My Husband's Girlfriend

by Cydney Rax

  “Well, that’s kind of you. Thank you, Mrs. Meadows. I guess it makes more sense for Neil to bring the baby back in the morning. Give him a kiss for me.”

  “Give who a kiss for—”

  She hangs up the phone while I’m talking. We are released from a dazed moment. I swallow deeply and press the button to disconnect the speakerphone.

  “You know, you could have told me, Neil.”

  “I know, I know.”

  He looks at the wall. I look at and talk to the side of his face.

  “It takes, what, ten seconds to tell me that the baby is spending the night? I’m actually okay with him. I was hoping that this wouldn’t be a big deal anymore.”

  Why couldn’t he just tell me the baby was here? Do I scare my own husband that much?

  “Is he in the nursery?” I don’t wait for Neil to respond. While he slumps in the chair, I turn off the lamp, leaving him alone in the darkened den. I rush back up those stairs, eighteen in all, go to Reesy’s old room, and walk in. I smile a bit, excited at the prospect of seeing a little baby in our house. Brax is resting on his belly. A blanket covers his back. I smell milk; some of it must’ve spilled from the glass bottle lying near his hand, which is curled into a fist. Dear God protect him, I cry inside. I rub his soft brown hair and hear a deep sigh escape from his open mouth. No way can I blame Neil for wanting to share his life with this precious little soul. But something has to happen so we can make sure this situation is workable.

  If my husband wants me to trust him, he also has to trust me enough to share vital information, so we can all breathe easier at night. All of us, including Dani.

  “No, no, triple no.”

  I’ve never heard Neil so adamant. So strong-willed.

  “Too late now, hubby.”

  “Not too late. I can un-invite her. All it takes is one phone call.”

  We’re at home in the kitchen, Thanksgiving Eve, cooking our butts off. Oven-baked turkey, duck, and cornbread, yams, dirty rice, green beans, and Watergate salad. Neil and I are standing near the stove. Sharvette is leaning against the fridge, arms folded.

  “I told you, Neil,” Vette starts in. “Anya be tripping sometimes. But under the circumstances—”

  “Nobody asked your opinion, Vette. Don’t you have a mall to hang out at?”

  “Malls close early today, Neil, remember?” Vette walks in a circle and comes back to face him. “Shit, ignant Negro. I’m trying to help your ass. I’m siding with you for a change.”

  “I don’t need you to side with me, Vette. I just need some peace and quiet and some control around here.”

  As bad as I want to say something, I remain quiet and take it out on the stove, wiping away messes with a wet rag that singes near the burner, almost scorching my hand. Please tell me what the hell is control. How do you control what’s not in the script, let alone the rewrite? It frustrated me that my efforts to try to ease the situation were met with ridicule. So what if Dani comes by for Thanksgiving? What’s the big deal?

  This morning when I called to invite her, she gasped but quickly responded with a yes.

  “That is so nice of you, Mrs. Meadows. You know, my family’s in California…”

  “I know.” I wanted her to know Neil tells me things. Not everything, but enough to play with.

  “And around the holidays it’s good to go somewhere for a change, instead of being alone—like usual.” Her voice sounded dreamy and distant. Did this woman expect me to feel sorry for her?

  “You want me to bring anything? Neil tells me you’re a fabulous cook. I can’t cook worth a damn,” she laughed. “Microwave boxes are taking over my freezer.”

  Ah heck, I was thinking. My homemade-loving hubby has hooked up with a noncooking hooker? I had to witness this up close.

  “Hey, no problem,” I gladly told her. “Just bring some sodas or a—”

  “Oh, oh, I know what. I know. I’ll run over to the northwest side real quick and stop by the Flying Saucer pie shop and get Neil one or two of those strawberry cream pies. He loves those sooo much,” she laughed. I removed the phone from my ear and mouthed, Fuck you, bitch, then pressed it back against my ear. “Oh, you don’t have to do that, sweetie. I threw together a homemade apple pie, plus a triple-layered German chocolate cake, Neil’s favorite. So just bring a case of Mountain Dew.”

  “Okay,” she said. “Diet for you?”

