His First Wife

Anna

What Lies Can Do

Cheating is bad. Cheating is really bad. But, in the beginning, I think what was worse about Jamison’s cheating wasn’t the actual act, it was the lying.

Jamison, who championed himself for being a hardened man from southwest Atlanta, was mostly a creature of habit. He did things in a certain way and was no fan of change from his normal schedule. I fell in love with him for that. In college, Jamison microwaved Hamburger Helper, saying it was the best meal in town on Friday night and I only needed to try it. I protested, but Jamison ate this meal every Friday night. And even after we graduated he still craved the mushy treat. So, on cold Fridays when I knew we’d be sitting at home in front of the television, I learned to make Hamburger Helper and have it waiting for him when he got in from work. Now, one Friday night, just days before Jamison was supposed to be beefing up a proposal for a big contract that would

take our services to a string of law offices throughout Tennessee, I had a pot of Hamburger Helper (made with ground sirloin and extra cheese) waiting on the stove for Jamison.

“Oh, I’m going out with Damien tonight,” he said when I offered to make him a plate. “I’ll be back later.”

“Damien?”

“Yeah, we’re going to have some beers,” he replied.

“Well, then you need to put something in your stomach,” I said, getting up from the table to get the plate.

“No.” He stopped me. “We’ll eat too. Just put the food in the refrigerator and I’ll get some when I get back.”

He kissed me on the forehead and left the room.

Now we’d been married for a long time, and not once had Jamison been caught in a lie or cheated on me, so I had no reason to worry or be suspicious. But in those years, I’d also “learned” my husband. He never turned down food. Not even if I’d made it. So, while suspicion was the farthest thing from my mind, when he nonchalantly rejected that plate, my ears immediately raised. Not only was it strange for Jamison, but I’d been to Pilates with Marcy earlier that afternoon and I knew that Milicent had her first fencing class on Saturday at 8 AM. Damien was so excited about the class because he’d fenced as a boy and he’d broken out all of his old gear on Thursday night, claiming he was going to “teach Mili the basics” on Friday night before the first practice. Now this could’ve changed, but the odds were small.

These kinds of questionable exchanges occurred in our kitchen for weeks. And after a while, Jamison seemed tired of my constant interrogation and actually tried to turn the thing around on me. He said I needed to be more trusting and made it seem as if I was going crazy with my suspicions. Now I was going a bit crazy; I can admit that. He’d been lying to me and I just knew. I didn’t need him to admit anything.

The lie was beginning to pull us apart. I didn’t want Jamison to even touch me. I stopped having sex with him, claiming I was sick and feeling bloated. Then, the funny thing was that I actually did start feeling sick and bloated. I was vomiting during the day and my stomach felt queasy all night. I might’ve thought I was pregnant, but we hadn’t had sex in a while and vomiting after lunch didn’t qualify as “morning sickness”—I’d later be proven wrong.

Things got serious when I finally told Marcy about my suspicions and she volunteered to help me follow Jamison during one of his nights out, which were now a part of his regular routine. We decided to rent a car and follow him one night. I felt bad for doing it, but Marcy kept telling me that if I didn’t do something I’d really go crazy. And there was no need accusing a man of doing something when he was doing nothing. “He could be doing nothing,” she’d said. “But he could be doing something. You need to know either way.” I said maybe I could just ask him again and she frowned. “When most men cheat, they lack the ability to tell the truth,” she said. “And not because they don’t want to—but because they don’t want to risk hurting and losing you. The only time they’ll tell the truth is when you catch them in the act, and even then, they might claim the woman in the bed is their aunt.”

So, there we were, in a rented car, driving behind Jamison, on our first stakeout. It was exciting and dramatic. And the whole time I was nervous and scared, but also, like Marcy had said, ready to confirm what I already knew. But this changed when we ended up outside Coreen’s house. I’d pat Jamison on the back ten million more times, kiss him more, have sex with him every night, even make nice with his mother, to make this go away. But there it was, in front of my eyes, my worst nightmare, a reality. It wasn’t a lie. It was true. True indeed. How would I ever be able to come back to loving Jamison from that? That was a Hamburger Helper recipe I simply didn’t have.

Refugee Camp

From the antique mahogany-encased Victrola in the living room, to the dramatic magenta French lace curtains hanging from ceiling to floor in the formal dining room, every day in Aunt Luchie’s house was like living on the set of an old ’30s movie. It was beautiful and timeless, unchanged in a world that seemed to always look for change.

When I was a child, my father brought me to Aunt Luchie’s house most Saturdays. She had a great blues record collection, and he’d sit in her den listening to records most of the afternoon as Aunt Luchie let me play with her makeup and jewelry at the vanity in her bedroom. It was a great weekly journey for both of us. My mother hated the blues and constantly came into the room to turn down the music whenever my father listened to records at home, and I wasn’t even allowed in her bedroom, let alone to sit at her vanity and play with her jewelry and makeup.

Tyrian and I moved in with Aunt Luchie after two days of staying at a hotel where he’d gotten his first cold. I swore that nothing had changed in that woman’s house since the last time my father took me there. From the over-red lipstick lying on the right-hand side of the vanity top to my grandmother’s pearls sitting in a tightly spun circle on her dresser, everything was in its place. It was as if Aunt Luchie wanted time to stand still inside that place. And this was a surprise, coming from a woman who was so full of life.

After putting Tyrian down for his afternoon nap, I went into the living room to find Aunt Luchie reading a book, as she sipped on a tall glass of brandy. We’d been staying there for about two weeks and I’d come to realize that whenever Aunt Luchie wasn’t out trying to save the world and my mother with her bare hands, this was her afternoon routine.

“Whew,” she said when I walked into the room. She slammed the book closed and slid it on the coffee table sitting beside the sofa. “That was a good book.”

“You were done with it?” I asked. “You seemed like you were at the beginning. No more than halfway through.”

“I know, but the story was over for me, so it’s done.”

“You’re funny,” I laughed. “You don’t have to stop reading because I came in; I can go to my bedroom and watch television.”

“Please. Who needs to read the entire story? I’ve read enough of them and seen enough of life to know how stories end.”

“And how is that?”

“The big gamble is taken and the protagonist either gets what she wants or not,” she said, sipping on her brandy.

“But don’t you want to know what she gets?” I asked.

“I prefer to make that up for myself,” she said. “I don’t like other people choosing fate for me. Sometimes I want a sad ending; sometimes I want a happy ending.”