His Last Wife

when he was working with her undercover and even at least understood Val for what she was. It should be for them. But it wasn’t. Deep down on Leaf’s scorecard there was a check he needed to settle. If something wasn’t right with this case, then something couldn’t be right with his conclusion. It meant his resolution, his solution, and ascension were all a lie. He wasn’t the kind of man who could sit in that and just be okay with it. Not if the lie was on his scorecard. He could be loyal to the Bureau, but if the Bureau wanted him to settle on a lie, then the Bureau wasn’t being loyal to him. So then all bets were off.

Chapter 8

The same big, black truck that had been parked outside of Jamison’s home was sitting in the driveway when Val got home. She jumped out of her car and stormed over to the door, so angry she could spit on whoever was sitting inside, but there was no one there.

Val switched her spiky stare from the car to the front door of the house and stomped up the walkway with the keys in her hand, pointed forward like a sharp knife ready to do some cutting.

Inside, she heard talking and laughing coming from the kitchen. It sounded like something delightful was happening and every echo of noise struck a sorrowful chord in her gut. It felt like she was being cheated. Like something inside of her was being stolen away.

Mama Fee was sitting at the kitchen table in an orange-and-tan caftan with a matching head wrap atop her head. She looked like a high priestess or maybe a genie. Her legs were crossed and she was holding a cup of steaming tea in her hand. One pinky pointed up. Smiling, grinning at who was seated across from her.

The man who drove the truck, who begged to sleep one more night in Val’s bed and kept his promise of not seeking sex, was hunched into the table toward Mama Fee, talking like he knew who this woman was, like he was supposed to be there and this was a ritual. A cup of steaming tea was sitting on the table in front of him.

Val stood in the threshold and surveyed this picture. She knew they sensed her standing there. But they kept talking and laughing, trading these little intimate stares that let on that the visit wasn’t brand new.

“What is this?” Val quizzed sharply, tossing her purse on the counter with a thud.

Mama Fee and Ernest turned to the doorway connecting the living room to the kitchen and displayed their best looks of surprise under Val’s glare.

“Hey, baby girl,” Mama Fee said sweetly, like Val had just walked in from getting off of the school bus and had twin pigtails dangling over her shoulders. She turned to Ernest, who was grinning, and added, “Did I tell you my Val is my baby girl? She got two sisters home in Memphis. Neither one is as pretty as—”

“Shut up!” Val barked at Mama Fee, but her stare was on Ernest. “What are you doing here?”

“Came to visit you. Your mother was kind enough to let me in. Made me some tea. What’s this tea called, Mama Fee?” Ernest smiled wide at Val and then turned to his new ally.

Val could smell the Adam and Eve root and hibiscus leaves.

“Just some roots from the garden,” Mama Fee answered. “You want some, Val? Why don’t you come over here and have a seat?”

Val felt four eyes set on her with heavy expectation. Like she was a skittish horse or feral cat needing to be gathered in, in, in. “No, I don’t want any tea! I want you out of here—out of this house!” Val said, looking at Ernest.

“Why he need to leave?” Mama Fee asked, like this was the most absurd directive she’d ever heard. “He was just telling me about his days playing football and how he retired from sports altogether to start his very own trucking business.” She smiled at Ernest like he was a piece of cake she was about to put on a plate and present to her daughter. Before Val had gotten there, she’d already recited Genesis 2:18 to the man as she’d served him the tea. His impression on her had been that strong.

“Mama, shut up. You never should’ve let him into this house,” Val charged, pointing her finger at Mama Fee.

“Damn, you need to stop talking to your mother like that,” Ernest said, getting up from his seat and half-empty cup of tea. “Now, if you want me to leave, I will, but ain’t no reason to speak to this sweet woman like this.”

“Good. Great. Get the fuck out,” Val said, clearly unaffected by Ernest’s valiant effort to defend her mother’s honor.

Ernest turned and bowed slightly to Mama Fee in her caftan and turban. “It’s been a lovely afternoon. Until we meet again?”

“That’ll never, never, never happen!” Val cut in before her mother could answer. “Now get out!” She’d stepped into the kitchen and came up behind Ernest with fists balled at her sides.

A series of slurs shot from Val’s mouth at Ernest’s back as she stayed tight on his heels, following him out of the kitchen, through the living room and into the front foyer. Mama Fee knew not to go along for the sad stroll or else Val would turn on her too. She just sat in the kitchen, sipping her tea and listening. Soon, she’d grab the teacup Ernest had been holding and set it on her altar upstairs.

Old folk would say Val had called Ernest “everything but a child of God” on the way to the front door. Still, the behemoth of a man kept his mouth closed and, more importantly, his hand in his pockets, because these were fighting words, clauses, and phrases that had led many men to wrap their hands around a quick-tongued woman’s mouth, push her into a wall, and holler, “Shut the fuck up!” But Ernest was unmoved.

Annoyed that her words weren’t leading to a response, Val said, “You ain’t got to say shit! You ain’t fooling nobody with this good-guy shit! You’re up to something, just like every other nigga!” right when Ernest had his hand on the doorknob in the front foyer.

He stopped.

Val stopped behind him.

He paused.

She looked at his hand on the knob with more expectation and desire than she was willing to admit. When she was little, she’d memorized every angle and curve of the front doorknob in the home she’d grown up in. She’d sit on the creaky wooden floor, her knees held into her chest, just feet away from the door, and wait for the knob to turn. In her mind, in her imagination, always on the other side of the knob would be her father’s brown, rough, workingman’s hand. He’d push the door in. The sunlight would make a crown around his head and so Val couldn’t really see him until he’d get up close on her. But she could hear him saying, “I’m home, baby girl. Back from the dead, just for you. Not ever leaving again. Nothing no one can do to make your daddy leave you.” He’d pick her up and kiss her cheeks and count her fingers and toes like the white people did their newborn babies on television. Take her into the kitchen, where a table filled with different kinds of ice cream would be waiting for a feast that would end with laughing and full bellies.

“What you waiting on?” Val said to Ernest. “Open the door! Leave! Leave!”