My Husband's Girlfriend (7 page)

“Okay, bye,” Dani says, and walks away. I watch her glide down the hall. Besides her usual work gear, she’s sporting four-inch pumps. Her hair is pinned up, styled in a pompadour. The hallway smells like flowers, capturing her sweet perfume. She doesn’t even glance back at me.

Minutes later I walk in Dani’s office and close her door. I take a seat in a guest chair that’s in front of her desk. She looks up from her PC and smiles like she’s not surprised. I hate when she knows what I’m going to do before I do it.

“Whassa matter, Neil?” Her voice sounds so sweet. I am grateful just to be in her calming presence. I am amazed she affects me this way.

When I don’t say anything, she hops up and comes to sit on my lap. She’s wearing a chocolate-colored business suit I love; the skirt comes right above her knees, and her long legs are stretching from underneath the hem, like they’re meant to be on a stage. She hikes up her skirt and wiggles her ass around on top of both me and my dick until we fit nicely together. Her body feels hot next to mine. I take deep breaths. Dani places her arms around my neck and hugs me. I motion like I’m trying to stand up.

“Uh-uh, nope. I’m not letting you leave till you tell me what’s wrong.” She smiles, gazes in my eyes, and kisses me softly on the cheek. I wish I could stay there, just like that, longer than forever.

Dani kisses my cheek again. I feel my heart getting softer. She kisses my lips. Her lips are wet. I don’t kiss back. She covers my whole mouth with her mouth, then tries to poke her moist tongue inside. I open my mouth and let her in. Our tongues slide, dancing like strippers grinding against each other. I close my eyes and suck the tip of her tongue desperately, like I’m trying to prevent it from leaving me. Her juices mingle with mine. I love being inside Dani’s mouth. It feels like the home I wish I had. My dick is getting harder by the second. She stops kissing me and takes my hand and leads it inside her blouse. My hand is on top of her right breast, which feels soft and warm. She presses my hand against her breast. I squeeze her nipple. It feels unbendable, stiffer than my dick. I slowly rub my finger across her nipple, torturing her. Dani moans and arches her neck. My dick is about to explode. I wish we were at her place. I wish I could control what should not control me.

“If you suck me, milk will come out,” she whispers in my ear. “Suck me, Neil, please, any part of me. I want you, Neil. I want…” The heat of her breath against my skin makes me want to nibble on her earlobe, then go on to explore her, from her succulent breasts to her manicured toes. I shift in my seat and want to tug at the front of my pants.

“Dani,” I say, and press my wet lips against her warm neck. It feels awkward sitting in that chair, but so what. What would happen if I placed my mouth over her plump tits and slurped? What would happen if I unzipped my pants and she sucked and sucked and sucked my dick? What if our boss knocked on her door and walked in the office and caught me jamming my rock-hard penis inside hot and wet Dani? My dick wants to know, but I know I can’t do this. I remove my hand from her blouse and gently pat Dani on her back.

“You still haven’t told me what’s wrong,” she says, breathing hard and buttoning her blouse.

“I know but I got to go.”

“You sure?” she asks.

“I’m sure.” I try to make my voice sound strong and authoritative, but it’s about as difficult as telling Reese no when she begs for a new toy. Dani smiles, stands up, and walks to her desk with a showgirl seductiveness that makes me want to rip off her skirt and panties and make love to her till she starts screaming my name. But as much as I want her, I need to show some restraint. Everything insane is rushing at me and I am thinking about how much I need to figure out what to do even though I’m not eager to make any hard decisions.

On Friday Anya meets me at the door when I arrive home. She hands me a glass of wine and takes me by the hand and leads me to the den. She pushes at my chest until I fall back on the sofa.

“Give me your feet,” she commands.

I lift my feet and she pulls off my shoes one at a time, then hands me the
Chronicle.
I am dead-dog tired. My bones are aching and popping; they sound like cracked knuckles. So Anya’s gestures make me feel so good I want to yell in ecstasy.

