by Cydney Rax
“And when’s this gonna happen?”
“Neil is arranging that now.” I sip my drink even though I’m not thirsty. “Uh, should be soon, though. Can’t wait to see him.”
Vette throws back her head and laughs. The music is loud enough to swallow the room, but I can still hear Vette’s howl.
“Silly, woman, I am up for meeting him.”
“But—”
“But nothing, Vette. Meeting the baby is just something we need to get over with. I’ve prayed about it and I think this is the right thing to do.”
“So you’re doing it because it’s the right thing to do? Not because you really want to do it?”
“Vette.” I pause and grip my frigid glass between my hands. “Being introduced to him will move us forward. Begin that healing process.”
“You ever gonna do a face-to-face with Dani?”
“Whoa, I dunno. I mean, you think Neil would actually initiate such a meeting?” I say. “I can’t even see it.”
“What if I do it?”
“Girl, please,” I protest, making a face. “You haven’t even met her yourself yet.”
“How you know that?” Vette says.
“I just know.”
Vette studies me. “Tell me something. Are you afraid that Dani has the power to snatch Neil from you?”
I shrug and focus on the stillness of my iced tea.
“Just because you have the man’s kid doesn’t mean you have the man,” she says.
My eyes widen.
“Not talking about you and Reesy. I’m referring to Dani and other women like her. All these chicks think they’re doing something great by purposely getting pregnant, thinking that’s gonna ensure a relationship with the man. They think having a man’s secret kid means something. And it really doesn’t—except pain, hurt, shame, resentment, and a whole bunch of other wack stuff.”
“So, Vette,” I say, “if all this is true, who wins? The wife? Mistress? Kids?”
“I dunno. I think for a long time most men would hide their secret kids and the mothers had to play a role. They accepted the payoffs and knew it was the best they could get. But that stuff always gets tricky because the women ultimately want more cash, especially if the man’s pockets are deep.”
“Oh, like athletes?” I ask. “The Dr. J’s of the world? And that basketball player that has seven kids by six different women? I don’t remember his name—”
“Doesn’t matter. He’s just an extreme example of what can happen. But at least he claims the kids. That’s a start. It would be a damned shame if my brother slipped his nut inside this woman and didn’t have the balls to admit it. Now, that’s when things can get ugly.”
Yeah, right, I thought. Let’s give Neil a big hand-clap.
“Would you prefer if Neil never told you at all?” Vette asks. “At least he told you.”
“Yeah,” I say, my eyes glazing at the memory. He did tell me—over the phone, which is understandable. Maybe he thought if he told me in person, I’d nut out in public or something.
Dani was seven weeks along when she found out. She didn’t want to abort. Neil, of course, didn’t want her to abort, either, but he was still stressed.
“Hey, baby,” he whispered after he told me everything and I was icy silent. “I am sooo shocked about this. I can’t even believe it myself.”
Listening to his confession, I shivered like I was freezing, but I was too hot to respond. I was thinking about the fact that he’d put his penis in her after he signed a document saying he wouldn’t. I felt like the biggest fool in America. But in a way it was like I placed a kid on punishment, then took him to the mall, made him promise not to play video games, and wanted to start screaming when I caught him holed up in GameStop.com, laughing and playing Xbox—like what we agreed did not matter. So while I felt betrayed, I guess I set Neil up inadvertently by suggesting he not penetrate. Who was I kidding? If Catholic priests can penetrate, surely married men will.
“Yep,” I tell Vette. “Your brother seemed pretty typical in some ways, and astounding in others. He could’ve lied till his teeth fell out. He could’ve produced a child that I never ever knew about. Plenty of other brothers keep extra babies on the down low, but secrets like that never stay secrets long. They always have a way of creeping out and exposing you when least expected, you know what I’m saying?”
“Sister-in-law, you are not alone. It happens way more than we ever know. We just don’t like talking about it. Men are a real trip. And they say women have issues.”
“Well, Vette,” I say. “Put yourself in a man’s shoes. If you hide the kid, you’re wrong. If you bring it out in the open, folks might talk about you like a dog. So what do we do? You know, it sounds weird, but I am glad Neil wanted to deal with it.”
