Counterfeit Wives

by Phillip Thomas Duck

  But it softened me. I understood that pain.

  I said, “Breast. That’s what got my Big Mama.”

  He nodded, went on, “My mother was a diva, girl. She insisted I call her by her first name. She didn’t want to feel old. I still tried to call her Miss Cynthia. She’d insist on just Cynthia. When I was in kindergarten, she was a teacher. By the time I reached high school, she was principal. I learned about achievement and hard work from her.”

  I said, “Your father?”

  “Wasn’t around,” he said so quickly it sounded like one word.

  “So your mother raised you by herself?”

  “She did.”

  “It was hard for her?”

  “Of course.”

  “But she did a good job?”

  “She did an excellent job.”

  I said, “And yet her son still grew up to have a doodoo dick.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You do like sticking your thing in other men’s asses, don’t you, Ridley?”

  “Well, I…”

  I said, “Your mother raised a faggot. Zelda’s mom, Sela’s mom, same thing.” I paused. “And y’all got the nerve to believe I can’t raise a child. Y’all got the nerve to judge me. Fuck you. Fuck all of you.”

  I looked at Zelda. Her jaw was tight.

  I looked at Sela. She was watching me with a blank face.

  I looked at Ridley. Tears were in his eyes. Bitch nigga.

  I’d crossed a line, for sure. But so had they.

  Zelda said, “What is it you say, Nikki? Talking grimy? Let’s talk grimy, then, bitch.”

  I said, “Let’s.”

  She said, “You’re about as useless as an eight-inch dick at a LAMBDA rally.”

  I said, “From what I understand, your wife doesn’t feel like dick is useless. Sela’s about a minute away from going to see Rev Levar to tighten her up.”

  Sela said, “Wow,” and nothing else.

  Zelda glanced at her life partner, swallowed, and then turned her anger back on me.

  I said, “Shall we continue, Zee? Wanna keep this shit going?”

  “Yes. I’ve got more. Let’s keep it going.”

  I said, “If Rev Levar is busy, there’s always the street hos. Sela doesn’t mind street hos, either. Ain’t that right, Sela?”

  Sela said, “You’re tripping, Nikki. Seriously.”

  Ridley said, “Hurtful. This is all getting so hurtful.”

  I glared at Zelda, my closest friend on earth. “What else, bitch?”

  She smiled. “You want me to really drop it on you?”

  “Go ahead, bitch.”

  She said, “What are you going to do when the baby cries through the night?”

  “Sit up with her. Try and rock her to sleep.”

  “When she’s colicky?”

  “Same thing.”

  She said, “When she falls and scrapes her knee?”

  “Same thing.”

  “When she gets older and finds out her mother got paid to flash her pussy? And she will find out, Nikki. She will. What are you going to do then?”

  My throat was so tight.

  She said, “How are you going to explain to her that her mommy was such a dumb bitch that she let some nigga come in and take all her money?”

  So tight, my throat.

  I heard Sela say, “That’s enough, Zelda.”

  Ridley added, “Yeah, girl.”

  Zelda said, “When that child needs a good example, are you going to be it?”

  Throat tight, eyes wet. I said, “I’m going to try.”

  Zelda shook her head. “I don’t believe it.”

  I whispered, “Try my best.”

  “Your best isn’t good enough, Nikki. You’ve proven that your entire life. Your grandmother wasn’t shit. Your mama wasn’t shit. And neither are you.”

  I said, “Okay.”

  Zelda said, “That baby gets to be too much, your dumb ass will be drinking Asti Spumante and taking pills again.”

  That’s how our friendship had formed. She’d saved me.

  She said, “And I’ll just let you go if that happens again. I won’t take you to get your stomach pumped ever again, bitch. I’ll just let your worthless ass go.”

  I looked at her. My eyes were so wet, throat so tight. Heart ached more than it ever had.

  She finished, “We’d all just be so much better if you left. Permanently.”

  I managed, “Now that’s real talk, Zee.”

  CHAPTER 16

  “Who are those women, Michael?”

