Lies of Love

by Hannovah

  “Sit please,” he invited me, pointing to the sitting area.

  I tried to act cool on the outside as I ventured in, but inside, I was as tight as a Jack-in-the-box.

  “Could I pour you some wine?”

  “No thank you.” I did not trust to drink anything from him. I sat down and immediately asked, “Why me? I’m sure women throw themselves at you all the time. Why me, Dr. Joseph?”

  “You’ve answered your own question.” He uncorked the wine bottle. Topping up his glass, he explained, “I’m just a plain ordinary man to you. You didn’t want an autograph or a picture. You never called me Greeneyes. You don’t know who I am . . . or you don’t care.”

  “That’s true. I didn’t know at first, but I found out a few weeks after I started at the campus.”

  “You never let on. Maybe you could like me for just me.” He paused briefly. “You intrigue me, Edna, and,” he smiled, “you’re easy on the eyes.” He sat down all relaxed, almost reclining in his seat. “I’ll tell you something about me.” It sounded like he wanted to talk, so I let him. “Months after I got married and recognized it was to the wrong woman . . . by that I mean she was not interested in fun or sex . . . only God stuff . . . I contemplated divorce. But my lawyer informed me that Barbara would get more than fifty percent of my stuff, so I abandoned that plan. But I didn’t let her keep me captive; I started to live my life. I had two children with two different women and thought she would leave me for sure. But she has not.” He sipped on his wine and chuckled, “What God has put together, let no man put asunder. Those are her favorite words.”

  I clutched my purse tighter when he placed his glass on the center table and leaned towards me. He continued, “I’m not sure exactly what it is about you that has gotten to me . . . but you’re smart and so . . . trusting. If you were not married, I would be divorced today.”

  Yeah. Whatever.

  “No chance of you leaving your husband, is there?”

  I shook my head, thinking, you’re just too bold.

  He stroked his smooth jawline and said, “He’s a damn lucky man.”

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Come in,” the dean hollered.

  A server pushed a cart of food in towards the dining area and the unmistakable, alluring smell of pit-barbeque filled the room. Dr. Joseph stood up, reached into his pocket and tipped the gentleman. When the server left, he returned his attention to me.

  “I ordered smoked ribs and salmon, with salad and baked potato,” he began proudly, “I assume you like these foods?”

  I was not planning to eat much, if anything at all, but I gave the expected “Yes, I do,” and got up to make my way over to the dining area.

  He stepped quickly in front of me, and while staring into my soul, he gently placed his hands on my shoulders. “I have a room upstairs. How about we take the dinner up there?” And there was that wink.

  I became warm and tingly. The sparkle from his diamond greens was about to work its magic on me again, but wisely, I looked down at the floor and responded, “I can’t.”

  “Yes you can.”

  He put his fingers under my chin and raised my head up. I closed my eyes automatically to ward off his spell. He placed his lips on mine. And I let him. Then he cupped my face in his big hands and slipped his tongue through my lips.

  My nipples hardened and my cat pulsated when I tasted him. Looking into his eyes, I said, “I guess I can.” Then I shoved him off. “But I won’t!”

  I stepped away, free of his clutches.

  The man did a Dr. Jekyll-Mr. Hyde right in front of me. He turned into a green-eyed monster again. “You probably love teaching on the weekend!”

  Those words infuriated the hell out of me; I was sick and tired of his threats. I sucked my teeth and blurted out, “You know what! This is bullshit! I quit!” I stomped towards the door, upset with the conniving man that I left standing at the dining table. But I was more disappointed in myself for allowing him to control me like a lab rat. I was truly weak as water.

  He caught up with me in just two of his giant steps before I grabbed the doorknob. “No. I didn’t mean it,” he said right behind me. While he caressed my arm, he pleaded in a softer tone, “Please stay.”

  “My resignation will be in your hand first thing on Monday.”

  “Shit,” he exhaled under his breath.

  I stormed out of the reserved room with my head held high, and as my feet gained momentum down the hall, I heard him repeating expletives.

