Chapter 8

“All right if I sit here? You’re not waiting for someone?” His voice is a harmonious bass, decanted out low and even.

I try to think what a Hollywood actress in some slinky, R-rated thriller would say. “Um, maybe I was saving that spot for you.”

He flashes a genial grin and settles in beside me. “Well, before I commit to anything, I need to know what your rate is. Got to make sure I have enough cash in my wallet.”

“I don’t—what?!”

His eyebrows rise a notch, as if in surprise. “Oh babe, you are an escort, right?” He lets that sink in for a couple of heartbeats, watching me splutter and my face go mauve. Then his grin returns, wider than before, and he lets out a deep, hearty laugh. “Damn, girl, the look on your face! I’m just messing with you. If you were a hooker, you’d have on triple the makeup, and your hair would be blown out a hell of a lot bigger.”

I’m miffed and embarrassed, and glance away, but he isn’t about to give up, nudging me lightly with his shoulder and oozing a perversely boyish charm. “Don’t worry, I keep a wide berth around those call girls. No cooties on me. And honestly, the way you rock that natural look, it’s ten times more sexy than if you were tarted up. Hell, the truth of it is, you’re an absolute vision. An angel. So, I’m begging on my figurative knees here—won’t you descend to planet Earth and share a conversation with a mere mortal like me?”

I’m in the mood to receive compliments, so I decide to forgive him. “You’re mean, but it’s okay. What’s your name?” I enunciate carefully so he can’t tell I’m buzzed.

“On the clock, I go by James Harris. Better for business, frankly. Easier to get in the door with certain folks. But I just wrapped for the day, so you can call me Jamal.”

I hold out a hand and he gives it a formal little shake. “I’m Jess. Jess Tanner.” It’s only as I say this that I realize I never took my wedding ring off. It’s like a flashing red light on my finger.

“Nice to make your acquaintance, Jess Tanner.”

I’ve shifted on my seat as we introduced ourselves, so that now I’m facing him. And it suddenly occurs to me to wonder whether my pubic wedge is peeking out beneath the edge of the dress at all. It seems like a distinct possibility. The more proper thing would probably be to cross my legs. But perhaps that would simply draw attention to the fact that I haven’t any panties on, and that I no more than halfheartedly wiped Bryan’s cum from my thighs. The whole situation is very distracting.

Maybe, if I keep the conversation going, his eyes will stay glued to my face, and won’t dart down to my crotch. “You, uh ... you’re staying here? At the hotel, I mean?”

He chuckles. “Naw, I’m local. Work downtown. Finance, investments, all that. But old man Montgomery,” gesturing toward where his companion had straggled off, “he wanted to meet here. I guess he’s got his mistress put up in one of the rooms or something. Anyhow, Monty’s one of my biggest clients, so when he says jump, I come a-running.”

I’m very rusty at flirting, not to mention a bit woozy, and it’s a struggle to think of what else to say. “Umm ... d-do you like working with him? With Monty?”

Jamal’s manner turns a bit philosophical. “I like earning his commissions. But the man himself? He never says it out loud, but he lets me know what he thinks of me. It’s funny really. These rich white bastards will work with anyone who can make them piles of money. Skin color’s not an issue when it comes to the greenbacks. But socializing, well, that’s a whole different thing. You know, Monty’s golf club has two token Black folks. They got in years ago, some DOJ settlement or whatever. But there hasn’t been another one since. Now, what if someone like me was to get let in there tomorrow? I bet old Monty’d drop his membership on the spot.”

Suddenly he grimaces, embarrassed, aware he’s been rambling. “Ahh, that was stupid. You don’t want to hear that shit. No offense, I hope. It felt like something of a gamble coming over here, frankly. I’m glad you didn’t make a run for it.”

