Trouble Won't Wait

by Autumn Piper

  I know why he’s in such a rush; it looks like his shorts are fuller now than when I came in. When I look back at him from my vehicle, his body is hidden behind the door, only his head peeking around it, and he winks.

  * * * *

  The kids get home right after me, and I make a lunch date with my big brother for next week. While Rachel is off playing in her room, Ben approaches me in the kitchen, where I’m baking cookies to give as gifts.

  “Mom?” he asks timidly.

  “Yeah, Bean?” He likes me, and only me, to call him that. The nickname came from when he was a toddler and I called him Jumping Bean.

  “What did Dad do wrong?”

  I drop the bottle of vanilla extract. Luckily, it’s not open. “What do you mean?” I force my voice to stay light.

  “He’s been trying to make up with you since Thanksgiving and I know you’re still mad because he’s still buying you presents.” Ben looks disdainfully at the newest roses. Dr. Phil says kids always blame themselves when their parents fight, so I’d better clear this obstacle right away.

  “Sometimes grown-ups fight about things that don’t have anything to do with kids, honey. I don’t want you to worry about it.”

  “I’m not really a kid, Mom. I’m almost a teenager, in only nine more months.”

  I crack a smile at his age-stretching. “Your dad and I both love you, honey, and Rachel, too. This is something we have to work through on our own. Something, um, private.”

  “Mom, just tell me. Did Dad have sex with another lady?”

  This time I drop the measuring cup full of brown sugar. “Goddammit,” I swear quietly. While I scoop up the mess, I’m trying to think how to answer. Ben is so perceptive, especially with me. We’ve always been close. I remember feeling lonely after he was born, missing my physical connection with him. Rachel and I are close too, but it’s not quite the same. I’ve never known if it’s because she’s the second child, or a girl, or if it’s a personality thing.

  “He did!” Ben breathes, crestfallen.

  I’ve taken too long to reply, an answer in itself. If I had denied it immediately, I might have gotten away with it. Damn.

  “It was Lana, wasn’t it?”

  This time I’m not holding anything to drop, so I simply stare wordlessly out the kitchen window, my hands braced on the counter.

  Ben tells me, “She’s always putting her hands all over him, and whenever there aren’t any other grown-ups around, he puts his hands on her, too.”

  Disgusting. They’re stupid enough to behave that way in front of a twelve-year-old? I long to pluck those images from my son’s mind and selectively erase those parts of his memory.

  “It’s called flirting, Benny,” I say, hoping to reassure him. “Most adults do it. Lana does it with all men.”

  “I’ve never seen you flirting. And I don’t like them touching each other.”

  I don’t either, baby. And from the way Ben is talking, they’ve been carrying on for a while. Tears start running from my eyes, and no matter what I think of, I can’t make them stop. “Honey, please, this is for grown-ups. Just remember your dad loves you. And he loves me. We’re working this out the best we can, okay?”

  “You should divorce him.”

  “Ben!”

  “We’ll be all right, Mom. I’ll take care of you, okay? And you can take care of me and Rach just fine. I’m behind you a hundred percent.”

  “Ben.” I gather him against me and cry, rocking sideways. His head is resting innocently against my chest, and I know he feels safe there for now. Not much longer ’til he’s as tall as me, and I can’t protect him anymore. That hurts and frightens me. He already knows so much more than he should.

  “You can have my room if you want, Mom. I’ll sleep downstairs now.”

  “That’s okay, baby. You keep your room. Does Rachel know about all this?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Let’s try not to let her know, okay? If you need to talk to somebody–”

  “I know, Mom. But I can talk to Brian. His parents are getting The Big D too.” He pats my cheek lovingly, then saunters down to the den and his Playstation, so grown-up.

  * * * *

  I clutch blankets to my chin in the bed downstairs. Mike is coming my way. I snuck down here while he was in the shower. He came home from hunting in the happiest mood, whistling and joking with us all. Ben cast him dirty looks, but Mike didn’t even notice. He kept whispering what he planned to do with me later in bed. Clearly, he thinks the polluted cloud of his Indiscretion has blown past.

