Nappily Married

by Trisha R. Thomas

  “Baby, wait.” I tried to shift with his rhythm but couldn’t catch up.

  His slick hardness drew in and out faster, harder, filling me with heat. He grabbed my hair, pulling my head against his chest. The tension eased while he kissed my neck and ran his hands down the front of my thighs. But the romance was only temporary. He pushed me back down on the bed, stretched under his full weight.

  “Baby, please,” I begged quietly.

  “Please, what?” he groaned. “Please, what?” He pushed even harder.

  I held on, eventually giving in totally and completely. He slipped out, starting over. He pushed his fingers inside me and out, then landed on the soft point that grew hard and alert with his touch. He fingered me until I reached a state of frenzy. I sighed a pant of relief and joy, but quickly realized it wasn’t over. He was revving me up for part two. I had nowhere to run. He sank back inside me, taking up where he left off. He let out a hoarse cry as if disappointed he couldn’t go on forever.

  He rolled over, his chest rising and falling. I placed my hand on his heart, and then followed with my head resting against the rhythms pounding under the layer of muscle. I knew the workings of his body. I knew how many beats per second meant danger. I listened until the rhythm of his heartbeat matched mine.

  “I love you, baby.”

  He didn’t answer back. I lifted my head to see his face. Sleep, I assumed, until I saw his eyes blink under his lids.

  “You want to talk about it?”

  Still no answer. I wrapped my arms tight around his waist and waited patiently. Soon enough we both fell into deep and grateful sleep.

  Stop, You’re Under Arrest

  I was ready for the day to end, and it had barely gotten started. My mind was filled with images of Jake making love to me. Whatever was troubling him resulted in some kind of magic lovemaking that stole the soul and mind and inhabited the body to the point I could hardly keep my eyes open from dreaming about his touch. I visualized his tongue, his hands, his wide chest pushed against my face suffocating me with heart-pounding thickness.

  One would never know my husband’s hands were caressing my breast, moving down, kneading the smooth hairless skin above my pubic line, and eventually fingering me into completion. One would never know, especially while I managed to have a full coherent conversation with Morgan Taylor where she sat only an arm’s distance away. Kandi, too, who was far easier to ignore. The entire day had been spent playing some kind of match-for-match game. Morgan was throwing out scenarios that we were to quickly give our spin, changing a catastrophe into a rosy positive light. Was this the extent of the public affairs duty, to spray air freshener instead of cleaning up the mess?

  How do you make a positive situation out of a man being wheeled on a gurney to have X-rays, then forgotten about for six hours, just long enough for him to have an aneurism and choke on his own spit? It was disgusting, and I kept asking myself why didn’t I just throw in the towel and go home, find Jake, and make love to him again and again.

  Because I needed purpose, I kept telling myself. Loving up on my husband can last for only so long. One hour, maybe two. Though I couldn’t shake the memory or the feel of him all day.

  “Your turn, Venus.” Morgan Taylor nodded in my direction with her spine erect waiting for the next mini-presentation.

  “Um, yes, a man collapsed in the waiting room and still was not seen for four hours. My spin … Mr. Caldwell received immediate attention as soon as he was discovered incoherent and without a pulse.” I felt like I was at a spelling bee. Incoherent. I-n-c-o-h … then the buzzer going off signifying the wrong answer.

  Kandi snickered. Her last two were easy. Who couldn’t put a good spin on someone with dilated pupils that wouldn’t recede for nearly two weeks? Then the one with the lady having a scalpel left underneath her buttocks, a simple mistake. Maybe it shaved off a few butt hairs.

  Morgan tilted her head slightly. “Okay, well, I wouldn’t go with the part about finding him incoherent. Sounds a little harsh.”

  “Right, I was thinking the same thing.” I crossed out the word.

  “Maybe we should call it a day, pick up where we left off tomorrow.” Morgan must have sensed my delirium.

  Kandi crossed her legs. “I’m not tired in the least. To some of us, putting a rosy light on things comes natural.”

