My Husband's Girlfriend (10 page)

I shower, finger-comb my hair, and run downstairs. And that’s when I remember. I tiptoe into the den. Dani is spread out on the sofa. Neil is gone. Maybe he woke up last night and went back to sleep in the library.

I start to just go on to the store and let everyone sleep in while I brave the shopping crowds, but looking at Dani, I suddenly decide that bitch has to get up and go with me.

I fall to my knees next to her and poke her shoulder. Her face looks calm, like she thinks about deep stuff while sleeping.

“Hey, Dani,” I whisper in her ear. “I’m about to go shopping. Why don’t you join me?”

She frowns in an ugly prune-face way, eyes still closed, gumming her mouth and making smacking noises. “Uh, sure.” She coughs without opening her eyes. “I can ride with you. Where’s Brax?”

“He’s being a little sleepy-head today. Don’t worry. Neil’s got that covered. We’ll be gone less than three hours.”

Dani sits up, clears her throat again, and traces her fingers across her throat. It’s still dark outside, but I know the sun is gonna rise within a half hour. It amazes me how, if you’re outside in the morning and you stare up at the sky, within seconds it seems to go from darkness to light. Like there’s not much difference between the two.

“Piss on me,” she complains, staring at her wrinkled shirt and vest. “Maybe I should stay behind. I don’t have a fresh change of clothes.”

“And my clothes are too big for you, so don’t even ask. I want you to go with me,” I insist, knowing I don’t want to leave her and Neil in my house.

“W–why do you want me to go?” she stammers.

“Well, we can talk some more…, Besides Vette is still asleep and I want you to help me out, if you don’t mind.”

She struggles to laugh. “Uh, okay, more talking, huh? I guess I can wash up, put on some deodorant.”

“You do that.”

After she freshens up we quietly head out. A long line of old ladies, starry-eyed kids, and a few cheap but good men has formed outside SuperTarget. I am not surprised. Those fools’ll do anything to save ten cents.

Dani follows me around the store. She rarely smiles. Doesn’t talk much. Every time I ask, “How does this ornament look?” she says, “You’re in charge, it looks great,” or something along those lines. I grin to myself. I have a need to know that she acknowledges my power.

Before we head to the checkout lane, I ask, “You need anything? Anything for Brax? You?”

“Well…” She shakes her head. “I don’t—”

“Tell you what. If you’re not opposed to getting clothes from here, go grab yourself a shirt at the minimum. I’d love for you to stay around the house till tonight. You might feel more comfy with a fresh shirt.”

She widens her eyes. “Buying me a shirt isn’t necessary. I live near here—”

“No, no. I do not want to go where you live, Dani. I just don’t. Now, this is my last offer, so you better run and grab something. Or if you’re too scared to do it, I’m not. I have great taste and—”

“Okay, okay.” She gives in. “Be right back.” While she runs toward the women’s department, I wait in line and wonder what else might transpire to make this a momentous holiday weekend.

Part 2

Anya & Dani

10

Dani

“A man that already has someone is more appealing than a man that
doesn’t have anybody.”

“Oh yeah?” Anya says.

“Well, sure,” I tell her. “It makes you feel like you’re getting something of value…if you know that someone else wants him, too.”

“Oh, so are you telling me Neil isn’t the first married man you’ve been with?”

Hmm, risky, risky conversation for sure. But, well, maybe it’s time for me to
try,
to even
suck up
my nervousness, and be a little forthcoming with Anya. I know she isn’t done with me yet. Insisting I stay over her crib all night is so unexpected, a bit
Twilight Zone
–ish. And I feel a bit, well, should I say it?

