He blows out the candles and snorts. “I’ll catch a bite later.” His eyes roll down my body, sneering. “I’m not hungry now.”
His car backs out of the driveway, and the stench of four dozen roses is nauseating. “Jekyll and Hyde,” I mutter, “Brad number one is back.” I hurl Brad’s plate, and two rare steaks slide slowly down the wall, leaving a trail of bloody marks.
Someone is crying her heart out.
“Oh, Traci, sweetie.”
My little girl is sitting on the bottom step with her head in her lap, sobbing. She mumbles in a voice filled with hiccups, “He’s back.”
The phone rings.
“Hello?” I answer in a harsh voice.
“Hello?” I say louder.
“Hello,” I yell.
Click.
I slam the phone on its cradle.
With any luck, the person will not call back. There was a heavy breathing that creeped me out.
“Mommy?”
“What is it, Traci?”
“I heard a scratching at the window.”
I pat her head with a shaky hand, trying to reassure her. I tiptoe around the house, listening for noises, and double-checking the locks, and then set the alarm.
Traci kneels by her bed praying, “Please send my daddy back to me.”
I lay in bed, listening for Brad, remembering all the ugly, threatening things he has said to me in the past. I jump out of bed and lock the bedroom door.
Finally, he stumbles into the house at 1:55 in the morning.
He was sober enough to disarm the alarm!
I jump out of bed and rearm the alarm. A button is marked Police. The cops will be here in minutes if I ever push this button. It is insane that Brad is frightening again. Just last night, we had sex and slept together. He sent me roses! I am afraid to leave my room and get the screwdriver. I was an idiot to put it back in the kitchen drawer.
At least Brad is not snoring tonight in his own room. Yet, I am disappointed that he did not at least try the doorknob to my bedroom. Stupid, stupid! Why even want such a thing when my meat is decaying on the dining room floor! I will clean up the mess in the morning. Brad so disheartened me that I just did not feel like dealing with the spoiled dinner.
I barely sleep and in the morning go downstairs to clean the kitchen and dining room. The thorn of a rose jabs my toe. My beautiful roses are scattered across the den carpet. Someone deliberately tried to destroy the flowers.
Traci is mad at her father for not working on her horse yesterday. She has never been destructive like Brad but his moods may finally be affecting her. Did Traci swing the roses around her head, fling the roses to the ground, and stomp on them?
I clean up the destroyed flowers, tears dripping down my cheeks. Only a dozen are damaged. Brad sent me flowers and said he was sorry. He deserves a second…a third chance.
Brad walks into the kitchen and pours a glass of water.
I smile brightly and sing, “Good morning, Brad. I made you breakfast.”
He makes a face at the eggs and bacon, holds his stomach, and gags. “What are you all of a sudden? Betty Crocker?” He dumps the plate of food in the garbage disposal. “The smell of eggs is nauseating. You are trying to make me sick! Is that what you want? To poison me!” he hollers.
“You are crazy Brad!”
“I told you to never call me crazy! You know my real parents gave me up for adoption. Who knows if mental disease runs in my blood?”
You are welcome for breakfast, schizo.
Over the noise of eggs and bacon crunching in the garbage disposal, Brad’s car roars out of the garage.
Quit messing with my mind, Brad, and driving me insane! I clench my hands on the counter and want to scream. He is making me nuts. For seven weeks, the man eats breakfast every morning. Now he claims eggs make him ill.
Traci is hiding under the table. She is gurgling as though choking.
I wipe my mouth with a trembling hand. I must see to Traci. Oh, God, what is Brad doing to us?
“Why are you hiding under the table, Traci?”
Her eyes are round as saucers. Her teeth are chattering. “When is Daddy coming back?” she whispers as if Brad might hear.
“Pay no mind to your father. He has a very stressful job fixing sick people which sometimes put him in a bad mood.”
I drag her out from under the table and serve her a plate of scrambled eggs.
Traci kicks the table, her face stretched into a tight mask. She keeps repeating, “When is Daddy coming back? When is Daddy coming back? When is Daddy coming back?”
