Other Men's Wives

by Freddie Lee Johnson III

  “Denmark, please; you know that Blinker guy who's running for City Council. You grew up with him and those cop cousins of his who arrested Yarborough. Won't you speak with them?”

  I'll say this much for Amos. He's been doing his homework. “Speak with them and say what?” I demand to know. “Should I tell them that even though you wouldn't invite them to sit down at the same table with you for coffee, you want them to put their careers and necks on the line to save your guilty-as-hell son?”

  Amos bawls. I feel like thrashing him for every sneering comment made to me, every smirk when I made an etiquette misstep, every rolling-eyed yawn when I tried to fit in, reinforcing that I'd forever be an unwelcome stranger in his land.

  He mutters about loving Yarborough more than himself, failing him as a father, and cursing the system that seems so slanted. I'm tempted to ask him how the allegedly hyper-intelligent “free colored people” of the Montague line managed to miss that detail over the past three centuries. But a more pressing thought intrudes.

  Amos is the vice president of marketing for Mid-Cities Insurance Company, the robber barons who are screwing Harry on his medical coverage. This might be a productive encounter after all.

  “How badly do you want my help?” I ask.

  Amos’ eyes widen with hope, and he wrings his hands. “I'll do anything! Just name it!”

  I give him the name of Harry Bancroft. Then I explain the needs and that I expect total compliance from Mid-Cities on every test, tool, drug, therapy, device, and anything else Harry will need during his full recovery, for as long as he'll need it.

  Amos agrees to everything, including giving me a guarantee that Theodoric Montague will soon be the newest, most ardent supporter of hood politician Blinker Hughes.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  It's Friday morning, and it's been just over a week since Amos Montague paid me a visit. I'm standing at the kitchen counter, sipping a cup of coffee and reading the morning paper. I'd prefer to sit and read, but I haven't yet replaced the kitchen dinette set that Sierra took during her daylight raid.

  A lot has happened since Amos darkened my door. Tinker Hughes is free. Theodoric Montague is Blinker's biggest backer. And Harry's getting all the support he'll ever need from those crooks at Mid-Cities Insurance. If he has the slightest problem, Amos knows that I'll make a phone call that'll have his beloved crack-head son spending the next ten years being some hulking, tattooed convict's girlfriend.

  I'm glad this is the last workday of the week. I'd wanted to take off on Monday, catch an airplane, and fly—well, anywhere, just as long as it took me away from the memories, pain, and shame. But I had to be here for those people from Forrester & Company who've been shooting this commercial. That flakey spike-haired artistic consultant has been a giant pain in the neck, whining and having tantrums. This should be the last day we have to deal with that pansy, so I, and the rest of the Henderson Village crew, will grin and bear it.

  I glance at the newspaper and re-read one of today's lead articles:

  One Cleared, One Caught

  … in a vindication of the innocence he had maintained all along, former Cleveland police officer Tecum-seh “Tinker” Hughes was released when another former officer, Mason Booker, owner-operator of Second Shadow Enterprises, made an unusual and unexpected sworn statement clearing Mr. Hughes of all wrongdoing. Mr. Booker, who years before had given key testimony resulting in the conviction of Mr. Hughes, was immediately arrested and is scheduled for arraignment …

  Mason's sudden desire to come clean was inspired by a lot of pounding from Stinker and Thinker, who gleefully promised more of the same if he didn't confess. He agreed, and they walloped him anyway. He was a shambling wreck by the time they finished. The latest blow came when he was charged with being an accomplice in the Speed Shift robberies, committing perjury against Tinker Hughes, and taking bribes as a cop—which was how he got the money to start up Second Shadow Enterprises. I keep reading the article:

  … Tecumseh Hughes had been serving a ten- to twenty-five-year sentence for theft of police evidence, obstruction of justice, and peddling illegal narcotics. He will work as a liaison for the new Chamber of Commerce president, Theodoric Montague. Mr. Montague has come out in strong support of Brownfield District candidate Bernard “Blinker” Hughes, who is running for City Council and is considered an overall favorite to win.

