Dissolution
J.L. Campbell
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2011 by J.L. Campbell
Nevaeh Publishing, LLC
P.O. Box 962
Redan, GA 30074-0962
Dissolution. Copyright © 2011 by J.L. Campbell. All rights reserved. No part of this e-book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages to be included in a review.
All characters, names, descriptions and traits are products of the author’s imagination. Similarities to actual people – living or dead – are purely coincidental.
Cover Design: Alex Johnson III
Interior Design: Pittershawn Palmer
Editor: Dwan Abrams
ISBN-13: 978-0-9787899-7-8
ISBN-10: 0-9787899-7-0
Acknowledgments
Diana Hockley and Alan Sugano, my beta readers, offered invaluable advice and guidance that helped mold Dissolution into a story I’m proud to have written.
Tawanda Gregory-Johnson, Melecia Walters, and Kamika Williams-McKellop, my friends, sisters, and guinea pigs, read not only as wives and mothers, but with an eye to keeping things real from a Jamaican perspective.
As always, my writing pals make the journey a little less lonely and a lot more interesting. Thanks to Michael Amrein, Nathan B. Childs, Donna (DCP62), Susan Etheridge, Caroline Kellems, Sybil Nelson, Chris Stralyn, and Patti-Anne Yaeger.
Detective Constable Carlos Ellington and Officer Michael Lawrence put up with my questions to do with police procedures, and the Jamaican justice system.
Desreen Miller, enrolled nurse, guidance counselor, and social worker, offered insight into the challenges our youth face every day, as well as their coping mechanisms.
The novel is that much richer for all your input.
Despite being missing-in-action so many times while writing and editing, I still have a supportive family. Thanks for putting up with my frequent absenteeism, even when we share the same space.
I am all too aware that on my own I can do nothing, but that all things are possible through Christ, who strengthens me.
Chapter One
Sherryn wanted to close the door on the proof of her husband’s infidelity, but there was no going back.
She avoided looking at the child in front of her, whose cupid’s bow of a mouth and tawny eyes confirmed that he shared the same genes as her children. But the similarity ended there—his ashy skin, underweight body, and wash-worn clothes pointed to a lack of concern for his well-being and appearance. The woman with him smiled—a smug grimace that confirmed Sherryn’s unspoken suspicion of his parentage.
Sherryn did not hide her distaste at the sight of the snug tank top holding in a belly about to surge out of control, or the denim skirt that did little to cover a pair of lumpy thighs. A lustrous, blonde weave complemented the woman’s caramel complexion, and false eyelashes emphasized the spite in her gaze.
A quick scan tagged her as the stereotypical product of one of Kingston’s ghettos. For timeless seconds, Sherryn felt as though she was stuck in an early 1900s silent film. The wind stirred the flowers and shrubs in the front yard, dried leaves blew over the lawn, and a car passed by, but she heard nothing.
Then the dancehall queen look-alike pushed the little boy forward, dragging Sherryn back to the unthinkable scene unfolding on her doorstep. “Tell Maurice him can have him pickney.”
Sherryn suppressed a shiver by pulling her shoulders back. She stood tall, squeezing the doorknob as a shipwreck victim might cling to a life-saving piece of flotsam. After a glance at the boy, she whispered, “Oh no, you’re not leaving him here!”
“You ca’an decide dat. Since Maurice won’ take care of him, him can keep him.”
The woman dropped a knapsack and spun away with an exaggerated wiggle of the hips and the jangling of gold-plated jewelry, to saunter down the driveway to the gate, where a marked taxi waited.
Ghetto rat! Why leave her child on my doorstep like unwanted baggage?
The boy’s bottom lip trembled and he blinked hard several times. Sherryn’s chest heaved, and she struggled to slow her breathing. It wouldn’t help either of them if she fell apart. Pressing her lips together to keep her focus, she picked up the threadbare knapsack and touched his shoulder. “Come with me.”
She left him sitting on the sofa inside Reece’s office; over the years, Maurice had been shortened to Reece. She had spent half her life with a man she doubted she would ever really know, and here again, was proof.
The purpose for leaving the boy in Reece’s study was twofold. Firstly, he was hidden from her, as if he didn’t exist and secondly, Reece’s world would spin off its axis—just as hers had—to find his secret tucked away in his private space. She hoped the experience turned out to be as gut wrenching and devastating as hers.
In the living room, she perched on the edge of the settee and hugged herself. She tilted her head back and stared at the high ceiling. Then she skimmed the familiar paintings, family portraits and oddments, absorbing all that meant home and family. Everything she’d invested in her relationship with Reece lay in invisible pieces around her like shattered glass.
Cold and sterile on the inside, she sighed, forced herself to get up and climb the stairs to their bedroom. Once there, she lay down and allowed the tears to fall, searing her sinuses and then her eyes. Other than anxiety over her children when they were ill, and surreptitious tears shed while watching sad movies, no drama had touched her life.
And now this.
She wasn’t sure how much time passed before she heard Reece’s Jeep throttling in the yard. He was home on one of his random mid-afternoon stopovers. Her heart thumped painfully at the confrontation to come. She hurried into the bathroom to wash her face, staring into her dull eyes before returning to sit on the bed, facing the doorway. She ran an unsteady hand over her close-cropped hair and glanced at her watch, surprised to find that two hours had slipped away since she answered that fateful knock at the door. Briefly, she spared a thought for the boy. He must be hungry.
Concern fled as Reece bounded up the stairs, calling her name. The door opened, and the energetic man at the center of her world entered the room. He crossed the patterned tiles in a few steps. “Sher, you never hear me calling you?”
She met his eyes, sure her expression would tell him something had gone wrong.
“Sherryn, what happen’?”
She stood up, willing herself not to scream or lash out at him for destroying her near-perfect life. Instead, she said, “It’s not what, but who.”
He attempted to touch her, but she edged away, ignoring the hurt and puzzlement in his darkening eyes.
“Come downstairs,” she said, not waiting to see if he followed.
His footsteps fell heavy on the wooden tread behind her.
