“Indeed.”
Wendy darted her eyes. “Go. Dance.”
“No more drinks,” I said to Wendy, “the price is way too high.”
The crowd seemed impossible. Too many people on one dance floor. I stood at the edge, afraid to move near the frantic bodies. “I gotta go to the bathroom,” I yelled near the free-drink guy’s ear.
“What?”
I pointed in the direction of the ladies’ room. He gave me a disappointed nod. I steadied my walk so as not to look like an easy target. Still I’d warded off the obvious interest by looking no one in the eye. “Where you goin’, pretty lady?” I let out an exhausted sigh. A couple more hours, I was thinking, that’s all I’d need to endure. I entered the bathroom, and my entire life changed. The woman in red made it clear Jake had divulged secrets. He’d shared his pain. He’d made it clear. He was unhappy. Unfulfilled. I’d wondered if pretty red toes knew about the biggest secret of all, Byron Steeple. It was only a matter of time before the charade would end.
Woman in Red
So who do you think it is?” Wendy asked while I drove erratically in the darkness.
“I think … maybe, I’m not sure, but…” I wished I could tell Wendy everything. Some secrets should remain only between husband and wife. I’d seen the mistake made so many times, just friendly release, unburdening oneself of information hoping to feel better. Never worked out that way. The release into the universe gave it more power, where suddenly you were required to take action, to think and move and make decisions that would change your life forever.
“Spit it out. You know, in your heart you always know,” Wendy said, more devastated that I hadn’t told her about the hospital position with Clint and the whole scene with Jake showing up to find us at the hotel together. She couldn’t care less about overhearing the woman in red stilettos. It seemed a minor symptom to a much bigger problem. I had to admit she was right.
“I think it’s Beverly Shaun. You met her a while back. She’s a designer for Jake’s company. She went with us to lunch that day you came out.”
“Beverly, yeah, the sista with all the hair.”
I nodded.
“She was cool. I thought she was cool. She wouldn’t do that, would she?”
I gave Wendy a sideways glance. “Didn’t you just say you know when you know?”
“So, doesn’t make it gospel. I didn’t know Sidney was banging the babysitter.” Wendy sucked her teeth. “Yes, I did,” she confessed.
“She and Jake have been friends for a long time, but they were also lovers.”
“Lovers, as in a long-term relationship, or it happened once and there was no chemistry kind of lover?”
I shook my head and gave her a look I couldn’t put into words. “There’s no one else it can be.”
“I must say you are mighty calm to be a sista who just found out her man was screwing on the side.”
Yes, I was calm. I was picturing myself high above in a cloud drifting off to a place called yesterday. I didn’t want to deal with what was happening, what I knew was going to happen.
Jake was asleep when Wendy and I arrived. I let him sleep. I listened to him breathe and fall into a light snore. The next morning, I woke to an empty bed. I listened for sounds of running water in the bathroom, a tap of the shaver against the sink or maybe the stir of an electric toothbrush. I got up and put my ear to the door. Gone. What had he done, set his alarm?
The red stiletto voice in the bathroom replayed in my mind in echoes and double-toned words. I’d drunk too much. One free drink less and the room may have stopped spinning long enough for me to make a clear identification.
In his home office I sat in his big leather chair where my feet barely touched the ground and spun myself around slowly until I was too dizzy to focus. But still after a few moments the chant came back, It could only be Beverly.
I dialed Jake’s cell phone. “Hi, you left early this morning,” I said, holding the phone tight against my face. “Ah-huh, well, I was going to take Wendy out for a nice brunch. I was hoping you could come. I mean, she’s only here for the weekend. Okay, yeah, I’ll make reservations for a nice dinner. What about the Moustache Café? Is anyone else meeting you at the studio … just you?”
I spun myself just enough so that I couldn’t quite hear him, another bout of dizziness. “What time do you think you’ll be back? Okay. Um, I’ll see you later, then. Love you, babe.” He hung up first. I held the phone a few seconds longer. It wasn’t like the old days when you could hold the line and listen while the person on the other end thought the line was clear and started dialing—then you could bust in and say, Ah-ah, caught ya.
