His Third Wife

“Why? I don’t ask you who you’re dating.” Jamison held up his hands. “We don’t play that game. Right?”

“But I have a right to know who’s around my son. And I don’t like her or want her around my son.”

“She wouldn’t do anything to Tyrian and you know that.”

“No, I don’t.” Kerry retorted.

“Yes, you do. You’re just being—” Jamison knew better than to finish his statement. Any way he could conclude his idea would lead to an argument. And there were only so many books Tyrian could fit into his backpack before the child realized something was up.

“I’m being what?” Kerry pushed.

“Just being difficult—that’s all I was going to say,” Jamison settled on.

“I’m being responsible. I’m being a parent.” This was a jab right in the jaw—a slap in the face that needed no hand.

“So, now you’re calling me a bad father?”

“Two days twice a month and I’m supposed to call you a good father? What happened to you taking him to karate on Wednesdays? Coming to tuck him in on Mondays? I give you the opportunity to see your son and you just can’t make any—”

“My time is just limited. You know I love my son!” Jamison stopped and lowered his voice. “Don’t go there.”

“Love and time are two different things. And soon, just saying you love him won’t be enough to show up and be a superhero every time.”

The words crashed into Jamison’s face a little harder than Kerry had intended. Later, she’d remind herself that outcome was the problem with slapping someone with words—you never knew how hard it would hurt.

“Daddy, come pick out a book with me. I can’t decide between Brothers of the Knight or Joshua’s Masai Mask!” Tyrian called down to his father at such a time that it seemed he could feel his father’s pain from upstairs.

Jamison bit his lip and looked at Kerry hard before heading up to their son’s room. He’d deserved that hit. He’d expected it. But that didn’t mean it hadn’t hurt.

Al Green was talking about something when he sang “Love and Happiness.” It can make you do wrong and make you do right. He should’ve followed up with “Pain and Regret” though, for a little bit of irony, because they seemed to have the same effect. And most assuredly, pain and regret will follow Al Green’s love and happiness. They devour them. Eat them whole and spit them out on a war field where there are no rules of battle. Pain and regret make everything ugly. Made me ugly. Made Jamison ugly. Two people who had been dancing to Al Green what seemed like minutes before were now ugly and raw and vengeful like the devil himself . . . and all over one thing . . . a divorce.

Anyone who’s been there knows. It’s like an endless night that drags you into darkness, and all over a simple piece of paper that signifies the dissolution of something you ought to have known would end—love and happiness. Marriage.

And who were we then? I was new. Unarmed. Blissfully naïve. Open and available.

Jamison was the same. An empty cup. An unlit candle.

We ignored everything anyone had to say. His own mother. My own mother.

We created our love and happiness on top of sand. And when the tide water came in to claim our fickle ground, we emerged from either side of what was left of our marriage with hearts wrapped in alli

gator skin and fish scales covering our eyes.

He cheated. I took him back. He cheated again. I wished him dead and took half of everything he owned. It was mine too. I’d helped him build it.

I left the battlefield and tried to rebuild again.

But now I don’t believe in love and happiness anymore, I don’t think.

I don’t go to weddings. I gave myself permission to stay at home and watch television. Maybe go to the yoga studio. I just couldn’t resist the urge anymore to run up to the bride and groom and warn them of the war coming in the wind. How pain and regret would outplay Al Green. And love and happiness would become a shadow.

I first met Val one rainy Monday morning when I stopped by Jamison’s office downtown. Tyrian had promised his teacher his father, the mayor of Atlanta, would come speak at their school’s town hall meeting. The only problem was the mayor had no idea about the meeting and though he agreed to do it at the last minute, I was left doing all the running around to make sure things went smoothly and Tyrian got to be proud of his dad again—plus he hadn’t seen Jamison in three weeks.

I stopped by the office to pick up a letter from Jamison stating any security details or program desires he needed for the town hall meeting. Val was sitting at a desk looking at her fingernails when I walked in.

She smiled weakly. Asked my name, though I was sure from her glance that she knew exactly who I was. She didn’t have to lean over in her seat for me to see the thin strip of flesh that trailed the part between her fake breasts. She was wearing a red dress with red nails and red lipstick. So obvious. Her computer screen was off. Her cell phone was on her desk. A blue screen let me know she was on Facebook.

“He didn’t leave anything for you,” she said with pretend urgency after I explained that I was there to pick up a letter. “But you can run along and I’ll make sure he gets back to you when he returns to the office. I’ll email the letter myself.”