“Like I said before, my brother shouldn’t have been messing around on you in the first place. His common sense should’ve kicked in, you know what I mean? What an idiot…”
“Okay, Vette,” I say with a nervous laugh. “Are we male bashing?”
“We’re talking about how things are, the good, bad, and ugly. We didn’t create this, we’re just trying to sort through it all and survive it.”
“Girl, I swear you look at too much Oprah.”
“Nooo, my show is The View. I love me some Star Jones.”
“Sure you do,” I say. We share a genuine smile.
What would happen if I slid off my ring and dropped it inside my purse? Would the ring line still show? And if a guy could detect the line, would he care? There’re always some people willing to cross marital boundaries. And as much as the idea of putting out some ego-building feelers sounded intriguing, I am not down for that. Neil is still my heart. True, I want to place my fingers around his neck and squeeze one minute, and pinch him playfully on the butt the next. And to be honest, when I lay awake at night thinking about my life, I try to remember the times when things were better. Long before Reesy came along, Neil would lie next to me in bed and we’d grab each other’s waist and I’d tremble just from his warm and loving touch.
But after the second miscarriage, sexually things cooled way off. Neil treated me like I had a bone disease or something, stroking me with timid hands, perhaps fearing I was too distraught for us to connect. But once I convinced him I was hurt but not destroyed by the miscarriages, his sexual fire lit back up.
Every so often I fantasize about the good old days. Would Neil even be interested in some high-energy cuddling after all we’ve been through?
Besides, fear and dread keep insisting we’re long past that blissful period of intimacy and closeness, when it was natural and not pledged in writing. Maybe being married eight years is too long for us to restore the matrimonial foundation. And the thought of that makes me want to curl up and vanish. What would happen if we reversed time? If my husband wanted to have sex with me five times a day, would I do it? Could I turn off that freaking TV, strip naked in broad daylight, and let Neil screw the goody-goody attitude out of me, my chunky legs stretching east and west, my genitals cold, throbbing, and wet, whether I was in the mood or not? What can I do now that would be the equivalent of that? Truth be told, I’m still searching for the answer.
Vette and I just stepped outside of Boudreaux’s. The sky is black, the air crisp and filled with a pleasant breeze. I can’t believe women are standing around wearing short skirts and no jackets to cover their bare arms. A few loud-talking guys are huddled in front of an Escalade that has spinning wheel rims. The men yell comments to every woman who passes by.
“See, if that’s all it takes to make me feel like a woman, I won’t be faring too well,” I tell Vette. “I mean, does getting whistled at make you feel good, Vette? You like when guys use pickup lines?”
“Sometimes yes, sometimes no—it depends. If the line sounds tired, like something from the nineties, no, I wouldn’t appreciate it. They can send that line back to wherever they got it. But if a man steps up to me and is sincere and I haven’t noticed h
im winking at every other woman passing by, then that’s cool. But I still wouldn’t hand over the digits.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t like meeting folks on the street.” She frowns. “Too risky.”
I laugh and bump my shoulder against hers. “Well, Miss Lady, you ready to go?
“Sure, let’s roll.”
We head east toward a parking lot that is one block away, passing by a store that sells hip-hop clothing. A bright light shines from inside the display window, spotlighting throwback jerseys and low-rider jeans. A longhaired man with twisted shoulders stands bowlegged in our path. His nylon jacket and pants are wrinkled. He’s as thin as Clay Aiken. His vibrating shoulders make him look cold, maybe hungry. I reach for my wallet.
The man wobbles up to me and says in a raspy voice, “Jesus cares about you.” I stuff my wallet back in my purse, laugh, and quicken my steps.
“Loser,” Vette says under her breath. We don’t stop walking fast, our heels slapping hard across the pavement, until we reach my car.
One Saturday afternoon, Neil and I agree that he will pick up Braxton from Dani and allow me to meet him for the first time. Since Houston’s mid-November temperatures are still in the seventies, Neil suggests we expose the baby to the nice weather at a nearby park. While he’s gone, I slam kitchen cabinets, wash my hands twice, then stand by the living-room window and wait for him to pull up in front of our house.
