The Secret Lives of Church Ladies

by Philyaw, Deesha

  PARKING

  There is on-street parking in my neighborhood. I recommend you park at least one block away. The nearby business district provides a convenient alibi.

  SOCIAL MEDIA AND TECHNOLOGY

  Facebook: Continue to post Scripture memes about God’s faithfulness and how Jesus is your all in all, if you do that sort of thing. If you don’t, don’t start now. See also “Your Religion” below.

  Because this town is small, Facebook may recommend me as a Person You May Know. I hope it goes without saying that you should delete this.

  Post a picture of your wife on Woman Crush Wednesdays #wcw, but be sure to caption it that she is your crush every day. Also post pictures of the two of you on your anniversary, her birthday, and at other random times, just to say how amazing she is. Your profile picture should be a picture of the two of you.

  Communication: We will not exchange phone numbers. We will communicate exclusively via the texting app I asked you to download.

  Your phone: Lock it. Require a passcode or finger-swipe combination to unlock it.

  Photos: Don’t send them. Don’t ask for them.

  Note: If you want to get caught, as some of you do because you don’t have the courage to pull the plug on your marriage directly, ignore these precautions. See also “Your Conscience.”

  ABOUT ME

  The less you know, the better. And that works both ways. Boundaries are crucial. Here’s what I can tell you:

  I have no children, and I’ve never been married. My life is my own. I own a bakery, which is probably where we met. Maybe I baked your wedding cake or your daughter’s birthday cake. I make the best peach cobbler in the city.

  I grew up watching my mother eating the crumbs and leftovers from another woman’s table. I swore I never would. But here I am grubbing, licking the edges.

  HEALTH AND WELLNESS

  Bring original copies only of your STI test results from tests taken within the last thirty days. No exceptions. No, not even if you haven’t been with anyone besides your wife in decades. Surely you understand why I can’t take you at your word. No honor among thieves. Or something like that.

  If you aren’t capable of making an appointment for yourself and getting the testing done, you don’t deserve to fuck.

  You will wear a condom at all times. This is non-negotiable. If you are unable to get an erection while wearing a condom, go home to your wife.

  Note: My baby factory has been closed, surgically, for some time now. No worries there.

  YOUR RELIGION

  By all means, continue teaching Sunday School, leading the Boy Scout troop, and serving on the deacon board at church.

  If guilt gets the best of you, do not attempt to witness to me or invite me to church. Don’t ask me to repent, because I regret nothing.

  You can’t save me, because I’m not in peril.

  YOUR WIFE

  Don’t speak ill of her to me. I don’t want to hear about how she just lies there like a starfish during sex or how she emasculates you in front of company. That’s a slippery slope to justifying why you’re here, and we’re not doing that.

  You know her, but I know women. You assume she would be angry or disappointed to learn you’re cheating. But you may be surprised to know some wives are actually relieved. Your wife probably appreciates the peace and quiet of you taking your needs elsewhere. She may actually desire sex, just not with you, not anymore. You may want to explore with a marriage counselor why that is. See also “Therapist.”

  MONEY

  Gifts are welcome, but do not offer me money or to pay my bills. I’m not a sex worker.

  SEX

  You may spank me and dress me up in trashy lingerie. I find those things tedious and terribly unoriginal, but I will oblige. See also “Fantasies.”

  I am easily and multiply orgasmic. Understand this has very little to do with your sexual prowess. Physical arousal is easy; I crave mental and intellectual stimulation. Get inside my head. Surprise me. Challenge me.

  I’m not overly concerned with your dick, though it is important. I like hands. I really, really like hands. The bigger, the better. I want to be held, caressed, cupped, and grabbed.

  I also like lips and tongues and kissing. Deep, passionate kisses, and biting. I will come if you kiss me right. If you discover my secret place and kiss me there and touch me there just right, I will drown us both.

  Note: Do you know what your wife likes and doesn’t like? You should.

