The Ex Files

by Victoria Christopher Murray

  “Nice to meet you.” Again, she turned away.

  “What’s your name?” he asked, keeping pace with her stroll.

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “Because I told you mine.”

  “I don’t know why you did, you’re married.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  She raised her eyebrows. “I don’t do married men.”

  “I haven’t asked you to do anything.”

  “But you would. Spend ten minutes with me and you’ll be asking me to do all kinds of things.”

  He chuckled. Looked her up and down again like he wanted to make her his meal. “So why would my being married stop you? If it doesn’t stop me…” He shrugged.

  She tilted her head. “Does your wife know you’re single?”

  He laughed. “What she doesn’t know—”

  She didn’t share his cheer. “I don’t roll like that.” She stood on her toes, got as close to his ear as she could. “I want my own.”

  “Who says you can’t have it?”

  “Your wife.”

  He laughed. “I like you. You’re quick. And you know what they say about people who are quick. They’re smart.”

  “I don’t know who’s saying that, but they’re right about me.”

  “Okay, so let’s just have a conversation. Nothing more.” When she glanced around the room, he added, “After we talk, I’ll introduce you to anyone you want to meet.”

  She peered at him. “Someone who’s not married?”

  He nodded.

  “And isn’t dating anyone?”

  He laughed. “There’s no one in this room like that. But a girl like you”—he paused, now looked at her like she was a piece of pineapple-upside-down cheesecake—“I’ll hook you up.” He paused, gently took her arm, and moved her toward one of the tables set up for two.

  Chiquita could hardly walk. It was the bolt of electricity that sparked through her at his touch that made her wobbly. The current had traveled from his hand, into her arm, and powered through all of her.

  She didn’t breathe until they sat. And talked. For the rest of the night. She impressed him with her knowledge of basketball.

  He impressed her with questions about her life. Where did she go to school? (She lied—told him she was in her first year at UCLA, figuring he’d never find out she was a senior in high school.) He asked about her family. (She lied—told him that she was an orphan, but that she had met a wonderful elderly woman who lived alone in Compton and sometimes on the weekend, and during the week if her studies permitted, she stayed over to keep the old woman company.) He asked about her dreams, her goals. (She lied—told him she wanted to work with disabled children, rather than the truth, which was that her life’s objective was to marry a man like him.)

  When the crowd began to thin (she’d lost Noon long ago when her friend waved good-bye, strutting away on the arm of a white guy who was so tall he had to be a center), Bobby said, “You know what? You still haven’t told me your name.”

  She’d lifted his champagne glass, let her lips linger on the edge where his lips had been, and then she took a sip. “My name is Asia,” she said putting the glass down. “Asia Ingrum.”

  He shifted his chair closer and she wanted to drown in his fragrance. “Nice to meet you, Asia. Now, I have another question.”

  “What?” she panted. There he was, taking her breath away again.

  “What are you doing tomorrow? We’re not playing and I want to take you to brunch.” She glanced at his wedding band again, let her eyes linger there. He held up his hands. “I like talking to you,” he said. “So, we’ll eat and chat and…nothing more. Unless you want more.”

  She smirked. She’d play along, for the rest of tonight. “Brunch, huh? Where are you thinking about meeting up?” If he said the Four Seasons or the Bel-Air Hotel, she’d have to reconsider.

  “Have you ever been to the tallest building in the country? They have a fantastic restaurant on the sixty-seventh floor.”

  Chiquita had frowned. The tallest building in LA was the U.S. Bank Tower in downtown. That was the best he could do? At least he was making the good-bye easy.

  “No, I’ve never had lunch at the Bank Tower.”

  “Bank Tower?”

  “Yeah, in downtown.”

  He chuckled. “Sweetheart, I’m talking about the Sears Tower. In Chicago.”

  “Chicago?”

  He nodded. “I have a friend who has a private plane and I’m thinking about getting one, so I want to check it out. Wanna go?”

  She looked at his platinum band again, the symbol of his commitment to another. Then, breathlessly, she said, “What time should I be ready?”

