His Third Wife

“You said you were with someone. I’m just going by what you told me. By who you are.”

“Who I am?” Val stepped toward Jamison.

“I’m just saying, you know what they say about taking a girl out the projects,” Jamison said. “Kerry never did anything like that.”

“Fuck you, Jamison!” Val said, backing off from Jamison. She felt a little kick at her bladder as she hurried out of the room.

“Yes, fuck me,” Jamison hollered at her. “Fuck me! Fuck me in my fucking house!”

Jamison threw his empty glass into the sink, where it shattered. He cursed to himself a few more times without looking at the tiny glass shards scattered around the drain.

He thought to follow Val up the stairs, continue the fight and put out the flames of a fire that would burn the backside of a

ny man. But, somehow, the situation hadn’t made that strong of an impression on him as he’d thought, as it maybe should’ve. The fire was competing on a long to-do list of situations that had higher flames scorching his rear. Flames that had him lying in bed pretending to be asleep when Val’s phone had rung early that morning.

“Just send her the money. Call right now to say you’re sending the money,” Jamison said after calling Leaf to catch him up on a list of things he wanted done before they met at a lunch date with the chief of police. Leaf already had rescheduled twice after Jamison had come down with his summer flu.

“It’s 7 AM in L.A. right now,” Leaf pointed out.

“I don’t care. Get it done,” Jamison said.

“Okay. But you know we already sent something. I’m thinking we could just—how long do you think you can keep this up?”

“I didn’t ask what you think,” Jamison said. “Just do it.”

“Okay . . . and what about the meeting? You need me to pick you up?”

“No, I’m fine. I’ll get over there myself. And, look, get together all the information you can about Ras’s case and the Hawks’ starting-five program.”

“For the meeting with Chief York?” Leaf asked.

“Yes. I want everything at the meeting.”

“Why?” Leaf pushed. The meeting was supposed to be a short political photo-op where Chief York and Mayor Taylor were to be strategically spotted in deep discussion to put a stop to the media’s hype about a new spike in violence in the city. Since Dax’s death, a bunch of city-dwelling yuppies and buppies had reported to the letter any social infractions that would make headlines: rapes and bar fights, muggings and murders. Bad press about Atlanta was making its way around the country, and that bad press meant bad news for both the mayor and his chief. For the former, it meant a shortening list of new investors to the city; for the latter, it meant a longer list of new criminals to the city.

“Why? Because I told you to do it,” Jamison said to Leaf while remembering his mother’s charge about the younger man trying to take the older man’s seat at the big table. He was sure this probably wasn’t the case, but then there was also the matter of how many times his mother had been wrong about such things. If he was taking tally, she was right about Leaf getting cozy in his chair.

“Mayor Taylor, I’m not trying to step on your shoes, but I don’t think it’s a good time to bring that up. This is just a short meeting, and I’m not sure Chief York would be keen on hearing anything about Ras right now—not the way he’s been talking about it with reporters.”

Chief York had been using Ras as a poster child for his mission to clean up the filth on the dirtiest streets in the city, but during his sorrowful slumber, Jamison had determined that his first order of business would be to find any justice he could for his friend. Wallowing in his sadness about seeking revenge against Dax, he’d decided to avenge Ras. Well, maybe not “avenge,” not “save” in the way superheroes swoop down from the clouds to capture a little boy who’s about to be flattened by a train. And maybe not even find “justice” in a way that would make someone envision him going before a grand jury, putting his right hand on a Bible, and vowing that he’d never known his friend to be a lover of marijuana, white girls, and guns. But he was going to get rid of the questions picking at him. The old ones he’d had and the new one Ras had brought to his attention at the prison. He didn’t intend to unfold his laundry list before the chief like a pop quiz or make a bunch of accusations and demands. He still wasn’t even sure what he was dealing with, what he was thinking. But he’d try something anyway. He had to. If what the chief wanted was a photo-op with the makings of a marketing campaign that could save both of them, Jamison would give it to him. In the face of bad press, he’d bring up the possibility of more good press in the gold mine of promises from the basketball players.

“Don’t worry about timing,” Jamison said to Leaf before hanging up the phone. “Just have the paperwork.”

A husband gone to a meeting meant a wife left home alone—a wife and a mother. And not just any wife. And not just any mother. One who was angry. One who was furious. Both who believed the other was the source of the overwhelming emotion.

And while the husband was away having barbeque chicken with specialty white sauce and macaroni and cheese with the chief of police, who also happened to be his fraternity brother, before cameramen miles away in Candler Park at Fox Brothers BBQ, these two women, who were actually more alike than different, stayed in their separate corners of a mini-mansion that might seem more like a castle to people with smaller personalities. But these two had big personalities, and as one might imagine even in the biggest space, two bigger things will eventually cross paths.

So, when the sun went down, the big personalities found themselves moving from their separate corners in the shrinking mansion, one from her bedroom with soap opera reruns playing on the television and one from her bathroom, where the cold tile was no longer useful to soothe her swollen feet. Both wandered somewhere neither could really avoid for long: the kitchen.

The mother was at the stove, in front of a boiling pot, stirring and singing and smiling and maybe whistling in between.

The wife was walking in, rolling her eyes, wondering what in the hell her mother-in-law had to sing and smile and whistle about. She went to the refrigerator and opened it, looked around for whatever compelled her to the kitchen. As usual, Lorna had packed the chrome subzero with all of Jamison’s favorites, although Val had repeatedly emailed Lorna her list of items.

Val eased back on her swollen feet and considered calling Jamison to have him bring her back a plate from Fox Brothers when she heard a pleasant greeting from a familiar voice that wasn’t ever pleasant.

“Baby, you hungry?”

Val couldn’t see Mrs. Taylor. The open refrigerator door separated them like a partition between work cubicles. Val frowned and looked in Mrs. Taylor’s direction suspiciously. She was sure Mrs. Taylor knew her son wasn’t in the house, so she wondered who Mrs. Taylor thought could be on the other side of the refrigerator door who wanted to be called her “baby.” Maybe Mrs. Taylor was sinking into senility, too?