Sherryn blinked hard to prevent fresh tears from forming as she turned left at the bottom of the stairs. She paused outside his study and sucked in her belly to pull herself upright. Then she turned the knob on the door and it swung inward to reveal the boy curled up on the settee. He was asleep with a thumb in his mouth. She pushed sympathy aside and composed herself. Reece’s breath bathed the back of her neck, and he grunted in what she supposed could only be surprise.
She faced him and spoke to his pinstripe shirt through the obstruction in her throat. “Don’ bother say anything; I don’t want to know.”
She brushed past him, and on the way out of the house, picked up her keys from the table in the hallway.
* * *
Reece sensed that whatever lay inside his study meant the end of eighteen years of happiness.
Sherryn opened the door, sending shockwaves pulsing across his brain. The result of one regrettable encounter lay asleep on his couch.
Now he understood her coldness. Panic forced sweat out through his pores and Reece wiped a sleeve across his forehead. He kept his mouth shut. Anything he said would make little sense and serve to tee Sherryn off, but he swore in his mind to kill that piece of trash, Gloria. She’d done this deliberately, because he refused to play along with her latest bit of blackmail.
Hoping he was trapped in a bad dream, he gasped, then rubbed a hand over his mouth, while his stomach churned.
Sherryn mumbled indistinct words and glared at him with glittering eyes before hurrying out of the house.
That was no dream.
Sure he would go mad, Reece stalked around the massive desk, along the edges of the carpet, past the bookshelves and the sofa. He refused to think about the implications of the child’s presence, thereby avoiding thoughts of losing Sherryn. He couldn’t face that possibility. Death was better than forfeiting his home and family.
He sank into the executive chair, his heart beating a heavy tattoo in his chest. The discomfort was such, he wondered if he was having a heart attack.
Moving at the speed of an old man, he dragged himself out of the seat to pace aimlessly, his mind a blank whiteboard. The enormity of the situation left him numb; he couldn’t think. What was he going to do? The boy stirred, rubbed small hands over his eyes and pulled himself upright.
Unable to contain his resentment, Reece glowered at him. The child shrank into the settee, his knees drawn up to his chest. Reece wanted to tell him to get his sneakers off the sofa, but instead shut his eyes to calm himself and get rid of the frown he wore. None of this was the boy’s fault. He, Reece Allbright, was the stupid adult who had created the current mess in a moment of drunken weakness.
Intuition had warned him a hundred times since the boy’s birth that this day would come—for all his wishing it wouldn’t. The day had arrived, taking him by storm and leaving him with a sense of powerlessness he hadn’t felt in more years than he cared to remember. He tried to root himself in the present by running a hand over his prickly chin. His voice was loud in the silence.
“You hungry?”
The boy shied away, looking ready to dart off and hide, but he nodded.
“Come.”
They walked down the passage and through the dining room, which adjoined the kitchen. There, further dread settled over Reece at the sight of a fire engine on one of the tiled counters. He stared at his son—he had no doubt the boy was his—and tried to work out what he was going to tell his other children. His stomach clenched again, for he had no solution.
“Sit down.”
Reece made a tuna sandwich and placed it in front of the child he wished had never been born.
The boy crammed the food into his mouth, apparently too hungry to remember his fear. On the way back from the refrigerator with a glass of apple juice, an idea hit Reece. He’d take the child back to the tenement yard where Gloria lived before his kids got home and started asking questions. Justin, his eldest, would take one look at him and know he was a relative. Disappointment and hurt were sure to come, if he did nothing to derail Gloria’s plan.
Disgusted with himself for his cowardly approach, Reece flung a napkin at the boy. “Wipe yuh hand and mouth and come.”
He grabbed the knapsack from his office and rushed out the door with his sixth offspring.
* * *
Sherryn adjusted the mirror to get a better view of the kids in the back of the van. She had just completed her rounds and picked them up from their schools.
Sixteen-year-old Justin had Melaine, his thirteen-year-old sister, in a headlock. Their younger sibling, eleven-year-old Celia, had her face hidden in a book, while Kyle—the baby at three-years-old—chattered non-stop to himself in the car seat. Brandon, who was super-mature for his six years, played a video game in the passenger seat beside her.
Her insides ached as though a debilitating disease had ravaged her. What had possessed her to accede to Reece’s wish to have so many children? And if she didn’t stand strong, he wanted to round out the family with a sixth Allbright. Her lip curled in disgust. He had obviously made time to complete his family elsewhere.
Reece had no relatives worth staying in touch with, so together they had fulfilled his desire to have a complete family unit. One corner of her mouth twitched at his single-mindedness, but what was there to be amused about? The joke was clearly on her.
What am I going to do?
Kyle, catching her eye in the mirror, giggled and hid behind his fingers. In return, she made a funny face. He laughed—a joyous sound that pushed away the unpleasant thoughts.
She didn’t regret giving any of them life. They were good kids. Their father was the one who had wrecked everything. Images of Reece naked with that woman flooded her mind, filling her vision. How many times had he been in her bed over the years? Did he love her?
She forced herself to focus on the road when Brandon, along with his brothers and sisters, shouted, “Mom!”
She’d missed hitting another passenger van by inches.
“Oh, God,” she whispered. “Sorry kids!” she threw over her shoulder, and ignored the string of swear words the wronged motorist hurled at her.
She whispered a prayer of thanks, only to see two police officers riding up behind them. One pulled alongside the van and pointed toward the sidewalk. Sherryn parked and reached for her license and registration, hoping to avoid a ticket. The heat of the afternoon sun intensified with the van at a standstill. She swiped at her forehead as sweat covered her skin.
The officer got off his bike and crowded the window, peering inside the vehicle. “Good afternoon, ma’am. You aware you just run the red light?”