  The ringing doorbell jolted Asia from her memories and she rushed to the door. When she opened it, she frowned. The woman in front of her stood steady, her arms clutching a thick binder.

  “Ms. Ingrum?” the woman asked with a smile.

  Asia nodded and motioned for her to enter. The woman took short steps; she was just a bit taller than Angel. Asia closed the door, looked down and smiled at the woman.

  “Ms. Thomas, thank you for coming, but I tried to call your office.”

  The woman peered over the top of her glasses. Looked at Asia’s leggings and T-shirt. “Is there a problem, Ms. Ingrum?”

  “No problem; I’m withdrawing my complaint.”

  “Withdrawing?” she said as if she didn’t understand.

  Asia nodded. “You see, my daughter hasn’t been molested.”

  The woman frowned. “How do you know that?”

  Be careful, Asia. “I think my daughter wasn’t feeling well the day she stayed with her father. And now, I’m sure…it was nothing.”

  Ms. Thomas reached into her briefcase, pulled out a single paper, and scanned it. “Ms. Ingrum, this report says that your daughter accused her father of doing bad things to her.” The woman’s voice echoed through the foyer, as if she were six feet, rather than over twelve inches shorter.

  “I know, but—”

  “Ms. Ingrum, we cannot withdraw a report. Once an incident is in the system, we must move forward with an investigation.”

  Asia crossed her arms. “Look, I know my daughter. This was a mistake.”

  “Even if I wanted to, which I don’t, I cannot, by law, drop this. It is in the interest of the minor child that this case proceeds.”

  Asia shrugged. “I’ve told you, nothing happened, but if you want to, then I won’t…” She smirked.

  Ms. Thomas passed Asia a one-sided smile of her own. “Ms. Ingrum, either you assist us with this investigation, or we will have to consider taking the child out of this home—for her safety—until we file the final deposition.” Her voice was much softer as she asked, “Is that understood?”

  Asia’s arms dropped to her side.

  “Can we go inside?” Ms. Thomas asked, already moving toward the living room. “This won’t take very long. I just have a few questions about you, your daughter, and Bobby Johnson.”

  Asia was still in shock.

  Ms. Thomas had left more than an hour before, but the memory of the interview stayed. She’d asked everything from how often Bobby saw Angel to what kind of physical contact she’d observed. Asia tried to answer the questions carefully, with as many monosyllabic answers as she could. But the warning came again: “Ms. Ingrum, if you don’t want to cooperate, we can arrange to have the minor child kept in a safer environment.”

  Asia had wanted to scream that this was no minor child, this was her Angel. And there was no safer place for her daughter than with her.

  What have I done?

  Asia tried to calm herself with thoughts that they wouldn’t find anything, but it was the way the woman left that still had Asia shaking.

  “I will call you this afternoon, Ms. Ingrum, to arrange the interview with your daughter.”

  “Ms. Thomas, Angel is only five. I don’t want her to be traumatized.”

&nbs
p; “First, if she’s been molested, she’s already been traumatized. Second, we are specialists. This is what we do. Our job is to protect the child.”

  She’d wanted to tell the woman that protecting Angel was her job and until this point, she’d done it well.

  “The next step,” Ms. Thomas had gone on to explain, “is actually two parts. We will do a psychological interview as well as a physical examination.”

  “Hold up. Physical?”

  Ms. Thomas had looked her straight in the eyes. “Your daughter will be examined for any physical scars of penetration.”

  Just remembering that made Asia want to faint.

  She reached for the telephone; she needed to talk to her aunt. But before she could press Talk, the phone rang.

  “Hey, Asia, this is Bobby.”

  She didn’t think there was anything more frightening than the things Ms. Thomas had said—until now. Ms. Thomas had left saying Bobby would be contacted, and Asia wasn’t sure she’d live through Bobby’s reaction.

  “How you been doing?”

  She frowned. “Fine.” Why was he being so nice?

  “You haven’t returned my calls. I’ve been trying to check up on Angel.”

