Other Men's Wives

by Freddie Lee Johnson III

  Novak grunts and positions himself so that he can check out the house without losing sight of me. I should be insulted about being treated like a suspect, but I'm used to it. Everybody in the Brownfield District, from toddlers to grandparents, was assumed by the cops to be a current or future criminal suspect.

  Jellied blob Amos is still fuming outside the open front door. “She never should've married gutter trash like you,” he carps. “You were never one of us.”

  I step toward Amos, and he jumps back. He's still the same lame coward he was the day we met. “Anus, being like you would've been a setback for me,” I retort.

  He flips me the bird, and I chuckle. “I thought you stuck-up-black-bourgeois-private-school-Skip-Chip-Scooter types didn't go for vulgar gestures.”

  Amos smirks. “We don't. But I know that primitives like you prefer that language.”

  Officer Novak strides across the living room over to me and Amos at the door. “Mr. Montague, I'm going to have to ask you to step away from the house.”

  “My sister wants me to get some clothes for her!” protests Amos.

  “It's okay, Officer,” I say. “I've already got her clothes packed and ready for pickup.”

  Officer Novak purses his lips, considers for a moment, and nods. I punch a series of buttons on the wall-mounted keypad near the door.

  The garage door opens, and I look at Amos. “Her suitcases are sitting by the garbage cans in the garage.”

  “What!”

  “You heard me. I put her and her clothes out with the trash.”

  He slowly looks me up and down, sneering. “At least she's no longer sleeping with it.”

  He laughs and walks off. If the law wasn't around I'd fix it so that this fool had a permanent bottom's up view of his intestines. But there's no rush. Now that the façade has fallen off the face of my marriage, the Montague clan's sure to attack with the fullness of their fury. And just like today, Amos will be their point man. He'd better never be alone.

  The bad blood between me, him, and the rest of the family has been boiling almost from the moment Sierra took me home to meet them. Amos; her older sister, Samantha; and her mother, Sabrina, were all perplexed and vexed that she had curbed her surgeon intern boyfriend for me, a no-name auto parts salesman she'd met on a trying-to-forget-the-bum trip to Las Vegas. Two months earlier, Sierra had busted her intern boyfriend by showing up unannounced at his apartment, wearing only her blue fox fur coat and some sexy lingerie. They were both surprised—him to see her with the door key he thought he'd lost, and her to see him probing a fellow female intern with his very stiff organ.

  By the time our Vegas trip was over, Sierra and I both knew that we wanted to be together. I quickly introduced her to the only immediate family I had, my baby sister, Harriet; brother-in-law, Herbert; and my nephews, Herschel and Humphrey. Sierra delayed taking me around to see her people, stalling with excuses like “My family's eccentric,” “They're challenging in their own adorable way,” or “Let me first get them warmed up to the idea.”

  What they needed “warming up to” was the fact that I didn't come from one of Cleveland's old-moneyed families. I hadn't attended a private academy and wasn't on my way to the Ivy League. My civic aspirations were to keep the politicians off my back and the IRS out of my pocket. The only thing I knew about money was to get lots of it. I sometimes said “axe” instead of “ask,” laughed hard at good jokes, and dreamed of riding coast-to-coast on a powerful Harley-Davidson motorcycle instead of raiding and dismembering companies.

  Unlike the Montague clan, which—as they never tired of repeating—had descended from free colored people and produced generations of doctors, jurists, professors, and business wizards, I was a culturally deprived, grasping opportunist. They had a proud heritage, were tenaciously committed to its continuation, and refused to stand quietly by as Sierra married someone who'd had the bad judgment to be born poor.

  The only one of them who treated me decently was Sierra's father, Theodoric, a brilliant high-powered business whiz with the Cleveland Chamber of Commerce.

  He was a somber man who always seemed to be glancing at his watch and the front door. Rather than overtly despising me, he was just profoundly indifferent. He was also gone for weeks at a time, jetting between Brussels, Nairobi, Singapore, and London as he worked to get overseas businesses to come and invest in Cleveland.

