My Son's Wife

by Shelia E. Bell

  “Thanks.” Rena stood, picked up her almost empty plate and went into the kitchen. Moments later she returned. “You can put your plate in the sink when you finish. I’ll clean the kitchen later,” she said nonchalantly before she walked off.

  Between bites, he replied. “No problem.”

  Rena went in the master bedroom and prepared to sleep alone-again. For some reason, her mind fell on Teary Runsome so she decided to give her a call.

  When Teary answered, Rena was glad she made the call. Teary immediately made her feel better. They laughed and talked about some of everything. It was easy to talk to Teary and Rena needed someone to confide in. There conversation eventually became serious and when the subject of marriage and relationships came up, Rena admitted hers was falling apart.

  “I understand more than you might think,” Teary told her. “This is my second marriage and everyday I feel like God gave me a second chance with Prodigal. But I didn’t always feel this way, Rena.”

  “But Teary,” Rena said. “Never in a million years would I have thought my life would turn out to be so disastrous. I’m in love with a man who no longer loves me, and it’s my own fault. To make matters even worse, I don’t know why I continue to remain in a lifeless marriage.”

  Teary readily identified with what Rena said. “Rena,” Teary, said in exchange, “The things I could tell you about my first marriage would blow your mind. Like you, I was in love with a man who didn’t love me. Looking back, I don’t know if he ever did. It took years and I do mean years for me to let go of him. But God brought me through. I found the strength to move on, but only after he walked all over me and rushed to the arms of the woman he’s married to now.”

  Listening to Teary helped Rena begin to understand that she didn’t deserve to be shunned by Stiles, Audrey, or any one else. “Teary, but you’re happily married with children, to a wonderful man, and I’m still miserable and stuck. I feel like I deserve everything that’s happening in my life.”

  “Sometimes we can get ourselves in some mess,” Teary chuckled lightly. But girl, God can bring us out of the deepest of the deep. Yes, I’m happily married now. And one day, who knows, God is either going to fix the marriage you’re in or he’s going to give you the strength you need to let go and move on. If he wants someone else to come into your life after that, then fine. But you can’t even think about that now. There’s enough to deal with today without worrying about the future. I had to learn that the hard way,” Teary confessed. “Pray, Rena. Ask God to show you what to do and he will.”

  Rena felt more at peace after she finished talking to Teary. She knelt beside her bed and prayed. Let the dishes wait, she thought before she got in the bed and pulled the covers up to her waist.

  Stiles took the liberty and cleaned the kitchen rather than leave it for Rena. She cooked a delicious meal. The least I can do is clean the kitchen. He saw her door was closed when he passed by on his way to his room. Sitting at his desk, he turned on his laptop, signed into the university faculty page and pulled up the test he planned on giving his class at the end of the week. With that behind him, he proceeded to do some research on the name Travis Jones. His search revealed that there were literally tens of thousands of potential websites that had something about Travis Jones, but Stiles had to find the right one. For the next three hours he searched the internet and his persistence paid off. He stumbled upon an old newspaper article from a couple of years ago that stunned him. The article was about the conviction of a young minister in Seattle sentenced to thirty years for the sexual assault of two young girls at a church where he was the youth minister. It was none other than Minister Travis Jones. Next Stiles went to the state jail’s website and within seconds after putting in Travis D. Jones, his criminal record appeared with an icon of a camera next to it. Stiles mouth dropped open when he clicked on the icon and an older, haggard, wild-haired version of the man he recalled of once being Youth Minister of Holy Rock appeared. He printed everything. Holding the printed sheets in hand, Stiles thought about Francesca; she was telling the truth. Stiles leaned forward in his chair, rubbed his hand over his face and sobbed.

  He stood, went into the bathroom and ran cold water on his face. Standing in front of the mirror he faced the man that stared back at him. I’m sorry, Francesca. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.” Stiles cried like a baby before he lay prostrate on the bathroom floor and prayed to God. When he finally got in bed, he placed both hands behind his head. “Fonda, you’re next,” he said then turned on his side and went to sleep.

