Juanita tried desperately to purge her mind of the contents of that envelope, but she couldn’t stop herself from drilling Walter about his whereabouts at every opportunity. One night, after finding lipstick stains on one of his dress shirts, she tore into him. Walter exploded in a cursing frenzy that reduced her to a tearful shambles, then left the house and didn’t return.
Until last night.
After five nights away, he showed up with roses and spent hours filling her heart with hope and her ears with tearful apologies. Then he made love to her like he would never see her again. This morning as he got ready for work, he said, “Today marks a new beginning for us.”
* * * * *
“Let me guess,” Juanita said by way of greeting. “More bad news.”
“Not exactly,” Malcolm replied. “But it is time we speak about this, don’t you think?”
She ushered him through the foyer, which was decorated with pictures of her and Walter in various phases of their relationship. Juanita privately lamented, as always, at the lack of smiling children in the portraits. The last photo, before the hall opened into the living room, was of Juanita and her mother in front of their old house in neighboring Fisherville.
“House,” was a bit of an overstatement; it was really little more than a one-bedroom shack surrounded by shanties just like it. But her mother did the best she could after Juanita’s father left them for another woman. She cleaned the homes of affluent white people and scraped together just enough money so Juanita could go away to college.
Over the past few weeks, Juanita often caught herself marveling at her mother’s strength in the wake of her father’s betrayal. She’d never seen her cry or heard her badmouth her father. It wasn’t until her mother lay on her deathbed that she admitted the shame she felt over her inability to hold onto a man. At the time, Juanita’s mind showed her the image of an enormous python with her father’s head; her mother was desperately trying to hang onto the treacherous creature as it writhed in her tiny hands.
In recurring nightmares, Walter’s face now supplanted her father’s. Juanita was her mother’s doomed understudy.
Malcolm sat on the leather sofa looking uncomfortable. Juanita saw him wince when she opted to sit across from him in one of the old-fashioned rocking chairs, instead of joining him on the couch. Prickly silence settled between them.
“Burning that envelope hasn’t changed the facts, you know,” Malcolm said finally, undoing the quiet. “Walter is risking everything. And for what? For some blond bimbo? Doesn’t he realize what he stands to lose? Doesn’t he see how Lafitte is playing him?”
“You know what I think?” Juanita asked, deciding not to indulge Malcolm’s negativity any longer. “I think you’re jealous. First you come out of nowhere during the campaign and offer help—which no one asked for, by the way—and now that he’s in office, you’re trying to ruin him. Is this how you treat your best friend?”
Malcolm’s eye darted between hers in confusion. “Walter and I stopped being friends the moment I opened that envelope.” He folded his arms across his chest. “Tell me, how many lies and excuses does a woman allow her philandering husband to feed her before she does something about it?”
“Fuck you, Malcolm!”
He recoiled, his jaws clenched. Finally, he replied, “You need to be directing that anger where it belongs.”
Juanita’s shoulders slumped, defeated. She was exhausted. “You’re right, Malcolm,” she said. “I’m just so confused. You have no idea how hard this has been for me. Walter came back last night. He told me it’s over with her.”
“And you believed him, right?”
It wasn’t a question. She could tell from the incredulous look on Malcolm’s face that he thought her a fool. Just some idiot woman too blind to see the truth in front of her. Juanita had suffered so much since discovering Walter’s affair—the accusations, the denials, the fights, the hating and loving him at the same time.
Things between them had begun so differently.
* * * * *
Juanita and Walter met as undergraduate students at Dillard University. It was Malcolm who introduced her to Walter, his “best friend and future savior of the Afro-American race.” Juanita was immediately drawn to Walter’s strength, optimism, and chivalry. She was inspired by his bold vision to run for public office in a time when most black folks had been scared into silence by the Klu Klux Klan. His singing voice, a sonorous perfect tenor, had captivated her heart. They’d fallen in love during the March on Washington, standing side by side on the crowded steps of the Lincoln Memorial, accompanying Joan Baez as she sang “We Shall Overcome.”