“There you are.” Wendy stood at the office doorway. Her long slender legs extended way past her T-shirt.
“Umm, do you need a robe?”
“Oh, yeah, forgot, there’s male species here.”
“No. He’s gone. Had to get to the studio early this morning.” I rolled my eyes with disbelief.
“Oh, now, there you go,” Wendy said. “Let me tell you something, if you seek—”
“You shall find,” I interrupted with a flip of my hand.
“Trust me, it’s the oldest law on the books, and it’s true.”
“I didn’t seek that woman in the bathroom, okay … she found me. I’ve seen everything … in this case heard everything I need to hear. I’ve accepted it. It’s probably what I deserve.”
Wendy stuck her lips out for a patronizing pout. “Don’t cave in so early, mocha love. I put up with lies and alibis for almost twenty years. You’re only in year two. Have some endurance for goddess’ sake.”
“I’m not doing the Whitney and Bobby thing. If Jake is messing around, we’re through.”
“I’ve heard absolutely everything. You will never cease to amaze me. There should be a display of you at the circus. Meet the amazing Venus Johnston. See her deny the fact that she was the one messing around in the first place, then want to burn the man at the stake for giving it back to her in double dose.”
“This has nothing to do with me. I was never messing around. I explained that to you. Clint and I went to D.C. together on business. That’s it. Besides, you have no idea what I’ve accepted, what I’ve put up with. He has no right or reason to want to give me anything back in a double dose except unconditional love and respect, like I’ve given him.”
“Oh baby girl. Look at you.” Wendy came by my side and put a warm hand on my shoulder. “Why don’t you just ask? Get it over with. I’ll take care of Mya. This isn’t how I planned to spend my newfound freedom weekend, but for you, I’ll sacrifice.”
I took the offer. Within an hour I was on my way downtown to the JP Wear studio, hoping I would find the answer to every question and quiet every fear.
Pinning Ain’t Easy
Jake switched the engine off and sat in the car wondering what he was doing in front of the JP Wear studio. He wished he could stop caring. It wasn’t his company anymore, at least not like before. But there he was putting in work and dedication.
He locked himself inside the studio. The huge loftlike building covered a full square block. The building was part of the JP Wear assets, he was proud of that. Not like most companies, leasing everything from the sewing machines and chairs to the air they breathed and the water they drank.
“What’re you doing here?”
He jumped when he heard the voice. Beverly stood at the top of the stairs. Her face was free of makeup. Her hair pulled back into a ponytail. Her weekend look wasn’t lost on Jake, fitting in with his own overwashed denims and T-shirt.
“The question is, what’re you doing coming in on a Saturday?”
“I work many weekends without gratitude or a simple thank-you. Didn’t you know?”
“Yeah, I think I knew. Thank you,” he added as an afterthought.
“So what’s your excuse?” Beverly leaned on the steel banister, letting her elbows rest gently. “I thought you bowed out except in name only.”
“This is me. Everything this company is, I built.”
“And what a fine job you did, Mr. Parson. I appreciate the fact that you’re still in the pursuit of excellence. Speaking of which, I’m up here busting my ass on these macho-man pants the new dragon-slayer wants to see by Monday morning and poor you has nothing to do. As a matter of fact, I know exactly what you can do.” She directed him with a sly finger curl. “Get up here.”
Jake took the stairs two at a time, glad to oblige.
“Take off your clothes,” she ordered once he followed her inside the sample room.
“Shaun, I thought we already went through this.”
She grabbed a pair of the sample pants off the table and threw them at him. “Put those on. If I was talking about the other way to get your pants off, I’d need a jackhammer.”
“Turn around.”
“Are you kidding? I’ve seen everything you’ve got.”
“Not lately,” he said.
She turned her back to him while he slipped off his jeans and changed. “Done?” she asked, facing the wall.
