Other Men's Wives

by Freddie Lee Johnson III

  “Lucille!” Hilda calls. “How tight is my afternoon schedule?”

  A strong but elderly voice answers back with more insolence than should be allowed for office help. “Hilda, after you get back from that hospice, you don't have room to squeeze nothing else into today.”

  “Are you sure?” Hilda gently persists.

  “You're so hardheaded. I don't even know why I waste my time trying to keep you from wearing yourself out.”

  This exchange is cute, interesting, and peculiar. But from what I've heard of divorce court warfare, I don't need cute. I need sharp, highly skilled legal talent that'll take the sword of the law and hack Sierra into salad.

  Hilda clears her throat and speaks low. “Lucille's my secretary, and she's right. I can't see you today, but I'm free late Saturday morning.”

  “But that's the weekend.”

  “Yes, I know. What's the problem?”

  There's a sudden steeliness in Hilda's tone, and the crispness of her response reminds me of Nelson's saying that, among other things, “She's tough.”

  “There's no problem,” I say. “I just thought that since it was Saturday you wouldn't be seeing …”

  “Normally I wouldn't. But you sound urgent, so I'm making myself available.”

  We make the arrangements and hang up. I hunt for my briefcase amidst the chaos of my office, find it, and slip the jacketed DVD disk inside. I glance at my watch. I've still got plenty of time to prepare an appropriate welcome for Sierra.

  I stuff the FedEx envelope and note into my briefcase, kick aside some clutter, and start for the door. I spot Sierra's mangled picture on the floor, stomp on it again, and pound out through the store. Keith and the other employees stare at me with fearful wide eyes as I pass.

  I get to the door and zero in on Keith. “Make sure my office gets cleaned up!” I command. Then I storm out.

  ELEVEN

  I zoom through my Diamond Ridge Estates neighborhood, whip into my garage, hustle into the house and upstairs, taking them two at a time. I go to the hallway closet, grab some suitcases, carry them into the bedroom, and stuff Sierra's clothes into them. Then I heft the bulging containers out to the eco-friendly wheeled garbage cans in the garage, and toss the luggage beside them. I hurry back inside and up to the bedroom, rush into the connecting bathroom, strip, and get into the shower. I turn on the water to as hot as I can stand it and scrub hard to remove the slime of Sierra's deceit and the grime of my self-delusion.

  Minutes later I'm back down in the living room, dressed and smelling good. I throw a log onto the fireplace, find some old Al Green hits, Sierra's favorite, The Best of Sam Cook, some Teddy Pendergrass, and Lionel Ritchie, and set up the DVD unit and TV for when Sierra arrives. I double-check everything, pour myself a healthy glass of merlot, turn the lights down, sit on the couch, and wait.

  Time passes. My mind drifts. I think of things—like Sierra riding Mr. X. The way she never looked at me when we … when we what? It was too laden with lies to be sincere lovemaking. It was too tame and dull to qualify as screwing. It was just bland coupling. And all those times she had her eyes closed she was probably thinking of him, yearning and wishing for him to be the one filling her instead of me.

  The wind rustles the leaves on the trees outside the window. The wind chimes on the porch tinkle. Broad brushstrokes of the early evening gradually paint light purple over late afternoon's soft gold.

  The smooth, deep-voiced DJ on the oldies radio station says, “And now brothers and sisters, a classic old school tune of heartbreak: the Chi-Lites singing The Coldest Days of My Life.”

  A car pulls into the driveway, and the garage door opens. I cut off the radio and start the CD music player. Al Green's smooth voice flows from the speakers, expressing shock, stun, and hurt about the discovery of his woman's cheating. I grab the remote, turn on the TV, re-check the DVD unit's settings, and get ready. All the doors and windows are closed, locked, and bolted. Once Sierra closes the garage there'll be no fast, easy way out.

  “Hello!” Sierra calls, coming in through the kitchen. “I'm home.”

  I don't answer right away, letting the crackling log in the fireplace and the soothing music work their magic.

  “Denmark! Are you here?” Sierra calls.

  I finish the last of my merlot and relax. “I'm right here.”

