Choke on Your Lies

by Anthony Neil Smith

  Choke On Your Lies

  a novel by

  Anthony Neil Smith

  Copyright 2011 Anthony Neil Smith

  Cover photo by J.R. Bohnenblust

  The model for the cover photo is Erin Zerbe

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without permission of the author.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Part I.

  CHOKE ON YOUR LIES

  ONE

  When I arrived for Sunday lunch at the Dakota Jazz Club on Nicollet, Octavia VanderPlatts was already seated, all 340 pounds of her spilling off both sides of the chair, walking stick hooked on the edge of the table. Before I even sat down, she looked me in the eye and said, “Let’s punish the bitch.”

  Octavia was the smartest person I knew. Two master’s degrees—Classics and Criminal Justice. She probably would have gone to law school or pursued a Ph.D. if she hadn’t found school so boring. She hated men, hated women, hated liberals, hated conservatives, hated children, tolerated the elderly, hated pop culture and high culture, although was for some reason taken by the struggles of the working class—in particular, the “white trash” of daytime TV. Basically, she looked down on damn near everyone. She was my friend, but I’d rather stab myself in the crotch than spend more than a couple of hours with her.

  She didn’t offer advice that often, though, and when she did it made sense to listen. She’d obviously heard that my wife of eight years was divorcing me. I was a wreck, showing up in two-day-old jeans that stunk of cigarettes and spilled scotch, plus my old Columbia College of Chicago sweatshirt with the torn collar. Four days of additional growth on my usually well-kept beard. That was how many days Frances had been gone, run off with the provost of the small private college in Minneapolis where we both taught, her an American Lit professor specializing in Domestic Fiction, and me a poet in the Creative Writing Program.

  I say run off, but she was really only a few miles away at his house. I’d been there before for parties. I suppose my wife had been there much more often these past several months. I had wondered why she was taking the extra shower each day, going out on weeknights with “the girls”, coming home from campus an hour later than me, “catching up on grading”. Good thing she waited until the beginning of summer break to split, or I would’ve killed myself rather than face both of them and my colleagues at work. The kicker of it all is that I didn’t see them making it in the long run, not that they were planning for that. Really, she asked for the divorce so she wouldn’t have to look at my pathetic puppy-dog face, hoping to guilt her into an admission of whatever was really keeping her late. Grading, my ass. The other English professors vouched that lately in her classes, she’d just been gathering the desks in a circle and talking about “sexual experimentation” a lot.

  But me, I’d wanted to talk about our marriage. I wanted to share feelings. Work it out. Try to give her whatever it was she felt I lacked. Too late, too late. I was never there for her. It wasn’t working. “Please,” she would whine, “Let’s just…accept that we no longer have what it took to be together.”

  Frances left. I started drinking. Just wine at first, some nice South African shiraz. But a lot of it. It was day three before I cracked open the single-malt scotch. And now here I was at the Dakota being marginally humored by the maitre d’, who probably would’ve never let me in if not for Octavia. I mean, her Escalade was parked on the curb, her driver and butler Jennings waiting patiently. They hated each other, but that was another story.

  Octavia looked meticulously clean—no make-up, smelling of cucumber body wash—with a two hundred dollar salon do for her jet black hair, dyed since high school. She was really a redhead. Her dark gray suit was probably tailored for her by a boutique only she and thirty other people knew about. She’d told me before that if you’re going to be stared at anyway, might as well be fashionably huge. She was right, though no amount of style could make you forget about her incredible girth. I leaned over to kiss her cheek. She wrinkled her nose at my four-day funk.

  She said it again. “I said, let’s punish the bitch.”

  It had been a while. I’d forgotten how direct she could be. It was the Dutch in her. “You mean Frances?”

  “Have you married any other bitches lately? I think we should destroy her in court. In fact—” Octavia held up a finger while she reached for her purse. She pulled out a small manila envelope and handed it across.

  I didn’t want to take it. “What’s that?”

