Dishonor Thy Wife (22 page)

JAYDEN

Vanessa’s pink Porsche was parked in my garage. So Brad dumped
her—not by a long shot.

There was an eerie silence in the house.

Maybe she is meditating
, I thought.

“Vanessa?” I hollered out.

There was no answer.

Perhaps her car could not start and a friend took her home.

In the den, a talking
Toy Story
Woody
bobblehead doll wiggled its head from a fan hitting it, causing the head to
talk, saying repeatedly, “This town ain’t big enough for the two of us.”

I snorted, Brad and his jokes.

There was a faint sound of music playing from the master bedroom.

I pushed open the door and flicked on the light.

What the...?

I swayed on my feet holding a hand to my stomach.
Oh, God!
No. No.

Vanessa lay on the floor soaked in a pool of blood. Her eyes
stared up at the ceiling. The killer had spread her mouth into a gruesome mask
to make it look as if she was laughing.

The murderer had spread
her
arms
above her head. In each hand, he
placed a heart-shaped pillow, in her left a pillow with the name
Vanessa
stitched on it and in her right hand a pillow with the name
Jayden
. The killer
had stabbed the
Jayden
pillow and some of the cotton was in Vanessa’s
hair.

A video played on the television set hanging on my bedroom
wall. The video was of Brad standing over Vanessa’s dead body. He had set up a
camera on a tripod and filmed himself stabbing her repeatedly. He was
bare-chested.

Brad killed Vanessa in the kitchen and she screamed,
dragging her body across the floor, trying to get away from him.

Oh, God, in the video she is screaming my name!

Brad smiled for the camera as he lifted the dead Vanessa in
his arms. He carried her into the bedroom, leaving bloody footsteps.

He then clothed her in her wedding dress.

He went to the closet, got a shirt, and put it on, leaving
the shirt unbuttoned.

He walked closer to the camera, pointing to the initials on
the shirt, moving in for a closeup. The initials on the shirt were mine!

Brad flipped off the camera, a subtle message for me.

Music accompanied the video, a song playing repeatedly on
the DVD player—a song from the album
Make Them Die Slowly
by a group
named
White Zombie
. The song was called
Revenge
and the lyrics
blared:

Revenge is better than love.

Frankenstein was built for you.

But he must be destroyed.

 Cut him down yeah in his prime.

 And let the party begin.

Police sirens wailed down the street, and I grabbed a red
Spiderman
mask from a dresser drawer. I was adlibbing it—the killer in the video was my
identical twin.

I pulled the mask over my face and ran to the car.

I roared out of the driveway, with me disguised as
Spiderman
behind the wheel.

If I could make it to the ferry and across to Seattle, there
might be a chance. My passport and wallet were still in the car in my carryon
bag.

I pressed the pedal to the medal.

I had no clue what to do once I reached Seattle, drive to Austin,
and kill Brad probably.

BRAD

OH, MY GOD, ONLY IN CANADA! Not only are police cars chasing
my brother, but Mounties on horseback clip clop across the highway, adding to
the sound effects of a television at the Austin Airport. “Sh,” I tell the crowd
standing near the screen. “I’m listening to this.”

A female broadcaster is speaking on CNN: “This is the most
bizarre police chase since OJ. A live feed from Victoria, British Columbia,
Canada shows a man wearing a Spiderman mask speeding in a Mercedes. He is
believed to be Dr. Jayden Tremblay, a suspect in the murder of his newlywed,
pregnant wife.”

Really brother, Spidey, an
arachnid
is the best you can do?

During my stints in Canada, I never once saw a Mountie. Seeing
some in red now bouncing in the saddle, wearing
Smokey the Bear
hats,
and going after my brother, is like a dream come true.

Only you could have prevented this forest fire, Jayden!

A Mountie is pointing some sort of staff at my brother’s
car, like a pool stick. Pow! The Mountie is going to scratch my brother into a
corner pocket.

Jayden’s flight from justice must have interrupted a parade.
The Mounties are all carrying staffs. They are going to beat Jayden to death
with sticks.

Jayden, having grown up on a farm, is a horse lover. Dumb
ass slams on the brakes rather than slamming his car into a horse. Really, and
he was so close to jumping his car onto the ferry and escaping to Seattle.

Mounties quickly surround Jayden and then shove him up
against his car with two guns pointed at his face. They unmask him and arrest
him for murder.

A fat mustachioed detective spins my brother around and
frisks him while his partner, a big-bosomed woman with sideburns reads Jayden
his Canadian arrest rights.

They cuff him and drag Jayden over to a Victoria black and
white police car.

My brother’s white face stares out of the window in shock.

Okay, the fun is over. I have proven to Jayden that I am a
man of honor and a promise is a promise. I vowed to rid him of an unwanted
woman. I have kept my word and he must now face the consequences.

I grab Jayden’s leather bag from the luggage carousel. The bag
contains a souvenir from Canada, a bloody knife. Quick, I rip off the paper
identification the airline slapped on the bag with my name on it.

