Other Men's Wives

by Freddie Lee Johnson III

  “Careful,” Harry warns. “The surgeons'll have a tough time gettin’ that outa your sphincter.” He takes another swig of beer and smiles at Gordon. “Don't worry about it, G. If Alice ain't confronted you yet, she probably don't know. But then again …”

  “Then again what?”

  “She might be keepin’ it to herself. What if Alice, like Sierra, has been doin’ some cheatin’ of her own?”

  “Wait!” I declare. “Sierra wasn't acting in response to something I did. There's a big difference.”

  “I hear you, Denmark,” Harry agrees. “But the bottom line is that Sierra's definitely been cheatin’, and G, you're worried that Alice might be.”

  Gordon deflates further. “Impossible. I know Alice too well. I'd have detected something different about her and … ”

  Harry waves Gordon into silence, then looks at me. “Denmark, did you know?”

  I clench my jaw. “No.”

  “Case closed,” Harry says, looking back at Gordon. “Think about it, G. Denmark's one'a the smartest cats we know, but Sierra scammed him clean.” He finishes off his beer, then continues. “To find out if a woman's cheatin’, you gotta be like a deer hunter: smart'n alert and with tons'a patience.”

  “And why is that?” I ask.

  “Because deer'n women are the same: smart, quiet, and efficient about their business. Even experienced hunters have walked right past deer in the woods.”

  Gordon forces a chuckle. “You've been breathing too many cleaning chemicals.”

  Harry smiles smugly like he knows secrets that poor Gordon is too dim to handle. “Maybe you're right,” he says. “But I bet'cha Denmark believes me.”

  He stares at me for a moment. Harry's bluntness could still be his smoke screen to divert my attention away from something he's hiding. It might also be a bold gamble to lure me into discounting the guilt of someone who's being so open.

  “A woman'll be strokin some other clown in that smart, quiet, stealthy way of theirs,” Harry continues. “And the whole time their husband is struttin’ around blind as a bat, thinkin’ ain't nobody dared to even sniff his booty.”

  I scowl, and Gordon looks nervously from me to Harry and back. Harry grins sheepishly. “Sorry, Denmark. You know what I mean.”

  I nod and take a swig of beer. Harry keeps talking. “Men can't cheat as smooth'n good as women. We're like elephants. When we sneak we leave monster footprints. And even if the woman can't find the footprints, there's still the big piles of crap, the broken trees, and all that noise.”

  I clear my throat. “So Harry, according to your theory, I stand a pretty good chance of finding Sierra's lover.”

  He nods confidently. “Just follow the footprints and turds to the big, noisy, tree-toppling elephant.”

  “When you find him, then what?” Gordon asks.

  It doesn't escape me that Gordon asks “when” rather “if.” “He's in for a season of pain,” I rumble.

  Harry glances at his watch. “Hey, ya'll. I gotta go. I got a new night crew over at the Monroe health center, and 1 wanna check on ’em before they finish.”

  Gordon glances at his watch, and his eyes widen. “I need to leave also. I have an appointment.”

  “Yeah, right,” Harry scoffs, rolling his eyes. Gordon glares.

  “Denmark, will you be all right?” Harry asks, stopping at the door.

  His expression is so sincere, his eyes so full of concern—how could it possibly be him? But the note about the Sapphire Spire; it has to be either Gordon or him.

  “I'll be fine, H. Thanks for stopping by.”

  We shake hands and hug. Gordon and I do the same. “Are you sure you'll be okay?” he asks.

  “I'm positive.”

  Harry strolls out the door down to his Jeep and waves. “Remember, Denmark,” he laughs, “just follow the footprints and turds.”

  Gordon follows with “If you want to see a therapist, I know a good …”

  “No! I'm not paying some quack to tell me what I can figure out myself.”

  Gordon raises his hands, palms up, in mock surrender. “Okay, okay. It was just a suggestion.”

  I wave as they back out the driveway. Moments later they're gone, and I'm pacing in my living room. Okay, what have I learned? All of Harry's in-your-face obviousness could be the camouflage hiding his treachery. And Gordon's doubtful questioning could be him asking about himself, but using me. He could also be asking about me for fear of me finding about him. The only thing I know for certain is this: I need to keep watching those two.

