The Cheating Curve

by Paula T. Renfroe

  Sean stood up to embrace his father. He strongly favored him, not only in appearance, but in demeanor as well.

  “Let the boy eat in peace,” Mr. Rogers said, kissing his wife on the cheek and discreetly squeezing her rear end.

  Mrs. Rogers swatted her husband’s hand away. “Lee, you’re not the least bit concerned that our son drives down from New York alone on Christmas Eve, the day of their festive love shut-in?”

  Lee Rogers shook his head as he washed his hands at the kitchen sink. He joined his son at the table and waited for his plate.

  “You look good, Sean.”

  “Thanks, Pops. I feel good too.”

  “Well, there you go, Leatrice,” Mr. Rogers said to his wife. “Our one and only son looks and feels good—now, what better gift is there, huh?”

  “Hmph,” Mrs. Rogers uttered under her breath, placing a hot plate of food in front of her husband and then turning abruptly, walking toward the kitchen sink. “A grandchild or two—now that would make a great gift.”

  Sean ignored her last comment. He and his dad were having too much fun predicting the outcome of tomorrow night’s game between the Lakers and the Heat to let his mother ruin it. Shaq and Kobe going head-to-head as opponents would make for an exciting game.

  Sean outsang Donell Jones crossing over the Verrazano Bridge back into Brooklyn. He flowed easily to “U Know What’s Up” and “Shorty (Got Her Eyes on Me).” He reflected on how much he’d enjoyed his father’s company and his mother’s meal. Actually, he’d enjoyed his time with her as well until she’d mumbled something about not having grandchildren.

  Sean came from a pair of only children—he was the only child of two only children. Both his maternal and paternal grandparents came from extremely large families and had vowed to have small ones. In fact, Lee Rogers’s mother had instilled so deeply in Lee that the rich got richer while the poor had babies that after Sean was born, he’d had a vasectomy.

  While Leatrice Rogers didn’t mind having just one child—it afforded a very nice life replete with plenty of vacations, weekend getaways, and a historic landmark home in one of the nation’s top school districts for her only child—she did look forward to spoiling at least a couple of grandchildren. Her best friend’s bumper sticker read: IF I’D KNOWN GRANDCHILDREN WERE GONNA BE THIS MUCH FUN, I WOULD’VE HAD THEM FIRST. Leatrice was envious.

  Sean ejected Donell Jones and loaded Stevie Wonder. Felt like Donell had more insight into his wife’s straying on “Where I Wanna Be,” like he was justifying Lang cheating on him—“She doesn’t fully understand me. That I’d rather leave than to cheat.” He’d felt many things over the last few weeks; however, empathy wasn’t one of them. “Superwoman (Where Were You When I Needed You)” echoed his mind state precisely: “Very well, wish that you knew me too. Very well, and I think I can cope with everything going through your head.”

  Sean drove through the monogrammed Anderson gates a little after one in the afternoon. It was still very strange for him to be greeted by Fame instead of Aminah.

  “How’s it going, man?” Sean asked Fame sincerely.

  “Oh, you know how it’s going,” Fame said, patting him on the back.

  Fame missed Aminah terribly. He’d spoken to her nightly. And while their conversations were more civil, he couldn’t say they were necessarily more loving. The children had recently gotten his hopes up though. Both Alia and Amir had reassured him that their mother would be home for Christmas. It was only Christmas Eve, but still…

  “Don’t look so happy to see me, man,” Sean joked.

  “No offense, Sean, man, but you ain’t my wife,” Fame said, relieving him of his packages. “Hold up, whatchu doing out the house on Christmas Eve anyway?”

  Sean laughed. “Damn, I just left my parents, and my mom asked me the same exact thing.”

  “And where’s Lang?”

  Sean laughed again.

  Actually, Lang had been blowing up Sean’s phone since ten o’clock that morning. He’d told her he had some errands to run and that he’d be home before five. Since Thanksgiving weekend, he’d been telling her everything and asking her nothing. Lang didn’t protest, especially since last week had left her feeling like a victim of sodomy. She confronted a Sean who was somewhat criminal—physically hostile and emotionally vacant.