  When told that Tecumseh Hughes was a cousin of the candidate, and asked if there was any connection, Mr. Montague deferred, stressing that he hoped to capitalize upon the former police officer's training and knowledge of the penal system to develop strategies for keeping young people free and productive …

  Mason Booker's been a cunning, ruthless adversary, but he's finally paying for what he did to Tinker—and to me! Blinker did as I asked and ordered his inside contacts to make Mason's life miserable, but not kill him. Stinker and Thinker passed the word to their prison guard friends that there's lots of money for anyone who doesn't notice whenever Mason gets beat down.

  This should be a total victory for me, but it feels instead like a defeat. Mason might be spending his days caged like an animal, but I'm spending mine caged by the hatred that ruled my heart. He might be afraid to close his eyes at night and sleep, but I'm lying awake, wondering how Sierra and I went so wrong. He might be physically harassed 24/7, but I'm constantly harassed by guilt.

  And then there's Hilda. She sent me a polite but frigid e-mail, informing me that she'd turned my case over to a colleague whom she highly recommended. I didn't protest. That would've caused her more anxiety, and the last thing I want to do now is cause Hilda (or anyone else) pain. I even called Blinker, suggesting that he have his enforcers go easy on Mason. He laughed and hung up. So it's beyond me now. Blinker, Stinker, Thinker, and most of all Tinker have their own agendas for dealing with Mason. Hilda was right: I don't have the capacity to reap what I've sown.

  I finish my coffee, rinse out the cup, grab my keys and briefcase, and start for the garage until my eyes sweep over Burned-out Bobby's cardboard sign, hanging on a nearby living room wall. It's been encased in a sturdy but beautiful hardwood frame. The clerk at the picture shop gave me an odd look when I showed him what I wanted framed. Then he shrugged and took my money.

  I re-read the sign's message and wonder if it could be true for me. Faces flash before me: Harry, Gordon, Inez, Alice, and Hilda. There's also Salome Stevens, Desiree Easton, and June. What was I doing? What was I thinking?

  In my rampage to punish the one who'd hurt me, I inflicted needless pain on so many innocent others. I went off on a mad spin, churning up anything and everyone who crossed my path. Everyone became my enemy. Even when it didn't make sense for me to deliver harm, I did it anyway. I knew that the men whose wives I was sleeping with wouldn't appreciate it. That was the point in going after Inez and Alice. I told myself that I wasn't doing anything worse than what had been inflicted upon me through my wife.

  That excuse collapses when I consider Salome, Desiree, and June. Neither they nor their husbands hurt me. So I guess this means that I'm more despicable than Mason Booker. He at least loved Sierra and wanted to make a life with her. I was on a self-centered punitive flesh hunt, thirsting for emotional blood any way I could get it. And no matter how long I massage the reasons, invent excuses, or duck the glare of responsibility, it will never alter one riveting fact: I was wrong!

  I glance again at Burned-out Bobby's sign, consider taking it down, decide against it, then quickly leave.

  The day's finally over. The commercial is shot. And it's time to go. I call Hilda, leave her my usual message, then head out to the beach. I pull into a space near where we would meet for our workouts, and my cell phone rings. I check the display. It's June. This has got to stop.

  I will not start another chain reaction of disaster, especially one involving small children. June's kids possess the modern rare gift of having both parents living under the same roof. If she wants to gamble with her family's stability, she'
ll have to do it without me. It might already be too late. My intrusion into her life might've already caused irreparable damage. Whether it has or hasn't, no matter how much or little, I'm out!

  So I answer the phone. “Hello?”

  “Hey, baby,” June warmly greets. “Where have you been? I've missed hearing your voice.”

  “I've been busy.”

  “You've been too busy to call me?”

  “That's right, especially for that.”