  TWENTY

  It's 8:40 a.m. on Friday when I pull into my regional director's parking space in front of the Henderson Village store and cut off the Corvette. I've just come from a meeting at downtown corporate. Another Speed Shift store was robbed early this morning. The boss was livid and earned me the hostile envy of my peers after berating them for not doing more to protect their stores.

  “The rest of you better get on the ball like Denmark!” he'd railed. “Or I promise you, heads will roll!”

  He'd wet himself if he knew that street thug Blinker Hughes was providing security for “my” stores. The best part about using Blinker's “services” is his connection to his undercover cop cousins, Stinker and Thinker. Those two hoodlums with badges have the perfect setup, routinely going outside the law to enforce the law. There's still bad blood between them and Mason Booker over the jailing of their brother and former partner, Tinker. It doesn't help that just before Mason left the police force he testified against Tinker, mysteriously got a hefty sum of cash, then retired and started up Second Shadow Enterprises.

  But that's between them. Blinker's motivated these days to clean up his image since he's decided to run for city council. He recently asked me to see if Sierra's father, Theodoric, would endorse him. It would be a nice boost, since Theodoric's a power down at the Chamber of Commerce. He and I have always respected each other, but these new developments between me and Sierra might change that. I'll be lucky to get him to say hello, never mind endorsing a friend with a shady present and an even shadier past.

  Before going inside I sit for a few more minutes, contemplating the lousy changes that have seized control of my world. Two short days ago, I was happy, in love, and living a life that was beyond any dream I'd ever had in the Brownfield District. But that video proved that the life I had wasn't real anyway.

  I start to get my briefcase and drag myself into the store when I see Burned-out Bobby, slouch-stepping down to his corner. He's grim proof that things could always get worse. After the last few days, I'm not so sure that they won't.

  Bobby gets to his corner, faces oncoming traffic, and holds up his sign. Every time someone passes by, he points at whatever message he's written on the front. One person shrugs. The next scowls and shakes her head. Another flips up his middle finger and yells an epithet.

  What's he got written on that sign? I leave my briefcase on the Corvette's front passenger seat, pull a twenty-dollar bill from my wallet, get out, and stroll quickly over to Burned-out Bobby.

  “Hey, Bobby,” I say, walking up on him. “How're you doing this morning?”

  “Better'n yesterday. Not as good as tomorrow.”

  I hand him the twenty and try to read the sign, but he turns quickly away so that the driver of an oncoming car has no trouble seeing it. The driver slows his car down, reads the sign, shakes his fist, and hits the gas. As he drives off Bobby turns back to me. The sign says: “Why not you?”

  No wonder most of those people reacted negatively. We've all got problems, and Bobby's sign is the callous equivalent of saying, “So! Who cares?”

  I re-read the sign and purse my lips. “What's this supposed to mean?” I ask, slightly irritated.

  “You tell me.”

  I shake my head in frustration, whirl around, and step off. I don't have the time, energy, or desire to play around with riddles—especially one coming from a burn-out like Bobby!

  I grab my briefcase from th
e Corvette and get into work. “Hello Denmark,” someone greets me.

  It's Mrs. Randall, in buying her daily car air freshener. My face creaks into a smile. “Hi, Mrs. Randall, how're you doing?”

  “I'm just peachy. How was your anniversary?”

  I clench my jaw. “Unforgettable.”

  She smiles large. “That's nice. It's so good to see young people celebrating marriage.”

  My smile's so brittle I can feel my teeth cracking. “And your wife has been positively glowing,” Mrs. Randall continues. “Whatever you're doing, keep it up.”

  Sierra's glowing? My head is about to explode. If my soon-to-be ex is glowing, it's her lover who's generating the brightness. I bite my tongue and will myself into calmness. “When did you last see Sierra?” I ask.

  “Come to think of it, I saw her the day before your anniversary. She and her boss are a real team.”

  “What do you mean? How often do you see them?”