  Mike walks in and flips on the light. He’s standing very straight and looking stern. Once he figured out where I’d gone, the whistling stopped, and his footsteps sounded serious, descending the stairs.

  “You’re coming to bed with me.” It’s Foreman Mike speaking, or Mike the Dad, using the tone and pronunciation he uses on the kids when they’ve misbehaved repeatedly and he’s had enough. Uh-oh.

  I try to scowl back as insubordinately as possible, and shake my head. I’m worried, but I need to focus on angry. Angry works well with this.

  “Mandy, goddammit, you’re coming with me. If you don’t, I swear to God I’ll put you over my shoulder and haul you up there. You better come quietly, or the kids will hear.”

  Is it to my advantage or not to tell him Ben already knows? I can’t think clearly right now.

  There’s no time anyway. He’s coming at me.

  Recalcitrant, I comply and follow him upstairs. I’ve managed to control this situation so far. I’ll think of something again.

  In our room, he closes and locks the door like we always do when we’re making love, so the kids don’t hurt their eyes by walking in and catching us in the act. He should have been as careful when he was with Lana. Angry, angry, gotta get angry.

  He’s built a fire. I know what comes next. When he pulls me to him, I struggle to get away.

  “Mike, I’m not doing this. Let me go!” I’m hissing, since I don’t want our kids, right across the hall, to hear.

  “Mandy, please. This is getting old.” He’s impatient, as if he’s been as tolerant as he’s going to, but then his tone softens, like his words. “I want you so much. And you want me. Please, baby. Let me make you forget.”

  I’m still struggling, and he’s still restraining.

  He hums a few bars of the song I’ve grown to detest. Hearing Mandy makes my hairs stand on end now, like the howl of a wolf does from inside a flimsy tent. “Come on, remember last night?”

  “Last night was a mistake. I was drunk, Michael. You took advantage of that. Let me go!”

  “You told me you love me.” He sounds so stricken that I pause in my struggling.

  “I do. I did. Do. Dammit, do you think I could just turn that off, fourteen years of loving you, like there’s a switch or something? I do love you, Michael, but it doesn’t change what you did. And even if we’d had sex last night–”

  “Made love,” he corrects.

  “Whatever. Even if we had, I would’ve regretted it today. And I’d still hate you for what you did.” I’m angry enough, it’s time to say exactly what he did, call it what it is. “For cheating. I hate you for cheating.”

  “How can you throw away what we have together?” Ah, so he’s resentful now.

  “I didn’t throw it away, you did. You walked all over it, and tossed it into oncoming traffic–”

  “Okay, I get it. It’s all my fault. Let me make it up to you.” The shitty insincere tone is back. He’s only saying what he has to, trying to work me like he does those difficult clients.

  I’m thrashing in his arms again, crying now. “Let me go, Michael. Let me go. You tossed me aside, now please let me go.” Please is a bad sign. It means he’s the one with the power, which is not good.

  He lets me go long enough to shrug out of his robe, then he pursues me to the edge of the bed, where I sit quivering, grappling for an escape plan.

  He starts to fiddle wit
h the hair around my ear, and I make a break for the door.

  “Mandy.” He easily grabs me going past him, and pulls me back onto his lap. His nude lap. “I’m going to make love to you, and we’re going to get over this. Do you hear me?” He’s using the boss voice again, and I am truly afraid.

  “You can’t make me love you again. I can’t forget it, Michael. I’m not having sex with you. Stop. Stop!”

  He’s pulling my shirt over my head, while I fight to keep it on. A silent struggle follows, concluded by the harsh noise of fabric rending as he rips the shirt from armpit to waist, then pushes it back, exposing my breasts. When he starts nuzzling them, I slap his face. This rankles him, and he pushes me to the bed, where I lie on my side, curled, trying to hide my chest from his eyes.

  This is my husband, I keep thinking. How can I need to hide myself from my husband?

  “No! I said no! Stop.” I tell him over and over.

  Don’t they always ask that? “Did you say no?” Yes, I did. But that’s for rape cases. I’m not going to be raped, because this is my husband. I’m not a person who gets raped. I won’t let myself think I am, even afterward. I’ll tell myself I wasn’t in the mood tonight, that I was “just lying there.”

