yes sir.”

  “This is Rusty Bilton. It’s 0400 hours.”

  “Okay…”

  “I’m calling because there seems to be an issue with Mrs. Kyles and I know she’s a frequent visitor of yours and Mrs. Dena March.”

  “Is she in the building?”

  “No, but she’s across the street. I think it was the hollering that got my attention. You know when I hear elevated sounds, I jump into action.”

  “What’s she doing?”

  “She’s arguing with a man outside. Can’t make out his face but I did make out the gist of it.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Well apparently someone moved everything she owned out of her home and that rubbed her the wrong way.”

  “Someone moved her out of her home?”

  “That’s what I’m gathering. Seems like the moving company left a contact card. She called them, got the address to where all of her belongings were moved to, showed up at the place, which is the Whitby condos across the street and now…well, now the police just pulled up.”

  “Shit…alright I’m on my way. Can you stall the cops?”

  “Of course I can.”

  “On my way.”

  MALCOLM

  “Malcolm? Is something the matter?”

  “Dena, Nat’s not answering his phone. I need you to wake him up and then I need you to hurry downstairs. Jasmine’s outside, across the street and the police are probably about to arrest her.”

  “OH MY GOD! Nat! Wake up! Wake up! Put some clothes on! Jasmine’s about to get arrested! She’s across the street…no, I’ll grab the chi
ldren, just go! I’m on my way! I’m on my way! Bye Malcolm! I’m going!”

  MALCOLM

  “Hello?”

  “Dr. Harlow, it’s Malcolm. I’m sorry to wake you.”

  “Dear Lord, what’s wrong? Don’t tell me you and Marlon got into another fight.”

  “No ma’am. I need you or your husband to come to my place. I have Jasmine here.”

  “This late?”

  “She can tell you what happened once you get here but I need to warn you that she’s…well, I can barely understand what she’s saying.”

  “Is she drunk? Marlon was drunk earlier.”

  “No, she’s…I don’t know. For lack of a better phrase, she’s having a, I don’t know, small breakdown.”

  “What in the world! Lord Jesus, what in the hell is going on today? I’m on my way.”

  MALCOLM

  “Dr. Samuels, thank you for coming.”

  “Of course. Jasmine’s mother is on staff at my hospital, of course I’d help her daughter.”

  “And this is confidential?”

  “Well, of course.”

  “Jasmine’s in my bedroom right now with her mother and her best friend, Dena March. Dr. Harlow just calmed her down but she wanted me to call you. Something about Acute Stress Reaction.”

  “I know it well. Let me go see what I can do.”

  “This way please.”

  MALCOLM

  “Alright, Malcolm, so I’m inclined to agree with Dr. Harlow about the diagnosis of Acute Stress Reaction. The muteness is a telltale sign. She’s lying there, gazing off, refusing to talk.”

  “Okay.”

  “But to make an official diagnosis, she has to be in that state, or some variation of Acute Stress Reaction for a minimum of two days, maximum of four weeks.”