On the Line (21 page)

 

Marcus lay panting, tangled in the sheets of the bed in the Ritz-Carlton hotel room where we'd been holed up for three days straight. The only break from our intense lovemaking sessions had been to eat, get massages, shower, talk and sleep.

“I don't know how you do it,” he'd said over and over. “I'm, what, five years younger than you, and I can't keep up.”

I smiled when he said it, unwilling to let him know that this marathon was going to have to last me because I was about to go back to the damn circus where I'd been walking on tightropes and jumping on trampolines but getting no thrills of my own.

Truthfully, it had been a little strange having Marcus in my space continuously.

But even though I wasn't accustomed to sharing so much of my space with someone else, it wasn't a bad kind of strange. It felt good.

But all good things must come to an end. Mom called me on my cell phone after day five. I had been calling there twice a day to check in on Tat, and she sounded happy. My mom had been keeping her busy, but by day five, my daughter said that she didn't want to live with Grandmom forever because she missed me.

With three more days until Clay's return, I was moody and withdrawn. I worked out and went to the library as usual, but I lost the spring in my step. I couldn't make sense of my emotions.

A few days later Clay arrived home looking like death on ice. One look at him when I picked him up from the airport, and I said, “You need to get to the hospital.”

I drove to Temple University Hospital, where he was admitted after a battery of tests had been performed.

“Your husband was a walking dead man,” the doctor told me as Clay lay in the bed.

My mother had come to the hospital to get Tatiana and take her back to her house, but I surely needed Mom by my side for emotional support.

“We're trying to stabilize his blood sugar now, but honestly, I don't know why he wasn't in a diabetic coma. The normal range for blood sugar is between seventy and one-twenty. His was seven hundred.”

My mouth dropped open as I looked at him. His eyes were closed as if he were trying to wish himself to be anywhere but there. I reached out to touch his hand, and I was surprised when his fingers gripped mine tightly in return.

 

Clay was released after a weeklong stay, and when he got home, he seemed to see things for the very first time. On the first morning, when Tatiana and I went downstairs for breakfast, he was already down there in the kitchen drinking a glass of water.

“Daddy,” Tat squealed excitedly, happy to see him by daylight on a weekday.

He picked her up, startled but pleased with her display of emotion.

I went into the kitchen to cut the fruit for her breakfast. I picked out a container of her yogurt and a package of cottage cheese and fruit puree for mine. After popping a couple of turkey sausages in the microwave, I poured orange juice for the two of us and began measuring Clay's oatmeal. The doctor had told him that he should eat it for breakfast every morning, and I intended to follow the doctor's orders. As nasty as Clay had been, I don't know why I wanted him around for the future, but I did.

When I returned to the table, Tat was telling Clay about school. I hadn't told him that I had enrolled her, and I certainly hadn't thought about how or when I'd tell him. But now seemed as good a time as any to clear the air.

“She goes part-time every day,” I began. “It's good for her socialization, and frankly I just needed some hands-free time. Some time that I could be an adult again.”

I wasn't sure what to expect in response, but “I understand” was the furthest thing from my mind. I blinked hard to make sure I heard him properly. He smiled in response.

“Since we're clearing the air, I have to tell you something, too. But it will have to wait until Tat's not here.”

“Okay,” I replied, going back to the stove to scoop up his oatmeal.

After breakfast, I went upstairs to get Tatiana and myself dressed. To my surprise, Clay got dressed, as well, and he was waiting at the bottom of the steps for us.

“I thought I'd ride with you to take her to school,” he offered.

“Okay,” I said. I was already holding my daughter's hand. Now I reached out to hold my husband's, too.

We drove to school, and Clay walked inside with us. We walked her to her classroom, and gave him a tour of the school, pointing out her artwork in the common gallery for all of the classes.

When we settled back into the car, Clay grabbed my hand and looked at me earnestly. We drove home in silence. Back at the house, he popped in one of the educational videos about diabetes, and he seemed antsy, like he was avoiding the confession that he'd mentioned earlier.

After the video, we left his home theater and headed up to the kitchen for a snack. With his back to me, Clay began to speak as he rummaged through the refrigerator.

