His First Wife (17 page)

“Um . . . kind of,” I replied. “I guess so.” I felt bad for admitting that. Like I'd sold out on the “mad sister” she'd called me.

“Mama, please, you ain't got to apologize for being back with him,” she said flatly. “Shit, I ain't never know a woman that went upside her man's head that didn't go back to him.”

“I guess you're right,” I said. “So how are you?” I looked at her stomach. “I hadn't noticed that you were pregnant.”

“Yeah, I'm about to have a baby,” she said proudly. “It's gonna be a girl. That's why I'm out here.” She rubbed her stomach. “I got to make some changes before this one comes. I promised myself and my other kids that. No more out in the streets for me. I'm too old for that. I got to get clean and make some money so I can get a good doctor and a nice place to live.”

“The state can't help you with that?” I asked. There were plenty of programs that could help her and get her out of the parking lot, pushing carts when she should have been somewhere off her feet.

“Please, the state don't do nothing,” she said. “I'm tired of that shit—the lists and lines and folks that don't care nothing about you. See, you ain't got no money and the doctors and people with Section 8 know 'cause you working with the state. So they treat you like garbage. And ain't nobody in the welfare gonna stop them from doing it. Because they all got degrees and think they better than us. I ain't stupid. I know fake shit when I see it. I got to make my own way.”

I couldn't say anything. These were all things I'd heard before, but never from someone who was directly affected.

“So there's no one who can help you?” I asked.

“Not no one I want to,” she said. “There's my mother, but she got her own problems, and my child's father—I don't want nothing from him. That's how I was locked up before, fooling with him turning me out in the street . . . and he knew I was pregnant. No, I can't ask nobody for help. I think maybe it's time I help myself. I know this money ain't gonna be enough to get us by, but it's enough for me to make sure my baby is born in a nice hospital and not get no skin rash before she come home. Then after she come, I got to work harder.”

“McKenzie,” a man called from the front of the store.

“Damn, he getting on my nerves,” she said, stomping her foot on the pavement. “I got to get back to work.”

“Okay,” I said, opening my wallet. I wasn't sure what I was doing. I didn't have any cash to give her and I had a feeling she wouldn't take it anyway. I pulled one of my old cards from when I used to work with Jamison and handed it to her. “You can contact me if you need to. I may, well, my husband might, have some work you can do for him.”

“Really?” She took the card and a smile blossomed on her face. The spaniel shook accordingly.

“Yeah, I can't promise anything, but we may be able to help.” I hoped what I was saying sounded as sincere as it felt. I didn't know how I would help McKenzie, but I wanted to.

She waved and turned, pushing the shopping carts along with her as I got into my cozy car and headed to my cozy house where everything was going to be exactly as it had been when I left it. I didn't have to worry about anyone taking care of me. Even if Jamison left me and I didn't work another day in my life, I didn't have to worry about anything.

Driving home, I couldn't help but think about how different things were for women like McKenzie. They'd made bad choices, but that didn't mean that they should have to fend in the world completely alone. Someone should be there to assist them when they really needed help. Someone who cared and did it not as a career move, but because of the kindness in their hearts.

K
erry and I had been married for over seven years when I realized that not one night had gone by that I hadn't shared a bed with my wife. We'd traveled, but always together, and because of our families, we'd spent some holidays in different houses, but we always met at night in our bed. And it wasn't because we agreed to; it was just habit. I couldn't sleep without Kerry close to me. My true rest ultimately seemed to lie in the knowledge that she was nearby.

And in those seven years, my wife hadn't once bored me in bed, sent me to sleep on the couch or made me want to stay away from her. We'd had our problems just like the other couples I knew, and I did notice the other women who seemed to flock around me like pigeons since the day I'd gotten married, but I was happily sharing my bed with only one woman.

When Damien called and asked if I wanted to travel out of town with the fellas to an All-Star basketball weekend, I wanted to go, but I was sure it would be a stretch.

