My Husband's Girlfriend (11 page)

So I’ve managed to eat some leftovers from Thanksgiving, and then we find ourselves in that same ole den. Thankfully, Anya has lightened up somewhat and is making small talk, and we’re actually having fun multitasking. We’re casually viewing another movie,
Gone With the Wind,
which she popped in the DVD player when I told her the movie is my all-time favorite, and we’ve started working on this huge fake tree Anya has set up. She has bags and bags of decorations spread out on the floor. I’m getting goose bumps, too, because I love the texture of things—the little frosted glass ornaments, curly-wire Christmas balls, Styrofoam angels, and soft fabrics full of bright colors like purple and red and green and gold. I want to help dress up that tree, silly as it sounds. I’m on one side of the tree, standing on my toes reaching my arms as far as I can to fluff the branches and make them look fuller. Anya is on the other side stringing garland when she casually asks me if I know what a hussy is. I’m surprised that she’s going there. Her question makes me want to roll my eyes, but I say, “Is it a woman who goes out of her way to break up someone’s family?”

“That’s a good answer.”

“Is there a reason why you asked me that?”

“Not really.”

I didn’t believe Mrs. Wifey. In more ways than one I think she has a lot of gall. But I blame both her and myself—her for trying to lay a poorly disguised guilt trip, and me for letting her do it. I’ve let her convince me that I owe her something, but I’m not sure that’s true. But far be it from me to tell her I’ve survived much adversity in my life, so I’m confident I can handle this.

“Anya, do you want me to try and guess why you asked me that?” I challenge. “Am I supposed to fill in some kind of long blank that’s sitting inside your head right now?”

“No blanks in my head.”

I laugh, but it’s not from the heart. “I’m sorry, Anya, but I just don’t believe that.”

Her face grows stony, about as rigid as my heart feels. And the space inside this den seems to become so small that I feel like we’re two grown-ups trying to fit on one tricycle.

“Sometimes, Dani, people say certain things because they’re hoping to hear other kinds of things.”

“Excuse me?”

“Never mind.” Her voice sounds as strong as mine. She looks up at the ceiling and drops her arms to her sides, sighing.

“Tell you what. This has gone on long enough. What if we call a truce? I am going to try my hardest to leave this alone. I feel like we’re treading the same territory. But from now on we can try to move forward, be progressive, and work on what needs to be done to make this situation doable. How’s that sound?”

“Sounds fine,” I say, measuring my words. “I’d appreciate that.”

“Great. There’s just one other thing.”

“Okay.” I nod.

“Do you feel any regrets at all about…?”

“Yes!”

I pick up an angel ornament and rub its face with my fingertip. “I mean, I can’t change what’s happened, but sure, I feel…I feel sooo yucky, and I don’t know if this yucky feeling will ever go away, but since you asked…”

Anya whispers, “That’s all I wanted to know. Now, let’s finish decorating this tree, all right?”

I nod, cross my fingers, and rub the angel’s face again.

11

Neil

Early Sunday morning I wake up and hear noises. My wife is listening to
“What’s Going On” by Marvin Gaye, singing along while she rattles pots and pans in the kitchen. I sit up on the sofa, relieved that Dani has finally made her way home, and the holiday weekend is almost over. I glance at my watch and know what time it is. It’s the Lord’s Day; time for some much-needed weight lifting.

I run upstairs to the bedroom, close and lock the door. I bypass taking a shower. If I get dressed real fast, I can make the first service, hear the choir sing, bone up on the latest announcements, and see what’s been going on at Solomon’s Temple.

“Welcome to Weight Lifting 101.”

I am sitting near the rear of the church, hearing the compelling words and voice of Pastor Solomon, something I haven’t heard in a few weeks. There must be a good thousand folks here today, and 50 percent of the congregation is men. That’s probably why so many women come here, too. Light, dark, medium complexion, thin, robust sistas, and all smelling like fresh-cut roses in a florist’s shop.

“Now, ya’ll knowwww how I am.” The congregation nods, some laugh out loud. “You know how hard it is sometimes for me to lift y’all’s weights, make your burdens lighter. You know how bad I wanna slap something on ya this morning. Get all up in your Kool-Aid, tell all your business.”

I smile and shift in my seat. Even though the sanctuary is packed, I feel like there’s nowhere to hide, that I’m butt naked. Pastor Sol’s words have a way of making me feel that way.

He continues slowly and thoughtfully. “I can see the anxiety in your faces sometimes. When I take a little survey and ask, ‘How many of y’all got your party on at the club last night?’ and y’all look at me with that frozen, what-the-heck-you-talkin-’bout face.” Pastor Sol laughs. “I know some of you want me to stick to the Bible, preach strictly based on what’s in the Word. You cry out, ‘Talk about Paul.’ But I wanna talk about y’all.”

Every time he says this, we laugh. I guess bare-boned truth can do that to you.

“But see, don’t blame that uncomfortable feeling you get on me. Don’t even credit the good feelings you get on me. When I preach the gospel of Jesus, the good news, well, it’s s’posed to make you feel good just like a good woman can do. But do make sure the woman’s your wife—”

My eyes widen. I rise up and head for the men’s room. It’s just too early in the morning to listen to this. But even though listening to Pastor’s spiritual instruction feels uncomfortable, I know it’s something I need, whether I want it or not.

