Dishonor Thy Wife (9 page)

WIFE

Brad returns after supper, swinging a travel bag.

“Hi,” I say in a flippant voice,
making
light of his vanishing
and all will be well. He needs his space especially given his dark mood. His
eyebrows are down as if scowling at his thoughts. He plops his bag on the floor
and gives me a frigid stare. He then shows me his back.

His footsteps creak on the stairs, the sound making me cringe.
My heart caves into my back and I slump on the sofa. Now why is he so angry
with me? We were dancing two nights ago, and making love.

Quick, sit up straight. He is coming down the stairs. You
have been sitting slumped over for 20 minutes like a pathetic wilting flower.

Brad walks back downstairs, whistling. He is dressed to kill,
so the saying goes when your husband is spiffed up as if he has a hot date.
Collar up, looking cool, hair slicked back, and smelling like a French whore,
Oh
De Lay Me Cologne
.

Ugliness wells up inside me, my fingernails feeling like
claws. After our beautiful night at the Doctors’ Ball, I cannot help but act
like a jealous shrew. “Where are you going, Brad?”

“If you must know, miss busybody, I’m going to see what Barbie’s
been up to lately. Remember Barbie, my lover since high school?” Brad drools at
the mouth when he says her name.

Bam! I slap him, scratching his eyelid with a fingernail.

“Cheating twat!” He shoves me against the arm of the sofa.

My hip, I am limping.

He yanks open the door to the garage, spins, and points a
finger. “You don’t own me, got that, Ronni? You have never owned me. I go where
I want, do what I wish and to whomever I desire. I never answer to any one so
do not ever, ever ask me again where I am going. I have not interrogated you
about the last months because I do not care, nor should you. That’s our
arrangement, remember?”

Brad slams the door and the house shakes.

I rush to the garage and throw myself on the hood of his
black Mercedes, and beg like a bleeding heart. “Don’t go, Brad! Barbie doesn’t
care for you!”

“Get off of the car, Ronni, before you get hurt,” he growls.

He revs up the engine and I jump off the car. He looks mean
enough to run me over and I jump to the side fearing being smashed against the
wall like a bug.

I slide down the wall, hugging my legs and moaning, watching
Brad drive away to another woman, Barbie, the thorn in our marriage.

I shuffle into the house and again read the note Brad left
on my pillow early this morning.

I am sorry for everything.

“I haven’t asked you about the last three months because I
don’t care,” Brad had said.

I am sorry for everything.

Rip. Rip. Rip. Until there is nothing left of his apology
but pulp.

 
I hate you, Brad for making me want to be with you.
The
light is off in my closet and I rock, crying like a little girl. My heart
physically hurts like at Mama's desertion when I was ten or when my little
brother died the next year. I forgot how painful loss is...how a heart can beat
with agony. Even though my husband is a doctor who fixes other people, Brad can
never fix me because he is the one who broke me.

Traci walks into the closet and rocks beside me. “Are you
okay, Mommy,” she whispers.

I shake my head, yes, but my lower lip trembles, and tears
rain down my face.

She takes my hand in her little palm. “I’ll pray to God to
please bring my daddy back home again. Please. Please. Please. That man wearing
his shirt is not my daddy. That man did not carve the rocking horse. Why did
he
have to come back?”

“I don’t know, Traci.”

“Come with me, Mommy.”

Hand in hand, we walk to her bedroom.

Traci climbs on her rocking horse, the one she claims her
real daddy made her, not the man who made her mommy feel sad.

Traci rocks, claiming the horse is magic. Her daddy made her
a supernatural horse so that she could ride over the mountains and across the
hills to find her daddy and beg him to come home again.

I hate Brad for what he is doing to our daughter. My husband
is mentally ill and needs help. His changing moods are abnormal. My best
friend, Riley, pesters me to find a man who can make me happy. Riley has been
married two times yet she is still looking for the fairy tale. As a child, I
waited for a knight in shining armor to rescue me. Every night I cried into my
pillow and prayed Mama would come back to us. My little brother died right
before Christmas. I tried my best to save Johnny but I was only eleven. By the
time Pops got him to the hospital, Johnny had double pneumonia. God did not
save my little brother; neither did God ever send a knight to rescue me.

The only truth is that love hurts.

WIFE

It is around nine the next evening when the garage door opens
and Brad’s car pulls in.

He is singing loudly, a Rolling Stones song,
Let’s Spend
the Night Together
.

My heart drops to my feet.

“I’m home,” he hollers.

Traci flies down the stairs, and wraps her arms around his
legs.

