My Husband's Girlfriend

by Cydney Rax

  “So,” I tell her, “I’m gonna have to run, but you don’t need anything today, right?”

  “No,” she says in a quiet voice. “Don’t need anything today.”

  At the end of that week I stop at Sam’s Club before going home. After standing in a long line and finally being handed my purchase, I drive home and pull into our two-door attached garage. I walk into the house, quietly stepping on the carpet, and hiding the package behind my back. My wife’s in the kitchen, dishrag in hand, wiping crumbs off the island counter. This room is her usual spot after five o’clock in the evening. We have an open kitchen, wooden shelving, double stainless-steel sink, and a rug placed near the refrigerator decorated with red-and-white lettering that reads There’s No Place Like Home. Tonight the first level smells like baked chicken, collard greens, pinto beans, mac and cheese, and homemade cornbread.

  When Anya sees me (or rather, the box), she throws down the dishrag. I wave the box at her as if to say, Yes, it’s yours. She grins and covers her mouth with shaking fingers. Then she removes the ring from the box and lets me place it on her right hand. It’s a ring she’s seen and admired a while ago. Eighteen-karat gold with three sparkly diamonds, it reeks of elegance. This piece set me back three thousand buckaroos. MasterCard handled it for me, though. Thank God for MasterCard.

  “Ewww, I love it!” she shrieks. “But why’d you get this, Neil?”

  “Uh, love.”

  “Love?” She bursts out laughing, her perfect teeth showing. My heart wants to melt at seeing her smile. I know she deserves this and more.

  “Dang, Neil. That sounds so corny, but oh well…It’s mine, it’s mine, and I’m not giving it back.” Anya holds out her hand, waving it back and forth for more stunned looks. She laughs, then presses her soft lips against my mouth. Her lips haven’t touched mine in months. I’m not sure if I should act surprised, or enjoy it.

  I just turn and walk away.

  Sunday morning, I am adjusting my necktie. I ask Anya for my black leather oxfords. I’m upset because I couldn’t convince Anya to come to Solomon’s Temple. Her church attendance is spotty and that bothers me.

  We’re in the master bath, which has a wide mirror and a strip fixture of lights. Anya stands in the doorway and sets my shoes on the floor.

  “Anya, you sure you don’t want to come?”

  “Nope, uh-uh. You go on and go. You need Jesus way more than me.”

  I look in the mirror and start to say something so evil it would cause me to repent, but instead I slip on my shoes. The doughy leather feels like a blanket covering my feet. I brush past Anya and stand next to the bed. I stuff my wallet in my back pocket and grab my little black Bible with the frayed ends.

  I turn to my wife. “What will you be doing while I’m at church serving the Lord?”

  “I’ll be right here waiting on you when you get back. If the spirit of the Lord touches you during the service, I sure hope I can recognize you when you walk through the door.” She laughs, waves, and leaves the room.

  Listening to her cutting remarks makes me feel like a fool, like I’m a grape she’s stepping on.

  During my drive to church, I wonder what price I can pay that will make her forgive all my mistakes. Because if we’re going to have a reasonable chance to move forward and rebuild our marriage, Anya will have to stop always bringing up the past.

  I enter church, feet treading softly, trying not to be noticed. I settle into my padded seat in a row at the back of the sanctuary. I am about thirty minutes late and the front sections fill up fast.

  Pastor London P. Solomon is dressed in a majestic purple robe. He’s standing in the pulpit, but not for long. He steps down onto the floor clutching the microphone, paces down the center aisle, and stares people in the eye.

  “In the new millennium, there’s far too much compromise. And these days in America, the new standard is ‘Don’t adhere to any standard.’ Mmm-hmm. Remember the seventies and eighties? I know you do. We’re kinda reverting back to that mentality. Do what you wanna do. It’s your prerogative. If it feels good, do it. Well, I’m here to tell you I did it, it felt good, and now I wish I could get rid of it.”

  I shift in my seat and thump my Bible against my leg.

