Other Men's Wives

by Freddie Lee Johnson III

  “Stop the dramatics,” Sierra commands. “Just be a man and admit …”

  I bolt upright. “Don't lecture me about manhood! You think you're so smart and clever. Well let me enlighten you about what really happened.”

  “Keep it calm,” Hilda gently advises, leaning close.

  I explain it all. The conversation Vondie and I had after Porter left. Her going up to her room, alone! The woman who'd bought me the Florida Hurricane. My telling the bartender where Porter could find me. Me hurrying down to the beach, where I spent hours enjoying the wind and waves, and wishing that my wife—my one and only—had been there with me.

  “I don't believe you!” Sierra loudly retorts.

  “This meeting is about to be adjourned,” the magistrate threatens.

  I will every decibel of anger from my voice. “Well, then, maybe you'll believe Vondie, especially since you recruited her to lie for you.”

  “What! Why I never …”

  I look at the magistrate. “Magistrate, may I use the phone?”

  She blinks, surprised. “What's this? Why?”

  I summon all the pleading I can muster. “Magistrate, please trust me. This phone call will clear things up.”

  She purses her lips, thinks it over for a moment, then nods. “All right, Mr. Wheeler, this is highly unusual, but I'll allow …”

  “Your honor, I must protest,” bellows Charles Keller. “The purpose of this meeting was to … ”

  “Mr. Keller, don't lecture me about procedures and protocol. Be quiet.”

  His majesty scowls but shuts up. I grab the phone nearest me and Hilda, punch the speaker option, and dial. The speakers on the other two phones sitting near the magistrate, and at the other end with Sierra and Charles Keller, activate.

  A voice answers from the phones. “Speed Shift Procurement: Vondie Hamilton speaking.”

  Sierra's eyes widen. She and Charles Keller exchange glances. I lean close to the phone in front of me and Hilda. “Vondie, it's me, Denmark Wheeler.”

  Her vocal demeanor plummets from cordial professionalism to rabid hostility. “What do you want?”

  “How much are you getting paid to lie about what happened in Orlando?”

  She answers with a slow, sinister chuckle that underscores the great pleasure she's deriving from my predicament. “Not a cent, but I'd do it for free anyway.”

  And just in case Sierra, Charles Keller, and the magistrate are still in doubt, I say: “Vondie, you know we never, ever slept together.”

  “You're right,” she answers laughing. “I know that, but your little wife doesn't. I'm going to enjoy watching you squirm and suffer just like I did when …”

  I hang up. The magistrate's grim. Charles Keller's scratching his head. Hilda looks like she wants to hug me. And Sierra's staring wide-eyed.

  “Sierra,” I begin softly, “Vondie and I never slept together. It's just as I told you.”

  She bawls. I stare at the tabletop and shake my head. The magistrate calls a recess.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Twenty minutes later, we're all back at the table. “Denmark,” Sierra says. “I'm sorry. I truly thought that you and Vondie …”

  “Is that why you cheated on me?”

  She lowers her eyes. Charles Keller bristles. The magistrate looks from me back to Sierra, her face full of interest in the soap opera.

  “What did you get from your lover that you weren't getting from me?” I demand. A little voice in the back of my mind urgently asks: “Are you sure you want to know this?” I press on anyway. “Tell me, Sierra. What was it?”

  Sierra looks up, wipes her eyes, and answers with one simple word: “Freedom.”

  “Say what?”

  “I was never totally free with you,” Sierra explains. “I always felt like I had to be more perfect and pure than other women you'd known. You imprisoned me on a pedestal. You were constantly judging me.”

  I grip the edge of the table. “Sierra, what are you talking about? When did all this happen?”

  “It was in the first few weeks we'd known each other. We went to your apartment after a late movie …”

  “We'd gone to see Gladiator with Russell Crowe.”

  She nods and smiles softly. “You loved the fighting and the glory of Rome.”

  I smile back. “You loved him.”

  “Ahem,” coughs the magistrate.

