My Husband's Girlfriend

by Cydney Rax

  I start digging in. “Here, you have some, too.” I pat the spot next to me. Sharvette slides in the queen-size bed with me. She’s shoeless, sporting red short shorts and a white halter top with a red bra and one strap showing. It looks so silly but that’s just Vette. She picks up a turkey sausage and holds it in front of her open mouth like she’s about to suck something. She smirks at me, then chomps the meat like she’s starving. Oil glistens her lips, making it appear like she’s wearing clear lip gloss.

  We eat in silence for a minute.

  “You actually gonna finish decorating that nursery, Anya?”

  I wince but nod.

  “I don’t know about you, girl.”

  “Look, Vette, I’m not a young single woman, you are. You don’t understand.”

  “Then explain things to me. Help me understand, Anya. Because I’m starting to think you’re somebody’s fool.”

  “It doesn’t surprise me that you think that I’m a fool, but that’s fine because you are not walking in my shoes.” I have eaten two pancakes and I sip some orange juice, not that I’m terribly thirsty, but the pancakes are so thick my throat feels crammed, like I’m choking. I slide the plate to Vette’s side of the bed. I get comfy by lying against several pillows.

  “Sure, things are tough,” I say, “but I’m not going to up and leave Neil. I’m as responsible for this situation as he is, so…”

  “Bull, Anya. Creating a nursery for your husband’s other baby is out there.”

  “Look, Vette, it’s Reesy’s old room. It’s small, not being used for anything except storage. It’ll take no time to do a little paint job, apply some decorative wall border, and pull out Reesy’s crib. I doubt that Neil will bring his son over here that much, anyway. It’s just in case.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Vette is starting to get on my nerves. She acts like she’s the wife instead of just the sister-in-law. She’s never been married before. How can she possibly understand?

  A few weeks ago Sharvette voluntarily informed me that I am a fucking wimp. Those were her exact words. And I just looked at her and laughed and she made this disgusting noise, then exclaimed, “See my point?”

  “Nope,” I told her.

  “Any other person would’ve cussed me out in both Chinese and Ebonics, but you just let me call you names. Why would you do that? Do you agree with them? Let me know.”

  Her words stung like a sharp needle puncturing my skin, so I didn’t say anything. Vette started rolling her eyes and talking to herself. She could roll those eyes until the whites disappeared. I didn’t care about her being mad. I get tired of people mistaking my silence for weakness, thinking I’m a stupid, defenseless wife who never fights. I’ve learned to pick my battles, and I guess Vette couldn’t understand that, just like she couldn’t understand my wanting to create a nursery for Neil’s son.

  “If we have a room here,” I explain to her, “then Neil won’t have an excuse to go over there with her, right?”

  “There you go again. Why can’t you just say her name? Danielle. Her name sounds a little like Neil. How cute,” Sharvette says sarcastically.

  I jump up out the bed and balance a tray in my hand that holds my glass, a fork, and an empty plate.

  “Oh, so you wanna go wash dishes now, huh? You’re a real trip.” Sharvette hands me her juice glass and I stare into its emptiness.

  “No, I take that back, Anya. You are a journey.”

  2

  * * *

  Neil

  When my son was first born, I stared at him like he was a newly discovered treasure. And he was. I love my daughter, Reese, but fathering a son makes me feel like I’ve done something right for a change. Now, I’m not so stupid that I think having a son redeems me from my sins, but his birth was the most positive thing that’s happened in a long time.

  So many stressful events have gone down, sometimes I feel like I’m living someone else’s life and I’ve been looking through their window. If anyone would have told me I’d be skanking it up with a young project secretary and we’d eventually have a baby together, no way I’d believe it.

  But sometimes instead of watching the movie, your life becomes the movie. And here I am, thirty-six years old, graduated from high school at age sixteen, supposedly intelligent (MBA from UT-Austin), gainfully employed (fourteen years’ experience at Texas Medical Center, pulling in six figures a year), a member of a well-known church called Solomon’s Temple, and I have so much anguish, I fear being around firearms, butcher knives, or large skillets. Things that are already dangerous look more menacing. So everything around me becomes suspect even if I don’t want it to be.