  In Theodoric's absence, I battled the rest of the family, trying to win their respect with stories of my struggle to get me and Harriet a better life, my fight up Speed Shift's corporate ladder, and my accomplishments at Kent State. One night at a family dinner, Sierra's mother, Sabrina, made it crystal clear that she was thoroughly unimpressed.

  I'd finished explaining how I'd once risked everything by refusing to fire my best employee, who'd lied on his application about a conviction. He'd been busted for marijuana possession, done two years, been released, gotten married, and bought a house. Yet, the regional director wanted him gone. I argued for a suspension. The R.D. threatened to fire me!

  Then one day the R.D. stopped by the store with his daughter to take care of some quick business. She wandered outside too close to the street. Some fool hit her, tried to escape, and crashed into another car. Dazed but unhurt, the driver jumped from his car and bolted. I ran the sucker down, throttled him, and hauled him back to the store, where the police were waiting. The little girl survived, the R.D. was my new best friend, and I'd earned another promotion.

  All Sabrina could say was, “There are better ways of getting promotions.”

  That was the end of me trying to impress the Montagues. So, like I told Amos the day before the wedding: “My name is Denmark Vesey Wheeler, and I'm descended from slaves who took their freedom. I am what I am, and if that's not good enough then you can kiss my very black ass!”

  Now, Amos huffs and wheezes his way down the driveway, lugging the suitcases the short distance over to his long Mercedes parked behind the police cruiser. He stops halfway, sets the suitcases down, and mops his forehead with a handkerchief. What a loser. Those bags are heavy, but even a blow-toad like him should be able to carry them. But he's the same blubber lump who has his maid pre-knot his neckties, claiming that tying them himself overstresses his fingers.

  I check out Officer Anderson snooping near the steps, his partner by the front door, and get that old Brown-field District feeling. Whenever the cops started moving with that light-stepped nervousness, their eyes darting from side to side, one hand resting on the butt of their weapon, the other hovering near their nightstick, we knew something funky was going down.

  “I need to make a phone call?” I say, stepping smoothly but cautiously over to my cell phone on the fireplace mantle.

  Officer Novak grunts his permission, keeping his eyes fixed on me until he's certain that I'm actually making a call.

  I punch a pre-programmed number, and my lawyer friend Nelson Fox answers his home phone on the first ring. “Hello!”

  I turn slightly away from the cops and lower my voice, but not so much that they'll get suspicious. “Nelson, it's me, Denmark! Sierra and I had a fight. She called the police and …”

  “You've been arrested?”

  I glance at Officer Anderson, inspecting the kitchen. “Not yet,” I answer softly. “But I've got two cops in my house right now!”

  “I'm on it!” Nelson declares.

  We hang up, and I'm hugely relieved that over the years I've kept my contact with Nelson. I step over to the living room's bay window and see Amos pacing in the driveway. He spots me in the window and hurls a series of words that probably sets a new standard for verbal filth.

  From behind me and striding into the living room, Officer Anderson says, “Mr. Wheeler, we're going to have to take you in.”

  I sigh and face him. “Why?”

  He pulls out some handcuffs. “Everything I've seen corroborates your wife's statement.”

  “And her word is all it takes to arrest me?”

&n
bsp; From over by the front door, his partner says, “Do we have a problem?”

  Officer Anderson's hand slides up to the handle of his nightstick. “Mr. Wheeler, we can do this the easy way or the hard way. What'll it be?”

  I raise my hands slowly in surrender.

  “Good choice,” he says.

  He reads me my rights while his partner handcuffs me.

  SEVENTEEN

  Officer Novak handcuffs my wrists behind me. I wince at their tightness. “Is this really necessary?” I ask. “Haven't I been cooperating?”

  He grips my right elbow and pulls me toward the door.

  “Won't you at least let me set the burglar alarm and lock the …”

  “Cut the chatter!” he orders.

  We step outside, and Amos smiles victoriously. “Finally!” he says loudly. “That animal's getting what he deserves.”

  Officer Novak nudges me over to his partner, hurries to Amos, and shuts him down. The moment Officer Novak turns away, Amos says, “We'll see about that! By the time I'm through you'll be directing traffic in a sewer.”