  “Tell the truth, have you ever had the urge to do something you knew in your heart wasn’t good for you, but you convinced yourself to do it, anyway? Maybe you thought it would be cool because your homeboy does it? You say if your boy Cedric can drink and drive without getting into an accident, then you know you can hold down a few forties and drive down to Galveston without getting pulled over. Is anybody in the house today? Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking ’bout.”

  I chuckle along with everyone else, but there is little to laugh about. I know where this is going and wonder why I even bother to show up for church. Sometimes I go to worship service because I need my soul to be cleansed. I want to wash away my flaws, to be assured that no matter how many problems I have, the Lord is going to magically work them out. And sometimes when Pastor Solomon preaches, we get dessert—a feel-good message that assures us that things between us and God are A-okay. But other times our spiritual daddy feeds us those nasty vegetables. They’re beneficial for us, but they sure don’t taste all that great.

  “The devil is subtle. Like a dripping faucet, he slowly pushes off his destructive ideas onto society. His main tool of doing his dirt is the media: TV, novels, music, movies, newspapers, and magazines. Think I’m lying? He has people going from saying ‘Homosexuality is a sin’ to ‘These people can do whatever they want to do as long as they don’t mess with me.’ And now we have all these new-fangled shows airing on prime-time TV. We got gay cruises, gay bookstores, gay weddings, gay bubble gum, and act like just because hordes of people are doing this, then it’s normal and acceptable, but I’m here to tell you there’s a better answer.”

  I want to jump up and run out the church. I’m not a homosexual or anything close to that, but when the preacher starts talking about sin, any sin, I feel like he’s talking about me. I wonder if the dark things I’m doing will be brought to light. I dread Pastor Sol walking down the aisle, stopping at my pew, pointing and saying, “Come up here.” By looking at me, no one in that church can even guess I’ve committed adultery and have fathered a baby with another woman. Sometimes I wonder if I should quit going to church altogether. If I simply stopped going, would anyone even notice or care?

  “Don’t get me wrong, church. The Lord does love us, He is merciful and long-suffering, but we can’t throw away His standards just because a million marching people claim something is acceptable. We can’t start listening to judges who enact laws that support immorality. Nooo, church, we cannot allow man to declare what is right, when man is not the true determiner of what’s right or wrong.”

  I shut out my pastor’s voice. I begin daydreaming, doodling on the church bulletin, and thinking about what I’m eating for dinner. The door of my heart sounds like it’s closing, and I am too scared to listen for the final slam.

  3

  * * *

  Neil

  I’m standing in the dining room reading the newspaper when Anya says, “Neil, what the hell is this?”

  “Huh? Oh, this is what I wanted to talk to you about the other night.”

  “I see.” Anya stares at the typewritten sheet of paper. It reads, “Amendment to the Marital Arrangement of Neil Braxton Meadows and His Wife, Anya.”

  “It’s blank, Neil.”

  “I know. I want to discuss some additional clauses with you before I actually put them in writing.”

  “Oh, really? I don’t like how this sounds.”

  “Don’t be scared.” I pause. “Anya, you may add one or two of your own, if that would make you feel better.”

  “I feel like this just isn’t working, anyway. We agreed to other things in the past and only a few of those worked.”

  Anya’s referring to the fact that we have other contracted aspects to our
marriage. Like the ones that say she’ll cook for me five days a week, I’ll take the family out to dinner twice a week, and I’ll buy her a nice present once a month (something gift wrapped, and not just an item in a shopping bag). Sometimes we stick to that arrangement, other times we don’t.

  Sighing, I lay the newspaper on the dining-room table and take a seat. Anya’s eyelids are puffy, like she’s been up all night. I now realize jewelry can’t extinguish a woman’s worries. Why couldn’t I learn that before going in debt by three grand?

  “Neil, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. But why’re we doing all this? What are we trying to prove? That I’m the noble and long-suffering wife and you’re the responsible father who made a mistake but wants to do right by his son? Who are we doing this for, Neil?”

  “What are you trying to say?”

