Other Men's Wives

by Freddie Lee Johnson III

  “She wasn't like that in the beginning.”

  Nelson shrugs. “She is at the end, and that's what matters.”

  He pulls into my driveway and parks but leaves the Navigator running. “Man, I know it's easier said than done, but try to forget her. Get busy. Get away.”

  I open the door and get out. “What I want is to end this marriage.” We shake hands. “Thanks for everything, Nelson. I owe you.”

  He backs out of the driveway. I wave ’bye and go inside. This place looks terrible. Nelson's right. Going after Sierra is a bad idea. If anything happens to her, the cops will come looking for me. So I'm staying far away. I'm going to get a grip, divorce Sierra, move on, and be happy—just as soon as I've dealt with her and Mr. X!

  NINETEEN

  The kitchen telephone rings, and I hurry to answer.

  “Hello?”

  “Where you been?” demands Harry.

  I haven't thought about Harry or Gordon for a while and that's good. If I had, they might be in an intensive care unit.

  “Are you there?” Harry asks.

  “I'm here.”

  “Where you been, Denmark? I was worried.”

  “I've been busy.”

  “I can understand that.” Harry pauses, then says, “I heard about you and Sierra. Sorry.”

  I grip the phone tight. “Who'd you hear it from?”

  “Who else but Inez? Somebody made the mistake of trustin’ her with a secret, and now it's spreadin’ like a virus.”

  So Inez didn't tell Harry that she got the news from me. That's good. She doesn't want him to know that we've talked. She's also probably worried that that knowledge would make him suspicious. This is perfect. Harry's temper is the deterrent that'll keep Inez's flapping gums quiet about the source of her information. As long as she's quiet about that, I'll have room to work her mind until I can work her body. And I know she won't blab about that!

  “I called earlier to see if you was home,” Harry continues. “I was gonna stop by and see how you was doin’. When I couldn't get hold'a you I got worried.”

  A guilt screw turns inside me. Harry doesn't sound like someone who'd hurt me. But if he was trying, he'd work hard to avoid suspicion. He'd be my most loyal, true-blue friend when the whole time he could be the one screwing my wife!

  Harry's distant voice penetrates my thoughts. “Denmark!” he calls loudly.

  “I'm right here. There's no need to shout.”

  He huffs and repeats whatever he was saying. “Is it okay if I drop by later?”

  I don't feel like having company. But this might be my chance to see what Harry does or doesn't know. If he's lying, something will give him away: a tone of voice, shifty eyes, nervous body language, something.

  “I'm not going anywhere,” I say.

  “Okay. I'll see you later this evenin’. And Denmark …” He sighs sadly. “I'm really sorry about all this. It's gotta be a miserable feelin’.”

  The guilt screw turns again. “Thanks, Harry. I appreciate that.”

  We hang up. It's nice that Harry's concerned, but he'd better be clean. I shamble upstairs to the bedroom, lean against the doorway, and stare at the bed. How many times have I stood in this exact spot, watching Sierra sleep? How many times did we snuggle in this bed, watching old love stories on videotape? Her favorite was An Officer and a Gentleman; mine was Casablanca.

  I want some sleep but can't do it here! There are too many memories. I shamble back downstairs and onto the living room couch. Faint traces of Sierra's perfume linger. The memory hailstorm blows harder. All the times we sat here, holding each other and staring into the flames of a burning log in the fireplace. Other times when we were being silly, chasing each other around the couch.

  The phone rings, and I answer with a snap. “What!”

  After a tense moment, an uncertain voice says, “Denmark, ah, are you okay?”

  It's Gordon. “That depends,” I meanly reply. “Why?”

  “Well, Josie, my makeup tech, was getting her hair done today and …”

  “Was she down at Our Hair?”

  “Why, yes! As a matter of fact, she was. How'd you know?”

  “Just call it a lucky guess.”

  “Anyhow, Josie overheard someone mention your name. She remembered that you and I ran together in the 4×100 relay and told me about, ah, well, you and Sierra.”

  We endure an awkward silence until Gordon asks, “So is it true?”

  “Is what true?” I snap. “Is it true that Sierra's been having an affair? That she and I are through? Is that what you're asking?”