  Mrs. Randall ponders for a quick moment. “Well, I've been seeing them a lot lately. It's such a joy seeing black men and women in positions of power working so closely together. They seem to have a genuine understanding and respect for each other.”

  My insides shatter. Sierra couldn't have been with Brad the day before our anniversary. She said that the reason he assigned her full responsibility for coordinating the architect's conference was his being swamped with work. How is it that Brad's suddenly not so overwhelmed? How is it that he suddenly has time to work so closely with his good-looking sexy subordinate? Sierra had to have been with Mr. X!

  Sierra's always admired Brad's brains, clout, and cultured upbringing, sometimes to the point of being annoying. I'd suspect Brad of being Mr. X if it weren't for one thing: Brad is white. The guy in that video with Sierra is black. So unless Mr. X's pigmentation has been altered to make him look black, it's not Brad. I've got to hurry and get with that Electronics Doctor guy and have him analyze that DVD.

  “Well, I have to go now,” says Mrs. Randall. “See you tomorrow.”

  “Bye, Mrs. Randall. You take care.”

  “And you too, Denmark. And tell Sierra to feed you more potatoes. Your cheeks look a little sunken.”

  “I'll be sure and do that.”

  She leaves, and I go back into my office. The night janitor crew did a great job cleaning up my mess. I'll have to commend them.

  I sit down at my desk and start checking my phone voice messages and e-mails. It's amazing that so many have accumulated, but that's okay. The extra work will help me keep my mind off Sierra.

  I check through all my voice messages and e-mails, answering, archiving, or deleting them as necessary.

  One of the voice mails is a jittery apology from Yar-borough Montague, Sierra's crack-head nephew. “Say, Denmark … I, I'm really sorry … about the other day. But if you could just la, loan me …”

  I delete the message. Yarborough needs professional help. His family's pockets are deep enough for him to get the best counseling available. He'd better ask them instead of expecting me to enable his self-destruction.

  I roll on through my e-mails, establishing some pretty good momentum until I see a message from CKeller@Law.net. It reads: “This is the law office of Attorney Charles Keller, who is representing Sierra Montague Wheeler in her petition for divorce. It's urgent that you call 330-644-2578 as soon as possible.”

  I check my office phone's voice mail. Sure enough, the message is also there. I'm obviously dealing with someone who will persist to get what Sierra wants. But I wouldn't have expected anything less. Sierra's got access to some of Cleveland's best and brightest people, who have resources to spare and a lifetime of expectation that, of course, they'll get their way—especially when it comes to dealing with “wrong side of the tracks” orphans like me.

  I start to call the number but instead type Charles Keller's name into Google. I click on the right links, and there he is. He's a distinguished-looking black man, with a strong chin, a small Afro, and a smooth high forehead, dressed in a lawyerly black suit with white shirt and black striped tie. I stare into his eyes. He's a lion. Good! I prefer facing a warrior.

  I snatch up the phone and dial the number, drumming my fingers on the desk through two short rings.

  “Keller and Associates,” answers a dainty, nasally male voice.

  “Hello? My name's Denmark Wheeler. I received a couple of messages to call Charles Keller.”

  “Hmph!” snorts the phone fuzzy. “Hold on.”

  There's a click, then a beep. An oily smooth male voice says, “Mr. Wheeler?”

  “This is he.”

  “Mr. Wheeler, my client's suing you for divorce on the grounds of adultery, assault and battery, mental distress, and sexual imposition.”

  I grip the edge of my desk. “She's lying!”

  “That determination will be made by a judge and jury.”

  “You're bluffing!” I challenge. “There's not a court in the state that'll buy this crap!”

  “Mr. Wheeler, I don't need every court in the state, just one in this city. And I never bluff. If necessary we'll take this to the fullest extent of the law. Unless …”

  “Unless what?”

  “You cooperate.”

  “Mister, if you're trying to rattle my cage, you'd better shake a little harder.”

  “If you don't want to end up in a cage, you'd better pay attention.”

  My mouth freezes shut. Sierra's pulled out the stops, and I've got to stay free. Right now that means listening so I can learn the mind and methods of Charles Keller.