“Go,” Kerry said easily when I mentioned it. “I think it'll be good.” She was laying in bed beside me, reading a book.

“What?” I'd expected a bit more hostility, an argument.

“We haven't been apart. Go ahead and go. You have my full support.” She kissed me on the cheek and turned back to her book.

Now I know any other brother on earth would say I should've taken this quick approval and run with it all the way to floor seats at the game, but Kerry seeming not to care whether I was going to be leaving our bed was a bit of a jab at the old ego. See, it was one thing for me to kinda-sorta want to be out with the fellas, but for Kerry to want me to go out? That just went against the point of wanting to be out. I was a mature man, but I was a man who wanted to be wanted by his woman. I'd always felt that Kerry needed me there, really needed me there to protect her, but I was beginning to feel like that wasn't true anymore.

“You cheating on me?” I asked—half-joking after watching her read for a few seconds. “Hello . . .” She wasn't even looking at me. “Oh, now you're so into that Terry McMillan you can't hear me? Don't care if your husband lives or dies, huh?”

“What are you talking about?” She put down the book and slid off her glasses. “I do care if you go, but I do kind of need some time to myself. I have some things I need to do around here.”

“Like what?” Kerry was still working with me as my first assistant, but we'd hired two more girls beneath her, so she didn't have much to do.

“Well, I need to start deciding what things we'll be taking to the new house, for example,” she said, referring to the dream house I'd just bought her. I'd saved for three years and bought the house outright—no loans, no price haggling. It was one of the proudest days of my life.

“What you mean ‘decide'?” I asked. “We're taking everything.”

“Jamison, we can't take this old stuff to the new house,” she said. “That's Cascade. We'll need all new things . . . well, a few of my antiques will be able to make the cut, but . . .”

“My green couch?”

“Oh, that's not even on the list,” she said laughing.

“Kerry, that was my first couch!”

“And when you leave for the game, it will be the last time you'll see it.”

We were both laughing together. I jumped on top of her in the bed and began tickling her.

“Stop, Jamison,” Kerry cried.

“Not until you take that stuff back about my green couch.”

“No, no, no,” she cried. “That couch is out.”

“Really?” I stopped tickling her and held her hands down above her head on the bedsheets.

“Yes, really . . .” she said.

“Really?” I bent down and kissed her on the cheeks.

“Yes, really.”

“Really?” I kissed her on the lips and as I ran my tongue over her lips, I spread her legs apart with my knees.

“Really?” She took my line. Her body shuddered as my tongue went from her lips to her earlobes and then to the tips of her nipples, which I kissed through her shirt.

“Really, yes,” I said, releasing her hands. She wrapped them around my neck and raised them around the backs of my ears as she looked into my eyes.

“Really?” she said. Her hands were on top of my head, gently pushing it down toward her breasts.

“Really, yes,” I said.

I didn't bring up the green couch again. In fact, nothing green ever made it into the dream house.

A
fter spending most of the night making and remaking Aunt Luchie's sweet potato pie, I was up at 9:30
AM
, walking into the church Jamison grew up. We were attending a prayer service the church held every Thanksgiving morning to send up prayers of thanks. It wasn't exactly my idea of a way to spend Thanksgiving morning—with Jamison and his mother in a church—but I did it as part of my agreement to try to communicate better with Jamison. We'd been doing great so far. Planning the dinner had actually given us something to focus on other than what we'd been going through. It also helped us to talk and communicate in ways we hadn't been able to for various reasons in years. We were laughing and singing, sitting up late at night chatting after Tyrian had gone to sleep.

“Don't mention what happened,” Jamison said as we stood in the waiting area of the church, preparing to go. He was holding Tyrian in his arms and I was carrying the baby seat. “I didn't tell my mother.”

“You didn't tell her?”

“Well, I just didn't want to give her another reason to . . . you know, be against you.”

He had a point. It probably would actually make his mother happy to hear that he'd cheated.

