Second Thoughts

by Kristofer Clarke

  “No. He…” I remembered her direction to only answer the questions I was asked. “No,” I repeated.

  “How did he find out?”

  “He overheard.”

  I paused and sat back uncomfortably in the black, leather chair.

  “Would you like to explain?”

  “I was sitting on the back steps with my friend Taylor. I needed someone to confide in because I knew I couldn’t tell my father anything, and I wasn’t ready to mention anything to my mother. I whispered to Taylor about these feelings I was having. I think she got a little excited and yelled that I was gay. I asked her to be quiet. When I told her, yes, I was, or at least, so I thought, she was looking straight through me. When I turned around, following her gaze, my father was standing at the back door, with that same look on his face that Mister had when he stood outside the window as Miss Celie practiced her spelling.”

  Seeing the smile on Ms. Wallace’s face made me feel more at ease.

  “Was that the first secret you shared with Taylor?” Ms. Wallace asked, still smiling.

  “Your Honor,” Mr. Medlin interrupted, “I don’t see what this has to do with anything.”

  I smiled when the judge paid no attention to his objection. I didn’t think this question had anything to do with why I was sitting here, either, but I was happy to answer.

  “No,” I shouted into the microphone.

  I looked out into the courtroom, stealing a quick eye-to-eye with Taylor DeAngela Duncan.

  I’ve always called her Dee-Dee. I was the only person she would allow to call her that name─even today─and I had fought hard for that privilege. I’d met Taylor at Francis Elementary School in Mr. Skidmore’s second grade class. She was a beautiful girl. She always wore her silky, jet-black hair in a ponytail, and often removed stubborn hair that found its way too close to her eyes. She always smiled before she spoke, revealing the one deep dimple that always appeared in her left cheek. I almost never knew when she was being serious. Taylor was unusually tall, much like her father. Everyone made her my childhood crush. The neighborhood boys made her my at-home girlfriend; my classmates made her my second grade love interest.

  I wish he had the guts to look at me. His behaviors were similar to most defendants, guilty or innocent, but it was usually the guilty ones, staring at you, hoping to evoke enough fear to cause you to choke on your words. Or whispering in his lawyer’s ear when he thought he’d heard a truth that could be twisted and flipped into the lie they wanted it to be.

  I looked over at my father. His lips were close enough to kiss Mr. Medlin’s earlobes. Whatever he was saying wasn’t going to work this time. Ms. Wallace was here to make certain of that. What could he possibly be telling him?

  Nine years, three hundred and sixty-three days to the day was the last time I saw my father, and I have been having that dream ever since. That man had really messed with my mind. I can’t begin to tell you what he did with my trust. What happened in those two weeks in the courtroom was painted on the inside of my eyelids. As spruced-up as he was, he was no better than the criminal he would be calling roommate or the ones he would be breaking bread with. The expression “no bad deed goes unpunished” has never sounded so melodic. He couldn’t hide behind his tailor-mades or his money. It bothered me, even then, that he held his head high in arrogance even with his hands cuffed behind him and freedom, as he knew it, had been reduced to nothing more than a few hours in a fenced-in courtyard.

  I knew this day was coming; still I hadn’t been able to focus on anything else all week. The session today with Dr. Kendrick did help some, but now in the dark of night, I sat wide-awake. I had kept my phone off before my session with Doc. I had kept my visits with her a secret─one of my many secrets─and had no intention of telling anyone I was seeing a shrink. I needed to talk to someone. I wasn’t sure who to reach out to. There were so many people who knew nothing about this ruinous event in my life─an event that screwed up my perception on life and love, and screwed up was putting that shit lightly. What my father did affected so many parts of me. I had made so many attempts to bury it along with my father and any memories of him─failed. I knew who I saw when I looked in the mirror, what I saw in my dreams, and what kept replaying in my mind, even as I tried to drown them out with my own sexual excursions. Why didn’t she stop him? Fuck! She should have known him well enough to know she should have been protecting me from him. But she couldn’t have known; that wasn’t the part of himself he showed her.

