His First Wife (3 page)

A
husky cough came cracking through the phone as my mother attempted to clear the night before out of her throat when she picked up the phone.

After realizing that I had to get out of jail before I gave birth to my child in the big house and everyone started calling him Tupac, I decided to just call her and suffer whatever drama she would bring until I got home to my bed. So far, she was right on point with the drama part.

“Mother,” I said sternly.

“That you, Kerry?” She coughed again. “I was wondering why anyone would be calling me so early . . . wait, is it the baby? Is the—”

“No, Mother, it's not that,” I cut her off. “I need . . . I . . .” There was no simple way to put it.

“Oh, I thought the baby was here. Did you talk to Jamison yet about the name? You know I really think the whole junior thing is not necessary, considering that our family has the—”

“Mother,” I said, but she kept right on going.

“. . . solid name. Just name him after my father. Dean is a great name. Don't you think? My father would've been so proud and—”

“Mother!” I yelled again. “It's eight in the morning. Do you think I'm calling to discuss baby names?”

“What?” she said.

“I need your help.”

“Well, you don't have to holler at me like that. Control yourself, Kerry. You know no one likes a woman with a loud mouth.”

“Okay, fine,” I said, lowering my voice to the level she agreed was desirable. “Look, I know this isn't going to come out right, so I'm just going to say it.” I was stalling but I knew I had to get to the point. The woman waiting in line behind me looked like a cross between Big Foot and Goliath and she was staring at me like I was standing between her and a cheeseburger. It was no time to play prissy.

“Are you okay?” my mother asked. “Is there something wrong with the baby?”

“No, Mother. Just listen to me. I need you to come and get me.”

“From where?”

“I'm in jail,” I said finally. The baby kicked at my stomach. He must've been sleeping for a while because I hadn't felt his kick in a minute. I turned my back toward the woman behind me and whispered into the phone. “I need you to come and get me out NOW.”

“Jail? Stop toying with me, Kerry,” she said with a thin laugh. “I can't sit on the phone and play games with you. I have to get myself ready to go to the airport.”

“Mother, I'm serious. I'm in jail.”

“No, you're not. Stop playing. It's not funny. Jail? Could you imagine?” I could hear the seriousness slipping into her voice. She was whispering into the phone as if there was someone in the room with her, but I knew she was alone. This was just her way. The last bit of Southern belle left in Thirjane Jackson made it impossible for Mother to say certain words aloud, for fear that someone, even a ghost, might hear her. She was the kind of woman who still wrapped liquor bottles in brown paper before throwing them into the trash to hide them from neighbors, ordered the newspaper even though she didn't read it, because it didn't seem fitting for a house to be without a newspaper, and opened and closed the blinds promptly at dawn and dusk each day. Bailing her only daughter out of jail was certainly not on her to-do list.

“I'm not playing, Mother,” I said. Big Foot tapped me on the shoulder and groaned tiredly. She wanted her cheeseburger. “Look, I don't have time. I need you to come and get me. I'm in Riverdale.”

“Riverdale? Why in God's name would you be out there? Are you serious? Kerry, why are you in jail?”

“I can't explain it all. It's just me and Jamison; we had a fight and I was arrested.” As soon as the words came out of my mouth, I regretted them. My mother was very cold on Jamison. Not lukewarm. Cold. She never thought he was good enough to be my husband and at my wedding (which she half-refused to come to), she actually whispered “You're her
first
husband,” when he and she danced at the reception. As could be expected, hearing that we were fighting was music to Mother's ears. She'd probably be happy to hear that there was another woman involved. I'd done a good job of hiding it from her for so long, but I was worn out.

“Arrested for arguing with your husband? That seems unlikely. What happened?”

“Well, I'd gladly tell you if I had time,” I said, mimicking her inexcusable properness. With a raised index finger, I signaled for one more minute to Big Foot.

“Oh, this is ridiculous. How could you be in jail? My daughter? And you expect me to come and bail you out?”

“Yes, Mother.”

“And how do you expect me to come and do that? I've never been to a correction facility before. I don't even know where one is.”

“Mother, I'm pregnant and tired. Just figure it out,” I said. She always made things harder than they had to be. And God forbid she forgot about herself for one second.

“Why can't your husband come and get you?” she asked.

“Mother, this is not the time for you to debate the validity of my marriage. I'm in jail!”

“Ma'am, your time is up,” a guard said. She looked like a little plump Ewok, standing with Big Foot. I signaled for one more second again.

“Oh, God. I just don't understand how you could be in jail, Kerry. I taught you better than that, didn't I?”

“Mother, I need you to stop and come and get me now. We can talk about it when you get here. Okay?”

“I suppose so,” she said as if I was asking her for a kidney. I was her daughter, who was about to give birth in a jail with Big Foot and an Ewok looking on and my mother was only thinking of a bad headline.

After I gave her the precinct information, I was led back to my holding cell by the same gold-clad guard who took my fingerprints. As we walked down the hallway, which had cells on either side, kind of like a hallway in a dorm (but with bars instead of doors) I thought back to Jamison and how I'd ended up behind bars. I felt so humiliated, so stupid for what was happening to me. I loved Jamison with all of my heart. I tried my best to be a good wife, a good companion to him. I had left my job, a job I loved, so I could help him out with his company. I believed in him. I was there for him when he needed me, even put up with his crazy ghetto mama and her constant judgments about me.