He swoops down like a bird of prey, picks her up, and hugs
her.

I am shaking like a leaf. “Put her down, Brad. Come to
mommy, Traci,” and I hold out my arms to her.

“I knew you’d come back,” Traci says and squeezes Brad’s
neck.

He unwraps her clingy arms and sets her down. Brad stares
defiantly at me and reaches into a shopping bag.

I jump, expecting him to yank out a baseball bat. I grab
Traci and pinch her shoulders.

He holds out a stuffed white seal to her. “I brought you a
gift, sweetheart.”

It appears that
nice Brad
is back, yet I take a step
back as he reaches into the bag again.

Brad holds out a dozen pink roses. “For you,” he says
smiling with sparkly eyes.

I smack his face with the roses.

The flowers land at his feet rose petals floating to the
floor.

He wipes his cheek where a thorn drew blood. “You shouldn’t
have done that.”

I grab Traci’s hand and we play tug of war with our
daughter.

“I’m staying with Daddy!” Traci yanks her fingers from my
grasp.

 I run up the stairs to the bedroom, and slam the door.

Oh, God, would he harm Traci?

I peek out the door.

Traci and Brad walk towards her bedroom, holding hands. “I
missed you, Daddy. Why doesn’t Mommy like the flowers you gave her?”

“I really don’t know.”

“Well, I love you.”

“I love you, too, Traci.” Brad speaks loudly for my benefit.
A lump forms in my throat. How can he be so sweet to Traci after what he did?

“Why don’t I tuck you into bed, and then I can speak to your
mother,” he says.

“Mommy’s mad at you.”

“I have no idea why.”

Brad is talking bullshit, unless he has memory lapses.

“Ask Mommy why she doesn’t like you.”

“I’m afraid to.”

I tiptoe down the hallway and tremble outside Traci’s door.
I hide a screwdriver behind my back. I have never liked guns, especially with a
child in the house. Now, I wish to have a pistol.

Traci insists Brad tell her a story. He spins a tale about a
misunderstood prince who is all alone until he finds a princess to love.

“Am I that princess?”

“You are, Traci.”

“And did they live happily ever after?”

“They did.”

“Good night, Daddy,” she says in a sleepy voice and with a
loud yawn.

Quick, I scurry on silent feet back to my bedroom.

He pounds his feet loudly as a warning that he is coming, and
there is a reckoning between us.

I slam the door and with shaky fingers lock it.

He knocks.

“Go away!”

“Let me in, Ronni.”

“Drop dead!”

He pounds his fist against the door.

I cuff my hands to my ears. “Leave me in peace! Go away,
Brad!”

He shoves at the door.

Bubba Simpson claimed Brad beat up his wife. Oh God, he is
breaking in!

I run to the bed and snap my eyes shut, pretending to sleep.
My senses are on full alert and I am peeking through my eyelashes. He is
standing over me, rubbing his shoulder.

“We need to talk, Ronni.”

I sniffle into the pillow, cursing a show of weakness. “I
can’t ever trust you again, Brad.”

Good. There. Silence. He will leave me alone now.
Ugh!
Go!
The smell of his sweat mingles with whiskey, peanuts, and a killer
aftershave. I want to scream at him to get out of the room but fear to pop a
bottle of rage. Beneath the blankets, I grip the screwdriver, my breath raspy. There
is a picture in my head of Brad slicing Barbie’s throat though this is an
exaggeration since Brad used his fists, according to Bubba.

He snaps on the light so the room is no longer in
half-darkness from the hall light.

Odd, Brad has no marks on his fists so maybe he did not hit
his lover hard or wore gloves, if Bubba’s accusations are true. I flip my back
to him and wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. He must not see my tears.
Brad hates weakness.

He strokes my cheek with a clammy paw.

I flinch and roll to the edge of the bed. “Don’t touch me,
Brad. There is something seriously wrong with you.”

“I’m not...who you think I am.”

“Who are you then?”

A shutter drops across his eyes, closing off any expression,
any lie, and any truth. “I’m the man who’s been making love to you the last few
months, the man who wants to love you now, the man who needs you.”

I yank my nightgown down to my toes and scramble to the
corner of the bed, shivering, covering my head with my arms, and remembering
Bubba’s phone call.

A voice thick with a Texan bullfrog accent barked, “Is
this Mrs. O’Boyle?”

“Yes.”

“I’m looking for Brad.”

“He’s not here right now.”