  Once I got to my car, my emotional levee broke and a deluge of tears soaked my chest and lap. Angry moments later, I happened to look sideways, and through my fogged-up eyes, I saw him in the parking lot searching for me. Something came over me and my tears stopped.

  “Note to self,” I murmured, “kill that bastard.”

  I cranked up the engine and backed the Volvo out of my parking space in such a fury that it rocked violently when I stopped to put it in drive. Then looking dead straight at the bully, I jammed the accelerator pedal to the floor. The station wagon lurched forward and rocketed towards its target.

  Hearing the roar of my raging engine, he turned around, and with only a second to think, he dived out of the way.

  Gunning past a few surprised onlookers, I glanced in my rearview mirror for the punk. I saw him picking himself up off the gritty concrete and dusting off his trousers. I looked ahead once more, and my car narrowly missed another vehicle that had just crossed in front of mine. What? Suddenly I realized that I had gone straight through a stop sign in the hotel’s parking lot. Hyperventilating, I slowed the car down to a safe speed and made for home.

  Sobbing, I planned that when I got home, I would face my ever supportive husband, and I would say to him, ‘Ray, I just quit my job’, and he would not believe me at first. Then I would go to the computer and begin typing my letter of resignation, and he may start to believe me a little then. And when he asks me why I quit, I would be so beside myself with grief that I would collapse before I could answer him. And he would catch me in his arms before I hit the ground and tell me ‘don’t worry, Edna. It will be okay’. But that was all a fantasy.

  When I really got there, I whizzed past Brandon who had come up to the front door to greet me. Confused, he followed me into the kitchen where I dropped into a chair, put my head on the table, and cried like a baby.

  “Eddie, what happened? Did you get into an accident? Did a student upset you? What’s wrong, Eddie?” He laid his hand on my shoulder.

  I wanted to speak, but my tongue was too heavy.

  After several attempts, poor Brandon gave up. He handed me a bottle of water and sat next to me, waiting for me to become myself again. Between sobs, I sat up and drank a few sips. Then minutes later, presiding over a dozen damp napkins on the table, I managed, “I just quit my job.”

  “Ah?” He was stunned, but only for a second. He rubbed my back and said, “Okay. That’s alright. We’ll manage.” Then he folded his arms on the table and asked, “Why?”

  “It’s a long story.” I pulled another napkin from the holder.

  “Take your time. Whenever you’re ready, you can tell me.”

  I blotted my eyes. “Legally, I’ll have to finish off this semester, but I quit. I won’t be going back in the Fall.” I gulped down some air and slowly . . . painfully, gave him the whole lowdown, from the interview day to the present. But I could not tell him about that afternoon in my office when I almost committed adultery.

  He listened with his hands folded against his chest, and never interrupted. And I felt his overwhelming disappointment in me. Too embarrassed to look at him, I kept my puffy eyes on the table, wishing to wake up from this nightmare.

  Several quiet moments went by. Then he got up and went to the kitchen window and looked out. With his back to me, he said, “I have never cheated on you. I never even came close. I never even tried to hit on another woman since I’m with you . . . much less to go out on a date. I’ve been t
empted many times, but I value what we have.”

  He sighed like if he was tired. “Most men will call me a fool,” he continued. “And maybe I am. But I thought we were special.”

  I felt his discontent building.

  “You made me believe that you went to class . . . but instead you went out on a date!?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  “The man was blackmailing me, Ray.”

  “Did you sleep with him?”

  I sniffled. “What kind of stupid question is that?”

  “Edna!” He raised his voice. “Did. You. Sleep. With him?”

  “No. I would never do that.”

  I heard him exhale. Then he asked, “What does he look like?”

  “He’s just a man,” I answered.

  Brandon turned around. “Don’t play with me Edna! Is he short? Tall? Fat? What does he look like?”

  “He’s tall . . . and mixed-race.”

  “See? Something’s not adding up here.” Brandon returned to the table and sat directly in front of me. “You always tell me about men who come on to you . . . or who show some interest . . . but you’re there almost a year and you’ve never told me about this one.” Playing with his beard, he began to nod like if he had just figured something out. “You’re attracted to him,” he said. “Or at least, you were attracted to him at some time.”