I'd been crying all morning so my eyes were already swollen to the size of golf balls, but still tears managed to fall as I walked down that hallway, a prisoner with her belly protruding so far in front of her that she couldn't see her feet. I wanted my bed, I wanted my husband, I wanted last night to be a bad dream I was about to wake up from.

I needed to curl up in a corner and be by myself, alone with my tears and my baby until my mother showed up. But when the guard and I stopped at my cell, I realized that
alone
was now impossible. While I was away, I'd gained a roommate. A cell mate. There she was, sitting on a wooden bench with her legs far enough apart that you'd think she was a man. Her face toward the floor, she had a head full of blond weave that was completely matted. It looked like a little cocker spaniel was stapled to her skull. She was wearing a soiled wife-beater, and tattoos mapped both of her arms. If the rest of my jail experience hadn't been real thus far, I was confident that she was about to make it all a reality. That was clear. I felt like a nervous kindergartener walking into her first day of school, and when the guard opened the door for me to walk into the cell, I wanted to cling to her arm for dear life. I was big and bad at Coreen's, but I was no fool and I wasn't trying to have a real girl fight.

I stepped inside and the woman didn't move to say hello.

“Um . . . do I get another call?” I asked, turning to the guard. I rubbed my stomach and flashed a
“Don't leave me in here with this woman!”
look across my face, thinking maybe the guard would have mercy.

She didn't even respond. She just pointed into the cell with the golden pyramid ring atop her index finger like I was the escaped cocker spaniel hanging from the woman's head.

“Well, I need to use the bathroom. Is there one I could use?” I asked, stepping into the cell. The guard grinned and returned the petrified look I had with a “Lady, please” eye roll. She pointed again, but this time it was to a little commode that was in the far left corner of the cell. I'd seen it earlier, but thought for sure it was for something other than using the restroom.

“Okay,” I said glumly. She slammed the door and smiled, showing a gold tooth for the first time.

“Anything else?” she asked mockingly.

“Well, I could use a magazine or something. Maybe a book?”

“A magazine?” She started laughing and turned to walk away. “A magazine . . .”

I stood at the cell door, afraid to move. I'd been holding in pee, but standing between me and the toilet was the lack of a door and a woman I was sure had been a man once. While she was sitting down, I was certain she was at least six foot tall and about 200 pounds. I'd gained twenty pounds of baby weight, but I was still no challenge for her.

“A magazine?” I heard, but it wasn't coming from the guard anymore. She was long gone.

It was the woman, but I didn't respond. I was too busy trying to figure out how long I could hold off going to the toilet.

She started laughing and I turned to look at her to see that she was now looking at me.

“You in prison, lady,” she said loudly. “Ain't no damn magazines.”

Suddenly, laughs came echoing down the hall, crescendoing around me and slapping me upside the forehead. They'd all heard her.

“I know,” I said.

“McKenzie,” she said, reaching out to shake my hand.

“I'm Kerry. . . . Hi.”

McKenzie didn't look as bad in the face as I'd imagined. There were no cuts in her eyebrows, no bullet wounds, no tears beneath her eyes. In fact, oddly enough, she had what most people would consider a sweet face. While her hair was a five-alarm mess, her nutmeg-colored skin was as smooth as a baby's and her eyes were gentle and clear, nothing like someone who'd spent a life on the streets. Her eyes were comforting, in fact. They allowed something in me to loosen, and while she'd made everyone in the jail laugh at me, my ankles were about to implode if me and my extra twenty pounds didn't sit down, so I walked past her and sat on a bench near the commode—I still wasn't brave enough to use the toilet just yet. I'd have to hold it.

“These fucking crackers picked me up this morning on some old bullshit,” she said. Her voice was scruffy, nearly baritone.

“Okay,” I said. What else could I say? I wasn't privy to jailhouse chat, but I knew I shouldn't ask too many questions.

“You a damn lie, McKenzie,” someone shouted from down the hall. “You know you was selling that bent-up pussy of yours.”

Everyone started laughing again. Some people yelled similar sentiments. I was sure she was about to get up and kick through the bars like Superman to go beat up the girl, but McKenzie just laughed.

“Fuck you, Pepper,” she said, getting up from the bench. She walked to the bars. “I was doing that shit, but they didn't have to arrest me. Got to feed my damn kids.”

The baby kicked me hard three times when the word
kid
fell from McKenzie's mouth. Perhaps he was just as surprised to hear that news. Two things I might have never thought about my cellmate were now true—she was a woman and she had children. I'd believe that George Bush was taking a pilgrimage to Mecca before I ever connected those two things to McKenzie. But my disbelief didn't stop me from laughing. I rubbed my stomach to let my son know I heard his kick and laughed about the ridiculous prospects of the news—I laughed inside, of course. It was crazy, but it was just the kind of news I needed to get my mind off of Jamison so I could stop crying long enough to let the swelling in my eyes go down.

“Fucking crackers,” McKenzie said.

I had so many questions to ask her.... Like why was she a prostitute? Who would have sex with her? And who had sex with her to make her get pregnant? But all I could say was, “Yeah.”

“So, what you in for?” she asked, leaning against the bars toward me.

“Me?” I asked a stupid question and she looked at me the same way. “Oh,” I continued, “I . . .” Before I could try to make up something cool, the truth came barreling from my overfull gut, “. . . I caught my husband with a woman.”

“What?”

“Yeah, he was at her house. And I just hit him. I hit him and I hit him and . . .” I didn't know where all of the emotions were coming from, but the anger I felt at five that morning was restoring itself in my mind. McKenzie was the first person I was really able to tell what happened.