The Classic Crusade of Corbin Cobbs

by Michael Ciardi

With the courtesy of my alarm clock, I regularly awoke at half past five each morning. But it shouldn’t have surprised me that I had neglected to program my clock’s radio from the night before. Lately, my memory for routine tasks depreciated along with the rest of my health. Instead of my clock’s offering, an electronic chime roused me from my slumber today. It was a piano ensemble I’ve heard many times previously, but I couldn’t quite place it in any context at the moment. At any rate, the soothing melody vanished before I fully awoke, leading me to surmise that it was merely an element extracted from a dream. A more somber speculation was that the sound emanated from within my brain, which would’ve only lengthened my expanding list of symptoms. Surely, if the music was audible to me, my wife must’ve heard it, too. But Rachel had already fallen back to sleep twenty minutes ago. I saw no benefit to waking her again.

  Ten years ago I could’ve sprung from bed as if I had steel coils affixed to the soles of my feet. However, the rust of malaise, coupled with neglect, reduced my bounce considerably. I’m inclined to blame such sluggishness on my undefined ailment, but the truth was far less forgiving. Even prior to feeling the aftereffects of my malady, I began to hesitate before conceding to the tedium of the day, sometimes to a degree where I’d contemplate staying in bed all day. Whether I wanted to confess the fact or not, I simply lost some of my zest for teaching, and maybe even life in general. Many years ago, well before I entertained the notion of becoming an educator, I thought teachers had too much structure in their lives to ever be labeled as interesting people. Now I understood the credibility of my foresight. In the classroom, I had turned into an inflexible bore, resorting to ill-timed jokes and rambling anecdotes to insulate myself from a fear of my own futility.

  Of course, all of my hours in the classroom weren’t stained by such dreariness. I still experienced occasional glimpses of inspiration that impelled me to explore the next lesson in literature. Without question, teachers needed to gorge on ample portions of humility if they wished to be satiated by this profession. My appetite for creativity hadn’t diminished, however, and this attributed to a desire to feast upon other endeavors. A patented excuse for my insolvency could’ve easily been linked to the incorrigible nature of the majority of today’s teenagers. But this was yet another ruse. Most students under the age of eighteen have always acted juvenile by the standards of middle-aged adults. Maybe those among us who weren’t quite old enough to romanticize about the “good ol’ days” demonstrated the art of teaching most efficiently.

  I’ve arrived at a humbling realization that most teachers have a shelf life inside the classrooms. Some last longer than others, but I estimated that our freshness expired after a decade or so. Beyond that timeframe, I’m afraid we fell prey to the same snares as those engaged in other professions. We simply became complacent. A colleague of mine once said that even the finest knives lose their sharpness after carving through too much material. By his account I must’ve resembled a fairly dull blade at this stage in my career. Obviously, a logical solution to end all of this broodiness was to just walk away from the duties with some poise still left intact. But so many of us lingered behind the big desk until the point of curdling, almost as if we had been conditioned to believe that our skills were utterly unmarketable in a realm outside a schoolyard. Regrettably, I became frightened by the prospect of balancing on life’s tightrope without a safety net. As a result of my procrastination, nineteen years of my working career had tracked by as speedily as a train zipping along the rails of time. If I hadn’t figured it out by now, this engine wasn’t stopping for me. Perhaps I just needed an encouraging nudge in a new direction.

  Such ruminations always seemed more potent during my morning shower. With little else to distract me other than a continuous spray of warm water, I often focused on those things in life that had eluded my grasp for one reason or another. Furthermore, I experienced a sort of purging when engaged in the mechanical act of showering, almost lending credibility to a baptismal effect upon the human spirit. I certainly had many muddled memories to cleanse from my mind. Had this not been a school day, I might’ve even coaxed myself into staying here for a more extensive period of time.

  As I already alluded, Verdi’s romantic concertos hadn’t awakened me this morning, but another melody still flopped around inside my head like a wounded pigeon. This was the same tune that startled me from my sleep. What was it? Maybe my cell-phone rang, but I usually stored that device on the kitchen counter downstairs, right beside my wallet and keys. Then I had another thought. Rachel usually brought her phone into the bedroom, where she recharged it every evening on a mahogany nightstand. Now I was almost certain this was the source, but why would her phone ring at quarter past five in the morning? She didn’t even work on Thursdays. As I slipped into a pair of faded black Dockers and a collared shirt in dire need of starch, I briefly tinkered with the notion of stealing a look at my wife’s phone’s incoming calls. But how could I do this without infringing upon the sacred trust that so many with secrets found vital in a partnership? Moreover, how would I rationalize my insecurities if my suspicions proved erroneous?

