Staring at the note in disbelief, he feels a couple of photos behind it. His heart quickens and his mind is filled with a barrage of thoughts. His eyes scan the note again.

“James,

I had a lovely conversation with a French artist yesterday while thinking about the upcoming vote on the Gulf Renewal bill. Maybe I could arrange for you and your wife to meet her some time.”

His anger flares up and he grinds his teeth to keep himself from screaming out his frustration. Various thoughts come to mind. Is this some kind of stunt they are pulling? They’ve resorted to blackmail? How much money did it take? Taking a moment to get a handle on his emotions, he examines the photos. His heart sinks. The first photo was of a beautiful woman with coffee colored skin, in an autumn park. Even with the passing of the years, he recognized her. He had almost forgotten her radiant smile that could brighten his day. He had neither seen nor talked to her in quite a many years. The second photo contained her and a biracial child of about twelve years. His head tilts.

His thoughts escaped his lips, breathlessly, “No way…”

“Did you say something dear?” Jessica, his wife of ten years as of tomorrow, asks.

“Oh…” he closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath, “well, I…” how would she react if he told her? Should he tell her? Pushing those thoughts aside, “…was thinking out loud.” he directs his gaze towards her, “That, perhaps when we have some free time, we should go on a romantic getaway.”

“That would be lovely dear,” she gives a warm smile, “when we have the free time” she adds with a wink.

She walks into the large closet to select a few outfits. He re-examines the photos, a rising fear and panic subsumes any remnants of anger as he begins to consider the various ramifications.

“Hon, did you hear me?” Jessica draws him from his paralyzing panic.

“Wha-what was the question?” he closes the laptop, concealing the letter and photos, as she comes around behind him, draping her arm across his shoulder.

“Erica just called; they will arrive around seven, so get ready.”

Wiping away the fog from the bathroom mirror, he turns on the sink and lets the water run. Although the water should already be warm enough for a shave, it has become a ritual for him; a ritual that takes time. He takes up the lather brush, and wets the bristles. He next picks up the apothecary bowl, with the shaving soap in it. Once he has worked up a good lather with the brush he applies it to his face. This ritual, one of his rituals, has a calming effect on him, allowing him to sort out his thoughts and attempt to prioritize. Setting the brush and bowl down, he picks up the straight razor and begins the next step in his ritual, while his thoughts wander.

No doubt those vultures want to impede him. He is appalled that they would be so willing to ruin his life just to avoid disrupting their status quo. He lets out a quick hiss as the blade nicks his skin. Tilting his head to look in mirror at the cut, he sees that it is very minor. After applying the styptic stick, he cleans the blood off the blade. Taking a moment to push thoughts to the side, he resumes his ritual.

Heading downstairs, his wife is prepping and cooking the food. His thoughts begin to wander. Old memories resurface of another time. He remembers how she would sing when she cooked. The fond feelings of those memories are quickly followed up by shame and guilt. Sighing, he ambles through the kitchen out into the dining room. The foyer entrance is opposite the one he came from; another entrance leads to the living room. The deep burgundy curtains and the dark wood paneling of the room create an ambiance that reminded him of some of the occult shops, back in his home town, that had a back room for readings behind a curtain of beads. The dining table was of a similar dark shade of wood. The silverware and white ceramic plates played a nice contrast with the rest of the room.

He was a coward, afraid of what others would say. He was young, but that was no excuse. Fearful that his family would not accept her and how they would react… he had asked her to have an abortion. She was someone he had loved; he realized he still does. He thought that she had gone through with it and decided to cut off contact because of it. He should have been more understanding, more caring, and more focused on her rather than what his family would think. Leaning against the wall, he notices a small crack. Making a mental note to fix it, he covers it with a painting.

The doorbell rings. Looking over towards the foyer, he runs his fingers through his hair. He tells himself that it is time to be social; he puts on a smile and greets his guests. Throughout the dinner, when the conversation is not directly focused on him, he reflects upon his conversations with her. She had such a unique view of things; well, unique to him. Thoughts eventually drift to how he wants to handle his current predicament. Reminding himself to focus on his guest, he joins in the conversations with an anecdote.

Laughter and dinner conversation reach a lull, everyone had finished their meals. James stands up, glass in hand, and addresses his guests, “How about we retire to the living room?”

His guests, Mark and Erica, stand up and follow suit. He leads them into the open and inviting room. The television is on, volume kept low to allow for continued conversation, set to the news channel. Leading them towards the black leather couches, he waits until they occupy one before sitting down in the other. He props one foot on the wooden coffee table and takes a sip.