Sherryn marshaled her thoughts and hoped the children wouldn’t take her to task for the humdinger of a lie she was about to tell. “Yes, officer. Unfortunately, I wasn’t paying enough attention. I thought something was wrong with the baby.” She pointed to Kyle. “That’s how I ran through the light.” She put on her best penitent expression. “Officer, please. Don’t ticket me. You understand how it is when you have so many children in one vehicle…”
The policeman removed his dark glasses and slipped one of the arms into his mouth, eyeing her from her hair to the jeans covering her legs. In a low voice, he said, “We can sort this out easy, easy. Leave a t’ing wid me and mi partner, nuh?”
Reece would have a fit at what she was about to do, if he knew. But who cared what he thought? She reached down into the space between the two seats and rifled through the handbag for her purse. She pulled out a crisp, blue thousand-dollar note bearing a picture of one of the island’s past Prime Ministers and deftly folded it into the policeman’s hand resting on the window.
“Respec’, ma’am.” He stepped away. “And remember to keep yuh eyes on the road.”
She eased into the traffic and mere seconds passed before Justin exploded. “You shouldn’ give him nutten! Damn thiefin’ police!”
She looked at him in the mirror. He knew how much she disliked when he spoke badly, but he often did it to irritate her. “Excuse me?”
He sat back, grumbling. “Daddy woulda handle him differently, fi real!”
“That’s how they’re teaching you to talk in school these days?”
Refusing to give up, he continued, “Mommy, you know that’s why they harass people on di road. You shouldn’t give him a dollar.”
She sighed. Why did this have to happen today of all days? “Justin, you’re right, and I’m wrong. I shouldn’t have done it, okay? Now, relax.”
Their eyes met in the mirror. “Just don’t say anything to your father.”
He avoided her by squinting at his watch, and she smiled. Justin was unwilling to be in cahoots with her when he could score points with his father. He sprawled on the seat in his khakis, arms folded, defying her in silence. Sherryn stopped watching him, disturbed by how much he favored Reece, but then all their children did. Somehow, they all inherited his amber eyes and the distinctive shape of his mouth. Justin and Brandon also shared the deep bronze undertone of his skin. The others had her dark-honey complexion.
Sherryn gripped the wheel tight to keep her mind on the road, but something occurred to her. If their home was destined to go topsy-turvy, she had some groundwork to do.
“Um, guys.” She glanced behind her. “Your father may have a visitor.”
Brandon raised his head, frowning. “So?”
“Well, he’s a-a relative.”
Justin leaned forward. “You mean like a cousin or something?”
She nodded and chanced a peek in the mirror.
Justin frowned at her. “But, Mommy, where this cousin come from all of a sudden?”
“Your dad will explain,” she said, hoping to stem his questions.
Justin resumed his position, but the taut way he held his body said he wasn’t satisfied.
Sherryn cursed on the inside, wishing she knew how to brace them for the coming upheaval.
Chapter Two
Reece was gone when she returned.
The children spilled out of the van with their belongings, oblivious to her turmoil. She reached in to release Kyle from his seat, grateful for the reprieve. What could she say to Reece? The stuff and nonsense he’d filled her ears with over the years now worked out to be just that.
So much for his promises of never cheating because theirs was a special kind of love. She used to insist he was a man and couldn’t keep his word to himself, much less her, but he swore he had never touched another woman since their marriage. That turned out to be a devastating lie. How many others had he told her?
After eighteen years, their passion for each other was alive as ever—or so she’d thought. With their vibrant love life and hectic family schedule, where had he found time to maintain another relationship? Obviously, he carved some out of his busy days.
Kyle’s hands caught her in the face. She still hadn’t lifted him from the seat.
He struggled to get out. “Mommy?”
“Yes, hon?”
“Want sleep.”
He crawled into her arms and rested his head on her shoulder. She abandoned her mental wandering and took him to the bathroom. In the water, Kyle came to life, darting behind the shower curtain to hide. She teased him, directing the shower spray at his tummy. He squealed, as he did every time they played this game.
After a quick soap and rinse, she wrapped him in a towel and hustled to the room he shared with Brandon. She listened with one ear while he nattered about his day in pre-school and sang the nursery rhyme he’d learned, the desire for sleep forgotten.
Hand-in-hand, they walked to the kitchen, where all the kids congregated as soon as they changed out of uniform. Celia was the exception. She usually grabbed a snack and closeted herself in the bedroom she shared with Melaine. She’d read for most of the afternoon and then have to be reminded to do her homework.
Having settled Kyle with a tuna sandwich—for he currently refused to eat anything else—Sherryn restored order to the kitchen. Miss Emelyn, their household helper, had not come in that day. Her son was in trouble with the law again for beating up his girlfriend. When Sherryn finished wiping the counter, she reminded Justin, Melaine and Brandon to clean up after themselves and Kyle.
In her bedroom, she faced the mirror trying to unclog the pipeline to her brain. She needed some sort of game plan. But what? She didn’t have a clue where to start. She felt like all the other women who had invested their time raising a family, only to find their spouse had moved on to discover new and exciting relationships elsewhere.
She supposed she could be dramatic and throw his things out on the doorstep. But to what end? Did she really want him to leave? Did she want to start over on her own? No. But how could she live with him, knowing he had been in another woman’s bed, spilled his sperm inside her and worst of all, started another family outside of the one he’d promised to love and cherish?
Her eyes smarted and she sniffed, feeling sorry for herself. How long had he been sleeping with that ghetto woman, and without a condom too? What did she give him that he wasn’t getting at home? A chill ran over her skin and anger twisted her features. Though she hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary, she needed to make a doctor’s appointment. What if he’d brought home something more serious than an STD? Something she wouldn’t know about until it was too late?
She sighed. Reece had pulled himself out of the ghetto, but hadn’t lost his taste for the women. She felt like a fool. Humiliated. Didn’t want to see him or talk to him. She couldn’t avoid talking to him forever, but what was there to say?
* * *
Reece battled traffic on Molynes Road, trying to ignore the silent tears the boy cried. As they traveled down Seaward Drive toward Waterhouse, the area started to drag on his spirit. Many a time he wondered how those who lived in the ghetto avoided constant depression. The evidence of poverty was all around – the shacks, the abandoned buildings, the ever-present streams of mucky water, the men hanging about on the street corners.