“This is what I’m talking ’bout,” I tell her, and lean back in my seat against several huge pillows. I left my suit jacket on the backseat of the Explorer, but she waves at me so I can undo my tie. I feel freer than I have in a long time—at home, relaxing on a Friday night after a psychologically challenging week. The weekend is starting out good.

“Be right back,” Anya says. She whisks away my shoes and necktie and comes back holding a blue bandanna.

“Now, close your eyes, Neil,” she commands, and stands in front of me.

I sigh but close my eyes, hoping she isn’t gonna force her toes inside my mouth. Anya wraps the bandanna around my eyes so tightly that light becomes dark. The darkness makes me feel like I am invisible. I try to imagine what Dani is doing right now. But then I quickly wonder what
Anya
is doing.

I hear giggling. Girlish laughter. Maybe Reese is sticking her hands in her ears, waving her thumbs, and making faces at me. I wouldn’t be surprised if she and her mom are getting a kick out of making me look silly.

“Okay, Neil, I’m about to remove the bandanna,” I hear Anya say.

When my eyes are free again, I see that Reese and our neighbor Tamika are standing in front of me. Reese has on a black leotard, some black ballerina slippers, some huge pink bunny ears, and a pink bushy tail. She bends over, puts her hands on her knees, and starts shaking her butt. I laugh. Tamika is dressed in a yellow-and-orange clown suit with huge balloons on the front. She has on a pointed orange hat and some big floppy red shoes. Each cheek had a big red circle painted on it.

“Ahhh, how cute,” I say. “What’s this for? Someone having a party?”

The sound of Mika’s and Reese’s giggles fall on top of each other.

“Y’all go sit on Daddy’s lap,” Anya says. The girls jump on me while Anya snaps a few photos with a disposable camera she bought from “Small-Mart,” our nickname for the little Wal-Marts that are popping up all over Houston.

“Reese, go get the other outfit,” Anya says.

Reese hops off my lap and comes back holding a pair of black pants, a green T-shirt, and one of those Dr. Frankenstein monster masks. “Here, Daddy, this’s yours,” she says, and tries to place the mask on my face. It feels funny on my nose, which is now twitching.

“Hey, no.” I fuss and remove the mask.

“Daddyyy.”

“Okay,” I tell them. “Now I get it. It’s the thirty-first of October, right?”

“Nooo, it’s Halloween, Daddy. Go get dressed so we can get some candy, candy, candy.”

I smile at Anya and raise my hands, defeated. My heart is racing. I haven’t done a Halloween stint in a while. It shouldn’t be too hard walking the girls for a few blocks within the neighborhood so they can feel the excitement of filling sacks with chocolate bars, saltwater taffy, strawberry bubble gum, and other treats. I head to the library and quickly get dressed, pulling on the slacks, black loafers, and green shirt that Anya left for me there, but hold off putting on the mask.

I return to the den. “Anya, where’s your costume?”

She smiles but does not say anything, just runs up the stairs, the floors creaking under the weight of her feet.

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” Reese says, pulling at the tips of my fingers. Her hands are cold. When she’s excited it seems her body temperature fluctuates up and down.

“Reese, why does everything you say have to be mentioned three times?” I ask.

“I dunno, I dunno—” She quits jabbering, her cheeks filling up with air while she contains a goofy laugh.

“Tamika, where’s your mama?” I say to the girl who is hopping around on one foot.

“She at home, just chilling,” she says with an uncaring shrug. I shake my head and rise to go open the front door. Darkness has quickly settled. I can already detect several groups of children ambling down the street, followed by parents or young adults. I can hear the chirpy sound of crickets filling the air. The darkness and slight chill contribute to the murky atmosphere.

I stick my head back in the door. Reese and Mika are playing patty cake near the foyer. “Y’all ready to leave? What we waiting on?”

Anya descends the stairs, taking slow steps toward us. She is smiling, head held high, and hair topped by a silver tiara. She is wearing a long beige gown. I blink twice. Does she actually have on the dress she wore to our wedding reception? Surprisingly, it isn’t a tight fit; maybe she had the dress altered. But my wife is sporting that dress like it’s meant for nobody but Anya Meadows. I want to slink to the floor and cover my eyes. But I keep staring. She glows like she knows who she is. I hope she’s happy that her family is doing something fun together.