Chapter 17
WIFE
I sleep lightly, aware of my surroundings as my brain farts.
A hand crawls beneath my nightgown. “Brad,” I murmur and turn on my back.
He buries his face in my neck, working his lips up to my ear. “Ronni,” he whispers.
He lifts his leg on top of mine and I stroke his cheek. “It’s midnight. Where have you been?”
“I was working late at the hospital.”
“On a Sunday?” I murmur half-asleep even though technically it is now six in the morning on Monday.
“A doctor’s day is never done, my love.”
For that endearment, Brad deserves a fourth chance. I straddle him, yank my nightgown over my head, and flip on the lamp. “You won’t be disappointed in me.”
He grabs a handful of my hair, lowering my lips to his.
He is hurting my scalp but my voice is mum else the moment may be ruined to prove that I am not a boring lover.
“I’ve never felt anything as good as your touch,” he groans.
I remove my hand from his rock hard shaft and circle his chest with my nipples, running my tongue down his chest.
“God,” he says in a ragged voice with a tongue so thick I can barely understand him. “Ronni.” He lowers his head and sucks on my nipple right through my nightgown.
I throw off my nightgown and shove my breast in his mouth. He sucks with loud gulping noises as if I am his lifeline.
I hump against him, moaning, crying with delight at the passion this man makes me feel. I may pass out from the sensation as a warm liquid seeps between my thighs and I actually weep there. All I can think of is him, him, him.
Brad makes love like a desperate man, as if we parted for a month and not just a day.
I long to ask him where he went but then I might have to confess that I ransacked his closet and discovered his overnight traveling bag was gone.
Brad whispers sweet nothings in my ear, and I have my husband back. Dr. Jekyll has returned.
We are both sated and sleep like two spoons, at least, Brad sleeps.
I tiptoe to his room. The traveling bag is stuffed back in its corner.
The sun rises like an over-easy egg poking from a fluffy white cloud. I lay beside him, examining every line of his face, looking for any sign of Mr. Hyde.
He flicks his eyes open. “How long have you been watching me?” he says in a curiosity-killed-the-cat tone.
“You’re snoring again.”
“I, uh, am taking this new medicine. I need to get ready for work.” He throws the covers over my naked body as if the sight sickens him.
“Now what?” His voice is biting, impatient.
“I was just wondering…” I play with the sheet not wanting to look at him, fearing what I may see. “Was it, uh, good for you?”
He gathers his clothes as if the answer is in a blue shirt or khaki pants. He sits on a corner of the bed and smiles with cold eyes. “Sweetheart, you are so good that if I don’t get off your bed right now, I’ll definitely be late for work.”
“Brad?”
He turns from the doorway.
“You didn’t ask if it was good for me.”
“It was.”
“Well maybe I was faking it.”
“You weren’t.”
“Do you, uh, think some time maybe you can stop using the rubbers? It might be nice to have a baby b
efore Traci gets much older.”
He staggers, clinging to the doorframe for support. He croaks, “No way!” He has actually turned green at the thought of having another child with me.
I yank the bed sheet over my head. Dryer tissue is toxic. I could kill myself by simply breathing if enough of the perfumed tissues were tossed into the clothes dryer—Death by Fabric Softener. If I shredded some sheets of the tissues and sprinkled the bits in Brad’s cereal, would it soften his heart? Would it help if I grab him around the waist and agitate him so that the sprinkles of softener sheets bounce against his chest?
Having a baby with me seems to be agitator enough; Brad is vomiting upstairs in his bathroom. Ah, now his shower is running and he is scrubbing my fingertips off his skin. I cuss for bringing up the subject of another child so soon. Our changed relationship is as fragile as silence or as changeable as a Jekyll and Hyde.
By the time I shower and dress, Brad is wolfing down breakfast.
“I thought the smell of eggs makes you sick.”
He holds the fork in midair, his face flushing. “I’m starving. I had a shitty supper last night. Tasted like airplane food.”
I slam a bucket on the floor next to him. “In case you need to vomit again.”
Traci shuffles into the kitchen and stares dejectedly at Brad.
