The January Girl Page 3

  “I did that already,” he said with controlled anger. “Look around you, sweetness.”

  “Fuck this damn house! Maybe I should march along Peachtree Street, wearing a sandwich board that says ‘Cat for Sale’!”

  “Do what you have to do. I didn’t force you to pull hundred-hour weeks or volunteer like a storm trooper for Sloane’s campaign.”

  “Oh, now I’m to blame?” she sneered.

  On a rare occasion when Mr. Elijah, his favorite bartender, said a narrow word edgewise, he told Jack the story of two farmers, one coming to visit the other on an especially hot summer day. A hound dog lay on the plank wood decking howling as if being tortured with a hot poker.

  “What’s wrong with your hound?” the visitor asked.

  The dog’s owner kept sipping a tall, cold glass of iced tea, seemingly unbothered by his dog’s constant wails and moans.

  “Her belly is perched on a bent rusty nail,” the farmer replied finally. “That dern nail is digging her in her side.”

  Still the dog wailed as if Jesus himself had forsaken her.

  A short time later, the first farmer’s family returned from church. The visitor thought for certain the wife or one of the towheaded children would stop and take at least a bit of pity on the aging mutt. All entered the house without so much as taking a second look at the crying hound. The visitor was perplexed, but he’d seen enough.

  “Well, why don’t she just get up? She can walk, can’t she?” he pressed.

  The farmer sighed deeply, but said nothing until the visitor begged for an answer. The farmer looked at his neighbor curiously and said, “Yeah, she can walk sure enough. She’s got four able legs. And I imagine she could get on along if she wanted to. But I guess it don’t bother her enough.”

  Thandy was on her feet now. With her fists thrust down to her sides, she continued to demand the truth. Jack was thinking about the wailing dog and Thandy’s pouting was starting to feel like a bent, rusty nail. He wanted a shower and a fresh pair of trousers. She was still screaming an unintelligible list of demands when he got up from the bed. He had gotten no farther than the Italian-stone-tiled bathroom floor—the very floor that had been installed after he demanded that the cheap linoleum, which didn’t meet his standards, be ripped up and replaced—when her fists came crashing down on his back like a roll of thunder before a hard rain.

  “You bastard!” she shouted, beating her clenched hands against his back. “I’m not even worth a good lie! Get out! You fucking bastard! Get out!”

  He turned, pushed through the wave of falling fists, and grabbed her shoulders tight. She shook violently. He embraced her whole body. They fell to the floor before she stilled. Pinning her to the stonework, he stared into her face.

  “Look what you’ve done,” she said. “Look what you’ve done to me,” she cried. She could hardly breathe.

  “We cannot live this way. I won’t live this way,” he said softly. “But there is no one else, Thandy. This isn’t about you. It isn’t about me. It’s about us.” He tried to console her.

  She held his life in her hands. He half hoped she wouldn’t show up in divorce court as a plaintiff’s witness. The others could be explained away, but ten years with a woman like Thandy and any judge worth his salt would strip him of everything he owned.

  “Etienne would just love it if you walked away. That’s why she called, baby. She wanted this to happen. She’ll do anything to tear us apart.”

  “What do you want from me?” she cried. “I can’t do this anymore.”

  “You didn’t tell her anything, did you?”

  “Nothing she didn’t already know.”

  “I just want us,” he lied. “You have to know that,” he said as he stroked her hair.

  “But there is no us,” she whimpered. “It’s just you and everything else. When will I be enough? When will I get to be first?”

  “You’re first every day,” he said.

  “I’m not enough for you,” she whispered. “I never have been.”

  “You don’t believe that,” he said. “You are my first and my last,” he said, kissing her face.

  He lifted her and the unfortunate pack of lies up and into the cradle of his arms, then carried them back to the bed. Jack adjusted a pillow beneath her head and covered her with a knitted afghan. She wanted something he couldn’t give her.

  “If you must know, I did go to the conference,” he said. “But there was no one with me. I went alone,” he lied. “I needed some space.”

