Her thoughts careened through her mind and tumbled out of her mouth with no sense of connection. Somehow she had to get them working together. Her head was making way too much noise. Running always helped. And Lang felt like running, but not inside some fancy hotel gym either. Outside. By the water. She some needed air, the cold, crisp kind.
“Langston, you don’t sound like yourself, honey. We’re worried about you. Is what Sean said true? Are you really getting a divorce?”
Lang didn’t answer right away.
“Langston.”
“God, I hope not, Mom,” Lang finally said as she slid on her sweats from the night before. She’d need to get the rest of her things. No, she’d send Aminah. At least she’d packed enough clothes to get her through the week.
“But what happened to make Sean—”
“I cheated on him, Mom,” Lang whispered. Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat and laced up her sneakers.
Mrs. Burgess said nothing.
“And I got caught,” Lang continued. “And I lied about it. And I got caught in the lie. And I can’t face anyone today. Maybe tomorrow, but—”
“Come home, Langston,” Mrs. Burgess interrupted. “Stop punishing yourself and come home.”
Lang declined her mother’s offer. She spoke to her sister, Cullen, who understood her need to be alone. She wished her brother-in-law and the twins a Merry Christmas and promised to join them all tomorrow for Kwanzaa brunch.
Then Lang ran—what felt like for her life—through Battery Park. The cold mist from the water stung her face, but no more than the tears had the night before. She felt alive. Her cheeks tingled. Her chest hurt. No, it was her heart. Her lungs were on fire, but at least she was breathing. And her head had finally stopped making so much noise.
Lang enjoyed breakfast with her family out in Hempstead the following morning. No one brought up Sean except her niece and nephew. They adored their uncle Sean. She apologized for disappointing them and explained that while he wouldn’t be able to make it over to see them this visit, she’d make it up to them by taking them ice-skating.
Later Lang asked her mother and Cullen to join her in the kitchen to help with the dishes and to explain the breakup and the affair and the aftermath thus far.
Cullen rinsed the last dish, hugged her little sister, and told her everything would be okay. “You’re strong, Langston. I know this won’t break you, but, man, you really know how to mess up a good thing when you want to, don’t you?”
“I know,” Lang agreed, still holding on to her sister with wet rubber gloves. “But I’m hoping I can fix it somehow.”
Mrs. Burgess continued to dry and put away the dishes as she listened to her girls. She wasn’t quite ready to console Lang—saw no point in chastising her either. She was worried though, more for her daughter’s marriage than her daughter. She’d spoken to Sean. And had heard him so clearly. Her son-in-law had already checked out of their union. Her child was in denial if she thought she could get her husband back. He was already gone.
“I hope you can, too,” Cullen said, rubbing her sister’s back before releasing her embrace and grabbing the broom. “I don’t know how you went out like that. A man like Sean, a brother like Sean…I mean, he’s so attentive, so giving, so rare…. You get someone like that…” Cullen paused, shaking her head.
Lang bit her bottom lip, bracing herself for her sister’s admonishment. But Cullen wasn’t used to seeing her sister so emotionally exposed and wasn’t about to exploit her vulnerability.
Lang bent down with the dustpan, anticipating Cullen’s reproval.
“Here’s the thing, Langston. When you get what you had with Sean, you’re supposed to treasure that as the sacred gift it is,” Cullen said, stooping down to put her arm around her little sister. “You understand me?”
Lang nodded before dropping her head.
“Now, I know you get off on constant stimulation and finding that next thing to turn you on,” Cullen said, lifting her sister’s chin.
Lang rolled her eyes.
“You always have, Langston. But I gotta ask, was it worth the risk of losing your husband? I mean, you guys were talking children. What was your plan—to keep chasing the rush and the kids?”
Lang shrugged her shoulders and put away the dustpan. No one said a word, which was fine by Lang. Even if she had a plan per se, her sister, with her Cosby Show–type marriage, wouldn’t understand it. Stimulation was vital to Lang’s existence. Her plan had been simply not to get caught.