The two idealistic lovers married a year after Dr. King’s “I Have a Dream” speech.
* * * * *
“What do you expect me to do, Malcolm? I still love him.”
“And I still love you,” Malcolm confessed. “I always have. Let me take you away from this place. I can remove all of your pain.”
Juanita gazed upon Malcolm, sensing his sincerity. It was true that once upon a time, she considered Malcolm to be her ideal mate. But he’d returned from his tour in Vietnam a stranger, speaking of Voodoo and violence. Her Malcolm was gone, replaced by an adopted persona named Panama X.
Understanding dawned on her. “So that’s what this is all about,” she said, getting up. “You think I’m just going to leave this life I’ve scratched and clawed to build?” She paced before him like a lioness behind the zookeeper’s fence. “You may have the rest of these black folks fooled Malcolm, but not me. You forget that I know you. Save your medicine man routine for someone who cares. The protection of Jesus Christ presides over this household.”
Malcolm smiled, but his eyes were devoid of humor. “Where was Jesus when Walter was fucking that bitch seven ways from Sunday?”
Juanita slapped him so hard her hand buzzed and blushed red for nearly a minute.
Malcolm’s good eye darkened.
The telephone rang and Juanita jumped, startled.
“He-hello Miss Simmons.” It was Carla Bean, Walter’s secretary and lover. Juanita had thought she was impervious to surprises, but hearing that white whore’s voice set her back.
“That’s Mrs. Simmons,” she replied. “What do you want?”
And what the hell are you still doing working there?
“Well, I hate to bother you, but Wally—I mean Walter—asked me to call and tell you he’ll be working late again tonight.”
Juanita swore she heard Walter chuckle in the background.
“Um, he said not to wait up. It’s going to be a long night.”
Juanita dropped the phone.
He’s lost his goddamn mind. I’m gonna help him find it.
Walter and Carla’s imaginary laughter echoed through the halls of Juanita’s mind, consuming rational thought. She ran into the kitchen, opened the top drawer, and removed Walter’s silver-plated revolver from its shelter of old dishrags.
Malcolm was hot on her heels. “I don’t know what just happened, Juanita, but this is my burden. Not yours.” He closed the distance between them and tried to extract the gun wedged between her palms.
“He’s my husband,” Juanita said, projecting her rage toward Malcolm as he twisted her left and right, trying to loosen her grip. In the struggle, Juanita’s index finger found the trigger and she inadvertently squeezed.
The blast reverberated through her frame like a shockwave.
She stared in horror at the bullet hole in the tile floor between them, inches from Malcolm’s feet. Juanita dropped the gun and the weapon clattered to the floor, coming to rest beneath the counter. From this vantage point, it was easy to pretend the revolver was just a harmless toy. Like, how before Carla Bean’s phone call, it had been easy to pretend Walter was a good husband.
Oh God. What am I doing?
“I’m so sorry!” Juanita wailed.
Malcolm wrapped her up in his arms. His shirt was damp with musky perspiration. She heard the f
ear in his thudding heartbeat, but when he whispered to her, his voice was as calm as ever.
“I have seen your sacrifices firsthand, Juanita. You gave up everything for Walter. School, your career, even those five children you said you wanted. And what has he given you besides this big, empty house?”
Juanita collapsed against the cupboard, the layers of delusion starting to crack. “How could he do this to me?” she cried. “Oh God, I can’t live like this anymore! I have to confront him, Malcolm.”
“I know you do,” Malcolm replied. “But you’re not going alone.” He stooped down and picked up the gun.
She looked at him with raised eyebrows.
“Just in case,” he said.
* * * * *
They arrived downtown at the Lake City Fathers Building as the light began to wane. Parked in the nearly empty lot, Juanita commanded Malcolm to wait for her. Slamming the door in the middle of his protest, she raced up the five flights of stairs to Walter’s office.
