Other Men's Wives

by Freddie Lee Johnson III

  I purse my lips. “Yes, Alice, you do. I let you down, and I apologize.”

  “Please don't apologize. It wasn't your fault. There was nothing you could've done, and it was unfair of me to expect you to compromise yourself.”

  Her old sweeter self has momentarily conquered the toxic presence of the “new” self, and I'm saddened to think that the Alice I knew might someday be banished into silence.

  “I'm sorry to hear about Sierra's cheating on you, Denmark. I guess I should've told you.”

  I stiffen and sit up tall and straight. “You should've told me what?” I ask, demanding.

  She sighs. “I didn't have any proof. In fact, it was just a feeling. But Gordon's always been crazy about Sierra, and, well, that's been his pattern. Sooner or later, he tries taking to bed whoever pleases his eye.”

  I'll pulverize the worm! Gordon's certainly admired Sierra's brains and looks, but he always knew to keep himself in check. And now Alice, armed with a woman's powerful intuition, is saying that he was in full pursuit. Since she's told me her suspicions about Gordon, I tell her about mine concerning Mr. X, namely that either Gordon or Harry has to be him. I add that I intend to get solid verifying evidence.

  “I hope you get what you need, Denmark,” she says.

  “I'd do the same with Gordon, but there've been so many, I'd rather not know the details.”

  “I wish I could be like you, Alice, but I've got to know the guy's identity. I need to know who's responsible.”

  “Our spouses are responsible!” she asserts. “No one could've cheated with them without their help.”

  “True word,” I agree. “And even though Sierra and Gordon have been cheating, what if it's been with each other?”

  Alice sniffles. “Then you and I have a lot to discuss.”

  “We certainly do.”

  We listen to a long, sweet, and inviting silence. “It'll be good seeing you, Denmark. It sounds like we suddenly have a lot more in common.”

  “I agree. When will you be back in Cleveland?”

  Alice explains her schedule. She'll be back the morning of the Greater Cleveland Sports Challenge's Victory Banquet. “I'll be checking into the Lake Shore Gardens Hotel,” she informs me.

  The Lake Shore Gardens is where they'll be holding the banquet that evening. It's also where Sierra's organizing that architect's conference with the help of Mrs. Randall. I'm either jinxed or lucky to have all this activity intersecting at the same place.

  I almost ask Alice why she's checking into the Lake Shore Gardens instead of going home to her big, plush house. But she probably doesn't want to be around Gordon anymore than I want to be around Sierra so her choice is understandable.

  “I want to see you,” says Alice, “but I don't want you to miss getting your trophy and cash prize.”

  I don't want to miss it either, especially since we'll each be getting fifteen hundred dollars. That's money I can use, especially with this divorce looming. It'll take all my strength to make it through the banquet without crushing Gordon's windpipe.

  “The banquet won't be until evening,” I inform her, “so we'll have plenty of time to … talk.”

  After a brief pause Alice says, “I'll look forward to our … discussion.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  After hanging up with Alice, I sit in the Corvette for a few moments, relieved that everything's falling into place. “It's about time things started working out right,” I grumble.

  I get out of the Corvette and stride briskly into Our Hair Salon and Beauty Boutique.

  “Come on in, Denmark,” Desiree says, smiling. “I'll be right with you.”

  Her shop still looks, feels, and smells brand new, even though it's been two years since her grand opening. There are four workstations, each with a comfortable elevating chair. Along the far wall is a nice little setup for manicures and pedicures. At the front is a multi-racked display of hair-care products, cosmetics, nylon stockings, and small African sculptures for sale.

  Hanging on the wall over Desiree's station are three pictures: one of a veiled and agonizingly beautiful Coretta Scott King at her husband's funeral, the second portraying a gorgeously strong Hattie McDaniel, and the third showing the simply dressed but quietly powerful and indomitable chief conductor of the Underground Railroad, Harriet Tubman. The sultry, sexy voice of the late songstress Billie Holiday sings out from ceiling speakers as she laments the pain of loving her cheating man.