  Overall, Anya seems to be holding up well. She hasn’t said a lot lately. When she’s not rearing our daughter, she stays busy vacuuming, dusting, Windexing, cooking, washing and folding clothes, and even doing gardening (and she hates getting her hands dirty). But I know my wife. She only cleans when she’s livid. She takes to a broom when she’s upset. All nervous energy. It’s either clean or scream, and I’d rather come home to a spotless house than a woman who has her mouth wide open and is shouting profanities as loud as she can. Don’t get me wrong. Our getting into it doesn’t happen every day, but it’s happened enough for me to detect that thick level of tension inside our home.

  At first I wanted to run from my problems, just up and leave Anya, quit my job and start all over, maybe in Atlanta or someplace where there’s so many people that I’d feel invisible. But I’ve decided to stick around. I want to “be a man.” Not turn into a loser who takes to a bottle seven days a week, crying in my beer, and living inside my pain.

  Call me idealistic, but I also want to be a good father to my precious new son and try to balance things with Danielle in a civilized manner. What helps me cope is the fact that Dani is so chilly, so cool. She’s sweet, smart, and most important, she’ll kiss but won’t tell.

  When she got pregnant and started wearing maternity clothes at work, I told her I could act happy for her, but she shouldn’t expect more than that. I could play the concerned-coworker role around the office, but no, I didn’t want my supervisor or colleagues to know I was the daddy. That would be suicide without the gun. And I was relieved when Danielle said, “Sure, no prob.” She never hemmed me up for money, didn’t ask for a commitment; she never begged for much of anything. Being there when our son was born was the least I could do. Plus, I am proud of him. He’s a healthy, attractive little tyke, my mini me. I can’t abandon him.

  Now, as far as still having sex with Danielle, who knows what’s gonna happen? Could recent events inspire my wife’s sex drive so that she’s willing to do what I want when I want? After everything that’s gone down, I can’t picture Anya rushing to dive under the covers with me now. We’ll just have to wait and see how things turn out on that end. Lord knows I have too much to deal with to be worried about every single detail of mi vida loca.

  Two nights after my son is born, my wife and I have the house to ourselves. Vette asks if she can go hang out at a mall. I toss her the keys to my SUV and tell her to have a good time.

  “I always do,” she says, then actually thanks me for the keys, which is a shocker.

  After Vette leaves, I call Anya into our library. It’s the most peaceful room in the house. Hundreds of books line the shelves from floor to ceiling. There is no TV, or phone jack. Just quietness, escapism.

  “Have a seat,” I tell Anya.

  Her eyes are red and eyelids swollen, but I pretend not to see.

  “You look whipped,” she tells me.

  “Yeah, it’s been a tough few days.”

  “I can imagine.”

  I flinch. I know Anya isn’t being sarcastic, but sarcasm is what I hear. She could smile and say “Have a nice day” and to me it would sound like “Go fuck yourself and die.”

  “I think it’s time for us to deal with a few things here,” I tell her.

  “Mmmm.”

  “And, uh, thanks for setting up the nursery.
That’s very sweet of you, Anya. I hadn’t thought of that.”

  Anya grunts. I start whistling and shuffling papers. Doing this is as uncomfortable as going through my performance evaluation at work.

  “Look, Anya, I think things may get better for us. We’re going to give it our all, right? We’ve gotten through the pregnancy, the birth, so maybe we can also get through rearing two kids.”

  Anya’s baggy eyes widen.

  “I–I don’t mean that you’re gonna be like a stepmom, I mean—I don’t even know what to call this. But I do want to be in the kid’s life. Let’s face it. Having sex and getting Dani pregnant is already a done deal.”

  Her eyes widen even more.

  “I know the situation feels awkward to all involved,” I explain calmly, “but I refuse to let my kid grow up not knowing who his daddy is. If that happens, it’s not going to be because I want it to.”