  Maybe I just needed to relax. After all, to my knowledge Rachel had never intentionally wronged me in the past, and I certainly gave her no cause to do so now. But the longer I stood in front of the bathroom’s mirror contemplating such possibilities, the more critical I became of my own reflection. The passage of time surely humbled a man. My once smooth, unblemished face seemed leathered by the sun’s rays. Regrettably, I pursued a tan during my youth, but this now seemed like a narcissistic pastime. As a result, my forehead now looked like shriveled piece of bacon, but the skin beneath my eyes suffered the most extensive damage. I had inherited dark patches beneath both my eyes, too, which only became increasingly purplish in coloration as I aged. My mouse-brown hair receded as well, which often required me to clip it entirely too short, as though this was an efficient disguise from the ravages of male-patterned baldness.

  Occasionally, when I scrutinized my olive-colored eyes, I remembered when they sparkled with more vibrancy. In fact, I recalled a time not long ago when it required no more than a single glance from me to acquire the attention I sought from others, including my wife. Now, an opaque haze smothered each lens, and I had become exceedingly lackluster in my mannerisms. I attributed this transformation, at least in part, to my current malady, but there was also something more intrinsic to this change, too. The passion of youth and promise crumbled from my memory, chipped away like a block of cinder beneath a blunt chisel. If such a forlorn expression was visible to me, then I suspected that Rachel had previewed it as well.

  Despite my bleak perceptions, I had no right to sound so dejected. Many people had endured far more sorrow than I would’ve ever experienced in two lifetimes. Besides, the “woe as me” bit didn’t merit a sympathetic audience for too long. My wife reminded me of this point on a daily basis. Like most people, I kept my sanity by occupying my thoughts with trivial nonsense. I believed my wife handled her own disappointments in ways that most men don’t practice. When Rachel encountered periods of self-doubt or depression, she’d wander into shopping malls and masked her discontent by engaging in frivolous purchases. Her closet was laden with clothing and shoes that I hadn’t seen her wear more than once.

  Men had other remedies to counterbalance their fretfulness. For me, jogging functioned as a reliable deterrent for many years, but a persistent knee injury prompted me to embrace a less rigorous form of therapy. Three years ago, in one of my more defiant moments of matrimony, I decided to challenge my wife’s authority and adopt an abandoned dog from a nearby shelter. Despite Rachel’s accusations, my choice to care for a pet wasn’t designed to create disharmony in our household. The dog, which was a medium-sized, black and white collie, proved to be my faithful companion during our strolls around Lake Endelman. Of course, Rachel never took a liking to this female canine, and made it abundantly obvious that the obligations connected to this four-legged hou
seguest belonged entirely to me.

  Since the moment this dog entered my life, I had commissioned an ally who seemed oblivious to my shortcomings. I named her Jolly Roger because of her unusual markings. Her white fur was sparse in portions, but entirely black around the left eye, giving her the appearance of a one-eyed pirate. Since the dog’s name confused people, I typically abbreviated her name to Jolly. Apart from her random eye-patch, there was nothing remarkable about this dog. In truth, she barked incessantly at frivolous distractions, and gnawed on furniture legs in the house like rawhide bones. But I sensed something soft and vulnerable in her caramel eyes whenever she looked my way. It was almost as if she wanted to convey her gratitude for the chance I had provided her to befriend me. Of all animals, the domesticated dog was most magnanimous. In exchange for canned food, a foam-padded bed, and maybe an occasional scratch behind her ears, Jolly provided the acceptance I yearned for in the form of a wag from her tail or lick of my hand. I know it’s an overstated maxim, but a dog’s commitment to its owner’s endeavors was unrivaled by any creature that walked on four legs or two.

