I yank my nightgown down to my toes and scramble to the corner of the bed, shivering, covering my head with my arms, and remembering Bubba’s phone call.
A voice thick with a Texan bullfrog accent barked, “Is this Mrs. O’Boyle?”
“Yes.”
“I’m looking for Brad.”
“He’s not here right now.”
“I’m gonna kill him for beating up on Barbie. That dumb ox almost killed my wife! I am gonna take a shotgun and blow off your husband’s head, Mrs. O’Boyle. His pecker, too. That lowlife fool…”
I hung up on Bubba Simpson.
Brad stands at the foot of my bed slack-jawed, his face the color of dead flesh. His shoulders slump and he lacks his normal confidence. “Don’t look so afraid of me.” He sits slowly on the bed and then stands when I squeak like a frightened rabbit. His eyes are wild looking.
“A dozen roses will not make everything alright this time!”
He licks his lips and croaks, “I am the man who loves you, Ronni.” Liar! The words were dragged from his throat.
I smack his hand away. “And I’m the woman who wants a divorce. You confuse love with sex. How dare you profess to love me, after staying out all night and doing whatever it is you did! You should be in jail! I can’t ever trust you again, Brad.”
His eyes plead for forgiveness but he says sarcastically, “Isn’t jail an exaggeration?”
The horrible names he called me. I cannot take him anymore. He ruined all of it. I was certain of my life before caring about him. Now, it hurt to look at him. “I want a divorce,” I repeat in a flat voice. “Get out of my room!”
He holds up his hands.
I flinch as if expecting a blow.
He shoves his fists in his pockets. Brad paces in front of the bed. “Come to dinner with me tomorrow night so we can talk. I promise I won’t touch you.”
“I don’t care to hear excuses. I am done with you for good, Brad. Bubba is gunning for you, and I hope he blows your dick off!”
“Well, then, you’ll miss a nice meal, won’t you? I have something to tell you that will clear up any confusion you may be feeling.”
I chew on my lip. “The restaurant will have to be in a very public place.”
“Fine, we’ll go to the Warehouse District. What’s your favorite restaurant?” he says as if this is a date.
“You don’t have to impress me, Brad,” I drawl, “I know you, remember?”
“You really don’t know me, Ronni, but I would like you to.”
“Oh, I know you, in every sense of the word, especially the Biblical. If you think you’re going to worm your way into my bed again after...”
“Sex is not what this is about.”
“Isn’t it?”
He shuffles to the door, and I almost laugh aloud at his rounded shoulders and back. I mostly cry.
He closes the door behind him.
I hop out of bed and snap the lock in place, snugly this time.
My doctor this morning prescribed anxiety medicine. The instructions on the container read: Take 2 a day if you believe your husband is a maniac who might hurt you.
I pop two pills in my mouth but still lay awake all night with my eyes wide open.
Chapter 24
WIFE
In the morning, Brad is gone. Maybe he left early for the office or snuck out of the house in the middle of the night on his way to Mexico to hide from Bubba. I suspect the worse yet brim with curiosity about our dinner plans for tonight. He was noncommittal on the subject of divorce. Knowing him, he will slick talk me and end up with everything in the divorce settlement.
Of course, Brad did not mention dinner until I brought up the subject of divorce. He begged and smiled like a buffoon.
I dress in my most conservative outfit, navy blue dress mid-calf, no jewelry except a watch. Earlier today, I signed my cell phone up for one of those tracking services. Riley is babysitting. I plan to call her about 8:10 and let her know I am on my way home.
“Do you have a reservation for Brad O’Boyle?” I ask the hostess at Truluck’s an upscale seafood restaurant.
She picks up two menus and motions me over to a table.
A glass of Pinot Noir settles my nerves.
After a second glass of wine, I order an appetizer of stone crab claws.
There are no messages on my cell phone pleading an emergency at the hospital.
I refuse a third glass of wine and order dinner.
My trout is deboned and sprinkled with nuts. The wine I drink must cause Brad’s face to appear as the head of the trout. I cut into the fish with a wicked looking knife.