  Before I could clear up what came natural for She-whores, the loud sound of a bullhorn sent us all reeling from our seats.

  “What was that?” We rushed to the window, crowding for a spot. Below was a clash of picketers and police officers. I staggered backward. “What in the world—Who would call the police on the picketers? They’re on our side.” I turned around, looking for Morgan’s response; she’d already bolted from the office, leaving Kandi and me alone watching the melee from the window.

  “We should go, too,” I said, not sure why I needed Kandi in tow.

  “If you haven’t noticed, I’m pregnant. Last thing I need to do is be in a violent mob fight.” She rubbed the silk chemise, where I still couldn’t see any visible sign of this magnificent pregnancy.

  “Violent mob? They were picketing, nice and quiet, minding their own business. Why would someone have called the police?” I immediately thought of Jasper. He’d been a no-show all day. After he’d rescued me from the basement, I did my best not to accuse him of any wrongdoing.

  “Not so nice and quiet now.” She folded her arms over her chest and lifted one of her already overarched brows.

  I arrived outside just in time to see a police officer throwing a young woman down to the pavement. The police officer lifted his arm back, holding a small black gadget like a remote control. I realized it was a stun gun.

  “What are you doing? Stop.” I grabbed his arm. He gave me a shove with his elbow. The pain rose through my chest. I lost my balance and landed on my butt bone. I got up, angrier than I’d started, and lunged in his direction. I was grabbed before I could sink my nails into the officer, which, looking back on things, wouldn’t have been a good idea with the Taser in the police officer’s hand ready to do some testing.

  “Calm down.” I felt a grip tighten around my waist while I kicked and struggled. Clint was holding me back.

  “Why are the police here?” I huffed. “Who called the police?”

  “I don’t know. But you getting arrested won’t help. Calm down.”

  “This is crazy. I need to talk to someone.” I raised my voice. “To whoever is in charge. Who is responsible for this?” I screamed.

  “V, back up. Stop it.” Clint pressed a firm hand around the back of my neck like I was a puppy being carried off by a doggy parent.

  “No! This is crazy. Someone did this. Someone is trying to destroy this hospital.” I instinctively looked up to see Kandi still in the second-floor window. Before I could say what I was truly thinking, I felt my wrists being grabbed.

  “Ma’am, you’re going to have to take a seat over here.”

  Clint quickly intervened. “Hold on, now, she didn’t do anything.”

  “She attacked an officer.” The thick-chinned policeman wrapped the plastic tie around my wrist and pulled tight.

  I gritted my teeth and tried hard not to say another word. A television camera was headed in our direction. The officer sat me down near the others on the entry curb. I put my face down as far as I could hide, pushing my chin into my chest. We stood idly by as protesters started being cuffed with plastic bands around their wrists.

  I recognized the newscaster, the woman with the red hair and rosy cheeks to match. She stood off to the side and said a few words then led the camera to scan the embattled faces.

  “Do you think this protest will help save Jackson Memorial?” She put the microphone to the face of the young man sitting next to me. He didn’t respond. “What about you, miss? Do you mind answering a few brief questions?”

  I didn’t look up but felt the camera angled over my head.

  “Miss Parson, right? I believe y
ou handle public relations for Jackson Memorial. You mind explaining what happened here today?”

  I prayed hard for her to go away. Being caught on film like a detained prisoner was not good PR.

  “I’ll answer any questions you have.” I heard Clint looming over us both.

  “Yes. And you are?” The newscaster flew to his attention like red meat cast in an ocean full of sharks. She was determined to eat him alive first before the others picked up on it.

  “I’m Dr. Fairchild, the Department Chair of Pediatrics and Neonatal.” He started off slow and meticulous. Then the tone changed to fast and passionate. I was tempted to look up, wondering if this was the same man who only days ago had given defeat the upper hand. “This hospital has saved more lives than any other facility in this county. The doctors here are dedicated to their community and know what it’s like to have grown up without decent health care. None of us want to see that happen to the many children in this area.” Shark meat he was not.

