The Other Woman
Naturally, I change a lot of surface details in my blog posts to protect the identities of people and places. This post is no exception.
Demona met us for dinner at Pastis in the Meatpacking District. She shouted to us from outside the open window on Little West 12th Street and we got up out of our chairs at the table as she came running across the cobblestone intersection on three-inch heels. Her bosom bounced under her tight white tank top as she clicked across the floor to hug Julius and me. She was clearly taking advantage of the fine weather we’ve been having, but was also wise enough to wear a brown suede bolero jacket against the chill slipping in from the Hudson.
From the minute she sat down, Demona was literally springing up and down in her seat about being back in New York after so many months in Memphis. Like lots of other New Yorkers, she’d tried living in a smaller city but was shocked to find she wasn’t living in New York anymore. “I’m dying down there,” she told us after ordering a pomegranate martini and taking a quick gander at all the Georgina Chapman, Louis Vuitton and Manolo Blahnik strutting down the tiles. She screamed, “There’s nothing like this in Memphis. I gotta get out! I gotta get out!,” but between the West Village streets, the chattering tables and the Serge Gainsbourg serenades, there was already so much cacophony that nobody but us noticed her loudness.
Last time Demona was in town was the week of Thanksgiving. She was visiting her parents all the way up in Mohawk Valley but came down to the city twice. One night, she was hustling out of Brother Jimmy’s BBQ at Grand Central Station with bags from Macy’s, Saks, and Bendel in her hands. She had just a few minutes to catch her train as she brushed past a tall, middle-aged man with pure white hair. “Excuse me,” he said with the kind of extra-strength Brooklyn accent that’s all but extinct these days, “Could I talk to you a second?”
Rush or no rush, Demona hadn’t met a man in months and it’d been years since someone this debonair had crossed her path. She knew better than to use this fleeting instant to chase down a train. She stopped and let the bags grow heavy on her arms as the man looked down, laughed and looked back up with a tomato red face and said, “I don’t normally do this, but…I saw you in Brother Jimmy’s and I thought, ‘That lady’s so beautiful, I just have to know her name.’ Can you tell it to me?”
Demona told him it and he introduced himself as Tony. He asked if she wanted to have a drink at the Oyster Bar & Restaurant. Demona accepted and Tony helped with her bags. She’d already eaten ribs at Brother Jimmy’s and he’d had hot wings, so they ordered nothing else but the finest bottle of Veuve Cliquot.
Tony told her he’s originally from Bensonhurst, which is also where Demona was born, but now he lives in Jersey. He’s divorced with two daughters, who live with their mother. One of them is dying of a rare disease. He choked back tears as he told Demona that the little girl is his little angel “here on earth” and will be “from the hereafter.” Demona gave her most supportive shoulder and ran her fingers through his hair at the bar.
Tony admitted he’d never considered black women before, but when he saw Demona, he knew he had to spread his net. Demona marveled at the providential sleight of hand at work at this least expected hour, but a small window of wisdom opened and she opted not to withhold the truth. She let Tony know that she lives in Memphis. Tony said he could bear that for now, but would stop at nothing to bring her back to where she belongs.
Demona caught the last train to Mohawk Valley. Tony had carried her bags and helped her board. There was no tension at their first kiss, which took place right before the doors closed and the wheels started turning. The kiss was slow and long and they went for it at the same time. She was glad he didn’t ask her back to his place. This way they weren’t rushing it and she didn’t have to explain anything to her parents, who still worry about her even though she’s over 40.
In fact, Demona’s mother had called her cell phone a couple hours earlier, wondering why she wasn’t home. Demona had told her mother she was talking to a handsome man she’d just met and her mother got off the line. After all, Demona is an only child, had never married and had never blessed her parents with a single grandchild. Now her childbearing years were running out and her mother wouldn’t stand in the way of a better fate, even if she found out that Tony is Italian.
Demona had gone back to Tennessee in a heap, yet Tony’s adoring emails awaited Demona from the moment she landed in Memphis International Airport. So did his text messages, containing pics of him beaming with an easy smile. The minute she got to her job at the Peckerwood Hotel, she uploaded his handsomest headshot as her new screensaver.
In Tony’s IMs, he spared no hyperbole in remarking on her “smokin’est gorgeousness” and she spared no restraint in asking him to rescue her from her admin job at the Peckerwood. “The other secretaries here idolize Sarah Palin, omg!,” she wrote him, “Buggin’ every minute. SOS!” He replied, “Wow! We GOTTA get you home then!,” and she was relieved to find he was a democrat. But Tony had also expressed his relief that he enjoys his job as chief foreman at the AHM Fabricated Metal Factory, and that he’s glad he’s respected as a union leader, although he admitted that his life would be a whole lot sweeter if he had someone to share it with.