He smiles.
“You’re back, Daddy!” Traci throws her arms around his neck and kisses Brad on the cheek.
He laughs uncomfortably and drags her onto his lap, tickling her.
“See, Traci, your father was overworked yesterday so he was in a bad mood.”
“Well, I won’t be working late tonight,” he adds. “I’ll be busy with Traci’s horse.”
Later, Brad is as good as his word and the hammering coming from the basement is soothing.
Viola calls and Brad stands at the bottom of the basement stairs, shaking his head no.
“Well, sweet mother-in-law, I hate to tell you (not) that Brad refuses to speak with you.”
“You douche-bag liar,” she screams at me. “You are nothing but a worthless, bottom-feeding leech. You…”
“Blowfish! Eat my scum!” I slam the phone down.
Brad pokes his head up from the basement stairs. “Are you alright?”
“Your mother accuses me of turning you against her. Why aren’t you speaking to her?”
“She’s too suspicious,” he mumbles.
“About what?”
“About everything.”
He is the new-and-improved Brad, my Dr. Jekyll, but more secretive than ever.
All week long, we are a happily married husband and wife.
Every night a glass of wine gives me courage. “Coming to bed, Brad?” My voice is soft and promising and Brad stumbles after me, his pants swelling, and his tongue thick, his eyes glazed with passion.
In the mornings, he nibbles my chin, waking me to love making.
Another week, he is still going into work late. “I can’t get enough of you,” he whispers in a husky voice.
With each passing day, Brad’s voice sounds more tortured as if he is heading towards his doom.
Chapter 18
HUSBAND
I was sick of flying. I traveled to Philadelphia nine weeks ago and then a few weeks ago made a fast trip, just an overnighter to another city to meet up with my new best friend, the guy I met in Philly.
Texas pretty much had a flattop, a crew cut like a military recruit. There were no mountains to contain the wind. Even in slightly hilly Austin, wind howled through the broccoli-top trees. Yeah, it is so windy in Texas there are cows flying about. A mail carrier blew through the office.
Brandy barged into my office waving a package. She was looking to catch me with a female patient. Whenever an attractive woman sat in the waiting room, Brandy would look at her with a surly expression. She threw dirty fingers at the women when they were not looking. She was a married woman who was sexually frustrated because I denied her my office couch. Brandy was not part of the plan and there were already too many women in my life.
“Here’s a package for you, boss.” Brandy tossed her brown hair and her bangs fell across her eye like the old time sultry actress Veronica Lake.
“I see you’ve opened my mail again, Brandy.” I smiled grimly at her. It would be lovely to get rid of Brandy. She made me feel guilty, always watching my next move.
“It’s my job to be nosy for you, Doctor Boss.” She waved the package above her head. “A video from Canada, probably advertisement to buy Canadian drug samples for your patients. Shall I play it?”
I nodded my head no, but she shoved the DVD into the player any way and hit the play button.
What the bloody hell! Elvis Presley’s voice blared out from the player singing Hawaiian Wedding Song.
Beneath a sign that read: I Want to Marry Elvis Wedding Chapel, a groom, dressed as Elvis tap-danced down the aisle in a room filled with white flowers. He wore a replica of the infamous white, rhinestone-studded jumpsuit, minus the big belly. A pair of dark shades balanced on the bridge of his nose and a blue-black Elvis wig jiggled on his head. From the current timestamp, it was August so like 130 degrees in Vegas. I could have fried an egg on the sizzling sweat on his forehead.
Brandy and I leaned closer to the screen.
He stopped at an Elvis shrine with a picture of the king meant to watch over the wedding ceremony.
An hourglass bride skipped down the aisle in a white mini dress barely skimming her bottom. Steam puffed from beneath her skirt. Yeah, the devil lives in the heat of Vegas; everyone knows this after watching Hollywood films featuring the devil sunning at a casino pool.
A veil cascaded down the bride’s back, brushing her fake diamond-studded white satin heels. She skipped across a green-carpeted aisle, singing, “Going to the I Want to Marry Elvis Chapel, and gonna get married.”