  I kept silent, neither accepting nor rejecting the allegation. And while dodging his eyes, I wiped away new water that appeared on my cheeks.

  “So, it’s true then,” he concluded.

  I knew he would take my silence to mean consent.

  He stared at me for confirmation that was not forthcoming. “You always refer to him as ‘The dean.’ What’s his name?”

  “Jamus . . . Joseph.”

  I never knew that my husband’s eyes could open as widely as it just did. “JJ Greeneyes?!” he asked hoarsely.

  I nodded.

  Brandon took a seat, leaning back in the chair and laced his hands together behind his head. He closed his eyes, and exhaled long and hard this time, and his breath reached my face.

  “No wonder you were attracted to him,” he said, opening his eyes. “He’s a pussy magnet. I knew he was at the university, but I thought that he was a coach or something. Why didn’t you tell me that you were working for him?”

  “I don’t know sports people,” I defended. “I only knew him as Dr. Joseph. I didn’t know he was a popular footballer until months later.”

  Brandon rubbed his chin and, staring blankly at a wall behind me, he thought out loud, “One of the greatest quarterbacks ever . . . and an incurable womanizer.”

  “Yes, Ray. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”

  Brandon studied me, my eyes, my face, my posture in the chair. My soul. Then after a long bout of silence, he said, “I can’t compete with him.”

  He did not say anything after that, but moments later, he got up and went out into the back yard.

  I remained at the table, feeling totally helpless. Take me now, God. Please. How did I get myself into this mess . . . when all I wanted was a shorter commute to work?

  Several minutes later, I wobbled to my feet, and when I peeped out the back window, I saw my distraught husband sitting on the edge of the pool, his hands cupping his head. I knew to leave him alone; he needed time to absorb the news.

  But an hour later, he was still out there.

  I took a long hot shower to calm my emotions, and then sat on the sofa awaiting Brandon. I was getting a little anxious, so just after eleven o’clock, I peeped out through a back window again and saw him sitting under our gazebo with Joshua, each man with a shot glass in hand, and a bottle of something standing between them. Oh God! What have I done? Brandon never drinks alcohol. Never.

  I went to bed, but could not sleep. I hugged a pillow and waited. About midnight, I heard him come through the back door, but he didn’t come to bed. Should I go to him? Since I had no plan of what to say or do, I just laid there with the light on, hoping he’d come to me.

  I must’ve drifted off because sometime later I felt someone shake me, and when I looked at the clock, it read: 2:10.

  Brandon said, “I need to talk to you.” It was obvious that he had not slept or even tried to sleep because he was wearing the same clothes. And he reeked of vodka and vomit.

  I stretched the sleepiness out of my body and sat up against the head board.

  “I know you’re not telling me everything,” he began, from his seat on the dressing table stool. There was agony on his face, and it pained me to watch it. “You must have given the man some encouragement. That suit that you wore to the interview probably started the whole thing. I told you not to wear the damn thing, but you didn’t listen to me. You had your own agenda.” He massaged his bald head. “But you must have given the man some more encouragement.”

  “No-no.”

  Brandon looked me dead in the eye. “Did you all make out?”

  I drew a quick breath, and looked aside.

  Immediately, he folded his arms and began to shake his head slowly.

  “It’s not what you think,” I said, knowing that my case was getting weaker by the second.

  He kept staring at me, his arms folded, and his question still ringing in my head.

  Through teary eyes, I tried to explain. “He put his hands on me a couple of times?”

  “He put his hands on you . . . how?”

  Suddenly all the fight left me, and I let it all out, “He squeezed my breast . . . and my butt. And he kissed me.”

  “And you allowed him to?”

  “No, Ray.” More tears came, and my heart pleaded with him to believe me.

  “Yes you did,” he said, gritting his teeth, “else you would have told me.”

  “No Ray-ay-aay, I was trying to keep my jo-o-ob.”

  “Fuck the job!” He stood up abruptly. “I come first.” Angrily, he swept a hand through the items on our dressing table, knocking them over, and causing some to fall to the floor. Then he marched out of the room.