  The six and a half hours drive to Chattanooga proved to be more than worth it for Stiles. When he called Fonda and told her he needed to talk to her, at first she was hesitant.

  “What is it about?” she questioned.

  “For one thing, shouldn’t I get a better reception? Seems like you would want to see your cousin. It’s been a few years, you know,” said Stiles, hoping to hide the agitation in his voice.

  “Of course, I’m glad to hear from you, but you know that growing up we were never close. You were always doing your thing,” Fonda finally grinned into the receiver.

  “True, but I really need to talk to you. And I need to do it in person.”

  “Sounds serious, so in that case, when do you plan on coming?”

  “Today,” he said.

  “Today? Ummm, okay, I guess that’ll be fine. What time will you be leaving out?” she asked him.

  He looked at his watch. “If I leave here in about an hour, I should make it there by two or three o’clock.”

  “All right,” Fonda said hesitantly. “Do you need directions?”

  “No, I’ve already googled them. I’ll call you when I get there.”

  At two fifteen, Stiles pulled up in front of a white house with blue shutters and a beautiful landscaped lawn. The wraparound porch added a sense of charm. He walked up the wooden steps and rang the doorbell. When she answered, Stiles recognized Fonda right away. Other than her hair being shorter, with added color, and the scattered frown lines that surfaced when she greeted him, she looked practically the same.

  “Oh my, goodness, you are still Mr. Handsome,” Fonda complimented.

  “And you haven’t changed a bit yourself,” Stiles said before he hugged her.

  “Come on in here. We have the house to ourselves. The kids won’t be here until four-thirty and my husband, Marcus, usually gets here around six.”

  Stiles studied the house. It was nicely decorated and family pictures were everywhere. Fonda proudly showed him several pictures of Marcus and the kids.

  “Would you like something to eat?” she offered. “I usually have finger sandwiches and snacks made for the kids when they get home. Marcus and I don’t believe in them eating a lot of junk food.”

  “I understand. Finger sandwiches will be fine. I didn’t stop to eat.”

  “Come on, let’s go in the kitchen. We can talk in there.”

  Stiles followed her into the huge modern kitchen. She offered him a seat in the breakfast Smashwords overlooking a spectacular backyard view. While she prepared mini ham and turkey sandwiches, he drank a glass of lemon iced tea. They exchanged small talk while Stiles ate.

  “Thank you, Fonda. That was good,” he said and picked up the napkin next to his plate to wipe his mouth.

  “Tell me, what was so urgent that you had to drive up here today to talk to me, Cousin? I can’t help but be curious.”

  “Fonda.” Suddenly his face went grim and he raised his left hand, revealing his palm in an act of submission. “I’m not here to cause you any trouble; I just need you to tell me the truth.”

  “The truth?” her features remained deceptively composed. “The truth about what? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “About what happened between you and Francesca.

  A look of discomfort crossed her face. “Francesca?” Fonda didn’t deny that she knew what he meant. “Who dug that up after all these years?”

  “Fran
cesca. She even went so far as to tell us that my mother knew. Look, Fonda, I don’t know how much you’ve heard over the years about my sister. But she’s in pain, emotional torment, and if my mother has known about you and her all of these years, that makes matters worse.”

  Fidgeting in her chair, and licking her lips nervously, she remained quiet for a moment, like she was trying to think of the words she wanted to say. “Stiles, we were kids. True enough,” she spoke slowly, “I was a teenager, but I…I didn’t mean to harm her. I can’t explain it. I guess I was going through my own mixture of emotional torment back then. I felt like I never quite fit in with my own family. I used to look at y’all as being the perfect family, and Francesca.”

  “Francesca, what?” he bent his head slightly forward.

  “Francesca seemed like she had it all. I think back then I couldn’t understand why her life seemed so perfect and mine wasn’t. So I, I don’t know, I just thought about how it would be to, you know,” Fonda looked at him knowingly. “Experiment.”

