Fighting for Arielle (4 page)

Arielle

A
new bra, another show, and several beer runs later, my long and exhausting weekend has come to an end.  It’s Monday morning and I am lacing up my tennis shoes for my 5:30am workout.  

Macy walks in, chipper as always, putting her gorgeous blonde locks into a sleek ponytail.
 I am secretly jealous of how even after running, jumping, and sweating, her hair remains in a perfect coif.  

Today, we are sending the guys on a long run, which is usually good for us because we just monitor their progress and walk along the ocean on Hickam Air Force Base.

“How was your weekend?” Macy asks as we walk in step with one another along the shore.

“Same old,” I say passi
vely.  Giving her a look that lets her know I remember that her husband was in port for a few hours, I turn toward her and ask suggestively, “How was yours?”

Macy’s face brightens,
and she looks off into the distance.  “Wonderful,” she says in an exhale.

Not trying to completely
live vicariously through her, but really needing to, I ask, “Oh yeah?  And what does ‘wonderful’ mean?” I say, mimicking her smitten response.

“Oh, come on Ari.
 You know what it’s like to be married.”  Macy looks off into the distance at nothing in particular.  “Ross is just so wonderful.  And hot.  And...I just wish he didn’t have to leave so soon.”

Still coming down f
rom her thoughts of her weekend-in-the-sheets high, she asks, “How about you?  Did you get any?”  She playfully sings the well-known
bow chicka bow wow
play on old 70’s porn music as she lowers her chin and raises both eyebrows up and down rapidly.  

Stopping when she sees my saddened expression, she attempts to recover the
mood by saying, “But, you know, it was only that good because I haven’t seen him in three months, and we only had about two hours to get everything in.”

“It’s okay, Macy,” I say, as I look toward the ground.
 

I don’t want her to feel bad about bringing up a sensitive subject, nor do I want her to see how much I am bothered by it.
 

“Brody was just busy most of the weekend, so I didn’t interact much with him,” I tell her, attempt
ing to make her feel better, as well as myself.

“
Working a lot, huh?”  

Mistaking my silence as an affirmative answer, Macy smiles and continues, “That’s one of the really obnoxious things about Navy life.
 Even when they’re on shore duty, they may as well be deployed.”

When Brody and I first got married, he was stationed in
Charleston, South Carolina.  Despite going to school all day, there was still time on evenings and weekends to spend together.  Instead of coming home to see me and spend time with me, he opted to hang out with friends and stay out, sometimes days at a time.  Hell, he didn’t even check out of the barracks for single sailors, so there were weeknights that he slept away.  Not having the luxury of another car, I spent my days alone, with Señor Swankypants of course, dreaming of a time when things might be better after we move and Brody is not so stressed with school.  

W
e moved to Hawaii rather suddenly as Brody did not finish school in Charleston, so that time of which I dreamed, where things would be better, never came.  In fact, since we’ve moved to Hawaii, our relationship has taken a turn for the worse.  

I look out onto the crystal blue waters of the harbor and wonder what it must be like to have someone in your life who cares to spend time with you so much that they rush home to you every chance t
hey get, even if it’s only for two hours.  And then they make the most of those two hours by spending every second loving, adoring, and worshipping you.  I wonder how you get to be a person lucky enough to deserve that kind of love.

D
uring our fourth and final PT of the day, following the same path along the water as we have already three times today, Macy asks, “How was your show?”

I feel as if I fall a little off-kilter from the question.
 It is a simple question, yet seems loaded with possibility and much more depth than those four small words outwardly display.  I think back to Friday night’s show when I met Mick and our electrically charged touch.  It seems that within the smallest snippet of time, my world was completely changed.  I have no idea how it has changed exactly, but something about Mick made me feel safe and alive.  

I want to shout out to Macy
that I met someone who filled me with the wonder of youth but also the comfort of age.  I want to say that within the blink of an eye, this man- Mick -lifted my soul into the stratosphere.  Maybe it was for only a second, but that second may as well have been ten lifetimes, because that’s how powerful it was to me.

My cheeks warm, but I try to remain stoic.
 “I had a blast.  I’m really enjoying the audiences here.  Sometimes, you get cornered by pervy guys, but everyone here has been respectful, for the most part.”

Macy wrinkles her nose and purses her lips.
 “Ewww.  If a nasty creeper wouldn’t leave me alone, I would have to punch him in the throat.”  She punches the air to emphasize her point.  “Of course, if he were good-looking, I wouldn’t mind a little flirtation.  You know...gotta keep the engine warm and all for when Ross gets back.”

S
he comes up with the most outlandish analogies.  Then again, if I’m supposed to be keeping my engine warm, I’ve failed miserably because it’s beyond ice cold.  It’s also a plus if you have someone for whom to keep it warm.