  I cocked my neck and stared at the phone. “Umm, Danielle, not for me. I am not on a diet. See you around oneish?” I slammed down the phone, cursing myself for rising to the bait of her last catty comment. As nutty as it sounded, I was eager to see this woman up close, assess the competition, show her a thing or two, let her know that it ain’t over until the fabulous-cooking fat lady sings. Except I am not fat. I’m fine.

  “Neil, trust me,” I finally respond to his objections once Vette has left the kitchen. “We are adults, not totally ghetto, so I hope we can pull off a funky little dinner. I know Reesy wants to meet the baby, since she’s seen his picture and stuff.”

  Neil’s eyes widen.

  “Oh, you didn’t think I knew about the picture, did you? I know a lot of things you don’t know.” I turn back to the stove, take a wooden spoon, and stir my mouthwatering roux for the giblet cornbread dressing. As silly as it sounds, I’m forcing myself to run toward my fears. If you face what scares you, it’s not as intimidating. Kind of like how you dread studying for an exam, but once you pick up those books and get into it, the task isn’t half as bad as it seemed.

  Plus, Thanksgiving is a time to be thankful, to know that as bad as things are, they could be worse.

  I respond to the doorbell after four insistent rings that sound like The queen is now here, let me in, dammit. I want to meet the whore as much as she wants to meet me, but I cannot stand when people ring my doorbell all crazy like they ain’t meant to wait for nothing in life. Don’t get me started. I don’t want Ms. Frazier to think just because she rings my bell, I gotta toss everything in the air and come hopping. I want her to know that she’s merely an afterthought in my otherwise busy and important life.

  Dani is waiting on the other side of the screen door. She’s wearing some snug jeans with two pockets stitched in the front, a brown clingy short-sleeve shirt, and a tan vest with a white furry collar. A basket filled with fruit, nuts, and other goodies sits on the concrete next to her feet. And her little bambino is strapped in a plastic handheld carrier.

  “Hey, uh, hello there,” she says, looking me up and down. “Could you take Braxton? I have a few more things to get.” I peer beyond Dani’s head. A gold Toyota Tacoma pickup is in our driveway, with a customized license plate that reads DANIF. I am a little shocked. It’s not like I expected a Hummer, but I definitely was thinking of a more expensive, feminine ride.

  She starts singing an Alicia Keys song. I just gawk at her. Dani sets the carrier on the ground and runs toward her truck. I shrug, open the screen door, and pick the baby up, carrier and all. He smiles at me first, so I decide to return the favor. Babies are so naive. What’s he got to smile about? Whatever he has, I want some, too.

  Once I get Braxton settled, I walk back to the foyer, watching Miss Thang from a distance. She’s actually holding a conversation with Riley, who is standing in front of our house.

  Dani waves bye to Riley and returns to our door. She notices me staring at her and smiles like she enjoys being observed. “Neil here?” she asks, letting herself in. She’s struggling to hold her oversized purse, a case of diet sodas (damn her!), an Eddie Bauer diaper bag, and a portable play gym.

  “Uh, sure, he’s here. Taking a shower.” I smirk at Dani and reach for the portable gym. We walk side by side. I lay the equipment on the floor of the den. “This portable gym is nice,” I say.

  “Neil got that—Uh, never mind,” she says, blushing. That makes me mad.

  Dani walks around the room, taking in the sofa with the matching pillows, the entertainment center complete with stereo, DVD, and
CD player, the Oriental rugs, the matching tables, and the framed photos on the mantel. She doesn’t look at the pictures for long. I wonder what she’s thinking. I hope she’s torn up inside. If she isn’t, she ought to be. Dani sniffs and follows the aroma to the kitchen. Several pots cover the burners on the stove. The shelves are lined with spices, and there are cutting boards with the residue of green onions and garlic that I haven’t had a chance to throw away.

  “Wow, reminds me of home.” I barely hear Dani’s voice. “But home is where your heart is, huh? I can’t volunteer to cook anything. Well, I do okay with some long-grain rice and gravy, but if you’d like, I can help set the table.”

  I kinda feel sorry for her. “Dani, relax, everything has been taken care of. You’re a guest.”

  She looks puzzled, like maybe she should leave while she still has a chance.

  “Hey,” I say and step up to her. “I want you to feel comfy, so make yourself at home. You know, I appreciate your willingness to come by. I mean, I, well, you know, this shouldn’t, uh…”

  She places her hand on mine and squeezes. She has a French manicure. I’ve never had a French manicure. “I think I understand, Mrs. Meadows.”