  She steps into the living room, and I catch my breath. Sierra's a beautiful woman, but her Salina's “Encounter” has transformed her into someone who could've rivaled the beautiful Helen of Troy. Helen caused the men of Troy and Greece to slaughter each other in a ten-year war. Sierra could make them bow in immediate surrender.

  “You look stunning,” I say, forcing my lips into a smile.

  Sierra giggles and twirls around. “I feel rejuvenated,” she says. “Thanks for the wonderful gift.”

  I look deep into her eyes, searching for the Sierra I married, the woman I once loved to love, the one I'd have died for, the one whose face—if we'd ever had kids—would've been the heart-stopping beauty of my daughter and the noble strength of my son. But it was all an illusion. All I see now is a snickering snake. Every word falling from her lips is a lie. Every giggle is her pointing at me and yelling: Sucker! Fool! Chump!

  “This looks like you're expecting someone special?” she says, smiling and gesturing to the fireplace.

  “I am,” I say, patting my lap. “I've been waiting for you.”

  She comes over, sits crossways on my lap, and wraps her arms around my neck as we kiss. “And why have you been waiting on me?” she asks huskily.

  I massage the back of her neck. All I'd have to do is grab and snap. “I want to give you your next surprise,” I say. “C'mon and lie down on my lap, and I'll show it to you.”

  She doesn't hesitate, kicks off her shoes and stretches out, resting her head and neck right where I can reach them easily.

  She reaches up for my face, tenderly holding my cheeks. “This is so perfect,” she says. “It's like a dream.”

  “Yes. It certainly is.”

  She smiles large. “So what's your big surprise?”

  “It's on the TV. I'll show you.”

  “Okay. What is it?”

  “Hold your horses, Miss Impatient,” I say. I reach smoothly down, grab the remote, and position it firmly in my grip. “It's a DVD recording. Just a small token of how much I appreciate you sharing yourself so freely.”

  “I can't wait,” Sierra says excitedly, turning onto her side so she can get the best view.

  I point the remote at the TV and press PLAY. Sierra shrieks: “Jesus! God! Jesus!”

  She squirms, and I lock my arms around her. “No! No! Dear God! No!” she babbles.

  “Shut up!” I roar.

  She struggles frantically, but I've got her tight! The TV shows her down in front of Mr. X, swirling her tongue around the head of his missile. “Yeah, baby,” his garbled voice booms from the surround-sound speakers. “That's the way I like it!”

  “Dear God! Please! Jesus! Help me, please God!”

  She writhes, fights, and bucks. I lock her tight in my arms, squeezing until she can't move.

  “Denmark, I'm sorry! Please! I'm … ”

  “Sorry! I'll teach you about … ”

  She bites my arm and rams her elbow into my balls. I scream and loosen my hold on Sierra as shock waves of agony hammer through my groin. She scrambles away on her hands and knees. I leap off the couch, grab her ankle, and drag her back. She kicks at my face but misses.

  “Please, Denmark!” she pleads. “I'm sorry! I'm sorry!”

  “Who is he?” I demand, coughing.

  She madly thrashes her leg. “Let me go!”

  “Tell me!”

  “I don't love him.”

  “Of course you don't!” I blast. “You just screw him!”

  She grabs a vase, smashes it against the coffee table, and stabs at my hand with its jagged edges. I let her go. She barely misses me, slicing into the carpet. She springs t
o her feet and sprints into the kitchen. I lunge after her but miss. She races for the door leading out to the garage. I hurl a chair, and it smashes into the door. Sierra ducks, dashes over to the island, and grabs a wicked-looking knife. She holds it like she means business. That makes two of us!

  I move slowly to the left. “Tell me who he is!” I demand.

  Sierra moves slowly around the island, keeping her eyes locked with mine and watching my every movement. “You've been cheating, too!” she accuses.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Vondie!”

  “What?”

  Sierra slashes at me with the knife. I swerve out of the blade's path, then chase her around and around the island.

  “You spent the weekend with her in Orlando!” she hollers.

  “It was a business trip!”

  “That's what you say!”

  “Who is he?”

  She throws the knife at me and rockets into the living room, heading for the phone over on the wooden stand. I snatch up the wrought-iron coffee table and heave it across the room. It lands on the phone and stand with a bomb-blast CRASH! Sierra spins away as glass, wood, and plastic splatter everywhere.