“Nice,” is all I can utter.

“Mommy, you look beautiful and fine and gorgeous.”

“Thank you, my princess. Now we can go?” Anya asks. “Won’t take long.”

“Good,” I murmur, and slam and lock the door behind us. I inhale a mouthful of cool air and slip the monster mask over my face. It isn’t as difficult to see as I thought it would be. Yet I can barely breathe. It feels like someone is pinching my nostrils. I adjust the mask so my breathing is less restrained.

Most times you can tell when the neighbors are willing to dole out candy and goodies. They’ll have some lights on, indicating their holiday participation. Every five or so houses have these lights, which is fine with me. It feels good to be hanging with the ladies, but I am eager to get back home and remove the mask from my face. I wonder why Anya gets to be a queen but here I am a damned monster.

Thinking about the irony of it all, I laugh to myself while Anya and the girls walk up to a two-story house that has flashing orange lights and porcelain black cats guarding both sides of the front door.

My cell phone rings and the caller ID indicates it’s Dani’s wireless number. I start not to answer but end up pressing the talk button. “Yeah,” I say in a loud, confident voice. I have nothing to hide, so why go into soft-voice mode?

“Having fun?” she says. I hear her smile and I want to smile, too.

“I’m all right. Where are you?” I turn my back so I’m facing the street. I can barely hear because the girls are so loud saying, “
Oooowee,
thank you, thank you.”

“Uh, I dunno,” Dani says. “Out and about.”

“Is the—” I clear my throat. “Is the little one with you?”

“Yeah, you wanna talk to him?”

I laugh. Sometimes Dani will call and let me say something on the phone to Braxton. As if he understands what I’m saying. Though maybe he does. I know he knows my voice. Because I used to talk to him while he was in Dani’s belly, he already recognizes his daddy’s voice.

“Sure, I’ll talk to the kid.”

I feel someone come up behind me.

“Here, say hello real quick,” a soft voice speaks.

My hairs lift off my neck. I freeze, unable to move for a sec. A figure steps in front of me, the streetlight glowing above our heads. This creature is dressed in a long-sleeved black dress that reaches the ground. Her hair is covered by a floppy black hat; her cheeks, forehead, and chin painted with green makeup. Even her teeth are green when she smiles at me. I want to run and leave my wife and the girls far behind.

“What’s the matter? Did I scare you, Neil?” She’s covered up but I know her voice. Dani waves her cell phone at me. She’s holding Brax, who’s dressed in a sailor suit with a blue hat and a sweater to cover his arms. I want to reach out and graze his sweet cheeks with my lips but he’s asleep. I want to ask Dani what is she doing in my neighborhood, how long has she been here, and did she plan on dropping by my house for Halloween candy but just happened to see us come out of the house, so followed us. I have all these questions, but I’m too stunned to ask. I stare at her; she’s smiling like this is all normal and appropriate.

“Wow, look at that ugly witch!” Reese yells. I turn around until I am facing the house. My daughter, wife, and Mika are staring and pointing at Dani. She smiles, growls, and waves her hands real slow, which makes her seem even more mysterious. I am getting freaked-the-hell-out with every second.

Damn Dani. What is she doing? Is this her idea of a joke? Maybe we don’t share the same humor when it comes to some things.

“Look at the witch’s baby,” Reese laughs.

Dani quickly covers Braxton’s face with a blanket before anyone can see him.

“Ch–Charles is getting over a cold. I shouldn’t have him out here,” she says in a nasal-sounding voice, escalating to a real high and demonic pitch, like she’s slurring her words. I cough and clear my throat. I realize Anya knows Dani’s normal voice. I really want to get out of here.

“Hey, you two, let’s keep moving,” Anya says. “There’s this really cool house a few doors down that’s totally decorated with Halloween stuff—corpses, vampires, tombstones, and a wolf that sits on top of the roof.”

“C’mon, girls, let’s go,” I order.