The small waiting area was vacant, the secretary nowhere in sight. The oppressive silence was unnerving. Juanita opened Walter’s office door and surveyed the large space. Behind the desk, Walter’s large leather chair faced the window overlooking Lake Francis and the Riverwalk.
A familiar scent tickled her nose. That bastard was wearing the cologne she’d bought him for their fifth wedding anniversary. She cringed at the visual of that homewrecking secretary smelling Walter’s neck and then seducing him with her eyes.
He’s probably daydreaming about which way to fuck her tonight.
A moan emanated from behind her. Against her better judgment, Juanita walked over to the closet.
They’re in there!
Gripped by a sudden masochistic need to catch him in the act, she jerked the door open.
Walter was kneeling before the door, head bowed. He raised his face toward the light, recognition and fear filling his eyes. Duct tape covered his mouth. His hands were bound behind his back.
“Oh my God!” she screamed. “Walter! Who did this to you?”
He grunted something in reply.
As she struggled with the tape over his mouth, she heard a noise behind her. She whipped her head around just as a hard, jagged object smashed into her skull.
* * * * *
She awoke sometime later.
Her entire being was sore and bruised from rough treatment. She vaguely remembered her head being slammed repeatedly into the floor. She’d been hit with something else, too. The left side of her cranium was a sweaty, matted mess of hair, blood, and carpeting. Each breath was a scarlet torture.
Dark, tentacle-like tendrils of smoke smothered her sight.
Her arms were asleep. Above her head, her left wrist was handcuffed to one of the legs of Walter’s desk. A wet, sticky substance trickled down her thigh as she tried desperately to remember.
Am I bleeding down there?
Juanita licked her swollen lips, tasting sweat and tears. Something crashed on the other side of the room. She managed to maneuver into a seated position. The desk obstructed her view.
Her throat threatened to close up on her. She lowered her head and covered her face from chin to nose with what was left of her blouse. Another crashing noise startled her back into action.
Gray-black smoke flooded the office. Juanita jerked violently at her restraint as blinding, stinging beads of sweat streamed into her eyes. She cried out in frustration. The handcuff bit into her skin like a stainless-steel vampire.
Using the blood as lubrication, she tried to free herself by yanking, jerking, and wriggling. Nearly delirious from the effort, Juanita tugged so hard she thought her veins would pop out of her arms. As the smoke tightened its death grip around her throat, she fought to remain conscious. Abruptly, the imprisoned hand pulled free. Juanita descended into a series of violent coughs as the office began to burn down all around her. Wincing in pain, she crawled through the oppressive cloud of smoke toward the door.
After four gasping crawls, she looked up to gauge how far she was from the exit. It seemed miles away. Then a voice spoke from a few feet in front of her. With the last of her strength dissipating, Juanita looked up.
A tall figure, wearing a gas mask, stared down at her.
“Help me,” Juanita gasped. Her throat was a smoke-filled corridor.
The figure offered a muffled laugh. “Let’s see how bad he wants you now.”
* * * * *
Chapter Ten
Nine months later
1974
Houston, TX
Juanita lay on a lumpy mattress, legs spread wide. Harsh afternoon sunlight stabbed her through a small, barred window. Instead of giving birth in a hospital, Juanita was in the bedroom of a too small Frenchtown apartment, tucked inside the Fifth Ward ghetto. The one-bedroom safe house she refused to call home was now a prison.
Malcolm patted her sweat-soaked face with a once-cool rag gone warm.
Juanita took her eyes away from Malcolm’s dark face. Staring at the scar tissue where his left eye used to be brought unhealthy visions of birthing a baby Cyclops. She knew she needed to focus on bringing this baby into the world, but her mind was stuck in a putrid whirlpool of negativity.
It wasn’t supposed to happen this way.
