My Husband's Girlfriend (8 page)

When Neil arrives, I open the front door.

“Mommy, I wanna go, go, go!” Reesy yells behind me, tugging on my shirt.

“Go where? You don’t even know where I’m going.”

“I still wanna.”

“Stay here with Vette. I’ll be right back.”

My tiny, stiff steps guide me to the Explorer. The tinted window is rolled up. Ten-week-old Braxton is strapped in the back in a car seat. I am not able to get a real good look at him just yet. I am fine with waiting until I am able to freely observe him. The park we’re going to is at the intersection of Airport Boulevard and Beltway Eight, several minutes away.

Neil concentrates on driving. I haven’t initiated conversation, but he keeps mumbling, “You say something?”

“Umm, no, I didn’t. You’re hearing things, Mr. Meadows.”

Soon we pull into an empty parking lot, the sound of gravel popping underneath the tires. Neil parks the car and I wait for him to remove Braxton from the car seat.

“Here is my son.” Neil cradles Braxton against his chest and I fix my eyes on the baby’s plump cheeks, which are the color of a cardboard box. His lips are pinkish red and pressed tightly together like you couldn’t shove anything in his mouth even if you wanted to. He boldly locks eyes with me and doesn’t look away, like he’s the one checking me out instead of vice versa. I am startled by his confidence, humbled that this two-month-old boy seems to know he belongs on this earth even if I don’t.

His beautiful, long eyelashes and the noble way he looks lying in his dad’s arms steal away the envy I attempt to reserve for this child.

“Ahhh, he’s a cutie,” I say, and lean into Neil’s free arm. I want to say more, but my throat tightens. I simply receive Braxton into my arms. He’s not heavy at all. This feels way better than holding Reesy when she’s acting spoiled and slips in my arms, or when she falls asleep in the den and I’m forced to haul her upstairs to her room.

I nuzzle Braxton’s cheek with my cheek and moan. He stares at my eyes, nose, face. I feel silly and embarrassed but stare back. His tight lips curl into a smile. He has on a cute blue-and-white knit outfit, with huge blue buttons on the bottoms of the pants. As silly as it sounds, I’m ready to head out to the children’s department at the nearest store and add to his wardrobe.

“Well,” Neil says, “let’s strap him in this buggy.” He secures the belt around Braxton and we begin walking on an asphalt path that weaves through the ungated park. There are dozens of towering trees, picnic tables, a red-and-blue sliding board, and a sandbox at the far end of the grounds.

“Hey, this pathway is so lopsided and crooked,” I say, “you sure it’s okay, comfortable enough?” I can’t stand to feel hardened stone underneath my feet. Even though I have on gym shoes, the granite is so rigid I feel shoeless.

“It’ll be all right. We won’t be here long. I just want him to get some fresh air.”

Grabbing Neil’s arm, I feel my cheeks flush with shame. Prior to this I could contemplate my situation behind the walls of my home, where no one could see or know, but now that we are outside, I feel like I’m standing in the middle of a busy intersection wearing just panties and a bra, as if my secrets are not my own.

“Neil,” I sputter, my eyes suddenly latching on to his. “Baby, he–he’s adorable. He is.” Get your mind off yourself, Anya, I think. The world exists for more than you.

Feeling a little awkward, I rub Braxton’s cheek with my finger several times, noticing the softness of his skin. His huge brown eyes sparkle and he coos softly.

We continue taking lazy steps along the narrow path, then come to a stop when a wig-wearing woman dressed in a velour JLo track outfit smiles at us. We smile back.

“He is sooo good-looking,” she says. “What a fine boy you have there. Is this your first one?”

“No,” I snap, and stop smiling.

“Well, he looks just like you,” she says, and points at me.

I burst out laughing and clutch my stomach. Neil mutters, “Excuse us,” and abandons me, pushing the baby buggy over the rocky pathway. The wheels are turning and spinning and making ugly noises while clanking against the granite.

“Hey, wait for me,” I say. I catch up with Neil and grab his rigid arm until he comes to a stop. “You want me to push the baby? Even better, I’ll hold him.” I undo the straps and lift Braxton from his seat. “Hi, Brax.” He smells fresh, young, innocent. I can’t hate this baby. I can’t hate him. Instead of seeing him as a threat, why can’t I see him as the opposite, a miracle, which is what he seems more than anything? Braxton grabs my finger and squeezes. I surprise myself and giggle. It’s like he’s saying I’m cool with him. And that’s cool with me.

