Dishonor Thy Wife (2 page)

WIFE

Even the cat was relaxed while Brad was in Philadelphia.
Brad named our daughter’s beige and white tabby cat
Pussy
, thinking it a
great joke.

While Brad was gone,
Pussy
meditated, sitting in a
yoga pose on Brad’s recliner with her eyes closed, legs wide open, whiskers
droopy, and tongue hanging out.
Pussy
crossed her paws in Buddha
fashion, her claws retracted.

I was relaxed enough to meditate with
Pussy
. There
was no Brad yelling, “Ronni, my home looks like a donkey lives here!”
Well,
Brad, you live here and
you
are an ass.

“What’s all this straw on the floor? And cat hair, too! I am
going to drown Pussy if you do not keep this house cleaner!
My
house,
Ronni! This is
my
house! Pussy, quit coughing up hairballs! I am gonna
get me a pit bull to clean up your box while you’re using it!”

Meow!

Brad dropped his suitcase in the den and Pussy flung her
body against the wall, falling to the floor, unconscious.

Brad must have had fun at the medical conference. His eyes
were bloodshot as if he barely survived a weeklong party with nurses jumping
from cakes.

His snoring is keeping me awake. Brad has never snored
before.

When we lay on the stairs like two stacked pancakes, my nose
in his collar, he smelled somewhat syrupy. I forgot liking Brad’s sticky sweet
smell.

When he removed his body from on top of me, I somehow felt
cheated. I actually clenched my hands to keep from hitting him and yelling, “Is
that all there is?”
It took all my control to hide my shaking desire,
and unfulfilled...what? What exactly is missing in this sex puzzle thingy?

Ugh! I wanted to have sex with Brad O’Boyle! Mama was a
prostitute and I’m afraid to be like her.
And I am. I am.

Brad’s fingers fluttered like butterfly wings across my
vibrating stomach, and stopped...at the center of my universe.

His hand cupped my crotch, pressing against me, the heat of
his skin seeping beneath the denim. I actually whimpered.

I now kick the sheets off, writhing on the bed, my hair
sticking to my neck. Oh, God where is the cool air? Have I suddenly become a
fallen angel? I am mortified to have grabbed my husband, rubbing my hand
against the lump in his pants that was so hard and hot even through the fabric.
I hate you, Brad O’Boyle! Do not ever touch me again!

The stink of a woman was on him, some female sweating
between the legs for Brad O’Boyle. Most likely, he drove straight home from his
mistress of the dark that tramp Barbie. She must not have put out for Brad,
which is why he nearly raped me—again. I was 17 then but should know better
now. Brad still insists there is no such thing as date rape.
A guy knows
when a girl wants it,
is his motto. Well
statutory rape
has the word
rape
, date or not.

The last time my husband showed any interest in having sex
with me was about six years ago. Now, suddenly Brad returns from Philadelphia
and is climbing all over me and panting like a horny teen.

My best friend Riley and I, when we were high school
juniors, managed to climb out the window one Saturday night and hitchhike to
Sixth Street. Yippee, Sixth Street is always one big weekend party with
nightclubs and music, where college students hang out getting drunk, begging to
get laid. Our butts jiggled in short-shorts with blouses tied above our flat
stomachs. We were sticky hot chicks, clicking our stiletto heels up Six Street,
sweating up a storm, and rubbing elbows with the midnight crowd. We slapped
fake ids of women a decade older looking nothing like us, into the wet palms of
bouncers whose eyes never strayed from our boobies.

At the third club, stood handsome Brad O’Boyle, rich intern,
lounging against the bar to keep from falling down drunk. We danced or he
danced all over me. We talked; actually, he slurred, I talked; and then we
began seeing each other in secret.

Do not judge a poor, ignorant girl for trusting a man
because of one motion picture show and two hamburgers. I was a naïve virgin who
never heard of date rape. When Brad begged to lie on top of me on the grass, I
did not know his lump against my leg meant danger. “What is that,” I had
whispered.

“I promise not to do anything bad to you, Ronni. You’ll like
it, trust me.” He groaned as if hurting. “I need you,” he moaned and stupid I
believed a doctor only spoke the truth. Brad needed
me
.

