Lies of Love

by Hannovah

  “Hah,” I said.

  Brandon announced, “I’m going out to mess with her.”

  He did. But not me. I sat right back down and continued with my manicure; I was not in the mood to speak with anyone associated the Germ-must Joseph. But after a couple minutes when he did not return, curiosity got the better of me and I went back to the window to spy. Joanne was grinning a lot and acting all chummy with my husband. How pretentious. Then Joshua joined them. I watched until the trio came towards our back gate and then I went back to my position on the sofa, like if I had never left it.

  Honestly, I didn’t know what to think of this Joshua and Joanne reunion, because . . . that girl? Lorrrd! One finger of Ashley’s pole climbing hands contained more love in it than all ten of Joanne’s praying fingers.

  Brandon returned inside and I bombarded him immediately.

  “Ray, I have issues with that girl, you know.”

  “What issues, Eddie?”

  I opened my left palm and began to itemize on my fingers. “Number one, she is very pretentious.”

  “Oh yeah,” Brandon agreed, scratching his head. “She wouldn’t even admit that she is from the Caribbean.”

  “Number two, she never helped me with chores even if I asked, but she was quick to serve my Jamaican neighbor.”

  “Ah-hah,” Brandon remembered. “And she stayed locked up in her room most times. But that is not our business.”

  “Well, Ray, let’s talk about our business. Do you remember that our home had almost caught on fire one day and –”

  “Oh yes! She was in the house reading her bible while the smoke alarm was blasting away.”

  “Now, I could forgive her for that incident because some Christians are just fanatics that way,” I said. “But, I just cannot forgive her for accusing you of sexual harassment.”

  “Oh, I had forgotten about that.”

  “I realize now that her accusation was just an excuse for her not to come to our home. I don’t know if you realized it, but I never, ever spoke to her after that fiasco. I know that you apologized for something that you didn’t do – you’re so sweet – and you spoke to her briefly after that. But I will only speak to her with a baseball bat.”

  Brandon laughed.

  I knew it was Joshua’s decision to make, but our relationship with him would become strained if he chose to get back with that cross.

  Crazy but sweet Ashley called us late one night towards the end of May because Joshua had been ignoring her calls. She wanted so badly to reconcile with him, saying that she had changed and will do anything he wanted. I listened, and I told her that I would see what I can do. But honestly, I was not anxious for her returning here. That boy had not made good choices in women.

  She did not call after that night, but we received a few text messages from her, with the same tone. I eventually relayed them one day to Joshua, but he seemed not to care, saying that all he cared about were the divorce papers. I was glad that he remained strong.

  Then one night, days later, I received a call from a man claiming to be Ashley’s boyfriend. He said that he found her hanging from a ceiling fan in their bedroom.

  It’s a good thing I was lying down. My head felt as light as feather. My God. And I had the nerve to think that I had problems?

  He got her down just in the nick of time, he told me, by putting the bar stool back under her feet and cutting the rope. Then he called 911 and they came and took her to the hospital. He said that she had tried to shoot herself days earlier with his semi-automatic pistol, but it had no bullets. Her reason for this behavior, according to him, was that nobody loved her, not even her mother.

  When I gathered my wits about me, I thanked him for the info and told him to keep trying to contact her mother, and keep us posted. I lay there thinking that if she had tried shooting herself with Brandon’s revolver, she would have been dead for sure, because he keeps a loaded pistol beneath our bed. I am awfully afraid of guns, but Brandon says that he needs it for protection from disgruntled tenants.

  Eventually, after a few starts and stops, I managed to tell the whole attempted suicide story to Brandon, after which I nestled my head in his chest. He was at a loss for words, except to say that we would not bother Josh tonight with the bad news.

  We told Joshua the next day, and while he felt sorry for Ashley, he was not surprised at her actions. However, he had to study for final exams and really did not want to deal with any more drama.

