His Last Wife

Garcia-Bell had shared the particulars of her case with Kerry too.

“Well, there’s long and then there’s loooonnnng,” Garcia-Bell pointed out.

“What’s that mean?”

“Nothing.” Garcia-Bell stood up, ready to leave. She didn’t want to hurt her friend’s feelings. Since she was a teenager, she’d been locked up for some reason or another and she knew the worst thing in the world was knowing the one person on the outside who could do anything about her case was doing absolutely nothing. She didn’t want to put that on Kerry.

“Come on, spit it out,” Kerry pushed.

“It’s nothing. It’s like I said—it’s taking a long fucking time.”

“But you know the situation. You know Val can’t just bust me out of here,” Kerry pleaded in a way that sounded like she was actually coaching herself.

Garcia-Bell pointed to the top bunk. “White girl stabbed her old man in the fucking head five times and she bonded out. Ain’t got no kids. Ain’t have no job. They got a fucking confession out of her. She home.” She pointed to Kerry. “Ain’t nobody see you throw your husband from the roof. You got a child. A career and you say you innocent. And you rich. You mean to tell me that woman and that lawyer she hired to get you out of jail can’t even get you out on bond? Come on, girl. You ain’t stupid. I know that.”

“It’s not that simple,” Kerry tried.

“To me it is. You said it yourself: Y’all hated each other. Then your ex-husband threw her ass out on the street after she had a miscarriage and you and the broad got all chummy just because you gave her a couple of dollars so she could get a hotel room. Then your ex-husband ends up dead while she’s still married to him and she’s got all his money and is living up in his house and running the business you partially own. But you think she rushing to get you out of jail? You believe that?” Garcia-Bell paused and looked at Kerry with a friend’s concern in her eyes. “Please say you don’t. I mean, maybe you want to believe it because she the only card you got to play, but wanting to believe it and actually believing it—that’s got to be different things.”

Tears returned to Kerry’s eyes. A lump in her throat obstructed any response to Garcia-Bell’s damning assessment.

Garcia-Bell sighed and cursed herself inside for opening her mouth. “I’m sorry,” she said, bending down to look at Kerry. “Look, don’t stay in this cell. Get out until lights-out and if you need anything, you holler for me.” She looked into Kerry’s eyes and kissed her on the lips quickly before walking out.

Save the guards and guns and jumpsuits and poorly selected paint, visiting day at the women’s jail in Fulton County might look like it was a family reunion or big birthday party. Children and grandparents were everywhere. Babies being burped over the shoulders of mothers who were strangers, husbands sneaking in kisses. Aging parents begging their daughters to do it right the next time she got out. Sons and daughters, silent but hopeful, some still young enough to think Mommy was away studying at college and led to believe this place with cinder-block walls and bars was a dormitory and not a jail. And it could look like that. It was a women’s jail, so the guards kind of pushed back when the families came to visit. With too many limitations the women could become bothered and act up later unnecessarily, so the warden—whose mother had been locked up for writing bad checks when she was just seven years old—told the guards to keep a close eye, but not pry. The women were prisoners. Not their families.

The day after the incident in the cafeteria, Kerry was actually surprised when one of the guards showed up at her cell to announce that she had visitors waiting. She hadn’t seen anyone in three weeks. She kept calling Val, but there was no answer. Even her lawyer seemed extra busy whenever Kerry got through. After her divorce, her best friend Marcy had been in Haiti working with Nurses Without Borders for months. While she promised to be at her Spelman sister’s side as soon as her contract was up and she was stateside, the village where Marcy was assigned had few working phones and the mail system was spotty at best. And Kerry’s mother? Well, Thirjane was no jailhouse regular—even with her daughter there. That’s why Kerry was surprised a second time when she got to the visitation

room and found Thirjane sitting in there on a bench. Tyrian was beside her, looking down at his feet. Thirjane placed her hand on his knee when she saw Kerry walking toward them with her hand over her mouth, like she was already holding back a cry.

Tyrian looked up and bolted for his mother like she was running in the other direction and he needed to catch up.

While this wasn’t an uncommon scene in the visitation room, where over fifty inmates were sitting with their families, most everyone paused to get a look at the reunion. This wasn’t just any seven-year-old son greeting his mother. It was the dead mayor’s fatherless child wrapping his arms around the murderous ex-wife, who half of them believed was a woman scorned—and . . . well . . . hell hath no fury . . .

Kerry got down on her knees and let her only baby smash right into her with his arms open. He nearly knocked her over and certainly knocked the wind out of her, but she was grateful for the intensity of the greeting. She’d need to hold on to that feeling for as long as she could.

“I love you,” she whispered into Tyrian’s ear once she wrapped her arms around him. “I love you so much.” Saying she missed him always sounded like a given when she was coming up with something to say to Tyrian, during the few times her mother had brought the boy to the jail. She decided she’d go with the one thing she wanted him to think of when he was away from her: that she loved him.

She backed up and looked him over. Saw how much he’d grown. Those front teeth were almost back in place now and he was so much taller, had long arms and legs. Kerry touched them like maybe they were fake. She thought of Jamison. How he’d feel seeing Tyrian looking like this, becoming a little man-child. The tears she’d promised she wouldn’t let loose were rolling down her cheeks.

“What’s wrong, Mama?” Tyrian asked like he’d done something wrong.

“Nothing, baby. You’re just all grown up. Getting so big and tall,” Kerry said as they walked to the bench and table where Thirjane was waiting.

“You always say that, Mama. But I ain’t taller. I’m the same,” Tyrian said.

“No, you’re growing. You just can’t tell because you see yourself all the time. It’s perspective,” Kerry said.

“Perspective?” he asked.

“It means point of view—like how you see something or someone is based on your point of view,” Kerry replied, stopping in front of her mother.

Thirjane stayed seated in her red St. John’s suit. Her quilted Chanel purse was on her lap, her hands clasped over the top. She snapped, “It’s not ain’t, Tyrian. That’s not proper English. I told you to stop using that slang.”

“Sorry, Nana,” Tyrian mumbled, sitting down beside her.

“Hello to you too, Mama,” Kerry said, bending down to kiss her mother. Through thirty-five years of trial and error, she knew better than to be upset that Thirjane didn’t run toward her with open arms, saying how much she’d missed her daughter in the month since she’d been to see her. This was Thirjane Jackson. All old black money, blue-vein Atlanta. She was the kind of Southern belle who likely had a silk handkerchief with her initials stitched into it in her purse. She was the kind of Southern belle who took pride in openly revealing that she had no idea on God’s green Earth where a motel, crackhouse, or jailhouse might be located. Now, here she was, visiting her only child in a jailhouse, and everybody knew it.

Kerry kissed her on the cheek and she pretended to do the same, but really only kissed the air. She’d begged her daughter not to marry that Jamison Taylor boy. He wasn’t even a real Morehouse man like Kerry’s father had been—not with having only gone to the school because he lucked up on a full scholarship. That wasn’t good breeding. That was a handout—a hand down. Who were his people? She never forgave Kerry for marrying him and the current situation seemed like punishment for both of them for that one betrayal.