The S word. Okay, my hands are sweating, they won’t stop moving, my legs and feet are bouncing around like I’m listening to a thumping hip-hop song and I can’t keep still. Here I am sitting next to this potentially psycho woman. I’m in the passenger seat of her very neat-looking Honda. Too neat. No Burger King bags dumped on the floor, no empty Smoothie King cups stacked in the cup holder. Her ride looks nothing like the inside of my whip, which at times tends to pile up with trash until I can’t stand it anymore. Anyway, we’ve just left Super Target. Not that I was gung ho about shopping that damned early in the morning, but she dragged me along for the trip, probably thinking if she didn’t keep two eyeballs stuck on me while we’re at her house, I’d morph into this bad girl the second she turned her back. As if I’d put my hands on Neil in her house. And they think I’m the crazy one? Anyway, here we are. We’re bobbing along the Southwest Freeway on the biggest shopping day of the year because Mrs. Wifey claims she’s not in the mood to go home. Not yet. And because I’ve been abducted for this little trip, it’s not like I have any other choice. It’s not like I really am yearning to sit next to Neil’s wife. Sitting so close I can smell her perfume. So much perfume I want to cover my nose with both my hands in an effort not to sneeze. Why’d she spray herself like that? Is she firing subliminal messages at me? Hmm, maybe subconsciously competing or something? I know how some women can be. Sooo insecure. Hateful. Their fragile minds clicking away, sounding like fingers tapping a keyboard. I really don’t have time for this. I’d much rather be chilling out at my own crib.

But in spite of how uncomfy it is, here I am agreeing to talk with this lady. Maybe the entire scenario is so bizarre I feel mentally trapped, emotionally obligated, like I have no choice but to go along for the ride, letting her ask me whatever she wants to know. Me trying to explain myself. Picking the right words. Putting out my own feelers to meet some of her feelers.

But I am sitting in her ride, and she’s driving, what, seventy-five miles an hour? Speeding like it’s nothing. (Hey, where are the police when you need ’em?) What if I try to be forthcoming but end up saying the wrong thing and pissing Mrs. Wifey off, what could stop her from growing horns on the sides of her head, yanking the steering wheel, ramming her car into a concrete guardrail, so my head smashes into the windshield, blood pouring out? I’d be totaled like a tiny hybrid car, and get permanently removed from Neil’s life. From life,
period.

Of course, that scenario isn’t likely. I mean, I doubt that! But I’m not a complete fool. I read the headlines and watch CNN. I can’t pretend as if awful, unbelievable things don’t happen every day. Who can forget the Houston hubby who got trampled by the irate wife and her pricey Benz? So I’m thinking about all these things, and here we go. Mrs. Wifey’s asking me oddball questions. Demanding answers. Expecting me to say this, that.
Something.
I could be wrong, but I’m sensing that if I don’t BS Neil’s wife, if I let her in on some things I’m sure she’s desperate to know, maybe she’ll view me as less threatening. I don’t know where our conversation will lead us, but I am willing to give truthfulness a bit of a chance. God knows I’ve already been through enough hell to know I can survive hell again, if our discussion comes to that.

“Anya, what I’m saying is this. No, I–I’ve never been with a married man before. Yes, I’ve fallen for guys that were already in relationships. But”—I raise my voice before she can say anything—“I didn’t do it on purpose. It was like…” I squirm in my seat and scratch my scalp. “I mean, a lot of times I’d meet men who didn’t admit they lived with someone until it was too late. We’d gotten to know each other a little better by then. I knew he was digging me and I would have feelings for him and, well, because of the attachment, it was hard for me to just…walk away at that point.” I swallow deeply and lower my voice. “And so we’d be in the middle of the mess and I’d just wait it out. Wait out the relationship, you know…Plus, I’ve never dumped a guy. Ever.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” she utters.

“I wish I were,” I comment, my heart feeling strangely heavy.

Anya gives me a dubious look. “Why not?”

“I–I don’t know. I preferred to part as friends, and I didn’t want to hurt them, I guess.”

“Oh, so you’re not willing to hurt the man, but you don’t care if he hurts you? That doesn’t make any sense, Dani.”

“I know, I know. But so far that’s the story of my life. It’s like I just cannot initiate a breakup. The man has to.”

