by K T Morrison
“Yep. Said they went out, headed to some party or something, Libby’d been drinking all day, she followed him into the bathroom, before he knew it she was sliding down his body. Didn’t think that was the way it would play out...”
“There’s no way.” He raked fingers through his hair.
“You don’t believe me?”
“No, I believe you,” he said. “I just can’t believe that she did that. Not my Libby...”
“It’s always the quiet ones. Finn says they’re going to fuck tonight, for sure.”
“Oh, my God.” He rocked forward and backward.
“So how’s your guilt?”
His stomach felt upside down. He rolled to his back on the couch and drew up his knees, hugged his shins. He closed out the light by squinting his eyes, gritted his teeth.
“Your guilt, Ben. Does that make it better?”
“I guess,” he shouted.
“You’ll get used to the fact that she did it.”
“I’ll never get used to it, Chelsea.” His tone was more spiteful than he’d intended.
“Yeah, you will. Because this is just the start.”
“What do you mean?”
“Sky’s the limit now,” she said, looking up to the family room ceiling like she could see the stars.
Now he sat up again. “No, it’s not. Finn thinks she’s gonna do more?...”
“Can you believe she did what she did?”
He shook his head, pulled at his collar. “No.”
Chelsea shrugged. “I guess that’s because she didn’t do that.”
He slouched, stared at this stupid bitch that he bothered trusting in the first place, this manipulating cunt who’d ruined his life. “She didn’t?”
“Nah. I just got in, I haven’t talked to Finn. He texted me this morning, said they went to their separate bedrooms.”
He groaned, rolled back to collapse on the couch with his arms out spreadeagled. Warm relief flooded through him. He exhaled and chuckled. But cold settled quickly, the heat dissipating, an icy lividity sinking him further into the couch. He wasn’t free then. The guilt had been gone.
He sat up now, said, “You’re such a fucking bitch.”
Chelsea said, “Have a drink,” and she nudged the whiskey toward him with the toe of her expensive cowboy boot.
He grabbed the neck, spun off the cap, took a tentative swig. He hid his grimace in the crook of an elbow, exhaled inhaled, swallowed. He roared, thunked the bottle down on the table. Chelsea was watching him. He rubbed his hands together, staring at the bottle, he told her the awful truth: “The guilt was gone.”
Glee upturned her face. “It worked?”
“It did.”
“Told you so.”
“You lied.”
“I did you a favor. I helped you. Now you know. Now you know you can handle it.”
“I can’t handle it, that’s not true. The guilt went away, but... Now that Lib has her purity back, I want to preserve it.”
“What you did’s going to burn in you like an ulcer, Ben. You tell the truth some time and she’s still pure Libby, then you’ll lose her. I’m telling you, you think this is a magic trick, but there’s a good chance it’ll be what saves your marriage.”
“It’s so fucking crazy,” he muttered.
“You want to save your marriage, don’t you?”
“More than anything,” he said.
“So I just gave you a gift, Ben. Take this in little increments. At least you know a certain truth now.”
He chewed his lip and stared at the floor, taking slow and deep breaths. The guilt had been gone...
“How you gonna repay me,” Chelsea said, rising, snatching up the whiskey bottle by the neck and tossing herself to land right next to him—hoisting him up for a moment on the pillow of the couch. She settled against his arm, staring close at the side of his face. She took a long and steady drink, watching him the whole time. She swallowed without making a face then rested the square bottom of the bottle between her skinny thighs. She said, “Finn said it was close last night, but it wasn’t a sure thing. He let your little fishy off the hook but he said she can’t resist the bait tomorrow. And that’s today, my friend. Right now.”
His head slowly oscillated to face her. An eager smile was kept in check, her pretty mouth tightened into a trembling W shape as she tried not to burst out in merriment. “So we gonna fuck now?” she said finally then laughed.
