Her parents had kissed her skin and given it the most beautiful coffee-with-cream complexion. Even from a distance, I could tell that her eyes were arresting. They weren’t hazel, but I knew they were beautiful just the same. She was mixed, exotic, a stunning woman. Part Trini, part Dominican. Dinners at her house would consist of either roti or tasajo y yucca. I could picture her on an island beach somewhere, funneling white sand between her exquisite toes, smiling at the sun-filled sky through her Louis Vuitton shades, sipping a mojito, listening to the ocean as its waves sung her a happy song. Carefree as the day she was born.
That happy song wouldn’t last long, though.
Not for her, at least. I’d see to that myself.
She had her hair pulled back tight in a neat bun; if let free, I knew it was long enough to touch her waist. She moved graceful like a summer breeze, walking on the opposite flow side of the mall from where I was. My senses were on point that day. I’d spotted her right away. Not that she was easy to miss. I pivoted at once and followed her. Followed her knowing it was all about to come to a head.
She was the reason. For everything I did. For all of the wives.
Jacqueline, Dawn and Nikki. I thought of my love with her hazel eyes.
For her, too.
She was the reason, this Trini/Dominican beauty.
Mi cielo. That meant my sky, my everything. That Spanish phrase came to mind the moment I spotted her walking through the mall.
It was all about to come to a head.
She took the escalator up to the next level. I followed, using the stairs instead. I wanted the exercise, to really get my heart pumping blood. I needed to be sharp, ready to move in for the kill. Spiritually, emotionally, physically.
Her walk was seductive. Slow and deliberate. Sensual. Men wanted to fuck her. Men wanted to marry her.
Her options were many.
She carried an expensive Coach purse, swinging her arm like a schoolgirl as she walked, jostling whatever contents were in her bag. I briefly wondered if it held Claritin allergy medicine, a pack of tropical-flavored Life Savers, a Razr cell phone, her key ring. At some point I was going to have to stop her, strike up a conversation, introduce myself. My words would be effortless. I’d prepared for her forever. Through all of the wives, it had all really been about her.
Careful planning made me comfortable.
I knew what I’d say. How I’d react. The smile I’d display.
The way my eyes would narrow as I stood before her.
I’d run through it all in my mind a million times. Two million times.
She entered Jimmy Choo, the upscale ’40s-inspired shoe boudoir. I stopped by the Venetian benches just outside of the store, sat down and watched her for a bit. I already knew most of her nuances, but I wanted to feel her essence for a moment before I approached, wanted to tap into the soul of her before I shattered her world. It was all about to come to a head.
She chatted with an attractive saleswoman inside the store. They shared more than a few laughs, comfortable as girlfriends, great camaraderie. Good for her. Life was close to perfect in her world.
She worked at Jimmy Choo.
I stood from the bench after a while, headed in the direction of the store.
The key to my success with women was quick decision. I didn’t mull over situations. I moved to action. And my actions were kinetic, happened naturally.
I walked into the store, as confident as ever.
I moved to a display of shoes close to the Trini/Dominican beauty.
She was kinetic, as well, moved to me swiftly.
“How are you today, sir?” she said in a soft, tender voice, a very assured and womanly voice.
I picked up a pair of shoes, flipped them over in my hands, and purposely didn’t answer her. Lines formed in my forehead, my eyes were tight, and I had a determined set to my jaw. I wanted her to see me as brooding and intense.
“Are you interested in those?”
I finally acknowledged her. Smiled. Gave her penetrating eye contact. “Yes. I’m interested in these.” Suede, open toe, gold heels set with enamel stones.
She said, “You have a good eye. I’m impressed. They’re absolutely beautiful. Your wife’s a lucky woman.”
I didn’t mention I had three wives, was looking for my fourth.
She offered, “Consider matching them with this season’s ‘it’ bag—Saba. That would be a great look.”
I said, “I’ll think about that.”
“What size would you like, sir?”
I didn’t hesitate. “Six.”
She smiled. “My size. Good call.”
I knew that. I knew her dress size, too: a four.
She called out to the other saleswoman, “Me puedes ensenar esto sapatos, en la taje seis?” while holding up the pair of shoes I’d requested.
“Seis?” the other woman asked with emphasis.
“Yes.”
She turned back to face me then, all smiles. Her teeth were perfect, not a blemish to be found on her skin, eyes as clear as the day she was born. She really was exquisite. She said, “It’ll just be a moment. In the meantime, would you allow me to show you the Saba handbag I was speaking of before? It really would go lovely with these shoes.”
I ignored all of that, said, “You’re Trini and Dominican.”
She looked at me deeper, surprised. “How did you know…?”
I said, “That’s a beautiful combination,” and added, “At least in your case.”
She swallowed, touched her chest with a delicate hand, whispered, “Thank you.”
I was having an effect on her.
I said, “No. Thank you.”
“For?”
