My Husband, Her Man

Chapter 1

          I can’t believe I’m lying here eavesdropping on my own husband. I don’t want to, but I can’t help it. It’s 11:34 Thursday night and he’s holed up in that bathroom again. He no doubt thinks I’m still sound asleep. Little does he know my eyes popped open the instant he sprang from our California king bed. My gut and that low tone tell me he’s talking to her.

          I strain to hear the ceremonial conclusion of Greg’s nightly tête-à-tête. When I hear him utter, “I love you,” I shut my weary eyes tightly and feel both burning and yearning in my heart.

          Don’t ask me why I find it so unbelievably unbelievable that my husband loves another woman more than he loves me. After all, he told me pointblank before we married a little over ten years ago that Gloria was the most important woman in his life and would always be number one. So why did I go through with the marriage? Well, he was the first and only man to tell me that he loved me. Okay, and maybe my mother’s constant quoting of I Corinthians 7:9: “But if they cannot control themselves, they should marry, for it is better to marry than to burn with passion” had a little something to do with it.

          I prayed that Greg would change his ways once he became a father, but even after the birth of our now 9-year-old son, Dante, Greg insists on allowing his relationship with Gloria to come between us.

          When he clicks off the light in the bathroom and strolls back into the bedroom smiling like he’s just had his soul refreshed, feelings of jealousy engulf me.

          Greg sets the cordless telephone down on the wooden night table, inches from a silver-framed photograph of Gloria and I flip over, turning my back to Greg and the portrait that, more often than not, sickens me. I’m fuming as he plops down on the edge of the bed as if purposely trying to rouse me.

          As I’ve done so many nights before, I ponder what to do about the woman who holds my husband’s heart in the palm of her delicate little hand. I could pay Gloria a visit and have a talk with her, in hopes of appealing to the woman’s Christian side. But even I would view that as a pretty desperate act.

          I could try reasoning with Greg again. Although I don’t see what good it would do. He just doesn’t seem to understand or care how this whole twisted situation is affecting me. I’m lonely and feel neglected, but Greg is so totally absorbed in Gloria that he doesn't even notice.

          As he eases up behind me, I slowly open my eyes and we spoon. I know what he wants. Lately, the only time we are this close is when we need each other physically. Our life together wasn’t always this way. When we took our vows more than a decade ago, I had no doubt that Greg adored me because he showed me in countless ways.

          We met as seniors in high school. Greg attended Coolidge in Northwest, Washington, DC, and I was only a hop, skip, and jump away at Roosevelt. We made acquaintance at a varsity basketball game and dated exclusively with only a month-long separation from that weekend until the day we married.

          From the day my mother laid eyes on Greg she loved him like a son. Not just because he knew all the right things to say, but because he thought so highly of his own mother. Mama was convinced that any man who loved his mother as deeply as Greg appeared to love his would devote himself to his wife because he understood the importance of a woman in a man’s life.

          The greatest lie ever told, I’m thinking as Greg tightens his embrace around my waist. This man is completely and utterly devoted to one woman. She is his mother and her name is Gloria Davis.

          Greg credits his tight mother-and-son bond with Gloria to his father’s many years of alcohol abuse. He says that it was those trying years, the years when his father’s behavior became self-gratifying and narcissistic, years that were equivalent to growing up without a father, that he was forced to become the man of the house. Apparently it took his relationship with Gloria went "to another level".

          Now, I understand to an extent. It’s only natural that Greg would feel a sense of responsibility toward his mother and sister, but what is this other level all about? For the life of me, I can’t get through to Greg that I’m not asking him to forget Gloria; just remember me. 

          How can Gloria have such power over Greg? And not just Greg! Gloria mesmerizes Dante as well. All he ever talks about is his “MamMa.” My father in-law, William, is no different. Gloria is his entire world. They’ve been married for over thirty years. I want nothing more than to go the distance with Greg, but something’s got to give. I just can’t see continuing this way.

          My eyes close again as Greg lightly kisses the back of my neck, and the soft caress of his soothing fingers travel over the curve of my hip and down my thigh. I want to hold on to the resentment, but I need to make love to my husband. During lovemaking seems to be the only time I truly feel connected to Greg lately.

          Since being called into the ministry, he’s never home anymore. He spends every waking moment serving the needs of our church members or at his parents’ house catering to Gloria’s every whim, and I’m getting fed up. When Greg somehow manages to find time to spend at home, he never wants to talk to me. I’m sick of trying to engage him in conversation as if I’m his paid therapist. Every attempt at having a decent conversation with him turns into an arduous task.