Lang pulled three coffee mugs out of the cabinet and then scanned her mother’s coffee-bean selection.
“Give Sean some time, some space,” Cullen finally said, sighing a bit and taking a seat on one of the stools in front of the kitchen island. “He may come around. Lord knows he adored the hell outta you.”
“Yeah, but I’m afraid if I give him too much space, he’ll get used to life without me in it,” Lang admitted, eyeing her quiet mother suspiciously before handing her Dean & DeLuca’s Ethiopian Yirgacheffe blend.
Gail Burgess was long on advice and full of opinions. Her silence wasn’t lost on either of her daughters.
“Get comfortable not having me around,” Lang continued as she took a seat next to her sister.
“Well, nothing beats a failure but a try,” Cullen said, repeating what their deceased father had used to say to them whenever his girls were discouraged. Mr. Burgess had died in a tragic car accident when Lang and Cullen were both teenagers.
Lang smiled and hugged her sister again. She felt hopeful.
“Men don’t forgive, Langston,” Mrs. Burgess finally said after filling the grinder with the coffee beans. “And on that rare occasion that they do, they never forget,” she added sadly.
While Gail Burgess pitied her daughter, she also felt a certain level of personal guilt. She had known her youngest wasn’t ready for marriage some four years ago and had told her so a few days after her engagement party.
She’d not only witnessed her newly engaged daughter flirting too intently with one of her church member’s married sons, but more importantly she understood the very essence of who and what her daughter was. And Langston Neale Rogers, just like Zora Neale Hurston and Langston Hughes, was a free spirit. Nothing and no one held Lang’s attention too long. Never had.
Mrs. Burgess had envisioned her bright little girl traveling the world, accomplishing great things, bearing gifts from exotic places, but never really settling down. Langston and conformity had just never gotten along too well. Particularly after her father had died. According to Lang, life, no matter how long it was, was too short for it not to be a blast. And her mother not only respected that but also embraced it. Free woman, as the author Pearl Cleage deemed—Gail Burgess was one and had raised a pair of ’em.
However, Lang was also determined and defiant. And to everyone around her, including her mother, blissfully married. She insisted that Sean understood and even appreciated her flirtatious nature and in fact was secure enough not to feel threatened by it. She’d convinced her mother that her commitment to Sean was more compromise than conformity.
And Mrs. Burgess subscribed to it all. She frequently asked Lang if she should expect the great American novel or an adorable grandchild first, all the while ignoring that slight sense that something about her daughter’s marriage still wasn’t quite right.
“Oh, Langston,” Mrs. Burgess said, rubbing her youngest child’s shoulder before sitting on the stool right next to her. “I just want you to be happy. That’s all I’ve ever wanted for my girls.”
The Burgess women sipped on their coffee as their mother recounted the afternoon Sean had tearfully asked Lang’s hand in marriage. He’d openly professed his love for her daughter and vowed to take care of her mind, body, and soul. She’d prayed that it’d be enough to sustain her maverick of a daughter.
Lang promised herself she wouldn’t cry anymore, but reliving Sean’s proposal had been emotional for all three women. Cullen and
Mrs. Burgess comforted Lang. And Lang allowed them. Mrs. Burgess even succeeded in convincing Langston to stay in her old room, once she checked out of the hotel, at least until she found a place of her own.
“I’m gonna walk Thurman,” Lang said, pulling out their Saint Bernard’s leash from one of the kitchen drawers. She needed air again. “Have the twins ready to go ice-skating by the time I get back.”
Lang had taken her family to see A Raisin in the Sun later that week and called her best friend to make sure they were still on for Pretty Inside’s Pamper Party. She’d refused to hibernate.
As they carefully slid their hands and feet under the nail driers, Lang and Aminah recapped their New Year’s Eve. Aminah had spent hers at home with her family like always while Lang confessed to having spent hers on her knees.
“Excuse you?” Aminah asked, spitting out her Veuve.
“Get your dirty mind out the gutter.” Lang laughed, mimicking a Salt-N-Pepa line. “I was on my knees praying in church seeking forgiveness, asking for clarity.”