When Neil arrives, I open the front door.
“Mommy, I wanna go, go, go!” Reesy yells behind me, tugging on my shirt.
“Go where? You don’t even know where I’m going.”
“I still wanna.”
“Stay here with Vette. I’ll be right back.”
My tiny, stiff steps guide me to the Explorer. The tinted window is rolled up. Ten-week-old Braxton is strapped in the back in a car seat. I am not able to get a real good look at him just yet. I am fine with waiting until I am able to freely observe him. The park we’re going to is at the intersection of Airport Boulevard and Beltway Eight, several minutes away.
Neil concentrates on driving. I haven’t initiated conversation, but he keeps mumbling, “You say something?”
“Umm, no, I didn’t. You’re hearing things, Mr. Meadows.”
Soon we pull into an empty parking lot, the sound of gravel popping underneath the tires. Neil parks the car and I wait for him to remove Braxton from the car seat.
“Here is my son.” Neil cradles Braxton against his chest and I fix my eyes on the baby’s plump cheeks, which are the color of a cardboard box. His lips are pinkish red and pressed tightly together like you couldn’t shove anything in his mouth even if you wanted to. He boldly locks eyes with me and doesn’t look away, like he’s the one checking me out instead of vice versa. I am startled by his confidence, humbled that this two-month-old boy seems to know he belongs on this earth even if I don’t.
His beautiful, long eyelashes and the noble way he looks lying in his dad’s arms steal away the envy I attempt to reserve for this child.
“Ahhh, he’s a cutie,” I say, and lean into Neil’s free arm. I want to say more, but my throat tightens. I simply receive Braxton into my arms. He’s not heavy at all. This feels way better than holding Reesy when she’s acting spoiled and slips in my arms, or when she falls asleep in the den and I’m forced to haul her upstairs to her room.
I nuzzle Braxton’s cheek with my cheek and moan. He stares at my eyes, nose, face. I feel silly and embarrassed but stare back. His tight lips curl into a smile. He has on a cute blue-and-white knit outfit, with huge blue buttons on the bottoms of the pants. As silly as it sounds, I’m ready to head out to the children’s department at the nearest store and add to his wardrobe.
“Well,” Neil says, “let’s strap him in this buggy.” He secures the belt around Braxton and we begin walking on an asphalt path that weaves through the ungated park. There are dozens of towering trees, picnic tables, a red-and-blue sliding board, and a sandbox at the far end of the grounds.
“Hey, this pathway is so lopsided and crooked,” I say, “you sure it’s okay, comfortable enough?” I can’t stand to feel hardened stone underneath my feet. Even though I have on gym shoes, the granite is so rigid I feel shoeless.
“It’ll be all right. We won’t be here long. I just want him to get some fresh air.”
Grabbing Neil’s arm, I feel my cheeks flush with shame. Prior to this I could contemplate my situation behind the walls of my home, where no one could see or know, but now that we are outside, I feel like I’m standing in the middle of a busy intersection wearing just panties and a bra, as if my secrets are not my own.
“Neil,” I sputter, my eyes suddenly latching on to his. “Baby, he–he’s adorable. He is.” Get your mind off yourself, Anya, I think. The world exists for more than you.
Feeling a little awkward, I rub Braxton’s cheek with my finger several times, noticing the softness of his skin. His huge brown eyes sparkle and he coos softly.
We continue taking lazy steps along the narrow path, then come to a stop when a wig-wearing woman dressed in a velour JLo track outfit smiles at us. We smile back.
“He is sooo good-looking,” she says. “What a fine boy you have there. Is this your first one?”
“No,” I snap, and stop smiling.
“Well, he looks just like you,” she says, and points at me.
I burst out laughing and clutch my stomach. Neil mutters, “Excuse us,” and abandons me, pushing the baby buggy over the rocky pathway. The wheels are turning and spinning and making ugly noises while clanking against the granite.