He snatched the bottle from her, raised it to his lips, said, “Is that all you—”
“Hello, hello, hello...” Loud friendly shouts from their front step coming through the screen door. Shoes were stomping, he could picture the voice’s propellant standing with hands in a light spring jacket, bouncing on his toes, the remaining side swatches of hair brushed carefully behind his ears, the rosy glow of his professor glasses. Libby’s dad…
19
When Ben jumped out of the couch, Chelsea grabbed the front of his shirt in a tight grip and pulled him to stay.
He was frantic, shouting, “Hey!”
Chelsea asked him, “You know what’s funny?”
“Jesus, Chelsea,” he said, prying her hand off him. “That’s Libby’s dad at the door.”
“Ben, you know what’s funny?”
He pivoted out of the couch, one foot on the floor, one knee on the seat. “What?”
“Libby’s never given a blow job in her entire life, you think that’s her go-to move when she wants to impress my husband? Timid little mouse wouldn’t try that...”
“Fuck sake, Chelsea,” he said, grabbing at his crotch where his penis had plumped out his underwear uncomfortably.
He stepped away, backing toward the kitchen, Chelsea watching him the whole time. She said, “She’ll go to her back, Ben. Mark my words, first time she lets him fuck her, she’s right on her back with her legs open…”
“What is wrong with you?” he whispered, tugging a comfortable tent in the front of his shorts and heading to the front door. Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit...
His pace to the door quickened, and he could already see Rich peeping in the screen and testing the aluminum door’s lock. “Hey, hey there, Rich,” he said happily, and now could see Bev was right behind him.
“Nice night, don’t you think?” Rich said, looking out at the street and the low fading light that made the trees thrown in orange.
“What are you guys doing here?”
Bev said, “We’re going out to see a movie, but Rich is taking me to dinner first...”
“Boy,” he laughed, “you guys are really touring the town these days.”
“It’s summer, we’ve been cooped up for half a year.”
Shit, why didn’t he just keep the door closed? If it had been closed, he could’ve pretended he wasn’t home.
But your truck’s in the driveway, Ben… Aren’t you supposed to be in Niagara arranging a phantom sailor?
“Shoot,” he said, “guys, where’re my manners,” pushed open the door for them to allow entry.
Libby’s mom and dad slipped into the foyer, Libby’s mom wiping her shoes on the doormat. Libby’s dad’s eyes were fixed over Ben’s shoulder, and Ben whipped his head around to see Chelsea there grinning, leaning against the kitchen archway.
“Oh, ha, hey, guys, you know Chelsea.”
“Chelsea... right,” Libby’s dad said, wagging his finger toward Chelsea, eyes turned up in mnemonic activity. “Chelsea…”
“Chelsea Cunningham,” Ben said. “Friend of Libby’s...”
Bev said, “Oh, you guys have visitors.”
Ben stumbled, gave an uncomfortable chuckle, said, “Uh, no… This might look weird… It’s just me and Chelsea here, you remember Chelsea, from the old neighborhood...?”
Bev said, “In Aurora?”
“Yeah, she was friends with Libby, we were all friends back in public school. She’s the one—”
Rich snapped his fingers, then one finger settled on Chelsea like he
was a short-haired Pointer. “The one from the movies.”
“That’s me,” Chelsea said and waved a palm at them.
“I remember.”
It dawned on Bev, who brightened. “Oh, the one who did the pageants...”
“I hated those,” Chelsea confided.
Ben said, “Yeah,” gave another nervous chuckle, “it’s just me and Chelsea here, but you know what’s weird?...”
Rich said, “What’s that?”
“Libby’s not here because she’s out with Chelsea’s husband.”
Bev was puzzled, said, “Out with Chelsea’s husband?”
“Yeah, Libby went up to Barrie to see Dorchester.”
“Oh, the band, the music guys? She loves Dorchester. She didn’t tell me...” Then to herself, wonderingly: “Libby tells me everything...”
“Chelsea’s husband works as a sound engineer and he got her into the Ragna-rock Festival up in Barrie. She loves Dorchester, she went yesterday after work. I couldn’t go because I had to run down to Niagara today, but I just got back—Chelsea came over because we’re going to go sit out back on the patio and FaceTime them.”