  “I think because we’re trying so hard to get it right on paper, we’re neglecting who we really are, what we really feel on the inside.”

  “I’m not following you.”

  “Neil! If I write down ‘I love Neil Meadows’ a hundred times, but treat you like dirt every day, would my declaration mean much to you? What’s the point of the words if they’re not lining up with real-life actions?”

  “Anya, I’m trying to do the best I can. I don’t want to get a divorce, I don’t.”

  “Who said anything about a divorce?”

  “Okay, scratch that. Poor choice of words.”

  “Is that what you’re thinking, Neil? That we should end this?” Her voice is shaky, like as bad as things are, she’s never contemplated divorce and wouldn’t know what to do if things went there. Sometimes I feel like she hates to be hurt but doesn’t know how not to hurt. The fact that she sometimes dwells on the negative aspects of what happened makes me think she enjoys the torture of pain, something I don’t understand.

  “No, baby, if I wanted to end this, I wouldn’t be here now, would I? I wouldn’t bust my tail every day at work, trying to make enough money so you can continue to stay at home and raise our daughter. A lot of wives would kill for that. They say they’re happy they’re working and bringing home a second paycheck, but women are dead-dog tired. I see them on my job. They have the long, fancy titles, are driving the luxury cars, but you’re going to see frowns on their faces seven out of eight hours. They’re popping Prozac trying to cope with the stress of being in the corporate world, raising their kids, and wanting to please their man. So I hope you appreciate all that I do—”

  Anya stands up. Her eyes are blazing so bright I want to cover my eyes.

  “No, you did not say that, Neil. Sometimes I just can’t believe you. I guess you want a freaking award or something?” She takes a full walk around our dining-room table and stops at my face.

  “You know what? The award I really want to give you hasn’t been invented yet. Process that.”

  When a man loves a woman, the world seems brand new. Sounds cliché but it’s true. Ten years ago when I first started dating Anya, I didn’t want to talk to anyone else (male or female) except her.

  “What are you doing?” I’d ask her on the phone.

  “Going away for the weekend.”

  “To?”

  “Fort Worth.”

  “With?”

  “Nobody,” she’d murmur.

  “Stop joking, Anya.”

  “I’m not joking. I’m driving up there just to hang out with a cousin. No big deal.”

  Her independence captivated me. I was impressed she wasn’t sitting around waiting for the phone to ring. And when she’d come back from her weekends, she never called me the minute she got in the house. She waited for me to call first. I liked that.

  “So, Anya, if a guy wants a date with you, does he have to call like a month in advance?”

  She laughed. “If a certain guy plays his cards right, he might not have to wait a month to see a certain woman.”

  “Is that certain woman available this weekend?”

  “Depends on what that certain man wants to do.”

  “Well, Keith Sweat, Gerald Levert, and Johnny Gill will be in concert—”

  “Ahhhh, ahhhh, ahhh!” When she started screaming on the phone and not caring that she might sound stupid, I knew I made her happy. And making her happy made me happy, so we hooked up.

  Back then Anya let me be the chaser. We’d go to a restaurant of her choice, but she’d trust me enough to order for her. She relinquished the trust to see how much I knew her. To see if I was listening when she told me, “I love salmon, omelets filled with mushrooms, tomatoes, and sausage, and clam chowder.” I’d smile, jot down mental notes, and be pumped when I’d pass her little tests. Every woman tests her potential man at some point, to see where his head is, and to identify his priorities.

  Now, back in the day, Anya’s body was stacked. Not so huge that she needed me to help her step out the car every time, but not so skinny that you’d wonder if she were strung out on crack. No, back then Anya was just right. She had a little wiggle in her jiggle, her waist was smaller, but she was too modest to go around exposing her belly and wearing form-fitting clothes. And her hair was longer, too, before she let Phyllis the hairdresser convince her to get a shorter, more sophisticated cut.

  “Neil, do you like how this looks? Be honest.” She smiled and cocked her head. At first I zeroed in on her yummy-tasting lips, but then gazed at her pixie cut.

