The Cheating Curve

by Paula T. Renfroe

  “Baby, you crying?” Fame asked, sounding as worried as he felt. The idea of Aminah driving and crying concerned him deeply. He couldn’t bear the thought of her getting into a car accident.

  “No, I’m not,” Aminah lied, wiping her eyes and sniffling. “I think I’m coming down with a summer cold or something.”

  “Listen, baby, why don’t we just talk in person?”

  “No, I want to talk now,” Aminah whined insistently.

  “Okay baby,” Fame said softly. “Just be careful driving. I don’t want you to get hurt or nothin’.”

  “That’s ironic, Fame, you don’t seem to mind hurting me any other time.”

  “Minah, don’t I give you everything you ask for? Huh?”

  “Materially, yes, Fame, you do.”

  While financially Aminah lived a more than comfortable life, internally she did experience some discomfort. She felt as though her life had been a series of television commercials in which she superbly played the principal roles of the compliant wife supporting her husband’s career, the patient mother who happily attended all school events and seamlessly transformed into the punctual after-school chauffeur, the obedient daughter, and the ideal daughter-in-law. None of those roles were providing her any comfort right now.

  “Materially?” Fame asked in disbelief, sitting down on his mother’s teak chaise longue by the pool. “You can’t be serious, Minah. You know you’re the only woman who’s ever gotten everything I have to give. There is no other woman out here who’s even worthy of bearing my seeds, never mind sharing my insecurities, my thoughts, my heart, Minah. That’s priceless to a man. No one knows me better than you. Haven’t I kept my word to you and your father?”

  “Which word are you talking about, Fame?” Aminah asked dully, heading eastbound onto the parkway.

  “Remember the summer you left for UPenn, and I told your father I was going to marry you when you graduated?” Fame asked. “He laughed and said only if I could provide you with the standard of living you were accustomed to—that was his minimum requirement. He ain’t believe I could do it. He thought you’d drop my project ass for one of them corny-ass college dudes. But the day you graduated, what I have waiting for you, baby? Huh? You remember that?”

  Aminah said nothing.

  “C’mon, baby, reminiscence with me. Just for a minute.”

  Aminah said nothing again.

  “C’mon, baby girl, don’t leave me hangin’.”

  “What’s the point, Fame?”

  “Minah. Baby. I love you. Even when you’re angry with me, I know you know that. You can’t question that. Don’t be like this, please, Minah. You’re too sweet to be cold. You tryin’ to tell me you don’t remember your graduation day?”

  For the first time in a few hours, Aminah smiled. “You know I do,” she replied sweetly.

  As far as Fame was concerned, those other chicks only got to taste his sex—most of the time anyway. Aminah got his whole body, his most intimate thoughts, his tireless energy, his wallet, his bank account, everything. She was his heart. The mere idea of Aminah leaving him shook him to the core.

  Fame just couldn’t fathom his life without Aminah, and the idea of another man with his wife was absolutely unbearable. Not to mention that there was no way he was ever going to settle for visiting his own children on the weekends and holidays. He already didn’t spend enough time with them as it was.

  Aminah leaving him simply was not an option. It was not a part of Fame’s legendary MAP—his Master Actualization Plan. He’d developed it not too long after he’d graduated from Hempstead High School in 1989. He’d turned down an academic scholarship to pursue his career as a deejay. Glo wasn’t the least bit happy, but she told him if he was gonna hike the mountain less climbed, he had to have a plan. It wasn’t so much that Fame was forfeiting an education for future success—he just needed present money, “right-now cash,” income he could see and use immediately. So in the summer of ’89 when most of his boys were kissing their moms on the cheek and either heading off to college or starting their nine-to-five, he had presented Glo with his MAP, a detailed four-year outline of his career and life goals. In the fourth year he planned on having a million dollars after taxes and on proposing to the love of his life if she stood by him the whole time. It was incredibly ambitious, but it had worked.

  “I was so proud of you that day, Aminah,” Fame said, cradling the cordless phone in the crook of his neck. “Proud and honored.”