A desperate, naïve girl believes two dates signifies a
relationship. She mixes up sex with love, and makes excuses for rape.
He had
too much to drink. He is really a good man. He does not apologize because he
feels guilty. He really believes all that Love Story movie bullshit about love
means never having to say you are sorry, ever
—omens of futures filled with screw
you, Ronni!

Tonight, Brad returns from Philadelphia, and his walk is
slightly off, as if unsure of himself. He acts passionate with
me
.
Tonight, my husband made me long for a loving marriage and then I remember that
the alternative to Brad marrying me was prison. My grandfather, Pops, put a
shotgun to Brad’s head and threatened statutory rape charges, to force him to
marry me because he knocked me up.

I now tiptoe to the bedroom door and snap the lock in place.

Brad is up to something. He actually wanted me and in a
sexual way, not his normal way of screwing with my head and my heart. When I
was in the kitchen earlier, I grabbed a screwdriver from the junk drawer and
hid it under my pillow.

I’ll screw Brad all right, with this!
I lunge at the
air with the nine-inch-shaft screwdriver several times. I shift to the other
arm. The movie
Psycho
is my favorite. This is fun, quite a workout,
arms
of screwdriver steel
. I should videotape myself and upload it on YouTube.
Ronni’s
Exercise Video—Five Minutes to Sculpting Your Husband.
A million hits!

 I wear myself out with plunging and then tuck the
screwdriver beneath my pillow. The feel of cold steel seduces me to sleep.

I dream of a big black hole. I grip the sides, trying to
climb out as a man with a shadowy face shovels dirt, filling the hole and
smothering me.

I wake up in the morning with a gritty mouth and fling the
blankets over my head, shivering and coughing.

Scary, shitty nightmare seemed real.

HUSBAND

They have a saying in Texas; if you don’t like the weather,
come back in five minutes. Last night a tornado blew me in from Philly. This
morning, the weather alarm radio screeched, “The National Weather Service in
Austin has issued a flash flood warning for Travis County, and Williamson
County. Drown dickhead!”

I might have missed the toilet in a flash flood and then
slipped. How in the hell did I wind up sleeping on the toilet rug?

I do not usually drink until wasted any more but my new best
friend from the medical conference hung out in the bars with me for my flight
home yesterday or should I say flights home. We rebooked our flights so we
could continue to party. We drank our way through the airports of Philadelphia,
Boston, and New York where we then separated, me headed for Austin.

He gave me a goodbye hug and said, “Good luck, and don’t be
nervous. Everything will go as planned. For a hangover, the Germans eat raw
herring with onions and a pickle. Or you could chew the dried penis of a bull
like Sicilians do.”

Raw pickled herring with onions or dried bull penis.
I shoved my head in the toilet and vomited up to the eighth level of dry
heaves.

No little girl should ever witness her father in his
underwear hugging the toilet bowl and stinking of vomit and piss.

Traci stared with big, luminous eyes. She was small for a
six-year-old. Her stringy hair made her resemble a scarecrow.

She took a step back with hands clasped behind her back and
her face stretched tight.

“You can come in, kid, no need to be afraid of a pint of
fermented grain mash. Whiskey after a hangover is like rotten toast with rancid
butter.” I stood on rocky feet, a black sock sagging around one ankle. I yanked
my undershorts higher on my waist. Odd, being shirtless and not wearing pants
in front of Traci did not cause discomfort. On the other hand, not having a watch
on my wrist made me feel undignified.

The kid had the balls to flush the toilet but seemed shy.
After being gone for over a week, a little girl should throw herself in her
daddy’s arms.
Quit staring kid, as if at an alien. I removed the Darth Vader
helmet yet you are still making me feel like I am breathing in an iron lung.

Traci took a shaky breath.

“Uh, sorry I didn’t bring you anything from Philadelphia,
Traci. I, uh, forgot.”

Traci stood with her hands hanging limp at her sides. The
child inherited from her mother a gift for making me feel like a heel. “Well,
uh, I have to get ready for work.”

“Okey-dokey.” She skipped towards the bedroom door.

“Hey, Kid! Have a good day at school, huh?”

The sight of Traci smiling as if she liked me turned my
insides to mush.

She waved before she ran out the door and I wiggled my
fingers, grinning crookedly. I would have liked to have pecked Traci on the
cheek but we did not have that type of relationship.