Dani shoots me a look, a mixture of longing and apology. I give her one back that pleads,
Not now.
We head down the street. My cell phone rings again. I turn off the power and pick up the pace of my steps, wondering what other things Dani is capable of.

8

Anya

“C’mon, Anya, stop acting so stupid.”

I hate when Vette talks to me this way. She barely has any home training, but I sidestep her rude comments and smile.

“Vette, no, I won’t take off my wedding ring.”

“Then give me your hand, I’ll do it,” she says, and waves her fingers at me. We’re at Boudreaux’s, a Cajun restaurant on the West Loop South near the city of Bellaire. It’s Friday night. Neil agreed to watch Reesy. Vette begged me to come here so we could escape the house, partake in a major gabfest, and eat something greasy. We’ve only been here ten minutes and I’ve already sized things up. Twenty- and thirty-year-old women dressed like they’re going to a club. Short skirts, legs slicked with oil, hair done up fancy like they’re at a Bronner Bros. hair show. There are more men here than at a college football game.

“Damn, Anya, you’ve forgotten how to have fun.”

“No. And what I also haven’t forgotten is that I’m married. I don’t mess around, Vette. Period.”

“You don’t have to get laid. Just see if any man wants to mack you. Don’t you miss that?”

I cringe and stir my iced tea with a long spoon. Vette’s words cut deep. Sometimes truth is soothing, and it feels good to admit what’s previously been denied. Other times when people see your truth, you feel so exposed. Even when you’re as tender as me, you still want to appear strong, like nothing ever steals your joy.

“I am not desperate, Vette. I don’t need a guy to look at me and ask for my number to make me feel like I’m somebody. I mean that. I won’t sink that low.”

“You’re weird, Anya.”

“No—no, I am not. I may not do what you think I should do, but that doesn’t mean I’m weird. You are really getting on my nerves tonight.”

“What else is new?” Vette giggles and digs into her shrimp scampi and fried alligator. It’s so noisy in this joint. Huge TVs are mounted to the ceiling. You can barely hear from the overpowering music. Chaka Khan screaming. Out Kast crooning. In a way it feels good to be out and about, but in this crowded environment, I feel like I’m naked and dancing in a cage.

“It’s been so long, you’ve forgotten how to work it, Ms. Married Woman. C’mon, take that ring off. You’ll feel like a different person.”

“No, I will not. Taking off the ring doesn’t make me not married. Marriage is based on more than wearing some guy’s ring.”

“Aww, okay. But at least if you remove it, just for fun, you might temporarily forget the bad stuff.”

“No, Vette. What you don’t understand is I’ve taken the ring off before. When Danielle first got pregnant, I took the ring off.”

Vette sets down her fork and places her hand on mine. “You said her name.”

“Mmm-hmm, her name is Danielle. She’s the mama of Neil’s baby. Can you believe I have two kids now?”

Vette snatches her hand back like I’ve sunk my teeth into her flesh.

“Don’t be shocked, Vette. Denial hasn’t helped. I can pretend that this hasn’t happened all day long, saying a little mantra, ‘Neil doesn’t have another baby, Neil doesn’t have another baby,’ but it hasn’t stopped my husband from running over to Danielle’s to see their son. So what else am I supposed to do? Continue acting like an idiot so my ego won’t feel bruised?”

“Anya, I’ll be right back. I want to refill my drink.” Vette moves so fast that I can barely glimpse the back of her head when she sprints across the room. I shift in my seat. Even though we’re inside and the lighting is poor, I get my purse and find my sunglasses. I slide them onto my face like I’m a cool and together sista, just chilling on a Friday night.

Vette returns to our table. She’s snapping her fingers to the music and doing the Beyoncé bounce, shaking her butt fast and hard like she’s in a real groove. I ain’t mad at her. She’s young, carefree, and has the energy to be as spontaneous as she is.

“So,” she says, sliding into the booth, balancing her glass, “since you seem to accept that Neil has the kid, why do you still act on edge all the time?”

“No, no, everything is straight. Really. Only thing left to do is meet the baby.”

“And when’s this gonna happen?”

“Neil is arranging that now.” I sip my drink even though I’m not thirsty. “Uh, should be soon, though. Can’t wait to see him.”