  “Okay,” I say. “What does Sierra want?”

  His tone pulses with victory. “It's not a matter of what we want, Mr. Wheeler, but rather how to best settle our differences. In any case, it's not appropriate to discuss the matter over the phone. Our preference is to set up a meeting.”

  “What kind of meeting?”

  “We've arranged a mediation session. We'd like to talk … ”

  His frequent references to “we” and “our” magnifies the chasm separating Sierra and me. Once upon a time, my wife and I talked face to face for hours about everything. Now we're going to talk through hired guns who will indignantly suffer for “us” as though they'd been offended themselves.

  “… about the division of assets and other related matters,” he finishes.

  “Mr. Keller, with the evidence I've got, I don't need to mediate.”

  “We know of the video,” he says, sounding bored. “And as interesting as it might be in a case for divorce, it could also be used to show motivation if we press criminal charges.”

  Is this possible? Did I give up the thug life all those years ago just to have incarceration hunt me down anyway, twice in the same week?

  “With mediation,” Charles Keller continues, “there's a better chance we can reach an amicable solution.”

  I don't respond right away, and he adds, “Unless you'd prefer taking your chances with a judge and jury.”

  I grip the phone tight. “You know good and well that the judge and jury option is my worst possible choice. It might as well be a lynch mob.”

  He chuckles. “I see you know your American history.”

  “Yes, I do!” I snap. “And I can tell a house nigger when I hear one.”

  For several long seconds there's a great arctic silence. When Charles Keller speaks again his voice is taut and vibrating with anger. “Mr. Wheeler, I'm told that you're friends with one Mr. Bernard Hughes, a.k.a. Blinker. I'm also told that even though Mr. Hughes is running for City Council he's still quite the unsavory character. Anyone even slightly associated with him runs the risk of being tarred with the same brush.”

  Fear serpents slither up my back. Over the years, I've shared my sordid past with Sierra, telling her things that I'd otherwise have taken to the grave. She knows details about so much—all my strengths and hopes and, more importantly, my weaknesses and fears. And now I'm confronted with the greatest of my crimes: trusting her with t
hat information.

  I'm silent and fuming. Charles Keller adds, “Imagine how irate Mr. Hughes will be if his election prospects are jeopardized by questioning that's connected with a certain friend going through a divorce. What if the questioning of that ‘friend’ leads to revelations about Mr. Hughes and his unsavory dealings? Hurting Mr. Hughes's image at such a critical point in the upcoming election would certainly mean that this friend would have his hands full, especially since I gather that Mr. Hughes doesn't mind resorting to violence.”

  He has no idea of how Blinker loves to resort to violence. He's recently boosted his personal terror quotient with the addition of his two pit bulls, Killa and Attila.

  Charles Keller's got me checkmated and knows it, saying, “It's your move, Mr. Wheeler.”

  I keep my voice calm and even. “What's the time and location of the meeting?”

  He chuckles and transfers me back to the male receptionist who answered when I called. I listen quietly as the receptionist, speaking for Charles Keller, who now speaks for Sierra, tells me where to go.

  I hang up and sit for several minutes, thinking about how Blinker will react if my marital mess reaches out and involves him. There's nothing to think about. He'll be like a grizzly bear that's stepped on a rusty nail, howling with rage and in no mood for talk. I could hope that events won't go that far, but I'd be crazy to take such a gamble.

  I grab the phone and dial. Someone answers on the first ring. “Speak!”

  “I need to talk with Blinker, now!”

  “Not till he knows who's callin’.”

  “It's Denmark Wheeler.”

  “Wait!”

  A few seconds and then: “Zup?” Blinker's voice sounds like it's lurking at the bottom of a deep well.

  “I've got a problem.”

  “Don't everybody? Run it down.”

  “I caught my wife screwing around. We had a fight. It got bad. She's pressing criminal charges and …”

  “Raw deal, but why should I care?”

  “I just got off the phone with her lawyer. They're threatening to press criminal charges if I don't cooperate.”

  “Get to the point, or talk to the tone.”