  Ellen, the hairstylist at the second station from De-siree, sees me, waves, and shakes her head. “How're you doing, Denmark?”

  “I'm all right.”

  She smiles tenderly. “I'm sorry about what happened with Sierra. All I can say is that she's stupid.”

  Well, at least I don't have to pretend that nobody knows. But it's better for it to be out in the open. I can be real with them, and they don't have to walk on eggshells for me.

  “She's super stupid,” agrees Leticia, the manicurist, looking up from the hand of her client. I look her way, and she greets me with batting eyes and an “I'm yours!” smile.

  “Don't worry, Denmark,” Leticia assures me. “You're too much man for somebody not to snatch you up”— she snaps her fingers—“like that!”

  “Thanks, Leticia. I owe you and Ellen hugs for being so sweet.”

  Ellen grins and gestures to me. “Give me my sugar now.”

  I saunter over to her, opening my arms on the way. Ellen's an attractive full-figured woman and presses all her womanly curves into me as she holds on tight and feels just right.

  “Mmm, baby,” she says softly. “Where have you been all my life?”

  “Married for the last five years of them, but that's ending soon.”

  She gives me a final squeeze. “Tell your lawyer to hurry up. I'd love to dump my couch-potato boyfriend and get busy with a hunk like you.”

  I kiss her cheek. “And what would you do with me?”

  “Tell your lawyer to hurry up, and you'll find out,” she giggles.

  Karen, the massage therapist, steps out from the massage room. “Well, well,” she says, taking quick measure of me. “Where have you been hiding?”

  I wink. “It's my bad, Karen. I've been foolishly depriving myself of your beauty.”

  She laughs, gets some lotion off a shelf, and gets back to her client, winking at me as she closes the door.

  Tall, statuesque, and thick-boned LeeAnne, the hairstylist at station three, looks me up and down with obvious appreciation. “Hey handsome,” she greets. “You're still looking fit and trim.”

  “It's all for you, baby.”

  She smiles and puckers her glossy, beckoning lips. This feels good. It's been ages since I've indulged in some snappy flirting, and my old self is having a ball. And it's nice that everyone's being so bold. As long as Sierra and I were together, Desiree's crew held back. Now that I'm free, they're being more direct—and it's great!

  I stroll across the shop to take a seat and notice several women checking me out in that smooth way honeys do when they're looking without looking. I'm checking them out too. These stunning sisters are a rich panorama of colors from dark ebony, light chocolate, and golden brown to burnished bronze, autumn red, and morning yellow. They're all heart-stopping beautiful whether clipped, curled, weaved, washed, rinsed, rolled, finger-waved, fluffed, poofed, or straightened.

  I'm basking in the light of these lovely descendants from the royal houses of Africa. Their strength, love, and endurance are making my heart beat faster and harder and sending sparks of desire shooting along my neural pathways. In my five-year effort not to flirt, I've missed their company, their wit and wisdom, and their passion, intelligence, and power.

  I sit down a few chairs away from a fine, leggy sister who's sitting beneath a hair dryer. She must've known I was stopping by today and decided to wear her sexiest short skirt. She looks at me from the corner of her eye without turning her head or losing her focus on the article she's reading.

  Her mag
azine “falls” to the floor. She starts to get it, but I gesture for her to let me. It's conveniently fallen where I'm guaranteed a close-up view of her smooth strong thighs and elegant ankles.

  I stand and hand her the magazine, and she smiles. “Thank you.”

  “You're welcome,” I say, speaking close to her ear. “My name is Denmark. What's yours?”

  “June.”

  “That's nice,” I say, extending my hand to her. “I think that June just became my favorite month. I'm pleased to meet you.”

  “It's good meeting you also,” she says.

  Desiree walks past and taps me on the shoulder. “Stop your sweet-talking and follow me up to my office.”

  “I'm right behind you,” I answer, watching as Desiree starts up the stairs. I'll follow her just as soon as I make this June connection. I lean close to her ear. “Here's the deal,” I begin. “I think you're sharp, captivating, and alluring, and I'd like to get to know you. Would you consider going out for drinks or coffee with me?”