By the time I make it back to my seat, Pastor Sol is getting down and dirty and doing some good preaching at the same time. He’s talking about how he’s not the Sin Police. He can’t follow his congregation home and spy on us, to see if we’re making the right choices. He says the eyes of the Lord are in every place, and his are only in his head. And that’s fine with me. I kind of like the fact that the Lord will be my judge—at least He will be fair, and know
why
I do what I do. Maybe He’ll understand even if I don’t. And believe it or not, after church service ends an hour later, and I rise up out of there and grab a bulletin on the way out, I do feel lighter, like my pastor’s words have chased a hundred demons from my mind. My heart is lifted, I am hopeful, more focused, and for that I certainly am thankful.

That Sunday afternoon I convince Anya to go with me to the Mister Car Wash on Hillcroft between Bellaire and the Southwest Freeway. My Explorer is so filthy you can blow on it and a puff of smoke will rise up and cloud your vision.

Anya and I enter the car-wash driveway and pull into the lane closest to the building. Attendants with pad in hand are writing up service orders and trying to convince us to get the Red Carpet special, a deluxe service that can make your wallet fifty bucks lighter.

Anya begins digging around the cup holder and console, picking up soiled snot rags, empty soda cans, and receipts from when I’ve made trips to the gas station and filled up the tank.

“Oooh, Neil, how can you stand it? All this trash. The second it takes to throw stuff on the floor of your car, you could’ve tossed it in a garbage can. They do have plenty of ’em in Houston, you know.”

“I know.” I blush. “You’re right.”

“What’s this?” she asks. She’s holding up a glossy color advertisement.

“Oh, I got that from church today. I barely glanced at it myself. What’s it say?”

She hands me the ad.

S
OLOMON’S
T
EMPLE
P
RESENTS

A
N
O
LDIES BUT
G
OODIES
G
OSPEL
C
ONCERT

F
EATURING SONGS FROM THE 70S AND 80S

C
OME LISTEN TO
S
OLOMON’S
T
EMPLE
M
USIC
D
EPARTMENT
p
ERFORM FAVORITES AS RECORDED BY
A
NDRAE
C
ROUCH AND THE
D
ISCIPLES,
R
EV.
J
AMES
C
LEVELAND,
W
ALTER
H
AWKINS,
T
HE
W
INANS
, T
WINKIE
C
LARK AND THE
C
LARK
S
ISTERS, AND MORE
A
TTIRE:
D
RESS IN YOUR BEST 70S AND 80S GEAR
(WE KNOW YA STILL HOLDING ON TO IT)

F
RIDAY
, D
ECEMBER
19

7:30 P.M.

Anya laughs and snatches the ad from my hand. “Hey, now this is something I might want to get into. You know I love me some gospel.”

“Oh yeah,” I say. We pull up to the vacuum cleaner area and an attendant writes up my ticket for deluxe service. I leave my keys in the ignition and Anya follows me inside. We wait in line to pay the cashier.

“If I go, would you go, too?” my wife asks. She’s standing next to me, looking up at my face. I’m seven inches taller than her. That makes me feel good. I never wanted to date a woman who towered over me. A woman with great height would make me think she’d be able to step on my head, and pin me to the sidewalk so I couldn’t escape.

“Yeah, I might go to the concert, as long as you don’t invite Dani along. I still don’t see why you kept her around the house so long. Y’all best friends now or something?”

She giggles and steps forward even though the line hasn’t moved.

“Hey, you think that’s funny?” I ask. “Sometimes I wonder about you.”

“That’s good, Neil. If you’re wondering about me, there’s hope.”

I don’t say anything. I pay the bill with my debit card, then Anya and I go to wait in the lobby. There are vending machines, several metal benches, and magazines strewn around. The other customers have stepped outside, so we’re the only people in this small space.

“I wanna go because I’ve never heard of this type of concert,” Anya remarks, “so that would be different.”

“Right,” I say, “it
is
different.”

“Speaking of different, that’s how I feel sometimes. When I go to the concert, I–I hope everyone at the church doesn’t expect me to look and act just like them.”

“They’re not gonna do that, Anya.”

“Oh yeah? Then why do I feel that way?”

“Since when did you care what other people think?”

“I–I dunno.” She shrugs. “Just a question that I wish you’d answer.”

“You feel different because you have this phobia where you think that going to a church is going to change you into someone you don’t want to be.”

“Well, Neil, I don’t want to be one thing at home and a whole other thing soon as I step foot in church. Ain’t that what you do?”

“What’s with the attitude, Anya? You were so happy this morning.”

“Neil, I don’t see how you can do what you’ve done and still show your face in church.”

“Why not, Anya? I–I go to church because I need Jesus, just like everybody else.”

“But don’t you feel like a…?”

“No, I do not. Why would I? If the criterion for believing in God is perfection, nobody would be there. That’s why you oughta come more often than you do.”

“No, nooo. Mentally, I am not ready to roll up in church. When I start going, I want to come correct.”

