My Husband's Girlfriend

by Cydney Rax

  And although memories of what happened between me and Fred are real and significant, I don’t think I’ll let Neil’s wife in on that part of my background. I’ve already beaten myself up a million times for that sorry chapter in my life. I’ve beaten myself up until my heart was raw, but then I’ve forgiven myself, promised from now on I’ll only sleep with quality men, and I’ll never do that pro-choice, horrible-choice thing again. And I damn sure don’t want to make a confession just to be judged by Mrs. Wifey.

  I continue, “What happened between me and Neil was an accident in that we got caught up—”

  “Spare me.” Anya gazes out the driver-side window even though she’s whipping around a curve on the 610 Loop with a million other vehicles passing by us. She doesn’t look away for long, thank God. Have you ever wanted to laugh even though nothing is funny? Have you ever found yourself in a terrible, awful, insane spot and wondered how you got there? I mean, what the hell am I doing? Why try and talk frankly to a man’s wife like if I do, we’ll be best friends within minutes? That ain’t realistic. Makes me look—I dunno. Piss on me.

  “Hey,” I tell her, “I don’t mean to—”

  “No,” Anya says back, “it’s cool. I mean, you’re only doing what I’ve asked you to do—to set the record straight. How can I ask you to do that and then punish you for doing it? That’s like setting a trap, isn’t it?”

  “Sometimes traps are necessary, aren’t they?” I remark. “If that’s the only way you feel you can find out what you need to know, set the trap.” At this point, I’m close to feeling like I don’t care anymore.

  “Hmm, th–that’s shocking.”

  “Well, to be honest,” I say, “I’d rather you hear some of this from me. ’Cause I don’t like when someone thinks they know something, and all they know is the A, the B, and the C, but they don’t know the D through the Z. I mean, I guess I’m trying to say your knowing a little bit can’t really qualify you to judge me. I don’t wanna be judged, but maybe you can understand my side.”

  Anya gives me a sidelong glance.

  “I do have a side,” I mumble, again feeling like an idiot.

  “We all have sides, Dani.”

  I don’t say anything.

  She shrugs. “You know, Dani, what’s done is done, that’s for sure. Some days I feel like this messy situation is doable: other days I’m so angry, I’m not in the mood to deal with any of it. But I read lots of magazine articles and hear stories on the radio about black women who are in our situation. And the women are acting out, showing their ignorant, violent sides, their personal business spilling all out into the street, and someone ends up getting handcuffed and driven away in the back of a police cruiser. And I tell myself, That won’t be me. I can rise up, do better than that.”

  Let me be the judge of that, I think, wondering if her taking me on a joyride can be considered “rising up.”

  “So,” she continues, “I really hope we can put our heads together, work with one another, and at least try to do this the best way we can. I feel for you, not in an entirely sympathetic way, but if I were in your shoes, I’d want to work things out. The person I really feel sorry for is little Brax. He’s the victim.”

  “Well, I’m glad he’s too young to know what’s going on.” I say that because I don’t know what else to say. I have trouble thinking about what’s going to happen two hours from now, let alone trying to picture five years down the road into my son’s future.

  “And then there’s Reesy,” Anya says. “She’s calling him her little brother.” She sounds bewildered. “I never told her to do that. Did you?”

  My face reddens and I shift in my seat. “No, never. Maybe Neil told her to call him that. Or maybe she’s doing it on her own.”

  “I saw her kissing his cheeks the other day,” Anya continues. “I told her don’t do that anymore because she sneaks and puts lipstick on sometimes and I don’t want his skin to get infected. But she went ahead and did it again. I caught her when she thought I wasn’t looking.” Anya shakes her head and her eyes soften. “Everyone is falling in love with that baby.”

  I feel happy yet awkward. Maybe the presence of this child will steer all of us in the direction we’re supposed to go. ’Cause some days I don’t know where to go, how to be. I am trying to take this new and overwhelming part of life one scary little step at a time.

  Okay, so after we go on a short drive to nowhere, we finally end up back at Anya’s house. It’s early afternoon and no one else is here, not Brax, not Sharvetta, nobody. Even though I agreed to come back to the house, I feel anxious, but Anya says she needs to ask me some final questions. So here I am again, in a tiny space with Mrs. Wifey. True, her car is claustrophobically small, but even a two-story house can feel like a closet when you’re sharing space with someone whose goal is to suffocate you. Not that she’s entirely disgusting, but she’s still putting out these annoying feelers. Just when I think we’ve gotten somewhere, I question where we are, because the feelers are back again, in my face, waving their thick fingers, demanding answers.

  So I’ve managed to eat some leftovers from Thanksgiving, and then we find ourselves in that same ole den. Thankfully, Anya has lightened up somewhat and is making small talk, and we’re actually having fun multitasking. We’re casually viewing another movie, Gone With the Wind, which she popped in the DVD player when I told her the movie is my all-time favorite, and we’ve started working on this huge fake tree Anya has set up. She has bags and bags of decorations spread out on the floor. I’m getting goose bumps, too, because I love the texture of things—the little frosted glass ornaments, curly-wire Christmas balls, Styrofoam angels, and soft fabrics full of bright colors like purple and red and green and gold. I want to help dress up that tree, silly as it sounds. I’m on one side of the tree, standing on my toes reaching my arms as far as I can to fluff the branches and make them look fuller. Anya is on the other side stringing garland when she casually asks me if I know what a hussy is. I’m surprised that she’s going there. Her question makes me want to roll my eyes, but I say, “Is it a woman who goes out of her way to break up someone’s family?”