“Fine,” I said.

“Don't be mad,” he whispered. “I was trying to protect you.”

The choir stopped singing their opening hymn and an usher opened the door, so we could walk into the sanctuary. I hadn't been to church, or even out of the house much since Tyrian was born, so I was feeling a bit nervous about wearing what was once my favorite navy blue church suit, and how my less-than-fabulous after-the-baby body looked in a pre-baby-body outfit. It had been three weeks since my special delivery, so I was determined that I wasn't going to wear another maternity outfit, but my stomach—and oh GOD my thighs—weren't in agreement with this plan. I'd spread out in ways I didn't even realize in those nine months and nothing seemed to fit quite right.

I didn't expect the church to be packed; I figured most people would be at home preparing for company or be out of town, but this little church was near capacity. It almost looked like Sunday morning, the way folks were packed into the pews, piled on top of one another. The choir was up in the loft, the preacher was sitting in his seat at the altar, and someone was reading announcements. With all of this ritual, I wouldn't feel a need to go to church on Sunday. Jamison and I had been raised in very different churches. Or, should I say, had different church lives. While Jamison was a “holiday” churchgoer now, he attended the same small Baptist church for most of his young life. His uncle was the pastor and he'd spent nearly every night of the week sitting in the pews beside his mother. From Sunday service to Saturday Bible study, he said his mother kept him close to the good house. She seemed to blame me for Jamison's lack of attendance, but I never told him not to go to church; I just never made it part of my regular regimen. I'd been raised in the same church as my mother and grandmother. I went to service weekly as a child, but our attendance was more a matter of form. Not to say my mother wasn't a true Christian, but for her, church was an event, a social occasion where she got to see and say hello to old friends and need-to-know acquaintances. Our church was like an attendance sheet for lineage—no big hats, no holy ghosts, no tear-jerking gospel. Just an organ, spirituals, and lots of handshakes.

Jamison's mother was sitting toward the front of the church. I was sure the pews were about to go up in smoke at any moment with her there, but God saw fit not to kill us all because of one bad seed. In ten years, she'd proven to be the antagonist she'd threatened the day we met. Dottie knew not one kind word to say to me, and even when she came to see Tyrian in the hospital, she managed to rub me the wrong way. “He
does
look like Jamison did when he was born,” she said, holding him. Only it wasn't the way most other people would connect a baby's looks with a parent's. She purposely emphasized the word “does,” like I'd been cheating.

“Oh,” she said surprised when Jamison tapped her on the shoulder. She slid down in the pew to make room for us, but I noticed that she kept her eye on me. “I didn't expect all of you,” she whispered, with an uncomfortable smile.

“Yeah, Kerry wanted to come out,” Jamison said, grabbing my hand as we sat down.

“Oh . . .” she said, looking around the church. She seemed rather nervous.

 

 

The service was quite moving, and I had to admit that I was glad I'd gone. As the preacher drew his prayer of thankfulness to a close, I sat, holding Jamison's hand, thinking of how thankful I was for everything I had. I thought of McKenzie and all of the things she didn't have—the basic things she probably had to worry about on a daily basis. I had the option as to whether I wanted to breast-feed. I didn't have to worry about where the formula would come from if I didn't. I wasn't exactly on great terms with my husband when Tyrian was born, but unlike McKenzie, I knew he could and would take care of us and never even think of trying to make me have sex with another man for money. My life had been in turmoil, but I knew I was blessed anyway. And for that I was thankful to God. Jamison had hurt me. But I could try to forgive him in time. I was willing to move on and try to save my family. I did hear the things Jamison said about our marriage and that we needed to talk more. I was willing to give it everything I had to make it work.

When the prayer was over and the choir began to sing a soothing song, I was in tears.

“You okay?” Jamison whispered in my ear. Dottie was still holding Tyrian, who'd gone to sleep, even with all of the noise.

“Just thinking,” I said, reaching into my purse for a tissue, but I'd left them in my other bag.

