Other Men's Wives

by Freddie Lee Johnson III

  He briefly examines the envelope, then looks at me, his eyebrows arched into twin question marks. Mason has some old-fashioned notions about men competing fairly and with honor. I tell him everything, getting more encouraged as his jaw hardens and lips tighten.

  “What's that you say?” Mason asks. “The guy's upper body and head was a blur?”

  “Yes. And his voice was garbled, so there'd be no chance of recognizing him that way either.”

  “Man, this cat definitely meant to mock you. First with that address and then making sure you knew he was, uh … ” Mason's unfinished statement hangs in the air for a moment and he moves on. “So where's the DVD?”

  “Why?” I bark.

  Mason flinches. The disk is an obvious piece of evidence that could expedite his search, but I don't want him seeing my wife naked, especially while she's screwing another man.

  “It's been destroyed,” I answer calmly. “Freak accident.”

  “That's too bad. It could've taken us a long way toward establishing identity.”

  If Mason runs into serious difficulties I might, maybe, possibly, perhaps let him view the copy Jiao made for me. But it shouldn't come to that. I've got enough information that'll help get him started.

  “Don't worry about it,” Mason assures me. “Ah'll find ’em.”

  “I have a couple of names you can check into immediately.”

  Mason prepares to write. “Anytime you're ready.”

  I take a deep breath. Memories of all the laughter I've shared with Harry and Gordon, and the fun—running the 4×100, lifting each other during down times, celebrating with each other during successes, and so many other moments—those recollections block my words. Uttering their names will forever change our relationship, but things have already changed.

  “Harry Bancroft and Gordon Wilhite,” I say.

  Mason stops writing and looks up. “These names sound familiar,” he comments. “Is this the same ‘Getting Down with Cleveland’ Gordon Wilhite who's also on your 4×100 team?”

  “They both are.”

  Mason shakes his head, perplexed. “Ah guess you just can't tell about some folks.”

  “I guess not.”

  Mason purses his lips. “So why do you suspect ’em?”

  “On the day of my anniversary I was going to take Sierra to the Sapphire Spire restaurant for dinner. I told them about my plans and no one else!”

  Mason nods grimly, his eyes filling with comprehension. “And since ‘I Got Your Back, Inc.’ mentioned the name of the restaurant, you're thinking that it has to be one of them.”

  I clench my jaw and nod.

  “I recollect that these guys are married.”

  “That's right,” I confirm.

  “This'll be a piece of cake,” Mason observes.

  “How do you figure?”

  He smiles slyly. “I've tailed enough cheating spouses to know that their stepping out takes a lot of time, energy, and skill. But that's only if they're worried about getting caught.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Mason shrugs. “Some people don't care. They're either too stupid or unconcerned and don't bother hiding their action. But most of ’em aren't like that. They'll go through all kinds'a changes to keep it a secret.”

  “Would that include doing something like having their image blurred and voice garbled on a video?”

  “Yep, that's why I wanted to double-check about ’em being married. Single guys messing around on their girlfriends are careful,” Mason chuckles. “Well, they think they're careful, but this guy's downright paranoid. He's got something to hide, something beyond not wanting you to know who he is.”

  I frown. “But if he was so worried, why make a video? Why send it to me?”

  Mason lifts his hands in a palms-up “who knows” gesture. “Maybe he likes playing cat and mouse. Maybe this was an act of revenge …”

  Icy fingers grip my spine. Nelson's wild conspiracy theories suddenly don't sound so wild or theoretical.

  “Maybe,” Mason continues, “he figured that by blurring the picture and garbling the voice there was nothing to lose.”

  “I swear, I'm going to punish this fool,” I rumble. “He made sure he couldn't be identified but left Sierra wide open.”

  Mason looks at me intensely. “You're still in love with your wife, aren't you?”

  Long moments pass as I stare hard back at him. “How much is this going to cost me?”

  “Forget the cost. This'll be gratis. Ah'll do it myself.”

  “What's the catch?”

  “There's no catch. You're a friend, and this guy's broken the rules.”

