Love Triangle: Three Sides to the Story Read online

  I was getting uncomfortable standing under the piazza and my dour thoughts were bringing a banging headache between my eyes. As a teacher on the shift system, morning shift was my favourite time, though in the afternoons the sun could be a nuisance if you didn’t have your own transport.

  George was once again late to pick me up, and with the scorching hot afternoon sun belting down I was in no mood to listen to his lame excuses that bordered on the absurd. Husbands must think their wives are dummies unable to think and reason.

  A typical conversation would be: “George, you are two hours late for dinner. Where were you?”

  “At the office doing something extremely important.”

  “But I called your office and your secretary said that you had already left.”

  And he would say, “Oh, I went to look for my mother, the poor lady is so ill.”

  Problem is, his mother is a healthy woman and though we are not on the best of terms and he knows it, she would occasionally call me to inquire about her grandchildren.

  And so I’d watch him tie himself up, and being the idiot that I am, I silently suffer….

  I’d convince myself that George is a Christian. He loves me. We have been through too much to give up now, and besides I have no concrete evidence that he is cheating.

  Finally, the cheater drives up in his Honda Accord. He opens the passenger door for me, his head bent. I thought resentfully how handsome he looks.

  Till death do we part? Ha!

  “You look frightful,” are his first words of greeting.

  No, “hi darling, how was your day?”

  No smile, no touch.

  I considered going on a Where were you? and Who were you with rant, but I settled for “Hot sunny days do that to you,” and looked outside at the beautiful landscape.

  Mandeville was so beautiful and mostly cool. As we headed for the hills, the place became almost cold. He made no attempt at conversation. He just switched on the radio and listened to his ever-present jazz CD.

  Oh, I hate jazz, and right at this moment in time, I hated my husband. Now I know why women seek out the woman that their spouse has been cheating on them with and pick a fight.

  She, whoever she is, does not understand the damage that an extramarital affair causes a wife who has to put up with his coldness and the ugly sneer that can be detected deep in his eyes as he compares her to you.

  I started to cry. I just could not help it. I clung to the door handle of the car and bawled like a baby. He looked over at me and was obviously alarmed. His face had this comical frightened look as if he was looking at a mad person.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, his hand trembling as he touched my shoulder. “I thought you did not have PMS.”

  At his weak attempt at a joke I wanted to scream: “you’re a liar and a cheat and I hate you!” But I just sat there and sobbed, feeling weak and helpless while my guilty husband stared at me aghast.

  I could see his mind whirring. Did I give any clues away? Did somebody tell her something? I silently sobbed and resisted all attempts he made to touch and reach out to me.

  When he pulled up at our gate in Manchester Heights, I clumsily took out all my things from the car and opened the front door, of the house that we bought together ten years ago, and slammed it as hard as I could. I was not in the mood for one of his lectures about temper tantrums and acting like adults. And the oft-repeated cliché “Let us talk about it.”

  I lay crossway on our bed and stared at the ceiling. I wanted to call my mother, but I was too tired to move. I thought of my aunt, and the family joke of her wandering husband came to haunt me. I did not want to be a family joke and unlike Aunt Sylvie I was not going to turn a blind eye. I just did not know how I was going to approach this … this … monster in my life.

  He came into the room with a perplexed expression on his face but the underlying guilt in his eyes was confirmation enough that I was not hallucinating or creating stories, like I knew other women do to their poor husbands.

  He sat on the edge of the bed, his hands folded over his chest, and he cleared his throat. He then loosened his tie, the one he said his secretary gave him for his birthday.

  His secretary had expensive tastes. I resentfully turned my head away.

  “Let’s talk about this sudden outburst, Marie,” he said authoritatively, obviously struggling to put some bluster in his voice.

  “Leave me alone,” I whimpered, shielding my eyes from his finely chiselled face. He was indeed a handsome man, with a nice personality, good job and above average income.

  What else could a woman ask for in this Jamaican economic slouch? Never mind the fact that he is married, our culture celebrates infidelity. ‘Nuff gal and gal inna bungle.’

  I never knew George was a dancehall fan. Then again, it seems as if I don’t know George at all. He sat there silently. I could sense his confusion from afar.

  “Tell me,” he rasped, “why do you cry?”

  He sounded so loving that I melted in tears as he rocked me against him. How ironic. I was crying on the shoulders of the one who is causing me so much pain.

  “Hush,” he whispers, kissing my hair and my face. “I love you, Marie. Don’t cry.”

  Oh, my God. My husband loves me. He’s probably just overworked, and here I am secretly accusing him of all manner of atrocities. I clung to him, my mind grasping at straws.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks again.

  This time I sniffle and explain to him that things are just not the same between us. I tell him that I feel left out of his life, that I am not secure in his love. And of course he tells me earnestly that he loves me. He’s sorry for the lack of attention but things are hectic at work.

  Do I buy it?

  Of course, he’s my husband of twelve years. He would not lie to me.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  After three weeks of having my old husband back, I went to visit his mother—there is no love lost between us. Even after twelve years of marriage to her precious George, I am barely tolerated. I suspected that he being her only child has something to do with that but he defied her wishes and made me his wife. I remember asking her one day, after George and I had been married for six months, what was wrong with me? Why did she despise me so much?