“On the computer?”
“That’s right,” he said. “I don’t know when they’re going to call, but we were just going to sit out back and wait.”
Rich was off boring Dorchester, saying, “You were in Niagara today?...”
Oh, shit—was he spotted somewhere else? His mouth hung open as his brain raced to form an excuse.
Rich said, “This about that boat?”
“Uh-huh,” he said. “Need a sailor for it.”
“It’s a done deal?”
“You know how it is,” Ben said to Rich, “but not a done-done deal till the boat’s in the harbor.”
“And the money’s in the bank,” Rich said and winked.
“I got half up front, but these guys...”
“They got deep pockets?”
“They got deep pockets,” he agreed, two men talking about business.
Bev asked Chelsea: “So, what are you doing now?”
Doing? Ben’s stomach did a funny bounce picturing Chelsea saying I’m doing Ben if you two old farts would get outta here, I was going to do him up in the bedroom where he sleeps with Libby…
But she said, “Still acting.”
“In movies?”
“If they’ll have me. But no, I do I do a play at the Vanguard.”
“Like a play play? Theater?”
“Sure thing. You guys ever want tickets—you go to shows?”
Bev said, “Is it something we know?” Then added: “Not that we wouldn’t go if it wasn’t...”
Chelsea laughed. “It’s an original play. But I think you might like it. Just ask Libby if you want to go, and I’ll get tickets to her for you.”
Ben saw his chance. “What’s the show tonight you’re seeing?”... As in Don’t you think you should be getting the hell out of here?
20
After Rich and Bev had been appeased, then ushered to their vehicle, Ben shut both doors and locked them. Slumped against the door, one hand gripped the doorknob tightly to support his weight. As the Sander’s bug’s headlights came on and the ignition was fired, he gave them a friendly wave goodbye through the door’s window.
“Smooth, Ben,” Chelsea said, “they didn’t suspect a thing...”
“Do you think they did?”
Chelsea said, “We’re not doing anything.”
“We’re not doing anything,” he said. “But you’re here, and... Libby’s away...”
Chelsea shrugged. “Away with my husband.”
“Yeah, with your husband,” he agreed, the reminder squeezing at his guts.
“So don’t sweat it.”
Ben’s forehead rested on the doorframe. “This is just getting worse and worse.”
“Let’s go wait for the call, Benjamin. Just like you were telling them.” She held out a hand for him to take.
“That’s what we were going to do.”
Chelsea took his tentative hand. “I can’t believe they haven’t called already,” she said, guiding him back to the family room, around to the couch again, and taking her spot where she’d started.
He sat, hung his head and ran his fingers through his hair, scratched at his scalp. “Ah, fuck, shit...”
“What now?”
“I have to tell Libby I’m not in Niagara.”
“Why?”
“Because her parents were here, Chelsea.” He gestured at her like it was obvious. “What do you think? They don’t talk?”
She shrugged. “I don’t talk to my parents.”
“Libby talks to her parents, believe me. They will definitely have some questions for her…”
“It’s fine.”
“Everything’s fine with you.”
Chelsea rolled her eyes, looked around the room a moment. “So, just like you told them. You got home early. And I was never here.”
He laughed. “They saw you Chelsea.”
“Oh, yeah,” she laughed, “okay, I’m here. What’s the big deal?”
“I shouldn’t be with you.”
“Lib’s with Finn...”
“I’m with you alone in our house.”
“She’ll be alone with Finn at the hotel, with adjoining rooms. Just one doorknob away from fucking...”
“Wow, that’s a great defense, Chelsea,” he said, sitting hunched, both hands spread on his face, “I’ll let Rich and Bev know so they’ll get a clear picture of how pure and clean their daughter’s marriage is. That’ll make things so much better, I guess, because it’s what—equal?”
