AFRICAN AMERICAN URBAN FICTION: BWWM ROMANCE: Billionaire Baby Daddy (Billionaire Secret Baby Pregnancy Romance) (Multicultural & Interracial Romance Short Stories) (119 page)

I certainly noticed, especially when I came in to buy lye soap at one of the town’s general stores. My husband and Judge Williams were walking side by side. I thought that was an innocent enough affair. It often happened that ranchers did not clearly define the borders of their lands. Fences were put up, sometimes. But fences could be torn down. The ranchers and farmers of the area looked to Judge Williams to settle disputes between who did what, and who owed what money. Matthew had gone to see the judge more than once for adjudication on such matters. Though I don’t know precisely what those matters were, or how they were resolved, I am sure that they occurred, for Matthew became familiar enough with the judge that the elderly man permitted Matthew to call him by his Christian name.

Had I known what they were about then, I would have put a stop to it. Never mind that I would have been making a fool out of myself. Never mind that I would have been giving everyone in town a reason to gossip. I would have done my best to obstruct their business as best I could, even knowing that I could only delay their business for a time. I would have done it, for I love Matthew with all my heart. Even now, writing this chronicle, after all that has happened, I find it impossible to deny my true feelings to myself. Every person only gets one chance to find their true love. I had found mine. I had no intention of leaving him.

Matthew sat me down one Sunday afternoon. He had a folder full of papers in his hand. Despite years of working in the sun, time has not robbed him of the youthful vigor that was present in his appearance from the time when, as a twenty-three year old, he came up with the notion of striking out to the frontier by himself. He was thirty-five years old now. He looked younger than I did, even though I was aged thirty-two. When I considered my appearance in the mirror, I put my own age at forty-four. Lines had appeared around my eyes and my lips. I never could get rid of the dark circles that plagued my eyes, no matter how much I tried to sleep. My lips were no longer full and rosy. My skin, once so white that it needed little in the way of powder, had become so tanned that no one would ever mistake me for the daughter of a rich man that I was.

Matthew, meanwhile, had a smooth face with sharp green eyes. He had let his hair grow out. It had become full and brown. Each half hung over his shoulders, like that of an Indian. He had grown strong during his years on his ranch. His body, once that of a clerk who had been nothing better than a literate errand boy, now had all the musculature of someone who devoted his life to lifting heavy objects. Not only that, but he had grown more outspoken, more firm in his convictions. Every man who interacted with him knew where they stood. His name had become known throughout the state. Anyone who wanted to have a drink with a fair-dealing, fair-minded man had only to seek out Matthew Callahan.

I don’t want to say I was envious of him, even though I was. Such a sentiment I could never express aloud. I have always held the supposition that every woman is jealous of her husband. A husband stands astride the whole world. He can go where he will and do what he will. A wife can only stand behind him and support him in whatever way she may. I had been taught that from the time I learned how to speak. I saw nothing in the world to suggest that it would ever be otherwise.

We were in the living room at the time. I was standing. I don’t remember why I was standing. I only recall that I was standing upright with my back straight while he sat down in a rocking chair- one that I had bartered for. He leaned back in the chair with one leg crossed over the other. Whenever he took his ease- a rare enough circumstance- he looked like as though he had done everything he could do with his life. A look of deep satisfaction settled over his face during those moments. It had settled over his face when I stood in front of him.

He said, “Mary, sit down please.”

I sat down then, curious. Part of me had understood his purpose in summoning me to the living room. I still had wheat chaff in my hair. I had not even had time to clean myself up. I never did make myself presentable just for him, even though my mother would have found the notion scandalous. Matthew had never minded how I looked. At least, I had always thought so. A little nagging voice deep inside of me had warned me now and again that this would not always be the case. Beauty is ephemeral. The only rule that counts for anything in the world is that all things must pass. Even the most radiant queen must one day become an old woman with black teeth and gnarled hands. I had no illusions that I would be able to outlast anyone else in the world. The restroom mirror never let me fool myself into thinking that I could.

I said, “Matthew, what is this about?”

I wanted to believe that he had made a business proposal, or had received a proposition from a prospective buyer. I wanted to believe that we would soon be moving off the ranch to a mansion where we would live on the passive income that our investments produced for the rest of our lives. I wanted very much to believe that. I couldn’t quite bring myself to do it.

He held the folder out for me to take. I took it with both hands. He said, “I had a conversation with Judge Williams the other day.”

I leaned back, not bothering to open the folder. I’ve never been one for legal documents. I have never been possessed of a head for business that involves writing contracts. I understand prices and people. Reading papers tends to give me a headache. I have always left that to Matthew. As such, I expected him to tell me what the contents of the papers might be. I said, “Yes, I saw you walking in town with him.”

He coughed into the back of his hand. My stomach sank when I saw him express discomfort. He is, as I have said, a very straightforward man. There aren’t too many reasons why a man who never experiences difficulty in speaking plainly to the men with whom he does business should experience difficulty in speaking to his wife.

He said, “The fact of the matter is, I have annulled our marriage.”

Even though a small part of me had known, the rest of me- the largest portion of myself- had never even suspected. There had been no indication that he would do anything of the sort. I dropped the folder to the floor. All the papers spilled out of the folder in front of my feet. For a moment, I dared not breathe. I dared not do anything. My mind whirled as I tried to grasp at anything that might make his statement untrue.

My hands shook when I said, “Surely- surely this is a jest?”

He stared straight ahead at me. It seemed to me that the less sure I became of myself, the more sure that he became of himself. He said, “I’m afraid it’s not. The documents were filed with the court seven days ago. Judge Williams required me to wait that long so that I was sure of what I was doing. I’ve spent a great deal of time reflecting on whether to go back to him or not. I haven’t. So as of this morning, our marriage contract is no longer legally binding.”