 “I’m gonna kill him for beating up on Barbie. That dumb
ox almost killed my wife! I am gonna take a shotgun and blow off your husband’s
head, Mrs. O’Boyle. His pecker, too. That lowlife fool…”

I hung up on Bubba Simpson.

Brad stands at the foot of my bed slack-jawed, his face the
color of dead flesh. His shoulders slump and he lacks his normal confidence. “Don’t
look so afraid of me.” He sits slowly on the bed and then stands when I squeak
like a frightened rabbit. His eyes are wild looking.

“A dozen roses will not make everything alright this time!”

He licks his lips and croaks, “I am the man who loves you,
Ronni.” Liar! The words were dragged from his throat.

I smack his hand away. “And I’m the woman who wants a
divorce. You confuse love with sex. How dare you profess to love me, after
staying out all night and doing whatever it is you did! You should be in jail! I
can’t ever trust you again, Brad.”

His eyes plead for forgiveness but he says sarcastically, “Isn’t
jail an exaggeration?”

The horrible names he called me. I cannot take him anymore.
He ruined all of it. I was certain of my life before caring about him. Now, it
hurt to look at him. “I want a divorce,” I repeat in a flat voice. “Get out of
my room!”

He holds up his hands.

I flinch as if expecting a blow.

He shoves his fists in his pockets.
Brad paces in
front of the bed. “Come to dinner with me tomorrow night so we can talk. I
promise I won’t touch you.”

“I don’t care to hear excuses. I am done with you for good,
Brad. Bubba is gunning for you, and I hope he blows your dick off!”

“Well, then, you’ll miss a nice meal, won’t you? I have
something to tell you that will clear up any confusion you may be feeling.”

I chew on my lip. “The restaurant will have to be in a very
public place.”

“Fine, we’ll go to the Warehouse District. What’s your
favorite restaurant?” he says as if this is a date.

“You don’t have to impress me, Brad,” I drawl, “I know you,
remember?”

“You really don’t know me, Ronni, but I would like you to.”

“Oh, I know you, in every sense of the word, especially the
Biblical. If you think you’re going to worm your way into my bed again after...”

“Sex is not what this is about.”

“Isn’t it?”

He shuffles to the door, and I almost laugh aloud at his
rounded shoulders and back. I mostly cry.

He closes the door behind him.

I hop out of bed and snap the lock in place, snugly this
time.

My doctor this morning prescribed anxiety medicine. The
instructions on the container read:
Take 2 a day if you believe your husband
is a maniac who might hurt you.

I pop two pills in my mouth but still lay awake all night
with my eyes wide open.

WIFE

In the morning, Brad is gone. Maybe he left early for the
office or snuck out of the house in the middle of the night on his way to
Mexico to hide from Bubba. I suspect the worse yet brim with curiosity about our
dinner plans for tonight. He was noncommittal on the subject of divorce. Knowing
him, he will slick talk me and end up with everything in the divorce
settlement.

Of course, Brad did not mention dinner until I brought up
the subject of divorce. He begged and smiled like a buffoon.

I dress in my most conservative outfit, navy blue dress
mid-calf, no jewelry except a watch. Earlier today, I signed my cell phone up
for one of those tracking services. Riley is babysitting. I plan to call her
about 8:10 and let her know I am on my way home.

“Do you have a reservation for Brad O’Boyle?” I ask the
hostess at Truluck’s an upscale seafood restaurant.

She picks up two menus and motions me over to a table.

A glass of Pinot Noir settles my nerves.

After a second glass of wine, I order an appetizer of stone
crab claws.

There are no messages on my cell phone pleading an emergency
at the hospital.

I refuse a third glass of wine and order dinner.

My trout is deboned and sprinkled with nuts. The wine I drink
must cause Brad’s face to appear as the head of the trout. I cut into the fish with
a wicked looking knife.

I should have known he would not show. Brad blows hot, and then
cold.
I am such a fool.

I spit the fish out.

The waiter marches up to the table and coughs. “Is the Hot
‘n Crunchy Idaho Trout not to your liking,” he asks.

“Scrumptious but I’ve lost my appetite. May I borrow the
yellow pages?”

The waiter lugs a phone book over to the table.

I flip through the yellow pages to the section on lawyers. There
are hundreds of attorneys listed as divorce specialists, almost as many as
those offering help to accident victims. My marriage is an accident. I should
have sent Brad to prison for statutory rape instead of marrying him when I was
a teenager.

I slam the phone book shut and blow my nose with a napkin.
Tomorrow, I shall hunt for a divorce lawyer. Riley has divorced two husbands
and she might recommend a badass divorce attorney.