I just smiled. Tension wedged between us. Silence was king.
Finally she said, “Couple hours until my shift ends.” Hugged herself. “I’ve got a date with a hot bath and a good book.”
“Novel? Nonfiction?”
“Fiction, always. I read a couple novels a week, probably.” She continued, “The one I’m reading is called Hunger. It’s an Essence magazine pick.”
I said, “Erica Simone Turnipseed, her follow-up to A Love Noire.”
The Trini/Dominican beauty’s eyes shone surprise. “I’m…impressed.”
They always were.
I said, “What other authors do you enjoy?”
“I couldn’t even begin to tell you. There are so many.”
I moved on, said, “Every night can’t end with a hot bath and a good book, though.”
“Stay out of trouble that way.”
I said, “You make trouble sound like a bad thing.”
“A very bad thing,” she said.
“What about in moderation?”
She smiled. “Are you suggesting small doses of trouble every now and then?”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m suggesting. It’s good for your heart. Didn’t you know that?”
The other woman emerged from the back carrying a box. She was a Latina, as well. I spotted traces of Cuban. She was pretty in her own right, but my Trini/Dominican beauty owned the store, the mall. She handed the shoe box to my girl and gave me a quick once over before she moved away. She wasn’t subtle.
“Would you like to look at them, sir?”
“Yes, please, Simona.”
The Trini/Dominican beauty’s head snapped up. “How did you…?” Then she caught herself, touched her name tag in reflex, cheeks cherry-blossomed from embarrassment. She handed me the box, averting eye contact. I didn’t reach for it, just watched her, a smile playing on my handsome face. I knew that would get her. I have a great smile.
Her eyes found me. She said, “Sir?” in a trembling voice.
“You’re nervous, Simona. Why is that?”
She touched her neck. “I’m fine.”
“Do I make you nervous, Simona?”
“No.”
“You’re sure about that, Simona?”
“Positive.”
“You are a beautiful woman, Simona.”
I kept saying her name, knowing it put her on edge.
Hand on her neck again. “Thank you.”
She attempted to hand me the shoe box a second time. Again I didn’t reach for it. I had her flustered. She looked at me, puzzlement playing on her face.
She said, “Your wife’s shoes.”
I said, “Can wait…Simona.”
She swallowed, licked her lips.
I said, “You have beautiful eyes, Simona.”
She didn’t reply.
I said, “Your mother must have beautiful eyes, Simona.”
Still no reply.
“Do you like my compliments, Simona? Or do they bother you?”
“It’s nice to be appreciated,” she said. Her voice was flat.
“Isn’t it, though?”
She said again, “Your wife’s shoes.”
I repeated the same refrain. “Can wait.”
She sighed.
I said, “Yes. Your mother must have beautiful eyes, Simona.”
She shook her head, tapped her foot. “Are you going to purchase these shoes, sir?”
I said, “I think not, Camille.”
That stopped her foot from tapping. She took a step back.
I took a step forward.
She said, “Camille. My middle name. And it’s not on my name tag.”
I nodded. “That’s correct, mi cielo.”
She swallowed a large gulp, touched a hand to her chest. “Do I know you?”
“Yes. And I know you. I’m hurt you don’t recognize me.”
She said, “Don’t recognize you?”
I nodded. “You should, Simona.”
It was all about to come to a head.
She asked, “And you are?”
I told her, with a devilish smile on my face.
A moment later, I casually reached down and picked up the shoe box that had slipped from her hands. I tried to hand it to her. She wasn’t able to take it.
The other Latina rushed over, was busy consoling Simona, trying to help dry her tears and ease her screams.
Mi cielo, I thought. My sky. My everything.
Sometime later, front of the mall, Simona stepped out, Coach bag slung over her shoulder. She looked much better, the color had returned to her face. I idled at the curb in Nikki’s Audi, the engine purring softly like a contented cat. She moved to the car, bent and looked in the passenger-side window. I noticed her swallow, a bundle of nerves and anxiety. I can’t say I could blame her for that.
“Get in,” I said. Then I softened my voice. “We have a lot to discuss.”
She took a deep breath, opened the passenger-side door, silently slid in.
I asked, “Everything okay at your job?”
“Celia believes I should see a doctor. I assured her I’m fine.”
“I do apologize for that.”
“Your visit was just so…unsettling. I’m sorry.”
“I would think you’d have been expecting me. One of these days.”
Simona said, “I believed you to be dead.”
That surprised me. “Dead? I sent you correspondence. You never replied.”
“I’ve never gotten anything.”
I said, “Letters.”
“No.”
I said, “Pictures.”
“No.”
I rolled all of that over in my mind.
She said, “I don’t understand any of this.”
“What’s to understand? You’ve had your life of privilege.” I paused, gritted my teeth. “And I’ve had my life.”
She realized then. She said, “You’re angry with me?”
I said, “Furious.”
“I don’t understand.”
