Sinful Too

by Victor McGlothin

  Mahalia moved out of arm’s reach before flinging a stiff suggestion in return. “Don’t you forget there’s a funky-butt-skank sleeping with your husband!” She dashed out of the door to flee her mother’s reprisal.

  Nadeen shouted down the hall after her, “Mahalia! Mahalia, you get back here. Mahalia!” Nadeen was beside herself with grief. Her hands went numb as she untied her robe. She felt ill, having been chastised by her child and made a jackass of by her husband. Her only saving grace was the knowledge that Roxanne was out of earshot and ignorant to the facts plaguing her. She wished she could say the same for Mahalia, but it was too late for wishing all the way around. Something had to turn things in the other direction or she’d be faced with raising her daughters as a single mother with the aftereffects of a publicly scrutinized divorce. Nadeen dreaded that more than dealing with her present set of circumstances.

  Richard made it to the room eventually. He was surprised to find the bathroom door locked when he attempted to open it and inform Nadeen of his arrival. “Hey, Nadeen!” he yelled, knocking on the door. “Nadeen, I’m here. It’s Richard!” He placed his ear against it. He heard the shower running and his wife’s voice.

  “I know,” she said begrudgingly. “I’m almost done.”

  Richard glared at the closed door peculiarly. He slipped off his shoes then his shirt. “Is everybody going crazy?” he thought aloud. When the bathroom door opened, steam rushed out and so did Nadeen. “Hey, baby, the door was locked.”

  “Let me see your cell phone,” she demanded.

  “My what?” he replied, stalling.

  “Your phone, give it to me.” Nadeen’s teeth were clenched together like a rusty vise. “Hand it over.”

  Reluctantly, Richard waffled. “Here. What you want it for?”

  Nadeen overlooked his question. She flipped it open then pressed the RECENT CALLS icon. “See, I’m kind of slow but I’m catching on fast. I asked for this,” she said, returning his phone, “to find out what I needed to know before you fixed your mouth to lie about it.” Nadeen turned away from him and toward the closet. She sorted through the hanging clothes, casually picking out an outfit for the evening. “So, now we both know you’ve called Dior since we got here. How could you?”

  “Nadeen, I did not have any idea she would come running down here. Yes, I did call her but it was to ask her why she was doing this,” he lied, partially clouded with truth. “I don’t blame you for doubting me but Dior did this on her own. I swear it.”

  “Oh, Richard, there is nothing but doubt left,” she answered, much too nonchalantly for Richard’s taste.

  “So you do believe me?”

  “It’s not me you have to satisfy this time. Mahalia bumped into your friend out in the hall. She came running to me, expecting a hellish response. I’d be the same way if it was my mother’s marriage being terrorized by my father’s mistress.” She observed Richard, fiddling with the phone aimlessly. He couldn’t look her in the eye. She recognized a broken man when she saw one, though she couldn’t have anticipated one would belong to her. “I’m hungry. Why don’t you get ready for dinner,” she said finally. Richard nodded then eased off his pants. Nadeen dressed while he showered. She felt helpless in many respects, paralyzed in the face of what had become her life, her role as mother, protector, and wife. Her soul was uneven, capable of flipping inside out. Nadeen searched for the words to prop it up then scrapped the idea altogether. She was even too tired to pray.

  Richard powered off his cell phone then set it on the dresser. If Dior decided to return his call while Nadeen was on his arm, it might push her over the edge. Richard couldn’t take that chance. He was already skating on thin ice with a three-hundred-pound gorilla on his back. Quality time with Nadeen never sounded so good. Richard slapped on a splash of cologne after he’d gotten dressed. Still finding it impossible to face the haunting expression hanging on Nadeen’s face, he followed her steps to the elevator with his head bowed.

  Richard was exceedingly thankful that his world had paused long enough for a nice, quiet, uneventful dinner when he escorted his wife into the four-star hotel restaurant. He counted on catching his wind and using the time to placate Nadeen. Richard, overloaded in the optimism department, suffered a ghastly setback when the hostess seated him and Nadeen two tables from an attractive couple who were enjoying their drinks as much as each other’s company.

