What a Fool Believes

by Carmen Green

  She was definitely turning the crazy corner like her friend. “That’s Detective, and I have a lot of other uses for my hands, soft or hard, notwithstanding.” Byron matched her even tone, then checked himself, the innuendo guiding them where he’d been wanting to take her for some time. “I will check on your story.”

  “You do that, Mr. Efficient. You should worry about what I don’t tell you.”

  Byron gazed down at her but didn’t respond. She always seemed to have the upper hand.

  Tia started to go through the door, but he blocked her just in time, as Pebbles steamrolled in, dragging Ginger with her.

  “Do you see her face? Why is she here and still getting her butt kicked by her fool husband?” Pebbles shouted to the classroom full of students.

  Byron followed Tia inside and tried to control an instinctive wince. Ginger’s face had taken the brunt of her ex’s rage, finger marks imprinted on her cheeks, her lip split and swollen. He’d seen domestic abuse before, and it was never something he got used to.

  The women in the class crowded around Ginger in a protective circle.

  Tia shook him free, moving into the center.

  Ginger smiled bravely. “Ladies, I’m fine.”

  “You’re fine, with your eye swollen shut?” Pebbles demanded, angry tears spilling down her cheeks. “This doesn’t make sense.”

  “Why did this happen?” Debbie wanted to know.

  “He wants me to stay married to him. He wants to use my money for his lifestyle. I’d hired some people who were able to get back the money he initially took. So he came home Monday and begged me to forgive him.” Her head dipped. “I did, thinking he had changed. He’s not even converting to a different faith. He just wants me to participate in that lifestyle with him in Utah.”

  “In bigamy?”

  “No. Polygamy.” Ginger’s soft voice hitched. “I just can’t. I want him. Not a life he shares with other women.”

  “You said no, and he did this to you?” Peggy asked, hovering over Ginger.

  “I called the police, and they came out and took a report. These officers have been to the house several times. I think they’re tired of me.”

  Grumbles livened up the crowd.

  “The police don’t care about us. That’s why we’re in this class instead of our spouses,” Debbie insinuated.

  “They have other, more serious, things to worry about,” Pebbles stressed. “Domestic abuse just isn’t a priority.”

  “Yes, it is,” Byron asserted. “There are officers dedicated to domestic cases. They’re a high priority for all police departments.”

  “We need to stop depending on the law to fix our problems and deal with our lying, no-good, two-timing, low-life, lazy men ourselves. Every one of them deserves to have his butt handed to him!” Pebbles shouted.

  “Yeah!” a chorus of women cheered Pebbles’s irrational tirade.

  “Ladies, please,” Fred pleaded. “Let’s start by writing in our journals. Instead of letting this passionate moment slip away, we can examine our levels of anger and work through them constructively. We are at the point where we can state our affirmations and walk away from troubling situations.”

  Ten disbelieving glares were shot at Fred, who backed into the blackboard and bumped his head.

  “I didn’t do anything to provoke him,” Ginger said, pleading her case. “I took him back. That’s what he asked. If I go back home, he’s going to hurt me. I can’t live that way.”

  “Don’t go home, Ginger,” Lacy stated.

  “Make the police do their jobs,” Ann Marie advised. “Make them uphold the law.”

  “Or we can do it ourselves to each and every one of them.” Pebbles struggled to her feet.

  Byron held up his hands, stepping in front of the unsettled group. “Ladies, I’m an officer with the Atlanta Police Department.” Angry grumbles resounded. “Revenge isn’t the answer. If you seek vengeance against him or anybody, you’ll be prosecuted, and you’ll go to jail. I’m telling you, it’s not worth it. Let the courts mete out justice.”

  “You’re a spy!” Ann Marie screamed. “I’ll bet you were sent here by one of our husbands.”

  All of the woman glared at him. “Who sent you? Was it my husband, Brent? Is he trying to get ammunition for a divorce?” Peggy demanded.

  “I was my husband’s affair before he divorced his wife and married me. Now I guess he’s got something new, and he wants me gone. Is that it?” Ann Marie said.