  She gasps. “Denmark, are you all right? You sound really …”

  “June, your husband Zach's a good man, right?”

  She answers in a slightly embarrassed and remorseful voice. “Well, yes, he is. But what does that have to do with you and me?”

  “Everything and nothing.”

  “He doesn't suspect anything, so why …”

  “Be a good woman and love him back.”

  “What! How dare you …”

  I hang up, turn the cell phone off, and hurry out to the beach. I take off my shoes and socks, dig my bare toes deep into the warm sand, and look out across Lake Erie's gently rolling waters. The late afternoon–early evening sky is clothed in wispy gray and light purple. A seagull swoops low and whizzes along the water, skimming the waves so close it looks like it's walking the surface. Clouds drift by, keeping their counsel, and condemnation, to themselves.

  There have been so many lives ruined, and so much needless pain. “And it won't go away,” I whisper.

  An hour goes by, then two. A squirrel skitters down from a tree toward the water, thinks better of it, and skitters back up to safety.

  “You're very persistent, aren't you?”

  Relief, joy, and fear shoot through me all at once. I turn slowly around to Hilda. She's beautiful, dressed in a soft pink, backless sundress, her upper arms encircled by spiraling silver bracelets, and her hair blowing with soft majesty in the wind.

  I fight to keep the strength in my legs while summoning my voice. Mercifully, it obeys. “It's good seeing you, Hilda.”

  I want to tell her more. I want to tell her that she was right a thousand times over, and that I'm so very sorry. I want to tell her that I never meant to hurt her. I want to tell her that I need a friend.

  She walks toward the beach, slips off her sandals, and lets the incoming waves wash up on her feet. I follow a few steps behind, absorbing the sweetness of her presence but keeping my distance so she won't feel crowded.

  She walks up the beach just beyond the water's reach and looks toward the horizon. I walk up almost beside her. Minutes pass, and the sun bows in surrender as night slowly stretches its commanding hand across the sky.

  “Why have you been calling me?” she finally says.

  I look at her, still facing the horizon. “Hilda, I wanted you to know that, from the bottom of my heart, I'm sorry. It might sound hollow, but… I didn't mean to hurt anyone. And I'm sorry I disappointed you.” I lower my eyes, take a deep breath, and look back up at her. “Please believe me.”

  She looks at me, her expression soft and peaceful. “I will, if you forgive me.”

  “Huh? But … you haven't done anything …”

  “Yes, Denmark, I did. Felicity died this morning. Before she passed, she squeezed my hand and said, ‘I forgive you.’ Right then I realized something. Christ spared and forgave me by grace and mercy even though I was undeserving. So He challenged me to explain how I could deny you the same when it had been given to me so freely.”

  She turns back to the lake. “So yes, Denmark, I forgive you.”

  I close my eyes and take a deep cleansing breath. Hilda turns back to the lake. She sits down, pulls her knees up to her chest, and rests her chin on them. Her sandals dangle loosely from her hand. I sit down beside her, not close enough to touch, but closer than before.

  “Nothing turned out like I thought it would,” I say softly.

  She purses her lips and nods. “That's usually the case with revenge.”

  I exhale a sigh. “Everything's gone, Hilda. And there's nothing I can do to right the wrongs.”

  “I understand,” she says, still gazing at the lake. “We have to press on, Denmark. We can't deconstruct the painful past. The only thing left is to build a better future.”

  She smiles and takes a deep breath. “Are your eyes open?”

  “Yes, Hilda. They are.”

  “What do you see out there?”

  A wave rolls ashore. A gull soars on an updraft. The brisk but gentle wind caresses my face. I glance at Hilda and see a single small cross dangling from her bracelet. I look back out at the lake and say, “I think I see a second chance.”

  Other Men's Wives is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2005 by Freddie Lee Johnson III

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by One World Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  ONE WORLD is a registered trademark and the One World colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-53946-5

  www.oneworldbooks.net

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