  “Experiment! Fonda what on earth would make you do such a thing. She was a child. You were a teenager. Why couldn’t you experiment,” Stiles said and used his two fingers in a quote, with someone your own age. God, I hate to say this, but if you felt such a need to experiment,” he said with nasty emphasis, “it should have been with some teenage boy, not my twelve year old sister.” He slammed the palm of his hand on the table and Fonda immediately jumped back in fear.

  Stiles inhaled then exhaled. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that. I just don’t understand, is all. Did you tell Audrey? Did she know about this like Francesca said?” God, please let her tell me, no.

  Fonda nodded and Stiles dropped his head. “I told her after I saw her peeping in Francesca’s bedroom. That night she saw us, I forced Francesca to do terrible things. I threatened to do something to her cat, Charlie, and to y’all too if she told anybody.” Fonda eased her trembling hand toward his but he moved back and out of her reach. “Stiles, you don’t know how many times I’ve regretted doing what I did. I’ve begged God for forgiveness. I’ve tried to be a model mother to my children. I felt guilty for such a long time. Stiles,” Fonda pleaded and tears cascaded down her cheeks. “I’m so sorry. Please, please forgive me.” She sobbed this time, with her head in her hands.

  Silence.

  Stiles stood, walked to the other side of the table and laid his hand on her shoulder. Fonda lifted her head. A look of remorse and sadness covered her face. “Thank you, thank you for telling me the truth,” he said.

  Fonda stood in front of him. Stiles gently raised her tear streaked until her eyes met his. “I’m a child of God; we both are. God forgave you a long time ago. It’s time you forgave yourself.” Stiles turned and left Fonda standing in the kitchen. He closed the door behind him and slowly walked to his car. Instead of leaving right away, he sat in the driveway, with his head resting against the steering wheel and cried. He cried for his sister, for all the years of pain she must have experienced; for the fear she must have felt from being violated and raped, but most of all he cried because they had a mother who had closed her eyes to it all.

  33

  If I had no more time, no more time to be here. Alisha Keyes

  Five months. Five months of not talking to her parents, her brother or Rena. Five months of being down on her luck. Five months of living in holy torment, is how Frankie described her life. Not only was her body jacked up, as she described it, from the accident, but for the past month and a half, she’d had at least five outbreaks; and as if that wasn’t enough, she’d been feeling like crap for just as long. Her body ached, she was tired, depressed, listless, nauseated, and she was dealing with all of it at the same time.

  Kansas entered the one bedroom space they shared in Orange Mound. The place was actually a dump, but with sporadic income from Kansas’s menial jobs and Frankie’s food stamps, the women couldn’t afford to complain.

  “Dang, girl, when I left this mornin’ you was in the bed and it’s dang near five o’clock in the evening and you still in the bed.” Kansas commented coolly. “You need to see the doctor or something. It’s ain’t like you to be lyin’ ‘round day afta day.” Kansas pulled the worn brown comforter off the floor and spread it over Frankie.

  “Yeah, I know. But I can’t seem to muster up any energy. Maybe if I could get a part time job or somethin’ like you, I would feel better. Frankie pulled the comforter around her shoulders. “But I can’t even think about cleaning some office building. This bum leg and arm of mine won’t allow me to do hardly anything that’s worth something.”

  “I don’t know why you don’t do like I told you, and apply for disability. These food stamps ain’t cuttin’ it. And my penny-anny job definitely ain’t hitting on nothing.”

  Frankie, pale and weak, threw the comforter back, got off the bed and moved to the shredded chair that was once a peach organza print recliner. Now all that remained of it were loose springs with cotton pieces peaking out.

  “Tomorrow, I don’t care whatcha say. You’re going to get yoself checked. Maybe they can give you an antibiotic shot or something. Then you going to the Social Security office and apply for your disability,” insisted Kansas. “We could use that $600 bucks a month they give if you get approved.”

  Too weak to protest, Frankie agreed.

