by Curtis Bunn
She hurriedly got dressed, brushed her teeth, packed her bag and teased her hair. Charles hurriedly dressed and walked with her to the dock, where the boat was boarding back to San Francisco. He bought tickets for both of them.
“I know I can’t go to the hospital, but I can spend this time with you on the boat.”
“That’s so nice of you. Charles, if something happens to Toya, I won’t know what to do with myself.”
“You’ve got to put positive vibes out there. You can’t think the worst. All good vibes help.”
They took a seat on the ferry and he hugged Stephanie as they both sat in silence. She prayed a consistent silent prayer.
When they got to Fisherman’s Wharf, he walked her to the parking lot where she had left her car. “I’m praying all is well,” he said. “Please call or text me to let me know what’s going on. But stay positive.”
They hugged and kissed and she sped off. She waited until she got onto the Bay Bridge before she called her husband.
“Willie, meet me at Highland Hospital. Toya fainted and is in emergency.”
“What?”
“Yes. Terry cancelled golf and he and Toya went to the movies. He called to tell me.”
The combination of the alarming news and the panic in Stephanie’s voice had the impact she wanted: Willie did not question where she had been all day. That gave her some relief, but she remained riddled with worry about Toya.
They had their obvious differences about her affair with Charles. But they were their each other’s keepers. As kids, they slept in the same room and talked to each other in the dark about everything imaginable until they fell asleep. They kept that up even as adults, when they took trips without their husbands.
When Stephanie, who was two years younger, was a senior in high school, her family had struggled to raise the money for her to go to college. Toya did not go to school past twelfth grade; she had worked as an executive assistant in a law firm in San Francisco. She had saved money for two years and when it was time for her little sister to enroll in college, Toya had provided the money for Stephanie to advance her education. That’s how close they were.
And when Toya had married Terry, Stephanie had planned the wedding, hosted the bridal shower and the bachelorette party and served as matron of honor. And when they lost their mother, they drew on each other for strength. They had myriad friends between them—none of them closer than the sisters.
All those thoughts ran through Stephanie’s head as she weaved through traffic to get to the hospital. She was scared.
Terry spotted her before she saw him. He hugged her.
“What did they say?”
“The doctors put her in a coma, a drug-induced coma,” he said.
“What?”
“When she fainted, her head slammed on the edge of a concrete step. So there was trauma and stress to her brain. The way they explained it to me, the medically induced coma relieves stress off her brain and they can take her out of the coma when they need to, after the swelling goes down.”
Tears flowed down Stephanie’s face. “Can I see her?”
“Come on,” Terry said, leading her to her room.
Before going in, Stephanie wiped her face and gathered herself and took a deep breath. She walked in and immediately burst into tears again. The sight of her sister hooked up to tubes and machines horrified her. Terry hugged her and whispered into her ear.
“You have to be strong. They say she can’t hear us, but they don’t really know. So we have to talk to her, let her know we’re here for her.”
Stephanie nodded her head and composed herself again. She went to her sister’s bedside, as Terry left the room.
“Girl, it’s me. I’m here and I know you’re just getting your rest. Your behind loves to sleep. I didn’t know you’d go to this length to get more sleep.”
She laughed, although tears seeped through her eyes.
“I gotta tell you, though. It scares me to see you like this, in here. But you’ll never be alone. Between me, Terry and Willie, you will always have someone by your side. I’ll tell you about Charles, too. Probably tomorrow. If anything will wake you up, that will do it, I’m sure. But I want to tell you this right now: I love you, Toya. And I need you. So get as much rest as you need. But you get better. Fast. You are the only person on this earth I cannot live without.”
She sensed someone was in the room and looked up to see Willie.
“She’s the only person, huh?” he said.
Stephanie left Toya’s bedside and walked over to Willie. “That’s what you have to ask me as my sister lays in a coma? I don’t think so.”
She stared at her husband for a few seconds and returned to her bedside, where she held her hand and rubbed it. Willie stood back, near the foot of the bed, his arms folded. Stephanie did not acknowledge his presence.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
THE REAL ME
JUANITA
Is it only about sex for you?”
That was the question Brandon asked Juanita as they sat at the bar at Marvin’s at Fourteenth and U Streets. It was a simple question, on its face. For Juanita, it was complicated.
“I never thought about it. I’m not trying to use you for sex, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Then what do you want from this? You’re not leaving your cushy life. You have a good job, a husband who loves you, a BMW, two great kids. What are you doing fucking around with me? Seriously. I need to know this.”
Juanita knew Brandon deserved the truth, especially after asking such an honest question. She wanted to answer, but she had to wait until the bartender moved to the other end of the bar.
She leaned into Brandon’s left ear. “These fucking bartenders are eavesdroppers. He’s fooling around down here for no good reason. Just trying to hear our conversation. Ever notice that?”
“Damned right I noticed it. Happens all the time. I don’t say shit around them. And watch, he’s going now, but he’ll be back to try to catch something we’re talking about.”
Juanita smiled for two reasons: One, she could use the word “fuck” with Brandon without hesitation or concern of being judged and, two, it was funny to her that he noticed how bartenders tend to hang near people involved in deep conversation.