In the light of day, the bedroom engulfed me with joy, and I
giggled like a girl. Each of the photos in the room was of a young boy at
various ages and I held the pictures up to the mirror in comparison. I was the
young age of 32 but getting older was still a bitch. Nowhere in this thoroughly
masculine bedroom were there any pictures of the wife or kid, but then it was a
man’s domain.

My head was like a balloon about to pop and my mouth tasted
like dog shit.

I felt more human after a shave and shower and was thinking
of sneaking out the back door to avoid Ronni and then she yelled, “Come on,
Traci, let’s go,” followed by the front door slamming.

There was 45 minutes before work, the house all to myself,
and Ronni’s bedroom door was unlocked!

The décor was virginal with a white eyelet, frilly bed cover
and a swirly white-ruffled canopy. A row of red and white teddy bears reclined
against a mountain of fluffy pillows.

A mirror swept around the dresser so that a vain woman could
see not just the front of her face but the sides of her face as well.

A print of a
Gustav Klint
painting hung on a wall.
The print was
The Kiss
portraying a couple beneath gold blankets. The
man was kissing the woman but held her head at such an angle on her shoulders
that she appeared beheaded. The woman in the painting sort of resembled Ronni.
Yeah, the wife would look just as pretty with her head cut off and sort of
tilting on her neck. One little jiggle and her head would roll down her arm and
bounce on the carpet.

One of the dresser drawers was slightly open revealing a row
of underpants prettily lined in a row like a garden of delights. Red. Black.
White. Navy blue. Lace. Bikini. Hot pink. Sexy boy shorts.

Ronni, Ronni, quite contrary, how do your panties grow?

With silver balls and cock shells and pretty puss all in a
row.

My face grew hot when stroking the lingerie. Only a peeping
Tom would gawk into a woman’s panty drawer. Jesus, I should have left well
enough alone. Now every time Ronni walks by I will imagine…I yanked the sexiest
panties from the drawer and rubbed the black silk triangle, a thong no more
than a crack up a rounded butt and a small tent to hide
Mount Bushmore
.
I had never been a thief but now shoved the panties in my pants pocket.

I drove to work, distracted by an image of Ronni modeling
her undies. Her underwear so tangled my mind that I got lost for seven minutes
but finally found the office.

I felt creepy and transparent walking into the office.
They
will know I have changed. They will smell the wolf on me.

Whew, the staff is all smiles!

The redheaded receptionist, Brandy, placed the files of
today’s appointments on the desk along with the schedule for the week. It was
going to be a long day and a half-full bottle of whiskey in the right top
drawer of the desk was tempting, but drinking on the job would not be added to my
list of sins.

In the left top drawer of the desk was a framed 8 x 10 of a
Texas beauty queen with a plastic smile and a greedy look in her blue eyes. A
flowery signature was scrawled across the photo:
To Brad, love forever. Your
poopsi whoopsi, Barbie.

Brandy sashayed into the office and dropped a load of file
folders on the desk. She leaned across and the top three buttons of her blouse
popped open.

I slammed the drawer shut, hiding Barbie’s picture.

Brandy whispered in a little girl voice, “I missed you, boss
man.” She ran a finger down my sideburn.

I pushed the chair back from the desk, grinding the wheels
in a nervous whine. “Well that’s, uh, very nice of you, Brandy.” A wedding ring
with a large diamond circled Brandy’s finger. “I don’t want your husband
blowing my head off. Just cool it for now, okay?”

“Yes, doctor huge.” She sashayed back out of the office,
wiggling her tight ass in an exaggerated fashion.

I tiptoed to the door, locked it, and then made a phone
call.

A receptionist, a woman by the name of Irene, answered. “Dr.
Tremblay did not come into the office today.”

“Jayden canceled all his appointments? Is Dr. Tremblay
sick?”

“Dr. Tremblay said you might be calling, Dr. O’Boyle. He
said not to worry. Everything is under control.”

Under control, huh? That is what he said in Philly.

I gave a heartfelt sigh, my balls sucking into my body and
pushing against my kidneys in frozen fear. “Have you ever done anything you’ve
regretted, Irene?”

“Sure. Who hasn’t?”

“Well, it was good to hear your voice.” I hung up with a
shaky hand. Irene had a motherly sounding voice, and I almost confessed
everything to her.