Erica looks at the furnishing and the paintings on the wall and smiles, “I like the rearrangements you did with the furniture.”

“Thank you,” replies James’ wife, Jessica. She beams as she joins them, “I think it gives the room a certain coziness.”

“It does,” Erica motions to a painting on the wall, “I haven’t seen that one before. Is it a Monet?”

“It is.” she looks at her friend, corner of her mouth turns up, she continues, “Good eye, I’m impressed,” she takes a drink, “I was fortunate to happen upon it at an art auction a few days ago.”

Amused, James turns his attention from the conversation to let his eyes roam around the room. The layout of the house, the vaulted ceilings, its spaciousness, and its contents are symbols of his accomplishments and how far he had come in his life. He considered it to be on the opposite end of the spectrum from the ramshackle trailer by the bayou where he spent his youth while staying with his cousins. He lets loose a small snort of a laugh as memories surface. He raises a hand to cover his smirk. His parents traveled a lot and they were always willing to take care of him.

Anger threatens to resurface. They are threatening to take away his accomplishments, tear down his life, and quite possibly ruin his marriage. Through the conversation between the wives, he hears his name from the voice on the television, breaking him from his brooding. The anchorman is commenting on the controversial proposal of the upcoming Gulf Renewal Bill.

Mark looks at the television with squinted eyes, listens to the report, until he manages to take out his glasses and put them on, “Ah… James it seems your proposal is making headway.”

“Yeah,” James leans forward, “I look forward to what this means for the region.”

“Look at you, only halfway into your first term and you are already making a wave,” raising his hands for emphasis, “the Kincaid Reforms,” he smirks, “I think that is what they will call it. How is this affecting things with the- what is it that you call them? Vultures? Corporate politicians?” he winks, “I mean, won’t it threaten them in any way?”

James laughs and looks down, notices light stain on the carpet, “It may… but I do not see how they can do anything about it. Based on the polls, the people want this to pass; as well they should, as it benefits them,” sensing his mood darkening he stands up, “I’ll be right back, I just need to get myself another drink,” he asks everyone if they need another drink, after their response, he heads out of the room.

Entering the kitchen, he takes a moment to clean up a smudge left on the marble counter. His reflection on the conversation with Mark brings up memories of a conversation he had a couple days ago with a peer. He moves towards the liquor cabinet.

The office was abuzz with the background noise of phone calls and conversations. He had just finished a conference call when Mr. Whitehead knocked at his door. Looking up, he waved him in, “I was just getting ready to leave. How can I help you Bobby?”

Bobby Whitehead had been in his government position for a couple of decades. He entered, and eased himself into the seat opposite James. “I have been meaning to ask you about a few things regarding you proposal.” He flashes a smile. A shark came to James’ mind.

James shifted in his chair, propped his elbows upon the armrests and steepled his hands, “Go ahead and shoot.”

Taking out a handkerchief, he wiped his balding pate, “Don’t you think you are going about this a little too strong? You know some people are going to oppose this.”

His hand moves towards the cognac.

“Oh, I understand. But this needs to happen; we need to start laying down the ground work for a better tomo-”

“Don’t try to sell me your spiel,” Bobby interrupted with a wave of his hand, “we’re on the same page. I’m here because I like you and I want to advise you against upsetting the applecart too much. Perhaps you might want to drop the proposal or make some changes. You’re not the only one with connections.”

He hesitates for a moment, and reaches instead for the rum.

“If I didn’t know any better Bobby, that would have sounded awfully similar to a veiled threat.” Instantly, he regretted saying that. Perhaps when Bobby returns from his vacation, he could make amends, if any.

Standing up, Mr. Whitehead smiles, “No threat James, just a bit of friendly advice. I’ve been here a good long while, and I just want you to really think on things.”

Setting his glass down on the table a little harder than necessary, he quickly pours himself a drink, raises it to his mouth and raises it up end. Frustrated at the memory, he looks around. One of the ceiling lights begins to flicker and dim. Why did she keep the kid? Why did she not tell him? Pouring another drink, he sighs. He knows the answer. The fault is his. He had betrayed and hurt her. Uncertainty creeps up regarding his wife. She would be livid. They had been trying to have a baby for years now. It would likely hurt her deeply to find out that he had gotten someone pregnant, and not tell her.