  YOUR CONSCIENCE

  If you decide to confess to your wife, make sure she doesn’t come over to my house. She will get her feelings hurt. Our arrangement is nonbinding; if you want to leave, go. But don’t bring your mess into my yard.

  And when you’re here, don’t dawdle. I hate small talk. Leave your nerves outside my door. Do or don’t do; there is no try.

  See also “Therapist.”

  SUBSTANCES

  Don’t come to me under the influence of anything. You will be fully in control of your faculties and responsible for your actions at all times.

  Don’t ask me to score drugs either. Not even weed. Ask your cousin, the one everybody in your family says should be more like you.

  TRAVEL

  I am available to travel with sufficient notice and at your expense.

  THERAPIST

  I am not yours. I don’t want to hear about your fears of failure or inadequacy, childhood traumas, midlife regrets, children, or frustrations with your job. This is one of the safeguards that keeps feelings at bay, and more importantly, it keeps me from resenting you the way your wife does.

  YOUR ARRIVAL

  Place your wedding band on my nightstand. Your hands may be immaculate, nails tapered. Or they may be rough and dry from the cold, lack of attention, or both. But they must be large, and your grip should always be firm and aggressive.

  Remove your cuff links and unbutton your monogrammed shirt. Pull your alma mater or fraternity sweatshirt over your head. Take off the striped polo shirt your kids gave you for Father’s Day.

  Take off your undershirt. Your chest may be hairy or smooth; your manscaping, or lack thereof, is your business. Your abs may be taut and defined, or you may have dad bod, soft and rounded in places that used to be taut. Or your belly may tell the story of the nightly cognac, gin, or beer you drink to forget. Or to remember.

  Slip off your Cole Haan loafers or your Adidas. Take off your socks. Or leave them on.

  Toss your jeans, your sweats, your tailored Armani suit pants onto the back of my chair, the foot of my bed, or the floor.

  Pull down your boxers or boxer briefs and step out of them. (If you are wearing regular briefs, you will be asked to leave.) Show me that you are ready for me, or that you are not yet ready and would like my assistance.

  Silence your phone, or don’t.

  Regardless of the options you choose above, you will remove the reminder that you don’t belong here. Your wedding band must remain on my nightstand, in view at all times. It is your lifesaver. It will keep you from floating away into me for more than a few hours.

  FOREPLAY

  I understand that sex with your wife is an orchestrated event you prep for, much like surgery. She requires coaxing, compliments, massages, and other romantic gestures to get her in the mood to have sex with you. I require no such thing. I build monuments to my impulses and desires on the backs of men like you.

  FANTASIES

  We all have a dark side. I invite you to explore yours with me. I won’t judge or shame you, and it goes without saying that all your secrets are safe with me. If you propose something I can’t oblige, I’ll simply say no, and we’ll never speak of it again.

  I understand that some fantasies aren’t dark. They just . . . are. Same rules apply. No judgment, no shame. Role-playing is a good way to discover what you like. I have some favorites I can share with you, upon request.

  FEELINGS

  I hate to break it to your ego, but good dick won’t cause me to d
evelop feelings for you. If you develop feelings for me, don’t worry; the moment will pass.

  Under no circumstances should you even think about leaving your marriage for me. You can leave the marriage if you want, but not for me. I’m not waiting in the wings for you to be single. Remember: My reasons for wanting you are predicated on your hunger and the fact that you are off limits. Don’t ruin this for me by acting like a lovelorn teenager.

  Note: In the event I do start to fall for you, you will know because I’ll stop responding to your text messages. This is for the best.

  The austere tone of these instructions aside, I actually like you and can’t wait to fuck you. If I didn’t like you, if the thought of you didn’t make my panties wet, we wouldn’t be here.

  YOUR DEPARTURE

  You will leave beyond satisfied. I will treat every time we’re together as if it’s our last. So many wild cards with men like you, I’ve learned.

  Shower or don’t. Gather your things. Leave nothing behind. Slide your ring back onto your finger. Tread until you are back on dry land.

  WHEN EDDIE LEVERT COMES

  “TODAY IS the day,” Mama announced, as she did every day when Daughter came to her room with the breakfast tray.