  “That’s a good answer.”

  “Is there a reason why you asked me that?”

  “Not really.”

  I didn’t believe Mrs. Wifey. In more ways than one I think she has a lot of gall. But I blame both her and myself—her for trying to lay a poorly disguised guilt trip, and me for letting her do it. I’ve let her convince me that I owe her something, but I’m not sure that’s true. But far be it from me to tell her I’ve survived much adversity in my life, so I’m confident I can handle this.

  “Anya, do you want me to try and guess why you asked me that?” I challenge. “Am I supposed to fill in some kind of long blank that’s sitting inside your head right now?”

  “No blanks in my head.”

  I laugh, but it’s not from the heart. “I’m sorry, Anya, but I just don’t believe that.”

  Her face grows stony, about as rigid as my heart feels. And the space inside this den seems to become so small that I feel like we’re two grown-ups trying to fit on one tricycle.

  “Sometimes, Dani, people say certain things because they’re hoping to hear other kinds of things.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Never mind.” Her voice sounds as strong as mine. She looks up at the ceiling and drops her arms to her sides, sighing.

  “Tell you what. This has gone on long enough. What if we call a truce? I am going to try my hardest to leave this alone. I feel like we’re treading the same territory. But from now on we can try to move forward, be progressive, and work on what needs to be done to make this situation doable. How’s that sound?”

  “Sounds fine,” I say, measuring my words. “I’d appreciate that.”

  “Great. There’s just one other thing.”

  “Okay.” I nod.

  “Do you feel any regrets at all about…?”

  “Yes!”

 
I pick up an angel ornament and rub its face with my fingertip. “I mean, I can’t change what’s happened, but sure, I feel…I feel sooo yucky, and I don’t know if this yucky feeling will ever go away, but since you asked…”

  Anya whispers, “That’s all I wanted to know. Now, let’s finish decorating this tree, all right?”

  I nod, cross my fingers, and rub the angel’s face again.

  11

  * * *

  Neil

  Early Sunday morning I wake up and hear noises. My wife is listening to “What’s Going On” by Marvin Gaye, singing along while she rattles pots and pans in the kitchen. I sit up on the sofa, relieved that Dani has finally made her way home, and the holiday weekend is almost over. I glance at my watch and know what time it is. It’s the Lord’s Day; time for some much-needed weight lifting.

  I run upstairs to the bedroom, close and lock the door. I bypass taking a shower. If I get dressed real fast, I can make the first service, hear the choir sing, bone up on the latest announcements, and see what’s been going on at Solomon’s Temple.

  “Welcome to Weight Lifting 101.”

  I am sitting near the rear of the church, hearing the compelling words and voice of Pastor Solomon, something I haven’t heard in a few weeks. There must be a good thousand folks here today, and 50 percent of the congregation is men. That’s probably why so many women come here, too. Light, dark, medium complexion, thin, robust sistas, and all smelling like fresh-cut roses in a florist’s shop.

  “Now, ya’ll knowwww how I am.” The congregation nods, some laugh out loud. “You know how hard it is sometimes for me to lift y’all’s weights, make your burdens lighter. You know how bad I wanna slap something on ya this morning. Get all up in your Kool-Aid, tell all your business.”

  I smile and shift in my seat. Even though the sanctuary is packed, I feel like there’s nowhere to hide, that I’m butt naked. Pastor Sol’s words have a way of making me feel that way.

  He continues slowly and thoughtfully. “I can see the anxiety in your faces sometimes. When I take a little survey and ask, ‘How many of y’all got your party on at the club last night?’ and y’all look at me with that frozen, what-the-heck-you-talkin-’bout face.” Pastor Sol laughs. “I know some of you want me to stick to the Bible, preach strictly based on what’s in the Word. You cry out, ‘Talk about Paul.’ But I wanna talk about y’all.”

  Every time he says this, we laugh. I guess bare-boned truth can do that to you.

  “But see, don’t blame that uncomfortable feeling you get on me. Don’t even credit the good feelings you get on me. When I preach the gospel of Jesus, the good news, well, it’s s’posed to make you feel good just like a good woman can do. But do make sure the woman’s your wife—”

  My eyes widen. I rise up and head for the men’s room. It’s just too early in the morning to listen to this. But even though listening to Pastor’s spiritual instruction feels uncomfortable, I know it’s something I need, whether I want it or not.