  He doesn’t know. “She’s fine.”

  “So, what’s up? I’ve been calling to arrange a time to see her.”

  “I’m sorry; I’ve been busy.” She paused. “A friend of mine passed away.”

  “Sorry to hear that. Anyone I know?”

  “No, it was a friend from church.”

  “Church.” He chuckled. “When did you start going to church?”

  She wondered how many laughs he’d have when Ms. Thomas called him. “It’s not funny. No matter where I met her, she was a friend. And she committed suicide.”

  His laughter was gone. “Hey, babe. I’m really sorry. Are you all right?”

  “Yes.”

  “I hope so. Well, how about I stop by tonight?”

  “Ah, tonight’s not good….” How was she supposed to handle this? “Because…Angel’s going to Aunt Beverly’s. She’s spending the night over there.”

  “That’s cool. What about tomorrow?”

  “Can I call you back on that?”

  “Yeah. Hit me on my cell.”

  Gently, she returned the phone to the receiver. It made her sad to think that was the last normal conversation she’d ever have with Bobby Johnson, because she knew once Ms. Thomas spoke with him, her life, their relationship, would never be the same.

  Chapter Sixty-two

  SHERIDAN

  The ringing phone grabbed her attention and Sheridan frowned when she looked at the caller ID. Trinity Christian School. She snatched the telephone.

  “Ms. Hart, this is Mr. Bailey from Trinity.”

  “Yes?” Her heart already pounded—mother’s intuition in overdrive.

  “We need you or Dr. Hart to come to the school. Tori’s been suspended.”

  “What?” Sheridan sat straight up. “I’ll be right there.” Her feet hardly touched the floor as she ran through her home, brushing her hair, slipping into her sneakers, finding her jacket, purse, keys.

  Inside her car, she called Quentin and told him the news.

  “What?”

  “That was my reaction. I’m on my way to the school now.”

  “I’ll meet you there.”

  Within twenty minutes, Sheridan veered into the parking lot of Trinity Christian that sat right on the edge of Beverly Hills. As she bounded from her car, Quentin swerved into the space beside her. Wordlessly, they marched toward the private school that had been standing for more than sixty years. After registering at the administrative center, they were escorted into the headmaster’s office.

  The moment they opened the door, Tori jumped up. “Mom!” She grabbed Sheridan’s waist, then turned to Quentin.

  Sheridan leaned back and examined her daughter. Except for the way her hair pointed in a hundred directions and the torn strap on the jumper she wore, Tori didn’t look too different from when she’d left home. “What happened?” Sheridan asked Tori and Mr. Bailey at the same time.

  The headmaster, whose blinding white hair was a stark contrast to his mocha skin, motioned for Quentin and Sheridan to sit down. Tori squeezed in between them.

  “We had an unfortunate incident this morning.” He paused, looked at Tori. “Tori was fighting during her second-period Bible study class.” The headmaster shook his head as if he’d never heard of such a thing. “I know you’re aware of our school’s policies. This kind of behavior will not be tolerated.”

  Quentin looked at Tori. “Who were you fighting with?”

  Sheridan closed her eyes; she already knew the answer. Lara Nelson. Had the girl been spreading more lies?

  Tori exclaimed, “Benjamin Harrington!”

  Sheridan’s eyes popped open.

  “You were fighting a boy?” Quentin asked.

  Sheridan raised her eyebrows at her ex’s tone. Almost sounded like he was proud, like he wanted details.

  “Yeah,” Tori said with attitude. “He tried to kiss me. Said since I wanted to know what it was like to be kissed, I should do it with him. He said he was going to turn me into a real woman.” She shrugged. “So I punched him. And when he hit me back, it was on.”

  With one hand, Sheridan massaged her temple. It was on? What kind of television programs had Tori been watching? She glanced at Quentin; his grin made her frown.

  Quentin cleared his throat. “Ah, Mr. Bailey, is suspension really necessary? It seems our daughter was provoked.”