With obvious difficulty, Chelsea refrained from laughing and kept a smile mostly in check. “All right, so I’m here. What were you gonna tell Lib, anyway? She’d see you’re at home...”
“I’ve been out of the house trying to find places that don’t look like home, but she doesn’t call on time—or, sorry, your husband doesn’t call on time for her... I put tape on my phone’s camera, I was just gonna say it wasn’t working.”
“If you could just be honest with each other, these levels of deception would be so frivolous. It’s silly, really...”
“I just want to save my marriage, Chelsea. I don’t want Libby to get hurt...”
“She’ll be fine. Finn’s going to take good care of her...”
21
Just before seven o’clock, Chelsea received a series of texts from Finn and relayed their content to Ben.
“Libby’s pumped, Ben.”
“She is?” he said, jolting out of his reverie. They’d been sitting silently, half the bottle of whiskey depleted. Outside the sun was getting lower in the sky, ripening to a deep succulent orange. It streamed through the windows and got caught on all the edges of the sharp and shiny surfaces in the quaint little beach home for two. “What is she saying?”
“Rattlesnake just played.”
“Who’s Rattlesnake?”
Chelsea shrugged, eyes still lowered to her phone. “Libby liked them. Finn says they went backstage for a bit, now they’re going back out to the front. The VIP section.”
“For Dorchester?”
“Dorchester in about five minutes,” she said. “I told him to call. Told him you’re freaking out.”
“I’m not freaking out,” he said in a tone that betrayed the message. “I’m not... Did you tell him you lied to me?”
“Didn’t come up,” she said. “He’s going to call your phone.” She nodded toward where his phone lay dormant on the coffee table next to the bottle.
He leaned forward, collected it; slippery in his sweaty grip.
Chelsea’s thumbs were tapping away. She said, “He’s calling now—no, Libby’s calling now...”
Just at that, his phone came to life, and he answered it immediately. The video display of her was slow to come but soon it resolved. And now: Libby’s chest, shoulders, and delightful face. The front of her T-shirt hung heavy and loose, probably
from dancing and perspiration. He could see the topmost of his wife’s cleavage. Her cheeks were alive with exuberant color and her eyes sparkled. He was radiant and happy once again—seeing her that way made everything seem all right.
He gushed when he saw her. “Aw, baby, baby, baby, oh, my God, I hope you’re having a great time...”
She was sandwiching an earbud under a sheaf of her hair, hung heavy with humidity. She said, “Oh, wait... yeah, I can hear you. Hi, baby,” she said now letting go of the earbud and waving till her hand became a blurry smudge.
He said, “Dorchester!” His energy was fake as shit, but high and pumped for the sake of his angel all the way up in Barrie.
She shouted back: “Dorchester!” Her mouth opened wide in a silent scream. “Oh, my God,” she said, “Ben, I’m gonna go backstage and everything...”
“That’s awesome—how was Rattlesnake?”
She was being bumped around as a gang of concert-goers were passing close to her. At least it was quiet now, though he could hear something, feet stomping and clapping hands in the distance as though Lib were sequestered in a hallway. She hunkered forward again with her hand cupped over her ear.
He said, “Your folks were just here.”
“Where?” She frowned an expression that showed she thought she must completely misunderstand him. He was in Niagara...
“I just got home. I got home early...”
“What!” She looked joyous. “You did?...”
“Just got home...”
“Ben, come up, come up, baby...”
“I can’t, Lib, it’s too late...”
“Come up now, Ben, come on...”
“Dorchester is about to go on, Lib, I’ll miss them, they’ll be off the stage by the time I’m on the 400.”
“Come on and hang out with us, come up, leave right now,” she pleaded with him.
“You’re on your own, I wish I’d known. I’m exhausted, I can’t drive all the way up there, not if I’m going to miss the show. So, hey, I got home your parents were here...”
She showed him her cartoonish expression of disappointed baulking. She wiggled her eyebrows, shaking it all away, knowing her husband was talking sense, and asked, “How are they doing?”