  Sierra glances at her and keeps talking. “We started …”

  “I remember. We were on the couch.”

  “It was the first time that we'd ever really gotten physical and …”

  “You're right,” I interrupt, glancing at Hilda. “Things got … serious.”

  “I wanted to do something special for you but … ”

  I stare past her as the memory vividly replays itself. “Then you stopped and gave me the weirdest look.”

  “It was because of the disgust and disappointment on your face. I couldn't understand. We'd talked about what we liked best when making love. I could tell that you'd be a superb lover …”

  The magistrate looks me up and down and arches an eyebrow. Sierra continues, saying, “And I thought you'd enjoyed oral…”

  Hilda coughs. Charles Keller fidgets. Sierra blushes but keeps talking. “Anyway, when I saw your expression, I felt dirty and ashamed. You looked so disgusted. It was like I'd let you down for destroying your perfect image of me.”

  “Sierra, I was … surprised. Maybe it was naive, but I was caught off guard, seeing that someone like you was so ready to do what a common street hoochie would …” I shake my head in frustration. “And compared to all the losers I'd known you were perfect.”

  “No! I was normal. I was glad that you considered me special, but I still had drives, needs, and a desire to explore.”

  I massage my pounding forehead. “And you're saying that I shut you down?”

  She nods. That's why our lovemaking was always so plain, why Sierra always seemed to be holding back, why she was so liberated with Mr. X.

  “I thought I could adjust,” Sierra explains. “But I was always so afraid. Then I got angry for not being able to fully express myself with you.”

  I stare hard into her eyes. “But you didn't feel that way with your lover?”

  “Denmark, he's not the man you are, but he lets me be me.”

  “And that's why you cheated, because he lets you be you?”

  Sierra scowls. “You make it sound so trivial—but yes, that's why. But I didn't do anything until after your incident with Vondie.”

  “There was no incident!” I emphasize, snapping.

  Sierra's shoulders droop. “I know that now. But at the time, with everything that was going on, he came along and … ”

  Sierra looks down and away. Charles Keller's looking glum. Hilda's biting her lower lip. The magistrate wearily shakes her head like she's heard this kind of story one too many times.

  “Who is he?” I ask, staring at Sierra.

  “What difference does it make?”

  “Just tell me who he is!” I demand.

  “No!”

  “You're still sleeping with him, aren't you?”

  “That's none of your business.”

  I ball my fists. Hilda grips my forearm. “Sierra, tell me or I'll …”

  “Or you'll do what, Mr. Wheeler?” the magistrate forcefully asks.

  My gaze meets hers, and I get the message. I'm about to talk myself into a small locked space with bars and bad company.

  The tension eases. Long seconds pass into a minute. The magistrate looks left and right at each delegation. “Does either party have anything more they'd like to say to each other?”

  Sierra looks at me. “Denmark, this has all been a big misunderstanding, and I hope you'll find it in your heart…”

  “No!” I snap. “What I saw on that DVD was crystal clear. And what you've said here today is simple to digest. You were resentful of me, thought I had an affair with Vondie, and used it as an excuse to free you
rself.” I stand and lean forward, fists on the table. “Consider yourself freed, flushed, and forgotten!”

  I storm out of the conference room with Hilda fast following.

  Moments later, I'm in the bathroom and quickly pacing back and forth as I try to calm down. I glimpse myself in the mirror, stop, and stare at the reflection. “Avenge me!” it demands.

  I exhale with a snort and charge out into the hallway. Hilda's waiting for me. “Are you all right?” she asks.

  “I will be once I'm finished.”

  She frowns, confused. Movement off to our side draws our attention, and we freeze. It's the Montague clan, passing by us as they head for the elevators. There's sniffling Sierra and her mother, Sabrina, who's glaring; her sister, Samantha, who's scowling; pear-shaped blubber-lump Amos, who's snarling (and flips me the bird on the sly); and her tall, stately father, Theodoric, looking worn, weary, and slightly irritated.