“Anyway,” she said. “you know why I’m messing around with you, as you put it? Because I can be myself with you. You’re the only person I can be myself with. Literally. I can use profanity and listen to rap and go-go music and drink hard liquor and I can give you head while getting a massage and you don’t judge me. You know that’s me and you’re okay with that.
“Now, that said, I’m not being fake about anything in my life. I’m the person my husband knows and I’m good to my kids and kind to people and friendly and all that. I go to church and teach Bible study and I believe in God. I volunteer at PTA meetings and with my sorority. I am a good person. I am the person people see and know.
“But if people see you a certain way, they judge if you show them more than who they think you are. In a relationship, I am passionate and sometimes wild. I’m not a lay-on-my-back-and-give-it-to-me wife. I’m not, but that’s what I have been. I’m trapped inside this perception that I’m a prude who’s delicate and so proper. And I’m not that at all.
“I don’t blame my husband. Everyone’s different. He’s not an exotic kind of lover. He’s just, ‘Let’s do this and keep it moving.’ As you know, I’m more than that. Way more than that. But since I’ve been so stale with Maurice all these years, if I come out of my bag now, he’d feel some way about it. He has me in the boring-ass box that I just can’t take anymore.”
“Trust me, he will like it if you busted out of that box. I promise.”
“With most men, I would believe that. But I have tested it over the years. Told him once at a restaurant: ‘Come to the bathroom with me.’ You know what he said? ‘Why?’ We saw some movie where the woman was demanding her man fuck her good—see, I can’t even say
‘fuck’ around Maurice; he’d think something was wrong with me—and he was mortified that the woman, in the heat of the moment, used profanity.
“So, I’ve created this mess for myself because when we first started dating, I followed his lead and that made me reserved and in a shell. I wouldn’t be here with you now if I had a husband I could be sexually free with—someone who is what you might call ‘a freak.’
“I certainly wouldn’t call you or me a freak. That’s an overused and inappropriately used description of someone who has an open sexual identity and sexual freedom. You know what I mean?”
“Sound like you read that out of a dictionary. But I get it. Listen, my boy Larry and I talk about it all the time. I know guys who meet women, date them for a while and finally have sex and come back calling her a ‘freak.’ So, I’m like, ‘What makes her a freak?’ And he’d say, ‘Man, she was trying to have sex in the movies.’ And I’d say, ‘And what’s the problem? That doesn’t make her a freak. It makes you a freak that you think there’s something wrong with that.’ ”
“That’s my husband. He’s so conservative about sex and passion. I made the cardinal sin women make: I thought I could change him. I thought, especially when we first got married, that I could wear little outfits for him and slowly open him up to being erotic. Shit, I danced for him and he told me to stop. Said I looked like a stripper. I said, ‘That’s the point.’
“I hinted around going to a strip club when we were in Miami one time, before the kids came. I said, ‘You know, men go to strip clubs with their significant others now.’ I was hoping he’d ask me if I would go. Instead, he said, ‘That’s ridiculous.’ So I knew not to bring it up again.
“Obviously, he’s my husband and he has great qualities. But I’m thirty-four years old. I’m more sexual now than I have ever been—and will only get more sexual as I get older. So, what am I to do? Deny myself my whole life?”
Juanita also liked Brandon because he was honest with her and did not shape his opinions to benefit him.
“If you had married me, you wouldn’t be in this situation,” he said, laughing. “I know I was a fuck-up, though, not really sure of where I wanted to go with my life. You were always focused. So, while we were a match in some areas, others we weren’t.”
“But, Brandon, people don’t seem to put enough importance on sex in a relationship, especially women. I didn’t even do it. I put it down the list of important factors as I was deciding on a husband. I figured it would get better and it would be okay. How fucking wrong was I?”
“What I was going to say,” Brandon added, “was two things: One, men are usually the ones who choose a wife that ain’t what he wants her to be sexually. I know because I almost did it. I almost proposed to a chick I liked because she had a good career and would be a great mother and I could trust her. But the sex was not what I needed. I have listened to guys talk about the fact that they cheat on their wives because the wives weren’t, to use that word, ‘freaky’ enough. It just goes to show, like you said, it’s important and can make or break a marriage.
“The other thing I was going to say is this: You don’t have to deny yourself, but you don’t have to be with me, either. You’re going to have to talk to your husband. I know who you are, and cheating isn’t you. Well, I guess it is since we’re doing what we’re doing. But you are the most complete and pure woman I know. I see all the things in you that your husband sees. You’ve got to make him see the passionate side, the erotic side, too—and make him understand there’s nothing wrong with it.
“I don’t know how you do it. Shit, just seduce his ass. Just dominate him. He’ll be uptight at first, but after a few minutes, he’ll start enjoying it. I’m sure of that. And if that fails, go to counseling.”
Juanita had a lot to ponder. Brandon’s point about having a heart-to-heart with Eric registered with her.
“But wouldn’t he, as a man, be embarrassed? Wouldn’t he feel like, I don’t know, less than a man if I told him sex with him was boring?”