I recognized the bride—Vanessa!
The groom stood with his hands clasped below his flat belly, thumbs hooked in his belt, classic Elvis pose. A white cape flared out from his broad shoulders. Fake rhinestone rings circled his fingers. He removed his sunglasses and the camera took a close-up of his face.
Ohmigosh, I am so fuuuuuucked!
Brandy’s eyes were like saucers. “The groom is you, Dr. O’Boyle and that’s not Mrs. O’Boyle you’re marrying. You committed bigamy and could go to prison. Should I start looking for a job?”
The video started playing again and I pounded my head with the remote. It was just like the klutzy bride to not wear her glasses and bump into the minister, an Elvis impersonator who moonlighted performing Elvis weddings. The minister was dressed in a copy of Elvis’ infamous black outfit. Black shirt. Leather jacket with collar up. Leather pants. Black leather hat cocked saucily on his head. He looked more like one of the Village People than Elvis the way he shook his tight buttocks in a feminine fashion. He even had the same perspiration marks on his crotch and underarms as Elvis.
The minister smiled to the side of his mouth like Elvis and drawled in his best Elvis voice, “Do you…”
I yanked the electrical cord from the outlet right before my bologna sandwich spewed forth from my stomach and onto my desk.
Brandy gaped at the pile of regurgitated baloney.
I ordered her to, “Leave! I will clean up this mess. Don’t breathe a word about the wedding to anyone.”
“Not even your wife?” she said, grinning.
“Shut up, Brandy, and close the door on your way out!”
She raised an eyebrow.
“Especially do not tell Ronni. Go! You can have the day off.”
The door closed behind her.
I clenched my fists longing to kill somebody! Someone was messing with me. I would need to rent a room to watch the rest of the video. I plugged the DVD player back in and hit the eject button with a shaky finger.
Frankly, I could give a crap that I was walking out on the patients. Screw this medical practice! As far as the vomit on the des
k, let it rot.
Chapter 19
HUSBAND
Cheap tricks called for a cheap motel where men with no homes and no teeth loitered in the parking lot. The dregs of society drank from paper bags, puffing on used cigarette butts. One bum was spraying his throat with hair spray. I bought a paper sack from one wino but turned down throat spray to drink.
I had to pay an upcharge for a DVD player since the rooms came with VCRs. The motel had videotapes to rent such as The Giant Claw starring a monster with a face like Big Bird attached to his arm. Some of the other doozies were I Bought a Vampire Motorcycle and Death Bed: The Bed That Eats. Mm, that title did have possibilities.
Bigamy demanded a quart of whiskey and painkiller samples. My pockets were stuffed with samples from the office stockroom which when mixed with cheap wine could be toxic.
The sun shone through the thin windows of the room I rented for an hour. The rays heated up the sand-colored carpet. The motel was stifling hot like all inexpensive to-go rooms, but the internet was free, unlike expensive hotels. Go figure.
The A/C of the heat pump was on full blast. Why did red-district motels hang curtains longer than the air-conditioner flow? The curtains were freezing but to watch the rest of the wedding I had to slouch in my undershorts because of the stifling heat.
Every academy award potential film deserved a scratching of sweat-soaked balls and munching on throat-sticking popcorn. The motel, like in The Bates Motel, advertised a bag of piping hot popcorn with every room renting for $22.99. Chopped-off shower curtains hung from nails above the windows, except where the A/C unit was.
I sipped purple wine from a plastic hotel cup, the kind normally reserved for piss during a urine drug test.
Yeah, I was a doctor who could afford a room at the Ritz, but a video starring a man who could go to prison for marrying two women without a divorce, deserved a nickel-vibrating bed. My head wobbled on my neck from the massaging mattress, wine drops joining urine stains, but not my urine stains. I already pissed myself in the office while watching the bride skip down the wedding aisle and hearing Brandy yell out the word BIGAMIST as I snuck out of the office.
The Elvis minister drummed on his big belly. “Do you, Elvis Presley, take this hot babe to be your wife?”
Dishonor Thy Wife Page 7