Life Without Hope

by Leo Sullivan

  the fire that I was going to ignite. As he stood there, from the size

  of his huge erect penis as it dangled in front of my face, I realized

  that my husband was definitely more woman than I was to take

  that up his rectum.

  “Hope, this is not what you think!” Marcus screeched in ter-

  ror.

  “Hope please don’t do this!” Stan pleaded for his life.

  In my mind, in that moment of insanity, it would have been

  better if I caught my husband with a woman. This only seemed to

  infuriate me more. Two men packing shit, and with Stan of all

  people. I reasoned all those years, that was why he hated me. He

  was fucking my husband and was jealous. Now as I took a step,

  lighter in hand, like some demon-possessed woman, I was fully

  intent on torching his ass. Like a trapped animal he began to plead

  and cry, begging for his life as his eyes frantically searched the

  room, looking for a way out. I stood between the door of death

  and his fiery hell. There was no way he was going to get past me

  and the wrath of a woman’s vengeful anger. I flicked the Bic

  lighter, stalking him with my movements, deliberate, measured.

  Each step I took for ward he took two backward. Cat and mouse.

  There’s something so sinister about death’s imminent demise, and

  it registered in his face. The sweat, the tears mingling with fear.

  “Please! Please!” Hands outreached, face scowered in painful des-

  peration.

  “I don’t believe this! How could ya’ll do this to me? Faggot-ass

  fuck boys!” I screamed, irate.

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  Stan was against the wall. Gasoline and perspiration gleamed

  off of him like shiny wax. I could hear noise behind me and

  turned just in time to see Marcus scrambling for the door. During

  his haste, he fell, slipped, tried to get up and fell again. He busted

  his ass. Once he was halfway steady, he hauled ass out of there. I

  looked back at Stan, just as he lunged forward, leaped, took flight

  and jumped out of my window, shattering glass. I stood there

  huffing full of rage. I walked over to the window and peered out.

  Stan was sprawled out in my driveway in obvious pain. In the fall,

  he had broken both of his ankles and his spine. A few of my neigh-

  bors were now standing outside their homes gawking at the naked

  Black man now lying face down, ass up, in my driveway.

  In a fit, I ran through the house searching for Marcus. I found

  him cowering in the bathroom with the door locked.

  “Marcus, bring your pussy ass out here. Now nigga!” Yes, I

  used the n-word but if you came home and caught your husband

  in bed with another man with a dick the size of a log shoved up

  his butt, you would be mad, too. Now that I think of it, maybe I

  should have been jealous, my husband could take more dick than

  me.

  “Marcus, bring your faggot ass, out here!” I screamed pound-

  ing and kicking on the door like a crazed maniac. I listened. All I

  could hear was water running at first.

  “Hope … Hope I was going to tell you,” Marcus whimpered

  from the other side of the door. I had to strain to hear him.

  “Tell me what, that you a goddamn faggot and all the grips is

  worn off your asshole? Muthafucka open up the damn door!” I

  pounded, until a few minutes later I broke down and sobbed, cry-

  ing uncontrollably like a baby. This was just too much.

  “Mar-cusss, Marcusss! We have a baby, a life … a family. How

  could you do this to us?” Right there I plopped down on the floor,

  my resolve shattering. I was only 24 years old and the brotha was

  giving me a ner vous breakdown.

  Marcus unlocked the door and peeked out to see if I still had

  the gas can. Deciding it was safe, he came out into the hall.

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  “Hope, I’m sorr –”

  I threw the cigarette lighter in my hand at him.

  “Muthafucka, you ruined everything!” I cried, looking for

  something else to throw at him. Marcus now had on a pair of jeans

  he must have gotten out of the dirty clothes hamper in the bath-

  room.

  “Hello? Hello? Anyone home? This is the police department.”

  Shouts rang out from the first floor.

  Marcus stood rigid, eyes bulging with fear. Beads of sweat cas-

  caded from his forehead as he whispered in a hushed tone, “What

  do I tell them?”

  As I sat there on the floor with my eyes full of tears and emo-

  tions spilling over, for the first time I recognized something in him

  that I should have seen all along, femininity. It was right there

  staring me in the face. I raised my voice, making sure that the

  police could hear me. “If you don’t take your punk ass down there

  and talk to them, I’ll be more than happy to tell them what hap-

  pened. That I came home and caught you with a dick up your ass

  the size of my arm.”

