THE WIDOW’S HUSBAND
by William Coleman
Copyright 2019 by William Coleman
Published by William Coleman
All rights Reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Chapter 1
(Allan Tuttle)
“This the place or what?”
The cabbie’s deep, raspy voice pulled Allan Tuttle from his thoughts like a hooked fish being yanked from the safety of water. He looked up at the small A-frame structure that he had called home for nearly two decades. It stood dark, only a dull light glowing in the living room window. The grey car in the driveway told him that Sarah, his wife of nine years, was home. Usually, the house would be lit up like a torch inside and out for his arrival. This time, however, he had decided to surprise her and was a day early.
“This is it,” Allan said, his voice just above a whisper. The hinges proclaimed their need for lubrication as he opened the door and stepped onto the sidewalk. He dragged his suitcase behind him, setting the luggage gently at his feet. Using a handkerchief from his breast pocket, Allan pushed his hand into his pants pocket. Withdrawing his hand slowly, he turned it to reveal a money clip nestled within the handkerchief. Tentatively his free hand flipped down the corners of the bills until he had the amount he needed to pay the fare. He offered the money to the cabbie who eyed him suspiciously before taking the payment and counting the bills.
Money clip returned to his pants and the handkerchief tucked safely away in his breast pocket, Allan produced a small bottle of hand sanitizer and applied a generous amount to his hands, working the gel in forcefully, erasing all contact he may have had with the money and the cab’s interior. The cabbie sat, hands on wheel, staring at the spectacle.
“Did I miscount?” Allan asked. He observed, not for the first time, the dirt under the man’s fingernails. Allan crinkled his nose, hoping this was not the type of man who would want to shake hands to close the transaction.
“It’s the exact amount,” the cabbie said matter-of-factly, holding the bills for Allan to see as if to offer proof.
Allan looked at the man, confused, as he seemed to grow more and more angry with each passing second. Sliding back into his seat, cursing under his breath, the cabbie slammed the vehicle into gear and sped away. Allan watched dumbfounded as the man’s arm rose out of the driver’s side window, middle finger extended.
Allan stooped to pick up the suitcase and turned to the house. He stepped to the stairs, positioning himself square and center to the steps leading to his porch above. Turning his head to the left he gazed down the street.
“One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six,” he slowly counted the houses in that direction. Rotating his head all the way to the right, he counted the houses there. “One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.”
It had taken months for the real-estate agent to locate the perfect house, equally distant in each direction from the cross streets in addition to being the seventh home from each. She must have shown her client more than fifty homes before he found one acceptable to his quirks and demands. The agent, so relieved to find the home and be done with Allan, opted to take the bottle of wine she normally gave her clients at closing and drank it herself.
Adjusting his grip on the suitcase, Allan began ascending the stone stairs, counting each of the twelve steps aloud as he set his foot in its center. The porch was made of wood slats that creaked beneath his weight. Pulling the screen door, its hinges, much like those of the cab door, groaned with age. Allan stepped in to block it from closing and used his free hand to retrieve a key ring from the pocket of his sport coat. Head bowed, he counted the keys on the ring. That done, he singled out the house key and slipped it silently into the lock and twisted. The audible click of the lock disengaging brought a smile to his otherwise expressionless face.
The door swung inward with a low whine, drowned out by loud music filtering through the opening. Sarah was an avid music lover, keeping a steady flow of classical and easy listening throughout the house. The sound assaulting his ears now was different. There was an edge to it, contemporary, raw. The repeated pounding of the deep bass made Allan cringe.
The living room was dark, the only source of light, as Allan had seen from the street, coming from the back of the house. He closed the door, locked it, checking each lock twice, the knob three times. Satisfied everything was secure, Allan used the low light to guide him as he maneuvered from the soft, inviting furniture of the living room to the hard wood pieces in the dining room. He set the suitcase in a chair, removed his sport coat and draped it over the back of the same chair, carefully smoothing out the sleeves. He called out for Sarah. The music overwhelmed his voice.
Allan unzipped his suitcase and withdrew a manila file folder containing his recently completed manuscript, the reason for his two week stay in Chicago. As was his ritual at this stage, he would place the document on the desk in his office, located in the back-right corner of the house, just beyond the master bedroom, on the left, before seeking Sarah out. Clutching the manuscript to his chest, he made his way down the hall, his ears assaulted by the increasing volume of the music as he approached its source, his head pounding with the beat.
He walked head down, counting his steps, raising his chin only to glance into their room as he passed, to see what, if anything, Sarah might be doing that would warrant such noise. He was two steps beyond the doorway by the time the image he had seen registered in his mind. He stopped dead in his tracks. He wanted desperately to complete his task and place his work on his desk, corners squared; neat, clean, orderly. Try as he might to take the next step, he was drawn back to the open bedroom door, a hooked fish once again.
Hiding behind the door frame, he peeked inside. The vision struck him, sucking the air from his lungs like a vacuum. His chest tightened and anxiety threatened to paralyze him where he stood. His heart pounded more loudly in his mind that the music. He wanted to look away, but he could not bring himself to move. In the center of the room, on the four-poster bed Sarah had insisted they buy, lay his wife, naked and spread eagle. Her limbs were bound and stretched toward each corner of the mattress, her mouth gagged with one of Allan’s favorite ties. As shocking as it was to see his wife this way, it was the man that held Allan’s gaze.