  There were a million things I’d rather have done than attempt to answer that question. Find my pants, slide my feet into my shoes, wash my dick. If I answered that question, came up with some bullshit, there’d be follow-up questions. I wasn’t sure I had that much bullshit in me. Have to be a politician to pull that off. I wasn’t. I was stuck between a rock and a hard place.

  I moved around the living room disturbing things, looking under things, searching. Buying time, like the ex-governor of New York bought love, $1,000 an hour. She mirrored my every move, stayed on my heels.

  I stayed in my thoughts. At least I was feeling witty, had more than a little Jacqueline in me that day.

  “Michael,” my wife-to-be said, “I love you. And I want to be with you.”

  She’d cut me off at the entrance to the kitchen, taken my hands in hers, gave me deep eye contact. I didn’t return the eye contact. I couldn’t return it. I felt boxed in. I needed to keep moving. She wouldn’t let me. Trapped me like a tiger in a cage.

  “But you better say something, Michael. And you better say it quick. Or else, love or no love, I’m going to ask you—no, tell you—tell you to leave.”

  I looked at her then. Her hazel eyes made me weak. She was beautiful from head to toe. Just like the others. Jacqueline, Dawn and Nikki had all been beautiful, as well. But my wife-to-be was different, too. She’d learned to rely on me, had learned to love me, I’d seen to it, and yet, she was strong enough to show me the door if I didn’t come correct. That was an amazing thing to me. Unexpected. Something strange was happening. A new experience, one I’d never dealt with before. I was actually falling for her. Could it be I was falling in love?

  I wanted my pants, my shoes, wanted to wash my dick.

  I said, “A friend of mine always told me don’t fall in love, stand in love.”

  “Sounds like a wise friend, Michael.” She crossed her arms and narrowed her hazel eyes. There wasn’t any room to move around her into the kitchen. And she wouldn’t allow me to retreat. She added, “But you still haven’t answered my question. Who are those women? I want an answer. I’m getting impatient.”

  I said, “I’m getting there.”

  “Get there.” There was a sharp edge to her voice.

  There was no time to orchestrate, to manipulate, to plan. I had to be real. That was my only option.

  I said, “I met Jacqueline in a bookstore. It was in Maryland. Black-owned chain of stores named Karibu. I think they’ve since closed. She was reading a Toni Morrison novel.” I smiled despite myself. “She was totally absorbed in the novel, too. I stepped to her and told her she was a vivrant thing.”

  “Vibrant?”

  I shook my head. “Same thing she asked. No. Vivrant. Something this rapper named Q-tip once said.” I didn’t bother explaining the Q-tip reference to my wife-to-be and she didn’t ask.

  “Okay. And all of that means…?”

  I continued, “Dawn I met in a grocery store. A twenty-four-hour Pathmark. It was late at night. She was shopping and singing her heart out. The girl could belt. I stepped to her and complimented her on her singing. She was singing a Pearl Bailey tune from the movie Carmen Jones.”

  My wife-to-be said, “Do I need this history lesson?”

  “You do. Have to put this all in context. Bear with me.”

  “Nikki, then,” she said, impatient.

  “Exotic dancer at this club called the Liquid K
itty. Met her in the park. She was from a tough background. She’ll tell you in a minute that she’s a gutter bitch. And proud of it, too. But she’s talented. And doesn’t really let that side of herself shine. She writes poetry. Her poetry is…” I stopped.

  I stopped reminiscing.

  After what I’d done to them it wasn’t an appropriate move.

  “Okay, so now I know how you met these women. Who are they to you, Michael?”

  “Nothing anymore,” I said.

  “What were they?”

  I cleared my throat, said, “Think about that phrase, Don’t fall in love, stand in love.”

  “Michael.” The sharp edge returned to her voice.

  I said, “Falling in love will get you in trouble. People don’t put enough thought into the relationships they get in. Then it all turns sour and they have nothing to hold on to but bitterness and regret.”

  “Michael.”