  I blush. “Please, I’m Anya, okay? I mean, I am Mrs. Meadows, but you know what I’m trying to say.”

  Dani nods and blushes again. She still has her hand on mine, so I untangle myself from her and nicely ask her to go sit in the dining room. The family will be joining her shortly.

  Neil, Vette, Dani, and I are gathered at the table getting our grub on. Reesy fell asleep before we could begin eating and is now resting in her room. I made a plate for her to microwave once she wakes up. Little Braxton is in his sleeper on the floor next to his mom. He’s slurping on a bottle, not paying us any attention.

  “So, Danielle,” I say. “You told me you’re from California. How’d you end up in Texas?”

  “Long story short? A dartboard.”

  “What she say?” Vette frowns.

  “No, let me put this in a way that makes sense. When I was a sophomore in high school, a girlfriend told me she was going to Pratt and asked me where I was going to college.”

  “Oh, so you’ve been to college?” I ask her.

  “Yeah, barely graduated, but anyway, I set up a dartboard with eight or so names of various colleges—Spelman, Eastern Michigan, USC, some others. I threw the dart and it ended up on Rice University.”

  “Rice? But didn’t you attend U of H?” I ask.

  “Yeah, I didn’t get in to Rice, but by then I was curious about Texas. And on a whim I applied to U of H and they accepted me, so…Sounds silly but that’s how I came here.”

  “I hear the West Coast is great. Why’d you want to leave?” I’m full of questions today.

  “I like to get out in the world. I mean, sure, I packed my junk and planted myself in Texas, but after messing around in school a couple of years, I hightailed it to Chicago, stuck it out for a solid year, then doubled back to Houston. I love the people and everything, but I’m cold-blooded and Chi-town winters had me going nuts. I don’t see how Oprah can stand it.”

  Neil finally finds the guts to talk. “Oprah has millions of dollars’ worth of real estate all over the country, so I’m sure she can escape Chicago’s winters whenever she wants to,” he says with a tense chuckle.

  “Must be nice,” Dani says. “Anyway, I needed to get away from crazy Long Beach, meet a different brand of people. Hey, for all I know, Texas won’t be the be-all and end-all. I may venture over to Georgia or Florida eventually. Just not sure.”

  I am amazed that Dani can look so relaxed. It’s like she’s accustomed to potentially explosive situations and is able to just chill out and take it all in stride. And even though one side of me says having this gathering is a good, mature thing to do, my inner she-devil is screaming to emerge.

  “Incredible story,” I murmur. “But now that Braxton is in the mix, you probably aren’t gonna be hopping up dashing around here and there, or are you?”

  “Oh, I haven’t thought about that. All I know is I do not want to go back home. That would be so humiliating. A lot of my cousins have moved out of the house just to come back and split the rent with their mother. We’re talking about thirty- and forty-year-olds. And hey, I’ve had tough times before here in H-town. When I was living close to downtown, my roommate stole my debit card out of my purse and then abandoned me. She left me in a real nice place that I could not even afford, especially after she charged a few expensive items off my account. Some friend, huh? And all I could think of was, Sink or swim, sink or swim. I had to either figure out what to do to survive or hightail it back home to my mama like a failure. I wasn’t about to end up on her doorstep.”

  “So I assume you swam and—” Vette asks.

  “I treaded water, backstroked, you name it,” Dani explains. “And fortunately, Sharvette, I am still here.”

  “And so is Braxton,” I say with a sullen look, and glance under the table.

  “Right, so is Brax.” Even though we spoke his name, he didn’t seem to care. All he needs is his bottle. A damn bottle filled with nasty-ass milk. I’m jealous as hell.

  “And what about, uh, how can I put this, boyfriends?” Vette says matter-of-factly.

  Uh-oh. Here it comes. My sister-in-law has never backed away from speaking her mind.

  “Hey, Vette,” Neil scolds, knowing she likes mouthing off. “When Dani wants some shit from you, she’ll squeeze your head. Lighten up.”

  “What?” Vette asks, playing innocent. I am energized by Vette’s boldness and want to laugh, but I’m dying to see how Dani handles the inquisition.