Large, naked and covered with sweat the man lay on top of Sarah. Allan was horrified. His wife was being attacked and he could not move. A voice in head told him to do something, to help her. The man’s broad shoulders and chest, his thick, hairy limbs and his enormous head colluded to frighten Allan into inaction. Yet, he knew he could not just stand by and do nothing. He had to call the police. For the first time in his life he wished he had a cell phone.
There were two phones in the house. One sat prominently on the nightstand, inches from Sarah’s outstretched hand. The other hung from the wall in the kitchen next to the refrigerator. He would have to return to the front of the house. Lowering his eyes to the manuscript pressed against his chest, his head spun. He squeezed his eyelids closed, took a breath, and opened
them again. He moved.
Counting each step as he went, his legs carried him briskly to the office where he placed the folder on his desk, adjusting and readjusting until it was square. He stepped away only to return to nudge one corner softly to the left. He turned to race to the kitchen and make the call that would save Sarah, but his eyes fell upon the set of bookends in the bust of Edgar Allan Poe, the poet he often dreamt his parents named him after. A gift from Sarah, one of his prized possessions, he reached out and grasped the one closest to him. It felt cold and solid as he lifted it. In doing so, somewhere deep inside, Allan felt a strength he had never had before.
It would take time for the police to arrive, during which Sarah would continue to be assaulted. Allan needed to act, to become the hero the characters in his novels were. He would help his wife; save her. He looked down at the bookend in his hand. Edgar Allan Poe looked back at him with mocking eyes. He grabbed his wrist to stop the trembling. With a heavy sigh, he walked slowly back to the bedroom door counting each step, noting each creak in the floor, the shuffling of his shoes.
Every movement Allan made seemed to echo in his ears and he was sure they could be heard above the music. Allan paused before looking into the room. A vision flashed in his mind of the large, naked man standing just beyond the opening with the other Edgar Allan Poe bookend poised to strike. Allan closed his eyes and inhaled, forcing the image away. Holding his breath, he peeked around the corner.
Nothing had changed. His wife was still spread eagle on the bed pinned beneath her attacker. It was time. Defend Sarah or race to the kitchen and call nine-one-one. The bookend he held gave him courage and he made up his mind. He would stop the attack. Save his wife.
He did not count his steps as he walked quickly, quietly to close the distance between them. Despite his increased pace, time seemed to move in slow motion. Only a couple yards seemed to take a lifetime. He raised his arm, gripping Edgar Allan Poe’s head so tightly his hand hurt. From the edge of the bed he glanced at his wife, her eyes closed tight to block out her attacker. Allan focused on the man and froze. He questioned whether he had the strength to hurt him, to stop him.
The man, oblivious of Allan’s presence, moved rhythmically, like a machine. A tear formed in the corner of Allan’s eye. The man shifted and said in a deep voice, “Oh, baby.”
Resolve flooded back into Allan’s body and he struck downward with every ounce of strength he could muster. The base of the bookend found its mark on the side of the man’s head. A small slapping sound was all Allan heard on impact and he feared it would not be enough. Just the same the man’s body went slack as he fell to his side. Elated, Allan looked down at his wife who was staring up at him, wide-eyed. He had done it.
He sat on the edge of the bed and struggled to untie her hand, freeing it from the bedpost. As he worked at the knot he said in a soft, soothing voice, “It’s okay. I saved you.”
Her hand free, Sarah yanked the gag from her mouth. “What are you doing home?”
Allan stared down at his naked wife, partially obscured by the unconscious man; the naked, unconscious man. The elation of the moment drained, replaced by confusion by her response to his rescue, Allan stared at the bare back of the man. Looking back at Sarah, he said, “I . . ., uh . . .”
“You weren’t supposed to get back until Friday,” she snapped. With a dismissive shake of her head she reached with her free hand to untie the other. She couldn’t quite reach.
“I finished the manuscript early,” Allan said flatly. “He was . . .”
“I don’t know how many times I’ve told you to call me on your way home,” she chastised.
“. . . to give you time to get ready,” Allan finished.
“Why didn’t you call?” she demanded, trying again to reach the knot around her wrist.
“I wanted to surprise you,” he explained.
“Well, surprise,” she said in an unenthusiastic sing-song. “I can’t believe this.”
Allan stared at the man’s back. Reality of the situation sinking in. He did not rescue her at all. She was never in danger. This man, this naked man, was no rapist. He was . . . “your lover?”
She stopped and looked up at him. He could see in the look of her eyes that she was trying to decide what to say. He expected her to deny it, as if she could. He expected her to say it was the first time and would never happen again. He expected her to beg for forgiveness. What she said was, “Untie my other hand.”