“But see, Anya, that’s the wrong attitude. That’s why some other certain types don’t go, because they’re thinking they don’t belong. You’ll never see Jesus blocking the entrance to Solomon’s Temple just because some gang bangers or convicted killers come up to the doorstep.”

Anya folds her arms tightly across her chest.

“Look,” I tell her, “I don’t go because I live perfect every second, I go because I
don’t.
I need strength to help me get where I need to be.”

“But—”

“What do you think I should do? Quit going? And what would that prove?”

She doesn’t say anything.

“Get past my wrongs, dear Anya.”

“It’s not the adultery part. It’s…”

“The baby? He’s the evidence? If I hadn’t gotten Dani pregnant, no one would have to know, right? Are you saying you’re scared people at church will find out? And what if they do? Because who says it’s okay to single out folks and proclaim, ‘Oh, you aren’t worthy to be in a church because blah, blah, blah’? Or ‘You’re the
H
word, which everyone thinks Christians are anyway.”

“Well, some of them—”

“Don’t judge everybody based on a few people,” I remark. “Don’t judge me, either. The fact that you have to ask what I’m thinking and how I feel proves you don’t know my heart.”

“Well…”

“Let me say this. Just because I dress the part, act the part, and look like I walk the walk doesn’t make me any better than Pastor Sol. But God knows my heart. Even if I do wrong, at least I get the benefit of Him knowing why I’ve done wrong, which is more than what I can say for you, who only sees my actions and not the motivations behind them.”

She coughs and clears her throat and attempts to look out the bay window. I realize that I may have gone too far.

“I apologize if this hurts you.” I step up to her. “That’s not my intention.”

“Oh, here we go. People with good intentions always end up doing the foulest things,” Anya says. “Intentions mean nothing. Actions say it all.”

“Yeah, but—” I stop short when an elderly man enters the lobby.

Anya grabs my arm and lowers her voice. “Hey, you’ve had your say. Let me think about this concert thing for a few days and I’ll let you know if I want you to get me a ticket, all right, Neil?”

“Okay, Anya.”

The next Sunday, I don’t quite make it to church. Anya and Reese pay a little visit to her mother. As soon as they leave, I head over to Dani’s.

When I get there, Dani’s rearranging potted plants on her balcony. I go to Braxton’s room and play with him, nudging his chin with my fingers, and making him laugh until his joy spills over into my heart. Once he starts yawning, I lay him in his crib and take my exhausted self to the living room. Dani is camped out on the sofa. She sees me walking in and pats the space next to her. I just stand there but she smiles and pats the space again, moving over a few inches and giggling. She went to the beauty salon yesterday and got these spiral curly ringlets put in her hair, loads of curls that bounce and touch her shoulders. I stare at her hair and go sit next to her.

She’s wearing a pair of black workout shorts with white stripes on the sides. I have on an old sky-blue muscle tee and some matching warm-up shorts. Dani’s white tank top is clinging to her breasts, which are pointed like they’re trying to get my attention. I take a deep breath. Dani sniffs and jams her nose against my bare shoulder. I put my arm around her and squeeze.

“Why are you sniffing, Dani? What you smell, huh?”

“You don’t want to know what I smell.” She smiles in my face. Using my finger, I reach out and rub the tip of her nose, just like I do with my son. Her nose is oily. I wipe off her moisture on my shirt.

Dani sighs and closes her eyes. She places her thigh on top of mine and starts bobbing her bare feet up and down. I’m a thigh man and I stare at her toned thighs.

I clear my throat. “So, what are your plans for today?”

“Umm, nothing. Just hanging out at home. May go window-shopping later today. And you?”

Her voice is strong yet soothing. I lightly caress her thigh with my fingers. She rolls her eyes and grins.

“When Brax wakes up again, my plans are to hang out with my son.”

“Am I invited? Huh, Neil?” She presses closer to me, moving her arm inside my shirt, her hands crawling underneath the fabric until her fingers grip my nipple and squeeze.

“Whoa…”

“Shhh, stop tripping, Neil. This isn’t a biggie. So don’t be getting all hot and bothered.”

“Too late now.”

She looks in my eyes and brings her mouth closer, pressing her lips against mine. She closes her eyes. But I don’t. I just watch her and kiss her, and kiss her some more. I have a strong urge to place my fingers in all her curls, which would probably make her mad. Or would it?

She finally releases me and wipes her mouth. I clear my throat.

“Dani,” I say, “can we go back to doing what we used to do a long time ago?”

“Huh? Like…?”

“C–could you…will you give me some head?”

“Will you eat me out?”

“I’m ready right now.”

Dani moves her hands underneath her tank top, staring at me and massaging her breasts, moving them round and round. “Neil, is oral sex sex?”

“Nooo, nope.” I shake my head. I want to pull off my shorts, then remove hers.

“Why you say that?”

“Because,” I say, staring at her while she works her breasts, “it’s just not. You can’t get pregnant from oral sex, th–that’s why.”

“Jeez,” she giggles. “You sound like a high-schooler.”

“Dani, can we just—C’mon, please.” I grab her elbow and yank it.