Bad Husband

by Shey Stahl

  His tears slow when I say that, and he sniffs but makes eye contact with me. The green in his eyes stands out, a reminder this kid looks more like me than Madison. “Grr,” he growls and then his eyes shift behind me to the cat walking away.

  Do you see the look in my son’s eyes? The one of resentment for the animal who clawed the shit out of him?

  Remember that look in about five minutes.

  Callan runs inside and then returns with a wet washcloth and hands it to me. Gently, I clean the blood off Noah’s face and see it’s not as bad as it initially looked, but he has about six scratches, one really close to his eye.

  Fuck. If Madison sees this, she’s going to think I can’t handle my own kids. Awesome.

  “Can I ride my bike?” Callan asks, pointing to the garage.

  Nodding, I take Noah by the hand, hoping scarface loses focus on the cat. “Want to ride your bike too?”

  “Yeah, yeah! Brother bike!”

  Noah has his own bike, but he refuses to ride it. Instead, he rides this old big wheel we got for Callan when he was younger.

  There’s a big difference between Callan and Noah, and it’s apparent when they’re doing physical activities. While I struggle to think Noah will ever live up to Callan academically, it’s obvious Noah’s a natural athlete. Walking, running, riding bikes, kicking a ball around, he’s never struggled with any of that, even from the beginning.

  While I’m watching Noah do donuts, slide jobs around corners and racing up and down the street on the big wheel, I notice that damn cat lying in the street. You’d think he would have run away after the tail incident.

  Remember that look on Noah’s face? The one where I said pay attention?

  We’re back to that.

  Check it out. He’s about I don’t know, maybe fifteen feet from the cat, eyeing it like he remembers. I shit you not, he even raises his hand to his cheek and then glares, his hands tightening on the handle bars.

  If you’re a cat lover, you might want to close your eyes for what happens next.

  With a sudden sense of determination, Noah takes off on his bike heading right for the cat, and I even scream at the cat to get him to move, only he doesn’t. He stares at Noah as if he senses his impending doom and deserves it. I don’t like cats, as you know, but I still don’t want to see what’s about to happen.

  “Noah, stop!” I yell and attempt to run after him, but he runs right over the cat before I can get to him. I don’t know why, but I kinda blame the cat here because Jesus Christ, why didn’t he move when he saw the bike? Don’t cats usually run away from moving objects besides a ball of yarn?

  “I can’t believe he just did that,” Callan says with wide eyes.

  Yep. He did. Ran right over the cat with his big wheel.

  Just keep your eyes closed if you want because I’ll let you in on a little secret. The cat didn’t make it. His nine lives were up.

  Noah glances back over his shoulder, a pointed glare at the cat. “I am Wolverine,” and then rides away on his bike. I blink a few times, trying to decide if that really happened and if I’m standing over a dead cat.

  Remember how I said Noah’s a grudge holder?

  Clearly this was a grudge-murder. I’m still in disbelief this actually happened.

  “He’s like Al Pacino in Scar Face.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “You’ve seen that movie?”

  “Yeah, on Netflix. Rest in peace, Mr. Poppy.” Callan pets the cat’s head softly and then stands next to me watching Noah still riding away. “It’s like the ending of a movie, and he’s riding away in the sunset.”

  Mr. Poppy? Who the fuck names their cat Mr. Poppy?

  “Let’s hope he comes back. Your mom would miss him,” I tease, attempting to draw a little humor to the situation, though I know this isn’t the time. My toddler son just murdered a cat.

  Sure, you could laugh and say, “Oh, he’s three, he didn’t mean to,” but let’s be honest. You saw the look in his eyes. He totally meant to hit him.

  There’s no blood or anything, the cat went peacefully, at least that’s what I’m telling myself. Staring down at him, I have flashbacks of my own cat slaughtering experience when I was younger. I’m not ready to share that dark part of my life just yet. It’d be too emotional right now.

  Let’s focus on the bigger issue here. The fact that I have a dead cat on my hands and a son who’s showing no remorse. Should I have him tested?