  “What rules?”

  “The rules every man oughta respect to his dying breath: Don't mess with a brother's money. Don't mess with his car. And for damn sure don't mess with his woman!”

  I smile. Mason's more old-fashioned than I thought. And I'm more certain than ever that I'll soon know the truth about Harry and Gordon.

  Mason glances at the list. “This shouldn't take too long.”

  “How soon can you start?”

  Mason grins and says, “Ah already have.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  I get in the Corvette and turn off my cell phone to make sure that I'm not disturbed for a while. I start the car and tune its satellite radio to 96.3 and get the “Quiet Storm” show from Howard University in Washington, D.C. Patti LaBelle's voice beams down from the sky, strokes my cheek, and promises that one day everything will be all right. I turn into traffic, settle back, and cruise.

  Night has covered the sky in a velvety dark blue. Billions of shining stars pulse like bursts of glitter. A warm breeze blows through the Corvette's open windows, and I feel better than I have in days. Now that I've seen the Electronics Doctor and Mason Booker, I'll soon know the identity of Mr. X. And tomorrow morning's 10:30 a.m. appointment with Hilda Vaughan is the first step in legally ejecting Sierra from my life.

  I soon pull into my driveway and park beside locksmith Linwood Powell's work van. He steps out the house, locks the door, and sees me.

  “It's all done!” he announces as I get out of the Corvette.

  “That's great,” I say, walking toward him. “I appreciate the effort.”

  He stows his tools and closes the van's rear double doors. “It's no biggie,” he says. “One'a my guys finished early on a job in Shaker Heights, so I had him come help.”

  He hands me my new keys. “There you go, Denmark. You've got all new locks and latches to keep you safe and secure.”

  It's too bad Linwood can't install some locks and latches onto my heart, but I'll do that job myself. The next time a woman gets into my heart … what am I talking about? There'll be no next time! Just like before I met Sierra, they'll get only what I want them to have, and know only what I want them to know.

  Nice, clean, and simple—that's how I want it. No entanglements, no expectations, and no drama. We'll hook up, get down, have fun, and be done. I don't want them to love me; worry or wonder about me; or feel sad, bad, or glad for me. All they've got to do is be fine, smell good, and be willing. I'll do to them all the things I spent five years wishing I could do to Sierra, stroking them strong and slow, deep and gentle, in wide and tight grinding circles, in and out, long and hard, sexing them so good they'll cry to the constellations for mercy.

  “All right, man,” says Linwood. “I'm gone.”

  We shake hands. “Thanks, Linwood. You take it easy.”

  “That's how I roll,” he replies.

  He sidles over to his work van, gets in, and backs out of the driveway, bopping his head to the deep based whumphs! of Z-Chosen-1, Cleveland's new chart-topping rapper. I chuckle at Linwood's youthful hip-hop exuberance, but it's a short laugh.

  I was once like him, carefree and flipping off the world. The lion I was then would never have been trapped into my predicament. I invited Sierra into the most fragile part of my heart and trusted her to protect it. She knew my thoughts, my moods, my
ways … everything.

  I stick the key into the new lock, and it opens smoothly. I go inside, close and lock the door, turn on the light, and stare into my hollow, empty cave. I turn off the light, go sit on the steps, and lean forward, elbows on my knees, and stare down at the carpet. Tears trickle to the tip of my nose and drop. I promised myself that there'd be no more tears for Sierra. But knowing she's been with another man, knowing he's expertly familiar with her every curve, that he's kissed her most sensitive places, that he's joined her in ways she'd forbidden to me, that she'd wanted him more than she wanted me … it hurts so bad.

  “Why, Sierra?” I rasp. “Why couldn't you want just me?”

  The telephone rings, and I hurry and answer. I check the caller I.D., don't recognize the number, and start to ignore the racket. But this could be Jiao or Mason with quick good news. “Hello?”

  “I've got evidence about you and Vondie,” Sierra asserts. “That alone is grounds for divorce.”

  I swallow a groan. “Your so-called evidence is useless, since nothing happened between me and Vondie!”