  “Aren't you married?” she asks, glancing at the light spot on my finger where my ring used to be.

  I bring it close so she can see it better. “I'm entering my second bachelorhood.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “As in, my marriage is over and I'm available.”

  June listens closely. Then she lifts her left hand that she's been shielding, so I can see her wedding ring. “I'm flattered,” she says, “but I'm happily married and … ”

  “Are you happily satisfied?” I interrupt.

  She blinks in surprise, like it's never crossed her mind that happiness and satisfaction should go together. “Whether I am or not, I'm stil! married.”

  I lower my voice. “Look baby, I don't want to cause problems, distribute drama, or break up your marriage. You're a stunningly attractive woman who I can tell has a lot on the ball, and I just wanted to be in your gorgeous presence no matter how short the duration.”

  She smiles. “And how do you know so much about me so fast?”

  I lean close and smile back. “Beauty and excellence are their own best advertisements.”

  “My husband's a good man,” she lamely offers.

  “I'm sure he is,” I concede. “But you don't want to turn down this offer to go out with me.”

  “And why don't I?” she challenges.

  I look deep into her eyes. “Because I'm prepared to shower you with adoration and worship the ground upon which you stand.”

  She blushes and squeezes her thighs together. I tenderly kiss the top of her hand. “You don't have to answer right now. Just think about it. When I'm through talking with Desiree, we'll exchange numbers and take it from there.”

  I wink at June and hurry upstairs into Desiree's office. She's sitting on a love seat with her shoes off and her feet tucked beneath her, smoking a cigarette. “So did you stop them?” she asks.

  “Yes and no. Sierra pretty much cleaned me out. But thanks for the warning.”

  She waves me off. “Denmark, you don't ever have to thank me for anything. I still owe you for thumping Odin Meers back in Brownfield.” She smiles devilishly. “But you know I could've handled him by myself.”

  “Whatever you say,” I agree, smirking.

  She gets up and pads over to the mini bar. I follow and sit on a bar stool. “You want a glass of Hennessy?” she asks.

  “No thanks. So how long have you known about Sierra's cheating?”

  Desiree answers matter-of-factly, “Four or five months.”

  “Say what!” I blurt.

  “I wanted to tell you,” she calmly explains, “but you were so head-over-heels in love, I couldn't bring myself to bursting your bubble.”

  I cross my arms. “Desiree, I need you to be straight with me. What do you know about this guy Sierra's been sleeping with?”

  “I wish there was something to tell,” she answers, taking a drag off her cigarette and sitting down on the bar stool next to me. “But Sierra and I aren't all that close, so I don't know a thing.”

  “That's news to me,” I say. “Whenever I saw the two of you together you seemed pretty chummy.”

  “Chummy!” Desiree laughs. “Denmark, you and I are both ex–street soldiers, so let's be real. Sierra looks at me like I'm an escaped circus act. She doesn't respect me.”

  “How long have you felt this way about Sierra?”

  “From the moment we met.”

  “Then why'd you befriend her?”

  Desiree laughs. “I wanted to see just how stupid she was.”

  “Where'd you get the idea that she was stupid?”

  Desiree's eyes meander up and down my body. “She didn't know how to treat a fine good-looking man like you.”

  I allow my eyes the pleasure of slowly mapping the surface of her body. “I believe that I will have that drink,” I say.

  She smiles and fixes it for me, stirring it with her forefinger just before she hands it to me.

  “Now I've got a question for you,” she says, sticking her stirring finger into her mouth and slowly pulling it out as she sucks off the booze.

  “Ask away.”

  “Why didn't you ever cheat on Sierra?”

  I shrug. “It never crossed my mind. Like you said, I loved her.”

  Desiree laughs. “Denmark, you're sweet, handsome, and a definite hard-body, but you can't help being a man.”

  “And you say all that to say what?”

  “C'mon, sugar,” she chuckles. “Don't try to out-slick the slicker. You're protecting your pride. With the stingy crumbs Sierra was throwing your way, I can't believe that you never thought about it.”

  “I just hope that you never go through something like this,” I say.