  A cold sweat breaks along my neck and under my arms. He’s yanked my pants off now, and I’m curling back up tight. I need a shell like my nephew’s hermit crabs.

  Hot, slimy lips trail kisses all over me. He rubs my back, trying to massage me into consenting. If I bury my face, it’s not happening to me. I know I’m sobbing, probably too loud, and I try to be quieter. Nothing has ever been as horrible as this moment. Mike pries me open somehow, and forces me onto my back. This is it. Here it comes.

  “Jesus, you’re skinny! Look at your hip bones.” It’s true, I am almost skinny now. The last two weeks, I’ve dropped a lot of weight. I haven’t felt like eating, except for those days I was with Adam. Now I know why divorced women get so much thinner. It’s not only because they have the time to take care of themselves. With something as big as your marriage dying inside you, part of you simply wastes away, no longer requiring nourishment. I think the last eight pounds I’ve lost were my marriage.

  Mike’s taking the time to trace his fingers over each of my hipbones, causing me shudders of fear and revulsion. I hate him so much right now. I’m hyper-conscious of all the places he’s kissed me since he undressed me. I can point them out as easily as if each spot had been marked with one of those Bingo dobbing markers. Will I always feel them?

  Hatred flares again, and suddenly I’m willing to scream if I must, to stop him from touching me again.

  Mike sits down on the bed next to me, and quietly says, “You’re…different.” It’s as if he’s been out of town the last six months and just got home.

  Yes, Mikey, I’ve changed. On more than the outside. And you just changed me more. Almost.

  Mike seems like he had a personality switch. Like a guy in a made-for-TV movie back when multiple personalities were a hot story, he’s realizing what was happening. About to happen. It didn’t happen.

  I wouldn’t have stood for it, right? Would I have screamed and woke my kids before I allowed him to, well, before he did that to me? How far would I go to protect my kids? How far would Mike go to have me?

  “Baby, I’m sorry.” He covers my exposed body with his robe, rubs his eyes in frustration, or fear. Should be shame. “I thought of you all day, and I was so happy. I thought it was over, this trouble. I thought you wanted me again, and I couldn’t wait to come home and be with you.” His voice breaks. Must be pretty shaken up. “I went crazy when you didn’t want me. I’m so, so, sorry. God, who the hell am I lately?”

  He disappears in his closet, and returns with sweatpants on, crying harder than he did when his dad had a heart attack. These aren’t tears of sorrow. They’re tears of guilt, and maybe doubt.

  And I hope they hurt him, very much.

  I glare at him and wish he could see the magnitude of my hatred. “Michael.” My voice is low but strong now. “I swear to God if you try anything like that again, I’ll scream so loud that the kids won’t need to call 911. The cops will hear me downtown. Do I make myself clear?”

  He holds his screwed-up head in his hands as he leans against the wall, but the head moves enough to satisfy me he’s answering affirmatively.

  When I’ve bundled up in yoga pants and a sweatshirt, shivering, I shove the robe at his hands on my way to the door.

  “Do you think I would have done it?” he asks faintly, his voice so weak I strain to hear.

  Who knows?

  * * * *

  I’m back in my downstairs bed, afflicted by full-body shivers and chattering teeth. After locking both the door at the bottom of the stairs and the door to this bedroom, I clutch my cellphone. It seems absurd to take these measures in my own home. Maybe I’ve over-dramatized what almost happened up there. All I know is, Mike is having some wild mood swings. Maybe the concept of the end of our marriage is sinking in, and he’s fighting it.

  I make myself think of the kitten, Rascal, a happy thought to calm my whacked-out nerves, and dial Adam. He answers, worry evident in his greeting.

  “Hey.” My voice is reasonably calm now, and at least my jaws aren’t shaking anymore. “How’s Rascal?” That’s a good reason to be calling at, say, eleven PM, right?

  “He’s asleep. Little shit has my ankles all scratched up. What’s wrong?”

  “Just missing you.” It’s true, I am missing him.