“He would, yeah. His ego would be bruised. But he also would step up his game. You know why? Because a man who knows his wife isn’t happy sexually, knows she could step out on him. And that’s the last thing any man can handle.”
Juanita decided in that moment that she would tell Eric of his performance shortcomings. She did not want to continue cheating on him. But her body called for much more than his tentative and uninspired effort.
“I’m going to do it,” she told Brandon. “You know what that will mean for us if he gets his shit together?”
“I do, and I will miss you. But I understand. You have a family. You want to keep it. Fucking me in the long run would not help you keep your family.”
“So what do we do now?” she said. “I thought you had a room at the Renaissance.”
“I do.”
All that talk about sex made Juanita horny.
“We shouldn’t just let your money go to waste, should we?” She gave Brandon a sly smile. He knew what it meant.
He turned to the bartender, who had come back and forth during their discussion countless times. “Check, please.”
Juanita laughed.
“I guess this is like the drug addict who has committed to going into rehab the next day, so he decides to get high one last time before checking in,” Brandon said.
“Yes,” Juanita said. “So bring me that crack pipe.”
“Yeah, I got you.”
“You’re the only person I can talk to like this, so I just have to get it all out when I see you because I’m back to being Mrs. Goody Two-Shoes once I’m at home. And don’t get me wrong: I love being her. I love the respect she commands.
“But it’d be nice to get my ass smacked every once in a while. Just saying.”
She and Brandon burst into laughter.
“You’re sick,” he said, still laughing. “You need help.”
The laughing continued. “You know something else? I don’t have these kinds of laughs with Maurice. We used to laugh a little. But the more bored I have gotten, the more frustrated I have gotten, which has made things not so fun-loving. I was just trying to get through the day without exploding. Then you came along.”
“You called me, remember?”
“Same difference.”
“Okay. . . but not really.”
“Let’s go to the room.”
“Fine, Juanita, but this is the last time. . .”
“Wait. We can’t make that commitment yet. This may take some time.”
Brandon shook his head and led Juanita out of the restaurant. When they got to the hotel, they encountered an older couple, in their eighties, on the elevator.
“You’re a handsome couple,” the woman said.
“How do you know they’re a couple?” the man snapped at his wife.
Brandon and Juanita looked at each other and laughed.
“I know people. Don’t be mad because you don’t.”
Brandon grabbed Juanita’s hand.
“See, I told you,” the woman said.
“Being a couple doesn’t mean they’re married,” her husband said. “She has a ring, he doesn’t.”
“Maybe left his ring at home.”
The man asked, “Who’s right?”
“Well, both of you, actually,” Juanita said. “We are a couple. But we’re not a couple.”
The old man knew what that meant. “The trouble with trouble is that it starts out as fun.”
“Well, I hope you’re working on fixing things,” the woman said. “But you can’t do it. You can’t solve a problem with the same minds that created the problem. I would call on God. Or a man of God.”
“You would,” her husband said sarcastically. “I see what’s going on here.”
He looked at Juanita, down at her ring and back into her eyes. “It’s hard to resist a bad boy who’s a good man, isn’t it?” Then he glanced over at Brandon. “I know this: You can’t run from a problem because whereve
r you go, you take yourself.”
“Okay, that’s enough out of you, old man,” his wife said. “You lovely kids live your best life.”
They reached their floor and exited the elevator. Brandon and Juanita were quiet for a few seconds. “Old people speak their minds, don’t they?” Juanita said.
“And they speak the truth, too,” Brandon added.
When they got into the room, their urge for passion had significantly decreased. They thought about the observations of the older couple.
“What did he say? ‘The trouble with trouble is that it starts out as fun.’ I’d never heard that before, but he’s right,” Juanita said. “All the buildup to that night at the St. Regis and the actual night of the St. Regis. . . it was all trouble. I knew it was trouble to go to your room, but I went anyway. And you know why? Because trouble felt good to me. It was exciting. It was fun. I’m not even talking about the sex. I’m talking about sneaking around talking and texting you. That was trouble, but it was fun. I hadn’t had any real fun in a long time—too busy being the perfect mother, wife, daughter, friend, and on and on. That shit takes a lot out of you. To do something daring is fun.”
“What’s the movie? Arnold Schwarzenegger and Jamie Lee Curtis. The one when she’s a bored housewife and becomes a spy.”
“Oh. It was called True Lies,” Juanita said. “Exactly. I can relate to that movie, how the wife felt. The need for adventure can drive you to some places you’d never expect to be.”
“Well, we know what we’ve been doing was a mistake,” Brandon said.
“You know what, Brandon? I’m not going to say it was a mistake. It was wrong, but not a mistake. I don’t regret any of it.”
“You’re a bad—dare I say it?—bitch,” Brandon said, laughing. Juanita was hardly offended. Indeed, she accepted the moniker as a confirmation that she had not gotten so far from her complete self. She deemed it a compliment.
“So, what’s up, Juanita? We’re here in this room. Came here for a reason. But we don’t have to do anything. I think we shouldn’t do anything. And you know that’s hard for me.”