At Pastis, we ordered hors d’oeuvres. Demona reminded us that she couldn’t help us eat oysters on the half shell since she’s allergic to shellfish and, for good measure, she cracked her old hors d’oeuvres joke: “Horse-derves! You know I don’t eat horses!” She got an arugula salad instead and I wondered how she could stand picking the lemon slice out of the lettuce with her new white acrylic nails, which she must have paid a fortune for. She also had her hair done up to something that looked like a nest of preening ravens and her face was powdered and painted into something that I was surprised she’d want to risk getting arugula or oil on. We surmised that she’d been done up for Tony, so I asked what she’d been up to that afternoon.
At first, she giggled and cheered, “Drinking!” She then broke into a robust cackle. In fact, she hadn’t been out with Tony before meeting us. She’d gotten together with her old schoolmate Roger from Bluefield State College. They hit every bar from Lennox Hill to Gramercy Park. Ultimately they wound up at the Fat Cat Bar on Christopher Street. Demona also said Roger lives at 21st and 8th Ave, so we asked if he’s gay. She said, “No, he’s married.” Then she chortled some more and said, “And so is Tony!”
Julius and I put our oysters down. “Oh shit!” I said.
Demona turned back to her arugula salad and said, “We’ll see how it goes.”
I said, “See how it goes?”
She ordered another pomegranate martini and took a deep breath. We knew we were in for a long one, so Julius got another Chardonnay and I ordered another Stella Artois. “How do I explain?” Demona began, “Alright. So his emails started leveling off. And I thought, ‘Unh-uh, boyfriend. If I have to hunt you down and nail you to the floor, I’m not letting you get away.’ But I played it cool and gave it time. Until three days went by with no email.”
Demona took another sip of her drink and we joined her in sipping ours. She looked out on to Gansevoort and saw all the skimpy outfits and all the bleach blondes with their arms wrapped in the crooks of their GQ big-shot boyfriends’ arms. She continued, “And so I called Tony. I said, ‘You haven’t called. Or emailed.’ He said, ‘Sorry, babe. I’ve been working through some heavy problems.’ I said, ‘Is it your daughter?’ He said, ‘It’s my wife.’ I said, ‘You mean, your ex-wife?’ He was quiet and said, ‘No, I mean my wife.’”
It turns out, after Tony’s first marriage ended in some unexplained disaster, Tony remarried. This time, he decided he was done with Italian girls and found a Jewish woman who liked the good life as much as he did. His first wife remarried, so she was off his alimony dole. Now Tony and his new wife could build up an all-new New Jersey kingdom. She had money and now so did he, so they stocked the house with designer furnishings, state-of-the-art appliances and even a pool in back. But once Tony and his new wife got done remodeling, they found that the only thing they liked doing together was fighting. Sparks only flew when someone would kick over the newest widescreen TV and smash the stereo.
Spreading out her well-groomed nails in a fan before us, Demona said, “But they’re not sleeping together anymore.”
“Are they separated?” I asked.
“Not yet,” Demona responded, “They’re still figuring it out. You know, they aren’t sleeping together, but he was trying to hang in there with her. He told me that, before he met me, he didn’t even masturbate. It’s like he was punishing himself for his marriage going wrong.”
“And after you?” Julius asked.
“Oh!,” she replied, “Since me, he’s even rubbing himself in the factory parking lot!”
“No,” Julius said, “I mean, now that he’s with you, did he say he’s moving out?”
Demona looked down and her eyes looked drowsy, “He says, it’s hard. He likes his lifestyle. If he leaves her, she’ll get everything. He’d have to start over and pay alimony.”
“Okay, Demona,” I said, “Tough love time: a man who loves you will cut his losses. If he’s not willing to do that, then…”
Demona nodded, “Yeah. Well, she knows about me.”
Julius’ mouth went slack, “She does?” Julius and I both drank up at the same time.
Demona said, “Yeah. Tony and I were out last night. She called his cell phone. He put his arm around me and told her, ‘Look, I’m out with Demona now. I can’t talk.’”
I said, “So you saw him last night?”
Demona said, “Oh, yeah. He took me to Balthazar.”
“Oh!,” Julius said, “I love Balthazar. How was it?”
Demona was obviously lightheaded as she swayed from side to side, “It was deee-vinnne. Just perfect. The perfect prelude to a perfect night.”
“Which ended where?,” I asked.
Demona cooed, “Back at my hotel in Times Square.”
“Oooh,” I said, “So you had him for breakfast too.”