  “So now you're going to play stupid, is that it?”

  “No, Sierra. Playing stupid was when I believed that loving and cherishing you would keep you happy and loving only me!”

  “I did love only you, until you stepped outside the marriage!”

  “You're a liar!” I explode. “I never cheated on you!”

  “Yes—you—did!” she fires back. “Deny it all you want. I've got a witness.”

  “All you've got is speculation. I've got a video showing that for all of your prissy holiness, you're just a sanctified slut!”

  She cusses. I cuss back. She slams the phone down. My head hurts. Sierra knows that I never cheated on her. And I'm wondering who's been filling her head with that lie. This shows just how desperate she's become. I need to stop her, and quick.

  The phone rings again. I check the caller I.D. It's from the Stouffer's Towers Hotel downtown. I hesitate but answer anyway, wondering what business the Stouffer's has with me. “Hello?”

  “Denmark!” shouts store manager Keith Billings, slurring. There's a lot of loud talking, laughter, and music in the background. “You won't believe it!” he says.

  “I won't believe what?”

  “It's Nadine!” he blares. “She's pregnant! I'm gonna be a father!”

  Keith's already been a father, four times! But since this is a brand-new baby, maybe it counts as a brand-new experience.

  “Keith, that's great!” I say, pumping joy into my tone. “When are you passing out the cigars?”

  “I'm doing it now! I couldn't get you on your cellular, so I'm glad I caught you at home. Come on down and join us.”

  “Who are us? And where am I going?”

  “Some family, friends, and coworkers,” Keith answers. “The moment Nadine told me, I decided to celebrate.”

  “I'm glad,” I reply, laughing.

  “So are you coming?”

  It's Friday night. I should be having my own party. I should be down at the Ebony Crystal, jamming to the music until Salome gets off work. I should call Desiree and shed light on her curiosity: “Mmm … I knew Sierra was stupid, but not this stupid.” I should do something—anything!—besides sit in this house.

  “Where's the party?” I ask.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  I called June just before I left the house on my way to Keith's and Nadine's pregnancy party.

  “I'm surprised you called,” June had said.

  “There's more to come.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Absolutely, and we'll be right too, once we get together.”

  She laughed. “You're a fast mover.”

  “Not normally. But you're so overpowering I can't help myself.”

  After a brief pause, she said: “And how exactly do I overpower you?”

  I told her. By the time we hung up, she was pressing me to tell her when she could expect my next call.

  I stride down a large hallway in the Stouffer's Towers Hotel and through the heavy double doors of the Sky Sweep room and step into an audio storm of laughter, talking, and upcoming rap sensation Akon's like-it or lump-it lyrics. The room is packed with ebony and a few ivory bodies, and crackling with human energy. Whirling ceiling projectors beam bright yellow, robust red, piercing blue, and cool purple light at spinning silver balls, painting the room and everyone with a kaleidoscope of brilliant luminous sparkles. On the dance floor, brothers and sisters are twisting, dipping, sliding, and hyperstepping in obedience to the creative power of their African genes.

  “My people, my people,” I chuckle. “We sure love to party.”

  “Denmark!” someone shouts off to my right. “You're here!”

  I look toward the voice but can't see through all the gyrating bodies. After a few seconds, I spot Keith weaving his way through the crowd. He's dragging Nadine behind him. She's small, shapely, and petite, with big soulful eyes, an angular jaw line, and braided hair that falls onto her shoulders like a shimmering curtain of cords.

  Every few steps someone hollers, “Congratulations!”

  Nadine graciously accepts the well-wishes but seems mostly embarrassed by all the fuss. Keith wobbles up to me and sways from side to side. “Heeey!” he greets me, exhaling a blast of his alcohol-reeking breath. “Man, I'm glad”—belch, hiccup—”you could come.”

  “I wouldn't have missed it for the world,” I reply, turning slightly away from Keith's grinning face.

  Nadine keeps him steady, frowning at him and looking apologetically at me. “I'm sorry about this, Denmark,” she says. “He goes crazy like this every time we get pregnant.”