  “Mandy, something happened. You wouldn’t call like this.” I know he’s imagining I’ve called to confess I’m taking Mike back. He’s worried. I won’t get by with brushing him off this time.

  As if it’s the most obvious thing and he should know, I retort, “I’m ending a marriage, and trying like hell not to let anybody else know it. It’s a small strain, okay?”

  He apologizes, so now I feel guilty but relieved that I pulled off the snow-job. “What are you doing?”

  “Reading.”

  I groan. “Not my book again?”

  He snickers, so I know he is.

  “Aren’t you done yet? It’s not that long.”

  “It’s the second one.” Geez, now he’s got them both? I’d like to know what he thinks of them, but he’s not offering and I’m not asking. Do the love scenes turn him on the way they do women? Men usually like pictures more than words.

  I’m struck by an idea.

  “Are you in bed?” My voice is husky; I’m going for sexy.

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “Me too. I’m wearing a red lacy nightgown with a matching thong.”

  He snorts uneasily. “What are you tryin’ to do? Get me all excited?”

  “Yeah, like you were today when I left. I liked that a lot.”

  He sucks in his breath.

  “Being so close to you made me hot, Adam, real hot.” I let him think of that for a minute, and I can hear him shift around in his bed. “Are you excited?”

  He answers with a very small “Yeah.”

  “Mmm, good. I’m pulling up the nightie for you, so you can see the panties.” I can hear him moving more, regularly, and I have a good idea what he’s doing. This is working, and I like it. After what happened upstairs, controlling this feels mighty good. “I’m gonna slide the panties off, because I want you so much, okay?” I can’t believe I’m doing this.

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “Look at me, Adam. Touch me. Do you want me as much as I want you?”

  “Mmm.”

  “You’re slipping two fingers in, and I’m so wet for you. I’m ready, Adam, so ready.” My breath catches as I say it, as I imagine. His breathing is getting faster, deeper. It almost sounds painful. “Slide into me, Adam. I’m hot and slick, you know I am. Slide in, all the way in.”

  He moans, and I wish like hell I was there, taking part in it. I want to see his face. My eyes close as I imagine.

  When his breathing gets back to normal, he speaks
. “Oh God.” He sounds sheepish as he says, “That’s a lot better with your voice.”

  It makes me laugh, a little. “Adam?”

  “Hmm?” I love you. I want so bad to say it.

  “I…” Better not. “Will you do something for me?”

  “Anything.” God, does he mean that?

  “Stay on the phone with me ’til I go to sleep? I don’t wanta be alone.”

  “Sure.”

  Chapter 8

  It’s Monday. The kids have only this week of school left until they’re out for the holidays. It’s been snowing up a storm–no pun intended!–all night long. I make Ben take the bus down the hill to school this morning, partly because I feel like it’s safer, but also because I hate driving on slick roads.

  After walking to the school, I spend my morning doing volunteer stuff , leaving a big plate of cookies in the teachers’ lounge, with a joking note of apology to the low-carbers.

  When I walk back to the house, it’s time to shovel the walks again. The city allows twenty-four hours after snow falls before it issues tickets to homeowners who haven’t shoveled, but I try to keep up on it as a few inches accumulate.

  Everyone is talking about whether we’ll have a white Christmas. Even though it’s Colorado, this is not a given in Rifle. The ground could be bare, or we could have a foot of snow. The way it’s dumping now, it’s looking like snow will be around for a couple weeks.

  The shoveling leaves me exhilarated and prickly-hot under my stocking cap.

  Inside the house, I’m feeling excited about Christmas. I have much more shopping to do, but I sure won’t be driving around to do it today. Instead, I spend some time wrapping previously purchased gifts and sticking them under the tree.

  * * * *

  I’m thinking of Adam. When am I not? I want to get him something really special, but nothing is coming to me. Speaking of Adam, it’s time for my walk. I won’t do the loop today. With the snow coming down this fast, it won’t be plowed properly and I have no desire to be mowed over by a four-wheel-drive pickup sliding out of control on packed snow. Nope. I’ll walk the neighborhoods, where the sidewalks are scooped. It’s hard work walking in my heavy Columbia boots anyway.