I should have known he would not show. Brad blows hot, and then cold. I am such a fool.
I spit the fish out.
The waiter marches up to the table and coughs. “Is the Hot ‘n Crunchy Idaho Trout not to your liking,” he asks.
“Scrumptious but I’ve lost my appetite. May I borrow the yellow pages?”
The waiter lugs a phone book over to the table.
I flip through the yellow pages to the section on lawyers. There are hundreds of attorneys listed as divorce specialists, almost as many as those offering help to accident victims. My marriage is an accident. I should have sent Brad to prison for statutory rape instead of marrying him when I was a teenager.
I slam the phone book shut and blow my nose with a napkin. Tomorrow, I shall hunt for a divorce lawyer. Riley has divorced two husbands and she might recommend a badass divorce attorney.
The fishy smell and yucky, slimy skin of my dinner gives me a splitting headache. More wine might dull the pain but I will drink at home now that I am sober enough to drive.
I throw some bills on the table and march out of the restaurant.
I drive at a slower pace than usual.
What the…? Riley’s car is gone from the driveway.
Crap! Brad’s Mercedes is in the garage. His excuse for standing me up damn well better be good!
I scrape my car keys across his black Mercedes.
Traci is hiding behind a couch in the den, spying on her father.
I slam the door, but Brad does not hear me come in. He sits on a large pillowy chair in the den. He mutters to himself, staring at his hands with fascination, smiling as if pleased with himself.
His cold laughter makes me shudder.
Traci peeks her head out from behind the couch.
I tap a finger to my lips, motioning Traci to be quiet.
She crawls from behind the sofa and we both tiptoe up the stairs.
We stand at the top of the landing and look down.
Brad grins crazily, then grimaces and pales. He laughs and then smiles at his fists.
Traci whispers in my ear, “His smile is dark like my bedroom that time my nightlight burned out and I needed the bathroom so I peed on my blankets because monsters hide in shadows.”
Chills crawl up my spine. Brad’s eyes do look monstrous; his face reflecting fright, panic, and joy all intermixed with a wolfish grin.
Traci is racked with shudders. She hugs my neck tightly and her bottom lip trembles.
She runs to her father’s closet, scrambling through his clothing.
“Where are they,” she screeches in panic. “Ah.” She points to a grey and black plaid suit. “He’s left his clothes this time so daddy’s coming back.”
Some kids have such wild imaginations.
Traci runs to her room and hugs the white seal Brad gave her. The seal seems to comfort Traci and she stops acting weird. She rocks on her horse and watches a Cinderella video.
I walk slowly down the stairs, blowing the black paint from the car keys. “I waited for you, Brad.”
“Brad,” I yell at him.
“Huh?” He squints his eyes as if is trying to place a name to my face.
“The restaurant,” I remind him.
“I have no idea what you are talking about, woman.”
He does appear very confused. He is still preoccupied with
his hands, opening and closing his fists. He lifts his hands to his eyes, rotating his wrists as if searching for clues in the lines of his skin.
“I waited for you at the restaurant for dinner, remember?”
“Oh, I ate at the airport in San Francisco.”
He must have lost his mind. Maybe he is taking hard drugs and hallucinating. Brad was in Austin all day working at his office. I called his office to let him know I would be 20 minutes late to the restaurant but his receptionist said he left for the day. I was doubly shocked to arrive at the restaurant and discover he was not waiting for me. San Francisco? Not likely, not when he is sitting here in the den.
What an idiotic excuse to make for standing me up. I would demand a divorce immediately but the words stick to my throat. Brad has that crazy look in his eyes again. He is not right in the head. Tonight, in the privacy of my bedroom, I shall lay out my plans for leaving him. I will not be able to sleep otherwise.
Great, my brain is pounding. I need an entire bottle of aspirin or Xanax.
I pour a glass of water for my dry throat.