  Last night had been the extreme opposite though. It was the first time they’d even cuddled since Sean’s bout with that stomach virus last month. The tenderness of the moment had caught Lang off guard—Sean, too. Lang had attempted to straddle him, but he had gently slid her off him and held her through the night, inhaling her lavender-scented, smooth skin. She fell asleep appreciating the return of her husband.

  Prior to that, there’d been no tender love-making in the Rogers’ home. No sex whatsoever in their bed either—rough sex on the granite kitchen counter, the mahogany staircase, and bent over their espresso linen sofa, but not the bed. Lang had ruined the appeal of sex in bed; it was simply a resting place for Sean now.

  While this new aggressive creature had initially excited the hell out of Lang—especially since she’d given up Dante—she found herself missing, longing even, for his gentle, naturally sensual self.

  When Lang woke up Christmas Eve morning and discovered that Sean was already out of bed, she’d hoped to find him downstairs brewing coffee and preparing their traditional Christmas breakfast of homemade Belgian waffles topped with strawberries and confectioners’ sugar. Instead she found a few gifts missing from under their tree. She no longer knew how to interpret Sean’s actions. Hated that she even needed to. He’d used to be so transparent to her.

  “Lang’s at home,” Sean finally replied. “Where are my godchildren?”

  “They’re wrapping gifts in front of the tree,” Fame said, leading Sean toward the living room.

  After conversing with Fame for a while and playing with Alia and Amir most of the afternoon, Sean mulled over exactly how he’d confront his wife on his drive home. He was firm on his decision though. Had been since that afternoon with Aminah up at the Ritz-Carlton. His emotions, however, were ping-ponging again. The only consistent feeling that afternoon was jealousy. He not only admired and desired what his parents had, he envied it. And even without Aminah, Fame had his children. He was jealous of him, too.

  Lang was just finishing up dinner when Sean arrived a little before five. She’d made waffles.

  “Merry Christmas, baby,” Lang said, handing Sean a peppermint martini.

  “Thanks.”

  “You hungry?”

  “Not really. Maybe later. You go ahead and eat though.”

  “No. That’s okay,” Lang said, a bit disappointed. “I’d much rather open presents.”

  Sean placed his martini on the coffee table and tended to the logs in the fireplace as Lang went for the largest box as usual. He watched her tear off the wrapping paper.

  “Oh, my God, Sean,” Lang exclaimed. “Is this what I think it is?”

  He’d gotten her the rare Kopi Luwak coffee beans. The few coffee-houses that occasionally served it charged somewhere in the range of fifty dollars a cup and two hundred dollars per pound.

  The luwak, a cousin of the mongoose in southeast Asia, ate “coffee cherries” off the tree. The undigested coffee beans were manually retrieved from its feces, and supposedly the fermentation process in the luwak’s digestive tract made for a distinctive, flavorful cup of coffee.

  Yeah, Langston, Sean thought, squinting his eyes and nodding slightly. I wanted you to have something really shitty.

  “Yummy. Do you know how hard this is to find? I can’t wait to drink it.”

  “I knew you’d appreciate it,” Sean said, smiling.

  “Okay, you next,” Lang said, handing Sean one of his boxes. Inside was a Burberry trench coat. He’d wanted one for as long as Lang could remember, but never could bring himself to spend a thousand dollars on a raincoat. Lang admired how distinctive her husband looked in it.

  Lang p
icked up the Tiffany box and sat back down on the sofa to open it.

  “Oh, Sean honey, these sterling-silver napkin rings are so nice,” Lang said after pulling back the tissue paper. “Oooo, these aren’t napkins inside the rings though,” Lang said, smiling and pulling out the sheets of paper, expecting to read a travel itinerary to Anguilla or St. Barths. She’d been hinting to Sean all year long that it was time they returned to the Caribbean.

  “There is nothing concealed that will not be disclosed, or hidden that will not be made known,” Sean recited from the Gospel of Luke.

  “Huh? Sean, baby, what’d you say?” Lang said, distracted by the rolled-up document.

  “What you have said in the dark will be heard in the daylight, and what you have whispered in the ear in the inner rooms will be proclaimed from the roofs.”

  Lang unrolled the piece of paper. “A petition for divorce?” Lang asked, confused. “What in the hell…?”

  “I waited, Lang,” Sean said calmly. “I waited to see if you were ever gonna tell me. Confess to me.”