  Chapter 4

  Taylor…

  Every Time I Close My Eyes

  She looked the type, like she came from old money. The type that stood in the middle of her living room dressed in a pencil skirt and cashmere sweater, strands of pearls draped around her neck, standing on heels five inches high, with a lighted camel cigarette between her middle and index fingers. She was old, with skin whose wrinkles had been pulled, tucked, and stitched during plastic surgery, and she looked like she had been born wrapped in racism. I was going to use all that I assumed to work in my favor when she greeted him, a tall man, her counterpart minus a few years, and said not as much as one word to me. I began walking behind this man and older woman, who had introduced herself to him as Mrs. Abigail Mennifield, as they headed towards her office. I waited for her to acknowledge me. As she turned, he interrupted.

  “How may I help you, Ms…?”

  He paused and waited for me to insert my name.

  “Ms. Taylor Duncan,” I said, switching my bag to my left hand and shaking his extended hand with my right. “I had a 9:30 appointment,” I looked at my watch, “and have been sitting out there for about forty-five minutes, long before that gentleman arrived,” I pointed at his back. “Yet she said nothing to me.” I tried to stay calm, but damn it, I was heated.

  “Well, Ms. Duncan, I will apologize on Mrs. Mennifield’s behalf. She’s stuck in her old ways.”

  He should have been ashamed to admit that.

  “I’m sorry, Mr….” I paused, realizing he had not given me a name.

  “Jeremy McIntosh,” he announced, apologetically.

  “Mr. McIntosh, her old ways, as you say, don’t belong in a reputable company such as Ernst and Young. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “You are right.”

  I was surprised he concurred.

  Before I knew it, I was sitting in Mr. McIntoch’s office, going over the terms of my new position as finance manager. So, thank you Ms. Abigail Mennifield for being such a dismissive bitch. Since then, I have seen men of all shapes and sizes walk through these doors, sit in front of my desk with their legs spread eagle, and bulges sitting pretty either to the right or to the left of their fitted suits. No doubt it was done purposely, and I did my best to ignore them. Besides Dillon, none of them sent shivers down my spine or a surge of sexual urge through my body like this DaMarcus Nealon.

  I wasn’t supposed to look at him, not with the kinds of thoughts that shot through my head the moment I saw him. I could have cleared all the files and electronics from my desk and let him have his way with me, with no regards to who saw. I shouldn’t have been thinking about staring in his face after a night of brain-numbing sex, and by the looks of him, I was hoping he wasn’t a two-minute man. But he was with her, Ms. Belinda Nealon. That was the name she so proudly used. Until then, I’d only known Mr. Nealon by name, occupation, a few oversized pictures on the walls of his oversized mansion, and a hefty salary on tax documents I prepared for them.

  I met Belinda one year earlier at a mutual friend’s birthday party. She arrived to our friend Ingrid’s house in style, with friends Shayna and Julie. Although her girls were there, Belinda was eager to strike up a conversation with me. I guess being friends with Ingrid was the only clearance I needed. Belinda and DaMarcus had relocated from Wisconsin after a lavish wedding in the Event Garden on the grounds of the Olbrich Botanical Gardens. Her reception was held in the Evjue Commons, with its vaulted ceilings, skylights, and a full glass wall. She talked
about her wedding as if we were childhood friends catching up on lost years. I was waiting for her pull out baby pictures, but in that moment, I had already decided she looked too self-absorbed to be a mother─I wasn’t judging, just an observation. She wasn’t an open book. No, she was an open library, except I didn’t need a library card to access the information she so willingly shared.

  She was almost the prototypical football wife, but she never surrounded herself with those that shared this title. She didn’t have time for holograms, nor did she need the spotlight or the ones who craved it. She ran the streets with her girls─ Paris, Milan, Aruba─always with Shayna, usually during football season when DaMarcus was busy one-handing balls for the Atlanta Falcons.