  “Good morning, Mama.” Daughter set the tray on the padded bench in front of Mama’s vanity. She squinted at the early morning sun shining through the thin curtains. Mama’s vanity was covered with powders and bottles of fragrances that hadn’t been touched in months.

  Mama brushed past Daughter without a word. She opened a chifforobe drawer and took out a navy-and-white-striped short-sleeved blouse. She carried the blouse over to her bed and placed it above a light-blue cotton skirt with an elastic waistband, smoothing down the fabric of both items with her hands, as if ironing. She frowned.

  “Where did all my beautiful things go?” she asked Daughter, the room, the air. “My beautiful wrap dresses and my pencil skirts? I want to look my best for him. He’s coming today, you know. Where are my lovely sheer blouses and my pant-suits? Have you seen them? Did you move them from my closet? Are you stealing from me?”

  “No, Mama,” Daughter said.

  “I bought all of those things with my employee discount at Marshall Field’s department store. You have no right to take them from me.”

  Daughter didn’t remind Mama that Marshall Field’s didn’t exist anymore, and that she hadn’t worked there since the eighties. Instead she gently led Mama away from the bed and into her recliner so she could eat. Mama’s appetite was still solid. The doctor said that was a good thing, relatively speaking.

  Mama chattered on as she busied herself buttering toast and adding ketchup to her eggs, something Daughter had always thought gross even though she liked both ketchup and eggs.

  “He’s coming today,” Mama said between chews. Droplets of ketchup dotted the white ribbon on the front of her nightgown. Irrationally, this irked Daughter, and she made a mental note to put some stain remover on it before throwing it in the wash. Easily irked and forever trying to make order out of chaos, she was indeed her mother’s daughter—the mother before this current mother. In some ways, Daughter preferred this current mother. In the oblivion of her mind, Mama was kinder—accusations of theft notwithstanding—and her needs were simpler.

  Mama dabbed at her mouth with a paper towel. “Delicious. Thank you,” she said in Daughter’s general direction.

  “You’re welcome, Mama.” Daughter was still getting used to such courtesy. She headed for the door. It was almost time for her first house showing of the day and for the home nurse to arrive and relieve her.

  “You can come right back for this tray,” Mama called after her. “I got to get ready. He’ll be here shortly. Make sure you let me know when he’s at the door, hear?”

  Daughter heard, but she stood silent with her hand on the doorknob, her back to Mama.

  “Did you hear me?” Mama’s voice took on an edge of pleading. “Today’s the day.”

  Daughter left the room and shut the door tight behind her.

  As a kid during summer breaks from school, Daughter would sometimes whisper her real name to herself, just so she wouldn’t go months at a time without hearing it. Everyone except her teachers followed Mama’s lead and never called her by her name, always “Daughter,” as if she existed only in relation to her mother, to her function in the family. Daughter. Housekeeper. Cook. Babysitter. Nurse. Slave. That’s what she felt like. Daughter, could you do this? Daughter, could you do that? Which translated into: You will do this. You will do that. Without question or complaint, or else she got slapped. Meanwhile her brothers Rico and Bruce had been called by their given names and did only what they pleased.

  Not much changed in their adulthood, only that Bruce was dead. Drugs. Rico, his wife, and kids lived on the other side of town. Daughter had to shame him into coming over on occasion to give her a break at least, even if he didn’t care about spending time with Mama.

  “Yo, she’s gotta stop saying, ‘Today is the day,’ ” Rico had complained to Daughter the first time Mama told him about Eddie Levert. “I don’t want to keep hearing that crazy shit over and over again.”

  “I listen to it day in and day out,” Daughter snapped. “You want to trade places?”

  “You could hire someone full-time—”

  “Or you could act like a son who gives a damn.”

  Rico crossed his arms and sighed. At forty, he still had a baby face and a perpetual pout.

  “I shouldn’t have to pay someone to sit with her when you’re right here,” Daughter had said. “I know she wasn’t a perfect mother. But she is our mother.”