“Okay. Yeah, these are cool.”
She snapped a tomato-shaped pincushion on her wrist. She kneeled down and grabbed a handful of fabric and turned him around by the seat of his pants.
“Ay, watch those pins.”
Beverly blew out a sigh and flipped her ponytail over her shoulder. “You’re talking to a professional. Just stay still.”
“Now, see, that’s too tight.”
“That’s not too tight.” She released a bit.
“A man doesn’t need fabric wrapped up his ass. You wonder why men got their pants sagging. It’s because the crotch is too close.”
“I assure you, my research indicates you are truly in a class all by yourself.” She grabbed a handful of his manhood.
He gasped; still he didn’t knock her hand away. A sign she could continue with her work. She accidentally stuck him with the first pin.
Jake flinched. “You trying to draw blood?”
“Stop being a baby. It barely touched you. Let me see. Want mama to kiss it for you, huh?” She lowered her voice to a soft connecting whisper. She pulled the fabric open, exposing his Calvin Klein underwear. “Humm, must not have hurt too bad.” She stroked the fullness.
With the stroke of her hand, he thought he’d drop to his knees. He fought to stay standing. Every ounce of energy in his body diverted to the mass of hardness.
“Shaun, don’t,” he said, barely able to hear his own voice. He gripped her hand. “You keep messing around, you might get hurt.”
“I like the sound of that,” she said. The heat of her touch penetrated the fabric as if it wasn’t there. She stroked harder.
“Shaun, don’t. Stop.”
“Okay, I won’t stop,” Beverly toyed, knowing exactly what he’d really meant.
She dug her finger around the loop of her ponytail, freeing her hair to fall over her face. Long sensuous strands brushed against his skin, seducing him to relax.
He grabbed her wrists, yanking her up to her feet. “Beverly.”
She found his strength more of a turn-on. She leaned forward, ready to start fresh, a kiss, a flick of her tongue across the line of his bottom lip and he would be all hers.
He held on to Beverly’s wrist. “Stop playing.”
She refused to give up, leaning her body into him. Pants fallen around his knees and the involuntary thick erection exposed. He’d lost his balance, and squeezed tight waiting for the fall.
“Jake!”
He let go to soften his own fall. She landed on top of him. The fog of light-headedness cleared slightly. The voice sliced through the haze.
“Ohmigod!”
Beverly stood up, her hand cupped to her mouth, and was fast to the door. Jake shook his head, trying to get the imagery of how it’d all started in the first place, wondering how his guilty conscience could conjure up his wife’s voice so real. He looked around at that precise moment and knew it was going to happen. Knew inevitably it was going to happen.
The slap across his neck, then his head, he felt the pelts grow stronger with sting and precision. “You son of a bitch!”
It took that long for him to realize it was really happening. Real-life blows. He was still on the ground. His wife’s tiny powerful hands socking and scratching at his head. The tear of his skin under her nails. The reality sank in. Pants down around his ankles. The fog completely cleared.
“It’s not what it looks like.”
“You … son … of … a…”
He put his arms up to defend himself. And then she was gone. His only proof that she’d been in the room and not some poltergeist was the sting of air hitting the open scratches on his neck.
He tore out of the room holding up the pants with no zipper. He leaped over the last set of stairs, pushed out the double doors and onto the downtown street. Gone. Disappeared as effortlessly as she’d appeared. The street was desolate, as it should be on a Saturday downtown. Then what was she doing there? He let his hands fall into his knees while he hunched over to capture his air. The pound of his heart vibrated through his eardrums. What had he done? He tried to stand up, take a step forward, and knew he wasn’t going to make it back inside. The grip around his chest clenched tight, twisting the air out of his lungs. His hands scratched and banged at his chest again and again. Breathe. He felt himself losing consciousness as he fell to the ground.
Jake sat down on the stool against her design desk. “Sit down, Beverly,” he said dryly.