  For all of that day, we awaited word about Ms. Browning’s recovery. As soon as I got home, I checked Brandon for an update; but nothing. It was ten at night when we learnt that she was doing well and should be released in a few days.

  Late Saturday night, Joshua popped in. “I spoke with Ashley today,” he said. “She is coming down on Monday so that we could go down to the courts and finalize the divorce together. And I’ll sign the car over to her and her cell phone will go in her name.”

  “That’s great!” Brandon remarked. “How is she doing?”

  “Good. She has already started counseling and medication.”

  We discussed the situation a little longer and then Joshua returned to the guesthouse to study for a test.

  When Ashley came by to visit us on Monday, she was like a breath of fresh air, and even though her neck was in a brace, she still rocked in her body clinging jeans. We hugged again and again. I was so glad that she was alive.

  “Girl, it is so nice to see you!” Brandon said.

  She grinned, “Same here. I cannot stay long, I have to visit a few more people before heading back up to Daytona, but I just had to come and see you guys.”

  “We are really happy that you stopped by.” I held her hand and led her to a chair in our living room. “How are you?” I asked as Brandon and I sat on the loveseat across from her.

  “I’m doing fine. I came down to Miami to do the divorce thing with Joshua. We went to the court house this morning and finished up.” This was the first time that I heard her speak calmly.

  Already knowing why she was wearing the neck brace, there was no need for me to ask what happened, but it was beginning to feel awkward that such an obvious thing was going unnoticed.

  Brandon asked her, “What happened to your neck, Ashley?”

  “Oh I was in a car accident,” she bluntly replied.

  Nothing more. The Ashley who we knew would have been rambling on about the accident, so I concluded that she did not wish to talk about it. It was obvious that she was embarrassed about her suicide attempt, so Brandon and I played ignorant and went along with her story.

  “So divorce,” I said, “I suppose that there is no more hope for you and Josh?”

  “No it’s over,” she responded, “and besides, I have a new boyfriend. We met a little while back.” She meddled with her phone, “Here, I have a picture of him.”

  We looked at it. Just as I suspected – he’s black.

  “Is he American?” Brandon asked.

  “Sort of. He is from Barbados originally, but has been living in Orlando for over ten years. He has a cute daughter, five years old, and we all live together. Anyway I have to go; I will call you all soon.”

  The visit was short and sweet.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  I really wanted to abstain from the stupid graduation this year.

  But I attended anyway, only because I needed to talk with Dean Byam face to face, hoping she could give me some insight into how to deal with my on-the-job problem, Dean Joseph. Throughout the ceremony, I avoided eye contact with him like I avoided looking into the midday Miami sun, and that in itself was stressing me out.

  When the silly program was over and done with, I mingled while dodging Greeneyes as I patiently awaited my turn to speak with the gracious, caring Dr. Byam. Somehow it seemed like everyone wanted her today, but finally, I got her by herself.

  “So how have you been, Edna?” she asked right after our hug.

  “Fine and you?”

  “We’re
barely surviving without you. And the students miss you.” She lowered her voice, “Don’t repeat this, but the new Chemistry professor is only a shadow of you.”

  “Oh stop, Dr. Byam,” I said smiling proudly, knowing that she was sincere in her praise.

  “So how is the transfer working out for you and your family?”

  I couldn’t help it. I broke out in tears. Dean Byam placed a loving arm on my shoulder and led me away from the crowd, and under the shade of a tree.

  “Okay, what’s wrong?”

  “The whole transfer thing was a bad idea,” I whimpered.

  After drying my eyes, I related my recent bad evaluation, my unreasonable summer schedule and the reasons behind everything. She did not seem surprised.

  With pain in her heart, she said, “I’m so sorry that you have become another one of his victims.”

  I sighed.

  “He has a reputation, you know.” She held my hands in hers, “I wish I could help you, but I can’t, especially if he’s refusing to sign you back over to me.” Then she told me exactly what I already knew. “As your dean, I should advise you to report him to the president or to the board.” Then her eyes welled up. “But as a friend, I must tell you that many female plaintiffs have taken him to court for sexual harassment, and have lost not just the lawsuits, but their jobs and dignity as well.” She concluded with, “He’s a slippery fellow. Good luck, Edna.”

