His Last Wife

Thirjane: More what? Time?

[long pause]

How much?

Man: Twenty.

Thirjane: Twenty? I don’t have that.

[long pause]

Man: She does.

Thirjane: No. No. I can’t. She can’t know. Not about this. She can’t ever know.

Tyrian fell asleep on the floor in the closet after listening to these words more than ten times and making sense of none of it. Still, he knew it wasn’t good. He’d never heard his grandmother sound so scared or being ordered around to do anything by a man—not any man. Suddenly, his plan for laughs with his mother about Grandma Janie’s secret boyfriend sounded like trouble for him or trouble for someone. This was Grandma’s business and Grandma’s business was . . . Grandma’s business.

Chapter 6

Kerry was on the phone, trying to fire her lawyer. Ther

e was a litany of reasons. Top of the list: She was still in jail.

“You should just be able to do something. And like, get me out of here, Stan. It doesn’t make any sense. People come and go every day. Some with crimes worse than mine—I mean, who committed crimes worse than the one I’m charged with.” Kerry pressed her mouth into the phone like she was telling a secret she didn’t want the guard standing behind her and half listening to the conversation to hear. “One woman was in here for touching her kid. Like molesting him. She got out.” She shouted louder in what was almost a scream, “But I’m still here!”

“I know. I know.” Her lawyer, Stanley Lebowski, repeated what he’d said after each of the key reasons Kerry provided to explain why she felt she needed new representation.

“No, I don’t think you do know. I don’t think you really understand. You say you do, but then there’s nothing. I have a child, Stan. I haven’t put my son to sleep in three months. You have kids. Do you know what it’s like not to tuck them in at night? Not to know if they’re coughing in the middle of the night or having nightmares or just need you to hold them tight? Not to see them in the morning?”

“No, Kerry. I don’t,” Stan admitted.

“So, you can’t know. You see? You can’t know what this is like for me.”

“I’m trying my best. And I know you think that’s lip service, but it’s true. I’ve called in every favor. I’ve shaken every tree, but nothing will turn up. The DA won’t even see me to try to make a deal.”

Stan was half-naked and laying on his back in the hot-coal steam room at the Jeju Day Spa just north of the city. It was his office away from the office. Where he came to clear his mind and see his most stubborn cases in a new way and maybe get a few glimpses at some hot Asian girls in their underwear, as well. He’d spent many days at the spa since he’d started working on Kerry’s case. So many that one of his assistants had actually set up her laptop and Wi-Fi in the lobby. It wasn’t because he was shrinking from his responsibilities or taking Kerry’s lockdown lightly. Contrary to what Kerry believed, he was doing everything he could to get her out. But there was something stinking about the case. Something just rotten that wouldn’t let his mind pull it apart. And no matter how many massages he got where he listed every single fact of the case in his head or sittings in the steam room he endured while considering those facts from every angle in the judicial system, he always came out feeling like he was back at square one. Kerry didn’t do the crime. That was obvious. Kerry was in jail for the crime. That was obvious. Kerry shouldn’t be in jail for the crime she didn’t do. That was obvious too. It was base-level law-school logic. The same logic he’d thought would make the DA automatically release Kerry just hours after Val had called him in the middle of the night about taking the case. In his head, he imagined walking out of the courthouse with Kerry crying on one arm, Val crying on the other, a sea of cameras and reporters in front of them. He’d make a declaration—“Justice prevailed this morning!” Everyone would cheer for Lebowski. Another case won! That’s how it always went. But not this time.

“The DA? Jamison went to Morehouse with Charles Brown. He won’t even talk to you?” Kerry asked. “That doesn’t make sense. Maybe it’s you. Maybe that’s why he won’t speak to you.”

“Why? Because I’m white?” Stan asked, sensing some hesitation in Kerry’s voice. “No. That’s not it. Listen to me, Kerry. You and I both know I’m not just the best man for the money for this job. I’m the best man, period. I win my cases. I don’t lose. Val didn’t get my number from some phone book or on Craigslist. I’m the best criminal defense attorney in the state. And I’m telling you I just need a little more time. There’s something going on here and I need to figure it out. Don’t give up on me now. You give up now, and I really don’t know if you’ll ever get out. That’s how serious this is. That’s how many doors are closed. Locked.”