  I let myself topple over in the bed. Pulling a pillow, I clutched it tightly and cried into it. I never thought that I had so much water still remaining in me. I tossed and turned until daybreak came.

  I knew that Brandon was somewhere in the house – most likely in the guestroom or office. So like a zombie, I fixed breakfast and, in hope, I set the table for two as usual. As I sat toying with my bacon and eggs, I saw him emerge from the guestroom and enter our master suite, ignoring me completely. Ten minutes later, he was out, showered and dressed to go somewhere.

  I dropped my fork into my plate and uttered, “Ray, can we talk?”

  He did not even fart on me. He simply picked up his keys from the foyer table and headed for the front door.

  I stood up quickly. “Please Ray. I’m sorry. Can we talk? Pleeease.”

  He left, and drove away in the old truck.

  I dropped heavily into the kitchen chair and the idea of divorce was beginning to creep into my mind. Not that I would ask for one, but that Brandon might.

  I stayed in. This was the first Saturday in a long while that I did not visit the supermarket or the flea market. I did a few light chores around the gloomy house, including righting the items back on our dressing table, and every time that I heard a vehicle, I hoped it was Brandon. But to no avail; it was either Joshua or Yvette.

  Later on, I fixed lunch for two, but ate alone. Then I decided to call Cynthia, and tell her that I quit my job.

  “I’m sorry that it came to that,” she commiserated after hearing the whole thing. “But I’ve been praying for you, and this may very well be for the best. But,” she paused, and I knew what was coming next, “Did you tell Brandon?”

  I released a faint “Yes.”

  “How did he take it?”

  “Not good,” I squeaked. “He’s not speaking to me.”

  “You and Brandon are so close . . . almost perfect for each other. It can’t end like
this.”

  “I hope not.”

  “So what are your plans?”

  “I’m going to resign for sure . . . and maybe file sexual harassment charges. I don’t know yet. I don’t want to look like a troublemaker and fool.”

  I heard Cynthia sigh before she asked, “When you resign, what are you going to do? You’re too young to retire.”

  “That’s my million dollar question.”

  “I’ll say a prayer for you, Edna.”

  “Thanks. Thanks a lot.”

  We ended the call.

  I sat, contemplating my career. All I knew were chemicals and of course how to teach people about them. Hopefully, I would be able to find another professor job, or change my career. But to what?

  I pulled out my computer and vented my frustrations until sundown. Then I opted out on dinner because I had lost my appetite. By night, I became concerned about my husband’s whereabouts. Was he okay? Was he picking up women to spite me? Did he kill himself? Did he go after the dean? “Where are you?” I murmured.

  It was ten thirty when I drank a cup of tea with two headache pills, and curled up in bed. In between cat-naps, I listened for Brandon, and eventually, I heard him unlock our front door. Our bedside clock glowed 12:35 a.m. I sat up, hoping that he would come to our bedroom to talk, but I listened – dejectedly, as his footsteps faded in the direction of the guestroom.

  I felt like someone stabbed me in the heart, and I wept again. I wanted to go to him and talk this through. He had never treated me this way in all the years that we had been together, so I knew that he was going through a hard time. As hard as it was for me though, I decided to wait till he was ready.

  But I needed to vent to someone, and at that hour of the morning, the only shrink who would not mind listening to me was my computer. I picked it up and quietly went to the kitchen to begin typing my heart out again.

  When I did notice the time at the bottom right corner of the screen, it was 2:27 a.m. I had written a lot, and I had even included more of the ruction that Ashley and Joshua had brought into our lives. This was a good point to take a break.

  I got up, stretched, and was walking quietly around the living room when my eyes caught sight of a small package on the little foyer table. It was not there earlier, so I knew that Brandon must have placed it there when he came home. Through its clear plastic front, I saw that it contained a white, round clock. It looked small enough to travel with: the kind you could use to wake you up in a hotel or something. I grabbed my forehead as an unsettling thought entered my brain: he’s going to get a room somewhere. Stop Edna Bergail. Stop it. Don’t go there.