Champagne Life (27 page)

DeShaun sighed. The Countess should have paid him for his services hours ago, but she was busy twirling around in the living room, dancing to old disco tunes while sipping from her glass of brandy. That woman could drink. Eventually, she stumbled toward the patio double doors.

“DeShaun,” one of the servers he hired called from the kitchen. “Should we start packing the glasses? They're not completely dry.”

Before he had the chance to answer, he heard a big crash coming from the patio. DeShaun looked outside in time to see the Countess tumble over into the pool. He heard a loud splash and she was gone.

DeShaun and several of the guests rushed out to the patio. Instinct kicked in and DeShaun dove into the pool and swam toward the bottom. The Countess' limp body was sprawled out, her eyes half open and no bubbles coming from her mouth. He grabbed her waist and scooped her up to the top. He struggled as he pulled the Countess to the side of the pool, where Mr. Jordan and M.J. pulled her out of the water. Immediately, Mr. Jordan bent down and began performing CPR. DeShaun yelled out to a server standing in the patio doorway. “Call nine-one-one now!”

I
flipped through channels, taking a second to check out the clock on the television counter. It was after three in the morning and DeShaun wasn't home yet. I thought about calling him, but didn't want to look like I was checking up on him, even though I was. I hated feeling this way, but lately, I couldn't trust anything he said.

I picked up the phone and dialed, but quickly hung up. I refused to check on him. I would rather lie here watching television in the dark, pretending to be interested in an infomercial on a hair styling product.

At 3:10, I hopped out of bed and rifled through his dresser drawers, telling myself I needed to spy in order to keep my marriage intact. I rummaged through his closets but didn't find designer clothes I hadn't already seen. I went over to the nightstand but stopped short of pulling it open and going through his underwear.

What was I doing? What would this prove? I was officially one of
those
wives.

Weeks ago, I was so close to telling him the truth about Jeremy and me, but decided against it, especially after he told me he would never see
her
again. DeShaun found employment with a local store downtown to help pay bills and assured me that he wouldn't service any more parties. He even promised to forget about his service business for a while.

I sat on top of the bed, wanting desperately to get under the covers and go to sleep, but I couldn't. I was dead tired, but I needed to know what was going on and where he was tonight.

I thought of my mother, the psychologist, and what she would say about a woman that rifled through her husband's personal belongings.

If you don't trust your husband, the marriage is already in trouble.

Instead of going through his underwear, I went to the closet, opened it up and looked down at the row of shoes on the carpeted closet floor. I didn't recognize the brown leather pair. I reached inside the shoe and felt around. I reached further, into the toe of the shoe, and pulled out a sparkling silver watch with a tiny diamond on the face. I reached down into the matching shoe and felt around. From the toe, I pulled out a wad of bills held together with a rubber band. The wad contained one-hundred and five-hundred dollar bills. Quick calculations said I was holding more than $7,000.

DeShaun pull up to the driveway at 3:33. I hopped back into bed, turned off the television and then flicked off the nightstand lamp. I listened for the key in the doorway.

It was quiet.

The refrigerator motor kicked in, a dog barked down the road, but still no key in the lock.

I got out of bed and went to the window. I looked down at his car parked on the driveway. He was inside the car, shuffling around. I couldn't see what he was doing until he reached into the backseat and grabbed a pile of clothes. Before getting out the car, he took each piece of clothing—a rumpled white shirt, a pair of black socks and a vest—and wrung them out.

Why were his clothes wet? More importantly, why was he wearing his serving uniform if he was loading boxes at the store?

When I heard the front door key jiggle inside the lock, I hopped back into bed and pulled up the covers. DeShaun dropped his keys onto the kitchen table, the clatter echoed down the hall. The refrigerator motor cut off as he opened it up. I heard the cap of a Kalik beer bottle pop off.

By the time I heard his heavy footsteps heading up to the bedroom, I was ready to do battle. This was the last time he made a fool out of me.

I charged as soon as he walked through the bedroom door. “Do you honestly think I'm an idiot?”

He walked past me and to the bathroom, quietly shutting the door.

“Did you hear me?” I yelled. “I am so sick of you treating me like a fucking doormat.”

The shower came on, but there was still no response.

I marched up to the bathroom door and pounded my fists as hard as I could. I kicked the door, hit it again and when that didn't work, I used my shoulder to try to force my way in. When I finally barged in, DeShaun was calmly drying himself off with a towel.

“Are you crazy?” he asked, staring at me.

I stepped up, right in his face. “Are you?”

“I don't want to fight tonight. I'm tired.”

“You're tired? What about me? I'm tired of being played for a fool while you do your dirt with Miss Rich Bitch!”

He shook his head. “Do you ever give it a rest, Naomi? Seriously.”

“How can I give it a rest when you're hiding seven-thousand dollars from your wife? And don't forget about the diamond-encrusted watch.”

“You're going through my shit again?”

“I sure am. You can best believe that money is mine.”

“I'm saving that money for my business,” he said. “When will you understand that I'm doing all this for you?”

“You're sleeping with the Rich Bitch for me? How noble of you, DeShaun.”

“I need that money.”

“I don't care. And I need you to
not
cheat on me. I need you to stop lying to me. I need you to stop hiding money from me. That's what I need! I don't care about your needs anymore.”

“Like you ever did.”

“Is this the part where you tell me how it was my fault you cheated?”

A tiny, throbbing bluish-green vein popped out in the center of his forehead. “I can't believe you!”