  “Ladies, I’m not a spy. I was sent here as a punishment, which is why we’re all here,” Bryon reminded them. “Retaliation isn’t the answer. You’ll just end up in a worse situation. Let us do our jobs.”

  “You’re not doing your job good enough. Her face is evidence of that,” Lacy said matter-of-factly.

  “Fred, we’re taking a break,” Debbie told him.

  “We’re just about to begin,” Fred told them.

  “You want us to journal first?” Pebbles grabbed her notebook, and the other women followed suit.

  “Yes,” Fred said, his face hopeful that the worst was over. “We’re going to come up with reasonable solutions on how to use our anger constructively.”

  “Okay. I think I’ll get a drink and write in my journal in the commons area,” Tia said, and started out.

  The other women grabbed their books and purses as a chorus of “me toos” rang out.

  “Oh-oh.” Fred stuttered, unable to think fast enough to stop them from leaving. “Okay. Take a break and come back ...”

  He gave up. No one was listening.

  After the door closed with a decisive snap, Byron turned on Fred. “Was that the best you could do?”

  “You weren’t so great yourself. They think you’re a husband spy,” Fred shot back hotly, shocking Byron. The man had finally asserted himself.

  Fred folded the short sleeves up and down on his shirt. “What do you think they’re going to do when they come back? Beat me up? I can’t handle another woman hitting me.”

  The tiny balloon of respect Byron had developed for Fred exploded. “You’re abused, too?”

  “When I was fourteen. In PE. We were playing touch football. A girl I liked tackled me. That really hurt. I haven’t forgotten.”

  “Man, you’re pathetic.”

  “At least I know when I’m in over my head. You’re the law,” Fred said, uncharacteristically belligerent. “Do you think they’re cooking up a plan?”

  “I’m almost certain of it.”

  Alarm made Fred wipe his comb-over repeatedly. “What do you think they’ll do?”

  Byron sighed in resignation. “Follow the tradition of scorned women.”

  Fred walked to the desk, put on his Mr. Rogers sweater, and began packing his things.

  “What are you doing?” Byron wanted to know.

  “Firing myself. It’s inevitable. I’m no good at this. You already knew that. I’m trying to think of a new occupation for myself that doesn’t involve dealing with people. Maybe there’s a job in forestry.”

  “Do you know anything about dendrology, the study of trees?”

  “No,” Fred admitted. “But there’s no people. That’s a bonus.”

  Byron took Fred’s backpack, put his colored pens and notebook back on the desk, and shoved the book How to Deal With Strong-Willed Women deep into the canvas. If the women saw that, they’d have poor Fred in a bra and panties before eight-thirty.

  “Fred, you’re staying.”

  “Help me, Jesus,” Fred whispered and put his head down on his desk. His comb-over flapped onto his arm, and he didn’t even bother to fix it.

  Neatness and order had always been a part of Byron’s life, but even he wasn’t going to touch another man’s hair.

  “You’re going to have to take control. Reiterate why we’re here,” Byron told the defeated man.

  “And what are you going to do? Arrest them all for choosing bad men? Leave me alone, if you don’t mind. I feel sorry for you.”


  “Why?”

  “You still hope. I have a friend who drives for M.A.R.T.A. Maybe he can hit me with his bus. We can make it look like I fell. I fall all the time. That won’t be hard.”

  “Shut up, Fred. You wouldn’t die.”

  A short sob jumped out of Fred’s mouth as his head hit his chest. “Just my miserable luck.” He whimpered into the fold of his arm, sounding like a sick dog.

  Byron stared at the bald spot on his teacher’s head, aggravated that the man didn’t have more testosterone.

  Well, it didn’t matter. He was an officer of the law, and his job was to serve and protect. Everyone. Even dumb ass, abusive husbands married to these very angry women.

  The women were just blowing off steam, he told himself.

  The anger management course was ending soon, and they wouldn’t jeopardize completion of this class for short-term satisfaction.

  There was one thing he could do.

