Authors: Leo Sullivan
–
Hope –
Three years later, life couldn’t have been better. My child was in
preschool, I was attending law school and my husband, Marcus,
had a great job making excellent money. He was far from being
perfect, but he was a good husband and father. We had a big house
out in the suburbs, in a multi-cultural community. For the first
time in my life, a sista was truly happy. I worked as a counselor for
troubled kids for the Department of Corrections. The pay wasn’t
bad, thirty eight thousand dollars a year. I went to school at night
to earn my law degree. In a lot of ways I knew that I was neglect-
ing my child as well as my husband, but I was less than a year
short of earning my degree and all my hard work would come to
fr uition. Upon my graduation I already secretly made plans to
take my family to Walt Disney World and just act like one big-ass
kid with Marcus. At least that was my dream.
For now, the reality was that most days when I came home, I
would be so tired, all I could do was take a quick shower and col-
lapse in the bed. Thank God Marcus was one of them fathers that
enjoyed cleaning and cooking, like it was second nature to him. I
could never understand it. I was just thankful. With him, every-
thing had to be extremely orderly and neat. I wished that he felt
the same way about my body and our sex life. Our sex life suffered
miserably. No matter what I did, the man just did not want no
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nooky. I even went out and bought all kinds of expensive lingerie,
read books on how to rekindle love after marriage and children.
Even bought one of them lovemaking tapes you see advertised in
the back of the
Essence
magazine. Marcus was numb from his
brain down. I even tried to molest him, my own damn husband.
I had never per formed oral sex and was anxious to tr y it on him.
He flatly refused me, saying that it was nasty and sinful. Made me
feel like a slut. I went out and bought myself a woman’s best
friend, the ultimate toy. I named it Big Boy. All a sister needed was
two D batteries and an imagination. I convinced myself that
things would change, just give it time. Besides, I realized that not
being at home a lot of times was placing strain on our marriage.
In my heart I knew that once I started practicing law and we were
able to take a long vacation, Marcus would change. In a lot of
ways, like many other women, I learned to love without sex and
that would have to suffice. Marcus and I lived on two separate
islands. Our only real connection was our child and the sad truth
about that was, it wasn’t even his child. I knew that the only rea-
son I accepted my husband’s denial of my body was to purge
myself from a woman’s greatest sin–infidelity that resulted in
another man’s child. The last few years I had learned to cope with
my transgressions.
*****
On September 4
, Cathy McMillan, the Judicial Judge for the
th
Ninth District of Tallahassee Juvenile division retired. She was 62
years old. On that day the entire juvenile department held an hon-
orary celebration. A catering ser vice provided lots of good food,
with the state footing the bill. I left work three hours early. With
my son at preschool and my husband at work, I was going to catch
a few Zs in my king sized bed and enjoy some peace and quiet.
Something I learned as a new wife and mother, working and going
to school, you slept when you could, not when you wanted to.
Rest can be a commodity given away for the sake of motherhood.
As I pulled my Benz into the driveway I noticed Marcus’
Range Rover in the carport. He never parked in there.
What is he
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doing home so early from work?
I wondered. Then I had this idea,
it overpowered me.
Sex!
As I hopped out of the car my pace quick-
ened. It felt like I was about to have a hormone attack. Sex was no
longer an option, it was a demand that I was not going to com-
promise. Right then and there I decided that Marcus was going to
give me some or I was going to turn this mutha out. A woman can
only take so much. We hadn’t had sex in over six months.
As I stepped inside our spacious living room, the first thing I
noticed was Marcus’ clothes thrown everywhere, like he was in a
hurr y to take them off. I thought that was particularly strange of
him, since he was a neat freak. Hesitantly, I placed my briefcase
and purse on the floor. My woman’s curiosity piqued, my senses
acute to any sight, sound or smell. I kicked off my high-heeled
pumps along with my suit coat. In my stocking feet I followed the
trail of abandoned clothes … up the stairs … to my bedroom
door. My heartbeat was in my throat as I listened astutely. On the
other side of the door I could hear panting, groans and sighs. The
sound of lovemaking. My husband was in my bed, making love to
another woman, on the satin sheets that he would not make love
to me on, in my fucking house. I was enraged! Past the brink of
no return. Insanity. My first thought was to find a gun and blow
both their goddamn brains out! Then I had a better idea. Much
better. I retraced my steps, tiptoeing backward.