Dazed, he slowly walked around the bed. He sat on the edge of the mattress, his head turned away, his eyes down. He pulled on the knot. It didn’t give. He worked at it for a moment longer until it began to loosen and released the hold it had on Sarah’s hand. He looked at her then, an instilled habit to see her approval. Instead, she only sat up and rubbed her wrists. The man lay across her upper thigh and she pushed at him to free herself. He was large and did not budge.
“Get him off me,” she said to Allan. “Then maybe you should go before he wakes up.”
“Excuse me?” Allan said, a moment of clarity coming to him. “Isn’t it customary to run the boyfriend off before the husband gets home?”
“I usually do,” she grimaced as she pushed the man again.
“Usually?” Allan said. “How many times have you done this? How long has it been going on?”
“Does it really matter, Allan?” she snapped. “Just get him off me.”
Allan looked at his naked wife and the mass of a man lying across her on his bed. His supportive wife of nine years. She was a lie. Everything she had ever told him came into question. And the question that came foremost to his mind was: What would his characters do?
“I think I’ll go to the cabin for a few days,” he said, barely audible. He rose to his feet and moved toward the door. Sarah yelled at him to help, her voice seeming to echo from the walls as he walked, yet he did not hear. In a cloud of deception and loss, he glided down the hall without thought. A force not his own guided him through the dining room, the living room and out the front door. On the porch, he took a deep breath and started down the steps, forgetting to count them as he went. Reaching the street, he turned in no particular direction and started walking.
Chapter 2
(Sarah Tuttle)
Sarah Tuttle watched her husband of nine years retreat across the room and disappear through the doorway like a bad dream. She entertained the thought that it had been just that, a dream from which she would soon awaken. In all the years they had been together, Allan had never come home early. He also had never stood up for himself, let alone her. All in all, a dream seemed more likely.
The alternative, that Allan had caught her cheating and cold-cocked Mike, was inconceivable. Yet, Mike was laying on top of her, unconscious, like so much dead weight. And the idea that Mike had fallen asleep in the middle of sex was even more unbelievable. No. Allan had been there. He had untied her hands. And he had left her there, trapped beneath the man he assaulted. Despite her situation, she couldn’t help but grin. It was a pleasant surprise that he had come to her ‘rescue’.
“Mike,” Sarah shook the man. His body lay heavily on her legs, the pressure, like a compress, reducing her circulation. He did not rouse. She shook him harder. “Mike. Get up, Mike.”
She reached over and slapped him on the side of his large head. She felt something moist. When she withdrew her hand, she saw her fingers were stained red with blood, the warm liquid sliding down her slender digits. Recognition struck her like a bolt of lightning and her eyes grew wide as a chill crawled the length of her spine. Squeezing her hands into tight fists, she struck the man’s bare upper body, “Mike! Mike!”
She placed the palms of her hands on his bare shoulder and heaved. Pushing away and up, she was relieved to feel movement and strained even harder, using every ounce of muscle she had, until she realized she was only shifting the flesh around his frame. She let go and his mass flowed back into place like a wave. She needed leverage. He was far too large for him to
move with her arms alone. Straining against the ties that bound her legs to the bedposts only served to tighten their hold. She stretched across Mike’s body trying to reach the knots to no avail. She fell back into her pillow defeated.
Considering her options, her mind drifted to Allan and his unexpected act of heroism. Mike stopped thrusting so abruptly she knew something was wrong. Opening her eyes, the last thing she expected to see was her husband standing over her with the small bust of that poet and a twitch in his eyes. In that moment, she actually believed she was next. It took her a second listening to him saying he had rescued her to understand what had happened. The first time he ever did anything remotely romantic and his timing was lousy.
Taking the job at the temp agency a decade ago, she had no idea that the first job she would be sent on would be to type for an author she had read. She enjoyed his writings and imagined the author to be similar to the main characters in his novels, which turned out to be far from the truth. She enjoyed working with Allan, transcribing his hand-written notes into typed pages, a novel coming to life before her very eyes. It was exciting, and although he did not have the physical presence she had expected, knowing that the traits of the heroes came from Allan’s mind excited her as well. She pursued him. She controlled the evolution of their relationship. And when the time was right she pushed him into asking her to marry him.
It was good, at first. He was a good man, despite his many quirks. She thought his use of typewriters rather than computers was a way for him to stay close to his art; the feel and smell of the paper, sound of the keys striking the page. In time, she learned that it was an irrational fear of technology; computers, cell phones, you name it, he avoided it. He thought they were used to watch him, to steal his writing. He didn’t own anything with a microchip or motherboard.
His brilliant creative mind was limited to the written word. He had absolutely no imagination when it came to physical intimacy, which was why she desired other stimuli. It was because of this extracurricular activity that she convinced Allan to buy the cabin, suggesting that he might do well to have a quiet place to work on his novels. A ploy that worked splendidly. He grew to enjoy writing at the cabin, said being out of the city allowed him to concentrate on the stories and characters he was developing. What she did not take into account was Allan’s most interesting moments were while he was writing, when he was thinking like the hero characters she wanted him to be. With the cabin, he was only home when he wasn’t writing, when he was the most like . . . himself. So, while he was away getting his creative juices flowing, she was using other outlets to get her own juices flowing.
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