  She was in her garden, her straw hat shielding her face and her purple dyed hair in a perfect bun. She took off her gloves, and flexed her fingers before replying.

  “You are too young, you are not from the right background, and your skin shade is too dark. I shudder to think that George’s children will not be acceptable.”

  I remember feeling faint and very shocked. Who knew that such archaic beliefs still existed in twenty-first century Jamaica?

  I was two months pregnant at the time, and shortly after, I had a miscarriage that almost took my life. I wondered if Mrs. Cameron was displeased that I had not died.

  To date, it's not obvious from her worshipful appreciation of her grandchildren that she ever made that statement, but I remember. And I firmly put a stop to any friendly overtures she sends my way.

  So now we are at an impasse. I visit her whenever her son prompts me to do so and whenever the children want to go to see their grandmother. But personally, I prefer to go to see her before she comes to see me. The criticisms of my household I can stand, but when she presumes to rearrange my home I get livid. The children were at my brother’s house so I had a little time to visit her anyway. Of course I greeted her with the perfunctory kiss; she offered me drinks; I politely declined.

  “So where's George?” she asks, her high-pitched English affected accent never failing to grate my nerves.

  “He’s gone to work.”

  “On Sunday?” She raised her eyebrows as she calmly drank her tea. “He told me he was going to stop by with Karen today.”

  “Karen?” I asked, my mind working overtime.

  “Yes,” the witch said, looking at me innocently. “He has this friend, a beautiful young lady, that h
e carries me to visit sometimes. She’ll make a fine match for a lucky guy.”

  I was speechless. Karen … carries to visit sometimes … kept repeating in my head. I realised that my mouth was opened and I closed it with a snap.

  Mrs. Cameron was looking at me, feigned concern in her eyes. “Is everything alright, dear? The silence is oppressive. Let me get you some tea.” She got up and went into the house. I was shell-shocked.

  The girl had a name and she was visiting his mother. I was so weak when George’s mother placed the cup in my hands, it was rattling in the saucer and I could not stop it. She took it from me and placed it on a side table. I observed it in a haze.

  She then stood over me, her eyes looking kind, and said firmly, “Marie, you are an intelligent girl. I have admired your drive and determination over the years. You are a smart girl until it involves George. You know I love my son, and I have not been very nice to you over the years, but you are the mother of my grandchildren, and I would just hate to see the family broken up.”

  She cleared her throat and put her hand on my shoulder. “Let me not say anything more … ” and then she sat down across from me, calmly drinking her tea.

  I watched her hand go up and down from her mouth to the saucer. It was as if all other sounds in the world were obliterated except the clink of the cup in the saucer and the sipping noise that her mouth made.

  I don’t know how I reached home. I can’t remember anything else from that evening except that I felt very small in a big, bad world. Mother-in-law, the dragon, was not really a dragon. My sweet husband was now the dragon, cheating on me with a girl called Karen.

  George returned home from ‘work’ late Sunday evening. He noticed the absence of dinner and my zombie-like look but said nothing.

  He hurriedly dressed for church as he was going to conduct the night’s meeting. He left without saying a word. My body language obviously discouraged conversation.

  I cried when he left, but not the heart-wrenching sobs of the last time, though I felt torn, and suicidal. I knelt beside my bed, my head wearily in my hands and asked God why. Why did this have to happen to me? There are people who live together for 40, 50 years with no infidelity in their union.

  What happened, Lord? Is it because I am not reading my Bible and praying with my husband enough, or am I less of a woman?

  I am just 32, a young attractive woman, with three beautiful children for the same man.

  Why me?

  I sobbed my poor heart out.

  I heard the car drive into the garage and I looked up at the clock. It was 9:30 pm. I had been kneeling down for two hours. I got up, took the cordless phone and locked myself in the bathroom.

  I called my mother. She’s always on my side. Though she loved George, she would fearlessly rebuke him on my behalf. I needed Mommy in my corner, but she was not at home.

  My eldest sister, Winsome, answered the phone. She sounded sleepy and I was not in the mood for Winsome’s unbiased view on life. I asked for my other sister Laura, who was still at university and our parents' youngest child.

  She would understand; she’s a counselling major.

  “Laura,” I said, when she took the phone from Winsome.

  “Yes, Marie. I called you about twenty times today. Where were you?”

  “I … I … ” I started to cry, hiccups flowing through the phone line. I looked in the mirror above the bathroom at my bloodshot eyes and tear-streaked face. I looked positively awful. I started to laugh hysterically.

  “I bet Karen is beautiful when she cries,” I said to my puzzled sister.

  “Calm down,” Laura was saying urgently into the phone.

  Of course, Winsome heard her and took up the other extension in the house.

  “What’s happening? What’s wrong? Who trouble yuh?” She sounded frantic. Always the calm diplomatic one, the nurse of the family was flustered on my behalf.

  I told them what I had picked up along the way in terms of the telling signs of George’s infidelity, and I told them verbatim what his mother had told me.

  Winsome was shocked—she’d always said she wanted to marry someone like George; Laura was speechless. When she finally spoke, she started cursing all men.