          It would be one thing if Greg were spending quality time with Dante and me and taking care of home, but he isn’t. The lawn desperately needs mowing, the garbage can in the kitchen is always overflowing, the doorknob on Dante’s bedroom door has been rattling loudly for weeks now, and we haven’t had an evening out without Dante in over a year.

          I turn back over and gaze into my husband’s warm brown eyes. He plants a light, sensual kiss on my lips while massaging my backside. Sure, it feels good, but I know that it’ll take more than sensual feelings to sustain our troubled marriage.

          “Greg,” I whisper as I take his hand and sample each finger.

          “Yeah, baby?” Greg pants, accepting the pleasure I give him.

          “When are you going to mow the lawn? Andre made a joke about our ‘jungle’ today and I was really embarrassed.”

          “Come on, baby, let’s not talk about that now,” Greg pleads breathily, and then kisses me deeply, placing my hand on his special spot.

          I pull back slightly, sigh and reluctantly remove my hand from his warm body. “I want to talk about it now.”

          Greg doesn’t respond. He simply gazes at me, and I want to bop Mr. Cool, Calm, and Collected upside his composed head. His feathers aren’t easily ruffled, and I believe this is probably the reason I’m always so angry. Back in the day I praised God for such a laid-back husband, but now it burns me up that Greg is always so unemotional and seemingly detached from me and my emotions.

          I’m trying to maintain my composure. I really am. “You mow your mother’s lawn at least once a week, Greg.”

          “You know what, Cheryl? This is really getting old.”

          Greg sits up in bed, pulling the covers down around his waist. My attention is immediately drawn to his lean midsection. It takes everything in me and that blank stare on Greg’s face for me not to wrap myself around him.

          It’s glaringly obvious that Greg’s lustful mood has completely disappeared. However, I know him well enough to know that he’s not too upset because he's not doing his spot-on imitation of one of those spring-necked bobblehead dolls. Which always means, he's had enough.

          I suck my teeth. “Why are you sitting up?”

          Greg laughs facetiously, lifts the remote control from the night table drawer where he keeps it, then smoothes the covers around his narrow hips. “Didn’t you just say you wanted to talk about the lawn? If it’s okay with you, I’d like to sit up while we talk.”

          “Then why did you pick up the remote control? You can’t pay attention to me and flip channels,” I say, itching to start an argument. At least when I’m enraged I have Greg’s full attention.

          Greg cocks his head to one side. “Boo, what’s this really about?”

          “Whatever,” I mutter under my breathe, shaking my head. I'm convinced that this conversation will end just as it always does. Badly.

          Greg is giving me that woman-you've-got issues look again and it hurts. I’ve always felt like I don’t measure up to the Proverbs 31 woman he and God are always trying to make me, although I try my hardest.

          With a small smile, Greg mocks me, hoping a little humor will calm the storm he knows is brewing inside me. “Do you know that a quarrelsome wife is like a constant dripping? Drip. Drip. Drip.” 

          I narrow my eyes and keep my face tight as a tick. I can’t stand when he uses scriptures to point out my shortcomings. I don’t find it amusing in the least. I know he wouldn’t take kindly to me constantly reminding him to leave his father and mother and become one flesh with me.

          I’ll admit that I do fuss a lot, but I’m not the only one with flaws. The Bible has a very clear set of qualifications for a deacon and his position. I want so badly to ask Greg, ‘Isn’t a deacon supposed to know how to manage his family? How can you take care of God’s church when you can’t even manage your own family?’

          I know that if I spoke what is really on my mind I’d only be letting the devil have his way. All I really want is for Greg to show more interest in me outside the bedroom and take me out at least once a month. I want to feel like a woman again and not just a mother. Greg tells me all the time that he still finds me sexy and misses me when we’re apart, but I don’t see any truth in those words. Especially when he’s always brushing off dates I plan for us. I need to go out with my husband for a night…in my cute little stilettos…without Dante.

          Maybe I should just call the church and schedule counseling for us. I love my church home. While The Straighter Way Church isn’t located in the best of neighborhoods, and our members aren’t the most couth individuals you’ll ever meet, I find my church family a welcome change from the uptight “church folks” I often encounter while visiting other churches.

          Our pastor, Reverend Neil J. Fine, is a striking, svelte preaching machine. Though he's a handful at times, he stays true to the Word of God and doesn’t just pacify and entertain us. Even if he has to give a good old fashioned tongue-lashing to do it, he always brings forth a powerful Word from the Lord that whips me into shape by challenging me to think about my actions and live the way God intended.

          I just don’t believe God intended for me to remain in a marriage where my needs aren’t being met, and my husband isn’t too concerned about ministering to those needs.