  Marcus took one look at me and must have decided that I

  would now be a good candidate for the crazy farm. As he scurried

  by me, I kicked him with all my might. He fell hard. “Bitch!” I

  cursed as he got back up. He hardly looked at me. I could tell his

  mind was somewhere else–probably on his crippled lover and

  what the hell lie he was going to tell the police. After a minute or

  so, I regained some semblance of my composure, picked up the

  lighter and ambled to my window looking out. The entire neigh-

  borhood was out in throngs; it looked like a festive event. I

  watched as they loaded Stan in the ambulance. He looked up at

  the window at me in obvious pain. With his stare fixated on me,

  I smiled as I flicked the Bic lighter as a friendly reminder of what

  could have happened, and waved at him sweetly as the ambulance

  drove away. OK, a sista was being a real vixen. In a year or so he

  would get over it, as soon as he got out of the body cast.

  I heard the sporadic crackling of police radios. I spun around

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  and there were two police officers standing in my bedroom, a

  place that I once held sacred in terms of its intimacy that we

  women have for our personal sanctuary.

  One of the officers was Black, tall and strikingly handsome.

  He stood about six feet four, built like a football player. I realize I

  was supposed to be traumatized by the day’s events, but I had an

  overwhelming desire to stand in the mirror and fix my do; officer

  man was fine with his wide broad shoulders and tree tr unk thighs.

  His partner was white, older with stringy blond hair, a long beak

  nose and unpleasant blue eyes that looked at me with the disdain

  of his forefathers as he announced, “Ma’am, we’re going to have to

  take you in, you’re being placed under arrest for assault –”

  “Whaaat!” I screamed. “I come home and catch my husband

  with another man, and you’re going to arrest me?” Incongruously

  both officers turned to look at Marcus as he stood in the hallway.

  “Get your ass in here!” the Black officer yelled not bothering

  to hide his contempt. “Why in
the hell did you tell us that damn

  lie? You said she came home and just went off on ya’ll,” he said,

  while the other one had me place my hands behind my back while

  he read me my rights. I could tell he was enjoying the hell out of

  his job, just from the impressive singsong of his voice.

  “Hold up, hold up Ralph!” the Black cop said to his partner.

  “You want to tell us what happened?” he asked Marcus with little

  patience in his voice. Marcus gazed at the floor. The fumes of gas

  permeated the room. He just shrugged his shoulders. The Black

  officer shook his head somberly as he picked up a picture. Our

  family portrait.

  “This your son man?” The words came out choked like an

  accusation between two Black men. A silent berate that a white

  man would never be able to understand. Marcus swallowed the

  dry lump in his throat and nodded yes.

  “How about we just take both of them down to the station

  and let the judge decide the outcome first thing in the morning?”

  the white cop asked. For the first time the Black cop looked direct-

  ly at me.

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  “Ralph, let me speak to you out in the hall a sec.” His voice

  hinted at a plea, I hoped that his plea would be for me.

  “I’m going to call in and get a female officer to take her in,”

  Ralph said on a second wind, not even paying attention to what

  his partner just said.

  “Ralph!” his partner called again. I got the impression that

  they had been working together for a while. I watched as they

  walked into the hall, leaving me alone with a man I realized that I

  never knew. My husband.

  “Marcus, no matter what, you’re gonna hafta pack your stuff

  and get out of my house!” I said, feeling the blood boiling in my

  veins. The police walked in. My heart fluttered in my chest. I had

  never been to jail before.

  “You come with me,” the white officer said pointing. I sud-

  denly had the urge to go to the bathroom and it wasn’t to pee

  either.

  “Me?” I asked, pointing a finger at my chest. That white man

  walked right up to me and continued walking. I watched as he

  handcuffed Marcus. Lord God! I couldn’t help thinking, better

  him than me. Take him away. I watched as Marcus was being led

  out of the room in cuffs with a shocked expression on his face.

  I was alone with the Black officer. His intimidating presence

  seemed to fill the entire room. He walked up to me and placed his

  big hand on my shoulder. This was not the officer, this was the

  brotha comforting a sista in distress. Someone raised their child

  with compassion for human life.

  “Are you going to be all right?” His words stroked me for

  something I realized I had been starved for, affection. I bit down

  on my lower lip, held back my tears, exhaled frustration, looking

  away from him as I felt the tide of emotions building. A sincere

  man can always do that to a hurting woman. I didn’t trust my

  voice. I tried to smile, but hurt pulled my cheeks the wrong direc-

  tion. The nametag on his broad chest read “Coffee.”

  Damn, the

  name suits him well

  , I thought as I looked up at him. Coffee, with

  a touch of cream, his complexion was smooth mahogany.

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  “We’re going to take him down to the station, charge him with

  obstruction of justice for lying to us. Now, ma’am, you did say

  that the other guy slipped and fell out of the window, right?” It

  took me a second to catch on. “Ma’am?”

  “Oh, uh, uh, yes, yes, he did slip and fall,” I stammered with

  my words tr ying to connect. He still had his hand on my shoul-

  der trying to coach me. When he stepped away taking his hand off

  of my shoulder, he offered me his card.