  “I thought you wanted me in your space,” she said softly. “When did you stop needing me?”

  He sat at her side with his head in his hands. What exactly did she expect from him? She had a million-dollar condo, and a brand-new SLK 350 was parked in the deck. Whatever she was to him, he had paid for it in full.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Two weeks later, after at first believing she had simmered down and come to her senses, he grew desperate and started ringing her phone off the hook. On the drive to work one morning, he decided to try one last time. The phones, all of them, had been disconnected. Their mutual best friend, Sloane Faulkner, delivered the news when Jack called him from the office.

  “Bruh, didn’t you get her messages?” Sloane asked. “Get me off this speaker phone.”

  “What messages?” he asked, picking up the line, distracted by his charts.

  “Thandy said she left several, but you didn’t return them.”

  Sloane had been their only friend, the only one who knew the full of their relationship and understood.

  “Man, I’ve been running back and forth to the hospital. I’ve had three surgeries today. Besides, after that trip to Barbados, ‘Etty the Terrible’ has me on lockdown and I think I’m being followed.”

  He couldn’t be certain of that, but he’d put nothing past Etienne.

  “Thandy was pissed off, but she’ll cool down. I’ll take her someplace nice and she’ll forget all about it. That’s just the way of it.”

  “You told them you went down there with Angel?”

  “Are you kidding? The first rule is to deny. The second rule is to deny. And the third one is—”

  “I know. Deny,” Sloane said with disapproval lacing his words.

  “I don’t know how Etienne found out. Hell, she never said shit to me about it. But Thandy said Etienne called her.”

  “You’re shitting me?”

  Jack swiveled his chair to look out the window. “No, by the time I got over to the condo she was ready to kick my ass.”

  “Lord, Lord, Lord. Doc, when are you going to figure out what you’ve got? Thandy is some kind of special. You’re a fool to let her go.”

  “Special? That girl nearly tore my eyes out. Look, I’ve got one more in surgery before I can close out the day,” he said, turning to a thick stack of medical charts. “Then I gotta get home. Etienne’s got quite a show going on right now. The next thing you know she’ll be making me blueberry pancakes dressed in a red corset, fishnets, and stilettos.”

  Jack looked at his watch. He had less than ten minutes to scrub for the next procedure. The charge nurse threw him silent signals that it was time. Jack ignored her. He shifted his weight to his left foot and blew out a gust.

  “Jack, this is me you’re talking to. You aren’t going to let her walk out like that, are you? Remember, this ain’t no casual honey dip we’re talking about.”

  “Who says it’s not?” He sighed. “If she wants to act like the rest of them, then let’s see if she can live with the consequences. I can’t afford to waste my time thinking about it.”

  “Are you trying to convince me or you? I don’t know a man on this planet who’d let her walk out. I certainly wouldn’t.”

  The nurse shoved another chart under his nose. Jack twirled his eyes around the iridescent lights in the ceiling and said, “Then you go get her. I don’t have time for all that drama.”

  “Angel is that good, huh?”

  “I’m not sa
ying that, but I’m not signing up for another war. As for Angel, she’s the honey dip, something to break up the monotony. Nothing complicated. She just screws my brains out and I go home.”

  Sloane took a deep breath and said, “Listen, Doc. I didn’t want to be the one to tell you, but Thandy is going to Chicago.”

  “So?”

  Ninety-nine problems but a bitch ain’t one!

  “She’s moving,” Sloane said. “It’s for good. She got some big job with some big firm. She said she isn’t coming back.”

  Jack was silent at first. He stopped fumbling through the charts and tossed up a single finger to the nurse who was pacing the station. One minute.

  “I don’t know what she told you, but Thandywaye Malone isn’t leaving me, man. She can’t. I know that girl better than she knows herself.”

  Jack reared back in his chair. “She could stand to grow up. She can’t go running off every time the breeze doesn’t blow her way. She knows what she signed up for. I was married the day she met me.”

  “Ten years is a long time.”