  While Fred regrouped, Byron took the list of names, addresses, and e-mail addresses to the office down the hall and copied them, before slipping them back into Fred’s bag.

  Outside again, he dialed the precinct and relayed the information to the duty sergeant and requested that a patrol car be sent over to pick up Ginger’s husband. Perhaps with him being gone when she got home, that would allay any further thoughts of retribution.

  He snapped his phone shut just as Tia and the rest of the class entered and took their seats.

  They were calm. Collected. Quiet. Something was wrong. The anger was gone. In its place was eerie, cold, calculated resolve, which no man ever wanted to see on the face of one woman, let alone nine of them.

  Fred raised his head in time to see the women’s silent procession and tried to crawl under his desk. When he couldn’t get under, he was left hyperventilating in his chair.

  Byron gestured to Tia to meet him outside the room, and she rose.

  The women looked at her with warning glares, but she reassured them by waving her hand, and they backed down.

  What the hell was going on?

  “What is it?” she asked, leaving the door half open.

  Her perfume made him want to kiss her neck and do things he’d only imagined to her body. “What are you planning?” he asked, focusing.

  “None of your business.”

  “You’re going to poison them? They’re all going to have some mysterious accidents, right? You do remember what jail was like, right? Want to go back as perpetrator, accessory before and after the fact?” He got really close to her. “Do you want Manuel to take everything from you, including your freedom?”

  “I’m over him. I just want my home back.”

  Tia’s words temporarily paralyzed him. Byron wasn’t sure whether to be angry or afraid that he hadn’t nipped this in the bud a long time ago. He crossed his arms, not believing her.

  The Tia he knew wanted to skin Manuel and hang his rotting flesh outside the lingerie department at Macy’s as the national symbol for all angry women.

  “That’s quite an about-face.”

  “I’m told that’s a woman’s prerogative.”

  A humorless chuckle shook him. “Not unless she has something comparable to replace it with. You’ve wanted revenge far too long, far too deeply. That desire wouldn’t just fly away, Tia.”

  “I’d think you’d be happy to not have to follow me around anymore. Excuse me. I have a class to finish.”

  As she passed, Byron caught the scent of strawberry shampoo. It clouded his judgment, and he had to fight the urge to hold her still and do naughty things to her.

  She passed him, and when she looked back, he saw deceit in her eyes. The lightbulb in his brain went off. He snagged her arm, and electricity shot to the soles of his feet.

  “You’re not fooling me. You’re all going after Ginger’s husband.”

  “Why would you think that?”

  He held her gaze for as long as possible. She was up to no good, and that frustrated him. Up until now, he could almost understand Tia’s desire to get back at Manuel. But revenge on a man for another woman? That was just stupid.

  And that wasn’t Tia. “You’re a fool if you do this. I’m a cop. I have to do my job. You’re going to screw up, and I won’t be able to help you.”

  “Like you have in the past?”

  “That’s right,” Byron assured her.

  She tilted her head to the side. “Thank you for helping me stab myself, get thrown in jail. And most of all, thank you for helping me get back into my home. Knowing you has been priceless.”

  Ouch. “Don’t do this, Tia.”

  There was no question Tia had been dealt a bad hand, but a better future was on the horizon. If Tia didn’t deviate, she’d have everything she deserved.

  But what if she liked her walk on the wild side of life?

  What if this was the new Tia forever?

  “Byron, Tia, will you two please take your seats?” Fred called toward the door, sounding weary.

  “Just a minute,” Byron replied, turning back to Tia, whom he hadn’t released. “Am I right? Are you all planning to kill Ginger’s husband?”

  “No.”

  “What are you going to do to him?”

  She squirmed. “I have nothing to say to you.”

  “Dammit, Tia.”

  Byron tried to make her look at him, but she wouldn’t.

  “I’ve taken an oath of secrecy, Byron, so don’t try to get information from me.”

  “You’re a grown woman, but you’re playing a petty, childish game.”