  By the time I make it back to my seat, Pastor Sol is getting down and dirty and doing some good preaching at the same time. He’s talking about how he’s not the Sin Police. He can’t follow his congregation home and spy on us, to see if we’re making the right choices. He says the eyes of the Lord are in every place, and his are only in his head. And that’s fine with me. I kind of like the fact that the Lord will be my judge—at least He will be fair, and know why I do what I do. Maybe He’ll understand even if I don’t. And believe it or not, after church service ends an hour later, and I rise up out of there and grab a bulletin on the way out, I do feel lighter, like my pastor’s words have chased a hundred demons from my mind. My heart is lifted, I am hopeful, more focused, and for that I certainly am thankful.

  That Sunday afternoon I convince Anya to go with me to the Mister Car Wash on Hillcroft between Bellaire and the Southwest Freeway. My Explorer is so filthy you can blow on it and a puff of smoke will rise up and cloud your vision.

  Anya and I enter the car-wash driveway and pull into the lane closest to the building. Attendants with pad in hand are writing up service orders and trying to convince us to get the Red Carpet special, a deluxe service that can make your wallet fifty bucks lighter.

  Anya begins digging around the cup holder and console, picking up soiled snot rags, empty soda cans, and receipts from when I’ve made trips to the gas station and filled up the tank.

  “Oooh, Neil, how can you stand it? All this trash. The second it takes to throw stuff on the floor of your car, you could’ve tossed it in a garbage can. They do have plenty of ’em in Houston, you know.”

  “I know.” I blush. “You’re right.”

  “What’s this?” she asks. She’s holding up a glossy color advertisement.

  “Oh, I got that from church today. I barely glanced at it myself. What’s it say?”

  She hands me the ad.

  SOLOMON’S TEMPLE PRESENTS

  AN OLDIES BUT GOODIES GOSPEL CONCERT

  FEATURING SONGS FROM THE 70S AND 80S

  COME LISTEN TO SOLOMON’S TEMPLE MUSIC DEPARTMENT pERFORM FAVORITES AS RECORDED BY ANDRAE CROUCH AND THE DISCIPLES, REV. JAMES CLEVELAND, WALTER HAWKINS, THE WINANS, TWINKIE CLARK AND THE CLARK SISTERS, AND MORE

  ATTIRE: DRESS IN YOUR BEST 70S AND 80S GEAR (WE KNOW YA STILL HOLDING ON TO IT)

  FRIDAY, DECEMBER 19

  7:30 P.M.

  Anya laughs and snatches the ad from my hand. “Hey, now this is something I might want to get into. You know I love me some gospel.”

  “Oh yeah,” I say. We pull up to the vacuum cleaner area and an attendant writes up my ticket for deluxe service. I leave my keys in the ignition and Anya follows me inside. We wait in line to pay the cashier.

  “If I go, would you go, too?” my wife asks. She’s standing next to me, looking up at my face. I’m seven inches taller than her. That makes me feel good. I never wanted to date a woman who towered over me. A woman with great height would make me think she’d be able to step on my head, and pin me to the sidewalk so I couldn’t escape.

  “Yeah, I might go to the concert, as long as you don’t invite Dani along. I still don’t see why you kept her around the house so long. Y’all best friends now or something?”

  She giggles and steps forward even though the line hasn’t moved.

  “Hey, you think that’s funny?” I ask. “Sometimes I wonder about you.”

  “That’s good, Neil. If you’re wondering about me, there’s hope.”

  I don’t say anything. I pay the bill with my debit card, then Anya and I go to wait in the lobby. There are vending machines, several metal benches, and magazines strewn around. The other customers have stepped outside, so we’re the only people in this small space.

  “I wanna go because I’ve never heard of this type of concert,” Anya remarks, “so that would be different.”

  “Right,” I say, “it is different.”

  “Speaking of different, that’s how I feel sometimes. When I go to the concert, I–I hope everyone at the church doesn’t expect me to look and act just like them.”

  “They’re not gonna do that, Anya.”

  “Oh yeah? Then why do I feel that way?”

  “Since when did you care what other people think?”

  “I–I dunno.” She shrugs. “Just a question that I wish you’d answer.”

  “You feel different because you have this phobia where you think that going to a church is going to change you into someone you don’t want to be.”

  “Well, Neil, I don’t want to be one thing at home and a whole other thing soon as I step foot in church. Ain’t that what you do?”

  “What’s with the attitude, Anya? You were so happy this morning.”

  “Neil, I don’t see how you can do what you’ve done and still show your face in church.”

  “Why not, Anya? I–I go to church because I need Jesus, just like everybody else.”

  “But don’t you feel like a…?”

  “No, I do
not. Why would I? If the criterion for believing in God is perfection, nobody would be there. That’s why you oughta come more often than you do.”

  “No, nooo. Mentally, I am not ready to roll up in church. When I start going, I want to come correct.”

  “But see, Anya, that’s the wrong attitude. That’s why some other certain types don’t go, because they’re thinking they don’t belong. You’ll never see Jesus blocking the entrance to Solomon’s Temple just because some gang bangers or convicted killers come up to the doorstep.”

  Anya folds her arms tightly across her chest.

  “Look,” I tell her, “I don’t go because I live perfect every second, I go because I don’t. I need strength to help me get where I need to be.”

  “But—”

  “What do you think I should do? Quit going? And what would that prove?”

  She doesn’t say anything.

  “Get past my wrongs, dear Anya.”