  “Benjamin has been suspended as well.” Mr. Bailey sat up straighter in his chair. “Dr. and Mrs. Hart, we are trying to teach our students to be Christ-like at all times. Under no circumstances will fighting be tolerated.”

  “Ah, come on,” Quentin said, “Jesus wasn’t no punk. You can’t always turn the other—”

  “Mr. Bailey,” Sheridan interrupted Quentin before he got their daughter expelled. “Would it be okay if we spoke with you alone?”

  “Surely.” He nodded and motioned for Tori to leave the office.

  She grabbed her backpack, looked back at her father, and grinned when he winked at her. Sheridan wanted to spank them both.

  Once alone, Sheridan said, “Mr. Bailey, Tori has been through a lot over the past weeks. The children in her class have been—”

  He held up his hands. “I know. Several of her teachers brought the situation to my attention. And until this point, Tori has handled herself well. But even she admitted that she threw the first punch.” He turned to Quentin. “And you’re right, Dr. Hart, you cannot always turn the other cheek.” Then, in his best ghetto vernacular, he added, “But Tori didn’t turn a damn thang.” Sheridan’s eyes widened. “The three-day suspension,” Mr. Bailey continued, his voice once again matching his buttoned-up suit, “is a reprimand for both students. I’m sure we won’t have any more challenges.” He paused, and his eyes gave his warning before his words did, “However, if there is a next time, it will mean expulsion.”

  “There won’t be a next time.” Sheridan stood and grabbed Quentin’s hand, needing to get him out of there. “Thank you, Mr. Bailey.”

  She almost choked when Quentin and Mr. Bailey exchanged the brother-man handshake.

  In the parking lot, Tori said, “Mom, can I ride home with Dad?”

  Sheridan glared at Quentin. There was no telling what Tori would be saying if she let her go with him.

  “No, sweetie, go with your mother.” He grinned at Sheridan. “I’ll meet you both at home.” He hugged Tori and then when he blew a kiss to Sheridan, she couldn’t help but smile.

  Sheridan glanced up the stairs and when she heard Tori’s bedroom door close, she asked, “Quentin, what are you trying to do?”

  “What?” He grinned. “I was just telling Tori that I was proud that she defended herself.”

  “She wasn’t defending anything. She punched Benjamin first.”

  “Only after he
tried to attack her. We have to teach our girls to defend themselves.”

  Sheridan plopped onto the couch. “Benjamin was just mouthing off like a thirteen-year-old.”

  “So,” he began as he sat next to her, “would you have preferred that our daughter let him kiss her?”

  “No, but it didn’t have to go like this.”

  “I just think it’s good that she stood up for herself.” When she said nothing, he added, “Maybe this weekend I’ll teach her some boxing moves.”

  “Quentin!”

  He shrugged. “Sorry.”

  She stared at him for a moment and then burst into laughter. “Jesus wasn’t no punk? I cannot believe you said that!” she exclaimed as she howled.

  He joined her. “Well, He wasn’t.”

  “Mr. Bailey got you back though. Cursed you out right there in his office. Made it clear that he wasn’t no punk either.”

  They laughed some more.

  Finally, Sheridan leaned back on the couch and rested her feet on the coffee table. Quentin did the same.

  After long minutes of quiet, Sheridan said, “Do you think we’re going to have to transfer Tori to another school?”

  “Because of today?”

  “No, because of all the other days. Because even today stemmed from this thing with Lara.”

  “I don’t think Tori is going to have too much of a problem from now on. There’s nothing like a good fight to bring everyone around.”

  “Maybe. This has been a tough couple of weeks for her.” She paused. “For me, too. I lost a friend last week. One of my prayer partners passed away.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “She committed suicide.”

  “Oh,” he said softly, then added, “Are you all right?”

  “Trying to be.”

  He took her hand, and when she didn’t resist, he squeezed it gently. They returned to the silence, just sitting, just thinking, just holding hands.

  “This is how we used to be,” he finally said.

  But we’re not like that anymore.

  “It’s nice,” he continued, “taking care of our family together.”