My Husband's Girlfriend

by Cydney Rax

  I pull up in the Meadows’ driveway and smile when I see the Explorer parked in front of the house. I look in the mirror again. Makeup is intact, some curls are partially covering my eyes, and my lips are glistening from this strawberry gloss that Neil used to enjoy kissing off me.

  I swing my legs out of my whip and take a deep breath. My panties are moist. It’s difficult to walk in these heels, but damned if I’m not gonna try. I cannot wait for Neil to make love to me like I’m Beyoncé, Halle, and Janet Jackson all rolled into one.

  I step up to the front door. It’s partially open, so I just go in. It’s like my man is expecting me. I like that. I walk right through the foyer, past the den, straight to the library. I tap once, grab the door handle, and march in. The door makes a light swishing sound. I place my hands on my hips and stare at Anya’s side. She’s scooping up a porno mag and tossing it in a garbage bag.

  I clear my throat. “What are you doing?”

  Anya swirls around, her eyes enlarged. “How’d you get in here?” she says. “You scared me.”

  I sigh heavily and question her with my eyes.

  Anya looks me up and down. “Neil’s not here.”

  “Where’d he go?”

  “Why you want to know?”

  I can’t believe the agitation in her voice. Okay, maybe I shouldn’t act so pushy. I need to calm down a notch.

  “I, uh, he asked me something about getting tickets to the circus,” I tell her. “And I wanted to follow up.”

  “Neil hasn’t told me anything about circus tickets, Dani. And, uh, why are you coming over to my house to see my husband dressed like a whore? Oh, I remember why, its ’cause you are a whore.”

  Anya drops the garbage bag on the floor and leaves the library.

  I follow her to the kitchen. “Anya, can you explain why you’re being so rude?”

  She swirls around, waving her arms. “I don’t have to explain anything to you. By now everything should be clear and certain. You, Danielle Frazier, don’t belong here. Period. I want you to pick up your son and I want you gone. You and Neil will have to create a different kind of arrangement. And if he’s not up to the task, then I’ll do it. But this is the last time you’re stepping inside my house.”

  “What—”

  “Shut up. Baby mama or no baby mama, you don’t have any rights. And you definitely don’t have more rights than me. So if it takes deprogramming your little mind and making you understand who is who around here, then I am prepared to do that.”

  I gape at her open-mouthed. Her eyes are blazing and I see a butcher knife on the counter, so I decide to chill out. I wouldn’t want to have to use it on her.

  “Where’s Brax?” I ask in a delicate voice, and try to smile.

  “He’s upstairs. I’ll get him. You go sit on the couch. Don’t go anywhere else in my house. And do not try to call Neil.”

  I stomp into the den and flop down on the couch, crossing my legs at the ankle, my mind swirling. What the fuck’s wrong with her? And why’d Neil take off so fast and leave me to deal with this mess? I hate being blindsided and not being able to figure out what to do.

  Anya brings down Braxton, goes back upstairs, and returns with three huge bags of clothes, two more bags of diapers, toys, blankets, every single thing that has to do with my son. I feel discarded. So unwanted. Sure, she’s his wife, but do I have to be treated so awful? Like a nothing…a pariah…or maybe she’s giving me what I’ve often given her. Even so, I can’t appreciate how she’s acting.

  I feel so humiliated. My jaw is rigid and I am this close to falling apart, something I’ve never wanted to do in front of Anya. But feeling vulnerable, all I can do is grab Brax and give him a strong hug. I wish he would hug me back, but he doesn’t. Instead he squirms wildly in my arms, like he’s forcing me to let him go. Something has Brax’s attention, and instead of fighting him, I let him have his way and allow him to drop to the floor.

  While Anya continues to fuss at me like I’m less than a piece of shit, Brax crawls to a table and pulls himself up. He picks up an object, looks at it, and opens his mouth. I want to tell him to come here, but Anya is yelling at me like she’s crazy, which makes me want to run to the kitchen and grab that knife in case she really goes off. But then her screaming stops. She points at Brax, who has fallen back on the floor.