He glanced at the child huddled against the window. He had no choice but to return him to his mother. However, guilt ate at him, as it had in the five-and-a-half years since the boy’s birth. Reece had little contact with him by choice, but provided money for food and clothing. He suspected the boy wasn’t even in school and that Gloria used his money to support her other two children. She also had a liking for shoes, clothes and synthetic hair. Just like his mother, Cynthia. Thoughts of her further soured his mood.
Truth be told, he hated himself for what he had done to the child strapped in beside him. Gloria lacked the capacity to love. She was hard from the inside out and had always been that way. Ghetto life had toughened her at an early age, stripping away any compassion she might have been born with.
He approached the neighborhood through the nearby complex of factories. He drove with care as the road condition deteriorated the closer he got to Waterhouse. The lanes were populated with a combination of weather-beaten wooden houses and unpainted concrete structures, clustered together behind broken fences.
While navigating the pothole-riddled roads, he wondered why he continued to visit. Those who escaped hadn’t looked back, but he kept returning even after realizing that the so-called friendships he nurtured were mostly one-sided. He dropped money here and there and the men respected him, but Reece knew they were loyal only to themselves. Their gratefulness to him lasted as long as it took to spend his money on another ganja spliff.
The Jeep entered the lane, battened on both sides by zinc fences. He pulled up outside Gloria’s gate, un-strapped his son and lifted him out. The little boy clutched the knapsack and stuck a thumb in his mouth. Reece banged the gate, setting off a cacophony of sound from the band of mongrels inside. The boy shrank behind him when he shoved the gate and it slammed back on its hinges. A half-hearted kick sent the black-and-white pack leader scrambling away, yelping. The others scampered off behind him. It never ceased to puzzle Reece that these people could barely feed themselves, but always had a gang of half-starving dogs.
Reece tramped up to Gloria’s ramshackle house and pounded the door. Nothing moved behind the glass louvers. A sound from the house next to hers stopped his abuse of the plywood door. “She not dere.”
He stepped back and turned toward the frail woman he knew as Miss Ivy. “Weh she deh?”
She squinted at him, her face a network of wrinkles. “She move out today.”
He had to have heard wrong. “Move out?”
“Yeah. She neva say weh she a go, but before she leave, she pack up di two other pickney dem and carry dem go to dem fadda.”
Reece closed his eyes. He was as good as dead.
He wanted to leave the boy with Miss Ivy. She could use the money he’d pay for his son to stay with her; however, she was raising two grandsons who were already members of a gang. Leaving the child there would condemn him to following in their footsteps.
The condition of the yard suddenly registered. Rivulets of water ran over concrete, green with morass. Bits of rubbish blew over the otherwise dusty ground, which was an incubator for germs and hookworms because of the dog feces littering the yard. The smell rose then as if to cement his disgust with the way Gloria chose to live. Shame clogged his throat; he’d thrown money at Gloria and allowed her to keep his son under conditions which none of his other children could imagine.
Resigned to taking the boy back home with him, Reece waved at the woman. “All right. Thanks, Miss Ivy.”
“All right, mi son.”
On impulse, he took out his wallet and gave her a thousand dollar bill. She slipped it into her bosom and showed him a toothless grin. He touched the boy’s shoulder, motioning him forward.
Not daring to think further than the road in front of him, Reece drove home with his newly acquired problem.
He got out of the vehicle in front of their home in Queensborough, leaving the child inside. Reece tilted his head toward the upper floor of the house. The burgundy awnings shaded the bay windows, behind which the drapes were drawn. The verandah between the two bedrooms held the usual crush of African violets, philodendron, and spider plants.
From the driveway, he called Sherryn’s cell phone, hoping she’d talk to him. After an interminable wait she answered, sounding shell shocked. “Yes. What is it?”
“Sher, I’m outside, and I have him with me.” He swallowed. “I can’t find his mother.”
She said nothing.
“Can I bring him inside? I don’t have anywhere else to take him.”
“It’s your house. Do what you want.”
She hung up, leaving him nowhere.
He opened the passenger door, gestured for the boy to climb down, and held him by the shoulder. As they approached the house, Reece prepared himself for the first of many difficult days to come.
Justin lounged on the couch in the living room watching television. “Hey, Dad. Hello, little man. Is this the relative Mommy told us about?”
Reece breathed out through his mouth on a sigh. “Yeah.”
Justin cocked his head and inspected the boy. The wrinkles in his forehead flattened, but suspicion lurked in his eyes. Reece cautioned himself against fighting imaginary problems brought on by guilt.
“I, uh, where are the others?”
Justin avoided him by fixing his attention on the television. “Doin’ homework.”
“Okay. I’m going to get him something to eat.”
Justin’s eyes flicked over them and skimmed away. “Cool.”
Reece guided his son into the kitchen, dragging a hand over his damp face. “You hungry?” he asked for the second time in an hour and a half.
The boy nodded, and Reece fixed another sandwich from the bowl of tuna they kept ready for Kyle in the refrigerator. Clearly, this child didn’t get much to eat.
After he devoured the sandwich, Reece gave him fruit juice and tried to think what to do next. A bath maybe?
“When last you bathe?”
“Yesterday.”
“Come.”
In the bathroom, Reece tossed an order at him. “Tek off yuh clothes.”
After a hunt through the drawers below the counter, Reece found a new rag and soap. He handed them over and sat on the toilet seat. The boy stood in the shower, waiting.
“You ca’an bathe yuhself?”
He shook his head.
Sighing, Reece got up and pointed with his chin. “Gimme dat.”
The child lifted the snake-like showerhead, holding it as though it would bite him. Reece bathed him, told him to dry off, and went to find the knapsack. When he returned, the boy was sitting on the lid of the toilet with beads of water coating his body.
Irritated, Reece barked. “You madda don’ teach yuh to do anythin’ fi yuhself?”
Tears sparkled in his son’s eyes before he lowered them to stare at the floor.