  At the end of Aminah’s graduation ceremony, Fame, dressed in a loose-fitting white linen suit, a princess-cut diamond in his left ear, a Rolex on one wrist and an iced-out platinum bracelet on the other, stole her away from her family and friends to walk her over to a campus parking lot. He presented Aminah with eight long-stemmed white roses—one for every year they’d been together—and a brand-new white CL500 Mercedes-Benz with a big white bow.

  After Aminah had finally stopped screaming, Fame had knelt down on one knee.

  “You know I don’t need a piece of paper to make you my wife, baby girl,” he had said, brushing over his low-cut waves with his right hand. “We’ve been together since we were freshmen in high school. Then you went off to this elite university, got your degree, and stood by your man the whole time. You supported me when my deejaying career took me around the world. Remember when I flew you into Tokyo to spend your spring break with me? You didn’t even laugh when I told you I wanted to transition into producing. Instead you bought me my first SP and 950—the equipment I needed to jumpstart my producing career—and I love you for that, baby. That kind of love is rare.”

  Fame paused to pull out a Harry Winston ring box from his jacket pocket. “Like I said, you’ve already been my wife for years, and I don’t need a legal document to tell me that. But I’m ready to make some babies, and your father’s respect is important to me, so I’d like to do this decently and in order. And I know making it legal means a lot to you.”

  Fame had opened the deep-blue leather box to reveal a five-carat emerald-cut diamond engagement ring.

  “I could never forget that day,” Aminah admitted on the phone, choking back the tears.

  “Me either. Sorry for calling you selfish, baby,” Fame said gently. “Listen, you can go on ahead to see your mother if that’ll make you feel better. But I’d love it if you could stop by for just a few minutes. You don’t have to stay. I really need to see you though. Just for a minute, baby girl.”

  “Okay, Fame,” Aminah said, exiting off the parkway’s winding ramp toward Hempstead. She’d already decided to forego her trip to Sag Harbor. Reminiscing with Fame had stirred up an urgent longing to see him.

  Aminah enjoyed dinner with her family at Gloria’s house that night. After they returned home and put their children to bed, Fame sat at the edge of their oversize, custom-built bed and asked Aminah to stand in front of him.

  “You’re so fuckin’ sexy, you know that, right?”

  Aminah blushed.

  “I handpicked you, Mrs. Anderson,” Fame said, sliding Aminah’s skirt off and then kissing her belly button—first circling the outside and then sticking his warm tongue right in the middle. Fame stood up to undo her halter and unfasten her bra.

  “Mmmm, mmmm, mmmm, look at all this sweetness, and it all belongs to me,” Fame said, sucking gently on Aminah’s neck while rolling her nipples back and forth between his fingers. Aminah moaned.

  Fame turned his wife around and wrapped his arms around her waist. He knew how much she loved being hugged from behind. She rested the back of her head on his chest. Though Fame was still fully dressed, Aminah could feel his hardness pushing through his denim shorts. They swayed from side to side as if they were slow dancing to their favorite song. “You my baby?” he asked Aminah.

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, who?”

  “Mmmm, yes, Daddy, I’m your baby. I’ll always be your baby.”

  Fame sat back down on the bed, turned Aminah around to face him again, and c
upped her plump ass. He moved her hot-pink thong to the right and slowly flicked his tongue up and down the hood of her clitoris until Aminah arched her back slightly and moved her pelvis forward. He gently slid two fingers inside his wife and slowly circled them around and around, enjoying the heat of her silkiness. Then he brought his fingers to his mouth. “You taste so sweet, and you’re so wet. Feels like you might want something else.”

  “Mmmm-hmmm,” Aminah moaned.

  Fame lifted Aminah up off the floor and gently placed her in the middle of their bed. He grabbed the remote from the nightstand, and Anita Baker’s sultry voice sang seductively from the ceiling.

  Fame undressed and gently slid inside Aminah. She felt like smooth velvet. They made love for three hours straight. Aminah and Fame slept long and hard, Aminah’s head tucked right under her husband’s chin. The sensation of Fame’s warm, steady breath caressing her face was as soothing to her as a relaxing Vichy shower.

  It was customary for Fame to buy Aminah an extravagant gift or take her away on a nice little jaunt when their marriage was on shaky ground or when he’d been busted. He strategically distracted her, or at the very least temporarily preoccupied her, with something memorable.