  Gordon makes a hasty retreat. “Ah, look, I'm sorry to have bothered you. Maybe we should talk later when …”

  “Yes!” I shout. “It's all true!”

  He groans. “Denmark, I'm so sorry. You don't deserve this.”

  Gordon sounds sincere, and I could almost believe him. But he could also be the one who's been sneaking around with Sierra.

  “Do you feel like having company?” he asks.

  “Whatever. Harry's passing through later, so I'll be here.”

  “Okay. I'll coordinate with H and be right over after I've taped the show.”

  We hang up and I stroll through the kitchen, out the back door, and into the yard. The hammock is swaying gently in a soft breeze. I climb in and let its lulling movements escort me into sleep.

  I wake to a jarring clap of thunder. The hammock's swinging in wild, wide arcs. It's dark, and the sky's full of angry, boiling clouds. I sit up and stretch. A raindrop splashes onto my cheek. It's followed by another, then another, then more that come faster and harder. I dash to the house, kick off my wet shoes at the door, and dart inside just before the deluge hits.

  Bathtubs of rain wash down from the sky, gradually slackening into a soft steady shower. I'm mostly dry except for my tear-soaked cheeks. I miss Sierra. I miss her laugh and the graceful movement of her body. I miss the light in her eyes and the way she bites the corner of her lip when she's puzzling out an answer. I miss seeing her with the towel wrapped around her when she gets out of the shower, the way it swishes when she walks, emphasizing the sexy shake and roll of her behind. I miss the way her nostrils flare when she hears about injustice. I miss the way she lets her shoe dangle off her toes when she's talking on the phone. I miss her in my joints, in my blood, in every breath I take.

  The doorbell rings. I grab some napkins, dry my eyes, blow my nose, toss them into the garbage, and hurry to the door. I peek out the front window and see Harry's Jeep Durango and Gordon's Lexus Vindicator sports car. I take a deep breath and steel myself. This is going to be uncomfortable, but I swear, if they start offering me pity or wanting to share feelings, I’ll throw them out!

  I open the door and there they are. Harry's typical Harry, wearing his flaming red Janitor Squad (with each letter written like a jagged slanted lightning bolt) tee shirt, jeans, work boots, and a baseball cap sitting back on his head so that the bill is pointing up. And then there's Gordon, with his perfectly matching charcoal suit and shoes, tan collarless dress shirt, diamond pinky rings, and a haircut that looks like he lifted it off the page of a men's fashion magazine.

  “Can we come in, or are you gonna let us get drenched?” Harry asks, smiling a tad too hard.

  I step aside. “Come on in.”

  Harry pulls a six-pack of beer out from a bag he's holding and shoves it into my chest. “Here!” he says, breezing past me. “Pop us a few, will you? I would'a chugged one on the way but forgot that the good stuff needs an opener.”

  Gordon follows, offering his most brilliant TV smile. I've seen Gordon in action enough to know that he uses that brilliant smile to blind people to the truth of what he's thinking, feeling, or doing. His using it now is ample reason to watch him closely.

  “Hi, Denmark,” he says, hugging me. “No matter what, I'm behind you one hundred percent.”

  “What I want to know is if you were the one behind my wife!” I think to myself. I close and lo
ck the door, then head into the kitchen for a bottle opener. Harry stands in the middle of the living room, his arms akimbo and looking around.

  “Nice clean-up job, Denmark,” he says. “But I can tell that you and Sierra must'a had one whale of a fight.”

  “Harry, c'mon, man,” Gordon urges. “Ease up on the brother.”

  “What's to ease up about?” Harry retorts. “Denmark knows he fought with Sierra, and so do we.”

  “It's okay, Gordon,” I say, strolling back into the living room with three open beers.

  I give them theirs, making direct eye contact with Gordon as I hand him his. He briefly holds my gaze, then purses his lips and looks away. What's he hiding? I need to get a grip, play this smart, and make sure they're relaxed. The more comfortable they feel, the more likely they are to make a mistake.

  Harry raises his beer bottle in a toast. “May she get a case of incurable crabs,” he says.

  Gordon and I look from Harry to each other, then back at Harry. “You're certifiable,” Gordon comments with a smirk.