Reece pawed through the bag, ashamed, for he doubted any child of five was as self-sufficient as he expected this boy to be. Annoyed, he upended the bag on the ceramic tiles for easier access.
“What Gloria do wid mi money?” he muttered.
Judging from the meager selection of clothing, the boy owned next to nothing. Apart from the jeans and polo shirt he had worn, there were two other pairs of jeans and tee-shirts, two pairs of shorts, two briefs, and a merino filled with holes. The only footwear was the sneakers and worn out socks Reece had taken off him.
Exasperated, he asked, “You nuh have no more t’ings?”
A small jerk of the head signified no.
Shaking out a pair of shorts, briefs, and a tee-shirt, Reece muttered every expletive that came to his lips and then some. He rammed the items he didn’t need back into the knapsack and hurled it in a corner. Only then did he take note of the boy cowering between the toilet and the shower. He held out the clothes and in a gentler tone than he’d used before, said, “Here, put these on.”
After the child did as instructed, Reece left him in the office and went to find Sherryn. He didn’t know what to say to her, and on the way to their bedroom, nothing came to mind. But as much as he dreaded facing her, he had to voice his outrageous request.
Chapter Three
Sherryn sat in the rocking chair next to the window, her attention fixed on the pale blue and white Plumbago blooms in the front garden. Yesterday, she contemplated their beauty; today their splendor paled beside her problem. The blossoms remained vibrant, but so much had changed. Her life had turned into tilled soil from which Reece had uprooted everything good by his actions.
The door opened, and she sensed his presence. She didn’t turn her head, for the sight of him might throw her off kilter, and she wanted to stay mad at him.
Oh, she was upset, no doubt about that, but she was in no mood to listen to any apologies or the reasons why he’d found himself in some other woman’s bed. If she had no mental image of her competitor, things would have been a hundred times different, but she had a vivid picture of the woman who shared Reece’s body and perhaps his heart.
She took labored breaths, sensing his approach. He stayed beside her for some time, before moving to stand in front of her. She ignored him and finally, he stooped so he was below her eye level. Sherryn pretended he wasn’t there. Long moments slipped by before he sighed and went to sit on the bed. His explanation was raw as the words spilled out.
“Sherryn, I have no excuse. The only thing I can say is that it happened a long time ago.”
Slowly, she said, “It...might be the end.”
Gathering her thoughts she continued, too dazed to question the lethargy that claimed her body. “It’s one thing for a man to cheat on his wife.” She swung her head to stare at him. “And quite another to have the evidence—a real, live human being thrown at her.”
Her words emerged in a low and languid fashion. “She could eventually forget, if there was nothing tangible to tie a man to his adultery, but you, you had to take things to a different level. You had to breed that slut. You led me to believe we had something exceptional, but it clearly wasn’t enough, for you had to start another family. I just hope you can give your other children a good explanation why you couldn’t keep what God gave you in your pants.”
She turned away, unable to bear the sight of him as he examined his hands folded between his legs.
“’Course it never occurred to you that if you caught anything from that ghetto gyal, you’d give it to me too.”
She sucked her bottom lip into her mouth, savoring the blow she was about to land. “You can take a man out of the ghetto, but you can’t take the ghetto out of him.”
If she didn’t expect it, she might not have caught his whole-body twitch—but it was unavoidable, for at forty-three, Reece was still sensitive about his origins. He opened his mouth, and Sherryn lifted a hand to stop him from speaking. “Like I said, I don’t want to know. Not tonight. You’ve had your secret for how many years? Four? Five? Another night of not hearing all the details of your nastiness won’t kill me.”
Puckering her lips, she gave him a ‘so there’ expression. His hunched shoulders and gloominess spiked her temper. She flung restraint aside and scourged him with native Patois she forbade her children from using. “You can tek off the hangdog expression, ’cause dat don’ faze me.”
Rocking gently back and forth, she hung on to her composure. When he called her name, she eyed him with all the hatred burning her insides.
“What you want?”
“Uh, the boy, he’s downstairs.”
“What, your little hood rat don’t want him no more?”
He muttered something she was too incensed to hear. When he repeated himself, she launched out of the chair, arms akimbo. “What di hell you just say, Maurice Antonio Allbright?”
“I took him back to her yard, but she gone. She move out.”
Sherryn’s hands turned into fists, which pressed into her sides. “Mek mi understand dis.” She walked over to stand in front of him. “You,” she said, jabbing him in the forehead with her index finger, “cause dis woman to bring her pickney and leave him on my doorstep and then vanish into thin air. You and she must be mad to hell! I don’ know where him goin’ sleep, but is not in here wid my pickney dem!”
Shaking like a leaf tossed about by a vicious wind, Sherryn hugged herself and moved away from him. The blood pounded in her head, making it impossible to hear, or form a coherent thought. She stopped, having the sensation of standing frozen in the middle of a highway watching an eighteen-wheel trailer about to run her over. Communication resumed between her brain and feet, and she marched to the chair and fell into it with tears scorching her eyes.
This boy was not her child; therefore, he was not supposed to be her problem. Her anger turned to fury. Instead of giving her space to grieve for what she’d lost, her jackass of a husband expected her to find a solution for his indiscretion. She threw her head back. “Jesus in heaven, why me?”
Turning toward Reece, she said, “God know why your last name is Allbright, ’cause I can’t believe you so bright as to want me to do somethin’ ’bout dat unwanted pickney you have downstairs.”
Silence claimed the room, and when she couldn’t take it anymore, Sherryn gave in. “You know what? I’m not heartless, and it’s not the boy fault that him have a loose, irresponsible mother and an oversexed donkey for a father.”
She stomped away, hoping that by some miracle, Reece would jump out the window and kill himself by the time she returned.
She found him in Reece’s office. He leaned in the corner of the settee, sucking his thumb. Fresh scabs and faded spots covered the stick-like legs stretched out before him. His dark knees gave evidence of too much time spent kneeling on the floor. The crinkled blue shorts and washed out tee-shirt typified what old people called ‘less-care’. The boy was in desperate need of attention.