  I got one kid who could potentially arm nuclear weapons and one killing animals. Isn’t killing animals a sign of a serial killer? Are we going to look back on this moment years from now and say, “There were signs?”

  MY LUCK FUCKING sucks. I should be thinking of ways to make my wife fall back in love with me but no, I’m attempting to bury my neighbor’s cat without him and my wife knowing.

  “What are you doing with that shovel?”

  I jump at the sound of Madison’s voice and attempt to hide the shovel behind my back. I’m not sure why. It’s obvious she’s seen it since she asked. At least I don’t have to worry about her now. I only need to hide it from the neighbor.

  Can you see how much I’m sweating? Christ, it’s embarrassing. It’s like the time I had to bury my neighbor’s cat when I was a kid. It was a very traumatic experience. I’ll tell you about it later but it’s why I can’t stand cats. “I’m burying George’s cat.”

  Her eyes widen and then she notices the black plastic bag at my feet. “Why?”

  “He scratched the shit out of Noah earlier tonight so Noah ran over him with his big wheel.”

  “Oh my God,” she panics, her eyes wide and darting from the bag to me and then back to the bag. “What do we do?”

  I raise an eyebrow and then lean down to pick up the bag. “Bury it?”

  “Shouldn’t we tell George?”

  “No.”

  And now she’s staring at me like I’ve lost my mind, but then she bites her lip. Fuck, that’s hot. She doesn’t do it often, but it gets me every time. “What if the cat comes back?”

  Let me tell you something here. Madison hates scary movies about as much as I hate cats. She once watched Pet Cemetery when she was seven-months pregnant with Callan and already paranoid as shit. Pregnancy hormones do strange things to her. Anyways, she forced me to sleep with the light on in our room for three nights and made me swear we’d never get a cat. Like I’d fight her on that one. Though on the fourth night, I was done with it. I made her turn off the light and sleep like a normal person because that shit was getting out of hand. We still have our no cat pact though.

  “This isn’t Pet Cemetery, Mad. He’s not going to claw his way from the ground and sit on your chest in the middle of the night meowing.”

  She shivers at my detail. Maybe I’m a shit, and maybe this is why she wants a divorce, but the boy inside of me senses my opportunity, and I act like I’m going to throw the dead cat at her.

  Madison jumps, her hand on her heart. “You son of a bitch!” And then she scurries inside the house.

  Maybe I shouldn’t have done that because now she might not talk to me and the chances of us having sex tonight are slim.

  With the bag in hand and amused with myself, I sneak out to the corner of the yard and then it hits me. The guilt. I can’t bury the cat without telling George, our neighbor. I just can’t. Call it my conscience, but it’d eat me alive if I knew I had his cat buried in my yard and didn’t say anything.

  I’ve also seen Pet Cemetery, and while I enjoy giving Madison a hard time about her paranoia, I’m not at all wild about having a dead animal buried in my yard.

  Picking up the bag, I take it next door and knock on the door. Thankfully George answers the door and not his bitchy wife who hates me for starting my truck early in the morning. It’s not my fault she likes to sleep until eight in the morning. I wish I could sleep that late.

  “Hey, Ridley, what’s up?” George is a friendly man, or at least he always has been and waves every time I see him, wh
ich is about once a month with my crazy schedule. But I’m not sure how friendly he’s going to be when he Wolverine killed his cat.

  Though I should, I don’t feel as bad about the cat as I should. Mostly because he leaves footprints all over my black truck. There’s nothing worse than a black truck with dusty cat prints all over it. Pisses me off.

  “I’ve been better.” Raising the bag up in the air, his eyes lower. “I’m really sorry, but Noah accidently ran over your cat.”

  “Mr. Poppy?”

  “Yeah.”

  He laughs. Actually fucking laughs. “Thank God.”

  Is he for real? Is this really happening?

  George tips his head, his stare focusing on the bag and then me. “At least he’s out of his misery.”