Macy looks over to me as the breeze picks up.
 “How did you get into burlesque, anyway?”

“
I started ballet at the age of three and just can’t stop dancing.  While I was completing undergrad, I had some friends who decided to start a burlesque troupe.  I knew I was going to be graduating soon and wasn’t sure how Brody felt about marriage, so it was a good way to continue to dance and make a little extra money,” I explain as I look back at her, trying to gauge her reaction.

Macy eyes me suspiciously.
 “Extra money, as in lots of crumpled up dollar bills?”

I smile at her and gently roll my eyes.
 That’s always the inevitable question people ask me.  “No, actually...  It’s not stripping; it’s an art form.  There’s no nudity, and if you do it right, you don’t actually show that much skin at one time,” I explain.

Macy seems to accept the
explanation.  “Really?  It sounds like you’re just a big tease.”

“Pretty much, yeah,” I laugh.  “But I do it with finesse.”

Macy throws her head back and laughs with me until she pauses and gives me a suggestive grin.  “Do you ever meet any really hot guys?”

“Sometimes
...  I mean, I’m not one who just swoons over people and finds guys irresistible because of their looks.”  I look away, trying to dismiss her question.  

Macy cr
osses her arms over her chest, and she stops walking while I continue moving ahead.  “Except Mr. Yummy,” she teases.

I
 whip my head back to her.  “I did not
swoon
over Mr. Yummy,” I say, even though I know I did.

“You SO did!”
 She laughs and points to me with her index finger.

I shake my head resolutely.
 “Nope.”

“Then why are you glowing today?
 You didn’t get laid.  You’re not excited about Mr. Yummy…”  

She runs her hand through her ponytail as I try not to make eye
contact with her.  

“You met a hot guy, didn’t you?”

“Nooo...  Wait, I’m glowing?” I ask, distracted by her comment.

She throws her hands up in frustration.
 “Duh.  Why do you think I assumed you got nasty this weekend?  The last week I’ve known you, you’ve been all sullen and sad looking.  Today is the first day I’ve seen a little sparkle in your eyes.  Now, fess up!”

I purse my lips and then smile, knowing that I’m not going to be able to argue my way out of
telling her.  “After the show I met a guy who was very hot.  He actually reminded me of Mr. Yummy, so I guess I have a type.  Who knew?”

“Holy shizz balls!
 I KNEW IT!” Macy moves her hands to the sky in triumph.  “What was his name?”

“Mick.”

I smile at the thought of him, but quickly shake my head.  “But, look, it doesn’t matter; I’m married.”

Macy skips around me.
 “Married doesn’t mean you’ve retired to a convent.  Besides you dance burlesque.”

“That’s just because that’s something I’m unwilling to quit,
and I only perform twice every four months.”  

I turn to her and make a point to roll my eyes.

Macy squints her eyes shut and then opens them excitedly.  “Come out with me this weekend, and I can show you much fun you can have while married.”

I don’t have to think about my answer for too long.
 “I think I’d like that, Macy.  I’m looking forward to it.”

Macy pumps her fists and does a little spin on the sidewalk.
 “Make sure you wear something hot and sexy.  You have to make the most of your flirty fun!” 

I try to play down my interest and excitement, but I’m actually extremely stoked.
 Aside from Swanks, Macy is the only friend I’ve had in a while.  I really miss having lots of friends and hanging out in Taco Bell or at Walmart as those are about the only things to do late at night in a small town.  But, as a result of everyone either moving away or moving on with their lives, my support circle has grown smaller over the years.  I am filled with glee by the prospect of having fun and making a new friend.  I immediately make a mental checklist of what I want to wear and begin counting down the hours until our date to go out on the town.

Arielle

T
he week passes with my days becoming more routine: wake up; lead PT at 5:30, 7, 9:30, and 11am; get my fix of afternoon eye candy; go home; talk to Swanks; read; sleep.  Today is Saturday, and I’ve been looking forward to this day all week.  Macy has been telling me how much fun it’s going to be and how she’s missed going out with someone fun.  According to Macy, many of the other officer wives at her husband’s command are either a bit stuffy or have kids.  I don’t exactly know what to do or where we are going, but I know we are heading toward Waikiki to eat at some place that has fantastic lamb chops and even better lava flows, which is apparently a drink.

I keep myself busy all day by cleaning up my apartment after last night’s typical weekend festivities.
 Beer bottles, bottle caps, plastic cups, empty cans, and even passed out revelers lay about the apartment, except Brody.  I assume he went over to another friend’s house and passed out there.  It’s just as well.  Trying not to disturb anyone, I remove heaps of trash from the apartment, scrub down the bathroom, and come to terms with the ever increasing size of Mount Miller, the mountain of beer bottles on my back porch.  Originally, it was called Heine Hill, but it has increased in size, so I gave it a more substantial land mass classification. 