  First thing Monday morning, Fame e-mailed his assistant to put in a call to their Louis Vuitton contact and have something exclusive and pink sent to his wife. That afternoon a messenger arrived at the front gate of their home in Jamaica Estates, Queens. The housekeeper, WillieMae, signed for the package addressed to BABY GIRL. Aminah opened the box and found a $14,000 Louis Vuitton stingray art-deco pouch in Galuchat that wouldn’t be available until next March. Aminah smiled and subconsciously tucked that “blind item” into the recesses of her brain somewhere.

  Chapter 6

  “Your skin is like burnished bronze…and your hair is like soft wool. You are exquisite.”

  “Don’t be afraid, don’t be afraid, don’t be afraid, baby,” Sean sang loudly and off-key while dust-mopping the upstairs hallway of the Rogers brownstone—the hallway of the black Madonnas. It was lined with various mother-and-child renditions—a pastel water-color by Brenda Joysmith on one wall, an oil-on-canvas by the Harlem-housed painter, TAFA, next to it, and two sepia-toned photographs of Aminah and her children on the opposite wall. One photo was of Aminah cradling a six-week-old Alia, the other was of her snuggling a three-month-old Amir. At the end of the hallway was a Woodrow Nash stoneware Madonna sculpture. Sean could clean only to music. He found it difficult to focus on his Saturday-morning task otherwise.

  “Sing it, baby!” Lang yelled out from the bathroom as she vigorously shook mounds of Bon Ami into her dolphin-footed white porcelain tub. A much smaller amount of the cleansing powder was required, but Lang got an inexplicable rush from creating the thick swirls of paste, only to rinse them away with scorching hot water, making her tub sparkle brighter than all the toothy veneers on the celebrity red carpet.

  Six days had gone by since Lang had last spoken to Aminah. Next Sunday was her turn to treat for their Session and brunch, but she wasn’t exactly certain if they were even still on. She really missed Aminah, but between Sean and work and Dante, it felt as if every second of her time had been tapped. Still, Lang was surprised that Aminah hadn’t at least checked to see if she’d made it home after speeding off in such a huff. Lang had picked up the phone several times during the week, intending to call Aminah, but she just kept putting it off.

  Lang methodically sprayed and squeegeed the shower door, meticulously wiped down the mirror and tiles—streak-free, of course—conscientiously disinfected the commode, faucets, knobs and door handles, and enthusiastically scrubbed the dark brown tile floor on her hands and knees. It took her exactly fifty-six minutes to tidy up the bathroom to her liking.

  Cleaning was a religious act for Lang. Though she practiced it daily, Saturday was her designated day of devotion to her house of worship. She scheduled major cleaning jobs like any other appointment in her BlackBerry. Every first Saturday from nine AM to noon she booked herself to turn over the mattress, clean out the refrigerator, and wipe down her books and bookshelves with a special Scandinavian microfiber cloth. Every twenty-sixth Saturday of the year she sent her drapes out to be dry-cleaned, and at the beginning of every season she had her windows professionally done.

  Cleaning gave her chaotic life order. Oddly enough it often gave her a bigger sense of accomplishment than did her career, and she absolutely loved her job at Urban Celebrity. She’d successfully conceptualized and launched that magazine, but there was something about the immediate satisfaction of standing in a room she alone was responsible for making mildew-, grime-and dust-free that made her feel like she was unstoppable and that she really could do anything she put her mind to, just like her mother had told her from when Lang had uttered her first word up until their last conversation two nights ago.

  Lang wiped the streams of sweat on her forehead with the back of her hot-pink–Water Stop–rubber-gloved hand. Prior to attacking the bathroom, she’d spent over an hour whipping her kitchen back into acceptable shape. She’d Easy-Offed the inside of her stove, Murphy Oiled the wood cabinets, and Swiffered the floor. Her mother taught her always to clean her kitchen and bathroom first. “You never know when someone’s going to stop by unexpectedly to ask for a glass of water or to use your bathroom.”

  “You’ll be saying ‘Daddy’ to meeee,” Sean howled.