  He stomps off to his Mercedes, opens the driver's door, and spews more venom. “I'll see all of you down at the station.” Then he gets in and screeches off, the engine roaring.

  Officer Anderson opens the back door of his police cruiser, palms the top of my head, and guides me down into the backseat. Sitting with my wrists jammed behind me hurts, so I turn sideways to relieve the pressure. This cruiser's a rolling prison with its black interior, gunmetal gray heavy mesh wiring separating the front and backseats, warehouse of electronics gear up front, no door handles in the back, reinforced roof, and barred windows.

  After all my capers I never even came close to seeing the inside of a cop car. It took blind love and betrayal in marriage to put me into this backseat, and that's something that nobody in the Brownfield District—not even the cops!—could do.

  Officers Anderson and Novak confer for a moment, then get into their cruisers. Officer Anderson calls in a radio report, starts the car, and backs down the driveway into the street, following Officer Novak, who was parked behind him. At every stop along the way, drivers look over at the cruiser, see me in the back, and stare accusingly.

  We stop at a light, and a young long-haired ruffian shakes his fist from his Confederate flag-flying pickup truck. “I hope they arrest all you worthless niggers!” he hollers.

  The light turns green, the redneck drives off, and I'm stunned to see Burned-out Bobby standing on the corner. He gestures to his sign, which reads: “God Knows.”

  Officer Anderson drives through the intersection, and I twist around to look out the rear window. Burned-out Bobby's eyes follow the cruiser. He keeps gesturing to his sign, keeping it pointed at the cruiser, and doing something that I've never seen him do: he's ignoring other passing cars.

  Twenty minutes later, Officer Anderson turns into the Police Department, parks, and gets out. After riding like a human pretzel, my legs, arms, and hands have fallen asleep, so he has to help me stand. Full blood circulation slowly returns to my tingling legs. I can barely walk.

  Officer Anderson jostles me up the few steps into the station, catching me as I nearly fall through the door as it's held open by an exiting cop. Amos Montague's already inside, sitting beside a desk and talking excitedly while a hapless police officer struggles to transcribe his story.

  Amos sees me and smiles with such profound malice that, even though I know of his dislike for me, is surprising. Now that Sierra and I are ending, he's savoring the victory. Samantha and Sabrina will surely join him, all of them celebrating the restoration of their family's dignity now that it's been freed from the cancer of me.

  “Get those cuffs off of him!” a voice booms from across the room. It's Police Chief Dan Parker.

  Dan's a six-foot, silver-haired, barrel-chested, twenty-seven-year police veteran, and he's not happy. His lantern jaw is set and his face is crimson as he storms toward me and Officer Anderson.

  “Well!” he snaps at the startled cop. “Take the blasted things off!”

  Officer Anderson quickly obeys, and I massage my raw wrists.

  Dan looks me over. “You look like you've been spat from a blender.”

  “You should see my insides.”

  Amos stands to get a better look. The smile on his face gives way to wonder, worry, and anger. “Hey!” he blurts. “What's going on?”

  “None of your business,” answers Officer Anderson, who's been listening to him. He glances nervously at Chief Parker and tugs on Amos's sleeve. “Sit down, will you?”

  Amos jerks his arm free and marches over, his eyes fixed on Dan. The cop at the desk tries to stop him but backs off when Dan gestures for him to stay put. Everyone in the station—cops, crooks, and law-abiding civilians—stops to watch the escalating confrontation.

  “Are you in charge of this clown convention?” Amos demands.

  “Yes, sir,” Dan answers, polite but coldly official. “I'm Chief Dan Parker.”

  Amos points at me. “Why are you releasing him? He's responsible for …”

  “Sir, his release has been cleared by the court. Everything's in order.”

  My eyes snap over to Dan. “Are you serious?”

  He nods. “You've got one dynamite lawyer. I don't know what he did or said, but he just saved you from going to the slam.”

  Amos has been following the conversation, getting steadily irritated. “Enough!” he interrupts. “I want you to book this field-hand, throw him in jail, and lose the key!”