  “Sure, sure, you look good.”

  She did look good, even if I preferred longer hair.

  “You bet not be lying, Neil.”

  “Could you tell if I were?”

  “If your eye starts twitching, yeah, I could tell.”

  After that, whenever she’d ask me one of those “damned if you do, damned if you don’t” questions, I’d close my eyes and answer.

  “Neil!” she’d scream and playfully hit me on the shoulder, but then she’d laugh and not make an issue out of superficial things. I loved that. Loved her. And even though things have gotten way bizarre, I still love her.

  Why?

  Anya Meadows has some old-fashioned things about her. When we sit down for dinner, I know nothing I’m about to eat is from a box or a can. She loves the feeling of raw vegetables, and she enjoys flavoring up a dish with all kinds of extras—like vanilla powder for my hot chocolate, or lemon peel for my fish, or ground sassafras that she’ll throw in a large pot of stew.

  When we first started dating, she’d invite me to her small apartment. I’d sit at her tiny wooden table reading the newspaper, until she appeared beside me holding a spoon.

  “Here, Neil. Eat this.”

  “What is it?”

  “Just eat it.”

  “How do I know if you’re trying to poison me?”

  “You won’t know unless you eat it.”

  I’d hesitate but my willingness to trust her would make me open my mouth. One time Anya shoved a large plastic spoon dripping with a thick brown sauce, some meat and mushrooms (that girl loves mushrooms), and I started chewing.

  “How’s that taste?”

  I closed my eyes, patted my belly. “Tastes great, Anya.”

  “Neil.”

  I opened my eyes, burped. “It’s the bomb. You did good, baby.”

  She smiled and blushed, which was pretty easy to make her do back then. All I had to do was call Anya baby and I’d get a nice smile.

  These days I wonder if roping in the carefree loveliness of the past will be enough to get Anya and me over this hump. In my mind, little Neil and Dani are just humps. They are issues that are potentially life-changing yet don’t have to be. Not if Anya and I can handle this right. And if I have to pay her a compliment to lift her spirits, or call her baby five times a day, it would maybe bring back a little bit of the past, and I hope it will be effective enough to ease us into a smoother future.

  4

  * * *

  Anya

  Every day we try to stick to a routine. I wake up at six, put on the coffee, and throw toge
ther some breakfast. Neil is out the door by six-thirty. Sharvette gets up, eats, showers, and gets dressed to attend a few courses she’s taking at the University of Houston’s main campus. Sometimes I wake Reesy and, because she doesn’t do Metro, I’ll drive Vette to school. Other times she may have someone swing by and pick her up.

  But by eight, I want everyone gone so I can begin my day with Reesy.

  Our daughter looks like Neil with a dress. Her eyes are wide and large like she wants to take in everything around her. Her face is beautiful and round, and her hair is mounted with braids. Let’s face it: Braids for little black girls are just easier to deal with. Reesy squirms and complains that braiding “hurts like hell,” but I overlook her silly comments.

  We start our day belting out a little prayer.

  “Dear Lord, bless this day, protect us from harm, let us be grateful and not complain, lead and guide our steps. Amen.” We say this Monday through Friday, no matter how we feel, no matter what has gone wrong the day before.

  “Each day is a brand-newww day,” Reesy will say. She says it because it’s what I’ve instructed her to say over and again no matter what. Not that it’s a total lie, but neither is it something that’s necessarily true merely because I proclaim it all the time.

  This morning I walk in Reesy’s room and tickle her bare feet with my fingers. She sits up, rubbing her crusty eyes with brown fists.

  “Hi, Mommy.”

  “Hey, baby.”

  “I’m not a baby.” I look at her, wondering if she realizes what she said. I wonder if she knows about her little brother. Nah, I can’t see Neil telling her something she couldn’t begin to understand.

  “Right, you are not a baby. You’re six—”

  “Going on twenty,” she giggles. Reesy has no idea what that means. She just repeats what Vette says, what anyone says.