9

Anya

It’s the next weekend. Friday night. I’m in bed. Thirty minutes past mid-
night the phone rings. I lean over and place the receiver against my ear.

“Hello,” I mumble.

“Uh, hi, this is, uh, Dani. Uh, I was just wondering…” Her voice sounds frightfully fragile.

I sit up in bed and flip the switch on the lamp. “You were wondering…?”

“Is, uh, Braxton there?”

“The baby? Or is that what you call Neil?”

“Nooo, I’m talking about the baby.”

“Uh, look, Danielle. I don’t know why you’d call here asking about your own child. I mean, why don’t you
know
where he is? Wouldn’t he be with you?”

“I think there was a mix-up. Maybe it’s not…” Her voice drifts away, like it’s trying to catch up with her foggy mind.

“Are you all right?” I slide my warm feet to the carpeted floor and stand. I hear mumbling. She sounds as groggy as me.

“Danielle,” I say louder, “you want me to get Neil on the phone?” She’s breathing heavy, grunting. Listening to her makes my heart pound violently, like it’s beating its fists against me and wants to lunge through my chest.

“Oh, no, no. Uh…”

I toss the phone on my bed and stomp loudly down the stairs, race through the hallway, and stop at the library. I knock once and open the door, which squeaks and moans.

“Neil, Dani’s on the phone. She’s talking crazy
.
She’s talking
crazy.
Pick up the line down here and see what’s wrong.”

Neil bounds off the couch, almost falling back down as soon as he gets to his feet. He blinks a couple times. I grab his hand and lead him to the den. It feels odd to touch his fingers. It’s like I accidentally reached out and held a stranger’s hand. First I turn on the lamp, then press a button so that the speakerphone is activated.

“Here.” I point. “Talk to her.”

“Dani, what’s wrong?”

“Neil.” Dani’s shaky voice crackles through the line. “Braxton—is he with you?”

“Yes, didn’t you know? Didn’t Audrey tell you?”

I cast a sharp look at Neil. He averts his eyes.

I hear silence, then a swear word. “Nooo, Neil. No, she did not. Oh gosh, I feel like such a fool. Well, what happened? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Audrey was baby-sitting, like you arranged, but she called me and said she had an emergency. I rushed over there and picked up Brax. Audrey promised right then she was going to let you know. She was almost running out the door when I got there. Maybe she forgot.”

“Oh, God. Maybe I need to forget she’s my baby-sitter. That’s what I need. That fucking bitch is sooo pathetic.”

I walk a few paces, my arms folded across my chest, past Neil, past our wedding pictures, which sit in several frames on a square glass table. In one eight-by-ten, we’d just been pronounced husband and wife. The photographer had taken all kinds of shots: Me and my four bridesmaids embracing one another in a solid hug. Neil sitting down surrounded by his family, who are standing up. Another one with me spread out on my new hubby’s lap, squeezing his neck, and both of us grinning so wide you’d think we’d just won a $200 million Super Lotto.

“Well, yeah, uh, the baby’s here with us.” Neil glances at me. “Been asleep a few hours, since nine-thirty or so. You want me to bring him back to you?”

“Right now?”

“Yeah, Dani, I could get dressed and—”

“That’s not necessary,” I hear myself say. “Go back to bed, Dani. We’ll take care of the baby. He’s safe here.”

A hush falls over the room.

“Dani, y–you still there?” I find myself saying. “I can imagine how scared you must’ve been. Hey, I didn’t even know the child was here, thanks to Neil. But it’s cool.” I say this with gentle sarcasm. Things do happen, and God knows the outcome could’ve been much worse.

“Well, that’s kind of you. Thank you, Mrs. Meadows. I guess it makes more sense for Neil to bring the baby back in the morning. Give him a kiss for me.”

“Give who a kiss for—”

She hangs up the phone while I’m talking. We are released from a dazed moment. I swallow deeply and press the button to disconnect the speakerphone.

“You know, you could have told me, Neil.”

“I know, I know.”

He looks at the wall. I look at and talk to the side of his face.

“It takes, what, ten seconds to tell me that the baby is spending the night? I’m actually okay with him. I was hoping that this wouldn’t be a big deal anymore.”

Why couldn’t he just tell me the baby was here? Do I scare my own husband that much?