Aminah laughed. “For a minute I thought you were gonna tell me you were servicing Dante or something.”
“Nah. I still think about him though. A lot.”
Aminah rolled her eyes.
“It’s just that we were more sexually compatible,” Lang said, remembering the last time she’d sexed Dante, grinning slightly and then shaking the memory away. “There’s this French classical author, François de la Rochefoucauld,” Lang explained as Erika inspected her nails, “who said something to the effect of when love becomes labored, we welcome an act of infidelity to free us from fidelity.”
Erika raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
“And loving Sean got to be too much work for you?” Aminah asked as Erika carefully dragged her finger across Aminah’s shiny, dry pink nails, awaiting Lang’s response.
“I think so,” Lang said, shrugging her shoulders.
Erika nodded and released Aminah’s hand.
“I’ve tried calling him, you know. He won’t take my calls.”
“It’s too soon, Lang. He’s hurting. It’s still too raw.”
“I miss him. I know you speak to him. Does he ask about me?”
Aminah hated answering that question. She closed her eyes, shook her head, and then asked Richard to kindly pull her wallet out of her bag.
Lang released a long, heavy sigh. “‘Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, nor hell a fury like a woman scorned,’ or, in this case, a man.”
“Shakespeare?”
“No, another William. William Congreve, from his play The Mourning Bride. So many people misappropriate and misquote. Well, I guess people paraphrase and then attribute ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned’ to Billy Shakes.” Lang chuckled at the memory.
Billy Shakes was Lang’s and Sean’s nickname for William Shakespeare. They both loved his work, admired his words.
“Do you have any regrets?” Aminah asked, carefully sliding out her new Centurion American Express, also known as the Black Card. Fame had received an invitation for the exclusive piece of plastic a few days after Thanksgiving. He was all too excited until he’d heard that Diddy carried the even more elite Beyond Black Card.
“Impressive,” Lang said, pointing to the Black Card before answering. “Christmas present from Fame?”
Aminah giggled. “Sort of,” she said, remembering how she’d jumped up and down like a Mega Million lottery winner when Fame had presented it to her in front of the Christmas tree. He’d recorded her uproarious reaction and took much pleasure replaying it over and over again for everyone who stopped by.
“Well, I don’t do regrets,” Lang said. “You know that. Guilt either. But I’m remorseful. I wish I hadn’t hurt Sean. I wish he’d never found out. I wish there was a way for me to be me and enjoy what I enjoy and still have a committed relationship, still be married. Men seem to do it with no problem.”
Aminah paid for their Sessions and four coconut pineapple Er’go candles. She thought they’d be a nice complement to the scrumptious coconut and papaya bath set Amir had given her for Christmas.
“You can be you and enjoy what you enjoy and be single, Lang,” Aminah said, starting up her Range. “Why do you even want to be married?”
Lang stared out the window. Usher was singing something about it drivin’ him crazy that he was missin’ his baby.
“For the same reasons you do, Aminah,” Lang answered, turning toward her best friend.
Aminah raised her eyebrow, doubtful.
“Seriously. I want to spend the rest of my life with Sean. I want to have children with Sean.” Lang paused. “Someday. I want us to be a family.”
“No, you don’t, Lang, because you could’ve had all that. He was waiting on you.”
Lang had no response. She sank down in the passenger seat, comparing Usher’s confessions to her own.
Aminah drove over to Night of the Cookers. It was sure to be crowded for Sunday brunch, but neither of them minded. Aminah had a thing for their pan-fried catfish, and Lang for their blackened salmon.
“Hey, you ever see that episode of Sex and the City where they’re disagreeing on the reasons men and women cheat?” Aminah asked, lucking up on a parking spot directly across the street from NOC.
“I’m pretty sure I have,” Lang said. “Wait. Is that when Charlotte said the guy should have at least been faithful until the end of the date?”
“Yeah.” Aminah laughed. “And Carrie said something like there’s this cheating curve and she thought that how accepting someone was of cheating was in direct proportion to their own desire to cheat.”
