His First Wife

Days after we met, Jamison admitted that Damien made him promise to babysit Marcy’s “easy” friend at the party and that’s the only reason he asked me to dance. Apparently, all of the other boys declined because they knew who I was, but they left Jamison in the dark as a joke. He was looking for a quick lay, but got me instead. He was less than happy . . . at first.

“That’s what he got for trying to be the Mack!” I laughed.

“Yeah, but everything changed when he had to drive you home,” Marcy said. “Then he came back to Damien saying he was in love.”

“We couldn’t stop talking. I sat in his car in front of the Spelman gates grinning for three hours before I told him I didn’t live there. Then the sun was coming up and we were both laughing,” I said tearfully. “He said he didn’t know why he assumed I lived on campus and I didn’t know why I hadn’t told him he was going the wrong way. We were in our own little world. We talked so much, I was sure we wouldn’t have anything to talk about the next day, but we did.”

“And then he kissed you,” Marcy said.

“And then he kissed me.” Even in my anger, the memory of that first kiss, the innocence, made a butterfly flutter inside.

“And then, just as I predicted before we even went to the dance, you lost your mind.”

“No, I didn’t,” I protested.

“Please, both of you went crazy. Couldn’t get enough of each other. If you two weren’t together, you were on the phone, and neither of us had cell phones in ’95, so I remember waiting for you to get off the damn house phone.” She playfully banged her fist on the bed between us. “In fact, I do believe that somewhere in a history book it says that was when Spelman officially accepted its first male student, because that man was missing all of his classes, coming to yours.”

“He sure did. We just couldn’t get enough of each other . . .” I said with my voice sadly trailing off.

I rubbed my stomach and looked helplessly at Marcy.

“Then what happened? How did we get here?” I asked.

“You’re going to ask yourself that same questions a million times and never get an answer until you ask him. Then you won’t even be happy with that,” Marcy said. I could tell she was talking about her situation. In the eleven years they’d been married, Damien had cheated many times and even managed to have a stalker. In response, Marcy developed a private life of her own. Like many of the women in the big houses in Buckhead, she had lots of romantic gifts, private dinners, and late nights at hotels when her husband was away. All of it, Damien’s cheating, Marcy’s way of getting back at him, made me wonder why they were even together. But for some reason, the dispute, their secret lives, only made them more determined to stay married. Neither showed signs of wanting to leave. It was an odd understanding, but somehow they both kept breathing.

“Nothing is going to make it all right in your head,” she continued. “What you have to do now is focus on your baby and make some big decisions. And I can’t do that for you.”

The door chime rang throughout the house, getting louder and louder as it found its way to the bedroom. Marcy and I looked at each other quickly.

“Probably the decorator,” Marcy said, knowing exactly what I was thinking. “The caterer will let him in.” She turned and looked to the window. The chime came calling again. “Maybe it’s the—”

“Kerry, I’m outside,” a voice yelled far too loud for Marcy’s Buckhead enclave. The sound of Jamison’s voice made my heart race. “I need to see you.”

“Jamison,” Marcy said, jumping out of bed and running to the window. “Where’s Damien?”

“Marcy, I need to see my wife,” Jamison said.

I watched Marcy struggle to open the window as I took much longer than I wished to get out of bed.

“This is not the time or the place for this, Jamison. She’s fine. She’s resting and she’s fine.”

“I need to see her,” Jamison hollered so loud Marcy jumped and hit her head at the top of the window. “I need to tell her what’s going on . . . why I was there.”

“You two can talk later when you calm down,” Marcy said as I came up behind her. She held out her hand to stop me from putting my head out of the window beside her.

“Kerry, is that you?” he called to me. “Please come out here and talk to me. Please!”

“Do you want to see him?” Marcy said, turning to me.

“I don’t know.” I was crying again, standing there naked with tears streaming down my cheeks.

“Just come outside so we can talk,” he cried.

Covering my body with the curtain, I squeezed into the window sill beside Marcy. Jamison looked really bad. His face was completely red, and even from the window I could tell his eyes were as swollen as mine.

“Why are you here?” I hollered. “I don’t want to see you.”

“Kerry, don’t do this,” he said. “Hear me out.”