  Richard noticed them first. He saw the pair chuckling with their heads tilted dangerously close, sharing a quaint meal with a window view of the Navy Pier. Richard recognized the woman right off; she was flirting with a half empty martini glass and her handsome date simultaneously. He made several attempts to shrug off what he saw but that was impossible. Even after Nadeen had followed his narrow-eyed stare then scoffed at his discovery, Richard continued to glance their way occasionally. He couldn’t concentrate on the menu as he kept an eye peeled on Dior and that smooth-talking medical student she let carry her bags earlier. It bothered Richard down to his loafers to watch her. Dior called nearly ten restaurants to inquire about an Allamay party of two. All she had to do then was make the call to her handsome escort and set it off.

  Lord, who’s going to raise my children if I kill this woman? Nadeen thought at the outset. She was close to requesting another table on the opposite side of the restaurant but wisely changed her mind. Now that Richard was pushing his blackened snapper from one side of the plate to the other, she liked the seating arrangements just fine. Nadeen devoured a full order of jambalaya as she took in the show. Dior’s new acquaintance was easy on the eyes but hard on Richard’s stomach. He could not manage to eat a single bite. He’d determined Dior was having too much fun, placing her hand on her date’s arm and throwing her hair every time she laughed at his jokes. Nadeen peeped that too but it didn’t worry her in the least. Dior had her hands full with a younger man, one more her own speed, Nadeen thought. Whether he was married or not was of no consequence as long as he wasn’t Richard. All in all, it was worth the price of admission to watch her husband squirm, although she hated the sight of Dior getting under his skin.

  Four blocks away, Mahalia lagged behind the group of young adults surveying Bourbon Street. Everyone was amazed at the tight quarters and narrowed streets, vintage architecture, neon signs advertising live sex shows from the sidewalks, and numerous brass bands playing to standing-room-only crowds along the avenue. Mahalia appeared inconsolable when friends offered to cheer her up until she encountered a novelty gift shop with a litany of trinkets that interested her. She fingered an oddly fashioned miniature doll near the front counter. “Excuse me, ma’am, what is this?” she asked the shopkeeper.

  “That a keepsake, what you might call a voodoo doll or spirit charm,” the haggard old woman answered with a thick Arcadian accent.

  “Voodoo?” Mahalia repeated, as her brow rose noticeably. “Do these dolls really do anything?”

  The shopkeeper puffed on a pipe, then blew smoke out of her nose. “Some do, yeah.”

  “Well if I buy one, I’d need to know how to work it,” she said, as if seeking permission to purchase it with evil intent.

  The woman, who happened to be as wide as she was tall, slid off her chair then waddled down three steps toward Mahalia. Gazing upward at her potential customer, she nodded her full head of silver hair then puffed from her pipe again. “You wan’ somebody hurt yeah?”

  “Oh yeah. Real bad. Some people don’t know when to leave a married man alone.”

  She looked at Mahalia strangely. “Not your husband?”

  “No, ma’am, my mother is not dealing with competition too well.”

  The woman reached up to return the small toy sold to tourists, which was very likely made in China. “You won’t be wantin’ that toy then.” She climbed a small ladder then pulled something down from a wooden box on an upper shelf. “This be your best tool of neee-go-ti-a-tion,” she informed Mahalia.

  The girl’s face lit up like a full moon. “You telling me
this is the real thing?”

  “It called a remedy. Thirty dollars is all it cost for a friend in need.” She chuckled enthusiastically, showing all three of her thick yellowed teeth. Mahalia bit on the offer to come away with the genuine article, handmade by a group of Creole women from a nearby parish. She paid the shopkeeper, received the instructions on how to put the remedy into action, then she dashed off for the hotel just as the sun set over the city.

  Later, Mahalia called the hotel operator from a house phone in the lobby. She asked for room 1828. The phone rang four times then it rolled back to the operator. Dior was either out of the room or didn’t want to be interrupted. Mahalia was on her way up to see if there was a DO NOT DISTURB sign posted on the door. She caught a glimpse of what resembled her parents having dinner together. A detailed look revealed another surprise: Dior sitting that close to Nadeen with all of her hair still intact. Keeping in mind what the shopkeeper said regarding the mojo charm, Mahalia practically skipped up to the customer service desk. “I’m with my big sister in eighteen twenty-eight but I think I lost my key,” she said, sounding even younger than she was.

  The front desk attendant, annoyed by the umpteenth child asking to replace a lost key, rolled his eyes. “Eighteen twenty-eight. Do you have identification?”