  A few weeks later, I was sitting in the company of these ladies, in Belinda’s expansive living room, watching an episode of Real Housewives of Atlanta. There were pictures of her and DaMarcus everywhere. A large black and white portrait of a happy, handsome groom and a bride who wasn’t alone in love hung above a fireplace in the family room. The stoned wall was impeccable, and extended from floor to high vaulted ceiling. Another picture sat on a mantle over a two-way fireplace next to the soaker tub in the bathroom of the master bedroom. And the most intriguing of them all, the one that would have sent saliva down the sides of my mouth if I hadn’t kept it closed, hung above a California King bed. In the picture, this sculpted statue of a man stood with his legs apart, with a game-size football covering his private part. Oh, what I would have given to have the same view that football had. I thought the picture looked familiar, and soon realized it was an un-cropped, untouched version from the cover of a recent ESPN magazine, just before the start of the football season. If I hadn’t fallen in love with him before, I was in love with him now. I was definitely enjoying this pictorial tour. Even though he wasn’t mine, I wanted to get on my knees and thank God for bringing this beautiful man my way, and when I’m done thanking him, I can thank Belinda, too.

  By the fourth glass of pinot noir, Belinda was acting like she was loose off the goose. Most of her banter were jabs at the ‘Housewives’ cast, at everyone except Lisa and Ed, of course. She and Lisa had been close during Ed’s stint with the Falcons, but since Ed left the team and Lisa had become totally engrossed with filming episodes for the show, Belinda’s trips to Atlanta had been few and far between.

  “Taylor,” Belinda had called out, and brought me back to the moment, “I said I have someone I want you to meet.”

  “DaMarcus,” he said. “So, you’re the woman my wife has chosen to trust with our money?”

  “Is there someone else in here that appears more trusting?” I’d asked, looking around and then directly at him. “No? Then I guess I’m that woman.”

  He smiled, and with that smile, I knew I had him.

  When I finally walked from behind my desk and extended my hand, he pulled me in and gave me one of those church sister hugs, you know, with a little distance between our bodies. Still, I felt sparks. Just before he released me, he kissed my cheek. His action surprised the shit out of me. When he kissed me, I was happy I had on underwear. I didn’t normally wear underwear, but I did that day, only because my dress was shorter than usual. Thank God, cause if I didn’t, it would have been a messy situation. When I get excited, I need a Depends. I flow like a water fountain, and this was the accident DaMarcus’ kiss was causing inside my panties. Before I knew it, I was spending weekends with him in New Orleans, San Diego, and Arizona, waking in his arms after a hard fought away game. I felt like a hypocrite, laughing and smiling in Belinda’s face all while sharing the man she had exchanged vows with. I just didn’t feel bad enough to stop, at least not then.

  Even when Chad came into my life─the man I knew belonged to only me─I still didn’t feel inclined to stop the obsession DaMarcus and I had with each other. Even after Chad’s proposal, when I knew his heart told him I was going to say “yes”, I’d shot him down with a resounding no, all because I wasn’t ready to let go of someone else’s man. Unbeknownst to Chad, I had fallen in love with DaMarcus, right under his nose, and although it wasn’t fair to him, I still kept him around. At least he stayed. When Quinton, the child DaMarcus and I shared, came⎯at least that’s what I’d told him⎯I was even more inclined to hang on to him, and for whatever reason, I wanted to hang on to Chad, too. Yes, I was having my cake and eating it, too, and for the moment, every slice of these men tasted just as good as the previous. I concocted the lies and stories I needed and made Chad believe this baby was his. I hated myself for doing so. Damn! The things you do for love. And the evening Belinda and Shayna came home from their vacation in the Turks and Caicos Islands⎯the same trip she had invited me to, which I quickly declined because I had plans for DaMarcus and me while she was away⎯and caught me showering in their house, I lied again, and watched as DaMarcus lied convincingly to keep the woman he loved in his life. DaMarcus and I had a lot to lose, but he was the only person I was truly worried about losing, even though he didn’t belong to me.

  When Belinda filed for divorce, and I thought, finally, he was coming home to me, DaMarcus did what he needed to convince her to rethink the divorce, and to make it all that much more believable, I allowed him to persuade me to partake in a farce of a ceremony to renew their vows. Everybody plays a fool, but I was playing a bigger fool than ever. It was then that I realized I had nothing to lose and nothing to hold on to.