  I rush to his side. “Brax, what’s wrong?”

  I look down and lock eyes with my son…He is staring at me strange…and his face is slowly turning blue. I lift him up and pat his back. He doesn’t respond. I slap his back again. “Brax, Brax!” I scream. “Say something.” I laugh like this nightmare isn’t really happening, then stop.

  “Anya, could you? I can’t, he’s not—” I scream again.

  “Dani, I don’t think he’s breathing. Don’t slap—it could make things worse. Let me have him.” Anya extracts the baby from my arms, grabs a chair, and sits him on her lap facing away from her. Her index and middle fingers resemble a pad when she places them under his rib cage, then quickly thrusts inward and upward. Nothing happens. I watch her thrusting, and hear her praying, until my baby coughs, sputters, and expels a lime-green button from his mouth. When Brax starts quietly crying, making the same amazing noises I heard the day I gave birth to him, Anya whispers, “Oh God, keep protecting him.”

  All I can think to do is snatch my purse and head for my truck. I get in the vehicle, turn on the ignition, back out the driveway, and never look back at the door. But in my rearview mirror I see Anya holding and cradling my son, and for the first time ever, I’m glad she’s doing it.

  28

  * * *

  Anya

  It’s still Friday afternoon. Dani’s just sped off in her truck. I’m standing outside the house near the front door holding little Braxton in my arms. He’s leaning his head against my breast, purring. Comfort, protection, peace.

  He wants what I want, but how can he enjoy peace when he sees me and his mother at war?

  “I’m so sorry, so sorry, so sorry, little Brax, it won’t happen again,” I say and press my lips against his soft brown hair. He squirms in my arms and sighs. I turn to go back to the house.

  “Hey, hon. You watching the baby today?”

  “Riley, if you only knew,” is all I can say.

  My neighbor charges up our walkway dressed in a pretty tan summer dress suit.

  “Where you going?” I ask her.

  “Solomon’s Temple. I skipped Sunday night’s Communion service, and I wanted to go up there and drop off my tithe. You doing anything special? Wanna ride?”

  Moments later we’re entering the doors of the church. Braxton is perched on my hip, laughing uproariously as I bounce him up and down so it seems like he’s riding a galloping horse. Hearing him giggle makes me so happy. And it feels wonderful to get away from the house and momentarily forget the scary drama that just happened.

  I follow behind Riley, who’s walking through some double glass doors into a suite of administrative offices. There’s a redwood desk manned by a receptionist. On her right is a row of telephone cubicles complete with headsets.

  “What’s all that?” I ask her.

  A woman has approached us from down the hall and overhears my question. “That’s the call center where the prayer counselors sit and answer phones seven days out the week,” she tells me.

  “Hey, Sista.” She nods at me reassuredly. “Anytime you want to talk, give us a call or come see us. We’ll cry with you, help bear your burdens—we do it all.”

  “Hmm, sounds good. Thanks for letting me know,” I tell her gratefully.

  “My name is Zaire if you ever need anything.” Her voice is strong, confident.

  Riley signals to me that she’ll be right back. Brax bounces up and down in my arms, his hands waving excitedly when he sees a water fountain.

  “Okay, partner,” I tell him and start walking down the hall past the call center.

  “Hey, Sista,” says Zaire. “After you get your water,
c’mon in my cube. You can rest your feet and let your son sit on your lap while you’re waiting.”

  I take one long look at her. After I get Brax his drink, she stands up and leads us to a nearby private office and closes the door. Within ten minutes I tell her everything: the marital arrangement, Neil’s affair with Dani, the miscarriages, and our bedroom issues. Of course, I have to spell out certain words because of Braxton, but Zaire catches on fast.

  “Sista,” Zaire says, “it takes a lot of strength to tell me all this. But that indicates you’re ready for a change. Can’t say I blame you.” She laughs. “But seriously, as I sit here and listen to the things you’ve said about your husband, his friend, et cetera, I do get one major impression: The problems you’re having aren’t about the marital contract, they’re not about you. Not about him, that woman, or even this precious little baby.”