  Harry winks. “True that. But are ya'll gonna toast with me or not?”

  Gordon and I lift our bottles and clink them together with Harry's.

  “To her incurable crabs,” Gordon laughs.

  “Crabs that I hope will itch and bite like hell,” I say.

  We laugh and take long swigs of our beers.

  “Denmark, I hope you don't mind my asking,” Gordon says, “but how'd you find out that Sierra was messing around?”

  I look at Gordon for a long moment. Is he trying to connect something I know with what he's been doing? Or is he trying to check the details of what I think with the accuracy of what he knows?

  Starting from “I Got Your Back, Inc.,” I tell him and Harry mostly everything, leaving out the gritty details of Sierra's sucking and stroking Mr. X. They sit stunned with slack jaws. Gordon appears to be genuinely appalled, but that could be a well-rehearsed act, something easily accomplished by someone accustomed to being in front of a TV camera.

  Harry says, “Denmark, if you want me to, I can score some good embalming fluid to preserve the guy's balls when you get ’em.”

  We laugh, easing the tension in the room as we engage in some raunchy banter. Gordon is relaxed, sitting back on the couch with his legs fully extended and crossed, trading barbs and insults with Harry. Harry slouches deep in Sierra's favorite plush chair, one leg thrown over the chair's arm.

  “Sierra would have a fit if she saw you sitting in that chair like that,” I say.

  “She would!” Harry exclaims, faking alarm. “Well, then, she'd really hate this.”

  He lifts his butt slightly, frowns, and grunts as a loud fart explodes from beneath him. He smiles contentedly, and his eyelids flutter. “Aaahhh,” he growls. “Better out than in, that's what I say.”

  Gordon fans the air in front of him. “Man, you're disgusting.”

  Harry grins and takes a pull of his beer. I go get some air freshener. “Harry, I swear, it smells like a skunk crawled up inside you and died.”

  My two “friends” seem perfectly normal—but then, so did Sierra.

  I smile. “Harry, before you leave, do me a favor.”

  “Name it.”

  “Make sure you fart in that chair again.”

  He and Gordon stare at me wide-eyed and laugh. “That's the spirit, brother!” Harry says loudly. “Don't let her get'cha down. A guy like you won't have trouble findin’ a new babe.” He snaps his fingers, and his face lights up like he's had a flash of insight. “Denmark, I'll bet'cha it's somebody you know.” He stares hard at Gordon. “Them cop shows always say that it's somebody you know. If I ever thought Inez was steppin’ out, I'd look first and hardest at the people I know.”

  Good old Harry. He's taken us straight to the heart of what I'm wondering about him and Gordon. I seize the rope he's thrown and pull!

  “I hope it's not anybody I know,” I say evenly. “It'll be worse for them.”

  “What'll be worse?” Gordon asks.

  I look straight at him. “The pain I'm going to inflict!”

  There's fear in Gordon's eyes. “So you're going to be your own judge, jury, and executioner?”

  “He's already been tried and judged. Execution's all that remains.”

  “What about justice? Anybody could make a mistake.”

  “Mistake!” I repeat loudly. “Are you suggesting that the guy who's been screwing Sierra has been doing it by accident?”

  Gordon answers with a shaky voice and troubled smile. “C'mon, Denmark, you know that's not what I mean. And why are you looking at me like that? You're making me nervous.”

  “We oughta be nervous,” Harry observes, leaning toward Gordon. “Like I said, them cop shows says it's always somebody you know. So I wouldn't blame you, Denmark, if you're wondering about me and G.”

  I shift my attention back to Harry. He's good, real good. “Sierra's a fine woman, and we've been in your house,” he continues, “so it's only natural that you'd be wondering about everybody, includin’ guys you know.”

  Gordon glares at Harry. “Speak for yourself! I'm not submitting to being put on anybody's list of suspects. And Denmark”—he looks back at me and narrows his eyes—“I hope that's not what you're doing.”

  “What if I am?” I challenge.

  His jaw hardens. “There's no need to get angry. I was only …”

  “What if someone had been banging Alice?” I say, getting loud. “Wouldn't you consider all the possibilities, including friends?”