“Is he in the nursery?” I don’t wait for Neil to respond. While he slumps in the chair, I turn off the lamp, leaving him alone in the darkened den. I rush back up those stairs, eighteen in all, go to Reesy’s old room, and walk in. I smile a bit, excited at the prospect of seeing a little baby in our house. Brax is resting on his belly. A blanket covers his back. I smell milk; some of it must’ve spilled from the glass bottle lying near his hand, which is curled into a fist. Dear God protect him, I cry inside. I rub his soft brown hair and hear a deep sigh escape from his open mouth. No way can I blame Neil for wanting to share his life with this precious little soul. But something has to happen so we can make sure this situation is workable.

If my husband wants me to trust him, he also has to trust me enough to share vital information, so we can all breathe easier at night. All of us, including Dani.

“No, no, triple no.”

I’ve never heard Neil so adamant. So strong-willed.

“Too late now, hubby.”

“Not too late. I can un-invite her. All it takes is one phone call.”

We’re at home in the kitchen, Thanksgiving Eve, cooking our butts off. Oven-baked turkey, duck, and cornbread, yams, dirty rice, green beans, and Watergate salad. Neil and I are standing near the stove. Sharvette is leaning against the fridge, arms folded.

“I told you, Neil,” Vette starts in. “Anya be tripping sometimes. But under the circumstances—”

“Nobody asked your opinion, Vette. Don’t you have a mall to hang out at?”

“Malls close early today, Neil, remember?” Vette walks in a circle and comes back to face him. “Shit, ignant Negro. I’m trying to help your ass. I’m siding with you for a change.”

“I don’t need you to side with me, Vette. I just need some peace and quiet and some control around here.”

As bad as I want to say something, I remain quiet and take it out on the stove, wiping away messes with a wet rag that singes near the burner, almost scorching my hand. Please tell me what the hell is control. How do you control what’s not in the script, let alone the rewrite? It frustrated me that my efforts to try to ease the situation were met with ridicule. So what if Dani comes by for Thanksgiving? What’s the big deal?

This morning when I called to invite her, she gasped but quickly responded with a yes.

“That is so nice of you, Mrs. Meadows. You know, my family’s in California…”

“I know.” I wanted her to know Neil tells me things. Not everything, but enough to play with.

“And around the holidays it’s good to go somewhere for a change, instead of being alone—like usual.” Her voice sounded dreamy and distant. Did this woman expect me to feel sorry for her?

“You want me to bring anything? Neil tells me you’re a fabulous cook. I can’t cook worth a damn,” she laughed. “Microwave boxes are taking over my freezer.”

Ah heck, I was thinking. My homemade-loving hubby has hooked up with a noncooking hooker? I had to witness this up close.

“Hey, no problem,” I gladly told her. “Just bring some sodas or a—”

“Oh, oh, I know what. I know. I’ll run over to the northwest side real quick and stop by the Flying Saucer pie shop and get Neil one or two of those strawberry cream pies. He loves those sooo much,” she laughed. I removed the phone from my ear and mouthed,
Fuck you, bitch,
then pressed it back against my ear. “Oh, you don’t have to do that, sweetie. I threw together a homemade apple pie, plus a triple-layered German chocolate cake, Neil’s favorite. So just bring a case of Mountain Dew.”

“Okay,” she said. “Diet for you?”

I cocked my neck and stared at the phone. “Umm, Danielle, not for me. I am not on a diet. See you around oneish?” I slammed down the phone, cursing myself for rising to the bait of her last catty comment. As nutty as it sounded, I was eager to see this woman up close, assess the competition, show her a thing or two, let her know that it ain’t over until the fabulous-cooking fat lady sings. Except I am
not
fat. I’m
fine.

“Neil, trust me,” I finally respond to his objections once Vette has left the kitchen. “We are adults, not totally ghetto, so I hope we can pull off a funky little dinner. I know Reesy wants to meet the baby, since she’s seen his picture and stuff.”

Neil’s eyes widen.

“Oh, you didn’t think I knew about the picture, did you? I know a lot of things you don’t know.” I turn back to the stove, take a wooden spoon, and stir my mouthwatering roux for the giblet cornbread dressing. As silly as it sounds, I’m forcing myself to run toward my fears. If you face what scares you, it’s not as intimidating. Kind of like how you dread studying for an exam, but once you pick up those books and get into it, the task isn’t half as bad as it seemed.

Plus, Thanksgiving is a time to be thankful, to know that as bad as things are, they could be worse.