  Lang stepped into the hallway with her hands on her hips. Sean didn’t even notice. He was too caught up in the rapture of Aaron Hall. Langston adored Sean’s horrible singing, especially when he performed in a white wife beater and baggy Carolina blue basketball shorts. She tapped him on his shoulder.

  “Babe, you think Mr. Hall would mind you butchering his song like that?”

  “Why should he?” Sean asked, shrugging his shoulders and then turning around to kiss his wife affectionately on her forehead. “He didn’t seem to mind R. Kelly snatching up his style and making a better career out of it than he ever did. What is he, like, a dog breeder now or something?”

  Lang laughed. “Touché, touché, but, technically, they both kinda borrowed from Charlie Wilson, don’t you think?”

  “True, true, but at least he wasn’t their contemporary,” Sean pointed out. “He was more like an elder that they were both clearly influenced by—that’s honorable. I don’t have a problem with that. I mean, Nas was definitely influenced by Rakim, Michael Jackson by James Brown, Chico DeBarge by Marvin Gaye. Your man R. Kelly jacked Aaron Hall’s style. That’s dishonorable. There’s a difference.”

  “Babe, you can’t be mad at Kells for that,” Lang said. “Besides it’s not like he solely rested on that particular style anyway. He’s gone in all different directions since ‘Honey Love’ and Public Announcement. He’s an incredible songwriter—‘I Believe I Can Fly,’ babe, and that song with Céline Dion.”

  “‘I’m Your Angel.’”

  “Yeah. Oh, and the ‘Ignition’ remix? Personally, I think his diversity, not just in performing, but in songwriting is proof positive that he’s a musical genius. The brother wrote ‘Fortunate’ for Maxwell and then ‘Bump, Bump, Bump’ for B2K. Come on. Give him some kind of credit.”

  “I’ll give you that, I’ll give you that,” Sean conceded. “But how Aaron Hall abandoned his style and let R. Kelly run with it is still beyond me.”

  Sean and Lang could talk about music for hours. Jazz. Blues. Pop. Gospel. Hip-hop. Rock. Reggae. World. Soul. R&B. European classical. Hell, television-show tunes. They shared a mutual appreciation for books, fine art, and cinema as well. They’d go on and on with their mostly friendly banter, though sometimes hostile discussions and debates occurred. Intellectual masturbation, Sean called it. “Sometimes there’s no other point to our conversation besides the fact that I get off on it, and it just feels so damn good.”

  Six years ago he’d attempted to interrupt a zealous discussion Lang was having at a mutual friend’s barbecue in South Jersey. She was argu
ing adamantly that on a purely intellectual level, black folks could not justify the N word being acceptable for their use yet deplorable for white folks, when black folks perpetuated its use in the catchy hooks of music that white kids were bigger consumers of.

  Just when he was about to interject and co-sign her, something about the unusual sheen of her skin shut down his entire thought process. He was mesmerized by it, drawn to it, he’d say time and time again. Reminded him of a brand-new, shiny copper penny. A reddish brown—no, a brownish red. “Like red clay dirt, if clay had a sheen to it. Like wet clay, then.”

  At the cookout he’d asked her where her people were from with that uncommonly rich complexion, those high cheekbones, that keen nose, and those pouty, kissable lips. Told her she had to be a direct descendent of Jesus Christ Almighty Himself.

  “Okay, that’s original,” she said, laughing.

  He thought she had the cutest laugh he’d ever heard come out of a full-grown woman. It was childlike and infectious. Knew right then and there he’d propose to her. Hoped she’d say yes someday.

  “Tell me, Alex Haley, how you figure Jesus and I share the same blood?” she challenged.

  “Revelations, chapter one, verses fourteen and fifteen: ‘His head and hair were white like wool, as white as snow, and his eyes were like blazing fire. His feet were like bronze glowing in a furnace, and his voice was like the sound of rushing waters.’ Your skin is like burnished bronze, your laugh—no, your giggle is like a rippling stream—and your hair is like soft wool,” he said, stretching out her thick, shoulder-length, spongy twists. “You are exquisite.”

  Langston had been both intrigued and skeptical of Sean that day.

  “What are you, some kind of religious nut?” she’d asked suspiciously.

  Sean had laughed a long, hearty laugh. “Not at all, just a lover of language and a high school English teacher. And you?”