  I’d met DaMarcus and had become nothing like the woman who raised me, and I was only a fragment of the woman she had raised me to be. I began correcting the mistakes I had made one by one. I poured out the rest of what was left in my heart in a letter to Belinda on my flight from D.C. to Philadelphia. I had picked up an “I’m Sorry” card from a card shop in the airport, pulled out the last two stamps from my bag, placed them on the envelope, and dropped them in the mailbox a few blocks from my sister’s house as soon as the sun rose the next day. I told her everything, beginning with our sexual affair that lasted just that one night since that was the first and only time DaMarcus and I actually had sex. I’d told Belinda that was the night Quinton was conceived. I also told her I didn’t want anything from him, and this was my out. I doubt she read the letter in its entirety, which I didn’t care, since I front-loaded it with everything she needed to know, and added what I needed to make it spicy. I haven’t spoken to Belinda since. I thought I was done with DaMarcus, but my recent predicament had me reaching out to him again.

  Quinton had a difficult time falling asleep after the nightmare he had the previous night. As small as he was, he had taken up most of the space on this queen-sized bed. He had his left leg thrown over my waist, and his arms stretched above his head. That definitely wasn’t the position he started in. Before he fell asleep, he was lying on his stomach, his face resting on the back of his hands, and his head in the same direction as mine, towards the head-board.

  While he slept like a baby, I had a more difficult time joining him in that land far, far away. Every time I closed my eyes his face appeared. No matter how I tried to shake Dillon’s face from my mind, I failed. It didn’t help that I could smell his scent on my lips. What have you gotten yourself into? I thought. I wanted to get on my knees next to my bed and ask God for forgiveness. My intention was not to lock lips with my sister’s husband.

  I looked at the clock across the room.

  “Damn! 2:45 a.m. Sleep, where are you?” I asked, of course, not expecting sleep to answer.

  “Taylor, are you awake?”

  It was Vanessa. She had tapped lightly on the door. I purposely ignored her. In the dark, my eyes were wide open, searching for an explanation or reason that excused my actions tonight. Besides being stupid, no other explanation came to mind. I could tell in her voice something had happened at the hospital tonight. I could see her now, sitting in silence outside my bedroom door with her head tilted back towards the wall, with tears down the sides of her face. Just like I had done during her years in residency while at Baylor, I want
ed to hold her head in the fold of my arms and tell her everything was going to be all right. Tonight I would be no help.

  Chapter 5

  DaMarcus…

  How Could I Let You Get Away

  Damned song stuck in my head like a bad cold, or a bad memory I couldn’t get rid of. How could I let you get away, when I knew I’d need somebody soon? My father had given me this Spinners record several years back. It used to be his favorite record. How Could I Let You Get Away used to be my favorite song, but that was before it had any real meaning. Now it only reminded me of the one woman I never thought I would lose, and I had no one to blame but myself. Now every time I think about that song, Belinda came to mind.

  It wasn’t too long before I was admitting that I’d fucked up. Before I would close my eyes and thank God I had found her, now I had my eyes opened, cursing aloud at my stupidity because I had lost the best thing to ever happen to me. Too bad I didn’t realize this until I was standing in front of our house between colonial style columns, facing double wood entry doors, and packed bags staring up at me. I wanted to ask how the hell she could put me out of our house, but I quickly answered, “Because she damn well could.” I wasn’t going to argue with her decision. I knew she had found out the truth, though I didn’t find out how until the divorce proceedings. I picked up the bags and walked down the slate walkway.

  She was unlike any of the women my mother had warned me about. We were on our way to the campus of Texas Southern University when my mother, Shala Wallace-Nealon─she kept her hyphenated last name even after she and my father separated─started that talk she’s been having with me since I’d reached puberty. I was already a good catch in the eyes of so many. My family was well off, and I was the number one recruited wide receiver coming out of Gonzaga High School, a high school for boys. My mother had decided that I needed to focus on academics and sports, and girls would have only been an unneeded distraction. She felt the talk was necessary, especially with my family’s riches, and the possibilities of my being a first round draft pick.