  “A long time ago I made a pact with myself that I wouldn’t fall in love, that I’d be a thinking man when it came to matters of the heart. I promised myself that I’d be more practical than romantic.”

  She barked, “Dammit, Michael, enough of this. Who are those women?”

  Her hazel eyes had that red glow they get, the glow they had when she destroyed the living room, when she gave me that look of death.

  “My wives,” I admitted. I said it fast, without thought.

  “You’ve been married?” She barely got the words out.

  I nodded. “I have three wives. You’d be my fourth.”

  She stammered, “I thought something didn’t add up…I didn’t want to believe it. I chalked it up as paranoia.”

  I said, “I’ve lied to you about so much.”

  Silence lived in that living room for at least a minute.

  Then she found the courage to speak.

  “How long were you married to each of them? When did you divorce them?”

  I hunched my eyes in surprise. “You must’ve misunderstood me. I didn’t divorce them. I’m still married to them all.”

  She closed her eyes, dropped her head.

  I said, “Say something.”

  She looked up. Her hazel eyes were rimmed with tears. But her posture was strong. “So you’re some kind of polygamist?”

  “Worse.”

  “Worse?”

  “I scammed them,” I offered. “Took all of their money.”

  Realization found her, draped itself over her. “You’re a con man?”

  I nodded. “Yes.” And made sure I gave her direct eye contact. “I’m a con man.”

  She raised a delicate hand to her chest. “And me, you were going to do the same to me?”

  “Yes.”

  “I need a drink.”

  “I’ll get you some water.”

  She snapped, “I don’t want any damn water. Male fish fuck female fish in water.”

  Cursing. That brought a smile to my face. I liked her spunk.

  She said, “And I don’t want your help. Get something myself.”

  She turned violently and stomped into the kitchen, fumbled in a drawer, fumbled in the cupboard, found a glass, rinsed it in the sink, moved to the refrigerator and poured a healthy glass of orange juice, Tropicana, the only brand she’d drink. She gripped the glass with two trembling hands, spilled drops of juice on the linoleum tiles beneath her feet. She might as well have been standing on quicksand, because it looked like she was sinking.

  It happened quickly.

  I didn’t have a chance to react; my reflexes were slowed by complacency.

  Much like that conversation, I was caught off guard.

  She hurled the glass at me.

  I tried to duck at the very last minute, but her aim was spot on. The glass hit my brow, then fell to the floor. Surprisingly, it didn’t shatter. I kicked it aside in anger. I’d take my anger out on the glass and not on her. I touched my face, came back with wet fingers. A cut had opened over my left eye. The scar tissue there was soft, vulnerable. I looked at her.

  I said, “I deserved that.”

  She nodded, took a tentative step in my direction, said, “That and more, Michael.”

  She’d fumbled through the kitchen drawers.

  A sharp steak knife was in her hands. I was calm despite that.

  “Why did you tell me this?” she asked as she took baby steps toward me.

  “You found me out. I slipped up. There’s no use in lying anymore.”

  She tapped the knife against her other hand, taking baby steps toward me. I backpedaled at the same slow pace. She said, “I can’t believe this.”

  I said, “I think I’m actually falling in love with you.”

  She sneered, “You don’t know what love is.”

  I shook my head, said, “I didn’t, you’re right. But I do now. I love you.”

  Five feet separated us.

  “Whatever.”

  “You combine all the best qualities of all my wives.”

  To my compliment she replied, “Fuck you, Michael.”

  “I deserve that.”

  “Let’s not even talk about guilt and consequences, Michael.”

  I said, “I love you.”

  She stopped moving. She stopped dead in her tracks. Her eyes bore into me. The tears had stopped. Surprisingly she didn’t dispute my claims of love. She nodded, paused and then said, “What does your love get me?”

  It was an odd question. I had to think about it.

  She said, “Five minutes.”

  “Five minutes?”