“Need something?” he asked.

“Yeah, I'm going to go to the bathroom,” I said. “I'll meet you at the car.”

“Okay,” Jamison said. “Take your time. I'll get the baby in the car.” He kissed me on the cheek and smiled reassuringly.

I got up from the pew and started walking down the aisle.

“Where she going?” I heard Jamison's mother ask.

I was still full of emotion as I stood in the bathroom, looking at myself in the mirror. I'd managed to get my eye makeup off with a wet tissue but inside I was still crying. Tears or joy, wonder, fear, anxiousness. It was all inside of me.

I opened my purse to get my lip gloss and when I raised my head to see my face in the mirror, there was a woman standing beside me. She had a short, strawberry blond bob and looked very familiar but I couldn't put my finger on it. I smiled and tossed my tissue into the trash can.

“Pastor got you all riled up?” she asked.

“I guess so,” I said, closing my purse.

“Have a good day,” she said.

“Happy Thanksgiving.”

Walking across the back of the church, toward the parking lot, I remembered where I'd seen the girl in the bathroom before. She actually worked at the gym I used to go to before I was pregnant. She did the advanced step class.

“That's it,” I recalled, closing my purse. Only, when I looked down, I realized that I'd left my lip gloss sitting on the counter in the bathroom. I tried to head back to pick it up, but when I turned, I stepped on someone's toes.

“I'm sorry,” I said, sure it was the woman from the gym.

“It's okay,” the woman said, looking down at her shoes to be sure no damage had been done. She stepped back and raised her head.

I was smiling, but this quickly changed. It wasn't the woman from the gym behind me. It was Coreen.

We stood there, face-to-face, in silence for a few seconds. I was stunned to see her, and by the look on her face I might as well have been a walking corpse.

“What are you here for?” I finally said. “Are you following us?”

“This is my church,” she said tensely. “This is not what you think.”

“Don't you tell me what I'm thinking.” I stepped closer to her. “I just need you to know that you can stop whatever you think you're doing. I'm not going to let you ruin my marriage. So, whatever it was you thought you and Jamison had, it was nothing,” I said angrily. “You were just a good-time girl for the moment. There's no way he'd ever leave me for you.”

What I said must have stung Coreen just as much as I'd intended, because tears almost immediately began to fill her eyes.

“Really,” she said, her voice shaking. “Well, I hope you know that his mother did all of this anyway. She hooked us up.”

“What?”

“That's why I'm here. This is my church. No one was following you and Jamison,” she cried. “This is my church.”

The same alarm that was sounding in my heart the night I ended up at Coreen's house was rattling throughout my body at that moment. Either Coreen was telling the truth or she was really desperate enough to follow Jamison to his mother's church. While I had little trouble believing both takes on the situation, my heart just believed her.

“His mother?” I asked.

“She gave me Jamison's contact information . . . his e-mail, and told me to go after him. She begged me to. She said she didn't want you to be with him and that he needed,” Coreen said, “someone like me . . .”

“Look,” I said sharply, “I don't care what's going on. I just want you to stay the hell away from my husband.”

“Well, you need to tell him to stay away from me,” she said.

“Excuse me?”

“Check his e-mail.”

“What?”

“He e-mailed me last night.”

“Well, that hasn't been proven yet,” I said, stepping to her. “Coreen, can't you find a man who isn't taken? What's wrong with you that you have to scrape and struggle to get at something that someone else already owns? I guess you thought that getting my husband to sleep with you somehow made you a stronger woman than me. No, it only makes you a trifling, lowlife whore. Spreading your legs and you don't have a damn thing to show for it. Jamison isn't going anywhere. You were living a fantasy.”

One of the ushers came over and tried to squeeze between the two of us as people walking by began to stop and stare.

“No, there's no need,” I said to usher. “I'm so done with her.” I stepped to walk away but then I turned back around and said, “Stay away from my family.”