by Debra Kent
I watched as he moved unsteadily toward the trash bags. The moon was full and resplendent, a shimmering disk in a deep indigo sky. What a waste, I thought. This gorgeous moon should have been illuminating a loving couple, not a drunk lech stumbling toward a pile of Hefty bags and a wife who pretended it was someone else who dumped spoiled ricotta cheese on his $100 silk shirts.
He turned toward me and asked, “Just tell me. Is it dead? It’s not a dead baby, is it?”
“No. It’s nothing like that.”
“Well, then, is it a head, a decapitated head?”
“No, Roger, it’s not a decapitated head.”
My soon-to-be ex-husband picked up a fallen branch and began poking at the bag. What a sissy. I was beginning to grow exasperated, but reminded myself I was supposed to appear shaken and scared. After all, a stranger had just broken into the house and ransacked our closet. He squinted at the bag and poked again.
“Do I have to play goddamn twenty questions, or what? Can’t you just tell me what it is?”
I shoved a knuckle into my mouth, as much to feign horror as suppress a smile.
“It’s your clothes, Roger.”
He stared at me. “My what?” He fell to his knees and pulled the cinched bag open. He reeled back on his palms. “Oh no. Oh no. Oh nooooooooooooo! Shit! Shit! Shit!” He poked his head into the bag, then pulled back again, gagging. “What the hell? What the hell? Shit! Shit! Shit!”
I’d be lying if I didn’t feel the purest bliss watching Roger holding his nose with one hand, poking through his ruined garments with the other, alternating between moaning and gagging.
“Who would have done this?” he asked, his face darkening with rage.
“God, I don’t know. Some sick, awful person,” I answered. “I found it like this. The closet, ransacked. The bags at the curb. It was awful. I called the locksmith right away. I had to change the locks. All of them.”
Suddenly, he began picking through the clothes with renewed zeal, as if he were looking for something specific. “Wait a second… just wait a second,” he mumbled to himself. “I don’t see …” I froze. I knew what would come next.
“Hey. How come none of your clothes are here?” He glared at me suspiciously. Now came the delicate part. I had to tell Roger enough to satisfy his curiosity, but make him back off.
“The cops had a theory,” I began.
“What kind of theory?” he asked.
“Well, they say that whoever did it was after you, not me. You know, a vendetta.” I took a deep breath. “They actually suggested it might have been a scorned lover.” Roger held his face in his hands and began rubbing his temples. I forged ahead.
“You know, Roger, I’d hoped we could put this whole Alyssa thing behind us. But it just won’t go away, will it? And now I come home, I find the closet ransacked “Someone broke into our house, Roger. Our house! What’s next, Roger? Is she going to go after me next? Or Petey?”
Roger stopped rubbing his head and looked at me. “Oh, God. What have I done? I am so, so sorry!” (Yes! And she scores!)
I remembered Omar’s instructions. I couldn’t let Roger know I was planning to leave him. I stepped forward and knelt beside him. I draped my arms around his neck. “It’s going to be okay,” I told him.
He looked bewildered. It had been a long time since I’d displayed any affection toward him. But he was relieved. Now I’d play the devoted wife. I told him I’d warm up some chicken soup and run a hot bath. “Oh, I feel so terrible for you. Those gorgeous clothes, ruined!”
“Ruined,” he repeated, dazed.
“Why don’t you go in and get undressed? I’ll get your bath ready.” I helped Roger to his feet and guided him toward the door. Roger stopped and put his arms on my shoulders.
“You are so good to me. I don’t deserve you.”
I hugged him. “Of course you do, darling. Of course you do.”
While Roger soaked in the tub, I decided to make one quick pass through a filing cabinet in the basement. And there, tightly wedged between one dog-eared manila folder marked Medical and another marked Utilities, I found a folder with no label. I tugged until it popped out. My pulse quickened as I opened the folder. It was a document, stapled, slightly faded. I was certain Roger would come tripping down the stairs at any moment. I sensed that I’d found precisely the kind of information I needed. As I quickly scanned the page I felt something beyond shock, beyond horror. And I knew that what I’d found would forever change my view of marriage and men.
About the author
Debra Kent writes the Diary of V for Redbook and Women.Com and has contributed to such magazines as Cosmopolitan, Family Circle, Mademoiselle and McCall’s. She lives with her husband and children in the Midwest.
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