I went out to the garage, retrieved the small gas can Marcus
used for the lawn mower. It was full. On my way back in I stepped
in an oil spot in the garage, tracked it back in on my eight thou-
sand dollar Persian rug that I was still making payments on. In the
living room I stopped and got the lighter out of the drawer. I
walked back up the stairs, gasoline in hand, footsteps smearing my
carpet with oil. At the door my hands trembled as I turned the
doorknob. The hump in the sheets confirmed the nightmare. The
two people did not even notice my entrance. I walked closer and
closer with murderous intent. Gas in one hand, lighter in the
other. I began to pour gas all over them and the bed, to set their
bodies into human flames. In their fevered frolic they did not even
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notice me. Then, to my utter disbelief, it was Stan’s hateful eyes
that stared back at me. He threw back the covers and I saw my
husband Marcus underneath him lying on his stomach. They both
looked back at me, then to the gasoline can in hand and it took
only a second for it to dawn on them what I was about to do. The
fumes were a dead giveaway. Can you say, extra crispy courtesy of
gasoline and fear? I flicked the cigarette lighter.
“
Noooo!” Stan shrieked and stood up in bed throwing the wet
gasoline covers off of him like that was going to save his ass from
the fire that I was going to ignite. As he stood there, from the size
of his huge erect penis as it dangled in front of my face, I realized
that my husband was definitely more woman than I was to take
that up his rectum.
“
Hope, this is not what you think!” Marcus screeched in ter-
ror.
“
Hope please don’t do this!” Stan pleaded for his life.
In my mind, in that moment of insanity, it would have been
better if I caught my husband with a woman. This only seemed to
infuriate me more. Two men packing shit, and with Stan of all
people. I reasoned all those years, that was why he hated me. He
was fucking my husband and was jealous. Now as I took a step,
lighter in hand, like some demon-possessed woman, I was fully
intent on torching his ass. Like a trapped animal he began to plead
and cry, begging for his life as his eyes frantically searched the
room, looking for a way out. I stood between the door of death
and his fiery hell. There was no way he was going to get past me
and the wrath of a woman’s vengeful anger. I flicked the Bic
lighter, stalking him with my movements, deliberate, measured.
Each step I took for ward he took two backward. Cat and mouse.
There’s something so sinister about death’s imminent demise, and
it registered in his face. The sweat, the tears mingling with fear.
“
Please! Please!” Hands outreached, face scowered in painful des-
peration.
“
I don’t believe this! How could ya’ll do this to me? Faggot-ass
fuck boys!” I screamed, irate.
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Stan was against the wall. Gasoline and perspiration gleamed
off of him like shiny wax. I could hear noise behind me and
turned just in time to see Marcus scrambling for the door. During
his haste, he fell, slipped, tried to get up and fell again. He busted
his ass. Once he was halfway steady, he hauled ass out of there. I
looked back at Stan, just as he lunged forward, leaped, took flight
and jumped out of my window, shattering glass. I stood there
huffing full of rage. I walked over to the window and peered out.
Stan was sprawled out in my driveway in obvious pain. In the fall,
he had broken both of his ankles and his spine. A few of my neigh-
bors were now standing outside their homes gawking at the naked
Black man now lying face down, ass up, in my driveway.
In a fit, I ran through the house searching for Marcus. I found
him cowering in the bathroom with the door locked.
“
Marcus, bring your pussy ass out here. Now nigga!” Yes, I
used the n-word but if you came home and caught your husband
in bed with another man with a dick the size of a log shoved up
his butt, you would be mad, too. Now that I think of it, maybe I
should have been jealous, my husband could take more dick than
me.
“
Marcus, bring your faggot ass, out here!” I screamed pound-
ing and kicking on the door like a crazed maniac. I listened. All I
could hear was water running at first.
“
Hope … Hope I was going to tell you,” Marcus whimpered
from the other side of the door. I had to strain to hear him.
“
Tell me what, that you a goddamn faggot and all the grips is
worn off your asshole? Muthafucka open up the damn door!” I
pounded, until a few minutes later I broke down and sobbed, cry-
ing uncontrollably like a baby. This was just too much.
“
Mar-cusss, Marcusss! We have a baby, a life … a family. How
could you do this to us?” Right there I plopped down on the floor,
my resolve shattering. I was only 24 years old and the brotha was
giving me a ner vous breakdown.
Marcus unlocked the door and peeked out to see if I still had
the gas can. Deciding it was safe, he came out into the hall.
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“
Hope, I’m sorr –”
I threw the cigarette lighter in my hand at him.
“
Muthafucka, you ruined everything!” I cried, looking for
something else to throw at him. Marcus now had on a pair of jeans