Vette throws back her head and laughs. The music is loud enough to swallow the room, but I can still hear Vette’s howl.

“Silly, woman, I
am
up for meeting him.”

“But—”

“But nothing, Vette. Meeting the baby is just something we need to get over with. I’ve prayed about it and I think this is the right thing to do.”

“So you’re doing it because it’s the right thing to do? Not because you really want to do it?”

“Vette.” I pause and grip my frigid glass between my hands. “Being introduced to him will move us forward. Begin that healing process.”

“You ever gonna do a face-to-face with Dani?”

“Whoa, I dunno. I mean, you think Neil would actually initiate such a meeting?” I say. “I can’t even see it.”

“What if I do it?”

“Girl, please,” I protest, making a face. “You haven’t even met her yourself yet.”

“How you know that?” Vette says.

“I just know.”

Vette studies me. “Tell me something. Are you afraid that Dani has the power to snatch Neil from you?”

I shrug and focus on the stillness of my iced tea.

“Just because you have the man’s kid doesn’t mean you have the man,” she says.

My eyes widen.

“Not talking about you and Reesy. I’m referring to Dani and other women like her. All these chicks think they’re doing something great by purposely getting pregnant, thinking that’s gonna ensure a relationship with the man. They think having a man’s secret kid means something. And it really doesn’t—except pain, hurt, shame, resentment, and a whole bunch of other wack stuff.”

“So, Vette,” I say, “if all this is true, who wins? The wife? Mistress? Kids?”

“I dunno. I think for a long time most men would hide their secret kids and the mothers had to play a role. They accepted the payoffs and knew it was the best they could get. But that stuff always gets tricky because the women ultimately want more cash, especially if the man’s pockets are deep.”

“Oh, like athletes?” I ask. “The Dr. J’s of the world? And that basketball player that has seven kids by six different women? I don’t remember his name—”

“Doesn’t matter. He’s just an extreme example of what can happen. But at least he claims the kids. That’s a start. It would be a damned shame if my brother slipped his nut inside this woman and didn’t have the balls to admit it. Now, that’s when things can get ugly.”

Yeah, right, I thought. Let’s give Neil a big hand-clap.

“Would you prefer if Neil never told you at all?” Vette asks. “At least he told you.”

“Yeah,” I say, my eyes glazing at the memory. He did tell me—over the phone, which is understandable. Maybe he thought if he told me in person, I’d nut out in public or something.

Dani was seven weeks along when she found out. She didn’t want to abort. Neil, of course, didn’t want her to abort, either, but he was still stressed.

“Hey, baby,” he whispered after he told me everything and I was icy silent. “I am sooo shocked about this. I can’t even believe it myself.”

Listening to his confession, I shivered like I was freezing, but I was too hot to respond. I was thinking about the fact that he’d put his penis in her after he signed a document saying he wouldn’t. I felt like the biggest fool in America. But in a way it was like I placed a kid on punishment, then took him to the mall, made him promise not to play video games, and wanted to start screaming when I caught him holed up in GameStop.com, laughing and playing Xbox—like what we agreed did not matter. So while I felt betrayed, I guess I set Neil up inadvertently by suggesting he not penetrate. Who was I kidding? If Catholic priests can penetrate, surely married men will.

“Yep,” I tell Vette. “Your brother seemed pretty typical in some ways, and astounding in others. He could’ve lied till his teeth fell out. He could’ve produced a child that I never ever knew about. Plenty of other brothers keep extra babies on the down low, but secrets like that never stay secrets long. They always have a way of creeping out and exposing you when least expected, you know what I’m saying?”

“Sister-in-law, you are not alone. It happens way more than we ever know. We just don’t like talking about it. Men are a real trip. And they say women have issues.”

“Well, Vette,” I say. “Put yourself in a man’s shoes. If you hide the kid, you’re wrong. If you bring it out in the open, folks might talk about you like a dog. So what do we do? You know, it sounds weird, but I am glad Neil wanted to deal with it.”