  She said, “Yep. That’s what my love gets you.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “In five minutes,” she said, “I’m going to cut you from ear to ear, then I’m picking up the phone and calling the police to come arrest me.” The madness in her eyes and the knife in her hand told me it was true; she meant every word. She added, “My love gets you five minutes. Five minutes to be gone before you change my life more than you already have.”

  A head start. That’s what her love got me.

  I said, “I can’t pack all of my things in five minutes.”

  “That’s not my problem, Michael.”

  She was right, of course. What she was giving me, that head start, was a gift of love. I could be on the floor, stomach gutted by that steak knife.

  I said, “Guilt.”

  “Come again?”

  “Never felt any real guilt before, any of the times I’ve done this.” I swallowed, and then continued, “I do with you. That’s what my love gets you.”

  She replied, “Four minutes and thirty seconds.”

  I didn’t say another word, walked from the living room, moved to the bedroom to pack what I could in four minutes. She didn’t move from her spot by the kitchen. She didn’t utter a sound. She didn’t cry. Stood there holding that sharp steak knife, hazel eyes looking off at something only she could see, a future without me in it. It was an undeniable fact that she was different than the others.

  I’d picked poorly, miscalculated, made an error.

  I’d have many sleepless nights thinking about where I’d gone wrong. Where I diverged from my usual course. I’d made such a mistake.

  I wouldn’t with the next. Yes. There’d be another. And another after her.

  I wasn’t through. Maybe I’d never be through.

  I stopped by the door with my bags. I only had two. I needed about six.

  She was still standing by the kitchen, her hazel eyes dry.

  I said, “I’m sorry.”

  She looked at me then. “I’ll love you forever, Michael.” I nodded. She added, “But I’ll hate you even longer.” I took a step toward her, started to say something. She froze me with a look. I can’t describe it.

  She said, “Fifteen seconds, Michael. You’d better go.”

  I swallowed a pound of regret. I left knowing what I had to do next.

  Knowing exactly which woman I had to seduce next.

  Bothered by it, but kn
owing.

  CHAPTER 17

  JACQUELINE

  “Sleep don’t erase it one bit, Jacqueline. Gotta get up and face it.”

  I said, “Face what?”

  Uncle Roscoe and my cousin Jimmy had returned from Tennessee.

  Two days before.

  The house was a mess, still. I hadn’t cooked one meal in those two days.

  Uncle Roscoe said, “Whatever it is got you sleeping all day.”

  “I’m just tired. I do a lot around here. You can go off to Tennessee for God knows what, for days on end, and I can’t even lounge around and be lazy for a couple days. Damn.”

  He shut the door to my room.

  It was all quiet. I could use some music in truth, the new Alicia Keys, or D’Angelo’s baby mama, Angie Stone. Something to break the monotony. Something to make me feel like a grown woman and not a spoiled teenager. I hadn’t eaten much of anything, a few Ritz crackers here and there, and I still wasn’t really hungry. I wasn’t drinking anything, either, so I didn’t have to deal with the inconvenience of having to make multiple runs to the bathroom. I was on edge just the same. I could hear the rush of my heartbeat in my ears, sounded like a drum thwacking overtime. I looked up from behind the covers. That was about as ambitious as I’d become. I hadn’t done that in almost a day. I shouldn’t have then, either. I said, “Damn. I thought you’d left.”

  “No. I’m still here.”

  “Can I have some privacy?”

  My uncle sat down on the foot of my bed. It dipped under his weight. I covered my head with my blanket again. I wanted the whole world to just disappear.

  Uncle Roscoe said, “That’s why I didn’t take you when your father died.”

  I snapped back the covers. “What was that?”

  Uncle Roscoe said, “You headstrong as the day is long. I couldn’t handle you then, can’t handle you now.”

  I said, “I’m a grown woman. I don’t need to be handled.”

  “I beg to differ.”

  I said, “Can I get some privacy, please?”

  “Got that and some the past few days, Jacqueline. Thought you’d pull yourself on up out of this here thing on your own. I see that ain’t happening. So I’m here. I do the heavy lifting if I haves to.”

  I said, “If you have to.”

  “What?”