  “I know you want to be in his life, I appreciate your honesty,” Anya says. Her voice sounds gentle. I thankfully exhale. Anya’s a rare woman.

  “I realize it’s been hard on you, babe,” I remark. “You’ve gone through a lot, much more than any woman should ever have to—”

  “Every day I blame myself,” she says, her voice rising. “But you’re at fault, too. If you would’ve stuck to just eating her pussy instead of—”

  “Anya, please.” I stand up and take one step toward her. “I’m sorry, so sorry, Anya, okay? I don’t know what else to tell you except I messed up. Don’t forget how long it had been since I’d been inside of you.”

  “You’re right, Neil. Now I know it’s unrealistic to think a man can stick to just kissing a woman, letting her give you a blow job every once in a while, and leave it at that. You blew it, Neil. And it’s hard to get past that.”

  “Well, Anya, as hard as it is, for our sake you might have to. I’ll admit I’ve made mistakes, but do I really have to hear about them every single day like this? I’m scared I might do something I regret.”

  “As if there could be anything else?” Anya laughs sarcastically. I guess she thinks that’s a zinger that will put me in my place. I don’t feel like fighting her, so I pick up the day’s newspaper and read the headline out loud.

  “‘Father Brings Kids into the Basement, Shoots Them, and Commits Suicide.’ Hmm, wonder what brought that on…”

  “Neil, don’t even try it. Things between us will never be that bad. I don’t have a gun, and I hope you don’t, either. Black folks don’t do things like that, anyway.”

  “It’s not a white thing, Anya. Pain doesn’t have a color.”

  She doesn’t say anything.

  “The man was in deep pain,” I explain.

  “Look, if you are in pain, I don’t see how. You got a fabulous, adoring sex partner and a brand-new kid from the deal, but what have I gotten?”

  Now Anya is off the couch and in my face. I sit back down. She points a finger, something she knows I can’t stand. If she weren’t so petite, her weight would look sexy. But because she’s barely five-foot-three, her weight gain makes her look pudgy.

  I stare at her, having nothing to say. Now she’s waving her hands in wide circles. Her head is moving back and forth. When a woman succumbs to irate mode, it’s pretty much over.

  I let my wife scream obscenities she swore I wouldn’t hear again. I am tempted to get a broom, shove it in her hand, and push her toward the kitchen so she can use her energy to clean up instead of mouthing off, but my actions might make her angrier. So I pretend that I’m listening, making like I care about her ramblings.

  She goes on and on until her voice becomes a moan, until the weight of her world causes her to collapse on the sofa, until her face is a swollen river, and my heart is a deep hole that overflows with our despair.

  That night after Anya blows up at me, I sleep in the library on the sofa. This is nothing new. It’s been more than two years since sofa and I have become well acquainted. Sofa is always there; it doesn’t avoid me when it’s mad. Sofa stays silent when I need to talk about things out loud.

  Sure, I can run over to Dani’s when Anya breaks into her hissy fits. But many nights I resist. Running is easy. Staying is hard. If I force myself to do things I don’t want to do, then I’m developing character. And the older I become, the harder it gets to develop. That’s why so many forty-, fifty-, and sixty-year-old men still act like twenty-year-olds. As long as they’ve been on this earth, they still lack the patience required to be a person of integrity.

  Every day I’ve tried to be a perfect man. And after trying hard and failing, I now realize I’m not without error. Who is? But as bad as things seem between me and Anya, I know I do many things right. Going to work every day, paying bills on time, mowing the lawn, and keeping my fists from making contact with Anya counts for something. At least I pray it does.

  I wake up to the feeling of water being sprinkled on my cheeks.

  “Get up, sleepy head.”

  I shift on the sofa and turn toward Sharvette’s annoying voice. For someone who hates me, she is always in my face.

  “Vette, stop playing, okay?” I yawn. Using my hands, I rub lukewarm water off my cheek. “What time is it?”

  “Six-forty-five. You’re gonna be late.”

  “Oh, okay.” I sit up. Maybe there’s hope for Vette and me. Waking me up shows she can watch my back. I actually did oversleep, and I want to return to work because I already took two vacation days this week.