  Have you seen Christmas Vacation? I want to laugh at the irony of this, but I don’t and manage to ask, “Misery? For what?”

  George laughs again, and I’m beginning to think he’s crazy. More so than Noah. It’s one of those laughs that reminds me of, you know, the Queen of Hearts. “Poor bastard had ball cancer. You know, like your junk.”

  I back away a few steps. I know what he’s referring to, but George is a retired air force instructor. Did he really just say junk to me?

  “Cats can get ball cancer?”

  He nods. “Yep. It was all over his body. He should have been dead months ago.” And then he takes the bag from my hand. “I’ll take care of him. I swear it was like he was trying to commit suicide. He’d lay under my car every day right under the tire. Even ran out in front of cars, but somehow they always missed him.”

  “Well, his nine lives were up today.”

  George takes the cat inside and strangely I don’t feel nearly as bad as I did. If he had cancer, it was for the better. Noah actually did him a favor, in a harsh way, but still.

  When I get back to the house, Noah and Callan are watching television in the living room. Well, Noah is and Callan’s reading another National Geographic book. This one’s Three Mile Island: What could have happened.

  At least he’s doing his research, but I am wondering how I’m going to take him to Ukraine someday.

  I’m not sure if I should say anything to the little serial killer in training on the floor or not. Do you punish three-year-olds for this kind of thing? Would he even understand?

  I gotta do something. He can’t go around killing animals. Stabbing me is one thing but animals are another story.

  “Noah.” I kneel next to him on the floor.

  He looks up at me, adorable green eyes waiting for me to say something. He blinks a few times, waiting. “Daddy.” And then he crawls on my lap.

  Callan peeks around his magazine at us and rolls his eyes like he knows what I’m doing won’t work.

  I turn Noah to face me. “You hurt that cat.”

  He remembers all right and raises his hand to his check and the deep red scratches. “Bad cat.”

  “I know he scratched you, but you can’t run over animals just because they hurt you.” Because if that was the case, then Mr. Poppy would have been dead years ago when he first started using my truck as a red carpet.

  “Yes. I’m Wolverine!”

  “No. You can’t hurt animals.”

  He shakes his head, grinning now. “I’m Wolverine,” he repeats like I should know.

  Okay, this isn’t working.

  I set him back on the floor so I can go find Madison.

  I find her in the kitchen cleaning up. She doesn’t notice me at first, and I take the time to watch her in silence, wishing I could read her thoughts and what it is she’s looking for. She filed for divorce for a reason, damn it. And sure, she’s giving me some reasons—some valid ones—but there’s more to it. I want to know why.

  I don’t love you anymore.

  But that can’t be it. How could she have fallen out of love?

  Had I really been that blind I didn’t see it? I know I keep asking myself the same questions, but my mind just keeps going in circles.

  And then I remember Brantley’s suggestion. Ask her out on a date.

  I can’t just blurt it out.

  I should be flirting, shouldn’t I? And then I can naturally lead it that way.

  Women? We’re not good at flirting once we’re married. It all leads back to the fact that we get regular sex and don’t see the point anymore unless we’re trying to get said sex.

  I know. What a bunch of lazy bastards, right?

  I’m just being honest here. I’m not saying it’s right.

  So guess what I’m trying to think of?

  How to flirt again. It’s like I’ve lost my touch.

  When I was in college, it was easy. All I’d have to do was smile, wink, maybe say, “What’s that you’re drinking?” and it was over. They’d spread their legs.

  As Madison’s standing there loading the dishwasher, I’m leaning into the doorway watching her, admiring just how beautiful she is when the last little bits of daylight shine through the kitchen window and highlight the auburn in her hair.

  She catches me, gives me a once over and rolls her eyes. “Why are you staring at me like that?”

  I push away from the door and stand next to her so our shoulders are touching. “You’re beautiful. That’s why.”

  “Did you tell George about his cat?”

  “Yeah. Turns out the cat committed suicide. He had junk cancer.”

  “Junk cancer?” She glances over her shoulder at me.