  “Don’t lecture me about her,” Rico said. Daughter knew that Mama didn’t like Rico’s wife, and the feeling was mutual, so she’d never gotten to know her grandkids. But Daughter had never asked Rico what it was like for him those two years between when she’d left home and when he left to join the air force. They had all been grieving Bruce’s death in their own way. But whatever life with Mama was like for Rico after Daughter moved out, she couldn’t imagine it being worse than what she endured: Mama had never laid a hand on Rico or Bruce.

  “Fine. I won’t lecture,” Daughter had said. “Just . . . if Mama wants to talk about Eddie Levert, let her. She ain’t hurtin’ nobody, Rico.”

  At least not the way she used to.

  The Bible says, “Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not depart from it.” In Mama’s case, in her old age, she never spoke of the Bible. Instead she preached the gospel of the coming of Eddie Levert, lead singer of her favorite group back in the day, the O’Jays.

  Both Eddie and Mama, son and daughter of the South, had had to bury their children, something even Daughter, who had never had kids, understood as especially cruel. Perhaps Mama had followed Eddie’s life and career over the years and felt a special, unshakable bond with him.

  In one of the family photo albums in Daughter’s basement, there was a Polaroid picture of Mama with Eddie, taken in the seventies when the O’Jays came to town. Mama had somehow gotten backstage after the concert—Daughter had never been told the details—and took the picture, which Eddie signed. In the picture, Mama wore a low-cut, fire-red dress that hugged all her curves. Her hair, dyed a brassy reddish brown, had been hot combed and then curled into Farrah Fawcett flips. If not for her full nose and lips, she could’ve passed as a Farrah look-alike, as she was barely darker. Eddie was as dark as Mama was light. He wore a white suit, his chest bare, lapels wide. With his arm wrapped tight around Mama’s tiny waist, Eddie grinned big at the camera. Mama grinned big at him. As a child, Daughter would pull out the album from time to time and stare at the photo, proof that Mama had once been happy.

  When Daughter moved out at eighteen, it was partly because she feared Mama’s unhappiness was contagious and partly because she was tired of being everyone’s maid. Once she was out of the house, Daughter didn’t walk away completely. There were no more slaps, no mo
re wounding words, and from the outside looking in, Mama and Daughter could’ve been mistaken for close.

  One Friday evening, Daughter and Mama sat at the kitchen table waiting for Rico to arrive. Daughter had shamed him into coming over for a few hours so she could go out to dinner with Tony, an old friend from high school. Tony stopped by from time to time to take care of things Daughter needed taken care of around the house. Including Daughter. The year before, after Mama had a second stroke and the doctor diagnosed her with vascular dementia, it was Tony, not Rico, who had helped Daughter pack up Mama’s belongings and move her into Daughter’s house.

  When Tony arrived, Mama told him, “Today is the day. Eddie is coming.”

  Tony smiled at Mama and said, “Okay, young lady. I see you!”

  Mama beamed and stood up to show Tony her outfit. “This is all I could find in that chifforobe to wear.” She cut her eyes at Daughter, who just shook her head. “Do you think he will like it?”

  “Oh, yes, ma’am!” Tony said, “If I was a few years younger, Eddie would have some competition on his hands.”

  “Oh, go on!” Mama said, blushing.

  “It’s been so long since I seen him,” Mama said. With one hand, she tapped her tapered nails against the tabletop. With the other, she scratched her head. Daughter felt negligent; Mama was overdue for a wash and condition. Daughter would call her friend Tami in the morning to see if she could squeeze Mama in at her salon.

  When Rico finally arrived, forty-five minutes late, Mama clapped and said, “There’s my baby boy!”

  Rico kissed Mama on the cheek, but rolled his eyes when she told him Eddie was coming. “Why is she scratching her head like that?” he asked Daughter with entirely too much bass and accusation in his voice.

  “Don’t.” Daughter hissed at him in response. She turned to Mama. “Mama, Tony and I are going out. Rico is going to stay with you. I’ll see you later.”