  Now more than ever my job becomes important. I don’t want anything to happen—not even being late—to threaten that.

  I make it to work on time, relieved to return to an environment in which I have some measure of control. I am a business manager in the facilities department at one of the colleges in the Med Center. My job is to oversee construction, project management, and budget-related matters for capital projects.

  All incoming calls are routed through our receptionist, Kyra. She checks in with me a few hours after I get to work.

  “Hi, Neil. Welcome back. Please hold while I forward this call.”

  “Thanks, Kyra.”

  “Neil Meadows here,” I answer. I don’t hear anything at first. It sounds like someone is handing another person the phone.

  “Hey.” Her voice is gentle yet firm, strong yet weak.

  “Hey, you.” I take a moment to close and lock my office door.

  “Sorry about the slight pause,” Dani says. “I had someone else ask for you.”

  “Oh…I understand.” I clear my throat. “How’re you doing?”

  “Fine. Could be better, though.”

  I hear cooing in the background. My heart is torn. I can sniff and imagine how my baby smells like fresh powder. I envision his tiny hands, remembering how humbling it felt when he seized my finger his second day on earth.

  “You got anyone helping you? Your mama—”

  “Yep, she’s still here. I wish she’d fly back to Long Beach, though. She’s about to drive me crazy. Mama’s either talking too loud or asking me questions while I’m trying to sleep. And she holds the baby too much.”

  I grin and visualize the scene I haven’t been able to witness. “Dani, it’s her first grandson. Let her play grandmama, okay?”

  “I know but…I wish you were here. With us. Right now.” Her voice, thick with desire, makes me feel I am there.

  I swallow deeply and rub my forehead, which is coated with sweat. You know some hair-raising thing is happening when a person’s sweet voice alone arouses you. Although it feels good, like healing warmth passing through me, I hate that this woman can stir me this way. I wish I could control what should not control me.

  “How ’bout this weekend?” I ask softly. “Can you wait till then?”

  Dani remains quiet. But her unspoken thoughts engulf the silence. I think about how rapidly kids develop. Even six-year-old Reese is growing and gaining in knowledge. She’s learning about Argentina, and how to mix yellow and green watercolors to create blue. Reese can e
ven pluck out a few recognizable tunes on our piano, the same piano I used to practice “Chopsticks” on when I was a boy.

  Seeing the kids grow up is important, especially since my dad passed when I was four. If it weren’t for the photos my mom has squirreled away in a cabinet, I’d barely remember his face. It seems odd to ache for something you never had. But I missed having my father. His absence makes me more determined to do right by my offspring, especially since my mother’s been acting flaky, first by treating my sister like she’s a burden and then by asking her to leave. And once my mom heard what Dani and I did, she wearily threw up her hands, distancing herself from more stressful family drama.

  The combination of no father and Mom’s recent antics makes me resolved to stay on top of my newborn’s progress. I love him already, so why wouldn’t I spend time with him, rock him in my arms, and let him know I’m his daddy?

  “Neil,” Dani says, “if I have no other alternative than to wait, then that’s what I’ll do. But I also called to say thanks. You didn’t have to show up at the hospital. I was shocked when you did. When you told a couple of coworkers you were there out of support, I almost cracked up laughing. I wonder if they believe you.”

  “I don’t care what they believe.”

  “Oh, but you do in a way, Neil, you do, right? Right?” She pauses. “I guess you’re still not ready to—”

  “Dani, please.” As keyed up as her sweet voice makes me feel, I’m ready to get off the phone.

  She sucks in her breath. “I know, so sorry. Guess my postpartum worries are kicking in.”

  “Postpartum or not, you promised not to go there, that we’d make this work, be mature with no drama, remember?”

  She sniffs. I hear more cooing, cooing that sounds like it’s coming from an adorable kitten.

  “Yeah, Neil. And I am mature. You’ll see. I’m going to be different than these other silly hos out here. I can handle my business. I’m gonna handle it,” she promises, sounding like she’s trying to convince herself as much as she’s attempting to convince me.