  Gordon's nostrils flare. “Alice would never … ”

  “How do you know?” I challenge. “Can you guarantee that she'd never cheat on you?”

  Gordon balls his fists, and I press harder, driving toward the heart of his fear, that place where married men cower beneath a truth that circles overhead, waiting to swoop low and pick clean the bones of their slain and humiliated male pride.

  “What if Alice is sucking off some guy right now?” I snarl. “What if she's worshiping his bone, getting it good and hard while she's getting good and wet?”

  Gordon springs to his feet. “Shut up!” he roars.

  I stand quickly to meet him. Gordon's eyes mist. “If I didn't consider you a blood brother, I'd kick …”

  “Life's short!” I bellow. “Opportunity is now!”

  Harry springs up, hustles between me and Gordon, and jams his palms into our chests. “Whoa, fellas!” he commands, shoving us away from each other. “Ya'll get a grip!”

  Harry had better get a grip. After that note from I Got Your Back, Inc., he and Gordon are on borrowed time with me.

  “This whole thing is messed up,” Harry continues. “Denmark, I'm feeling your vibe, man. As much as Inez pisses me off, if she ever got busy with somebody else, I'd kill the sucker dead.”

  The focused implacability in Harry's eyes and the menace in his voice leaves no doubt that he's sincere. So am I!

  Harry looks from me to Gordon and back. “Look, you guys, I love seein’ a good fight, but why don't ya'll wait until after we win our 4×100 fifteen-hundred-dollar cash prizes in a few weeks.”

  Gordon snorts. I glare. “After that,” Harry continues, “I'll be happy to count my money while watching you two cats beat each other into oatmeal.”

  Gordon glances into Harry's bemused face. After a few seconds, his strained expression relaxes into a smirk. Harry smiles, but it's forced.

  Gordon looks at me. “Denmark, I wasn't trying to pick a fight,” he says softly, almost submissively. “I guess I was pressing you because I'm not certain of what I'd do if Alice ever, if she, I mean … sometimes she seems so distant.”

  He closes his eyes tight, shakes his head, and drops his chin to his chest. This is a side of Gordon the viewers in TV land would love to see. He's no longer the ramrod-straight, testosterone-oozing, booming-voiced camera addict who loves to hear his own voice. Right now he's just a sniveling caricature of his TV host persona.

  I
've learned something about these two in the last few minutes. I'm stronger than they'd have been if what happened to me had happened to them. If Alice ever cheated on Gordon, it would break him. If Inez ever cheated on Harry, he'd be doing time.

  “Let's sit down,” Harry suggests.

  Gordon and I take our seats, but Harry heads into the kitchen. “I'm gettin’ us another beer,” he says. “If I'd known all this drama was gonna happen, I'd'a bought a twelve-pack.”

  “I sometimes wonder if Alice knows,” says Gordon, settling into the couch.

  “You wonder if she knows about what?” I ask.

  He stares glumly into his lap. “There have been a couple of times over the last few months when she almost caught me …”

  “Are you serious?” Harry asks, as he saunters back into the living room. “That wasn't just some newspaper gossip? You've been messing around again?” He hands us newly opened beers and keeps talking. “After all them other times, you're still cheatin’ on somebody as fine as Alice?”

  “They weren't serious!” Gordon defends angrily. “Just rolls in the hay. I'd never leave Alice.”

  Harry takes a long swig of beer, burps, and wipes his mouth with his forearm. Then he looks straight into Gordon's eyes. “How many times do you think you can make a woman as fine as Alice swallow this kinda crap? She ain't some airhead bimbo who'll forget after the commercial. She's a flesh'n blood woman, and gorgeous to boot. Why should she settle for gettin’ cheated on when she could have somebody who'll keep his pole in his pants till it's time to give it to her?”

  Gordon scowls. “Harry, I'm not sure I like the way you've been admiring my wife.”

  Harry shrugs. “No disrespect intended, but, too bad. Alice is a nice-lookin’ woman, and I like nice stuff. Besides, how's my admirin’ her any worse than you slip-pin’ the sausage to your guests and co-workers?”

  Gordon glowers and thrusts a stiff middle finger at him.