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JamminJamison: Kerry is sick. Food poisoning or something.
Coreenissocute: Well let me know as soon as you can.
JamminJamison: Will do.
Coreenissocute: And clean out that truck. I can’t find my thong.
JamminJamison: Stop playing.
Coreenissocute: Kidding. Kidding. Kidding. Kidding.
JamminJamison: Have a good night.
Coreenissocute: You too.
TIME END: 2:03 AM
Face-to-Face
When this all began, I realized that Jamison’s cheating was turning me into a paranoid mess. Before I even really knew about Coreen, I felt inside that something was wrong with Jamison, something was different in how he responded to me. This grew into a paranoia where my mind was busy with worry. The phone ringing, Jamison being late for dinner, unanswered questions . . . I tried to break into his e-mail. . . . I even found myself looking through the garbage to see if he’d thrown away any receipts from restaurants. I was looking for clues to confirm what I’d already known. I felt like a fool for doing it, but really, if there was something to be found, I’d feel like more of a fool for not knowing what was going on. Seeing Coreen was only making this worse.
When I walked into our house to meet Jamison as I’d promised over the phone, my thoughts led my eyes to spy every single inch of the house to see if anything had changed. If there was a sign, a clue, an item that would reveal that something was still amiss and that woman had been there.
As I waited for Jamison, I wasn’t sure if I was paranoid or just plain perceptive, but I noticed that Isabella wouldn’t look at me. Feeling like a visitor in my own house, I sat down at the kitchen table and watched her work. She’d wiped the counters, scrubbed the inside of the sink and started the dishwasher, all without taking a second to look at me. There was nothing but silence between us. After she said hello when I walked in the front door and explained that Jamison called to say he was on his way, she turned her back and got busy, cleaning around me and the chair I was sitting in.
While it was rather rude, it wasn’t exactly a surprise. Isabella never liked me; she was probably happy when I didn’t come home the night before. Hell, she was probably trying to put the moves on Jamison herself. That would be a quick step up.
While it was my idea to hire a maid when Jamison’s business started to take off, I wasn’t there for Isabella’s initial interview. Apparently, the two hit it off. She was an immigrant from El Salvador, who’d managed to secure legal residence for herself and her three children and had been providing for all of them with the meager cleaning salary. Jamison said her strength reminded him of his own mother, how she raised him with her heart and hard work, and that he was sure Isabella was the perfect fit for us. When Isabella showed up at our house for the second interview and saw me when I opened the door, I could tell she was taken aback. While Jamison said she spoke perfect English, she was stuttering and kept trying to recall English words to match the Spanish ones in her mind. Jamison claimed I was reading into it, but I knew why she was having such a hard time—old Isabella was surprised to see that such a successful man had a black wife on his arm—one who needed a maid. A black woman not cleaning? Not cooking? If I was white, she would’ve smiled, called me senorita and fluffed my pillows. She would’ve expected that. And I have to suppose that if I was a little lighter, perhaps it would’ve been an easier pill for her to swallow. But, no, I was just little old me. The dark-skinned, rich black woman whose underwear she’d have to wash from now on.
When it came down to it, I wasn’t on the “Let’s Hire Isabella” campaign, but I let Jamison win that battle. From that day on, she was my maid, but Jamison’s friend. They laughed together, took up for one another, and between the two of them, I always came out looking like wire hanger–hating Mommy Dearest.
“Excuse me, Ms. Kerry,” she said, pushing past me with a broom in her hand.
“Sure,” I said. But I really wanted to snatch the broom and snap it in two. “When will Jamison be back? Did he say?”
“Um . . . How you say???? He’s back soon,” she said, still with her eyes averted. Please, she’d been in Georgia for too long to play the “I barely speak English” card. I wondered what secret she was keeping
for Jamison . . . if Coreen had been in my house. Had she been in my house, my bed, with my husband, and Isabella was just laughing at me? Sweeping and laughing . . .
“Did he say where he was going?” I asked.
“No say, he never say. He say he be right back,” she said clearly struggling to inject nonchalance into her voice. But I knew she was aware of the matter in my home. If Ms. Edith knew, of course she did. Those maid hot lines were far-reaching, and they crossed color barriers too. If one household was dirty, or the kids were wild and crazy acting, the whole maid circuit knew. That was why my mother cleaned our house before the maid came when I was smaller.
I sat back in the seat and tried to relax, but it was impossible. The silence was tearing at my brain. Birthing my paranoia. I knew what I knew. All I kept thinking was that Isabella knew something else too. She had to know something. She had to have been covering up for Jamison. Maybe she was covering up for him now. I was tired of thinking these things, tired of being in the dark, of everyone knowing about my marriage but me. Well, if Isabella wasn’t going to tell me where my husband was and why he was taking so long, I’d find out for myself. How could Jamison do this to me? He’d begged me to come home to talk and here he was abandoning me . . . again. Well I’d be his fool once, but twice wasn’t my style.
Angry, I got up from the chair and hobbled to the car to squeeze back into the driver’s seat. Isabella followed me, saying Jamison was on his way, but my mind was seared with anger; I just kept hearing that broom sweep against the floor, seeing her eyes turn away from me. Something was going on. She couldn’t cover up for Jamison. I had to find him and if memory served me correctly, the last time he was late, he was down Highway 85.
Driving to Coreen’s, I was sweating from the inside as if I had a fever. I turned the air conditioning in the car on high, but I couldn’t escape the heat inside my body. I was hot, my head was pulsating, and I couldn’t keep my thoughts straight. My nerves were striking a heated tune as I charged down that highway, in broad daylight this time. It was no secret. No darkness to hide what was coming. I just wanted to know everything. And have my say this time.
But when I got there, something was wrong. I was on the right street. At the right house. But Jamison’s truck wasn’t in the driveway. I turned off the ignition and wiped my brow. He wasn’t there. Suddenly, I felt ill. Like the heat had burrowed itself deep into my stomach and rotted into shame, anger, loneliness. What was I doing here? I looked at the door, at the little lace square covering the window. My marriage was falling apart because of the woman inside. I was falling apart because of the woman inside. Driving around the city, eight-and-a-half months pregnant. Endangering my child’s life.
I wondered what made Coreen think she could have my husband; just come in and take him from me. What had Jamison told her about me? What did she know about me? About my marriage?
Then the door opened. Coreen stepped outside. She was walking toward the car, toward me. Charging with her fists balled tight. This woman who’d tried to tear my family apart wanted a confrontation, and she was going to get one.
I wiggled out of the car and walked toward her, pushing my feet hard into the dirt on her yard, trying to keep my balance.
With each step, as we came closer to one another, my mind cluttered with insults, angry words and thoughts of what I wanted to do to her.