What began as my stubborn refusal to throw away glass and determination to recycle a few bottles, has turned into a testament of the overwhelming nature of my unhappiness, Brody’s excessive control, and my futility.
 At least the bottles are all clean and washed out before I stack them.

As the smell of stale pizza and flat beer begins to dissipate out of the apartment, I pull out my sapphire blue halter-neck cocktail dress and nude heels to lay them on the bed.
 I’ve wanted to wear this dress for some time since I picked it up on clearance and never found a reason to wear it until today.  In my bedroom, I remove my pajamas, toss them in the clothes hamper, and wrap a towel around me in preparation for a shower.  

Walking toward the bathroom, I hear someone stir in the living room.
 I peek around the corner to see if it’s someone other than Swanks, but everyone within my view lies in still slumber.  Stepping further into the bathroom, I turn on the shower to allow the water to warm up. 

W
hen I stand up and turn toward the door, I am startled when I see Brody in the doorway.  He’s leaning against the door jamb with messy hair, a stained shirt and jeans, and a sickening smile spread across his face.  

My mood instantly plunges into the darkest of places, a place to where not even a million lante
rns could aid in navigation.  With my head dropped toward the floor, I see him move toward me through the tops of my eyes.  I feel caged.  Part of me wants to run, wants to kick him in the balls and run away.  I feel too powerless and small, so instead, I crumble in his presence.  

“What do we have here?”

The stale alcohol lingers on his breath as he looks at me as if he is a lion and I am his prey.

Unsure of his motives and still not looking directly at him, I say timidly.
 “Hey Brody.  Did you have fun last night?”

“Last night?” He raises his hands above his head, puffs out his chest, and looks around as if there’s an audience.
 “The party is still going, baby!”

I swallow heavily, taking in the depravity of my situation.
 I hate how weak I currently feel.  Trying to take on a more assertive and supportive tone, I say, “It sounds like you’ve been enjoying yourself.  I was just about to take a shower.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” he says dryly as he folds his arms across his chest.
 “How retarded are you?  You think I can’t tell when my wife is taking a shower?” He emphasizes
my
.  

I shudder at the thought of any part of me being anyone’s possession, especially his.
 I feel paralyzed, as though I cannot escape this situation, and I just want it to be over.  I want this conversation to be over.  I want this day to be over.  I want this life to be over.  

Not knowing what to do next, I plaster on a fake smile and make light conversation in hopes that he will tire of me and leave.
 

“I see some people had so much fun, they decided to stay even longer,”
I say, gesturing toward the living room.

“Huh?
 Oh, them...  Well, hell yeah they did.  I throw the best goddamned parties around,” he boasts with his chest still out.  “Aren’t you lucky that you’re with such a popular guy?”

I respond with a weary smile and nod, but not quite making eye contact.

Brody looks down to me, and his eyes narrow in on my chest that I’m covering with my towel and arms.  “I’m about to go to bed, and I want you there with me.”

“I was just about to take a shower,” I nervously respond.

He steps in closer and towers over me.  “I know that, Ari.  I fucking already know that!  FUCK!  What is it with you?  Have you not heard a word I said?!?”  His voice bounces off of the tile walls of this tiny room.

In a pathetic attempt to apologize, he cuts me off
before I can begin to speak.  “I haven’t been home all night.  Don’t you miss me at all?  I want to spend time with MY wife.  Is that a fucking crime?”

I quickly and fee
bly say, “No, it’s not a crime.  It’s just-”

“Of course it’s not,” he interjects condescendingly.
 

He grabs my elbow
, and my heart stings in pain.  I feel pressure rise up from my chest that I know I have to swallow back down, because if released, the manifestation would be the cries of a person who’s just had hundreds of pins pushed into her lungs.  

“I’m trying to get ready so I will be out of your hair tonight
, and Macy will be here to get me in a few hours,” I manage to get out.

Brody pauses cautiously
, and I know that he is deciding which option he prefers- sex with me now, but risk my being around to bug him, or sending me packing and on my way.  

I feel my breath hitch as I anxiously await his conclusion.

Brody moves his hand away from my elbow and backs away.  “I’m tired anyway.  Go get showered and shit.”

I exhale in quiet relief.

Pausing in the doorway, he says in a quieter voice, “You know I don’t mean to get so upset with you, Ari.  I’m just exhausted and there’s so much pressure on me at work.  I don’t know what I would do if you left me.  You’re not thinking of leaving me are you?”

Before I can even think differently, I hear the word “No,” generated from my vocal chords in a despondent whisper.

“Of course you aren’t,” he tells me in a way that lets me know I have no other options.

I hear him say passively from the bedroom, “Hey Ari, I want to see you in your dress before you leave.”

I know exactly what he means.