I respond to the doorbell after four insistent rings that sound like
The queen is now here, let me in, dammit.
I want to meet the whore as much as she wants to meet me, but I cannot stand when people ring my doorbell all crazy like they ain’t meant to wait for nothing in life. Don’t get me started. I don’t want Ms. Frazier to think just because she rings my bell, I gotta toss everything in the air and come hopping. I want her to know that she’s merely an afterthought in my otherwise busy and important life.

Dani is waiting on the other side of the screen door. She’s wearing some snug jeans with two pockets stitched in the front, a brown clingy short-sleeve shirt, and a tan vest with a white furry collar. A basket filled with fruit, nuts, and other goodies sits on the concrete next to her feet. And her little bambino is strapped in a plastic handheld carrier.

“Hey, uh, hello there,” she says, looking me up and down. “Could you take Braxton? I have a few more things to get.” I peer beyond Dani’s head. A gold Toyota Tacoma pickup is in our driveway, with a customized license plate that reads DANIF. I am a little shocked. It’s not like I expected a Hummer, but I definitely was thinking of a more expensive, feminine ride.

She starts singing an Alicia Keys song. I just gawk at her. Dani sets the carrier on the ground and runs toward her truck. I shrug, open the screen door, and pick the baby up, carrier and all. He smiles at me first, so I decide to return the favor. Babies are so naive. What’s he got to smile about? Whatever he has, I want some, too.

Once I get Braxton settled, I walk back to the foyer, watching Miss Thang from a distance. She’s actually holding a conversation with Riley, who is standing in front of our house.

Dani waves bye to Riley and returns to our door. She notices me staring at her and smiles like she enjoys being observed. “Neil here?” she asks, letting herself in. She’s struggling to hold her oversized purse, a case of diet sodas (damn her!), an Eddie Bauer diaper bag, and a portable play gym.

“Uh, sure, he’s here. Taking a shower.” I smirk at Dani and reach for the portable gym. We walk side by side. I lay the equipment on the floor of the den. “This portable gym is nice,” I say.

“Neil got that—Uh, never mind,” she says, blushing. That makes me mad.

Dani walks around the room, taking in the sofa with the matching pillows, the entertainment center complete with stereo, DVD, and CD player, the Oriental rugs, the matching tables, and the framed photos on the mantel. She doesn’t look at the pictures for long. I wonder what she’s thinking. I hope she’s torn up inside. If she isn’t, she ought to be. Dani sniffs and follows the aroma to the kitchen. Several pots cover the burners on the stove. The shelves are lined with spices, and there are cutting boards with the residue of green onions and garlic that I haven’t had a chance to throw away.

“Wow, reminds me of home.” I barely hear Dani’s voice. “But home is where your heart is, huh? I can’t volunteer to cook anything. Well, I do okay with some long-grain rice and gravy, but if you’d like, I can help set the table.”

I kinda feel sorry for her. “Dani, relax, everything has been taken care of. You’re a guest.”

She looks puzzled, like maybe she should leave while she still has a chance.

“Hey,” I say and step up to her. “I want you to feel comfy, so make yourself at home. You know, I appreciate your willingness to come by. I mean, I, well, you know, this shouldn’t, uh…”

She places her hand on mine and squeezes. She has a French manicure. I’ve never had a French manicure. “I think I understand, Mrs. Meadows.”

I blush. “Please, I’m Anya, okay? I mean, I
am
Mrs. Meadows, but you know what I’m trying to say.”

Dani nods and blushes again. She still has her hand on mine, so I untangle myself from her and nicely ask her to go sit in the dining room. The family will be joining her shortly.

Neil, Vette, Dani, and I are gathered at the table getting our grub on. Reesy fell asleep before we could begin eating and is now resting in her room. I made a plate for her to microwave once she wakes up. Little Braxton is in his sleeper on the floor next to his mom. He’s slurping on a bottle, not paying us any attention.

“So, Danielle,” I say. “You told me you’re from California. How’d you end up in Texas?”

“Long story short? A dartboard.”

“What she say?” Vette frowns.

“No, let me put this in a way that makes sense. When I was a sophomore in high school, a girlfriend told me she was going to Pratt and asked me where I was going to college.”

“Oh, so you’ve been to college?” I ask her.

“Yeah, barely graduated, but anyway, I set up a dartboard with eight or so names of various colleges—Spelman, Eastern Michigan, USC, some others. I threw the dart and it ended up on Rice University.”