Now I’m the one who’s embarrassed. I’m not a racist. At least, I really try not to be. Only, it’s hard to live for years as a white suburban wife and mother in the South, without having at least a little of the prejudice rub off on you. Like, never once have I doubted that Bryan was one of ‘us,’ Korean heritage or no. However, when I encounter a Black man around town, it’s different. There’s a small, shameful piece of my brain that tends to categorize the man as one of ‘them.’ Not a bad them, necessarily—but different, unpredictable, just conceivably dangerous. I know it’s wrong of me, and I do my best to suppress it, but it’s an automatic response.

Yet, Jamal’s not like that. Or tonight’s not like that. Or—I don’t know, something’s different.

How can I put all that into words? I can’t, so I just smile and nod.

Taking that as encouragement, he plows ahead. “But how about you, Jess—are you from out of town?”

“Mmh, no, I’m local too. Idlewood.”

“Nice. Beautiful area, good resale ... Hey, I see your glass is empty. Can I buy you another?”

I’d like that, but the way the room is wobbling makes me think it’s probably a very bad idea. “Thank you, but I’d better not.”

He nods. “That’s cool. Know your limits, right...? Okay, look honey, I’m just gonna lay it on the table. This woman-of-mystery act of yours is getting to be a real head trip. A respectable Idlewood girl, sitting in the St. Gerard bar at the witching hour, wearing—forgive my candor—an outfit that some less courteous man might call slutty? There’s got to be a story here. Care to share?”

I do want to share. I want to cry on his shoulder, in fact, as the whole mess comes flooding back into my brain. My voice is husky and quavering, but I hold it together. “I—um, fuck, this day is ... My husband he, he stuck me with taking the kids to school, after he said he’d do it. And he knew I had a big work meeting! And, sex with him lately has been, ugghhh, and I didn’t know why ... But then, get this: I found out he’s been sleeping around! With Peggy. And with other women too, and ... And then I wrecked my car, and I can’t pay to fix it...” Sobs are welling up in my throat, my lip trembling.

I wouldn’t blame Jamal for fleeing at once in search of a girl who’s more fun. Why should he spend his Friday evening listening to some booze-addled stranger unload about her problems? But he stays put, and his soft brown eyes fill with concern. “Fuck, baby, you were in an accident? You okay?”

I swallow, the corners of my mouth still turned down. I’m trying to look resilient, but my misery keeps peeking through. “I’m fine. It wasn’t really an accident. I went in a ditch. It was really Mike’s fault. It was right after he told me, and I was so upset. But now my car is mushed. Totaled I guess. And we don’t have money like that lying around.”

He reaches out a hand to brush my arm, eyebrows arched sympathetically. “Damn, that sucks. Your husband sounds like kind of a dick.”

I’m grateful that he gets it. Gets me, maybe. “I know, right? I mean, he’s not totally a dick. He’s good with the kids, and ... and when we first got together, it was ... yeah, but after this...?”

“Tell you what, honey—maybe just think of today as a shitty day. Men can be pretty fucked-up, but that doesn’t mean they’re hopeless. So: you call it a night now, get you some sleep, take some time to think ... maybe things look better in the daylight. Probably you can patch it up or whatever.”

With a jolt, I realize how I must appear to Jamal. As if his words have pushed me outside myself, forcing me to assess the tableau critically. From that perspective, I look like just one more standard-issue wife and mother—slightly frumpy, married to a husband who’s stepping out on her, and reduced to drowning her woes in a hotel bar. The whole thing is sloppy. Maudlin. Pathetic.

Blinking back the tears, I feel my heart thumping, and my fury starting to flare up again. Goddamn it! This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. I was supposed to be getting my own back, somehow or other. But instead, I’m teetering on the edge of letting Mike thwart me. Letting him make me smaller than I am. Again.

But I can’t let that happen, so I lean in close, mumbling in Jamal’s ear. “I don’t want to call it a night. I ... I want to do something bad.”

This makes him rear back a little in his seat. “You do, huh? You don’t seem like the bad type.”

I stare at him defiantly, jaw set, face flushed.

He glances dubiously around the bar. “And if you can’t do something bad with me, your plan is to do it with whatever lowlife you can scrounge up around here?”