“You certainly don't deserve what I'm about to say, but I've had an epiphany of sorts since my illness. I've been a rather bad husband in so many ways, but this takes the cake. I've been having an affair for the past three years, and I mean to end it today. You've put up with all of my garbage, but I intend to make a new start and be a new man. I just want to know if you can forgive me for the affair and everything else.”

I looked at him, and I began to cry. It wasn't about the affair or the bull that he'd dished out with regularity over the years. It wasn't even about my guilt over Marcus. It was about making a fresh start, a new beginning. He was ready, and I was ready. That was great. But just in case he ever slipped back into jackass mode, I'd keep Marcus my little secret, that piece of joy I went to when times were hard, and I needed a sweet memory to keep me company.

 

I shake my head at the memory of her letter. I wonder if Clay has screwed up again. Her life was better than a late-night soap opera any day. I'd have to make sure her story got in the book.

“Girl, I'm 'bout to starve to death,” Macy says all gangsta-like as she appears in the kitchen doorway.

“All done. What's that?” I lift my chin to indicate the papers in her hand.

“I ran across this letter. I don't remember you ever reading it on the show. It's kind of kinky but touching.”

Macy sits down at the table and I bring over our lunch and join her. “Let me see.” She hands me the letter….

I
tried to yell above the noise in the bar. A perky young blonde had plopped down beside me, crossing her long white legs and signaling for the barkeep to serve her one. I watched her motion at him regally, like she was entitled to be waited on hand and foot. She was dressed very simply, in a tight, short black dress, almost exposing her femininity. All of the men, all races, noticed her adjust her bottom on the leather stool, smiling innocently at me.

“Do you come here often?” the blonde said, grinning.

“No, not really.” I really didn't want to be disturbed. I just wanted to get my buzz.

“Are you coming from work?” She didn't know how to quit.

“Yep,” I replied.

“What do you do?”

“An electrician, and it's a boring job. And you?”

“A pawn,” she said quietly.

“Like in chess, right?”

“Almost. I obey orders for a living. I act out people's fantasies without resistance or questions. You could say I answer wishes. Like a good fairy. I obey commands whether they are private or public.”

My face contorted. “Do you always obey anything a person commands you to do?”

“Yes,” she said, her blue eyes twinkling.

As a savvy New Yorker, I knew not to make extended eye contact with her. So I stared at my drink, Scotch on the rocks, thinking about how timely it was that she would sit right next to me. I'd had a fight, a nasty verbal one, with the woman who was living with me. She told me things that curled my hair. About our love, about us, about our future, about her and her dreams. Her expression had the intent of a cold-blooded murderer in a killing zone, near the prey, close to the target.

“Are you a nurse or a teacher in the city?” I scratched my head.

“No, I am a pawn,” she answered with a firmness that started me thinking. “Putting yourself into the clutches of a male can have tragic circumstances, don't you think? Some people don't have lofty goals or intentions. Being a pawn can really lead to trouble. You have to be careful who you choose. After all, the woman chooses a man and not vice versa.”

I sipped the drink. “I know.”

The barkeep put the drink, a Sex on the Beach concoction, on the counter, and when she pulled some bills to pay him, she flicked her long yellow hair into his brown face. Mr. Leong. He was a young Vietnamese kid, barely in his twenties, short stubby fingers. The son of the Boat People. A village near Saigon. We could both smell the strong lavender scent worn on her slender cranelike neck. I didn't like it, but he seemed to prefer it, lurking nearby with his nostrils flared.

“Why did you pick this seat?” I asked.

“I liked you, Mister Man,” she chirped. I could see she had a nice figure.

I really looked at the woman, very pale, big bust, tapered waist, flat boyish ass. All I needed was for my lady to think I was out here catting around. That would constitute an ultimate betrayal.

Before I was with my wife, Melba, I was a dog. Oh, man, I nailed anything with a hole in it. I remember the cops raided a massage parlor and arrested me for soliciting a sex worker. They sent me to a school for johns in Brooklyn. It was in a high school with about thirty guys, all of them caught with prostitutes. The cops had a former whore who read them the riot act, asking them if they liked screwing girls who no longer cared about themselves and were victimized as kids.

The guys nodded shamelessly and whispered that all they cared about was getting the orgasm. Getting that nut. But I was different. I never did anything like that again.