  My susceptibility to the “man’s-best-friend syndrome”, however, wasn’t highly contagious. Rachel still insisted that I limited the range of Jolly’s house privileges to a cage whenever we weren’t home, and also while we slept. Since Jolly’s appetite for lacquered wood hadn’t diminished since her arrival, I had no practical choice but to comply with my wife’s request. Part of my morning routine included unlatching Jolly’s cage, which was conveniently positioned in a bathroom adjacent to the kitchen. Upon hearing me lumber into the kitchen to brew my morning coffee, Jolly greeted me with her obligatory howls and whimpers.

  For a dog, a release from any confined space always instigated the most acrobatic calisthenics imaginable. Jolly didn’t stop leaping at my hands and pirouetting until I walked back into the kitchen to fetch her leash hanging on a pegboard near the backdoor. I had become so predictable that even she anticipated my motions before I completed them. As always, I stopped at the counter to retrieve my cars keys, cell-phone, and a signature good luck charm, a Canadian one-dollar coin that was affectionately nicknamed a “loonie”. After forwarding a few reassuring strokes to the back of Jolly’s neck, I fastened the leash to her collar and proceeded to open the door.

  Normally, Jolly charged toward the nearest shrub as soon as I extended her access into the backyard, but the damp weather caused her to hesitate briefly this morning. I paused in the doorway just long enough to remember that the rain had inspired me to conduct some of my own business before leaving the house. Jolly remained patient as I dashed toward the guest bathroom, which consisted of a basic toilet, sink, and Jolly’s cage. The toilet was seldom used, but Rachel insisted that its lid be closed at all times, as if an open toilet was tantamount to infidelity.

  My wife also had an unnatural obsession with household bleach, so much to a degree where I’d be overcome by the noxious fumes if I inhaled too deeply while urinating. She polished porcelain surfaces that appeared virtually spotless to the male eye, and this bathroom didn’t avoid her scrutiny. Since trivial matters spawned most arguments between couples, I learned to adapt to her idiosyncrasies without resistance. But as I unzipped my pants, I noticed two irregularities in the bathroom that might’ve slipped past my inspection on any other morning but this one.

  Firstly, the toilet seat and lid remained in an upward position, and I detected a dried yellowish stain at the bowl’s rim in proximity to the seat’s hinge. I then tried to recall when I last used this bathroom, which couldn’t have been later than Monday morning. If this was the case, then Rachel must’ve forgotten to sterilize this particular toilet for the past two days. In my way of estimating, this form of normal neglect simply didn’t occur in Rachel’s germ phobic routine. Why hadn’t she cleaned this bathroom, or at least demanded that I do so in her place?

  My ever-patient collie still waited for me without protest as I pondered a reasonable excuse. The dog’s heavy panting signaled that her bladder was nearly as full as my imagination. “It’s okay,” I assured her. “We’ll go outside in a second.” Did I truly expect a protest from my compliant dog? If necessary, she would’ve sat there whining all day in an effort to appease me. But I needed to satisfy my suspicion that someone else had in fact used this bathroom after me since Monday. And because the trace of urine was in a spot on the bowl where it would’ve been impossible (or at least impractical) to be deposited by a woman, I concluded that another man must’ve been inside this house. Only question that remained: who?

  Since Rachel sold residential real estate for a living, it wasn’t thoroughly impractical for me to assume that she had invited a client inside our home to discuss a contractual clause or two. Maybe a male friend had stopped by, or perhaps she hosted an idealistic couple in search of a serene lakeside residence. Any of these scenarios were plausible, but my wife made no mention of such visitations to me. Whether I was right or wrong in my assumption, I began to consider that the myopic man who used this toilet might’ve also relieved himself in other rooms within my house. Undoubtedly, Rachel would’ve complained that it was incredibly juvenile of me to leap to such a tawdry conclusion, but I had no qualms about resorting to untested tactics when the older ones proved terribly insufficient.

  In the midst of my contemplations, I turned back toward Jolly for a reassuring gaze. She looked back at me with an unwavering obedience. Not even a hint of deceit blotched her untainted eyes. “If only dogs could talk,” I whispered with a self-deprecating grin. “What strange tales would they tell?”

  My four-legged companion wiggled closer to me, prancing on the tiles as if she had already surpassed her capacity to contain her bladder a second longer. I then exited the bathroom with no evidence other than what my thoughts permitted me to construct. The curse of creativity, as my mother once informed me, was that such a mind never really rested. Minute details lingered longer than necessary, and sometimes triggered a disconnection from the events of any particular moment.