  I finally got the nerve to lift my head. Three or four cameras were pointed in Clint’s direction, and he was ready for round two. One camera was pointed at me. I stared into the black lens only a second before putting my head back down. All I could hope was that Jake wasn’t watching the news. This was definitely going to fall in the irrational column.

  Sounds Like Mail

  We were a battered bunch. Everyone sat hunched over in chairs, on the floor, or standing against the wall. The holding cell was one big room with a tiny window and a posted sign in black and white, gigi’s bailbonds at affordable rates. The barred gate that should have been closed and locked was slid half open. Our group wasn’t a flight risk. By the looks of things, no one was headed anywhere. We were honest criminals, if there were such a thing, the kind that paid their fines and scooted over to make room for new inmates.

  The phone rang forever it seemed before Jake picked up. He answered on a bad connection. “You’re a snail?”

  “No, I said in jail. … Where are you, why can’t you hear me?”

  “You’ve got mail?” He was beginning to sound facetious, and this was no time to play around.

  “Jake, I need my ID. I’ve been arrested.”

  “You’re in jail?” he said, finally getting it.

  “Yes.”

  Silence followed on both our parts. I refused to speak again. Not until I heard what he was thinking.

  “How in the world?”

  “I’ll tell you later. I have to get out of here, and they won’t let me leave until I can show some ID.”

  “You’ll tell me now.”

  “There was a commotion at the hospital. I stepped in to help a girl who was being harassed by the police.”

  “You interfered while someone was being arrested.”

  “No. Well, yes. Absolutely. The police guy was twisting her arm and shoving her. When I tried to help, he turned around and arrested me.”

  Silence.

  “I can’t leave until I show them a picture ID. I left my purse in my office at the hospital.” I was doing my best not to get choked up. “Can you bring my old ID, or my passport?”

  “Too busy getting arrested?”

  “Yeah, okay, too busy getting arrested. Can you just bring it?” I heard a voice in the background. A female voice. “Where are you?” I asked, this time really wanting to know.

  “Jake,” I whispered when he didn’t respond. The phone went dead. I pushed the button to dial again. The phone was gently pried from my hands.

  “There’s a line.” The skinny police officer with bad acne all over his chin nodded past me. I followed his vision to the endless line of first-time offenders.

  “I have to call my husband back … really quick. We got cut off.”

  “Sorry, it’ll have to be after everyone else has had their chance.”

  “But…” I moved out of line and sat down. Next to me was the young woman I’d like to think I rescued. She had no visible signs of damage, but she held her wrist cradled against her chest.

  “You all right?” I asked.

  “It’s twisted, not broken.”

  “Why in the world were they trying to arrest you? I just can’t figure that out.”

  “I can’t figure it out either.” She stared straight ahead and shrugged her thin shoulders. We weren’t doing anything. Most of us were there to get credit in our Pan-African Studies class. We were supposed to find a just cause and participate in effective change.” She rolled her eyes.

  “So why were the police called?”

  “I don’t know. We were minding our business, quiet as church mice. All of a sudden the police pull up in full riot gear and everything. We stopped to stare. Anthony was with us—he’s in my class. He dropped his sign and started booking. We’re all like, Why is Anthony running? The cops swooped on him and dragged him back like a runaway slave. I will admit, when they brought him back with a busted mouth and giant knot on his forehead, some of us got a little rowdy.”

  “So they came after him.”

  “They couldn’t have. All that was after the fact. Up till then, there was no reason for a team of police to be there. And Anthony, he’s just like that. He’s afraid of LAPD. He thinks they’re out for one thing, to serve and protect, and break a black man’s neck,” she said almost to a beat. I looked around and hoped no one else heard even though it was a consensus the police department would never live down after the Rodney King debacle.

  “He didn’t do anything except run. They didn’t have to beat him up like that just ’cause he ran.”