She laughed, “No. He left in the middle of the night. He woke me up and kissed me. He’s such a good kisser. Mmmm! But, Kyle, when he walked out and closed the door…I can’t tell you how it felt. I felt like he was closing the door on me.”
A long pause ensued. The waiter came. With all the talking going on, we hadn’t even had time to look at the menu, so we just ordered quickly lest we lose our thread. I ordered a seared tuna nicoise, Julius went with the skate au beurre noire and Demona decided she’d have the same. Julius also ordered us a bottle of Corsica Rouge. The waiter collected our menus. Our eyes turned right back to Demona, whose eyes were right back on the flashy mobs on Gansevoort.
“God, I miss New York,” Demona said, “I’ve been looking for jobs up here. I’ll take anything. I have to get my security deposit back on my apartment in Memphis, though, so I’ll have to wait a couple months. But, you know, I can’t take the fake southern chawm. I want the direct hit, New York-style. The kind where you know where you stand, straight-out.”
“Do you know where you stand with Tony?” I asked.
She said, “Oh, you always know where you stand with Tony. You always know where you stand with Tony. He’s a real guinea, you know?” Julius and I laughed despite ourselves. We never thought Demona would use an ethnic slur. But she said it again and again in describing Tony. “He is!,” she insisted, “He’ll be like (Al Pacino voice), ‘Don’ you fuckin’ fuck wid me or I’ll fuck you!”
I said, “Well, alright, he talks like a straight shooter, but is he one? I mean, how long did he go before mentioning his wife?”
Demona said, “Yeah, well, okay. But he’s straight up about where we are. I mean, for now.” She laughed, “He said to me, ‘If you see anyone else, I’ll kill you!’”
Our smiles dropped. I cocked my head, “He said that?”
Demona shrugged her shoulders, “Yeah.”
Julius asked, “Do you think he meant it?”
She leaned forward and finished off her martini, “Of course he meant it! I mean, I don’t think he’d do it, but I think he meant it. That’s the kind of guy he is. You know, the don’t-fuck-with-me type.”
“Wait,” I said, “He can screw around on you and his wife but he’ll kill you if you see anybody else? Sorry, not equitable.”
“Right,” Demona said, “But I’m not seeing anybody else. And I’m not going to see anybody else. I mean, have you seen the guys in Memphis?”
The waiter came by. Julius tasted the wine and liked it and the waiter filled our glasses. We toasted to “True Love,” something Demona knew she hadn’t clinched with Tony, at least not yet.
Demona said, “I think he’s still getting used to the idea of being with a black woman too. I mean, y’know, he’s from Bensonhurst. They used to call blacks n*%gers. Now he’s stepping out of all that. You guys have to meet him.”
“What would he think of us?,” I asked.
She said, “Probably the same thing at first. He might be a little put-off but, y’know, he’s stepping out of the old-’hood mentality. I mean, he married a Jewish woman, right? And I told him about you guys, and he said you sound great. I think he’s glad I’m out with you two and not with guys who’ll get me drinking for some other kind of good time.”
The food came and we all dug in. As she ate, she said, “I don’t know. It’s a mess.”
“Do you want to be in a mess?” I asked.
“It depends,” she said with a burst of quasi-optimism, “If I see he’s getting out of it.”
“Is he taking any steps toward divorce?” I asked.
She said, “Yes!”
Julius brightened, “Oh, he is? Good!”
She said, “Yep! I gave him the name of a divorce attorney in Jersey City and he says he’s going to call her. But now his wife is trying to crawl back in the sack with him.”
I told Julius to fill my glass back up. Julius asked, “Would you marry him? I mean, it’d be his third time.”
“Yeah, I would!” she cheered, “I mean, third time, so what? Plus, I want a baby while I still can.”
“Well,” I said, “Ever think about doing it on your own? I mean, I have a friend who wasn’t meeting the right guy. I suggested she turn to women of course, but she just couldn’t. But man or no man, what she wanted most from life was to be a mother. So she went to a clinic. She said the clinic dug up everything they could on the sperm donors, right down to their SAT scores. And they have child-raising support groups for single moms and she made friends with the other single moms and now they’re a tight pack. Around the time her daughter turned two, she met a guy and married him a year later. I think she attracted him because she wasn’t desperate anymore. She found the love she wanted in her daughter and just kept attracting love from there.”
Demona considered this and sipped her wine. She said, “That’s wonderful. But…I’m old-fashioned. I mean, I’m happy for your friend. But, for me, I want to meet the right man, get married and have my baby. Just like my mother did. But time’s a-wasting. Time’s a-wasting.”
Julius and I couldn’t argue with that. Demona asked us, “Do you guys want to have kids?”