“Uh oh, the minute you start calling me Be-ver-ly,” she pronounced her name hard and studious, mocking him, “I know there’s trouble. What now, Jay?” She stroked the fine hairs of his goatee.
“You have to stop doing that. We work together. If you want to continue working together, you gotta stop the accidental touching, the hand slipping, warm shoulder squeezes, brushing against me.”
“I didn’t think you noticed.”
“I’m married now. I want to stay that way.”
Beverly reached across and stroked his brow. “Then I probably shouldn’t have done that.” Jake took a hold of the offending hand. He kissed her palm then placed it back in her lap. “Please, no more.”
“You already said that. And like always, it won’t happen again. And like always, I say, that’s cool. Then I go back to doing what I do. You go back to doing what you do. I don’t have a problem with that.” She stood up. “Now, where were we before we were so rudely interrupted.” She kissed him on the forehead, “Oh yeah, let me get my pins.” She winked at him then tugged at his shirt. “Take off your clothes.”
“Take off his shirt,” the doctor’s voice boomed overhead. Jake could hear them doing their best to seem calm and in control. But he knew the urgency, no denying the panic in the room. “Start the IV, two cc’s of prednisone.”
The scissors sliced up the front of his shirt, each sleeve shed away easily.
“Blood gas is seventy-two. Let’s move. Speed it up, please,” the voice said.
Hands moved on all sides of him. Jake didn’t ask anything of himself, or them. He knew what little energy he had should be centered on talking to his lungs, asking them to cooperate. People were trying to save him, so he didn’t want to let anybody down. Others depended on him as well. His mother hadn’t worked since his hit song went platinum nine years earlier. He tried to explain this to his mother, that the music business was smoke and mirrors. He had very little money once the record company, the manager, agent, publicity, and radio hands were greased. With the small amount he had left, he started JP Wear. He paid off his mother’s house, so at least he didn’t have to worry about that. But all the other things, putting his brother through college, keeping everyone satisfied, he still had work to do. Mya needed a father. He was her father, regardless of how many times the tiny little voice in his head reminded him otherwise.
The needle pricked his skin, entering at a bad angle. His body flinched as the inj
ection settled underneath the flat surface of his hand. The first time he had an IV in his veins he was thirteen having an allergic reaction to the grass turf someone had dug his face into playing touch football. Fifteen years later, he was a grown man; this wasn’t supposed to happen. He’d gotten control of everything that mattered. His health. His wealth. His lifestyle. He wasn’t supposed to be lying on his back fearing for his last breath.
An eye for an eye, he thought. Maybe this was what he deserved.
The bone-chilling cold ran up his arm, splaying into his blood stream. Didn’t they have the good sense to at least warm the bags at room temperature? Refrigerated fluids ran the course of his veins. The commotion in the room reduced to an instant calm.
“Blood gas at eighty,” the woman’s voice announced. Nice voice, young, East Indian, probably married with two children. Jake had the knack, an ability to hear as keen as a blind man. The rhythm of voices and sounds told him everything he needed to know.
“Bouncing between eighty-five and eighty-six. He’s stabilizing.”
He’s stabilizing? No. Unstable. Bound to be a statistic. That’s what he’d heard all his life. The scary myth that a young black man would either end up in jail or dead. He was going to die. If the inability to breathe didn’t kill him, his wife would.
“We’re at ninety.” The voices all sighed relief in unison.
The solid pair of hands lifted from thumping on his congested chest, an odd process, but the vibration loosened the fluids that clogged his lungs. “Make sure the prednisone is on a steady drip,” the physician ordered. Black. Definitely a black man from the bass in his voice, the slight song at the end of his words. One more who’d slipped past the burgeoning numbers. “And call his wife,” the familiar voice said.
Jake’s eyes flew open. The white light above his head blinded him.
He tried to speak, but nothing came. Clint. Dr. Clint Fairchild had just saved his life.
“Don’t worry, I’m calling your wife. You’re going to be fine,” the nurse whispered soothingly. “Try to relax.”
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