  “What did you say?” I ask, darkness clouding my eyes as I stare at this woman. “Do you understand that I’ve put up with so much mess I almost lost my mind? I’ve sacrificed, put my health in jeopardy, and trusted him too many times to count.”

  “Sista Anya, you may have done the right things, and that’s good, but something bigger than you sustained you. So, like I said before, this isn’t about you,” she says in a slow, calm voice.

  “Omigod, omigod, omigod,” I say, and rise up out of my seat. I hand Brax over to Zaire, leave the office, and pace the hallway.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I weep, and finally discern the wisdom that has eluded me.

  29

  * * *

  Neil

  Yesterday before Dani arrived to pick up Braxton, I got called into work. I left the house immediately, worked for hours, and barely took a break. And late last night when I got home, I went straight to sleep.

  Now it’s Saturday, early. I hear Anya in the kitchen stirring around. Thirsty and hungry, I walk in her direction.

  Bacon pops and sizzles on the grill. A pot of grits cooks on a burner. The smell of coffee fills my nostrils. Anya cracks several eggshells against the sink and pours egg into a skillet.

  “Hey,” I say, “what’s all this for?”

  “I usually cook breakfast on Saturday,” she responds. “Nothing new about that.”

  “Usually being the operative word. I don’t think I’ve seen you doing this on a Saturday morning in at least two months.”

  “Well, things change.” Anya shrugs and resumes cooking.

  I walk over to the bread bin and remove four slices of wheat.

  “You might want to toast a few extra pieces,” Anya says.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Brax is a greedy little something,” she laughs.

  “He’s still here? Why didn’t Dani come pick him up yesterday?”

  My wife grunts and shakes her head.

  I run upstairs and find Reese tying Brax’s shoestrings into a knot. Once she’s done, I scoop my son up in my arms, hold my daughter’s hand at the same time, and bring them both downstairs.

  All four of us eat in the dining room. Brax screams from his high chair, drowning out Reese, who’s trying to talk. She puts up with his shrieking for a while but then runs from the room, covering her ears.

  “That girl loves that baby, huh?” I say jokingly.

  “Yeah,” Anya says in a serious voice. “It’s kind of like she has no choice. It’s just worked out that way. Life does that, ya know.”

  I stare at her.

  “Neil, I guess now’s as good a time as any. We need to talk. I want to propose something.”

  “Go on,” I tell her.

  “I want us to make a strong commitment toward our relationship. And I need to know if you want the same. Were you sincere when you recited your vows on July seventh?”

  “I was at the time.”

  “Oh.” Her voice is low. “What about now?”

  “I still mean it, even if I don’t show it all the time. But yeah, I’m committed.”

  “I guess that’s fair enough. But let’s move on to something else.”

  First Anya yells for Reese to come get Brax. Then Anya leaves the room and returns within minutes carrying several sheets of paper. Her hands are trembling.

  “This,” she says, “is our marital arrangement. I can’t believe how much trust I put in these sheets of paper, how much I supposedly valued the words. I want—”

  “This?” I say, and grab the papers. Anya and I are both holding the arrangement. Ten sheets in all. Anya goes to a kitchen drawer and retrieves a box of matches. She motions for me to follow her outside. We end up in the backyard next to the metal picnic table and a black garbage can.

  Anya lifts up the first page of the arrangement. “This, Neil, is no longer valid.”

  I strike one match and lower it next to the paper. The yellow fire lights up, cracks and pops. The fire singes the page at one end, making the words of promise disappear, transforming the sheet from one form into another.

  By the time we’re done, a smoky aroma burns and clogs our nostrils. The odor is so strong, Anya covers her nose with one hand. I grab her other hand and squeeze.

  For the first time in a long time, I feel free, like I’m finally in the place I’ve been trying to get to. I stare at the ashes and my mind is jammed with memories of what tried to be but couldn’t. I wonder what the future can give us that the past could not.