Maybe I want to spice up my sex life by fooling around. However, only with pure, clean-cut women and girls. Not tricks or treats. No public sex. Very decent and polite.

The blonde snapped me out of my fog. “Are you straight? I don't want any switch-hitters, you know what I mean?”

“I'm cool. I'm straight.”

“Do you have a woman? A ladylove?”

I didn't answer that. Instead I drank some of my booze.

“Who did you lose your virginity to?” she asked with a smirk on her lips.

“I should ask that question of you,” I replied. “You're the pawn.”

“I'll answer. I lost my girlhood to my uncle. He bought my silence for a Sno-Kone. I don't mind answering questions. What about you?”

I grinned sheepishly. “My mother's best friend. She really pinned my ears back.”

“Where did she do the deed?” she quizzed me.

“In her car. It was good but scary, very scary. I could imagine how she would be as a lover, very demanding, very precise, very selfish. But she did all the right things.”

She gulped her drink and swallowed it. “How many serious relationships have you had? Counting the one you're in. How many?”

“How do you know I'm in a relationship?” I watched the men leaning over to look at her breasts. They were not discreet.

“How many?” she asked. She knew the secret to a man's intimacy: just ask him about himself.

“About five,” I answered.

“How many sexual partners?”

“I should ask you that. As a pawn, you must have plowed your way through the studs. I know you're not the shy and retiring type. Three more questions and then it's my turn.”

“How many?” she repeated.

“I lost count,” I laughed, knowing that the number of pleasure partners had evaporated in my memory.

“What's your favorite position?”

“Cowgirl…and maybe reverse cowgirl.”

“What's your ultimate fantasy?” She sniggered and leaned across the bar, letting me view her ample breasts. It was almost if she were putting them on display.

“A willing blonde who knew the score and didn't blab.”

She looked over her glass at me, making her mouth a very inviting place. “Have you ever cheated on your partner?”

“I'd probably do the nasty with you,” I confessed. “I like your style.”

“Have you ever been caught?” she asked me.

I squinted at her and allowed my voice to rise. “No fair. You've asked your quota of questions. No more.”

She winked and smiled ear to ear. “Would you want to fuck me?”

The blonde's question was so overt, up-front, that I could see through the smoke screen right to the trap. I had read an article about these women who were called “decoys,” who were paid to tempt the wayward boyfriends and husbands. The women, always lookers, would throw themselves at the victim in lust, ask him a lot of questions about himself and his tastes, and then shuffle him off to the bed and the trap.

“Don't you like pink nipples?” She giggled.

“You know I do.” I laughed and she laughed, too.

“I have a room near here,” she said, teeth whiter than ever. “I can drop us off.”

“Did my wife hire you?” I asked her straight out.

Things became so quiet between us that you could hear the ice being tormented by the barkeep. I knew the answer already. I knew how much my lady cared. She didn't want me to cheat, didn't want me to lie, didn't want me to betray her. And it really didn't matter if the woman was black or Asian or white. She didn't want me to put myself inside another woman's body. That made sense.

“Yes, she did,” the blonde replied.

“How far did she tell you to go before you yelled foul?”

“Until the point of entry, either a finger, a tongue or the other thing.” She smiled widely.

Without fanfare, I stood and waved a ten at the barkeep. Leong walked over to me and plucked it out of my hand, nodded. Leaning over to the blonde, I planted a wet kiss on her pink cheek, smiled and left the bar. It had stopped raining and the stars, bright and crisp, were coming out, peeping through the dark clouds.

Signed,

Everything to Gain

 

“Wow.” I fold up the letter and put it aside. “Makes you think about what's important, ya know.”

“Exactly.”

“I want to use this one, too.” As I sit here chewing on my burger, the haunting quality of the letter sticks with me. If I really thought about it, it could have been my story. How many beds have I jumped in and out of without caring, without looking back? Maybe with Randy I can gain something, too, a part of myself that had been excised so many years ago.

“Don't go there,” Macy says, cutting into my thoughts. “I know that look. It was a long time ago.”

I sniff. “I know. Sometimes it just feels like a minute.”

Macy covers my hand with hers and squeezes it tight.

No words are needed between friends.