  Her eyes snap over and onto me, her lower lip trembling as she wrings her hands. “Please, Denmark. It was a mistake.”

  “Loving you was the mistake! Tell me who he is!”

  I start toward her. She backs away, looking frantically for a weapon. My chest heaves. Sierra backs up against the wall, sobbing and muttering apologies. Tears blur my vision. I love her. Lying tramp! I need her. Sneaking slut! She's my world. Backstabbing whore!

  “Why, Sierra?” I ask, choking out the words. “Why did you do it?”

  “I'm so sorry,” she sobs. “I didn't mean to hurt you.”

  Her TV image says: “No baby. You have to make me come first!”

  We glance at the TV, then at each other. She flies toward the front door.

  “Get back here!” I shout, grabbing at the air.

  She blurs into the night.

  TWELVE

  I shuffle into the kitchen, grab a bottle of bourbon from the cabinet over the sink, get a glass, and plop down in the breakfast nook. I can't see. It's like I'm looking through a watery haze.

  “No!” I shout, slamming my fist onto the table. “No tears for her!”

  I pour myself a glass of booze and slug it down. Memories stampede through my mind. I down a second glass to slow them, but they thunder through. It's our wedding night, and Sierra's the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. I shudder as I slip inside her. We love each other into the next day, stopping only to get dressed and catch our plane to Toronto.

  Third glass: I pull into the wide, circular driveway of our new house, cut off the car, and hurry to open Sierra's door. She's being a good sport, sitting quietly blindfolded while I get her ready.

  I lead her to the front door and remove her blindfold. She blinks and looks around, bewildered. She smiles bright, steps back, and claps her hands over her mouth. I pull a key from my pocket, slip it into her palm, and close her fingers around it.

  “Happy birthday, darling Sierra,” I say.

  Fourth glass: I wake up and find Sierra smiling and staring down at me in the early morning light of Colorado's White River National Forest.

  “Hey, precious,” she whispers, kissing my eyes.

  I stroke her cheek and run my fingers through her hair. It's grown down to her shoulders. “You're beautiful,” I say.

  She smiles, unzips my sleeping bag, crawls in with me, and unzips my pants.

  Guzzling from the bottle: I sit on the side of the bed, wipe Sierra's nose dry, and hold the teacup to her mouth.

  “I hate colds,” she says, taking a sip. Her voice is weak and scratchy.

  I set the teacup on the nightstand, pull her into my arms, and rock her gently. “I know, baby. But don't worry. I'll take care of you.”

  She hugs me. “Denmark, I don't know what I'd do without you.”

  I push the bottle aside. It falls to the floor and shatters. I stagger over to the couch and fall face-first into the cushions where Sierra last sat. Traces of her sweet mustiness linger. I bury my face in the cushions, breathing deep to inhale her.

  Memories assail my mind: “Do you, Denmark Vesey Wheeler, take this woman … Sierra, I love you … Be careful, sweetheart. I don't want to lose you … Before you, I was drifting …”

  I roll onto my back. Tears trickle down the sides of my face. The fireplace log has burned out. The candles are melted blobs. Silence rampages through the house. I've got to get out of here! I've got to escape this grinding pain. I must endure. I must survive. But first I'm going to get plastered. I grab my keys. Moments later I stomp on the gas, and the Corvette tears into traffic.

  THIRTEEN

  I park the Corvette near the front door of the Ebony Crystal jazz club, get out, and soak up the music that's seeping through the walls out into the night. The languid notes of the tenor saxophone float around me, massaging my ears with their soothing clarity.

  I stroll into the dimly lit club and look up into the perpetually scowling face of a bald mountain of a man, standing with his bulging arms crossed and legs spread apart. He's a punishing machine, ready for action.

  “Twenty-five dollars to get in plus a two-drink minimum,” he rumbles.

  I step up on him. “I wouldn't pay twenty-five dollars to flatten this dump.”

  He looks down at me, glares hard for a moment, then smiles. “Denmark! Where you been, brother?”

  “Hey, Sutton, what's up?”

  He grabs my hand with his meaty paw and pumps. “Man, I was almost starting to think you got hit by a bus or something.”