  Sabrina and Samantha put their arms around Sierra and escort her down the hallway, whispering words of comfort while every few steps throwing nasty glances back at me.

  Amos watches them pass, then turns on me. “Now that this little charade is over, you're going to feel the full force of … ”

  “Amos, go get the Cadillac and wait out front,” Theodoric orders.

  Amos, suddenly reduced to his seven-year-old self, says, “But Dad, I just want to tell this … ”

  “Get the car!”

  Amos pouts, and his flab sags. But he does as he's told and shuffles down the hallway, muttering and grumbling. Theodoric steps confidently and briskly over to me and Hilda. She edges close to me. “Denmark, who is he?” she asks softly.

  “That's Theodoric Montague, Sierra's father. Don't worry. I've never had a beef with him.”

  “You've also never divorced his daughter.”

  I glance at Hilda. She's got a point. Either way, I'm standing my ground. Once Theodoric's close he nods curtly at me and extends his hand to Hilda, and they shake.

  “Ms. Vaughan, I'm Theodoric Montague, vice president of international business ventures with the Cleveland Chamber of Commerce. You've had an impressive career. The pro bono work you do for the homeless is much appreciated. Keep up the stellar work.”

  Hilda does free legal work for the homeless? She's truly impressive. Burned-out Bobby could probably use her help.

  She's slightly rattled by Theodoric's knowing so much about her, but I've told her that, unlike the rest of Sierra's condescending clan, Theodoric's the genuine article, a brilliantly suave class act. Now she's seeing for herself.

  “Why, thank you, Mr. Montague,” she says. “Hearing that from a civic leader like you means a lot.”

  He smiles and looks at me, and his lips straighten into a serious line. “Denmark, I'd like a word in private, if you please.”

  Hilda stiffens. “With all due respect, Mr. Montague, I don't think the two of you should be discussing …”

  I give Hilda's arm a reassuring squeeze. “It's okay,” I say, staring into Theodoric's eyes. “There's mutual respect between us.”

  “Indeed there is,” Theodoric confirms.

  Hilda hesitates, then nods. “I'll wait for you down in the lobby.”

  She walks off, and Theodoric and I stand facing each other. He's intense and steadfast. I'm resolute and prepared. “So,” Theodoric begins, “I suppose there's no chance of reconciliation between you and my daughter?”

  “Not a snowball's chance in hell,” I calmly reply.

  He nods with grave resignation. “I'm sorry things have turned out this way.”

  “So am I.”

  He clenches his jaw. “Denmark, Sierra's my daughter. No matter what's happened, I will not stand by and see her hurt.”

  “I don't want to hurt Sierra. I just want to end this quickly and fairly.”

  He purses his lips and looks down for a moment to ponder then back at me. “She's a good woman. You know this.”

  “I'm sure she will be, for someone else!”

  His eyes flash and narrow, then he sighs. “Perhaps we'll meet again under more pleasant circumstances.”

  “Yes, perhaps.”

  He steps off, then steps back. “By the way, has my grandson, Yarborough, tried contacting you?”

  “He's called asking for money, but I turned him down. Why?”

  He clenches his jaw. “He's been missing. The police suspect foul play …”

  They're probably right. The hyper-violent world of crack addicts significantly shortens their life spans.

  “… and we're asking anyone who knows him if they might have information on his whereabouts,” Theodoric finishes.

  “Sorry,” I shrug. “I haven't seen him.”

  Theodoric nods and leaves.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Hilda meets me in the lobby, and we get into the Corvette and drive back to her office. “Is there anything I should know about your talk with Mr. Montague?” she asks.

  I give her the brief essentials, then we finish the trip in silence. I turn into her driveway, shift the Corvette into park, and wait for her to get out. “Would you like to come inside and talk?” she asks.

  “No.”

  She purses her lips. “Denmark, I know you're upset and want to lash out, but you need to reconsider. You've still got much life to live and plenty of opportunities to love.”

  I shift the car into reverse. “I need to go.”