“Like I said before, my brother shouldn’t have been messing around on you in the first place. His common sense should’ve kicked in, you know what I mean? What an idiot…”

“Okay, Vette,” I say with a nervous laugh. “Are we male bashing?”

“We’re talking about how things are, the good, bad, and ugly. We didn’t create this, we’re just trying to sort through it all and survive it.”

“Girl, I swear you look at too much
Oprah.
”

“Nooo, my show is
The View.
I love me some Star Jones.”

“Sure you do,” I say. We share a genuine smile.

What would happen if I slid off my ring and dropped it inside my purse? Would the ring line still show? And if a guy could detect the line, would he care? There’re always some people willing to cross marital boundaries. And as much as the idea of putting out some ego-building feelers sounded intriguing, I am not down for that. Neil is still my heart. True, I want to place my fingers around his neck and squeeze one minute, and pinch him playfully on the butt the next. And to be honest, when I lay awake at night thinking about my life, I try to remember the times when things were better. Long before Reesy came along, Neil would lie next to me in bed and we’d grab each other’s waist and I’d tremble just from his warm and loving touch.

But after the second miscarriage, sexually things cooled way off. Neil treated me like I had a bone disease or something, stroking me with timid hands, perhaps fearing I was too distraught for us to connect. But once I convinced him I was hurt but not destroyed by the miscarriages, his sexual fire lit back up.

Every so often I fantasize about the good old days. Would Neil even be interested in some high-energy cuddling after all we’ve been through?

Besides, fear and dread keep insisting we’re long past that blissful period of intimacy and closeness, when it was natural and not pledged in writing. Maybe being married eight years is too long for us to restore the matrimonial foundation. And the thought of that makes me want to curl up and vanish. What would happen if we reversed time? If my husband wanted to have sex with me five times a day, would I do it? Could I turn off that freaking TV, strip naked in broad daylight, and let Neil screw the goody-goody attitude out of me, my chunky legs stretching east and west, my genitals cold, throbbing, and wet, whether I was in the mood or not? What can I do now that would be the equivalent of that? Truth be told, I’m still searching for the answer.

Vette and I just stepped outside of Boudreaux’s. The sky is black, the air crisp and filled with a pleasant breeze. I can’t believe women are standing around wearing short skirts and no jackets to cover their bare arms. A few loud-talking guys are huddled in front of an Escalade that has spinning wheel rims. The men yell comments to every woman who passes by.

“See, if that’s all it takes to make me feel like a woman, I won’t be faring too well,” I tell Vette. “I mean, does getting whistled at make you feel good, Vette? You like when guys use pickup lines?”

“Sometimes yes, sometimes no—it depends. If the line sounds tired, like something from the nineties, no, I wouldn’t appreciate it. They can send that line back to wherever they got it. But if a man steps up to me and is sincere and I haven’t noticed him winking at every other woman passing by, then that’s cool. But I still wouldn’t hand over the digits.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t like meeting folks on the street.” She frowns. “Too risky.”

I laugh and bump my shoulder against hers. “Well, Miss Lady, you ready to go?

“Sure, let’s roll.”

We head east toward a parking lot that is one block away, passing by a store that sells hip-hop clothing. A bright light shines from inside the display window, spotlighting throwback jerseys and low-rider jeans. A longhaired man with twisted shoulders stands bowlegged in our path. His nylon jacket and pants are wrinkled. He’s as thin as Clay Aiken. His vibrating shoulders make him look cold, maybe hungry. I reach for my wallet.

The man wobbles up to me and says in a raspy voice, “Jesus cares about you.” I stuff my wallet back in my purse, laugh, and quicken my steps.

“Loser,” Vette says under her breath. We don’t stop walking fast, our heels slapping hard across the pavement, until we reach my car.

One Saturday afternoon, Neil and I agree that he will pick up Braxton from Dani and allow me to meet him for the first time. Since Houston’s mid-November temperatures are still in the seventies, Neil suggests we expose the baby to the nice weather at a nearby park. While he’s gone, I slam kitchen cabinets, wash my hands twice, then stand by the living-room window and wait for him to pull up in front of our house.