  I smile wryly. “That's not too far from the truth.”

  Sutton frowns in puzzlement, then shrugs. “It's good seeing you, thug.”

  “It can't be that good, not if you're about to charge me twenty-five dollars.”

  He gestures apologetically. “Hey, bro, what can I do? The price is the price.” He leans close and whispers. “But since you're from the Brownfield District, I'll hook you up.”

  He steps aside and winks. I wink back, ease inside, look around, and inhale deep. The familiar sights, sounds, and scents are all here: expensive colognes, seductive perfumes, crisp money, faint traces of incense, a light haze of cigarette smoke, and finely dressed jazz-loving men and women, nursing their drinks of good high-quality liquor as they groove and sway to the beat.

  For a moment it's five years ago and days before I'm on Continental Flight 5667, flying from Cleveland to Las Vegas. Vondie and I have been hanging out and having fun. We cruise down to the Ebony Crystal once a week to catch the latest, hottest jazz acts that club owner Reddy Bingham brings to town.

  The Ebony Crystal was my escape. Problems were checked at the door. Time stopped. Conversations were low and easy. Liquor flowed like a quiet stream. And shredded hearts were healed by the ministers on stage who preached through their instruments.

  “You've been gone awhile,” someone says off to my side, his voice sounding like footsteps scraping across marbles.

  I look quickly and see a stubby, chubby, shade-wearing coffee-skinned man. He's chomping on an unlit cigar. His hair is so unruly it almost looks like a style. He extends his hand, palm up, and I slap him five.

  “What's up, Reddy?” I say.

  He shifts the cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. “It's all about the jazz, baby. It's all about the jazz.”

  I nod slowly. “So it was, and always shall be.”

  He looks away from me to the stage. “Where you been, Denmark? Some good acts have come through here. Too bad you missed ’em.”

  Up until last year, Sierra and I paid frequent visits to the club. She wasn't into jazz like Vondie, but she always seemed to have a good time anyway. Then one night she invited her mother, brother, and sister to come with us. They were more stuck-up than regular bourgeois snobs, and they fidgeted, frowned, and gru
mbled through each set, later harassing Sierra about tolerating such lowbrow entertainment. Sierra afterward started finding excuses not to go. She started wishing I wouldn't. I refused to have problems between me and my wife, so I ditched the Ebony Crystal.

  “That's my bad, Reddy,” I answer. “I got busy living life, and got lost.”

  “It happens,” he responds, bopping his head to a beat.

  We stand silent for a few moments until Reddy says, “How's Sierra?”

  I don't answer. Reddy turns and studies me over the top of his lowered shades. He purses his lips, nods sadly, then looks back at the stage. “Have a sit-down, brother. Take a load off. Listen to the message in the music.”

  “What's it saying, Reddy?”

  He pats my shoulder. “Healing is a process, my man. Not a moment.”

  He steps off into the shadows, snapping his fingers. Reddy's always been insightful, but that's not why he read me so easily. I glimpsed myself in the Corvette's rearview mirror on the way here. My face was a war of emotions. I've got to get a grip. I've got to resurrect the street skills that once made it impossible for anyone to know what I was thinking or feeling until after I'd done my damage. I lost that ability with Sierra. It took months to open up to her, but once I did, I felt good and free. So I let my guard down and set myself up for tonight.

  I spot an empty booth along a far wall and head for its refuge. With every step, my anger surrenders to the club's grooving cool. This respite in the calm eye of my marital storm won't last long, but it's better than listening to the echoes of Sierra's lies. I slip quickly between tables and patrons who're mesmerized by the saxplaying sister on stage. She's telling her man through her music to come love her now.

  I slide into the booth, sit back, and embrace the near solitude. The booth's in a dim, remote corner, but I can still see the stage pretty good. The sound's carrying nicely. And except for two jokers sitting nearby who're talking just a tad too loud, people are laid back and flowing with the tunes.

  A slim, sexy, dark, so very dark woman glides in my direction. It's Salome Stevens. She's a flirty, vivacious, loves-to-party honey I've known from way back when I first started coming to the Ebony Crystal. We had a little something going for a few months but nixed it when she decided to give her marriage a second try.