by Hannovah
Returning to my computer before I went crazy, I read over my notes and I realized that I had more than enough material for a novel. When I resign I really could write a book. I drummed my fingers lightly on the table and strained my brain to recall more of our adopted son’s juicy episodes with his two ex-women. As event after event sailed across my memory and I typed, I realized that these last eighteen months of my life had been the most drama-filled ever. Between my personal woes and Joshua’s, I could really do something here. Now I just had to figure out how to write a novel.
A smile crept onto my face for the first time in days, not in anticipation of the book project, but in appreciation of how its planning had rid my mind of my troubles, at least for a few hours.
I thanked the laptop and returned to my lonely bed where my smile quickly turned upside down. Hugging a pillow, I managed to catch a few winks.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Sunday morning.
The house continued to be icy cold. The situation was becoming unbearable for me. I hope he doesn’t leave me and ask for a divorce. I couldn’t function without my Brandon. We had been together for so long and I had depended on him for so much, financially and psychologically. He was my rock. But forget all that, I loved him – really loved him. I had fallen for him hard, almost from the moment we met – at The University of Florida, because he was strikingly handsome and funny. And when we started dating, and I discovered the mature, intelligent, understanding and kind person that he was, I was a goner: he had me wrapped around his little finger. And he has become an even nicer person over the years. I need him. He’s my ray of sunshine; my ray of hope.
Just like yesterday, when he came out of the master suite, he was dressed to go out. But this time, he looked at me, not with anger or disappointment, just neutral, like if he had made a decision and was comfortable with it. Then he looked down at the breakfast that I had made for us, and without saying a word, he made for the door.
I could not find my voice, so I staggered up and went after him, hoping, praying, and wishing that he would say something. He picked up the little package on the foyer table, and unlocked the front door.
Swallowing, I asked, “What’s up with the clock?”
He looked me dead serious in the eye. Then hefting the package in his palm he said, “This is for Joanne.”
Joanne!?! Joshua’s ex?
He never looked back as he went to his truck and drove away, leaving me standing at the door with my bottom jaw almost resting on my chest. Brandon was just saying this to spite me, I was sure.
I kept a vigil out for Joshua, and after a couple of hours when he stepped out of the guesthouse to go towards his car, I put on a pair of dark sunglasses and went out to the front to intercept him.
We greeted and then he pointed at my face and asked, “Wearing shades now?”
I was prepared. “Oh, I had an eye exam yesterday and my pupils are still dilated.”
“Okay.” Whether he believed me or not, I didn’t care; as long as he didn’t see my red, puffy, cried-out eyes, I was fine.
“Josh, I dreamed about Joanne last night. How is she?”
“I wouldn’t know. We’re no longer seeing each other.”
I jerked backwards. “Oh, I didn’t know that.”
“Yeah. It’s been a few weeks now. She wants me to change, but she’s the same old Joanne – only bible, church, and prayers. And it’s all about her needs; no concern for mine. I’m moving on. She too.”
I made a little more small talk and then, citing my eye problems, I excused myself back into my house.
I got to thinking: Well, well. Joshua is not in Joanne’s life any more, and she did act all friendly with Brandon the other day when she stopped by to visit Joshua. Now he is giving her a clock. Really? What for? Does she need one to wake up on a morning? I’m sure she could buy a blasted one for her damn self. Somehow though, I could not bring myself to believe that Brandon was going after her – romantically. But why was he going out of his way to show her kindness?
The answer hit me in a flash: JJ Greeneyes. That’s who he was really going after. Joanne was staying there for the weekend, and the gift of the clock was just a ruse to get into the man’s house. Now I began to worry that he may have carried his gun along with him. Trance-like, I ambled to our master bedroom and found myself standing at Brandon’s side of the bed, feeling nervous like hell. I absolutely dreaded guns, but I had to know.
I got on my knees and took a look under the bed. His blue gun case was there. Thank God. I got up and began to walk away when I realized that I should have at least checked to see if the gun was really in it. Silly. He wouldn’t take the case with him. I got down on all fours again and pulled the blue box out from its hiding place. Then I dusted it off and placed it carefully on the bed, because I had heard somewhere that these things could go off if you don’t know what you’re doing. Be careful. My hands began to shake like if I had Parkinson’s disease or something, and I backed away from the darned thing. But I summoned up the courage. This weak-as-water-shit had to stop. Carefully, I unclasped the catch on the box and opened it up. There was no gun in there.
The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. Oh my God! I dashed to the phone and dialed Brandon’s cell. It rang and rang, but he did not answer. I tried again, but he still did not pick up.
I began pacing the house like a mad woman, hoping to God that my husband didn’t do anything stupid like shooting Jamus Joseph. I did not want the dean to die; I only wished that he could get his just desserts. I thought to call the police, but then I reasoned, what if I was wrong, and they ended up killing my husband accidentally? These things happen all the time.
I called Brandon repeatedly without success. The best I could do now was to put the TV on to a local news channel and watch for breaking news because if the famous quarterback got attacked, it would be hot. Hour after hour went by as I sat in anticipation, but there was nothing on Jamus Joseph. I felt relieved.