What the…A strange travel carry-on bag is on the kitchen counter with a leather luggage tag wrapped around the handle. The words Air Canada are embedded on the bag, and the name Dr. Jayden Tremblay is written on the luggage tag along with a Victoria, British Columbia address.
Chills crawl up my spine as I look around the room, searching for any visitors. I cock my ear to the stairs but hear only Traci’s television.
I yank the zipper open and peek inside the dark bag. The spotlight above the kitchen sink highlights a bloody kitchen knife in the bag. The knife-edge is jagged with dried blood rippling across the blade. This is a butcher’s knife used for butchering and not one of my tamer kitchen knives.
What the heck is going on?
“Ronni,” Brad calls from the den.
“Yes?”
“Leave the knife alone if you know what’s good for you.”
I zip up the bag with shaky fingers. Goosebumps erupt on my body and I rub my arms, licking my dry lips, my eyes glued to the bag. “Where did you get the knife, Brad?” What I really want to know but am afraid to ask is whose blood is on the knife. Who is Jayden Tremblay?
“Oh, I cut up some meat for supper,” Brad explains. “Bloodier than I thought.”
Brad claims he ate at the San Francisco airport where of course he had not been, nor is the knife the sort normally given to customers at restaurants unless you order an entire cow. I discount the silly idea that Brad traveled to San Francisco today or to Victoria, British Columbia even given the leather travel bag. Besides, some other man’s name is on the luggage tag. Perhaps Brad grabbed the bag by mistake. But…but he knows there is a bloody knife in the bag.
Don’t ask him.
Don’t believe him.
Brad has always been a pathological liar.
I feel like screaming at him. Liar! Liar! Liar! Tell the truth for once! The words stick in my throat, causing a coughing fit. I need to drink more water but the bag with the bloody knife is near the sink.
“Bring me my bag,” Brad orders. His voice is cold and calculating.
Brad stands on the middle of the stairs, towering like a black hawk. His eyes are cloudy and bloodshot as if he has not slept in awhile.
I assure him in a trembling voice that, “I didn’t touch a thing, Brad. I wouldn’t touch anything belonging to you.”
His expression is icy.
Pretend you did not notice the nametag is not his.
The secretive Brad has never liked anyone asking about his business, especially his wife.
I drop the bag at his feet. My face is an expressionless aloof look, which tells Brad I could care less about what he does, what is in the bag, where he ate supper, what he ate for dinner, or who he ate for supper or lunch or breakfast.
Nor do I dare ask why he limps or why there is a cut on his finger.
He grabs the bag and nods his head. “Good girl. Smart girl.”
He limps up the stairs.
My skin is freezing where his hand brushed against me when he took the bag. How can a man who heated my body in bed now turn my veins ice cold? Where is the warm man of last night, the Brad who asked me out to a romantic dinner for two?
Right! The man never showed, leaving me to eat alone at the restaurant, crying into my lobster bisque like a fool. Brad’s sickness is getting worse. Whatever is wrong with his head is affecting his memory. Perhaps he has brain cancer. A tumor can cause insanity, a growth of sheer madness.
I should pack a suitcase, take Traci, and leave this house.
I am being silly. Where will I go this time of night?
I knock on Traci’s bedroom door. “Traci?”
“I’m in bed, Mommy.”
“Aren’t you going to say good night, sweetie? You know you aren’t supposed to lock your door.”
The door opens and Traci stands stone-faced.
“Feeling alright, kiddo?” I brush her hair from her eyes.
“Be careful, Mommy,” she whispers.
What an odd thing for Traci to say. “I will,” I reassure her because Traci appears so serious.
I tuck her into bed and tiptoe across the hall, holding my breath. Brad’s door is closed and he is laughing at who knows what, perhaps the bloody knife.
Snap! Traci locks her bedroom door and so do I.
***
In the middle of the night, a disturbance wakes me. I fling my arms into my robe and hurry down the hallway on bare feet, thinking that Traci is having a nightmare.
I sigh with relief because the commotion is not coming from Traci’s room.
I crack Brad’s door.