  Beautiful. My family was on my side.

  I could hear George in the kitchen. He must have been hungry when he came in, and finding no dinner, had decided to scrounge around for something.

  Oh, so Karen did not cook, I thought. Her pretty little nails probably cannot be chipped.

  I held my head in my hands while Winsome started a sermon on Hosea and Gomer.

  “The Lord told Hosea to marry a prostitute named Gomer,” she said, “each time Gomer left Hosea, the Lord told Hosea to take her back.”

  Laura had rebutted by saying, “That was to teach Israel a lesson, and give them an example of how they had prostituted themselves, but still the Lord had taken them back every time. It is not applicable to Marie’s case.”

  I could hear George knocking on the bathroom door.

  “Marie, open the door. What’s wrong with you?”

  “If you want to use the bathroom use one of the others,” I yelled.

  Winsome and Laura were silent on the other end.

  “I’ll call you back later,” I said to my sisters. I hung up the phone and flung the bathroom door open.

  George was standing before the door looking puzzled.

  “Where are the kids?” he asked

  “Who is Karen?” I screamed at the top of my lungs. I was so angry I was trembling.

  “Calm down, the neighbours will hear you.” He swallowed convulsively and had a frightened, guilty look in his eyes.

  “Okay, the docile wife will calm down.” I walked into the bedroom, ready for battle.

  “Who is Karen?” I asked, breathing hard, my hands balled up in fists. I was so grateful that the kids were with my brother. I would not want them to witness this great showdown.

  George sighed. He looked defeated. “She’s a friend.”

  “Just a friend? You terrible, two-timing …”

  He held up his hand. “We are not like that Marie; name-calling is not our style.”

  I sat on the bed. The grey sweatshirt that I had on was so appropriate for the occasion. It flopped all over my fingers. I had never felt so unattractive, used and stupid in my entire life.

  I did not even have the luxury of calling my deceitful husband names, ‘because it was not our style.’ I sighed and hung my head in shame.

  “Tell me about Karen,” I whispered.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “She is a teller at the bank. I was attracted to her and she to me, and things got out of hand. Marie, I’m sorry, I did not want you to find out.”

  This is just classic. Young, beautiful woman and older man in senior position attracted to each other. My husband was not as smart as I thought he was. I had so many questions to ask him, I was dizzy.

  “Why her?”

  “Is this the first time, George?”

  He emphatically nodded his head in affirmation.

  “She was just different,” he said, and then as if to add insult to injury, “she reminded me of you.”

  “Crap, that’s foolishness. Am I that naïve when you tell lies that you think that I would believe this one?” ‘She reminded me of you,’ I mimicked. “Am I in China or Iraq that you need a reminder of me?”

  “How long has this been going on? The truth George,” I yelled, as he opened his mouth.

  “A year,” was his mumbled reply.

  A year of my marriage was a sad lie.

  A whole year, and I blindly made excuses for the man I loved.

  A year of sharing my husband with someone else.

  “How many times do you sleep with her each week?” I shrieked, tears running down my face. I felt hot and cold shivers race across my spine.

  “Marie …” he began, looking pained and uncomfortable.

  “Tell me,” I growled.

  �
�Two or three times,” he said, looking away.

  “So, it’s probably four or five times, since I know you would have to reduce the number to save face.”

  “What does she look like?” I said, pacing and punishing myself.

  “Is she light-skinned and has silky hair?” I asked, imitating his mother’s voice.

  “I am not having any more of this,” he said firmly. “I will sleep in the guest room tonight.”

  He left, just like that. I was at a serious crisis in my life and my husband was 'not having anymore of this.' I stormed behind him, grabbing his car keys on the way.

  “Marie, where are you going? Give me those keys. You are not fit to drive in this state.”

  “What are you concerned about George?” I said at the front door, “That your precious Honda will be in an accident? Because it could not be me. You weren’t concerned enough about me for a whole year of our lives?”

  I slammed the door as hard as I could and started jogging. The truth was, I was in no state to drive. Jogging at twelve midnight in the cold thin air of Manchester was not exactly smart, but who cares?

  Certainly not my lying cheating ‘two or three times a week’ husband. How could he? How could he?

  I ran so hard it was as if I was in a race that was vital for me to win. What should I do now? Leave him? Retaliate by cheating on him?

  Definitely not that. Besides, I had three children with developing morals.

  I stopped and sat on the street-side in some gravel. A car approached. It was George. He must have gotten the spare keys.

  He saw me and stopped.

  “Marie,” he cleared his throat. “I love you and only you”

  “Shut up,” I barked, “I am not in the mood.”

  “Marie, hear me out. I love you. I will not see her again. I don’t want you to leave because of this. It was just a useless fling.”

  Aha! There he goes again, trying to soften me up. I got in the car. I was so tired and disillusioned that walking back home was not an option.

  I went home and slept on and off for two weeks. I called in sick for work. I was listless. I could not even make an effort with my children. Timothy, our oldest son at ten years old, reminded me so much of George that it hurts. I look at him in the mornings as he gets ready for school and find myself wondering if he was going to break his wife’s heart when he gets married.