  Admittedly, for a long time I had walked with my visor lowered, never suspecting that the perils infecting other marriages could’ve one day contaminated my own. Now, when something was askew, I opted to study it with an apprehensive eye. Usually, by the time a person’s common sense overruled his blind trust in a spouse, the adulterous stains of lust had already settled into the bed linen’s threadwork. I then began to scan my memory for other peculiarities within our marriage that linked the circumstances I had already discerned in the bathroom.

  Rachel designated two days off for herself during each workweek. She was frequently compulsive about her physique, and toiled at least three hours every Tuesday and Thursday mornings at the local gym toning her figure. Her fidelity toward aerobics and yoga produced some undeniably curvaceous results, and I made certain to compliment her efforts dutifully. But lately, she didn’t seem too concerned with my opinion. For a woman in her early forties, she looked almost ten years younger than her actual age, but this didn’t bode well for a husband who obviously drafted water from another spring. Although I wasn’t out of shape by the standards of most married men in their mid-forties, I certainly couldn’t be agreeably compared to those sculpted specimens she routinely bumped biceps with on communal treadmills and tracks.

  At first I dedicated little interest to her wholesome hobby. After all, we all needed something to distract us from our realities. I learned early on that Rachel actually preferred going to the gym alone, just as I once favored writing in my journals under similar conditions. But after lending thorough consideration to the matter, I reflected upon a behavior on her part that should’ve provoked my scrutiny long before now. Rachel, being a woman who embraced her femininity, enjoyed applying her facial makeup in a particular fashion. I was never bothered by the amount of time it required for her to satisfy her vain pursuits, but sometimes the process seemed out of order. For example, one Tuesday morning a few weeks ago, in which I happened to be off from work, I
noticed her putting on blush, lipstick, and eyeliner as if she was preening for a job interview rather than a workout at a health club.

  I didn’t profess to know the exact chemistry between cosmetics and sweat, but the two ingredients struck me as uncomplimentary to a persnickety woman’s complexion. Of course, I made no direct mention of my observation, for fear of being branded as paranoid or inordinately jealous. Naturally, if challenged by me, Rachel would’ve obstinately defended her choice to primp herself before leaving the house, citing her habits as nothing more outlandish than my preference to shave and shower before strolling around Lake Endelman. Knowing too much about one another often resulted in a touché in judgment, and this was yet another fencing match that I elected to circumvent.

  Yet, I was wise enough to recognize the early signs of flirtation and where it ultimately misled those who pursued its musty scent. At one time, I had been at the receiving end of such ploys. The unskilled art of all of it wasn’t difficult to decipher. Someone most likely enticed Rachel at the gym. He might’ve been younger and still teeming with elegant dreams that caused married women her age to gush with exaggerated curiosity. But as surely as I had pondered the notion, he was there, coiled like a pretty serpent in the shadows, awaiting his chance to inject a syrupy venom into her veins. Once in place, this smooth poison eventually permeated her heart and transmuted the joys of yesterday into the sorrows of today.

  Was it really conceivable that my wife had betrayed me? Surely, a raised toilet seat and a spot of urine didn’t automatically render her guilty of such an unsavory deed. I once conjectured that every man had a right to believe he satisfied his wife’s desires if she didn’t speak otherwise on the matter. But our lovemaking was noticeably infrequent, and even more so in recent months. Perhaps it was all too much to consider. Maybe I truly was paranoid, and urgently required drugs to pacify my irrationalities. Why couldn’t Rachel’s feelings be as simple to interpret as Jolly’s thoughts? My collie’s requirements were always apparent, and she never concealed them behind an ulterior rationale.

  Ultimately, this current plight was as humdrum as anything else in my life. Marital affairs were as common as storm clouds over Willows Edge, and stepping out into this sodden spring morning reminded me of the inexorable process of renewal. As raindrops dappled against my cheeks and eyelids, a pulverizing thought decimated whatever remained of my confidence. I couldn’t be looked upon as a fresh season in Rachel’s life anymore; the lure of another man’s fragrance potentially held the seductive perfumes of promise. Now, with the rain and tears mixing indiscernibly upon my face, the melody of Rachel’s cell-phone chimed continuously within my brain.

  Chapter 3

  5:42 A.M.