  “Are you referring to my piece of marriage with Brice?” she says, rolling her eyes and chuckling. “He thinks I don't know he's fooling around when he's out touring with that band, but the joke's on him. I could've busted him with my eyes closed.”

  She takes a drag off her cigarette. “Believe you me,” she continues, “that fool's just a tax writeoff. As soon as he and those musical misfits start making enough money for a decent alimony check, I'm divorcing his sad butt. Hmph!”

  She exhales twin curls of smoke from her nostrils. “Sure, I loved him in the beginning. He was”—she shrugs—“interesting. But hey, even the most streetwise among us make mistakes. Take you, for instance, marrying that materialistic ice princess.”

  “She wasn't always that way.”

  Desiree's eyes darken with mischief. “She said that she's way different when she's with her lover man.”

  I slam my glass down hard on the bar's counter, sloshing out some of the liquor. “Desiree, you know something. Tell me who he is!”

  “Sierra didn't say.”

  “If she told you about their lovemaking she had to have mentioned his name.”

  “Not necessarily. Sierra may be a bourgeois two-faced tramp, but she's not crazy. She kept that secret to herself.”

  “I'm not playing, Desiree. I want to know!”

  “If I tell you, what's in it for me?”

  I walk slowly up on Desiree. Her eyes flicker momentarily, but she stands her ground. I slip my arms around her waist and pull her into me. “What's in it for you is something you can't handle,” I say.

  She smiles. “So says you.”

  I give her a solid kiss, tasting the fullness of her tongue and lips. I pull away, and her eyes are glazed. She presses her abdomen up against me.

  “Oh my,” she says softly. “I knew Sierra was stupid, but not this stupid.”

  “If you tell me what I want to know, I'll show you just how stupid she was.”

  Desiree pats my cheek. “Denmark, honest baby doll, she didn't say.”

  There's no lying in her eyes, so I say, “All right, if you say so, I believe you.”

  “Does this mean I don't get to find out?” she asks, pouting.

  I study Desiree's face. She's another man's wife, but so what. It
's not my fault that Brice is a has-been and doesn't know it. If Desiree's willing to let me send her yodeling into the stratosphere, I might as well soar with her. But I don't have enough time this afternoon, so I'll instead leave her with a taste of my goodness.

  I kiss her with electric, unrestrained passion. She relaxes so much that I almost have to hold her up.

  “Thanks for calling me about Sierra's raid on my house,” I say. “And this,” I kiss her softly around her neck and eyelids, and the tip of her nose, “is a sample of my”—I whisper into her ear—“deep, deep gratitude.”

  “You're naughty,” she says coyly.

  I wink. “And you hope I stay that way.”

  “Go finish your day,” she orders, laughing.

  I stroke Desiree's cheek and head back down into the shop. June's up and prepared to leave, but she's digging around in her purse “looking” for something. She sees me and “finds” it. I say ‘bye to all of Desiree's crew and leave. June follows at a safe, respectable distance.

  I escort her down to the far end of the parking lot where her Cadillac Escalade SUV is sitting. “Thanks for waiting,” I say.

  “You're welcome. I almost started to leave. What were you two doing up there?”

  “Hugging, kissing, and plotting to have an affair.”

  She studies me for a moment, then laughs. “So you're not only confident but crazy, too; is that it?”

  “I'm crazy like a fox.”

  She smiles and unlocks her vehicle's door with her keyless control. I hold her door open and help her into the SUV.

  “So are you a gentleman, too?” she asks.

  “Yes, I'm very gentle.”

  She gets into the vehicle and looks at me, her expression full of apology. “Look, Denmark, you're a nice, attractive man, but I just don't do this sort of thing.”

  I shrug, confused. “You don't do what—talk to people in the parking lot?”

  She smiles wryly. “You know what I mean.”

  I get serious. “June, all I know is that right now, I'm supremely irritated that your husband saw you first. So maybe you're right to not let me show you what happens when a man like me focuses on a sweet, smart, sassy, sexy woman like you, doing things for and to her that'll make her never want to go home.”