  I returned home as hopeless as when I had left.

  The Exchange Student Breakfast was scheduled for the following Saturday, but I passed on it. I did not assist with its planning, preparation or placement of students. I was not asked and I truly didn’t care, and I hated the mere thought because it reminded me of that lunch date that I was suckered into. He played me well. After all, he was a great quarterback, they say, so planning and executing plays were a no-brainer for him. And he was doing just that against us women. It’s no wonder that we everyday girls cannot pin a charge on him.

  For the summer weeks that followed, I simply taught my morning classes and went home for a few hours before teaching my night classes. And I was in an awful mood most Fridays.

  One morning Jackass Joseph sauntered into my office, and with a wry smile he asked, “Enjoying the schedule?”

  “Go to hell!” I snapped.

  He cackled, and I thought, I shouldn’t have said that. I should’ve faked a smile and said, “It’s my pleasure. Best schedule ever.”

  After grinning at me, he slapped my desk and uttered, “It’s your move.” Apparently, we were still playing some sort of game – from his perspective.

  I tried to show superior composure, but my hard breathing and my narrowing eyes betrayed the anger that was boiling within me.

  The smelly monster laughed and walked out.

  Here I was, all exasperated, and he was playing games. I fanned his odor away from my nostrils and murmured, “Note to self: Have little to say or do with that pervert.” Then I reached for my deodorizer and sprayed the little office.

  Despite my woes, I taught my classes with the same enthusiasm as always; I would never take my frustrations out on my students. And at home, I deliberately avoided the topics of work and my horrible schedule because there was no need to upset Brandon. What good would it do?

  Almost to the middle of the semester, one Friday morning, immediately as I dismissed my students from the science laboratory, in stepped Dr. Dipshit with a white sheet of paper rolled up like a tube, and he reeked of what he proudly wore as cologne. Caring not if I offended him, I brushed away his piss odor with a few waves of my hand.

  “How was class?” he asked.

  I ignored him and continued to replace items into my cart, wondering if that sheet of paper was for me.

  He hopped his butt onto a lab table, and let his long legs dangle and swing childishly. “I expected you to make your move by now,” he said.

  “I’ll die first.” The words came out of my mouth as if by reflex. I really didn’t intend it, but it happened.

  “Well, maybe the weekend in Texas was too much too soon. But it’s your move. Come up with something.” He crossed his arms and waited.

  “Don’t hold your breath.”

  “C’mon. It could be as simple as dinner. Hmm?”

  “You’re a worthless piece of shit!”

  He jerked backwards and his legs quit swinging, so I knew I had hurt him with that remark. He became serious. “You’ve just forfeited your fucking turn.” Hopping off the table, he pushed the sheet of paper at me. “Here!”

  I snatched it from his big ugly hands. It was my Fall Term schedule: a class on Tuesday and Thursday in the mornings; one on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday at nights; one Saturday mornings; and another on Sunday evenings.

  I felt a vein bulge in my neck, and I got the sudden urge to kick his ass. But he was so much bigger than me. I became giddy and from out of nowhere, water cascaded down my cheeks and landed on the schedule. I collapsed against my cart, crying, “What have I done to deserve this?”

  “No don’t cry.” He took the wet paper from my trembling hand. “I didn’t mean to make you cry.” He sounded sorry and concerned, and he embraced me.

  I was too weary to fight.

  He led me to my chair and said, “Sit. Please don’t cry.” Then he stooped and held my hand. “I only want a little bit of you. A little bit of your time. That’s all.” He kissed my damp hands tenderly, and got up.