I became hungry around six in the evening, and I ate a little of yesterday’s leftovers: all by myself, again. God, I don’t know how much more of this I could take. Then I pulled out my computer and began writing my letter of resignation at the kitchen table. I was leaving that job no matter how things had turned out.
As the sun was setting, I heard the key turn in our front door, and I stopped my typing. Thank goodness. Brandon entered the house and stopped at the entrance to the kitchen and just looked at me. He just stood there, staring at me.
I tried to break the ice. “I was worried about you,” I said.
He simply shook his head and walked over to the fridge where he began removing containers. Then he spoke, and it was like music to my ears. “It’s just your personality to let people walk all over you, ah?”
I was so glad he said something that I owned up right away, “Yes-yes.”
He looked at me like, you see what I mean?
I realized that I had just done it again, being so eager to please him. But I didn’t care now. He spoke to me. Things were looking up. I closed my laptop.
In a few moments, he sat down across from me with a warm plate of food, and he ate in silence, intermittently glancing at me. Through with his dinner, he placed his dirty plate into the sink and returned to the table with two slices of chocolate cake and two glasses of milk. Then he slid my computer aside and shared the treats between us.
A happy tear escaped my eye, and I wiped it away, smiling.
He did not return the smile. “You made a mistake,” he said. “Let’s just leave it at that.”
I understood instantly. Emotionally, he was stronger; he was the man. He had forgiven me and he was slowly getting us back on track. I hoped.
I mouthed, “Thank you,” and I wanted to lean over and kiss him, but when I saw him dig into his dessert, I did likewise.
“Where were you all of yesterday and today?” I asked quietly, before taking a sip of milk.
“I had a headache . . . plus I h
ad to teach a class.”
That answer stung me like ten wasps. I put my glass of milk down, and my mouth quivered out of control.
He closed his eyes. “Sorry Edna . . . that was mean. I shouldn’t have.” When he opened his eyes, he blew out some air and looked away.
I really needed an answer to my question though, so I asked again, “Where were you? I was worried about you.”
“You had your secret. Let me have mine.”
I let it be. I was happy with what I got. And I corked the vile sentiments that threatened to escape into my head.
I had another question: the gun. But I thought I would probably bring it up later.
Not much more was said that night. Brandon showered and, surprisingly, remained in our bed, and I was relieved that we were not going to end up like some married couples, sleeping in separate rooms. I stayed in the kitchen, typing a while longer before going in.
He was still up. “It’s a good thing I moved the gun,” he said as I entered.
“Oh.” I suddenly realized that I had forgotten to put the gun case back under the bed.
“I didn’t want you pulling a stupid stunt like Ashley. You would not have been so lucky.”
I understood. He had moved the weapon for my own protection, and now I didn’t even want to know where it was. Without thinking, I kissed the shiny, bald head that I had missed so much, and then I lay down beside him and slept peacefully for the first time in days.
After our quiet breakfast on Monday morning, I went straight into our office and printed out my letter of resignation. Brandon, hearing the noisy printer, came by to see what I was doing and I showed him the letter.
He gently took it away from me, saying “Hold on still. I’ll tell you when to resign.” Then he tucked the letter into a folder and dropped it on his office chair.
Why postpone the inevitable? But a little voice inside of me told me to put my entire trust in Brandon. So, I left it at that.
The weather inside our home was warming up, but all the ice had not melted. Brandon and I were talking (neither one of us ever mentioned the name Jamus Joseph since that Friday), but we were only cordial with each other, not as free as before. We ate all meals together again, and on the weekends we ran errands together. But there was little laughter and zero intimacy. In all our years of marriage, I felt for the first time that I was in unchartered territory. How I longed to feel his warm arms around me, and his sweet lips somewhere on my body. But I had messed up and he needed time to deal with it. I was simply grateful that he was still around and trying. I was already losing my job; I did not want to lose my husband too.
But I could not shake the feeling that he was exercising patience: be it patience with himself or with me or with our situation, I couldn’t tell. That’s one thing I could say about the man; he had more patience than Job in the Bible.
Time was beginning to heal our relationship the more that it went by, and even though I had a tiresome teaching schedule, I looked forward to the growing warmth whenever I returned home. One day we would have the bedroom Olympics back, I knew.
A few weeks later, on the last Monday of June, when I arrived home for lunch, Brandon opened the front door before I had a chance to place the key in the hole.
He was all smiles as he opened the door, and from the twinkle in his eyes, I could tell that he wanted to hug me. So I hugged him and squeezed him tightly. Then I kissed his cheek. This was a welcome improvement.
“Have you heard the news?” he asked excitedly while closing the door behind us.
“What news?”
“ Greeneyes is in big trouble.”
“What???” I dropped my handbag on the kitchen table and cocked my head to one side.
“Ah-hah,” Brandon affirmed. “He attacked Joanne.”