  “Starting now, we’re putting all of this behind us,” Anya proclaims. “And I am sooo sorry for the pain I’ve caused you.”

  “Anya,” I say, shocked, “you haven’t done anything.”

  “Oh, but I have.”

  She walks back into the house and returns waving another set of papers.

  “I’m burning these up, too,” she says, “but want you to see them first.”

  I read the top of the first page: “Petition for Divorce. Petitioner: Anya Taylor Meadows.”

  “You?” I say.

  “Yes, Neil. About six weeks ago, I pawned the ring you gave me, retained an attorney, and was in the process of filing. But you were starting to change for the better and I still had hope. So my going forward with the divorce was placed on hold. Riley and I prayed about what to do, and I heard in my spirit ‘Wait,’ so…”

  I just gawk at her, swallowing the lump that has developed in my throat.

  “I’m going to be a better wife to you, and I believe you can be a better husband. But the one thing that I demand must change is Dani’s presence, you understand me? We have to establish and protect our boundaries. So Dani is no longer welcome here, Neil. Ever. And I don’t want you seeing her anymore. I need to know if you can handle that.”

  “You’re serious about that?”

  “Like nothing I’ve ever meant before,” Anya responds.

  “But since she’s—I mean, how else can we raise our son?”

  “Riley’s agreed to be our mediator. That way we won’t have to deal with Dani directly. And I’m willing to give this a try if you are.”

  “And you’re really okay with mothering Braxton?”

  “Yep, absolutely,” she says. “He can be the son I’ll never have, the son I’m supposed to have.”

  So much hope and strength are shining through her, she’s blinding me.

  “We’re going to make it, Neil. We can do this. And I know you still love me.”

  “Of course I love you. But it’s tough being loved by two different women—”

  “And it’s tough when you love two different women, right, Neil?”

  I wish I could respond, but don’t.

  “Neil, regardless of how tough things are, I won’t play second fiddle anymore. Not when I know I have a God-given right to claim you. The vows we gave to the Lord are still good. He hasn’t forgotten the vows, and He will bless this union if we do what’s right in His eyes. Not in our own eyes. You up to the task?”

  I firmly nod. Again, I know I have to release Dani. It’s hard, so hard. And the fact that letting go is hard lets me know
it’s something I need to do. I try to imagine starting anew. I want to see what Anya sees. Feel what Anya feels.

  The next morning, my entire family gets dressed for church. And when we all enter the doorway of Solomon’s Temple, Reesy grabs my hand, looks up at me, and says in a loud voice, “I’m so proud of you, Daddy.”

  30

  * * *

  Anya

  It’s mid-September. I’m reclining facedown on a padded lounge chair and wearing a cute one-piece orange-and-lilac bathing suit. A nearby band is jamming, playing “Celebration” by Kool and the Gang. Neil’s hands feel soothing as he gently pinches my skin between his fingers. He vigorously rubs jojoba oil on me, squeezing all the tension from my shoulders. We’re on the Lido deck of the Ecstasy ship, a four-day cruise that’s headed to Cozumel. Second honeymoon. No kids. Just us.

  We’re spent the afternoon dancing, people-watching, and eating steak and lobster for lunch. I’ve just finished sipping on a magnificent Bahama Mama and can’t wait to order another.

  “Okay, that’s enough of you groping me,” I say to Neil, and sit up. “Now it’s your turn.”

  He happily complies, at first flopping onto his stomach, but then he turns over on the chair so that he’s looking up at me.

  “Anya,” he chokes, reaching out to grab my hand, “if your fingers massage my body, I won’t be responsible for what happens out here.”

  “Neil, don’t even try it.” I blush.

  “I am serious, baby,” he insists, deliberately looking me up and down. I want to place my arms around his neck and squeeze real tight.

  “Dang, jeez, all righty then. We can go back to the room and finish playing that game you like,” I tell him. “This time, instead of you pretending to be a fireman, I want you to be, uh, how about a TV preacher? Think you can manage that?”