  “Now you’re on her side? What did she expect? I can’t just walk away from my house. I just can’t up and leave my sons.”

  “People get divorced every day of the week.”

  “I’m trying to do right by my family.”

  “And you think that means letting your wife drink herself to death?”

  “When’d you start giving a shit about Etienne?” Jack said, feeling himself get heated. “I’m going to ask you one more time: Whose side are you on?”

  “You didn’t know she was gone, did you?”

  Jack was silent.

  “How long has it been since you’ve talked to her?” Sloane asked.

  “Two weeks. Maybe a little longer.”

  “Don’t be a fool, Jack. Go get yourself a copy of the New York Times.”

  “For what?”

  “Just take a look at the business section.”

  “Is there a new voter poll out? What do the numbers look like today?” he said, referring to the upcoming governor’s race.

  “You know I never listen to the numbers. I run every day like I’m coming from behind. I’m giving it all I’ve got.”

  “You’re going to be Georgia’s first black governor.”

  “From your lips to God’s ears. But you get yourself a copy of the paper.”

  Jack spent the next three hours resecting a dime-sized growth from Mr. Kilpatrick’s neck. The surgery would not likely spare his patient’s life and this troubled Jack even more than Thandy’s departure. The squamous cell carcinoma had metastasized into the lining of his mouth, nose, and throat. Kilpatrick had two or three months if he was lucky. Removing the growth would at least make it easier for him to breathe. Whenever the earth shifted under his feet, Jack buried himself in his work.

  Jack almost forgot about buying the newspaper. He went down to the gift shop and bought a copy just before closing time. There on the front page of the business section was a color photo of Thandy dressed in an ivory St. John suit with her arms folded across her chest like she was Queen of the Known Universe. Jack read the entire story twice before he got to the elevator. When the door opened onto the parking deck, Jack broke out running. Out of breath, he hopped into his car, gunned the engine, and sped out of the lot.

  She was already gone.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  She rose just before dawn. The spot beside her was empty. Again. She never wanted to get used to being without him. He was and always would be the love of her life. Pulling her perfectly manicured toes to the floor, she felt the boards shift and creak beneath her feet. Save for the dull ache in her brow, there was nothing left of the martini dinner. She clung to the bedsheets, something to hold on to. Something that didn’t move. She was afraid now, more so than she’d ever been. Whatever she was, Jack wanted no part of it. In that instant, Etienne knew there was nothing she could do about that. She suddenly felt old, used up.

  “Mommy! Mommy,” she heard Jacob call from down the hall. The French doors burst open. Her son stood there in his stocking feet, wearing his favorite Spider Man pajamas. “Are you hungry?” he asked. “Senora Perez said breakfast is ready.”

  “Mommy isn’t hungry,” she answered. “Come here, baby.” She reached out her arms and Jacob leaped inside. He was warm. She began to rock him. The tears began to fall.

  “Are you okay, Mommy?”

  “Yes, baby.”

  “Then why are you crying? You’re sad.”

  “No, baby. Mommy isn’t sad. Just a little tired, that’s all.”

  She pulled him in closer and smiled. “Go on downstairs and eat, Jacob. Mommy will be down in a little while.”

  She remained there, sitting on the side of the bed, as Jacob scurried back into the hall and bounced down the rear stairs. She rose and locked the bedroom door.

  Just when she thought her life couldn’t get any worse, she heard the knob wiggle.

  “Are you going to let me in, or what?” Jack said. He knocked on the door. “E., open this door.”

  She wiped her face with the corner of a sheet.

  “Don’t make me knock this door down,” he grumbled.

  “Ass-HOLE,” she said through clenched teeth as she unlocked the door.

  Jack pushed his way in. Etienne held her ground, blocking his path into the bedroom. “You should’ve stayed wherever you were, with whomever you were with.”

  He drew back his hand and swung, stopping midair. She flinched. Her arms instinctively crossed over her head. Etienne’s eyes widened with fear. His face softened.