I took a seat quickly. I was so stunned that my eyebrows did not want to come back down. But they eventually did when I remembered who we were talking about: the big time celebrity, JJ Greeneyes. Dismissing the news with a defeated wave of my hand, I declared, “He’ll just get off as usual.”
“Not this time, Eddie.” Brandon was smiling and waving both index fingers as he made his prediction.
He took me by the hand and led me to the den. “It’s been on the news all morning. Come, see.” Brandon flipped through every local station and they were all broadcasting the happenings between Joanne Dowell, which was her maiden name, and Jamus Joseph, whose picture popped up non-stop.
“Hmmm,” I murmured as it dawned on me that Trevor had not mentioned this. But now that I thought about it, I had not seen him or his cleaning cart for the later part of my morning at work. I suspected that he must have been poised in front of a TV somewhere on the campus, ears and eyes glued to every detail on his childhood idol.
After listening, I gathered that the incident happened yesterday, around six in the evening at the house of Greeneyes. According to the news, Joanne said she had just showered before making her journey back to Boca Raton, and when she came out of the bathroom and entered her bedroom, Jamus Joseph attacked her. He had been hiding butt-naked in her bedroom, waiting to pounce on her.
Apparently, Barbara Joseph had come home unexpectedly after being out, and on hearing the commotion, she assumed there was an intruder in her home and dialed 911. Of course, Greeneyes said that it was with consent, because Joanne had approached him first. And the police let him go.
“See Ray, I told you . . . nothing . . . they let him go.”
He shook his head, still smiling, like if he knew something that I didn’t.
I left him standing in front of the TV and went to heat up leftovers for our lunch. Just as I was setting the table he shouted, “Aha!” and came running towards me. “Come quick, Eddie. Breaking news. They have a video. Now they’re searching for him.”
I put my lunch on hold to see what he was talking about. And there it was: two naked bodies, male and female, wrestling to their death on a bed. I recognized both of them. The media had cleverly blocked out their private parts, and bleeped out the obscenities that were coming out of Joseph’s mouth. But Joanne’s screams of protest were as clear as ever. I had to use both of my hands to cover my widening mouth.
Brandon rocked heel to toe and rubbed both palms together, and the smile would not leave his face.
Then the video stopped and the announcer came back on, saying that this exclusive video would not have been possible without Ms. Dowell’s ingenuity. He showed a picture of a little white clock just like the one that she had supposedly used to capture video of her attack. And just like the one that I had seen in our foyer.
I did not listen to another word that the newscaster uttered, because I found myself staring at Brandon whose face now bore a smirk of satisfaction.
“Ray? Brandon Rayburn?”
He broke into, “Heh, heh, heh.”
My hands clasped over my chest. I realized that he had something to do with this, but I wondered how on Earth he pulled it off.
“I’ll tell you later,” he said proudly.
“Finally,” I said, nodding. “Finally, after all these years and all those failed lawsuits, he got caught.”
“Ah-hah. Ninety-nine days for a thief,” Brandon grinned, “but just one day for the watchman.”
Then a picture of Barbara Joseph came across the screen, and Brandon commented, “Pretty woman . . . and she looks a lot like you – the tan version; you all could be related.”
He was absolutely right. Barbara Joseph was tall and slim like me, and wore her hair in a ponytail too. I had seen her about the campus, but never knew that she was the dean’s wife.
We let the TV run while we sat down to eat lunch, though Brandon was too excited to touch any of his. But I had to eat.
“So now you can keep your job,” he said.
“I may or may not; I have options.”
After a few mouthfuls of mac-and-cheese, the suspense was killing me. “Aren’t you going to tell me how you did it?”
“It
was not easy. That Friday when you told me about JJ and his threats, I stayed up all night thinking about a plan to get something on him. I knew that Joanne was staying at his home, so I got Josh to tell me exactly where it was. Then, the next day, I bought the clock at the spy shop, and I spent most of that Saturday and Sunday outside JJ’s community, waiting for Joanne. I finally saw her on Sunday evening and flagged her down, but it was like pulling teeth, trying to get her to understand the potential danger that she was in; she kept defending the man. But when I told her that if she checked him out on-line she would see what I was talking about, she softened up and agreed to take the clock.”
“I guess as a paralegal, she knew the importance of evidence.”
“Ah-hah. And I knew the importance of human behavior.”
“Okaaay?” I sort of asked, seeking clarification.
“Well I remembered how after she showered, she would just sit with the towel around her on the bed with the door opened, so I knew that it was just a matter of time before the pervert noticed and took advantage.”
Then we heard another breaking news alert: “Suspect apprehended without incident.”
We both sprang out of our seats and made for the den.
The news anchor continued, “Dr. Jamus Joseph, alias JJ Greeneyes, was found hiding out at the home of his secretary and alleged mistress, Victoria Jean-Pierre.”
My mouth expanded like if I was singing a silent opera.
Then there came JJ in hand-cuffs with a police officer on each side of him, and a battery of photographers and reporters crowding around. He hung his head low, and for the first time he no longer seemed invincible. It was so shameful.