  “Find out for yourself.”

  I folded my hands together and laid them on the table cloth.

  She huffed, then leaned the envelope against the tall glass candle holder at the center of our table. “Okay, okay, play a little game with me if you want. We both know you’ll peek inside. Once the mystery envelope is out in the open, there’s no turning back.”

  “You really don’t have to buy me lunch.”

  “But I want to because I think you’re already a cuckold and I don’t want to see you bloom into a full grown pussy. Open the envelope.”

  Smug. Confident. Arrogant, even. Those are the words you’d think if you’d only met her once. I knew there was more to her than that. She didn’t help anyone unless there was something intensely personal about it. With Frances, it had been loathing from day one, doubled in size when my lovely bride-to-be had requested that Octavia not be invited to the wedding reception.

  Frances had said, “She’ll polish off the buffet, darling. I’m not joking.”

  I tried to explain—yes, Octavia was a gigantic woman with a huge appetite, but she was also a terrible snob. Wedding food didn’t do it for her. Still, a man in love has to take one for the cause. Octavia and I didn’t speak for nearly three years after that, which was actually a relief. Being friends with Octavia is a downright burden. As newlywed bliss faded into annoyance and then into resentment, I rekindled my ties just so I could complain to someone who would sympathize with me rather than my innocent deep-feeling wife. Octavia had never mentioned the wedding slight since.

  I picked up the envelope, unclasped the flap. Inside were photographs. In color. My wife fucking the provost. My wife sucking the provost. My wife in the shower fucking the provost…and the basketball coach?

  I reached for my water, took a big swig. My hand shook, tingled the ice cubes against the glass. My throat was still dry when I said, “What have you done?”

  “I simply got the proof you needed to see. Otherwise, you’d never take the fight to Frances like she deserves.”

  “So you hired a PI to stake out my wife?”

  “God, no, get a fucking grip. Jennings took the photos.”

  I shook my head, pretended to study the menu. Furious didn’t begin to describe my feelings. And yet she was absolutely right about me. I was willing to let Frances go if that would make her happier. I was blaming myself, as usual. The photos, though, showed Frances to be much less of a victim than I had imagined.

  Octavia waited until I was looking at her again, dying to share her satisfied expression. “You knew it was happening. Does seeing it make it more real? Keep going, though. There was one you didn’t know about.”

  I flipped to find another setting. Her car. A student and Frances, his pants around their ankles, hers nowhere to be seen, having sex in the backseat. I knew that kid. He worked for me.

  “David Carter?”

  “He was a sophomore then. I don’t think it went far. We only caught them once, well before the new guy. One more, please, so we can order.”

  I looked up. “How long have you been following her?”
/>
  “Keep going.”

  The last photo wasn’t of my wife having sex. It was a picture of her leaving an abortion clinic.

  Octavia expected me to eat after this?

  “Whose?” I said.

  Her expression remained smug, dry. “Yours.”

  I was about to speak when the waiter arrived with our tea. Octavia didn’t drink alcohol. She saved herself for other pleasures. As I tried to absorb what she’d just told me, the waiter asked if we had decided.

  Octavia said, “Start with the large Baby Arugula Salad, then the Petite Greens. I imagine my friend will want soup.”

  “Excuse me.” That poor sap of a waiter shouldn’t have interrupted. Too young and stupid, hair purposefully hanging in his eyes. “You realize those salads are meals on their own.”

  “Then list it under entrees. Right now it’s listed as ‘salad’ and I consider ‘salad’ a separate course. Don’t you agree?”

  Why would Frances end her pregnancy without telling me, especially if Octavia was right about it being mine? Was it a mistake? Frances must have thought it was another man’s child. That’s the only explanation. We had really wanted a child of our own. We really did. Or at least I really did.

  Octavia continued, “Then the Romano Crusted Walleye Salad. You know, the one listed as an entrée?”

  The waiter, surely gritting his teeth. “I understand.”