  She yanked her arm away but stepped back to face him. “All you men are alike. When you don’t get what you want, you try to bully us. When that doesn’t work, you threaten and blackmail. And when that doesn’t work, some men beat on their women. What exactly are we supposed to do? Keep trusting that eventually your word is going to be good enough? I’m sick to death of hearing your promises. The rest of the women are, too.”

  “I told you the police—”

  “Can’t do a damned thing. I’m not in my house, and you’re the police! Ginger’s face carries the rage of her husband, and you’re arguing with me about what you think might happen to him, a spousal abuser.” She shook her head. “I’m not telling you anything. If you want to know what’s going on in my life or what we’re planning, I guess you can keep doing what you’ve been doing.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Watching my ass.”

  Tia snatched the door open and walked into the classroom, leaving him standing alone.

  He watched her all right, and when the door closed, he punched his fist into his palm, wishing he could take her and her smart mouth and make love to her until every bit of her was so satiated she didn’t want to do anything but sleep.

  He hated it again, but Tia was right.

  Law enforcement had let them down. He’d definitely disappointed Tia, and there was no excuse for what happened to Ginger.

  The women had a right to be angry. And they were going to exercise that right. Foreboding was a luxury feeling, an emotion most men didn’t ever experience. But he’d grown up with four sisters and a mother. He knew when bad news was heading his way.

  This was a Category 5 hurricane. And if he wanted to keep his job, he’d have to conquer this storm on his own.

  He was already in Tia’s life. He had to now make himself at home there and convince her and the rest of the women to let their anger go.

  In his gut, he knew someone’s life depended upon it.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Tia dropped the newly edited copy into the bin for the evening weatherman, Ben Macklin, and walked back to her cube.

  It was nearly seven-thirty p.m., and once again, Chance had pulled the trick move and let the interns go home without the editing for the late show being completed. As the senior flunky, Tia knew if the work wasn’t done, Ben would pitch a fit. Then his producer, Barb, would complain to Chance, and somehow it would be Tia’s fault. She
was just trying to head trouble off at the pass.

  The truth was she didn’t mind staying. With no home of her own to go to, she wasn’t in a rush to embrace Megan’s madness too soon.

  Back at her cube, she absorbed the quiet, letting it sink into her restless body. Her ankle popped, and she stretched the other one just enough to elicit an echoing response. How her mother hated that she and her father cracked their bones, as she called it.

  I’m getting old. She’d just celebrated a birthday, and the highlight of her day was a comparison of how she and her father made noises with their bodies.

  Nostalgia and homesickness wrapped her in the scent of freesia from her mother’s large bosom and Polo from her daddy’s bear hugs.

  She wanted them to be on Beverly Crossing Way in Stone Mountain, Georgia, the way they’d been for twenty-nine years. Then she could have gone home when all this trouble had started with Dante, and she could have lain in her queen-size bed and looked at the stars she’d stenciled on her ceiling during freshman year in high school and fixed her jacked-up life.

  She wouldn’t have slashed the tires or stabbed herself in the foot, and she wouldn’t be in trouble at work. She’d have money and her purses, and she’d have a nice home. And she wouldn’t have an overwhelming desire to be in her childhood bedroom, fantasizing about a new life.

  Opening her desk, Tia looked closely at the drawer, expecting to see her change.

  Sifting through her papers, she searched for the money, then shrugged. Maybe one of the guys had borrowed it and would give it back tomorrow. Most of them didn’t know how cash-strapped she was, and she wasn’t going to tell them that her finances had more holes than a fisherman’s net. She needed her change for dinner.

  Disappointed, Tia clicked the computer mouse and went to the online site where she’d listed her purses. Two had sold! Champagne bubbles of elation sparkled through her. Five hundred dollars was now in her account. She’d package the purses as soon as she got home and get them in the mail tomorrow.

  From her direct deposit paycheck, she quickly paid her mortgage and other bills, leaving herself with just over fifty dollars in spending money until her next check, in two weeks. A message popped up reminding her to mail her taxes, and Tia groaned. She still had yet to compile them, but she was probably going to get a refund. Making a note on a piece of paper, Tia shoved it in her bag. She’d get on that tonight.