The fishy smell and yucky, slimy skin of my dinner gives me
a splitting headache. More wine might dull the pain but I will drink at home
now that I am sober enough to drive.

I throw some bills on the table and march out of the
restaurant.

I drive at a slower pace than usual.

What the…? Riley’s car is gone from the driveway.

Crap! Brad’s Mercedes is in the garage. His excuse for
standing me up damn well better be good!

I scrape my car keys across his black Mercedes.

Traci is hiding behind a couch in the den, spying on her
father.

I slam the door, but Brad does not hear me come in. He sits on
a large pillowy chair in the den. He mutters to himself, staring at his hands
with fascination, smiling as if pleased with himself.

His cold laughter makes me shudder.

Traci peeks her head out from behind the couch.

I tap a finger to my lips, motioning Traci to be quiet.

She crawls from behind the sofa and we both tiptoe up the
stairs.

We stand at the top of the landing and look down.

Brad grins crazily, then grimaces and pales. He laughs and
then smiles at his fists.

Traci whispers in my ear, “His smile is dark like my bedroom
that time my nightlight burned out and I needed the bathroom so I peed on my
blankets because monsters hide in shadows.”

Chills crawl up my spine. Brad’s eyes do look monstrous; his
face reflecting fright, panic, and joy all intermixed with a wolfish grin.

Traci is racked with shudders. She hugs my neck tightly and
her bottom lip trembles.

She runs to her father’s closet, scrambling through his
clothing.

“Where are they,”
she screeches in panic. “Ah.” She
points to a grey and black plaid suit. “He’s left his clothes this time so
daddy’s coming back.”

Some kids have such wild imaginations.

Traci runs to her room and hugs the white seal Brad gave her.
The seal seems to comfort Traci and she stops acting weird. She rocks on her
horse and watches a
Cinderella
video.

I walk slowly down the stairs, blowing the black paint from
the car keys. “I waited for you, Brad.”

“Brad,” I yell at him.

“Huh?” He squints his eyes as if is trying to place a name to
my face.

“The restaurant,” I remind him.

“I have no idea what you are talking about, woman.”

He does appear very confused. He is still preoccupied with his
hands, opening and closing his fists. He lifts his hands to his eyes, rotating
his wrists as if searching for clues in the lines of his skin.

“I waited for you at the restaurant for dinner, remember?”

“Oh, I ate at the airport in San Francisco.”

He must have lost his mind. Maybe he is taking hard drugs
and hallucinating. Brad was in Austin all day working at his office. I called his
office to let him know I would be 20 minutes late to the restaurant but his
receptionist said he left for the day. I was doubly shocked to arrive at the
restaurant and discover he was not waiting for me. San Francisco? Not likely,
not when he is sitting here in the den.

What an idiotic excuse to make for standing me up. I would demand
a divorce immediately but the words stick to my throat. Brad has that crazy
look in his eyes again. He is not right in the head. Tonight, in the privacy of
my bedroom, I shall lay out my plans for leaving him. I will not be able to
sleep otherwise.

Great, my brain is pounding. I need an entire bottle of
aspirin or Xanax.

I pour a glass of water for my dry throat.

What the…A strange travel carry-on bag is on the kitchen
counter with a leather luggage tag wrapped around the handle. The words
Air
Canada
are embedded on the bag, and
the name
Dr. Jayden
Tremblay
is written on the luggage tag along with a
Victoria, British
Columbia
address.

Chills crawl up my spine as I look around the room,
searching for any visitors. I cock my ear to the stairs but hear only Traci’s
television.

I yank the zipper open and peek inside the dark bag. The
spotlight above the kitchen sink highlights a bloody kitchen knife in the bag.
The knife-edge is jagged with dried blood rippling across the blade. This is a
butcher’s knife used for butchering and not one of my tamer kitchen knives.

What the heck is going on?

“Ronni,” Brad calls from the den.

“Yes?”

“Leave the knife alone if you know what’s good for you.”

I zip up the bag with shaky fingers. Goosebumps erupt on my body
and I rub my arms, licking my dry lips, my eyes glued to the bag. “Where did
you get the knife, Brad?”
What I really want to know but am afraid to ask is
whose blood is on the knife. Who is Jayden Tremblay?

“Oh, I cut up some meat for supper,” Brad explains. “Bloodier
than I thought.”

Brad claims he ate at the San Francisco airport where of
course he had not been, nor is the knife the sort normally given to customers
at restaurants unless you order an entire cow. I discount the silly idea that
Brad traveled to San Francisco today or to Victoria, British Columbia
even given the
leather travel bag. Besides, some other man’s name is on the luggage tag. Perhaps
Brad grabbed the bag by mistake. But…but he knows there is a bloody knife in
the bag.