  “Yeah, in the room,” Mahalia smarted back at him.

  “No identification? Whose name is the room under?” he questioned, after making a duplicate key then holding on to it. Mahalia wanted that key. She had to think fast or risk making the snooty employee suspicious.

  Mahalia smacked her lips, now pretending to be just as annoyed as him. “Look, my sister Dior uses all kinds of names when she’s relaxing after a tour. Let’s see, she’s gone with Johnson, Jones, Jenkins?” After each name offered, she watched the man holding her future in his hand. “When we’re in London, she goes by Williams, Washington, or Wilkes.”

  “What about Wicker?” he said, helping her along so she would cease and desist with wasting his time.

  “Wicker!” Mahalia snapped rudely. “That’s our real name,” she insisted believably. “Huh, that’s brand-new. You understand how singers can be? Too dramatic for me,” she added, after accepting the plastic duplicate. She walked past the restaurant again, to assure Dior was still occupied, then she caught an elevator going up. “Come on, slowpoke,” she teased. “I’ve got to move, get in an’ out.” The doors opened on the eighteenth floor. Mahalia peered both ways as if preparing to dodge traffic. The coast was clear. She bolted down the hall, used the copied key to open the door. Once inside she tiptoed past the bed, sneering at a black lacy underwear and bra ensemble laid on a fluffy pillow like after dinner mints. I need something personal but I ain’t touching that gold digger’s panties, Mahalia thought, as she circled around to the restroom.

  In a designer toiletry bag, she found a toothbrush, floss, makeup, and other necessities. Sensing time was against her, a quick decision had to be made. Mahalia reached for several items but none of them seemed suitable. And then she saw it: a hairbrush with long strands sticking out every which way. She pulled several of them from it, placing each one into the plastic bag she got from the shopkeeper. “Perfect,” she mouthed. Staring at her reflection in the mirror, she liked what she saw: a dedicated daughter with the nerve to do what her mother wouldn’t. “Now we’ll see who gets hurt when this hex kicks in.”

  Twenty-eight

  Humble Pie

  Dior staggered out of the restaurant arm in arm with her date. Richard looked worse than death warmed over as she left from her table. She almost stumbled into him then acted as if she didn’t know he’d been there the entire time. It served him right; what had he been thinking, flying in the source of all his troubles? “See there. I told you she didn’t come here to be with me,” he grumbled to Nadeen, partly believing it himself because of her behavior. Chatter hadn’t come easy for either of them during dinner. Richard managed to eek out a few words. “Pass the butter” was about the full extent of it. Nadeen played it slow like Rose suggested, holding on to the outside chance that Richard wouldn’t have bet his marriage and career on a getaway with Dior.

  After dinner, Nadeen poured cream in her black coffee then stirred in a leisurely manner so as not to be rushed. She ran her finger down the list of dessert items but humble pie wasn’t on the menu so she ordered a slice of bread pudding instead. When it was delivered, she took her sweet time nibbling on it.

  When Richard uttered for the waiter to bring the bill, Nadeen ordered a scoop of ice cream. Visibly torn over what had transpired, he smiled awkwardly. “Why are you dragging this out? It’s like I told you. That woman coming here had nothing to do with me. As you just witnessed for yourself, she’s doing her own thing.” He was beginning to believe it more than he wanted to.

  “If you say so, dear.” Nadeen analyzed the way Richard spoke of Dior. He couldn’t get himself to say her name. However, she could and she did. “I will have to say that Dior did look happy; maybe a tad bit drunk, but happy. It’s a good thing if she’s gotten over the crush she may have had on you. That tall drink of water that practically carried her out may have had everything to do with it.” She continued stirring as Richard frowned. Nadeen grinned as the waiter returned with a small bowl of chocolate ice cream on a serving tray. She gestured that the bowl be placed in front of her jilted husband.

  “No-no, she asked for this,” said Richard, waving the gentleman to the other side of the table.

  Nadeen nodded to the waiter. “Don’t you pay him any attention. It’s his, but he doesn’t want to claim it. Pride, you understand.” The waiter smiled politely then vanished.

  “What are you talking about? I haven’t eaten sweets in weeks.”