  “Tell you what, Sean?”

  “And even now you continue to insult me. I know about your affair, Langston. Just tell me who he is, Lang. Somebody in the industry?”

  “There’s nobody else, Sean. I don’t know what you think…”

  Sean raised his arm, as if to slap Lang, but she stopped him.

  “Are you crazy?” Lang asked, holding Sean’s arm.

  “Lying by omission is still lying.” Sean’s voice cracked. He blinked back the tears.

  “I don’t know what the fuck has gotten into you lately, but—”

  “No, the question is who the fuck has gotten into you lately, Lang, huh?” Sean asked, grabbing her by the throat and lifting her off the couch.

  “Sean!” Lang gagged as she feebly tried to claw his hands from around her neck.

  “I swear to God I could kill you,” he said just before releasing her.

  Lang coughed.

  “Was he worth it?”

  Lang shook her head, sobbing hysterically. She couldn’t believe what was happening.

  “How long have you been seeing him?”

  “Not long,” Lang said between gasps. “I swear. It’s over. I—I—I made a mistake.”

  “A mistake?” Sean laughed.

  “I’m sorry, Sean. I’m so sorry. I can’t lose you. You can’t leave me. We can get through this.”

  “It’s too late, Langston. You lost me the minute you opened yourself up to him.”

  Sean grabbed his new trench coat off the sofa. “I’ll be back later tonight, and I want you out of this house, or as God is my witness, Langston, I swear I might actually kill you.”

  “Sean, please…”

  “Merry fuckin’ Christmas, Langston,” Sean said and slammed the door.

  Chapter 24

  “…plans are just that…. Plans.”

  Aminah woke up Christmas morning next to a snoring, puffy-eyed Langston. She’d never in her whole life witnessed any human being—colicky babies included—cry as much as Langston had the night before. Lang had sobbed over the phone all the way to the Ritz, on the parking ticket stub the valet had handed her in front of the luxury hotel, and on a shared elevator ride with a couple of nondescript European tourists.

  She’d collapsed into Aminah’s arms as soon as she’d opened the door and bawled some more on her shoulder.

  Aminah never thought to utter an I told you so. Instead she carefully guided Langston over to the sofa and slowly undressed her.

  Lang allowed her head to fall backward on the couch after Aminah had taken off her ski jacket. Her body lay limp as Aminah easily slid off her sneakers and socks, though she seemed to stiffen a bit as Aminah struggled to raise her hips and pull down her cashmere sweatpants and cotton thong.

  Lang made no attempt to help Aminah pull the long-sleeved thermal shirt over her head or her arms through the armholes. Aminah let out a soft grunt when she finally got the top completely off and wasn’t the least bit surprised to find Lang’s perky nipples saluting her braless.

  Aminah thought that at that particular moment her usually strikingly attractive girlfriend—with her toned, naked brown body sort of slouched down on the coach with her head leaned all the way back and her legs spread somewhere between slight and wide—favored a chic model strung out on heroine.

  Aminah shook her head in pity as she quickly slid out of her own bathrobe and filled the shower stall with blistering hot water. She adjusted the temperature to a notch above tepid before leading Lang into the makeshift, glass-enclosed sauna.

  “Breathe,” Aminah said as she stood naked holding up Lang under the steady stream of warm water. “You’re holding your breath. I need you to release it. Let it out. Let it go, Lang.”

  Lang lifted her head to face the showerhead and let out the air she’d been unconsciously constricting. It wasn’t exactly a deep, cleansing breath, but at least now she was aware of her breathing—sort of.

  “You’re gonna be okay,” Aminah said before kissing Lang on the forehead and tenderly bathing her body.

  Lang wailed as Aminah washed. She wanted to fold up into the fetal position in the corner of the stall, but Aminah wouldn’t let her. “Let it out, baby,” Aminah said. “Let it all out. You can cry all you want, Lang, but I won’t let you fall.”

  Aminah toweled her dry.

  Lang whimpered.

  Aminah oiled her down, dressed her for bed, and forced her to sip chamomile tea.

  Langston finally fell asleep with a headache worthy of ten Percocets. She made due with three extra-strength Advils.