  “I’m right in guessing the fish is fresh today?”

  The waiter said, “Absolutely, yes it is.”

  “You’re a liar. I know for a fact that your shipment is late. You’d really try to pawn your old fish off on us?”

  “I beg your pardon, ma’am. Really.” No fear in his eyes yet. Soon, I thought. “Fresh is in the eye of the beholder. I assure you we wouldn’t put it on the menu if it wasn’t of the highest quality.”

  She laughed at him. Raised some red in his cheeks. “You dumbass. I don’t suppose the chef would allow me to come back and inspect this magical fish of yours that somehow stays fresh in spite of at least three days in your refrigerator. Or did he catch one early this morning on his way to work and just so happens to have waited until I asked about the fish to remember it’s still in the front basket of his bicycle?”

  The waiter stammered, cleared his throat. “Again, I apologize. I don’t believe Chef would allow a patron into the kitchen—”

  “Is the goddamned fish fresh or not? And answer as if I’ve got you by the short and curlies.”

  He blinked. Quite a bit, really. I saw it then, the fear. “I will be most careful of how I describe our menu choices in the future. Please, again, my apologies. I did not intend to mislead you. It’s not my fault, but we’re instructed to—”

  “Jesus, kid. At least take it like a man instead of trying to push all the blame off onto your manager, whom I happen to know very well. I don’t know you at all, though.” Octavia nodded at me. “My friend will have the Yucca Root Gnocchi.”

  Sometimes I thought she was trying to get her food spat on.

  *

  After the waiter skulked away thoroughly humiliated, I told Octavia I didn’t really like the looks of that dish. Especially not the coconut milk.

  “Barely there. You won’t even notice.” Which was, of course, untrue, but it almost assured that I wouldn’t eat all of it and she’d demand the rest. But that was still easier than trying to order on my own and have her convince me over the next forty-five minutes that I’d made the worst possible choice.

  When her salads and my soup arrived, it was back to business. She said, “I think let this go to court. You tell her you’ve changed your mind about all of it and that you don’t want to give in on support. Let her think she’s got you in a corner, then we spring the photos.”

  “All of them?”

  She made a face. “Well, yeah, of course.”

  “I mean, won’t that just make it look like I stalked her or something? Her lawyers would tear that apart.”

  “Maybe they’d try, but photos of The Bitch fucking a couple of different men and a teenage boy, well, the judge would feel more sorry for you than her, unless we get some liberal douchebag who’s into swinging. Then he’ll want to fuck her too and you’re sunk no matter what.” She took a bite of her salad. Chewed thoughtfully. “Too much oil.”

  “If there’s a chance of losing, why not take these to her outside of court and settle it that way?”

  “She doesn’t pay that jackass lawyer of hers to give up. I know the guy. Went up against him once in arbitration. Slick, but he came unhinged under pressure. I had sued that sub chain, remember, over those ads where the guy held up the giant pants? So I claimed it was discriminatory business practice to use those pants as a deterrent. The lawyer really thought he could shut me down by saying it was frivolous. You can just imagine how he looked at the end of the day.”

  I sure could. Octavia had made her fortune suing companies that discriminated against fat people. Her words, not mine. In court papers, she reveled in the politically correct, saying she’s “weight-challenged” or “medically obese” or “redefining the space required of an individual.” In private, she called fat fat and had no qualms about it. She accepted who she was, and better yet had found a way to flourish as who she was while making millions from lawsuits. She wasn’t an attorney, but she was better at it than most I know. Her mouthpiece in court was a woman she kept on a handsome retainer to pretty much argue whatever Octavia told her to, which therefore freed up the attorney, Pamela Schlueter, a striking woman—tall, blonde, and intimidating—to be at Octavia’s beck and call. Before, Pamela had been a struggling lawyer, smart but lost in the noise of a giant firm, hardly taken seriously. With Octavia in her corner, she was now on the verge of becoming a full-fledged partner.