Don’t ask him.

Don’t believe him.

Brad has always been a pathological liar.

I feel like screaming at him. Liar! Liar! Liar! Tell the
truth for once! The words stick in my throat, causing a coughing fit. I need to
drink more water but the bag with the bloody knife is near the sink.

“Bring me my bag,” Brad orders. His voice is cold and
calculating.

Brad stands on the middle of the stairs, towering like a
black hawk. His eyes are cloudy and bloodshot as if he has not slept in awhile.

I assure him in a trembling voice that, “I didn’t touch a
thing, Brad. I wouldn’t touch anything belonging to you.”

His expression is icy.

Pretend you did not notice the nametag is not his.

The secretive Brad has never liked anyone asking about his
business, especially his wife.

I drop the bag at his feet. My face is an expressionless aloof
look, which tells Brad I could care less about what he does, what is in the bag,
where he ate supper, what he ate for dinner, or who he ate for supper or lunch
or breakfast.

Nor do I dare ask why he limps or why there is a cut on his
finger.

He grabs the bag and nods his head. “Good girl. Smart girl.”

He limps up the stairs.

My skin is freezing where his hand brushed against me when
he took the bag. How can a man who heated my body in bed now turn my veins ice
cold? Where is the warm man of last night, the Brad who asked me out to a
romantic dinner for two?

Right! The man never showed, leaving me to eat alone at the
restaurant, crying into my lobster bisque like a fool. Brad’s sickness is
getting worse. Whatever is wrong with his head is affecting his memory. Perhaps
he has brain cancer. A tumor can cause insanity, a growth of sheer madness.

I should pack a suitcase, take Traci, and leave this house.

I am being silly. Where will I go this time of night?

I knock on Traci’s bedroom door. “Traci?”

“I’m in bed, Mommy.”

“Aren’t you going to say good night, sweetie? You know you
aren’t supposed to lock your door.”

The door opens and Traci stands stone-faced.

“Feeling alright, kiddo?” I brush her hair from her eyes.

“Be careful, Mommy,” she whispers.

What an odd thing for Traci to say. “I will,” I reassure her
because Traci appears so serious.

I tuck her into bed and tiptoe across the hall, holding my
breath. Brad’s door is closed and he is laughing at who knows what, perhaps the
bloody knife.

Snap! Traci locks her bedroom door and so do I.

***

In the middle of the night, a disturbance wakes me. I fling
my arms into my robe and hurry down the hallway on bare feet, thinking that Traci
is having a nightmare.

I sigh with relief because the commotion is not coming from
Traci’s room.

I crack Brad’s door.

He is thrashing about his bed. He yells out in his sleep
incoherent phrases. Occasionally bits and pieces are understandable but not
enough words to string together to make any sense.

He hollers, “No. No.”

Brad acts as if the bogeyman is running after him.

Brad yells out in his sleep, “I will kill you, cunt!”

Then again...sometimes a man is not in a good mood if you
awaken him, nightmare or not.

I tiptoe back to my room.

I’ll kill you, cunt!

He has a bloody knife in a bag.

Be careful, Mommy.

I lock the bedroom door and swallow another Xanax. I take
two puffs of my asthma inhaler.

I clasp my neck and swallow. My imagination is working
overtime, thinking Brad nearly killed Barbie. Sure, I hate the woman, but she appeared
pathetic lying in her hospital bed shriveled up in bandages. Yes, I visited my
rival at the hospital. She was so out of it; Barbie did not notice the flowers
I carried were hand-me-downs from Brad shoved into a glass milk bottle. Poor
Barbie, her nose is broken and both eyes are black and blue in her swollen
face. She is missing her front teeth and has a bit of a Jack-O-Lantern look.
Her jaw is cracked. She will need a skillful plastic surgeon.

Bubba has not pressed charges against Brad, even for assault
and battery. Perhaps my husband ended their affair and Barbie is getting
revenge by lying. Maybe Bubba beat her up. While she dozed, I snooped for a get-well
card from my husband and there was none.

A bodyguard stood outside her hospital room. Barbie claims
Brad threatened to murder her.

I set the television to mute but there is no news about a
murder in Austin.

Brad is pacing restlessly in his room. Every once in awhile
he curses and pounds the wall. Then, he breaks out in a Rolling Stones song,
Saint
of Me
.

Maybe Brad has found religion. I certainly hope so.