I didn’t answer immediately; I pulled from the curb, then said, “You will.”
“We’re leaving?” There was a hitch in her voice she couldn’t disguise.
I said, “Bite to eat. Catch up on old times.” I didn’t bother smiling.
She touched her neck, one of her nervous tics. “I’m concerned,” she admitted. “You’re angry with me. You feel cheated somehow. Someone has to take the blame. And you’ve come up with me?”
I nodded and kept driving. “I’ve come up with you.”
“Your logic is surprisingly nonlinear, Simon.”
Simon. It was startling to hear that, to hear my birth name.
Simon Michael Darling.
I said, “Would you care for me to explain my logic?”
Simona said, “I would, of course. I’d like to understand…everything. You must know that. My brother, whom I thought to be dead, walks in to my job out of the blue…” Her voice was choked by emotion. I chose to ignore that.
I said, “Mosley Lehane and his wife Bettye. They took me in.”
Simona nodded. She knew that much. She was four years old, I was seven.
I said, “Mosley was a bear of a man. He locked me in the basement as punishment. He punished me frequently and fervently and with his fists. And it was all an arbitrary thing. I didn’t necessarily have to do something wrong.”
I shared a similar history to that of my wives.
Similar to Jacqueline, Dawn and Nikki.
Simona was quiet, listening.
I continued, “He was a diabetic. He stepped on a nail one day. Infected toe. Too stubborn to go to the doctor. It worsened. He eventually lost the lower part of his left leg. And then he lost his will to live. Thirteen months later…gone.”
Simona sniffed.
I said, “I was pleased.”
Simona nodded.
I said, “Bettye Lehane was pleased, as well.”
I said, “Bettye wasn’t an attractive woman. She had the hard edges of a man, none of the soft curves of a woman. She wasn’t exactly ugly but…”
Simona said, “Did she love you? Did she treat you with kindness? Was she cruel like her husband? Or was she caring and giving?”
I said, “Her vagina had a raw and disgusting smell. Like trash in those bins in the park during the hottest of July days.”
I didn’t have much of a sense of smell. My olfactory senses had been dulled. I believed it to be a mental block. I laid the blame at Bettye Lehane’s feet.
Simona eyes widened, startled by that revelation, by that blunt confession.
I added, “It tasted even worse than it smelled.”
My sister sighed, closed her eyes.
“I was forced to service her with oral sex. Twice a day until I was eighteen and I left. Like breakfast and dinner, twice a day.”
Simona’s eyes were open again. “And you blame me, Simon?”
I said, “Yes. You got first choice.”
She said, “It was a terrible arrangement, Simon. They should have never split us up. Just because their marriage didn’t work. They should have never split us up.”
Our parents.
Simona got our mother. Simona’s choice—the baby girl got first choice.
I got our father, the short straw choice.
Mother remarried into wealth, got her PhD, trips to Europe, clothes and shoes with Italian names. Simona got that, too.
Papa was truly a rolling stone. A bluesman with an insatiable taste for the ladies, for liquor, for the road. It wasn’t the life for a growing boy. So he shipped me to live with his good friends, the Lehane family, that bear of a man Mosley and his foul pussy-smelling wife, Bettye. I never saw my father again.
Mother, only a few times. When she remarried, things changed.
I said, “Would you like to know what I’ve done? It’s really something.”
Simona said, “What? What have you done?”
I told her my story. Told her all about my wives, all my women, all those I’d wronged. She sighed and shook her head. When I was done she said, “You’re…oh, Simon.” She paused, then, “This last one had hazel eyes, huh?”
“Yes,” I admitted, “beautiful hazel eyes.”
Simona said, “I think you’ve misplaced your anger, Simon.”
“You think?”
She said, “I was led to believe you were dead, Simon. Mother told me you’d died. Those times were tough on me, too. We were close, remember?”
I did. We were very close.
She continued, “I was little. I didn’t understand much of what was happening. My family was torn apart. My father and brother, both of you were gone. And then a year or two later, Mother told me you were dead, drowned.” Simona started to cry, choked out, “I didn’t know how to handle that, Simon. I was so little. I cried. I acted out in so many ways. I learned to despise water. I don’t swim, you know? Never been able to get my mind right enough to learn.”
I felt the rumblings of emotion in my gut. There was much I didn’t know.
Simona said, “It’s okay. Blame me if you like. But I’ve mourned you.”
It took me a while, but I finally managed, “You’re right.”
Things were becoming clearer. I didn’t feel what I thought I would after confronting my sister. I didn’t hate her. I was too numb to feel that. Without feeling. That’s what life had done to me. My life, it had drained me of feeling.
Simona asked, “What do you mean? I’m right about what?”
I thought of Jacqueline, Dawn and Nikki. I thought of my beauty with the hazel eyes. Simona was led to believe I was dead. That wasn’t a lie.
I said, “You were right. I have misplaced my anger, Simona.”