  I grab my dick through my jeans. “Yeah, like his balls had cancer in them.”

  Her cheeks flush but the corners of her mouth twist, her gaze moving lower to where my hand is. There, right there, she’s fucking lying when she says she doesn’t love me anymore. It’s subtle, by the desire in her eyes, that can’t be mistaken for just desire alone. There’s familiarity there. She remembers my humor and the way it makes her feel inside, like she knows me and knows I can make her smile, even if it’s just for a split second.

  I move to stand behind her, my hands on her hip, my mouth exactly where I’ve wanted it to be for hours. Her neck, collarbone, shoulder, anywhere she’ll let me for about five seconds when she sighs. “Ridley, stop it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because.”

  I could literally do this all day long. Noah gets it from me. “Because why?”

  “Because I have dishes to finish, laundry to start, laundry to fold, kids to get bathed and then eventually get some sleep tonight because I have to work in the morning.”

  My heart beats a little faster. She said we could talk and now it just seems like she’s making excuses. “You said we could talk.”

  “If you want to talk, then get the boys ready for bed, that way we have some time.”

  I did it last night. I can do it tonight too.

  Do you see the amusement in her eyes? Why is she looking at me like that? It’s like the time I was in the delivery room when Callan was born, and the doctor asked if I wanted to see the baby crowning. Being a soon-to-be father, I had no fucking clue what crowning meant so I looked to Madison and she gave me a half grin, much like this one, and said, “If you want to.”

  “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  Now she full-on grins. “Because.”

  “Because why?”

  She turns back to the dishwasher. “You’re wasting time. Go get the boys ready for bed.”

  REMEMBER WHEN I said Madison smile seemed off?

  Yeah, well, it fucking was. I’m beginning to think I was set up for failure tonight on all accounts. Look at how my nights went so far?

  Dinner?

  Disaster.

  Playing with the kids?

  Epic failure.

  Bath time?

  Take a look around and you’d probably get an answer.

  Have you ever bathed a three-year-old?

  There’s absolutely nothing easy about it. I think I’d rather bath a cat who was clawing the shit out of me. No offense, Mr. Poppy.
/>   Do you see the gallon of water on the floor and the dad on his knees trying to soak up all the water with towels?

  That’s how my night’s going.

  “Noah, stop it with the water.” Raising my hand up, I push my hair from my face only to have it soaking wet now because just as I say, “Keep it inside the tub,” he takes a cup full of water and splashes me in the face.

  “Spash, Daddy.”

  It’s illegal to punch a toddler. I actually tell myself this a few times.

  Callan stands at the doorway and hands me a clean towel. “Mom’s going to kill you.”

  I wipe my face off. “What’s his deal?”

  “Well for starters, you shouldn’t have given him a cup.” Callan pushes past me to the tub and rips the plastic cup out of Noah’s hand. “And second, don’t fill the tub up so high. The less water he has in there, the less that ends up on the floor.”

  Where was he when we started this bath-time fun?

  Reading.

  I hand him a dry towel I find under the sink. “Can you help me clean this up before your mom sees it?”

  “Too late,” Madison says from the hallway, her arms folded over her chest.

  Groaning, I look to Noah instead. “You got me in trouble.”

  He laughs like this is funny.

  I can’t look at Madison’s face. I don’t want to because I know I’m going to see disappointment. If I can’t handle bathing our kids, how can I save our crumbling marriage?

  Attempting to stand, I don’t take into account the wet floor and end up right back on my ass on the tile floor.

  Noah, Callan, and Madison begin to laugh. And then so am I but my stare locks on Madison because it’s been years since I’ve heard her laugh like that, the kind of laughter where nothing else matters but the scene before you.

  Our eyes meet, sincerity in hers. She knows I tried here, and I’d like to think it’s scored me some points, but there’s also an unmistakable pain present underneath her smile.

  With my hands supporting me against the counter, I stand up again, my body brushing against Madison’s. “I hope that was entertaining for you,” I say, my voice kept low and somewhat gravely because I want her to be affected by my words.