  “That's right,” Keith slurs. “We're pregnant, and I'm happier than a, uh, I'm happier than a … ” He frowns and looks at me. “What am I happier than?”

  “You're the happiest man in the world,” I answer, laughing.

  He beams a wide, toothy smile. “That's right! I'm”— hiccup—”the happiest man”—hiccup—”in the world!”

  They look at each other with so much love and affection that I feel like a voyeur. I kiss Nadine's cheek and shake Keith's hand. “Congratulations to both of you.”

  “Thanks,” Nadine replies.

  They melt back into the dancers, and I spot a bar on the far side of the room. I ease around the human swarm and see Vondie Hamilton. She's sitting on a bar stool with her perfect legs crossed, showing much thigh and revealing enough gap at the top of her short skirt to send a brother's imagination into overdrive.

  This might be a good thing. If I can get Vondie to testify that nothing happened between us in Orlando, it'll kill Sierra's allegations of infidelity. For her reward, I'll give Vondie some of the best loving she's ever had, even better than when we were together. But I've first got to deal with the loser whispering in her ear. Her expression says that he might as well save his breath.

  I make my way to the far side of the bar, keeping out of Vondie's eyesight as she sips on a straw sticking out of a huge glass of something that looks very red and very good.

  “What'll it be?” asks the bartender.

  “Give me a vodka and orange juice on the rocks.”

  Vondie's rocking gently to the music, barely paying attention to the dude. She shakes her head no to whatever he just said, and he frowns. He keeps whispering into her ear, and she shakes her head no again.

  “Here you go,” says the bartender.

  I pay him and turn back to Vondie. The dude traces his finger along her shoulder. She flinches away from him and glares. I grab my drink and stride over to them, getting there in time to hear Vondie say, “So don't ask me again!”

  “C'mon, baby,” he presses. “It's just a phone number.”

  “It's a phone number she's not giving, so stop asking!” I command.

  Vondie spins around and sees me. Her eyes flash wide with happiness then relax with relief.

  “Who invited you?” the dude demands to know, puffing up fo
r battle.

  I take a sip of my drink and study him for a quick moment. “I invited myself! And I'll still be here when the paramedics carry you away.”

  His eyes narrow. I set my drink on the bar counter. Several people who're sitting close by slither out of harm's way.

  “Make your move!” I challenge. “It's your pain, so I won't mind.”

  He glances from me to Vondie then grumbles off into the crowd. The people who moved out of the way mutter their relief, sit back down, and continue swilling their drinks.

  Vondie watches the dude leave then turns to me. “Thanks. He was plucking my last nerve.”

  “Glad to help,” I say, sitting on the bar stool beside her. “Besides, I needed to get him out the way so I could sit here.”

  We laugh and look out at the mass of people. “This is quite a gathering,” I observe.

  Vondie nods. “It sure is.”

  We enjoy the music for a few moments, then Vondie says, “Denmark, I apologize for Lennox's behavior at the restaurant the other day. I don't know what got into him.”

  “What got into you?” I gently counter. “It seemed like you were egging him on.”

  Vondie smiles sheepishly. “Well, maybe I was. He's such a pompous bore. I knew you'd take him down a notch, so I guess I pushed a little.”

  We laugh, and I hold my glass up to Vondie for a toast. “Still friends?”

  She clinks her glass against mine. “Yes, we're still friends.”

  We listen to a little more music, and I give Vondie the once-over. “You look great,” I say.

  “Why, thank you,” Vondie answers, blushing. “You're candy for the eyes also.”

  She raises her drink, and we clink our glasses together again. “To good-looking people like us,” she says.

  We laugh and sip our drinks. “So, Vondie, how do you know Keith?” I ask.

  “He worked for me in procurement when he started with the company. He met Nadine when he made an inventory analysis of the Sunbury Hills store, where she was assistant manager. He harassed me for a transfer to floor sales staff so he could be near her all the time. Four months later they were married, and”—she gestures at the gathering with a wide sweep of her arm—“here we are.”