  “Will you at least call me later and let me know how you're doing?”

  “Sure. Whatever.”

  She studies me for a long moment and gets out. I back out quickly and leave. I need to go for a run. I need to generate buckets of sweat, work my muscles until they burn, and pound out every remaining emotion that's within me.

  My cell phone rings, and I check the caller ID display. It's the Speed Shift store at Henderson Village. Alarms blare inside me. Please don't let this be Keith calling about a robbery.

  I answer quickly. “Hello!”

  “Hey, Denmark,” Keith calmly replies. “Sorry to bother you, but we've got a couple of representatives from some ad firm here talking about making a commercial.”

  That's right! I completely forgot to tell Keith about Speed Shift's hiring Forrester & Company to shoot this commercial. At first it was to tout Henderson Village as an example of the company's commitment to help revitalize an area that had been economically depressed. Now management wants to use the commercial to counter the mounting negative publicity from those robberies.

  Keith's capable of handling those reps, but I want to make sure this goes right. It shouldn't take too long. They probably just want some ideas of how to proceed for when they start filming.

  I work my way through traffic. A little while later I pass Burned-out Bobby as I turn into the Speed Shift parking lot. He's manning his corner like a soldier dutifully standing guard. When Bobby sees me, his eyes light up and he gestures to his sign: “Know God. Know Peace. No God. No Peace.”

  What a crock. If dingy, homeless Burned-out Bobby represents how God treats his friends, no thanks. I park, hurry inside, and meet the two ad reps. The woman is dressed in a conservative but attractive dark blue business suit, matching pumps, white blouse, silver earrings, and bracelets, with her hair cut close and styled sharp. Her male partner artistic consultant looks like a Heavy Metal refugee with his spiked hairdo, tattoos, ripped jeans, and chest web of rattling chains.

  Keith introduces us, rolls his eyes, and gladly returns to waiting on customers. I give the reps a quick tour, then they saunter off on their own, nodding and muttering to each other. They're totally oblivious to all the odd stares they're getting, but the commotion is short lived, and they soon leave. I follow them out the door and meet Mason Booker coming in.

  My throat constricts, and I struggle to swallow. I thought I'd be ready to confront the awful truth. I thought I could muster the courage. I thought it would be as simple as letting things be as they would be. I desperately want to know who Sierra's been screwing. I
need to see who Mr. X is so I can judge what kind of man he is compared with me. But Mason's light step, soft whistling, and gentle smile aren't the signs of someone who's bearing bad news.

  “Hey, Denmark,” he says, extending his hand. “Ah was in the area and decided to stop by. Got a minute?”

  “For you, I've got two minutes,” I say warily, shaking his hand.

  He smiles, looks hard into my eyes, and correctly senses my anxiety. “It's nothing bad,” he gently informs me. “Ah just wanna run something past you.”

  I gesture to the back of the store. “Let's talk in my office.”

  We head to the back and up the few steps into my office. I close the door and turn quickly to Mason. He's leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. His news may not be bad, but I brace myself anyway.

  “So how's the investigation going?” I ask, getting to the point.

  “A lot better than when ah first started,” Mason responds. “This guy's slick, but he ain't slick enough. Ah'm hot on his trail, and ah'm gonna get ’em, you can rest assured of that.”

  If I had the energy, I'd hug Mason. He's been a rare bright spot in this mess, and I'll have to reward him handsomely when this is all behind me. But first things first!

  “How long do you think it'll be?” I ask.

  Mason shrugs. “Probably sooner than later, but that's what ah wanted to discuss with you.”

  I sit up tall, my energy renewed and my mind alert. “Go on. I'm listening.”

  “Denmark, you know ah don't pull no punches. This is bound to get ugly before ah'm done, and ah wanna make sure you know that.”

  “It got ugly the moment I found out.”

  He clenches his jaw. “So then you don't mind if ah do whatever it takes to find this SOB?”

  I stand and look straight and hard into Mason's eyes. “What would you do if it were your wife?”