“Hey, wait for me,” I say. I catch up with Neil and grab his rigid arm until he comes to a stop. “You want me to push the baby? Even better, I’ll hold him.” I undo the straps and lift Braxton from his seat. “Hi, Brax.” He smells fresh, young, innocent. I can’t hate this baby. I can’t hate him. Instead of seeing him as a threat, why can’t I see him as the opposite, a miracle, which is what he seems more than anything? Braxton grabs my finger and squeezes. I surprise myself and giggle. It’s like he’s saying I’m cool with him. And that’s cool with me.
9
* * *
Anya
It’s the next weekend. Friday night. I’m in bed. Thirty minutes past mid- night the phone rings. I lean over and place the receiver against my ear.
“Hello,” I mumble.
“Uh, hi, this is, uh, Dani. Uh, I was just wondering…” Her voice sounds frightfully fragile.
I sit up in bed and flip the switch on the lamp. “You were wondering…?”
“Is, uh, Braxton there?”
“The baby? Or is that what you call Neil?”
“Nooo, I’m talking about the baby.”
“Uh, look, Danielle. I don’t know why you’d call here asking about your own child. I mean, why don’t you know where he is? Wouldn’t he be with you?”
“I think there was a mix-up. Maybe it’s not…” Her voice drifts away, like it’s trying to catch up with her foggy mind.
“Are you all right?” I slide my warm feet to the carpeted floor and stand. I hear mumbling. She sounds as groggy as me.
“Danielle,” I say louder, “you want me to get Neil on the phone?” She’s breathing heavy, grunting. Listening to her makes my heart pound violently, like it’s beating its fists against me and wants to lunge through my chest.
“Oh, no, no. Uh…”
I toss the phone on my bed and stomp loudly down the stairs, race through the hallway, and stop at the library. I knock once and open the door, which squeaks and moans.
“Neil, Dani’s on the phone. She’s talking crazy. She’s talking crazy. Pick up the line down here and see what’s wrong.”
Neil bounds off the couch, almost falling back down as soon as he gets to his feet. He blinks a couple times. I grab his hand and lead him to the den. It feels odd to touch his fingers. It’s like I accidentally reached out and held a stranger’s hand. First I turn on the lamp, then
press a button so that the speakerphone is activated.
“Here.” I point. “Talk to her.”
“Dani, what’s wrong?”
“Neil.” Dani’s shaky voice crackles through the line. “Braxton—is he with you?”
“Yes, didn’t you know? Didn’t Audrey tell you?”
I cast a sharp look at Neil. He averts his eyes.
I hear silence, then a swear word. “Nooo, Neil. No, she did not. Oh gosh, I feel like such a fool. Well, what happened? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Audrey was baby-sitting, like you arranged, but she called me and said she had an emergency. I rushed over there and picked up Brax. Audrey promised right then she was going to let you know. She was almost running out the door when I got there. Maybe she forgot.”
“Oh, God. Maybe I need to forget she’s my baby-sitter. That’s what I need. That fucking bitch is sooo pathetic.”
I walk a few paces, my arms folded across my chest, past Neil, past our wedding pictures, which sit in several frames on a square glass table. In one eight-by-ten, we’d just been pronounced husband and wife. The photographer had taken all kinds of shots: Me and my four bridesmaids embracing one another in a solid hug. Neil sitting down surrounded by his family, who are standing up. Another one with me spread out on my new hubby’s lap, squeezing his neck, and both of us grinning so wide you’d think we’d just won a $200 million Super Lotto.
“Well, yeah, uh, the baby’s here with us.” Neil glances at me. “Been asleep a few hours, since nine-thirty or so. You want me to bring him back to you?”
“Right now?”
“Yeah, Dani, I could get dressed and—”
“That’s not necessary,” I hear myself say. “Go back to bed, Dani. We’ll take care of the baby. He’s safe here.”
A hush falls over the room.
“Dani, y–you still there?” I find myself saying. “I can imagine how scared you must’ve been. Hey, I didn’t even know the child was here, thanks to Neil. But it’s cool.” I say this with gentle sarcasm. Things do happen, and God knows the outcome could’ve been much worse.