  Dan gestures to his glass-enclosed office on the far side of the room. “Sir, perhaps you'd like to step into my office and …”

  “What I'd like,” Amos snaps, “is for you to punish this Neanderthal for terrorizing my sister.” He looks around the station, painting everyone and everything with his disgust, then re-focuses onto Dan. “You should know that I'm very good friends with Mayor O'Hara. Once I leave here I'm going straight to her and …”

  Dan steps toward Amos. “You're going straight to her to do what?” he demands.

  Amos sneers. “I'll teach you buffoons about trouble,” he says. He glares at me. “I'm going to bury you.” He glares at Dan. “And you should get ready for early retirement.”

  Dan's head turns deep red, almost purple. He glances at two hulking officers moving gradually closer, then looks hard at Amos. “Sir, if you leave now I won't lock you up for making threats inside my police station.”

  Amos sucks his flabby gut in enough to, for a moment, almost have a chest. “You wouldn't dare! Why, I'll fix it so that you're so deep in hot … ”

  Dan nods at the two cops. They're on Amos in seconds, their large hands gripping him like flesh manacles. He looks up into each of their scowling faces and gulps.

  “Now see here!” he shouts, resisting pointlessly. “Let me go!”

  Dan jerks his thumb at a hallway sign that reads Detention Area. “Get him out of here!” he orders.

  Amos struggles to no avail, looking like a yellow marshmallow trying to overcome two pillars of human granite.

  “This isn't over!” he threatens. “I'll sue! Do you hear me? I'll sue you and this whole lousy …”

  Amos's protesting voice fades as he's dragged deeper into the police station's labyrinth.

  Dan shakes his head and looks at me through surprised eyes. “That's your brother-in-law?”

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  “Jeez! And I thought I had problems with my in-laws.”

  I extend my hand to him, and we shake. “Thanks for coming to the rescue,” I say.

  “I'd have come sooner, but I was downtown at an Anti-terrorism First Responders Task Force meeting. I was listening to the scanner on the way back, heard Anderson call in about you, and hurried as fast as I could.”

  “I'm just glad you returned sooner than later.”

  “I can't take all the credit. Your lawyer shook some trees. You're walking because of him.” He claps me on the shoulder.
“Why don't you go wait in my office? I'll be right there.”

  I stroll across the station into Dan's glass-enclosed office and sit down in one of the two chairs in front of his desk. His walls are covered with plaques, framed certificates and diplomas, and pictures of him at various stages of his career.

  I look to see what's keeping Dan. He's talking with Officer Anderson, intermittently nodding and grimly shaking his head. I hope Nelson gets here soon.

  Dan finally finishes with Officer Anderson and joins me in his office, closing the glass door and taking his seat. “Sorry about the wait. I was just getting a quick update.”

  “Do I need to guess about what?”

  Dan leans forward, arms crossed and elbows on his desk. “Denmark, I don't like to beat around the bush, so here it is. Your wife's pressing charges against you. If she pushes this you could end up spending some time in a very cramped space.”

  I glance at the clock on Dan's wall. It's 10:10 a.m. Approximately twenty-four hours ago, I was sitting in the Hog Jowls restaurant with the guys and feeling mostly good about my wife, life, and future. Now my wife's a soon-to-be ex, my life is ruined, and I want to flee the future.

  Dan sits up tall and speaks in a friendly but official cop tone. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

  “It's complicated,” I curtly answer.

  Dan leans slightly forward. “C'mon, Denmark, Officer Anderson says your house looked like it had been ransacked by drunk wrestlers.”

  “Jerk.”

  “Yes, he can be,” Dan chuckles. “But that doesn't answer my question.”

  I shrug and answer crisply. “Sierra and I had a squabble. End of story.”

  Dan grunts. “You sure you want to leave it at that? I'm only trying to help.”

  I consider Dan's appeal. If, as he says, Sierra “pushes this,” I'll need him firmly on my side, so I say, “Dan, do you remember telling me about the detective who was staking out the same hotel where her husband and his mistress had been meeting?”

  “Sure, I remember. Maggie threw a fit when she saw them. We're lucky she didn't blow a year-long undercover drug invest …”