He is thrashing about his bed. He yells out in his sleep incoherent phrases. Occasionally bits and pieces are understandable but not enough words to string together to make any sense.
He hollers, “No. No.”
Brad acts as if the bogeyman is running after him.
Brad yells out in his sleep, “I will kill you, cunt!”
Then again...sometimes a man is not in a good mood if you awaken him, nightmare or not.
I tiptoe back to my room.
I’ll kill you, cunt!
He has a bloody knife in a bag.
Be careful, Mommy.
I lock the bedroom door and swallow another Xanax. I take two puffs of my asthma inhaler.
I clasp my neck and swallow. My imagination is working overtime, thinking Brad nearly killed Barbie. Sure, I hate the woman, but she appeared pathetic lying in her hospital bed shriveled up in bandages. Yes, I visited my rival at the hospital. She was so out of it; Barbie did not notice the flowers I carried were hand-me-downs from Brad shoved into a glass milk bottle. Poor Barbie, her nose is broken and both eyes are black and blue in her swollen face. She is missing her front teeth and has a bit of a Jack-O-Lantern look. Her jaw is cracked. She will need a skillful plastic surgeon.
Bubba has not pressed charges against Brad, even for assault and battery. Perhaps my husband ended their affair and Barbie is getting revenge by lying. Maybe Bubba beat her up. While she dozed, I snooped for a get-well card from my husband and there was none.
A bodyguard stood outside her hospital room. Barbie claims Brad threatened to murder her.
I set the television to mute but there is no news about a murder in Austin.
Brad is pacing restlessly in his room. Every once in awhile he curses and pounds the wall. Then, he breaks out in a Rolling Stones song, Saint of Me.
Maybe Brad has found religion. I certainly hope so.
Chapter 25
HUSBAND
Someone was definitely out to get me. Just like the other video of the Vegas wedding, the man in this video was a spitting image of me.
He bends over a dead woman. She is battered, her throat freshly cut.
He caresses her blouse and kisses her cold lips.
The man clutches a knife in his hands, his fingers dripping blood.
The man then
lunges at the camera, grinning, sending a message.
I yanked my neck back from the screen.
I hit the pause button and moved my head closer, examining the woman, my unwanted wife, now dead wife. I screamed, “What did you do, dumb ass?”
The killer is in my kitchen splashing his shoes in a pool of blood, stabbing the dead woman repeatedly.
He holds the camera, walking backwards, filming his bloody footprints.
He then takes a selfie, flipping himself off, his eyes filled with self-hatred.
From the contortions on his face, anyone can tell that the man is insane.
I rewound the DVD, stopping at the murdered woman. I balled like a baby.
Oh, God, what had I done?
“You killed your wife, dumb ass!” I yelled at the video.
I ran to the bathroom and vomited the entire contents of my stomach. I groaned, hugging the toilet.
What had I done?
What had I done?
I wished to God I never went to Philadelphia or met my new best friend.
Oh, the web we weave when first we practice to deceive.
Who made up that creepy saying? Little Miss Muffet?
Along came a spider that sat down beside her and…sliced her throat.
Yeah, a Spidey web was spun in Philly. I was a great Spiderman fan. I even owned the costume.
I was the sort of man who liked disguises.
(In fact, let me show you right now.)
I yanked a Spiderman mask from a drawer and placed it over my head.
(There. Now you can’t see my tears.)
August 27, 2015
I AM A MAGICIAN, AN ESCAPE ARTIST, BUT NOT A KILLER OF WOMEN EVEN WHEN THE WEAKER SEX DESERVES MURDER.
I am a deceiver, not a liar. Yeah, there is a difference.
To be fair, I never said that I was Brad O’Boyle. I answered to his name. I wore his clothes, even his underwear. There is no feeling like knowing a man as when your balls hang in his Comfyballs underwear. I healed his patients. I slept in Brad’s bed. I slept with Ronni, his wife. However, at no time or in any situation, sticky or no, did I ever claim to be Brad. No one ever asked me even once, “So, are you really Brad O’Boyle?”
Dishonor Thy Wife Page 9