“Almost time, baby,” Malcolm said, grasping Juanita’s hand in his large sandpaper paw.
“God, it’s so hot!” she gasped.
“Everything is gonna be fine,” Malcolm said, looking over at Velma Baker, the midwife. Velma was a short and stout woman, fair-skinned like Juanita, known as much for her sense of propriety as her competence. “Right, Velma?”
Velma responded by spreading Juanita’s legs even wider. “This is it, Juanita,” she said. “I need you to bear down now. Give us one last big push.”
Heart-rate galloping, Juanita tightened her swollen abdomen until her vision burned and blurred from the sweat and strain. A scream escaped her lips. Despite her exertion, Juanita tried to visualize Walter’s hands gently dabbing the rag against her feverish skin. When she opened her eyes and saw Malcolm hovering over her like a living, breathing nightmare, she remembered Walter was gone forever.
“I can see the head! Keep pushing, baby! Keep pushing!” Malcolm shouted.
He sounded far away, as if he were in the apartment downstairs. Juanita couldn’t feel the mattress beneath her anymore. An all-encompassing bitterness about the life that had been stolen from her left no room for other sensations. She was coldly certain that whatever was inside her, struggling to get out, would not, could not, be human.
Babies were supposed to be born out of love, yet loathing enveloped her. Juanita squeezed her eyes shut and pushed like her very life depended on it. She needed to get rid of this hatred within her.
* * * * *
After collapsing on the floor of Walter’s burning office, Juanita had resigned herself to perishing in the inferno. The next time she opened her bleary eyes, she found herself in the backseat of Malcolm’s car, alive. Once she was coherent, Malcolm explained how he burst into the office, found her lying on the floor, nearly lifeless, and dragged her to safety. She asked him repeatedly about Walter, but his only reply was, “I didn’t see him.”
The newspaper helped Juanita fill in the blanks.
After the Lake City Fire Department put out the raging fire, they found Walter’s barbecued body in the closet; a pair of bloody handcuffs connected to the desk; a twenty-two caliber pistol with rounds fired; and the body of Carla Bean—the secretary.
The headline declared, “Foul Play Expected Cause of Death for Mayor Walter Simmons and Secretary: Missing Wife is Lead Suspect.” The police searched for weeks but were unsuccessful in identifying Juanita’s whereabouts.
Meanwhile, Juanita and Malcolm took up residence in the ghetto safe house in Frenchtown. She tried to goad herself into leaving him and starting over on her own, but then the morning sickness started. That last night she and Walter spent together rendered more than a broken
heart. It produced an embryo Juanita thought of as a curse from her dead husband.
As she entered her third trimester, she learned Walter’s five million dollar life insurance policy and the bulk of his estate would be deferred to Lake City. To add insult to tremendous injury, Randy Lafitte, newly appointed mayor, vowed to the people of Lake City that Walter Simmons’ legacy would “live on” through his deeds. He pledged to build a community center on the Simmons Estate, named in honor of the first black mayor of Lake City.
Watching Lafitte’s pronouncements, Juanita became convinced that he was the man in the mask inside Walter’s office. Lafitte had tried to blackmail Walter, and when that didn’t work, he used his knowledge of the affair to set him up. He must have forced the secretary to call Juanita, knowing she would show up.
Juanita’s survival was a happy accident. Had she perished in the fire alongside Walter and the secretary, there would have been many more questions to answer. With her gone, everything pointed solely in the direction of the jealous wife. Randy alone reaped the benefits. He got the money, the mayoral office, and a public mandate to make the changes he saw fit for Lake City.
Whenever Juanita closed her eyes she saw Walter’s bloodied face staring up at her, pleading for her to save him. When Malcolm pledged that Lafitte would be justly punished for his crimes, she promised never to leave him.
* * * * *
“Something went wrong during labor,” Malcolm said. “The baby is sick. Velma has to take him to the hospital.”
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