  “You’ve heard the old cliché about revenge being best served cold,” said Nadeen, wiping at her lips with a white cloth napkin. “Well, there you go.” She excused herself from the table, leaving Richard to his own devices. She had better things to do than sit and watch him sulk all night. Doing nothing was better than that.

  Richard signed his name on the bill, charging it to the room. He couldn’t wait to call Dior but there was no way Nadeen would allow him to retrieve his cell phone from the room then roll out to check his messages. He tugged at the edges of the dinner receipt with his room number written on it. The waiter he’d shooed away moments before straightened the table setting where Dior spent the past hour. “Hey excuse me,” Richard called out. “The young lady with the man who was just sitting there, they’re with the group I brought down from Dallas. I’m supposed to add their lodging to the master list but they checked in late. You wouldn’t happen to know their room number?”

  The waiter put off his task to think on it. “The guy lives here in town. He works over at the Belvedere Hotel. Are you sure she’s church folk? She drank like a fish,” he joked.

  “Maybe I should take this as a sign to preach on the topic of sobriety come Sunday morning,” Richard quipped, to inform his would-be accomplice that he was a minister.

  “It couldn’t hurt. Let me see what I can do about the information you want.”

  Visions of Dior on all fours, moaning passionately, danced in Richard’s head in the same manner as before, when she was sucking on chicken wings with Kevlin at Boscoe’s. The tension in his neck then was nothing compared to the stiffness he experienced now. His fists were balled tightly when the waiter slipped him a piece of paper with Dior’s name and the number 1828 jotted on it. “Thanks for looking that up,” said Richard, as he rewarded the man’s efforts with a ten-dollar tip.

  “Hey, thanks a lot, Reverend.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  Richard secured a toothpick from the reception area outside the restaurant. He held it between his index finger and thumb, waiting for the right time to use it. Three older sisters from his congregation sauntered into the hotel with bags of souvenirs. They complained about not getting any younger then called it a night. Richard made small talk with two deacons
who were impatiently waiting on their wives to finish getting dressed for a night tour of the city’s oldest cemeteries. Richard teased the men about losing their better halves among the monumental gravestones New Orleans was known for. “Make sure they don’t accidentally get left behind when we push off tomorrow. You might have some explaining to do when you get home.” All of the men laughed as their female companions approached, eager to get started. “Good night,” Richard saluted calmly. He glanced at his watch. Twenty-nine minutes had passed by since Dior staggered off with her six-foot three-inch escort. Richard jumped on the same house phone Mahalia used earlier. He dialed the operator, asking for the room number he’d gotten from the waiter. Dior answered on the fourth ring. “Who was that man hanging on you!” he demanded to know. “Hello? Hello?” Richard grunted when he heard the dial tone buzzing in his ear. Dior had hung up the telephone. Phillip and Rose rambled by hand in hand as he redialed the operator. They stopped when he looked up. He placed the receiver down and stepped aside.

  “Hey, Richard, where’s Nadeen?” Phillip asked him. Rose knew where Nadeen was and didn’t care if her husband did or not. “I thought y’all would be up and down Bourbon Street like everybody else.”

  “We ate an early dinner here. If I can get her on the phone, we might join you later.” He took out the toothpick and began to fiddle around with it in his mouth. “I may as well go on up and floss while I wait on Nadeen.” Phillip shrugged, Rose sneered. They mumbled silently as they headed for the French Quarter on a sightseeing extravaganza.

  Richard darted over to the elevators right away. He pressed every arrow pointing up that he could find. Dior wasn’t going to play him any longer, he decided. Who did she think she was anyway? Cavorting with other men on his dime was unacceptable. She was not going to give up the goods to some local hotel worker if Richard could help it. When the elevator door opened, he bolted inside. “Eighteen!” he said, mashing the button repeatedly. Watching the floor numbers on the digital readout was excruciating. “Get there already.” The elevator doors opened to let him off. Richard marched out with long steady strides, past his room and toward the adjacent corridor. “Eighteen twenty-four, twenty-six, twenty-eight,” he whispered, placing his ear to the door. There wasn’t a sound from the other side. Richard balled his fist again then banged on the door like a madman. “Open up! I know you’re in there!” He continued thumping on it harshly while shouting Dior’s name. Eventually she opened it. Richard rushed past her, saliva collecting in the corners of his mouth. “Where is he? I’m tossing his yellow butt out.”