I shook my head with abandon, “No! We have two cats and that is quite enough for us. We would like to get married, though. But we can’t…unlike Tony.”
Demona said, “Well, what if you went to D.C. or Connecticut?”
I said, “Well, we could.”
Julius said, “But it’s the federal recognition that’s important.”
Demona said, “Why?”
I said, “Because of the Defense of Marriage Act, which Clinton signed into law after getting too many blowjobs from Monica Lewinski.”
“Under DOMA,” Julius continued, “Kyle and I can’t file taxes jointly. Not only that but, if something were to happen to me, Kyle is in my will. But unlike with a married couple, anything he’d inherit from me would be subject to estate taxes.”
I said, “That’s why I think the gay community is fighting the battle wrong. I mean, don’t get me wrong: I’m of course 100% in favor of gay marriage. But I think it would be more strategic for us to fight for civil unions. We’d be separate, true, but at least we’d start becoming semi-equal. Then, after we secure all the rights, we can work on the word marriage. We don’t have to hit a grand slam all at once. But if we start by trying to get conservative America to include us in their concept of marriage, they’ll only delight in marginalizing us more. So, I think we should redraft our strategy and go for civil unions first.”
Demona chewed on her skate au beurre noire and looked to the ceiling and nodded, “I see what you’re saying. See, to me, marriage is between a man and a woman.”
Suddenly I no longer cared whether she messed up her makeup and nails in her food. I dropped my fork in my nicoise salad bowl, folded my hands and leaned forward, “What?”
Trying to make her point out to be more complex than it is, she started diagramming it on the table with her two index fingers, “See, there’s unions, right? That’s where two men, let’s say, or two women, can – and, and, and should! – get all the rights, right? And then there’s marriage. Okay? Marriage. That’s between a man and a woman.”
I said, “Don’t expect me to nod. I find that discriminatory.”
She held up her palms, “No, I’m just saying that’s how I was raised.”
Julius said, “Well, yeah. That’s how we were all raised. But is that what you think now?”
She nodded, “Yes, I…I do.”
“Okay, so what people like Tony and his wife have,” I said, “That, that’s the real thing? That’s sacred? And what Julius and I have, well, that’s just a union, but we should have the same rights?”
“See, that’s the myth of ‘separate but equal,’” Julius said.
Demona said, “But, Kyle, didn’t you just say that you should go for civil unions first?”
I said, “Yeah, first. I mean, most of society would agree that we should have tax protections and rights to hospital visits, but not that we should have marriage rights. And, frankly, as long as I personally have the same rights, I don’t mind if asshole conservatives say I’m not married. But I don’t want to be eating across from someone who’s telling me that.”
Demona backpedaled and said, “Well, I hope you two get married and are very happy together.”
We thanked her and finished dinner. We didn’t have dessert.
Instead we went to Smalls jazz club on 10th Street. We were meeting my friends Ian and Jonathan there. Ian was only going to be in town until the next day, just like Demona. He and Laurie have a two-year-old son, so they moved to Pittsburgh where they could get a bigger house for a lot less. He and Laurie never married but they can any time they want.
By the time we got there, Smalls was crammed to the gills with jazz lovers. I listen to a lot of Miles Davis but, other than him, I don’t know jazz too well. I’m going to start listening to more jazz, though, after hearing the sublime sounds of Thelonious Monk coming off the saxophone, drums, bass and piano at Smalls. It sounded every bit as smooth as Kind of Blue.
We’d managed to get barstools. Demona didn’t want to sit, though. She says she never sits in bars for some reason, even though she wears heels. She insisted that I take the barstool I saved for her, so I took it.
The crowd was laid-low and spellbound by the saxophone. Julius sat on the stool behind mine and wrapped his arms around me. A pretty brunette to my left looked at us. She smiled at me as if to say, “Don’t worry. If there’s ever a referendum, you got my vote.”
At the song’s crescendo, Demona started hugging us goodbye. She clicked Send on a text message and told us, “My ride’s here.” She never said who her ride was, but we knew he only had so much time.
When Julius and I got home, I put on a disc from the Nina Simone collection. In Demona’s honor, I played “The Other Woman”:
The other woman finds time to manicure her nails
The other woman is perfect where her rival fails
And she’s never seen with pin curls in her hair
The other woman enchants her clothes with French perfume
The other woman keeps fresh cut flowers in each room
There are never toys that are scattered everywhere
And when her baby comes to call
He’ll find her waiting like a lonesome queen
Cos when she’s by his side
It’s such a change from old routine
But the other woman will always cry herself to sleep
The other woman will never have his love to keep
And as the years go by the other woman
Will spend her life alone
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