  “No, Neil, it’s cool.” Dani shrugs. “I’ll answer Sharvetta. I don’t have a boyfriend right now,” she laments, and looks at her plate. “Haven’t been looking. No one has approached me. Haven’t had time to even notice.”

  I can’t believe she’s telling us this, and that Vette hasn’t corrected her about mispronouncing her name. But since Dani seems sincere, and I’m confident I have Vette’s support, I sweetly ask, “Dani, do you normally date a lot of men?”

  Dani’s face falls and she looks about wildly.

  Vette jumps in, “And do you want someone to approach you?”

  Neil narrows his eyes at his sister.

  Dani glances quickly at Neil. “I don’t know. I–I just…Can we talk about something else right now?” She picks up her fork and slides it around on her plate, making a loud scraping noise.

  I don’t know how old Danielle is, but after hearing her comments, I figure her to be about the same age as Vette. More innocent and more vulnerable than I first thought, like she’s mature but can crumble under pressure.

  “Okay, Ms. Frazier,” Vette says, easing up after seeing Neil’s disapproving look. “What you wanna talk about?”

  Dani blushes, relieved. “Well…I haven’t noticed a tree. Are you going to put up a Christmas tree?”

  I tell her, “We traditionally go and get a tree the day after Thanksgiving—buy new ornaments, garland, throw it all together, light it up that night.”

  “That sounds great. I love the magic of Christmas trees, the twinkling lights, presents underneath. Did you know I love decorating, too?” She smiles and lifts her head high. “See that huge gift basket over there? I assemble those all by myself for extra cash. I just love dressing up things, so it would be great to see your tree.”

  “Yeah, it would be great, but didn’t you hear my sister-in-law say the tree will be put up tomorrow? You’ll be out of here by then.” I guess Vette couldn’t resist one last dig.

  Dani looks genuinely surprised by this, then peers at her half-empty plate. I try to put myself in her shoes and realize she’s in my house only because she accepted my invite; I can take the lead here.

  “You’ll have to excuse Sharvetta,” I say, and laugh. “Sharvetta is still in training.”

  Dani grimaces. “I think we all are.”

  Thanksgiving after din
ner. With the exception of Dani, who picked at her food, we all go back for seconds and settle into “niggeritis,” a condition that can happen to almost everyone who eats a heavy meal. Eyelids droopy. An automatic “No” to dessert. Vette starts yawning so much she finally tumbles upstairs and says she’ll see us later. The rest of us relocate to the den. Neil slumps in the La-Z-Boy. Dani and I plunk down on the couch in front of the TV, sipping on tiny mugs of hot apple-and-rum cider stirred with cinnamon sticks, and taking turns flipping through channels.

  Neil holds Braxton and plays with him for a while, but around five P.M. the baby is lying facedown on Neil’s lap. Neil’s leg is gently bobbing up and down. The baby’s eyes struggle to stay open. Both Neil and Braxton fall asleep within minutes.

  Dani and I glance at the guys, then at each other, and shake our heads.

  “Men,” she mutters, and laughs.

  I hop up. “Dani, I’m going to get us something more flavorful to wet our tongues. Be right back.”

  I scoot to the kitchen and return holding two ice-cold beer bottles. I hand Dani a bottle.

  “Hey now, thanks. Thank you, Anya.” She pops off the top, tilts the bottle, and noisily slurps for a good minute.

  “Dani, don’t be shy. If you need to burp, go right ahead.”

  She widens her eyes and stifles a laugh. “I’ll have to remember that.”

  We fully settle on My Best Friend’s Wedding. Midway through the flick, Dani has used the bathroom twice and is now on her fourth beer. I am still taking small sips from my first bottle.

  “You know, Anya,” Dani says, her voice slightly slurred, “you not so bad, not like I thought.”

  I glance at Neil. He’s quietly snoring. I grab the remote and mute the TV. “What do you mean by that, I’m not so bad?”

  “Oh, I dunno,” she says, tucking a long strand of hair behind her ear. “I guess, usually when you think of someone’s wife, you picture some miserable, nitpicking hag, an overweight, evil, nappy-headed, bitchy-acting thing that nobody on earth can stand, but a woman everyone’s used to because she’s been there so long, you know, running the house, buying the groceries, fixing dinner—you know how that can be.”