“You have problems,” she remarks.

I hold my tongue, letting her declaration, something I already know, float inside my heart for a minute.

I tell her, “Even if you’re not like me, wouldn’t make the same decisions as me, I think we all have problems, right?”

“What? Well, yes, of course we all have problems, but it doesn’t mean we should look bad, awful, and gloomy in the face and still go out of our way to make things worse.”

Even though she’s as blunt with me as I am with her, her words rattle me. It’s like we make excuses for what we do, how we are.
That’s just how I am.
But if we come face-to-face with someone who reminds us of ourselves in some aspect, well, it’s unsettling. Like, for the first time we can really see ourselves as we are, the “self” we are unable to see when we’re simply looking in the mirror.

“True, yes, sure,” I remark. “But how do we know if the things we choose to do are gonna make things worse? I mean, sometimes you choose things because you’re hoping they’ll get better.”

“Ugh, what?
Jesus.
Some things are common sense, Dani. I mean, getting preg—” Anya stops herself.

A
ha.
So
that’s
where she’s going with this. I swallow deeply.

“
That…
that was an accident.” I say this firmly, loud. I don’t want Anya to think I purposely got pregnant. I mean, I know some women trap men, but why would I? How would that benefit me? I don’t have the best-paying job in the world; it’s not the worst, either, but I definitely don’t feel like I’m in a position to add more bills to my life. I love Brax and everything, but hey, he costs! Plenty! Plus, you know how kids can change things between a man and a woman. Casual-sex relationships are not the strongest foundation for starting a family.

Besides, I’ve been knocked up before. By a guy named Fred. He already had a live-in girlfriend, but my being pregnant didn’t automatically make Fred ditch Ethel, or whatever her name was. All I remember is she was a grossly overweight, green-haired, four-eyed, mean-spirited, phony-ass bitch. Meaner and uglier than a junkyard dog. And I couldn’t believe he chose
that thing
over me. I liked Fred because he was attractive, comical, and had cheeks full of dimples. Ethel had no kids with him, which left me scratching my head trying to figure out how she got so huge. And here I was—spirited, decent-looking, employed, fun-loving, supportive. I’d buy Fred clothes that he said were the bomb, and the sex was more than adequate (pleasure rating: 8 out of 10), but nooo, instead of running to my side, Fred shoves my pregnant behind out the way just to latch on to that god-awful Ethel thing!

Do you know how dejected Fred made me feel? Don’t get me wrong. At first he acted like he was soooo happy I was carrying his baby. Then he begged me, “Don’t abort my child.” And when I did it anyway, he shook my hand and thanked me afterward. He confessed that asking me not to abort was the easiest game he ever won. Then he told me to get lost and slammed the door in my face. I heard the double bolts click, too. The next day, I contemplated driving to his minimum-wage, shitty piece of a job, whipping out a pistol, and blasting the rotten guts out his soul, but I left stupid-ass, cowardly, horrendously-poor-taste-in-women Fred alone. No cursing him out, no stalking him, no putting sugar in his gas tank. If he would’ve owned a decent car, maybe I could’ve considered
that
piece of revenge. But after I murdered our baby, I vowed I’d
never
go that route again. I still get pissed just thinking about it, and it happened years ago. I am pissed that I was so naive to think that taking on a man as a project was something he’d be grateful for, and it would be a task that would fulfill me. Taking on the project is easy, but making it successful is a whole other story.

And although memories of what happened between me and Fred are real and significant, I don’t think I’ll let Neil’s wife in on that part of my background. I’ve already beaten myself up a million times for that sorry chapter in my life. I’ve beaten myself up until my heart was raw, but then I’ve forgiven myself, promised from now on I’ll only sleep with quality men, and I’ll never do that pro-choice, horrible-choice thing again. And I damn sure don’t want to make a confession just to be judged by Mrs. Wifey.