  I nodded.

  “Thanks again. I mean, you didn’t have to step in like that.”

  “No problem. I’d do it again if I had the chance. I wouldn’t change a thing.” I bit the inside of my jaw. Maybe I’d bring my purse next time. Use pepper spray instead of trying to jump on an officer’s back. Then he couldn’t have seen me. Better yet, maybe I could’ve screamed in her defense instead of physically jumping in. Pain was creeping up the center of my spine where the officer had practically slung me down on my butt.

  “Shavonda Miller!”

  The young woman I’d been speaking with stood up. The lady officer with a huge beehive bun on top of her head waved a hand forward. “Shavonda Miller, you’re free to go.”

  “See you around,” Shavonda said.

  Something told me it was quite the opposite. I wouldn’t be seeing her ever, at least not on the picket line. “Take care,” I whispered, since she was already gone.

  I let my head fall in my hands and decided sitting in jail overnight might be better than dealing with Jake’s attitude. Seeing him smirk and hearing “I told you so” would be torture.

  “Venus Johnston-Parson,” the loud woman with the bun yelled. I stood up like a jack-in-the-box.

  “Me. Here. Yes.” I moved quickly, expecting to see my husband looking perturbed but forgiving.

  “You’re free to go.” The female police officer pointed me to the exit sign. She stamped my hand and told me to show it to the officer at the exit. The red ink said, free. I had to stop myself from cracking up. I was far from free; I was in a pot of scalding hot water.

  “Venus.”

  I turned around confused, shuddering from the loss of balance. It was Clint who took a step toward me, holding my purse at his side. “You okay?”

  “Thank you. How did you know I needed my ID?”

  “I called the station.” Clint handed me my purse. “They said they would let you go on your own recognizance if you could prove who you were.” He tilted his head. “I figured your purse had to be in your office.”

  “Right. Thank you.” I clutched the bag to my chest, wondering if he’d seen the nasty note I’d written about Kandi inside. Not so much a note, but scribbles of evil defeat and doom. At least I’d folded it up in tiny origami squares. It would’ve taken a bit of energy on his part of open it up and read. “Thank you. Thanks a lot.” I walked fast, showing the police officer my stamped hand. I pushed past the dou
ble doors with Clint right on my heels.

  “I better get going.”

  “I’ll take you. You need a ride, right?”

  “No. I better not. I’ll get a taxi.”

  “Let me give you a ride, V.”

  I thought about it, looking up and down the dark city street, wondering if Jake was on his way.

  “I better not. Thank you, though.” I watched Clint go, then craned my neck up and down the street, looking past cars like a child waiting for her late parent to pick her up. After waiting nearly an hour, I finally called the Yellow Cab Company.

  As I pulled her door closed, Jake was coming up the stairs.

  “I see you made it home,” he said.

  I heard the door close downstairs, Trina leaving. I didn’t see her anywhere when I’d come in. Jake went straight to our bedroom, tossing his keys and wallet on the dresser. He sat on the edge of the bed to take off his shoes. “I went to the police station.” He pulled out the blue leatherbound passport and held it up. “By the time I got there, you were already gone.”

  Guilt nudged me to take a step toward him. “I waited over an hour. I thought you were too mad. I didn’t think you were coming.”

  “And what, you thought I’d leave you there?” He sucked his teeth and took a long deep breath. “I’m going to bed.”

  The rest of the night was a wordless tango. A silent fight. Tossing and turning under the covers. Low heavy deep breaths. I lay awake, staring at the back of Jake’s head, wondering what I’d say when he eventually would ask, How’d you get your ID to be released? I walked, I ran, I flew, back to the hospital, the little witch that I am, just hopped on my little broomstick and flew. A far better answer than saying Clint rescued me. Things were out of control.

  Duty Calls

  I woke up ready to tackle another day at the asylum. I jumped out of bed loaded with determination. Things were going to change around Jackson Memorial, I vowed to myself. I tiptoed toward the bathroom.