  The Clinic, as everyone called it, was already packed with people when Frankie and Kansas walked in the following morning at seven o’clock. Kansas signed Frankie in at the front desk. They sat four hours before the stuck-up desk clerk called her name. A stocky, bearded man opened the heavy steel door for Frankie so she could go in the back to the clinic area. Just before the door closed completely, Frankie heard the same clerk call Kansas’s name. Frankie turned and watched Kansas go to the window. She didn’t say nothin’ about seeing the doctor too. Oh, well. Frankie shrugged her shoulders and followed the nurse.

  An appointment letter for Frankie arrived in the mail from The Clinic eleven days after her visit. Sitting in the same old, dingy waiting room, Frankie wondered why she had been called to come back. The free meds she received had really made her feel better.

  Too bad Kansas couldn’t come with her today. She had been called to report to work early. After the long wait, first in the waiting room, and now in the patient room, the scrawny, scraggly haired doctor came in with her chart. Not bothering to speak, he opened the chart and began reading.

  Should have already done that, reasoned Frankie.

  “Miss.” He flipped the chart back over, in search of her name. “Miss Graham.”

  “That’s me,” Frankie flippantly remarked.

  “As you know, we performed several tests during your last visit.”

  And. Get to the point.

  “One of your tests came back positive for antibodies in your blood.”

  “Okay, and?” she remarked impatiently.

  For the first time since entering the room, he looked at his patient.

  “Not just any antibodies, I’m afraid. HIV antibodies.”

  Everything became blurry around her. Did he say HIV? She couldn’t tell if she was falling or if her head was just spinning in motion.

  Something latched on to her forearm and wouldn’t let go. “Miss Graham. Miss Graham.”

  Slowly her eye sight came back into focus and the room stopped spinning. When it was all over, she was still sitting on the table. A nurse entered the room with a cold towel and placed it on her forehead.

  “Are you all right, Miss Graham?” the doctor asked.

  What do you think? “Yeah, I’m all right. But are you sure, doc? There has to be some kind of mix-up. You must have the wrong chart.” Frankie leaned forward to read the name label on the chart.

  “I’m afraid, everything is correct. I’m sorry.”

  Frankie shifted from hip to hip, hoping her constant movement would keep her from crying. “Can you tell me how long I’ve had it?”

  “It’s hard to pinpoint whe
n a person acquires HIV. But I can tell you that it takes some time for the body to develop HIV antibodies, but some people develop these antibodies within three months of being infected. For others, it can take as long as six months.”

  Frankie nervously chuckled. “This can’t be happening. I already have herpes, and now you want to tell me that I’m HIV positive.” Frankie extended her good arm out toward the doctor like she was pleading for help.

  “Herpes can make the immune system even weaker, Miss Graham, which in turn can make you more susceptible to contracting HIV.”

  “This isn’t real. It can’t be,” Frankie rebuffed in disbelief.

  A gentler side of the doctor suddenly surfaced, and he sat down on the stool and began to patiently explain about HIV .

  “Look, Miss Graham.” He gestured with his hands. “The important thing right now is to continue to get regular medical checkups. I want to see you every three months. We need to watch you closely because of your herpes, which can be problematic for a person with HIV. You need to get plenty of rest, eat healthy, and if you smoke or do drugs, stop at once. Before you leave today, you’ll get injections against hepatitis-B and bacterial pneumonia.

  Taking out his prescription pad, he continued to talk. “I’m also going to start you on antiviral treatments and what we call, protease inhibitors. Take it as prescribed. It can help to slow down the progression of the disease.

  Frankie sat deftly still as the doctor rattled on and on about what to do and what not to do.

  On the bus ride home, her life replayed in her mind like a symphony band. So much wrong, so much hurt.

  Frankie turned the key and glumly walked inside the sleazy apartment. Kansas was at home, and in the bed eating a bologna sandwich and drinking a soda.

  “Where you been?” Kansas asked Frankie.

  Frankie said nothing. Like a zombie, she walked over and sat down in the tore up chair. The springs boarded into her back but she didn’t care.

  Kansas watched her. “What’s wrong with you?”