A youthful version of Reece’s face searched hers—wary and frightened. Based on Reece’s account of his early life, it couldn’t be far different from this child’s—an absent father and a mother who couldn’t have cared less whether he lived or died.
She closed the door and approached him. His sober eyes were huge as he watched her. Salt lines from the tears he’d cried left pale paths down his cheeks. He pulled the finger out and propped it on his thigh, as though he didn’t want to get it dirty. A smile tried to break through her anguish, but Sherryn held it at bay.
“What’s your name?”
“Likkle.”
“Your given name. The name your teacher calls you at school.”
He frowned. “Maurice.”
“Oh.”
What she wanted to say was, ‘How dare your careless mother name you after my husband’.
“My name is Sherryn. Your fa—Reece’s wife.”
She could have been speaking another language for all the reaction he gave.
“D’you know where your mother is?”
Maurice shook his head.
“Has she left you before?”
“Sometime she go ’way and leave me wid Miss Ivy.”
“For how long?”
He shrugged.
“You go to school?”
“No. Mi madda say mi don’ have to go ’til mi six.”
Sherryn couldn’t help thinking that her children lived in a totally different world from the one this child inhabited.
“You got something to eat?”
“Him did give mi two sandwich.”
“Your father?”
Maurice’s wrinkled brows said he believed that was a trick question. He didn’t answer. Either that, or he didn’t know Reece was his father, and that wasn’t possible.
She sat beside him. “Since we don’t know where your mother is, you’ll have to stay here for tonight.”
His eyes grew wide again. “That mean I will get more sandwich to eat?”
She held back another pained smile and nodded. “Where’s your knapsack?”
“In di bathroom. Him did t’row it in di corna.”
A search of one of the bathrooms yielded the discarded backpack. Sherryn cringed at the condition of the contents. His mother was worthless. She refused to believe Reece was not providing for the child. She knew him that well. She also understood that the priority of the flighty ghetto woman was different from hers. Bling was all that mattered, as evidenced by the heavy necklace, big earrings, and assorted jewelry Maurice’s mother wore. She shook her head and went back to get him.
With Maurice in tow, her steps slowed as she approached the living room where Justin, Melaine, and Kyle were watching television. Brandon was engrossed in one of his games. They all looked up when she entered and stood behind Maurice with her hands on his shoulders. “Er, guys. This is...Maurice...he’ll be staying with us tonight.”
“Hey.”
“Hi.”
“Cool.”
Sherryn squeezed the child’s shoulder and turned him toward the passage. Thank God she’d raised her children right. Otherwise, some awkward questions could have been asked in front of Maurice. They’d probably gang up on her at the first opportunity, but right now, she had time to make up a story.
Resentment surfaced. Why should she be the one to concoct any lies? Reece would have to explain where he’d gotten the boy.
In the smaller of the bedrooms on the ground floor, she pulled back the sheet on one of the double beds. “You can sleep here.”
“Me alone?” he asked, stifling a yawn.
“Yes. Something wrong?”
With a jerky shake of the head, he got into the bed, searching every corner of the room in a sweeping pass.
“I’ll be back in a moment, okay?”
He nodded and put a thumb in his mouth. Sherryn went upstairs to the laundry closet where she kept new items for the children. She got a pair of pajamas and hurried back to Maurice, who hadn’t moved from where she’d left him. He glanced around the room again when he changed and slid onto the mattress.
“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” Sherryn said. “I’ll leave the door open, okay?”
He curled on his side in the middle of the bed. “Okay.”
She hit the switch and left a crack of light pouring in through the doorjamb, suspecting she’d have to check on him before the night was over.
She slipped into the living room where the children were still glued to the television set. All except Justin, whose body language told her he was not his usual relaxed self. He looked at her, his eyes questioning. But what could she say? She had no answers. She used the excuse of prying Kyle away from the set to avoid Justin, but she shot him a glance on her way out.
He was closer to his father than to her, but always sensed when things were not normal between them. She and Reece had had many tiffs during their eighteen years together, but nothing as serious or with the potential for disastrous consequences as this situation.
She refused to think about the future. If she made it through this hour, then she’d deal with the next one when it came.
* * *
Reece sank backward on the bed, the whimper in his throat trying to unman him. Since this afternoon, peace eluded him. Ordinarily, his bedroom was a sanctuary. Now he was sure the room where he spent much of his time with Sherryn would be a threshing floor where he’d be tried again and again.
Eyes shut, he thanked God for blessing him with Sherryn. Another woman might have chucked both him and the boy into the street, but not her. Her almond-shaped eyes, which usually lit with affection at the sight of him, were now reddened, and her lips slightly swollen from crying. Though hurt and striking out at him, she still cared enough to help the boy. Pity his mother refused to do as much for him.
Gloria’s actions made him mad all over again. If Miss Ivy’s version of events was accurate, Gloria planned to start a new life. But how could she start afresh without the tools of her trade? Her children were the means by which she earned her living. The only thing Gloria ever did was tend bar and live off the men who fathered her children. Having given them up, what did she plan to do now?
“Why should I care what she going to do with herself, when all she want to do is mess up my life?” He hissed through his teeth and sat up.
Sherryn had been gone for some time now, which meant she was going to reappear soon. He didn’t need to plan what to say to her. She’d lock herself down until she could cope with whatever explanation he offered. She’d always been like that and Lord, she knew where to stab him so it hurt like the dickens.
He didn’t understand it himself, but after leaving the depressed Waterhouse community so many years ago, he was still sensitive about growing up there. Nevertheless, he continued to visit for reasons he had difficulty explaining to himself. He didn’t want to be known as one of those who forgot where they had come from, but the irony was, that very sentiment had put him in scalding water. If he had avoided the area, Gloria wouldn’t have gotten the opportunity to put him on her budding list of baby fathers.
He shuddered at all the challenges and uncertainties to come, for he had no future until they got past this disaster.