“And then you have the nerve to ride up the driveway at four in the morning, hiding in the car while wringing out wet clothes. Why the hell are your clothes wet, DeShaun? What the hell were you doing?”

“For your information, I saved a lady's life tonight. She fell into the pool and I jumped in to get her. She could've drowned.”

“Are you seriously kicking this lie to me? You expect me to believe that my husband is a hero and saved some lady at a party that he claims he wasn't at in the first place. Oh, please. You can come better than that. Respect me enough to at least get a
good
lie together.”

“I don't give a damn what you believe anymore.”

“Mom was right,” I spat. “You are a loser. I can do much better.”

“If that's what you truly believe, maybe you should go out there and try.”

“Maybe I should. Maybe I should find a guy that doesn't lie to me all the time about where he's been.”

“And maybe I should find a woman I don't
have
to lie to.”

“You don't have to lie to anyone, DeShaun. Be a man and handle yours. Stop tiptoeing around here like a bitch!”

He narrowed his eyes and balled up his fists. I thought he was going to hit me. Instead, he took a second, drew in a deep breath and dropped his head. “I don't know what to do anymore. I give up. I tried to include you in on my plans for our life and you didn't want to hear it. It's like you can't stand me being happy.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean? Of course, I want you to be happy. I want the both of us to be happy. I just don't want you to go out there and fall on your face. Your failures are my failures, too.”

“Why does it always have to be a failure? Why can't it be success?”

“Good question. Why can't it be a success? Why can't it ever be a success with you?”

DeShaun pulled back and I saw the hurt in his eyes. I saw that look quite frequently lately. I imagined he saw the same in mine.

“You know what's funny?” he asked. “You keep referring to Jenn as ‘The Bitch,' when it was her who did
your
job and supported me with my business.”

My contained anger resurfaced, but I kept my tone even. “Of course, she did. She had nothing to lose and everything to gain, especially that big black dick of yours.”

“It doesn't matter!” he yelled. “You are my wife! She isn't! You're supposed to support me. Instead, she's the one acting like my wife while you are acting like ‘The Bitch!'”

The words stung like an open-handed slap right across the cheek. What hurt even more was that even when he realized what he said, there was no remorse in his eyes. He stared me down like he was daring me to come back at him. I had to force my hands by my side to keep from slapping the taste out of his mouth. A slap would only last a second. I wanted to hurt him much deeper than that.

I knew just how to do it.

“Funny you say that,” I began. “I felt the exact same way when Jeremy was acting like my husband while fucking me all night.”

This time it was my turn to stare him down. “Now who's The Bitch?”

D
eShaun gathered up his belongings, one by one, and stuck them in the oversized leather suitcase he'd bought two years ago for our vacation to the Bahamas.

That trip seemed like a lifetime ago.

My anger had subsided and I didn't want him to leave, but it was too late. Too much had already been said and done. This marriage was over.

While he finished packing, I went to the kitchen, pretending to fix a sandwich while acting like I didn't care that he was leaving, but really, I bit down on a towel and sulked in the corner, silently crying. As soon as I heard the front door shut, I slumped down onto the cold kitchen tile and cried for two hours. This time I didn't have to worry about being quiet. I was alone.

Approximately an hour later, at five in the morning, I was startled to hear DeShaun's key in the lock. I was sitting in the living room with the television on, watching a reality show about two girls who joined a rock band. I turned the volume down and listened to him jostle about in the foyer. I figured he forgot something but then I heard his footsteps approaching. When he came into the living room, he saw me. His face was expressionless. We stared at each other for an eternity before he came rushing at me, like he was on the attack. At first, I began fighting him off, but after a minute, I realized he wasn't assaulting me. His hands wandered all
over my body. He grabbed my breasts, my butt, my hips. His hands probed everywhere. He pulled up my nightgown with such fervor, he practically shredded it to pieces. He pulled my underwear to the side, opened up his zipper and started thrusting himself inside of me. He did all of this while sucking hard on my erect nipples. I had never been so excited before in my life.

When he was through, he quietly stood up, zipped up his pants and stealthily made his way out the door and back into the darkness. He never said a word.

The door shut behind him and that was the last I heard from him.

When he came to me that night, I believed he was no longer angry. If anything, I felt his hurt. I couldn't say anything either; I was just as damaged. Our marriage had died in the arms of deceit and infidelity and I didn't know how to get over it.

D
ays were getting colder as the sweltering heat of summer passed. In its place was the early morning chill of fall. The trees began sporting yellow, orange and brown leaves, with most falling to the ground and crunching beneath the feet of pedestrians.

The sun shone its rays directly through my bedroom window, providing life in an otherwise dreary home. In other circumstances, this would have been a welcomed cozy fall morning.

For me, today was no different than any other day since DeShaun left. His business must have been going well. The only time I heard from him was when he sent a check in the mail to cover the mortgage and a few other expenses.

For the past few days, I had been going to bed late and waking up early. This particular morning, I woke up earlier than usual with a sick feeling in my gut. I took every pill in the medicine cabinet, including an antacid and a painkiller, but I still couldn't get rid of the pain.

With DeShaun gone, everything became a chore: getting up, brushing my teeth, everything. I hadn't slept alone in over four years. Every night I fell asleep crying. The first few days he was gone, I bawled like a baby for hours at a time, until I finally fell asleep. It hurt and it hurt bad. Losing DeShaun was akin to losing a limb.