  “If you have any more problems, let me know.” I looked up

  into his handsome face, the man was Denzel Washington fine.

  Damn I wanted to fix my hair. “Call me. You know I’m here for

  you, to serve and protect.”

  I wondered,

  Is it me, or is Mr. Policeman trying to flirt?

  I

  watched him as he headed toward the door checking out his nice

  rear end. He turned catching me with a knowing grin that says

  caught you looking.

  “Mrs. Green?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know some of the best things in life are free. Call me.”

  He smiled a one-hundred watt smile that could make a girl need

  sunglasses and walked away. Mr. Policeman definitely was flirting.

  *****

  I took all of Marcus’ belongings and had a yard sale. When he

  came to get his stuff, I called the police on him. I drained all of

  the money out of our accounts, wouldn’t let him see his child and

  when he started getting too intimidating, I had a restraining order

  placed on him where he could not come within ten miles of my

  home. Basically, I became the proverbial bitch, making his life a

  living hell. And the bad part was, I still loved him with all my

  heart. I too was guilty of committing a sin. Every day I looked at

  my child and was reminded of the old adage: You reap what you

  sow. Ain’t love grand?

  *****

  As always, in times of need, I called my girl, Nandi. She was

  now teaching at UCLA as an assistant professor in African studies.

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  She answered on the third ring sounding winded.

  “Hello, Nandi?”

  “Girl, what’s wrong? I know that voice,” she said with con-

  cern.

  “You sound like you was running or something,” I said stalling

  for time, not sure that I wanted to tell her.

  “Well, if you want to know the truth, me and my warrior were

  doing a little nation building in the bed.” She laughed. Nandi was

  happy. I felt a pang of jealousy. She married an ordinary brotha.

  He was a carpenter, had one of them African names that was hard

  to pronounce. They had three kids. Her first pregnancy was with

  twins. More African names.

  I sighed over the phone shaking my head as if she were standing

  there as I blurted out, “I caught Marcus in bed cheating on me –”

  Before I could get the words out, Nandi was hollering, “I told

  ya, I told ya his sorry ass wasn’t shit, too damn pretty with his con-

  ceit –”

  “I caught him in bed with another man,” I interrupted.

  “Man? Girl tell me you lying.”

  “Nope, caught them in my damn bed playing hide the

  sausage. Child, Marcus’ asshole elastic gotta be ruined. The man

  backed out of his ass with something as long as my arm.”

  “Helll naw!” Nandi drawled unbelievingly on the other end of

  the phone.

  “Guess who he was with.”

  “Who?”

  “Stan Johnson.”

  “Stan Johnson? That preppie cute guy that used to drive the

  nice Benz that went to Florida State?”

  “That’s him girl,” I responded trying to carry on a conversa-

  tion like it was not humiliating me as well.
>
  “What the hell is going on with our Black men?” Nandi said

  exasperated. “Didn’t he marry that nice girl Tonya the AKA?”

  “I dunno,” I said with my mind conjuring up the vivid scene

  of walking in on my husband with anther man. In the background

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  I could hear Nandi’s husband calling her affectionately. Nandi

  always told me that she was going to have ten kids if she ever mar-

  ried. In my heart and soul, I honestly believed her. We talked a lit-

  tle while longer then we hung up. For the first time I felt worse

  than I actually did before I called her.

  *****

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  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Nine

  “Starting Over”

  – Hope –

  My life turned hectic fast. Being a single mother tr ying to raise a

  small child, go to school and work a full time job was kicking my

  ass.

  I arrived home running late from picking my son up from

  daycare. My plan was to take him out to dinner again to

  McDonald’s. The good thing about him being young was he had-

  n’t mastered the art of complaining yet. We ate fast food so much,

  they could charge me with cruelty to children. It’s amazing what

  you can do with a Happy Meal.

  As I drove up, I noticed the police car parked in my driveway.

  It was Officer Coffee. He smiled that sexy smile of his as I parked.

  It should be a law against a man being so damn fine!

  He got out of the car to greet me. I was dressed for the occa-

  sion. My hair and nails were done. I had on my favorite Italian

  hand-woven gabardine skirt suit with a killer eggshell, silk, nearly

  transparent please-don’t-hurt-‘em blouse. It was completely see-

  through except for the breast area, just enough to flirt with the

  imagination. With my suit coat on I looked very conservative. As

  I was retrieving Junior from his car seat, Mr. Policeman walked

  right up behind me, just as I planned.

  “Mommy, mommy, po-leees,” my three-year-old said, point-

  ing his sticky fingers at Officer Coffee. I turned abruptly, catching

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  him looking at my behind just as I did to him. He smirked,

  embarrassed, furrowing his brow, like a gentleman caught in the