Kerry felt a bubble of anxiety burst in her throat and travel up to her tear ducts. This was a heavy load. Too much for her to bear and survive it sane. In 1997 she let her best friend talk her into going to Spelman’s Valentine’s Day dance and there she met Jamison. He became her best friend. He was the only one who understood her. Could make sense of her crazy mother and crazy upbringing. Could laugh at it all. Laugh at her. And still love her anyway. After the wedding it did all fall apart. But she knew the role she’d played. Jamison was no angel, but she wasn’t innocent, either. And when it was all said and done, after they packed their bags and walked away from each other, she still loved him. And she knew he loved her. So what was all of this? How did this happen? How did she get here?

Kerry couldn’t say another word. If she opened her mouth she was afraid something like fire would come from her throat and burn everything in the world.

“I’ll be there to see you next week,” Stan said, hearing Kerry’s soft sobs. “I think Val is stopping by there this weekend. You hold on tight until then, kid. You hear me?”

Kerry hung up the phone and dragged her body away on shuffling feet.

Still crying with memories of her past life creeping in, she went outside, hoping a last bit of sunlight or maybe the Georgia breeze that even the jail walls couldn’t keep away would make her feel like somebody who was alive again. Or maybe the glimpse of the outside world above her head would remind her of some reality she was keeping from herself. She considered that maybe she was wrong and everyone else was right. Had she done it? Had she pushed Jamison from that rooftop? Why would she do it?

Maybe no part in the story had gone the way she was telling it. Jamison always needed more attention. Needed her to say things a certain way. Believe what he believed. Do what he did. The fragile black-male ego stuff. He hated her family and everything that it stood for. That old Atlanta. That old money. Black folks who acted like white folks and loved those white folks more than their own black folks. The poor black folks. “What does Jack and Jill do for the community? What does a cotillion do to save the lives of poor black children who can’t read or write or think straight because they didn’t have breakfast that morning?” Jamison asked one night when they first started dating and were hugged up in bed in his dorm at Morehouse. Kerry had looked up at the Lil’ Kim poster hanging on the side of his bed and laughed. She was just telling him how much she hated being in Jack and Jill and hated those cotillions. “Why are you laughing?” Jamison asked her and she said, “No reason. I was a kid. I didn’t know anything about that. My mother signed me up and I went. I had to.” Jamison hopped off the bed and looked at Kerry like she was a thief. “You had a choice, Kerry. You always have a choice. Just admit that you liked it. You enjoyed it. Just say it.” Kerry rolled her eyes and pulled Jamison’s cheap, thin sheet up over her bare breasts. “Sometimes I did, I guess. It wasn’t all bad. Sometimes it was fun.” Jamison looked at Kerry with disgust in his eyes. “I hated all those organizations when I was kid. I hated them because I knew they hated me. Wanted me to go away and disappear. Come back a new Negro who knew how to act right. How to act like them. Sit at the big table and eat rare steak and talk about going to Morehouse and pledging the right fraternity and marrying the right woman and moving into the right neighborhood with just enough black people and vacationing in Martha’s Vineyard.” Kerry asked, “What’s wrong with all that? You’re at Morehouse. You pledged.” She paused and added, “You’re dating me.” Jamison cut his stare from Kerry and his shoulders sunk down really low. He stood there and looked at Lil’ Kim on the wall for a little while like he was in a trance. Her legs cocked open. Her crotch scrubbing the ground. Erykah Badu’s new jam “On & On” was playing on his CD player. He suddenly became so aware of the contradiction in the room. He walked out and left the door wide open. Kerry would let herself out hours later.

That became the thing between them. Always the thing between them. Good girl and bad boy. Rich bitch and born hustler.

When Jamison started cheating, Kerry knew what kind of woman she had to be. Before she even met Coreen, she knew she was nothing like her. She was feeding that side of Jamison that Kerry could never touch. That he’d never let her see.

And although she loved him and he loved her, Kerry knew she’d never be enough. She could never be herself and someone else. Love wouldn’t change that. And Jamison would never just accept that. She knew it and he knew it.