“Ah, the legendary Carrie Bradshaw. She may have been on to something,” Lang said, holding the restaurant door open for Aminah.
“So you agree?” Aminah asked.
The hostess seated the two of them in the back of the eatery before Lang could answer. They both declined their menus, knowing exactly what they’d order off the prix-fixe menu.
“I guess I’d be a hypocrite if I didn’t agree with Miss Bradswaw,” Lang admitted, shrugging her shoulders. “So, yeah, I agree. I take it you don’t?”
“Not one hundred percent. I mean, I think there’s a whole lot more to it than that.”
“Continue.”
“Well, I think men of certain stature get an automatic pass, and I think women of a certain age more readily look the other way.”
“Yeah, but I’ve witnessed broke men with no stature whatsoever get a pass and plenty of young girls who look the other way.”
“I’m sure, but when there’s a definite benefit, like money, fame, lifestyle, status, what have you, there’s way more tolerance. Or if you’re anything like me, you have this unrestricted, unconditional love.”
Lang nodded in agreement at Aminah’s point before taking a sip of her mimosa.
“Like when Chris Rock said, ‘A man is only as faithful as his options’?” Lang asked, doing her toothy, squinty-eyed Chris Rock imitation.
Aminah laughed. “Yeah, there’s definitely truth in jest.”
“So I mean, if that’s truly the case, I think women married to professional athletes, celebrities—hell, politicians—have to know that infidelity is par for the course, no? You don’t marry men like that if monogamy is important to you.”
“I think you’re right,” Aminah admitted. “I mean, I definitely think people are more forgiving of it privately than we may be publicly. And I do think that there is in fact a cheating curve, rules of fidelity that we bend depending on the caliber of the man, how much we have vested, and, quite frankly, exactly how much bullshit we’re willing to put up with, amongst other things. I have to admit I was very accepting of it.”
“Was accepting?” Lang questioned. “You mean you’re not anymore?”
“No,” Aminah stated firmly before blessing her food. “I’m not.”
“Well, all right now,” Lang said, raising her flute.
The happy pair leisurely enjoyed
their meal and the live jazz band, tapping their feet to the music and laughing unabashedly. They reminisced on the highs and lows of the past year and made plans and predictions for the upcoming one.
“You think Fame will ever cheat again?” Lang asked.
Aminah didn’t answer right away. The truth was she didn’t know. How could she?
“I hope not,” she said after sipping her lemon water. “He better not.”
Lang squeezed her best friend’s hand. “If you choose to stay, that’s fine by me. But if you have to stay—I mean, if you feel obligated to stay—there’s just something awful about that,” Lang explained. “That’s just not living to me.”
Aminah smiled and kissed Lang’s forehead.
“How about you, Lang?” Aminah asked. “Do you think you could ever be faithful to one man? Or are you still determined to have it all?”
Lang knew what Aminah wanted to hear. She knew the politically correct—no, the morally acceptable thing to say, but she couldn’t lie. Hell, the year had just started. Lang saw no point in starting it by making false declarations.
“If I could have orchestrated this whole thing better or ideally, I guess…” She paused to gather her thoughts and finish off her mimosa. “I mean, if such a thing were even possible, I just never would’ve gotten caught,” Lang admitted. “I never would’ve hurt Sean. I would’ve ended things with Dante smoothly. Got in and got out nobody hurt, nobody the wiser. But I cannot say I never would have had the affair. I mean, to keep it all the way real, I really enjoyed it. It was exciting, exhilarating….”
“How, Lang?” Aminah questioned. “After all the pain you’ve caused yourself and him. How do you see not getting caught as the solution?”
“I didn’t say it was the solution. Listen, Aminah, men aren’t the only ones who get bored with the same ole, same ole, and it has nothing to do with my commitment to my marriage. And only part of it is the thrill of new dick. The other part is never wanting to feel like I’m settling or compromising my personal fulfillment for conventional standards of happiness, you know?”
“No, I don’t know.”
The Cheating Curve Page 21