I tried to make sense of what he had said. Something had blocked my hearing. I heard him through a filter, as though I had placed cotton balls in my ears. It is only with the wisdom of reflection that I understand this to be a mechanism of survival. If I did not hear it, it could not be true.

I said, “Then- then…”

He completed my sentence for me. He said, “We are no longer husband and wife.”

I found my courage then. I don’t know from where. I couldn’t just sit there shaking like a leaf forever. At some point, human dignity reasserts itself- always, without exception. I said, “How can this happen? Haven’t I been loyal to you these many years? Your constant companion?              Your- your---”

I turned my face away to keep him from seeing my tears. I would not him see my cry. Not for anything would I let him see that. He acted so nonchalant, as if our divorce did not matter at all. Or, if it did matter to him, it was just another business transaction. He had done many of those, so many that I had lost track of them all. His study was filled to the brim with receipts and contracts. He always insisted on having every transaction he conducted put down to paper. There was something impersonal about paper that I just could not become accustomed to. Paper did not reveal a person’s mood, or their state of mind. They did not- in most cases- indicate whether the deal had been good or bad for the other party concerned. That lay in the other party’s estimation of the deal, rather than the actual terms. A man might sell his property at what constituted a loss to him yet consider it a good deal if investment capital was required for another venture. People made deals that went against their own interests every day; they did so because their evaluation of the transaction’s benefit missed the mark, sometimes badly.

When I thought of a divorce as a business transaction- in this case the termination of a contract- I could not help but think that Matthew had not factored in what the divorce might cost both him, and myself. The best investors don’t plan month to month, or year to year. They plan decade to decade. By saying that he did not wish to stay married to me, he had said that the cost of the marriage outweighed the benefit of it. That made no sense to me. No matter how I turned it over in my head, I could not see where he might find another person to do what I could do better than I could. The frontier was hell to horses and women. Both were worn out in short order. Only those with great fortitude could survive, to say nothing of carving out a piece of the country for oneself.

He said, “Yes, you have been. And now I wish to find another companion. I have consulted Judge Williams at length on this subject. Believe me when I tell you that it is not a rash decision by any means.”

“Not rash, is it? Exactly how long have you been considering doing this?”

I could not help but feel indignant at the situation in which I found myself. I had run away with a man from Boston who, at the time, had dreams that any man considered to be in his right mind would have laughed at. I had followed him into the riskiest venture he had ever made- his first one. If my reward was to be tossed aside like a piece of old newspaper, then what had it all been for? Why had I even bothered being loyal to him if he was not going to be loyal to me?

“A few months, if you must know. This is not something I take lightly, believe me.”

My voice became shrill as it rose. I said, “And you did not think to mention this to me at all? Not through all the time when the notion was in your head?”

He did not react to my anger. That made me even more furious at him. He did not budge easily from a position once he decided upon it. Nor did he show his emotions as I did. That was a skill he learned over time. I often wondered whether he could ever make a living playing seven card stud. He had the demeanor for it, certainly. Yet the minimal reaction that he gave me caused me to bristle inside. I had a feeling of butting my head against a wall. It caused my head to throb.

Then, he said something that made me want to take a pitchfork to his stomach. I’ve never been a violent woman. Violence is for fools. It is a tool that cuts oneself as often as it cuts that at which it is aimed toward. There were no shortage of violent men in the frontier: not in Nevada, Texas, Wyoming, or Montana. Yet these men, I had often observed, came to a bad end sooner or later. I knew the rule of living by sword and dying by the sword. While I listened to him speak, all of those fancy sentiments went out of my head. I wanted to hurt him. I wanted to settle what had come between us.

He said, “It was none of your business?”

I screamed at him, “None of my business! I’m your
wife!
Have you gone sick in the head that you’ve forgotten that?”

“Not anymore. Not as of nine o’clock this morning.”

I choked back a response together with my tears. There I was, just on the point of losing my mind even while Matthew sat before in perfect repose. If anything, it looked to me like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders.

I said, “Am I to understand that you have sought the company of another woman?”

He said, “Yes, as a matter of fact. Just this morning, a woman from Massachusetts arrived. I put in an advertisement to a Boston newspaper.”

“This woman, she has come all the way across the continent to marry you has she?”

“That she has. We’re to be married tomorrow afternoon.”

I imagined the tines of a pitchfork piercing his torso over and over. There would be blood, a lot of blood. I imagined- but no. Such things as came into my mind then are not fit for a book such as this, however short it may be.

I put a hand to my forehead while I leaned back. I said, “All right, Matthew. What is it then? Is she a member of some royal family? An heiress to a fortune? A famous theater actress? One of those abolitionists who are calling for women to be granted voting rights throughout the country? Who is she?”

Matthew’s placid face did not change. He might as well have been describing a wolf that he shot out in the wilderness somewhere. He said, “She writes to tell me that she is twenty-one years of age.”

All at once, all the rage, all the furious pent up energy that had built inside me during the conversation with Matthew disappeared in an instant. My voice became hollow. I understood only too well what was going on. I said, “You’ve traded in your old mare for a younger philly.”

He nodded, then said, “That is rather an indecorous way of putting it, but yes, the gist of it is that I wish to be married to someone younger than myself. Now as I understand that you may not find a residence of your own between today and tomorrow, I am prepared to-”

I stood up. My feet trampled on the documents. That didn’t make me feel better, even though I would never dared to do such a thing a week ago. I walked out of the house and out of his life. I didn’t know where I was going, or where I might end up. I had no sense of the future. There was only the immediate miserable present in which I had to do something other than sitting across for a man who thought so little of me that he would throw me away at the first opportunity he had.