  In the morning Aminah felt Lang’s forehead, worried that she’d cried herself sick the night before. She was cool. Relieved, Aminah jotted a quick note, asking Lang to call her when she woke up, along with instructions for her to order some herbal tea bags as well as cucumber slices and to alternate between the two to reduce the puffiness around her eyes. She hated to leave her all alone on Christmas, but, well, it was Christmas, and she wasn’t denying her children for anyone.

  Aminah belted her crimson blouson dress, admiring how the red satin ribbon accentuated her waistline while the V-neck did the same for her cleavage. She inspected her eyelashes for Great Lash Mascara clumps. None. Checked the edges of her lips for any excess M•A•C Lipgelée goo. Negative. She nodded approvingly at her reflection.

  Before exiting the sumptuous suite that had served as her plush little safe haven, Aminah requested the concierge to send a bellhop for all her bags, the valet to bring around her Range Rover, informed the front desk that while she wouldn’t be returning, her guest would be staying indefinitely, and prepaid Lang’s room and incidentals for the week. The manager cordially applied the same generous discount they’d given Aminah for staying so long and being such a delightful guest.

  Aminah smoothed Lang’s hair out of her face and kissed her lovingly on the cheek before exiting the suite.

  Inside her truck Aminah loaded the six CDs she’d purchased the day before—Anthony Hamilton’s Comin’ from Where I’m From, Usher’s Confessions, Maxwell’s Urban Hang Suite, Outkast’s Speakerboxxx/The Love Below (though she only inserted The Love Below), Maroon 5’s Songs About Jane, and Kanye’s The College Dropout. Her “Sisters of Strength” rotation—India, Mary, Faith, Lauryn (sometimes alternated with Norah), Kim, and Nina Simone—would always be fingertips away, but Aminah craved some masculine vulnerability.

  She found no early morning Christmas traffic surprising her through the Battery Tunnel, nor down the streets of Brooklyn. She enjoyed her solitude on the road almost as much as Anthony Hamilton’s soulful “Since I Seen’t You.” She ended her rousing “Charlene” duet with Mr. Hamilton right before pulling up to the Rogers’ brownstone.

  Aminah rang Sean’s doorbell a little after seven AM, not the least bit concerned about awakening him. She’d taken care of that a few minutes ago after exiting the tunnel and informing him to expect her shortly.

  He an
swered the door in a wife beater, baggy sweats, and a little bit of sleep in the corner of his right eye.

  “Oh, my God, Sean!” Aminah screamed, startling him into full alertness.

  “Quiet girl,” Sean playfully reprimanded, pulling her through the front door. “You’ll wake up the whole block.”

  Aminah rubbed Sean’s head before he led her to the couch and offered her something to drink.

  The eighteen-inch locs he’d been growing for the past ten years were no more. He’d trimmed them over the years when they’d gotten either too long or too heavy to play ball, but after coming home to an empty house last night he felt compelled to cut them completely off.

  He believed his hair and his home held energy. So he’d burned sage in every room, grabbed his scissors and then his clippers, and rid his head and his universe of all the old forces, making way for some new, more positive ones.

  “Yeah, I got rid of ’em late last night,” he said, slowly dragging his hand across his wavy, low-cut Caesar. “The plan was to cut them off the day my first child was born, but, you know, plans are just that…” He paused. “Plans.”

  “I can’t believe it,” Aminah said, shaking her head. “You’ve got a nice-shaped noggin though.”

  They both laughed.

  “You okay?” Aminah asked, concerned, touching his thigh.

  “I’m maintaining, under the circumstances,” Sean responded, placing his hand on top of hers. “But man, Aminah, I was so out of sorts, I think I might actually owe Lang an apology.”

  “I seriously doubt that,” Aminah said. “But why would you even think so?”

  “Well, without going into too much detail, those last few weeks I was so rough with her—sexually, I mean—that I didn’t recognize myself.”

  “Now, Sean, we both know my girl is actually a bit of a masochist,” Aminah said dismissively. “I wouldn’t concern your pretty new head with that.”

  “No, this was different. I wasn’t trying to please her or turn her on. I intentionally did my best to physically hurt her and make her feel the pain she caused me. She brought out the monster in me, Aminah. I did things to my wife I never thought I’d do,” Sean admitted, shaking his head before lowering it.