  I don’t know what came over me as he was walking away. Maybe I felt sorry for him or maybe I wanted this dreadful ordeal to be over or maybe it was the onset of menopause (I understand that the change of life can make a lady do stupid things sometimes). But whatever the reason, I whimpered, “I’ll do dinner.”

  He stopped in his tracks. Turning around, he beamed like a boy receiving his first skateboard, and his eyes sparkled a bean green.

  “But I don’t know when,” I added.

  He made two long, eager strides and got into my space. “Tonight.”

  “No. I can’t.”

  “Please. Tonight is perfect.” He placed an arm on my shoulder, and suggested, “Cancel your night class. Your husband doesn’t have to know.”

  I shut my eyes tightly and I thought about Brandon. Then I thought about the wicked Fall schedule that was forthcoming, and my mouth said, “Okay.”

  “Great! Meet me at The Shores Hotel at seven.” He stroked my chin and said, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to make you cry.” Then he walked off, a happy camper.

  Oh. My. God. What did I just do here? I did the correct thing, right? I don’t know. I got up and pushed my cart down the hall feeling like an illiterate fool. My high degrees seemed worthless; I was reduced to nothing but a puppet on a string.

  I took my time getting home and planned to fake an illness when I got there.

  Brandon paused from painting our kitchen cabinets to have lunch with me.

  “I have a headache,” I said to him during our meal. “I need to get a good rest before going back to class tonight.”

  He got up immediately and went to the medicine cabinet, returning with two headache pills. “You’ve not been quite yourself lately,” he said.

  “Um-hmm.”

  “I don’t think this new campus is good for you.”

  “Maybe.”

  I avoided looking at him because he may see what I did not want him to see. He was loving, and caring, yes, but at the same time he could read me like an open book. After all our years together, he knew me well, and may have already figured out that something was up. But if he had, he did not let on. I hoped for the best.

  I took the pills, and keeping up the pretense, I spent the rest of the afternoon in bed while he continued with his refurbishing.

  At six thirty I got up, reluctantly, and prepared to go to my night class.

  “Feeling better?” Brandon asked.

  “Yes.”

  He studied me for a moment and said, “Eddie, if you’re not feeling to go, then don’t. Y
ou have plenty of sick days.”

  “I know, but it’s okay.” I kissed him and left.

  As I drove off, I felt like such a loser to have Germ-must, this immoral excuse of a man, come out on top. And I felt like a whore to be consciously meeting another man behind my darling husband’s back. This too shall pass, I consoled myself. But as I drove down A1A, I felt sick. For real. I was nauseous.

  I expected the puppeteer to be in the lobby of the hotel, signing autographs or taking pictures, but he was not. Maybe I was stood up, I thought in hopes after five frustrating minutes.

  Then a well-dressed young man, in long-sleeved shirt and tie, approached me, asking, “Dr. Rayburn?”

  “Yes.”

  “Dr. Joseph is expecting you. Walk this way please.”

  You don’t have to do this, one inner voice said to me. Another prompted, you’re here already, just see what happens.

  My unsteady feet followed the guy down a wide hallway, and my heart knocked against my rib-cage like if it wanted to break it. I hoped that this was a simple date and nothing more. Please, God. After a while the young man finally stopped and knocked at a door marked Private III. When he opened it for me, I heard soft jazz playing on the inside. Cautiously, I placed one foot into the room, and poked my confused head inside. Dean Joseph, casually attired in designer jeans and a short-sleeved shirt, was waiting with a glass of wine in his hand.

  He smiled and said to the young man, “Thank you.”

  The fellow left. I stepped in and the door closed behind me.

  Private Room III, though small, had a regal appearance. There was a circular mahogany dining table along with two matching chairs nestled in a corner, and on the table was an ipod that played the music. In the middle of the room was a little seating area for two and a center table standing on a Persian rug. On that table were a few wine glasses and an ice-bucket chilling a bottle of wine.

  The room held the devil’s stomach-turning fragrance, but the short sleeves did grab his muscular biceps in a good way, and his eyes took on an emerald twinkle once again.