I continue, “What happened between me and Neil was an accident in that we got caught up—”

“Spare me.” Anya gazes out the driver-side window even though she’s whipping around a curve on the 610 Loop with a million other vehicles passing by us. She doesn’t look away for long, thank God. Have you ever wanted to laugh even though nothing is funny? Have you ever found yourself in a terrible, awful, insane spot and wondered how you got there? I mean, what the hell am I doing? Why try and talk frankly to a man’s wife like if I do, we’ll be best friends within minutes? That ain’t realistic. Makes me look—I dunno.
Piss
on
me.

“Hey,” I tell her, “I don’t mean to—”

“No,” Anya says back, “it’s cool. I mean, you’re only doing what I’ve asked you to do—to set the record straight. How can I ask you to do that and then punish you for doing it? That’s like setting a trap, isn’t it?”

“Sometimes traps are necessary, aren’t they?” I remark. “If that’s the only way you feel you can find out what you need to know, set the trap.” At this point, I’m close to feeling like I don’t care anymore.

“Hmm, th–that’s shocking.”

“Well, to be honest,” I say, “I’d rather you hear some of this from me. ’Cause I don’t like when someone thinks they know something, and all they know is the A, the B, and the C, but they don’t know the D through the Z. I mean, I guess I’m trying to say your knowing a little bit can’t really qualify you to judge me. I don’t wanna be judged, but maybe you can understand my side.”

Anya gives me a sidelong glance.

“I
do
have a side,” I mumble, again feeling like an idiot.

“We all have sides, Dani.”

I don’t say anything.

She shrugs. “You know, Dani, what’s done is done, that’s for sure. Some days I feel like this messy situation is doable: other days I’m so angry, I’m not in the mood to deal with any of it. But I read lots of magazine articles and hear stories on the radio about black women who are in our situation. And the women are acting out, showing their ignorant, violent sides, their personal business spilling all out into the street, and someone ends up getting handcuffed and driven away in the back of a police cruiser. And I tell myself, That won’t be me. I can rise up, do better than that.”

Let me be the judge of that, I think, wondering if her taking me on a joyride can be considered “rising up.”

“So,” she continues, “I really hope we can put our heads together, work with one another, and at least
try
to do this the best way we can. I feel for you, not in an entirely sympathetic way, but if I were in your shoes, I’d want to work things out. The person I really feel sorry for is little Brax. He’s the victim.”

“Well, I’m glad he’s too young to know what’s going on.” I say that because I don’t know what else to say. I have trouble thinking about what’s going to happen two hours from now, let alone trying to picture five years down the road into my son’s future.

“And then there’s Reesy,” Anya says. “She’s calling him her little brother.” She sounds bewildered. “I never told her to do that. Did you?”

My face reddens and I shift in my seat. “No, never. Maybe Neil told her to call him that. Or maybe she’s doing it on her own.”

“I saw her kissing his cheeks the other day,” Anya continues. “I told her don’t do that anymore because she sneaks and puts lipstick on sometimes and I don’t want his skin to get infected. But she went ahead and did it again. I caught her when she thought I wasn’t looking.” Anya shakes her head and her eyes soften. “Everyone is falling in love with that baby.”

I feel happy yet awkward. Maybe the presence of this child will steer all of us in the direction we’re supposed to go. ’Cause some days I don’t know where to go, how to be. I am trying to take this new and overwhelming part of life one scary little step at a time.

Okay, so after we go on a short drive to nowhere, we finally end up back at Anya’s house. It’s early afternoon and no one else is here, not Brax, not Sharvetta, nobody. Even though I agreed to come back to the house, I feel anxious, but Anya says she needs to ask me some final questions. So here I am again, in a tiny space with Mrs. Wifey. True, her car is claustrophobically small, but even a two-story house can feel like a closet when you’re sharing space with someone whose goal is to suffocate you. Not that she’s entirely disgusting, but she’s still putting out these annoying feelers. Just when I think we’ve gotten somewhere, I question where we are, because the feelers are back again, in my face, waving their thick fingers, demanding answers.