He waited, but Sherryn didn’t come back. Hunger pangs squeezed his stomach, but the coward in him dreaded facing whatever had happened downstairs. He worried most about Justin, who worshipped him. He loved his eldest child just as much, and didn’t want to think about how Justin’s knowledge of Maurice’s existence would affect their relationship.
Had Sherryn said anything to the children? Did they suspect anything? What had she done with the boy? A battalion of unanswered questions rattled around his brain, threatening to unhinge him.
The weight of his agony took its toll, and he slept.
He stirred to find Sherryn standing over him. Her expression flickered from grief to disgust. Then a blank wall fell over her features, leaving indifference in its wake.
He sat up and rubbed his eyes to clear them. Sherryn jerked and turned toward the bathroom. On a regular night, he’d follow her in, since neither of them had showered yet. Instead, he stretched and headed downstairs, breathing easy after a glance at his watch. Twenty past ten. All the kids would have gone to bed.
He opened the pots on the stovetop. Sherryn had prepared his favorite meal—curried goat with white rice. She’d seasoned the mutton with her special mixture of spices, including: garlic, ginger, chutney, Scotch Bonnet pepper, and then simmered it over a low flame until it was tender. But of course, he had no appetite for dinner. He poured the food into plastic containers and put them in the fridge. Then he placed the pots in the sink and watched the water swirl in from the pipe.
He took a bag of banana chips from the biscuit bin, got some apple juice, and sat at the table, munching on automatic. Should he spend the night in one of the bedrooms on the ground floor? Sherryn wouldn’t welcome him in her bed tonight. He pushed aside the ‘maybe never again’ that flitted into his mind.
He rested his forehead on folded hands, trying to empty his brain, but it was impossible not to think. Pictures floated behind his eyelids—images of himself playing in the squalor of a yard in Waterhouse, nose running, torn shirt hanging open over tattered shorts, and bare feet itchy with ringworm sores.
The picture shifted and his heart pounded, just as it had when he was ten-years-old and a police Jeep drove up and stopped on the street corner. At the time, he was pretending to belong to the group of gunmen hanging out on the ‘ends’. One of them flung a gun into his hand and said, “Hold dis and gimme back later.”
Reece’s age allowed him to melt away in the crowd of women and children that descended to heckle the police. He hitched the weapon in the waistband of his shorts like he watched the men around him do many times. Then, he walked away on shaky legs, sure that a policeman’s hand would grab his shoulder at any minute. It didn’t happen that day, but he never forgot the experience and decided a life of crime wasn’t for him.
The sketch changed again, and he saw himself at thirteen-years-old in high school. He’d quickly grown used to washing and ironing his two uniforms every evening to keep himself neat and clean, for the boys in his class were merciless with their teasing when they found a weakling. Though he was poor, Reece was not prepared to be the butt of anyone’s jokes. Only he knew how his temper smoldered and became a relentless force that demanded release when it was roused. Therefore, he kept to himself and avoided the altercations that rose so often among the teenage boys.
During that time, hunger was his constant companion. His mother always ‘forgot’ to give him lunch money. Looking back, Reece wondered how he learned anything. Every dollar his father gave his mother for his care was frittered away on cigarettes and rum. When there was a dance in the area, Cynthia, his mother, outfitted herself and had her hair done. Now, as he sifted through his memories, he found that she took care of her needs in other ways.
Countless times he was forced to wait outside their house while she ‘entertained’. He kept his distance from her partners, who abused him if they caught him sneering. He still felt waves of shame crawling over his skin as he recalled standing behind the zinc fence in their yard and hearing two of the area men talking about her as they stood outside on the street.
‘Who, Cynthia? A everybody woman dat. She give you anyt’ing you want for a few bills and some cigarette.’
Angry tears had stung as he was forced to listen to the details of what else his mother did for the right price. Moving from his position would have meant discovery and a few cuffs around the head for listening to big people conversation. Years later, Reece realized his mother was an alcoholic.
Through observation, Reece learned more about human nature than he should have at his age. He knew which criminals to avoid if he didn’t want to be hit for no other reason than being in the wrong place at the wrong time. He learned to avoid his mother when she was drunk. He risked going near her only to steal the money his father provided. As he matured, he swore never to associate with low class women like his mother, and he had kept his word to himself, until Gloria.
Cynthia—she insisted he call her that—nearly killed him when she found out he had intercepted the maintenance money. Reece waylaid his father one Friday evening and stated his case. His father hadn’t said much, but agreed to give him the money instead. Cynthia had said nothing to Reece. She bided her time and attacked him one night while he slept.
She locked the door, and in her drunken state, chased him about the house. He escaped by diving through a window, earning himself cuts and bruises. He also lost a patch of flesh on a broken soda bottle. Another woman in the yard gave him refuge. She had a vacant room because her son had recently moved out. Miss Millicent allowed Reece to stay with her and continued to hide him for several more nights. After Cynthia’s temper cooled, he negotiated with Miss Millicent, and she let him live with her for a small fee. His mother threw threats at him, but never hit him again.
The room that he stayed in was ill lit and cramped, but clean. It contained a cot, a dresser, and a straight-backed chair, which was all he needed. He did his homework on the bed, or the table in the cluttered living-cum-dining room. In exchange for his meals—and as she termed it, ‘the little bit he paid for rent’—Miss Millicent taught him to take care of her sexual needs.
By then, Reece was fifteen and found her demands too much for his growing body. No matter how early he went to bed, he could barely stay awake in school. His mother’s death saved him from the enforced physical labor every night. He was desperate to get out from under Miss Millicent’s roof, and so when another woman stabbed and killed his mother at a dance, he seized the opportunity presented. He persuaded his mother’s landlord to rent him the two-room hovel. He didn’t disclose where the payments would come from, but ended the man’s objections by paying two months’ rent up front. Miss Millicent stopped talking to him when he told her he was moving out.
Since Miss Millicent turned him on to sex, Reece gathered experience not only from the wealth of things she taught him, but widened his reach among the females in the neighborhood. He wasn’t handsome, but the combined package of his athletic body, golden-honey eyes, and sculpted lips stirred something carnal in the women around him.