  “Etienne, you’re my wife,” he said, evenly but firmly. “Do not talk to me like that ever again. Ever.” She kept waiting for him to hit her. He didn’t. “You remember something: This is my house. If anybody leaves here, it will be you.”

  Jack went to shower. She waited patiently in the main room for him to finish. After a cool shower and nearly thirty minutes searching for the right suit, she dressed, went down to the kitchen to kiss the boys good-bye, and headed off to the lawyer’s office.

  Etienne didn’t stay long, just long enough to tell Wynn Finlayson what she’d found out. She carried with her a mound of cell phone statements and flight itineraries. There was a disk of photographs taken by the wily private investigator who had agreed to payment in cash. “You don’t need to meet me,” she’d told him. She’d written the assignment on an index card. The instructions and money were delivered by her best friend, Gail. Within three weeks, the detective had called back to say he had everything she needed.

  The pictures were devastating. Jack coming and going with various women, one more than the others. There were pictures from Barbados, airline tickets, and documented visits to local motels. According to the investigator, at least two of Jack’s affairs were still in full swing.

  She sat across from Finlayson and retold the story as best she could. Growing more distraught with every word, she sucked in mouthfuls of air. “I can’t believe he would do this to me!” she shrieked. “To our sons!”

  As she rose to leave, Finlayson made Etienne promise to take better care of herself. “I don’t want a divorce,” Etienne said. “I want my husband.”

  “I cannot make this decision for you,” Finlayson said. “I’ll be here when you’re ready.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  They left day before yesterday, Doc,” the doorman said. “The moving van pulled out of here this morning.”

  The doorman discreetly folded the hundred-dollar bill and slipped it in the breast coat pocket of his suit jacket. He reached into the bell stand, handed Jack the sealed envelope and a set of car keys Thandy had left for him. She’d known he would come.

  “She left this for you.”

  Jack thanked the doorman and left. He got in his car and opened it. Inside were the deed to the condominium and a notarized quitclaim deed, transferring her share of the ownership back to him, and a certified check for the estimated rent she would have p
aid had it not been a gift. Thandy was giving back the house free and clear. On a Post-it note she had scribbled the words “Thank you.” The condo and the car, which was left parked in the garage, had been gifts—gifts she no longer wanted.

  Jack went home, back to the cellar. He sat in a Victorian walnut nursing chair. He leaned back on the cabriole legs, weighing what was left of his life. His mind welled with a deep fog of regret and longing for something he could not name. He settled farther into the chair, stretching his lengthy legs out before him. The full of his life cascaded down like a rushing waterfall. The century-old chair that had once graced the upper parlor was still sturdy, if not a bit dusty from its decades-long abandonment in the cellar.

  He scanned the dim room, lit only by a trail of light from the top of the staircase. The Crosley entertainer he had loved as a boy collected dust atop a satinwood demilune table. He wondered if the record player still worked and set about looking for the stack of 78 rpm albums he knew for certain his father had saved. He found the cache of records, in their original sleeves, neatly stacked in a box beneath a lowboy. He selected one of the LPs, blew away the dust, wiped what remained with his handkerchief, and placed it on the turntable. He dug into his pockets for change. He plucked out three nickels and stacked them carefully on the arm to hold it steady, lest the recording skip. His father had taught him the trick when he was a boy.

  Billy Eckstine’s rich warm baritone voice floated from the speaker. I wanna be loved with inspiration . . .

  It was better that Thandy had gone, he thought. Better for her. Better for him, he tried to convince himself. Jack explored the room for still more forgotten treasures, kicking back cobwebs and tossing back white sheets that covered antique furniture. He found a silver three-armed candelabrum and lit the wicks to aid his sight. His favorite baseball bat leaned against the wall. Running his fingers along the wood, he remembered every nick and scratch. It was the very bat he had used to belt a three-run homer over the wall at Piedmont Park in the summer of 1973. As the ball sailed beyond the east field, the little brown boys rounded the bases. His parents cheered from the wooden bleachers as Jack stomped his feet on home plate.