That thought sets off a spiral of other thoughts. Tilting back his glass and pouring another one. When did he diverge from his path? Has he really changed that much? Hanging his head, he had kept secrets from the woman he married. He wonders how much of a coward he has become. He came to view himself as a brave person. Certainly, many others view him as such. This person he has really become, is not who he wanted to be.

How would he go about changing that? What would he have to give up? He came up with a few avenues he could take. Many of them have unpleasant outcomes. He could continue as normal, bend in his principles, and pray this doesn’t blow up in his face.

“Darling… are you okay?” Jessica asked in a concerned voice. “You have seemed rather distracted all day.”

Looking at her, he strikes that option out. That path will blow up in his face. Option two is withdrawing from politics. “I’m alright dear. Mind has been preoccupied with the upcoming bill.” They both have become accustomed to this way of life.

“Anything you want to talk about?”

“Is alright cher, I’s jes tinking dat-” he chuckled, “I was thinking that this rum had gone to my head.”

She looks at him quizzically, lets out a small chime of a laugh, “Since when did you speak like that?”

He shrugs and looks at the glass, “When I drink rum…?” he smirks. “Remember, I told you that I spent my youth with my cousins? I developed it there.”

“Oh yes, I remember,” she pauses “don’t they live in New Orleans?”

He laughs. She pronounces it like someone who is not from there: New Or-LEENS. “They wish they did. You might say that my cousins were a couple of bonafide bayou boys.”

He pours again and tops off his drink, “How are Mark and Erica?”

“They are good; Mark had to step out back to talk to their daughter.”

Nodding after he takes a sip. She may understand if he told her. She deserves to know. He also needs to contact her and make amends, or at least, apologize for his cowardice and how he hurt her. If he tells her everything, it removes a potential weapon from his opponents. A satisfactory smile etches across his face. He has resolved himself to tell her. After the guests leave, was the follow-up thought.

Tilting his head, he takes note of Jessica. She was… no, is beautiful. They met in Par- no, at the university. She would keep him on his toes with witty banter and dialogue. No. That was her. Though, his wife always has, and continues to support his endeavors. Tomorrow is their big ten year anniversary. She needs to know. She deserves it.

After Mark and Erica leave, he leads her back into the living room and sits her down. He paces for a moment, trying to find the words and where to begin.

Jessica’s heart quickens. Her husband has been acting strange all day. Her daddy had drilled it into her to be prepared for anything. She notices her rapid breathing and closes her eyes to concentrate. “What is eating at you James?”

He stops pacing and looks at her, “We need to talk.”

Those words struck her like a shard of ice. No one wants to hear that phrase. Thoughts come to her mind. Is he going to confess to an affair? Does he want a divorce? Wait, no, that is illogical. She tries to think of anything she might have done that would warrant that. Nothing. It must be work. He has complained about how he feels he cannot trust some of the people there. Then again, that will happen no matter where one goes. She nods for him to continue. Words are escaping her.

“A couple years before we met, I was seeing someone.”

Her breathing stops. Has he run into her on some social networking site? She realizes something seems off about this. She needs more information. She nods.

“Well, she got pregnant and I had asked her to have an abortion. I had assumed she had. We had lost contact.” His voice had a nervous tone.

Her mind begins to process what she has just heard. Her fears wash away. She locks eyes with his. “I take it she did not get rid of the baby?”

“No.”

“Why would you ask her to get an abortion? Did you love her?” there is an edge to her voice.

“I did.” He looks away for a moment, “I was a coward. I was more concerned what my parents would think.”

She scoffs, “The parents you never talk to?” She takes a deep breath, closes her eyes, “continue.”

“It would appear that I have pissed off some people and they somehow found out about her and tracked her down. I just discovered that I have a kid.”

A tear slides down along her cheek.

He drops to his knees in front of her, “Babe, I’m so sorry.” He reaches for her hand, to which she swats away his hand.

“Why is it that you never told me this?”

“I just… didn’t.”

She opens her eyes. She gets up and storms up to the bedroom. He follows her up. She heads into the closet and retrieves her travel bags.

He tries to convince himself that she just needs to blow off some steam. He gets exasperated, “What are you doing?”

She stops, wipes away her tears, “I am leaving. When you pull your head out of your ass and remember who you are, come and find me.”

“You’re mad because of something I did not tell you?”

“No, it is because you hurt this other person. You put her in a difficult situation and you didn’t step up to the plate.” She begins to shove clothes into the bag, “And then you choose to keep secrets from your wife for several years.”

Note:This was my first attempt at writing a literary fiction, which I wrote for my creative writing course.
Special thanks to Honor MacDonald for assisting with the idea on this.