Reece used his physical attributes to get what he wanted, conscious that he was no better than his mother. Miss Millicent had schooled him in the wisdom of using condoms, and he never went anywhere without them. He worked his body until he was in a position to stop. Then he turned his efforts to using his brain to earn his keep and gather wealth. Sherryn came into his life when he’d established his business. She helped him with its gradual expansion and stuck with him until now. With so much history between them, living without her was not something he cared to contemplate.
His hand caught the moist surface of the glass, which brought him back to the kitchen. He ate another handful of chips, finished the juice, and plodded upstairs, prepared for a sleepless night.
Chapter Four
Sherryn lay still until Reece turned the water on in the shower. A glance at the clock confirmed it was after eleven. She pulled on a dressing gown, stuffed her feet into the slippers next to the bed and went to check on the little boy who refused to stay out of her head.
With the flat of her hand, she pushed the door open. Maurice was not in the bed. She touched the switch, flooding the room with light. A thankful sigh escaped when she saw him. He crouched across from the cupboard, where he could see the entire bedroom, hands clasped around his legs, chin on his knees. Terror faded from his eyes that lit up at the sight of her.
Sherryn stooped before him. “Something frightened you?”
His hoarse voice was low. “Ah not used to sleeping by miself and di light from di window...”
She had forgotten to draw the drapes, so he had a full view of the moonlit back yard, where the wind ruffled the trees. From her own childhood experiences, plant life assumed monstrous shapes on a moonshine night.
“Nothing’s going to hurt you. Come lie down in the bed.”
He rocked back and forth on his heels. “I-I want to stay here so.”
Sherryn sucked her bottom lip, wondering what to do. She closed the drapes while he sat watching her. “I’ll be back in a minute,” she said.
She climbed the stairs and tapped Justin’s door, relieved his light was still on, though it shouldn’t have been.
“Come,” he grunted.
He slouched in front of the monitor, wearing a tee-shirt and sweat bottoms. He stretched, sat up, and eyed her over his shoulder. Again, it struck Sherryn how closely he resembled his father, both in height and physique.
“Don’t you have school tomorrow?” she asked.
He removed his reading glasses. “Yes, but I couldn’t sleep, so I started researching some stuff for my Biology project.”
Out of habit, Sherryn got a quick eyeful of his surroundings. His beige-themed room was neat, except for the desk piled with papers, textbooks, and notepads. The rumpled double bed bore evidence of him tossing around in it. The cot opposite had his backpack on it.
“Maurice is afraid down there by himself. Can...would you let him sleep here?”
His brows closed in on each other, and she thought he would refuse. He tapped a pencil against the desk in a rapid beat before answering. “I suppose.”
“Thanks.”
He stopped her before she could escape.
“Mommy?”
She kept her gaze on his chest. “Uh-huh?”
“Who exactly is that little boy?”
Sherryn cleared her throat while strangling the doorknob. “A relative of your father’s.”
“What relative, Mommy? You said the same thing in the van, but Daddy has no family that we know about.”
She looked at him then, confirming that he was more than halfway to guessing the truth. “Why don’t you ask him?”
His mouth opened, and she dreaded what he was about to say. However, he sprawled in the chair and stared at the monitor instead.
Sherryn went on her way.
The rippling currents now in motion hinted at a tidal wave set to sweep over their family. She hoped the backwash wouldn’t destroy them.
After she settled Maurice in Justin’s room, Sherryn went back to her bedroom. She slipped into bed and turned off the lamp, leaving a soft glow on Reece’s side. Immediately, she turned her back and closed her eyes. Seconds later, he exited the bathroom and switched off the light. With a tiny sigh, she admitted the folly of shutting Reece up when he was willing to explain what had happened.
Anything would have been better than the bad movie unwinding in her head. Try as she might, she could not dislodge the image of Reece doing to that woman everything he did to her. Did he make love to her as often? Did he find her more attractive? Was she better in bed?
Sherryn wriggled self-consciously each time Reece kissed and stroked the stretch marks on her breasts and belly, declaring that he loved every one of them. For him, they represented her commitment to giving him the family he craved.
Her questions continued. Did he do the same to her when she had his baby? What happened to make her drop Maurice off on my doorstep? Did she get tired of waiting for Reece to leave us for her? Did he refuse to make more babies? She chided herself. Come on, Sherryn, it’s obvious she has no use for the boy.
But that didn’t matter, did it? What mattered was that for the five or so years of Maurice’s existence, she had lived in a fragile bubble, on borrowed time, for Reece’s lover could have walked in at any time and burst it with one pinprick.
Why today of all days? Why me? Why my husband?
In another moment, she questioned her reasoning. Why not him? They came from the same place. It made sense that they’d understand and be attracted to each other. She needed to do something, but what?
After turning this question over in her mind for minutes on end, Sherryn told herself to stop. If anybody had anything to decide, it was him. He needed to decide where he was going to live and what he was going to do with his love child.
Tears she didn’t realize she’d shed formed a moist patch under her cheek. She sniffed quietly, in case he was awake.
Reece sighed and spoke in the darkness. “Sher, I can’t take this. Please talk to me.”
She allowed some time to pass before she responded. “I have only one question. Why?”
She had to listen hard to hear his words. “It only happened once, and I was drunk at the time.”
She sprang on that. “And I suppose that makes it okay?”
“You know I’m not saying that.”
“So what are you saying?”
“That I really wish you’d give me a chance to explain.”
She stifled the urge to blast him with the obscenities twitching to escape her lips. Instead, she folded an arm under her cheek and said, “You can’t possibly say anything to make this right, but you want to talk, so I’m going to listen.”
After a few beats, he asked, “D’you remember our last big quarrel?”
“We don’t have them often, so yes, I remember.”
“Seven years ago, almost.”
She wondered where he was heading. “Yeah?”
“Remember when I…”
“Groped me until I had sex with you?”
“I was going to say, got you pregnant with Brandon.”