  “You can use Pamela,” Octavia said. “That’ll help.”

  I had to admit that my soup was tasty, the first thing I’d really tasted in days. Octavia must’ve known this place would help reawaken my senses and get me riled up to take on Frances. But even with the photos, the help from my friend, and that tingling sense at the back of my head telling me to stand up for myself, I still couldn’t see it. Frances and I had so much in common, like our love of travel—Prague, Russia, Costa Rica, Chile. She’d taught me so much about myself, like how my general “nice guy” front wasn’t as bad as Octavia had led me to believe. Frances recognized that it wasn’t just me being a pushover, but rather my authentic desire to help people, thus my decision to teach, and why I put my classes and committees before my own writing. I’d only published two poems these past four years.

  “You’re a true lover of humanity,” Frances had said.

  Octavia put it like: “You’ve got tire tracks on your back.”

  So I couldn’t do it. In spite of the wonderful food and the rich aromas flowing from the kitchen, and the bright, glossy photos of my wife satisfying herself outside of our marriage, it wasn’t me. Her pain must have been unbearable for her to have done what she did, and I wasn’t going to unnecessarily embarrass her now.

  “I appreciate the offer, Octavia, I do. But I don’t want to slam the door in her face. Whatever this is about, I’m sure we can work through it another way.”

  Octavia put her fork down, shuffled through the photos, and pulled out the one of Frances and David in the backseat. “Really? We’re not talking a stupid woman here. A bitch, but one smart enough to find a way to turn this to her advantage. Trust me. If you give her a head’s up on this she’ll concoct some mental abuse charges that you won‘t even see coming. That’s what I’m offering with Pamela, a good pair of eyes.”

  True, seeing that photo hurt. I believe it was Frances who first pointed David out as a bright spot in one of her lit surveys. So I had arranged a work study for him to help with the design and maintenance of our fledgling literary e-zine. He was a whiz with computers, and friendly enough. His writing wasn’t the best, but he was improving week by week. He didn’t seem like a typical English maj
or. More like a jock. He told me once he played soccer in high school, and wanted to try out for our school’s baseball team.

  How long had it been going on? Was Frances already seeing David when she brought him to my attention? After? Was she using him to spy on me? Did he not even feel nervous around me, knowing the whole time he was fucking my wife behind my back?

  Still, I didn’t have the full story. This was Octavia we were talking about. One of the great manipulators in the modern world. Or at least in my life.

  I said, “Listen, you don’t know Frannie. I’m not thrilled about this either, but she must have her reasons. There’s not going to be a fight. We just…made a mistake, and we’re each going our separate ways.”

  She cocked her eyebrow, a signal that she’d already seen the future, almost clear as high-def. “No fault? No nothing?”

  About that time, our main courses arrived. I was relieved, as it gave me a minute to compose an answer. I was absolutely certain Octavia had my best interests in mind, but it was just as obvious that she was hoping to get a kick out of it herself. Since she was set for life financially, the only thing that drove her anymore was pure pleasure—whatever it took to give her thrills without turning her into a junkie, Octavia was all for it.

  “My dear,“ I said, “much as it may seem weird to you, there are still some civilized people in this world who can handle difficult situations like adults, thank you.”

  She shrugged, acted like she was too interested in her meal to care. Took a big bite and spoke through it. “Suit yourself. At least let Pamela handle the paperwork, then. On my dime.”

  Wow, that was truly nice of her. Could be I’d judged my friend a bit too harshly. We’d known each other for so long, and I’d watched her high school persona—still the smartest person in the room, but at least willing to stick out her tongue and giggle when necessary—morph into something darker, less forgiving. Painful to witness, although that very transformation led her to confound everyone’s expectations and become the most successful student in her class. Then I went on to grad school in Chicago, won some awards, and was luckily able to find work back home in the Cities, where Octavia was waiting, well on her way to staggering wealth and a bitter, lonely life that she swore was more than fulfilling.