The Spare Husband, a Short Story
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survivors’ lives—I had dinner with her and the kids. She and I did not connive to engage in sex, the four of us found ourselves being, better late than never, a nicely knit group: civil, supportive of each other, friendly, even.
Meanwhile, I couldn’t get “the other woman” out of my mind. I liked the new Lorna more, possibly, than I’d liked the sprite I fell in love with at an inopportune time. If there’d been anything missing in her early persona, it was made up for in her latter one. I avoided engagements with anyone besides Carol, but alone at night I had lascivious dreams and waking fantasies about Lorna. A ghost of what had passed for love in my youth still haunted me.
Carol and I finally made love again, after an interval of mourning. It was not like the time I told her about Lorna, but it was good sex, and afterwards we talked turkey.
“The kids think we should get married again,” she said.
“I don’t know,” I said. “We’ve got a pretty good thing going.”
“I think we should cohabit,” she said, “but I’m not going to do that absent an exchange of vows.”
We let it drop that night, but it seemed to make sense. If nothing else, it would serve as a shield against casual trysts that were beginning to pall with their predictability. I just didn’t need that anymore.
Meanwhile, Lorna and I had frequent phone conversations, only we didn’t flirt any more. They were conversations mostly about work, they took place mostly at work, but they sometimes ended with remarks about the pathos in her present circumstance.
I held my tongue when the admonition, “Why don’t you just leave him?” popped up in my mind.
Talking to Lorna, after what amounted to a proposal from Carol, I found myself leaning more and more towards remarriage. Lorna had been a dream of lust, I’d fulfilled the dream. It went with the little red roadster and making out on Mulholland Drive.
Finally I said to Carol, “If we’re going to, let’s. But no big-deal wedding, okay? Judge Raimont can do it, the kids can witness it, we can have dinner at Petrone’s afterwards, eat a baked Alaska and have some champagne.”
“You gonna buy me a ring?” she asked.
“What do you think’s suitable for a second marriage to the same gal?”
“Not a diamond. A star ruby would be nice, if it doesn’t cost too much.”
And so we were married, at the Yacht Club, a few folks who’d managed to stay friends with both of us in attendance, dinner afterwards with baked Alaska. I found a star ruby that was way too expensive, but what the heck.
The newness of being remarried hadn’t worn off yet when I had a call from Lorna. She’d driven to Sacramento on business and wanted to know if she could stop on the way back to see me.
When I didn’t answer right away, trying to think of words to frame what I sensed she did not want to hear, she said, “I’ve left David.”
“I can’t see you, Lorna.”
“Why not?”
“Carol and I just married again.”
Lorna said, “You could have given me a chance, Jack. You could have told me you were thinking about it. You and I, we have something. We always have, it’s just the timing was rotten.” She was too tough to cry but should have.
“Timing’s rotten again, Lorna,” I said, instantly aware how lame that sounded. (Where was Uncle Scotty when I needed him?)
“Damn!” she said, and hung up.
“Damn,” I whispered into the dead phone.
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(If you liked this story, you may like to read another free short story of mine, "Kafka's Heater" .)