I sling the bag across my shoulder and pop my earplugs back
in. I swagger towards the airport exit, feeling pretty good about myself, while
listening to some lyrics from my new favorite song
Revenge
by
White
Zombie
.

Another cosmic monster spits his teeth in your eye.

More dead than alive.

Revenge is better than love.

* * *

RONNI

Mr. Hyde is back with a vengeance, and I am too scared to
ask any more questions about the bloody knife in the travel bag Brad brought
home from his recent trip.

He slouches in the den his brooding face staring at the
television like a zombie. He drums his fingers on his head, mumbling to himself
and then barking at me or Traci. He eats in, mostly TV dinners, leaving the
empty trays in the sink for me to throw away, the hypocrite—he screamed at
Traci for leaving a toy in the den. He threw Pussy against the wall for leaving
cat hair on the carpet. My daughter’s hair is thinning and so am I; my belt
buckle has a new hole poked with a screwdriver.

This morning in the basement while helping me sort the
clothes for the wash, Traci pats my hand. “Don’t worry, Mommy, he’ll be back.”

“Who’ll be back, Traci?”

“My daddy.”

“Your daddy didn’t go anywhere, honey. Your daddy is in the
den reading the morning paper.”

Traci vigorously shakes her head no. “My daddy will come
back with more flowers. Daddy left his clothes, see.” Traci points to a white
shirt on top of the laundry basket.

 Someone else’s initials are on the white shirt. Besides, Brad’s
initials are never stitched on his shirts, his towels yes, because he does not
want anyone using his towels.

Traci caresses with her finger the letters JT.

“J T,” I mumble. J might stand for Jayden, the name Brad
called out in his sleep last night claiming he was Jayden. JT could stand for
Jayden
Tremblay
, the same name on Brad’s travel bag, the one with the bloody
knife. The name had a
Victoria, British Columbia
address.

The color drains from my face—the shirt has specks of blood!

Oh, my God! There is a pair of jeans stuffed in the washing
machine with blood on the legs, lots of blood.

Traci spins in the direction of the basement stairs and
says, “Come on, Victoria.”

“What did you say, Traci?”

“About what, Mommy?”

“Why did you say Victoria? Why would you say that name,
Traci?” It feels as if a spider dances up my spine as I wait for her answer.

“Oh, Victoria is the name of the baby seal daddy gave me.
See.” She holds up a stuffed white seal.

I am chasing goblins and laugh self-consciously—Brad is
limping. He must have cut his leg or stabbed himself while cutting a steak,
hence the blood on his pants.

“So your seal is a girl, Traci? How did you figure that
out?” I smile at Traci. She has such an imagination.

Traci shrugs her shoulders.

“Then why name your seal Victoria?”

“That’s her name, Mommy. See.” Traci pushes her seal at me
and points to a tag hanging from the rear:
Victoria Airport.

The laundry room spins around me. Brad never said he had
business in Canada. True, nowadays with the internet one does not have to
physically travel to purchase stuffed animals from other countries. However, another
curiosity is the travel bag with the words
Air Canada
embossed on the
leather and in the little plastic window the name
Jayden Tremblay
with a
Victoria address.

Perhaps Brad picked up the wrong bag at the airport.

Traci skips up the basement stairs.

I continue separating the wash and empty several of Brad’s
pants pockets. There are crumpled tissues, chewing gum wrappers, the occasional
change and a prophylactic or two that irritates me. I never minded Brad’s
in-case-I-get-lucky rubbers before but we actually had a physical relationship for
about three months. I am more furious with myself than with Brad for trusting
him.

A pair of Brad’s Levis has a picture in the pocket. My jaw
drops open at a photo of two Brads. There is a bronze
Rocky
statue in
the background, proving the picture was taken in Philadelphia. Two men are
standing, one on each side of the statue. One man is a happy-go-lucky, carefree
Brad. The other Brad looks a bit more serious. One Brad wears a dark blue shirt.
The other Brad is dressed in a yellow shirt. One Brad wears a wedding ring. The
other Brad’s ring finger is naked. One Brad is laughing, and the other Brad is sort
of looking at the camera in surprise.

One of the Brads has the look of the man I have been married
to for over six years. He appears cocky and cruel around the mouth with a defiant
look in his eyes as if the world owes him. The other man has a more sensitive
mouth, kinder eyes, less cockiness, and a caring demeanor about him.

One man appears to be a dark soul and the other man a light
soul. Jekyll and Hyde.

“What are you looking at?” Brad stands behind me and I
nearly jump out of my skin. He was quiet walking down the basement stairs, as
if he tiptoed to sneak up on me.

It is suddenly freezing in here, and goosebumps erupt on my
skin. “This picture was in your pocket.”

Brad snatches the photo from my cold fingers and grasps the picture
so tightly, a fold forms at the end. He stares intently at the photo, appearing
sad. “Remember how I always wanted to clone myself?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I did.”

The news recently bragged about successful cloning of sheep,
kittens, etc. and claimed even human embryos have been cloned. The embryos were
then destroyed after producing stem cell lines. Even embryo cloning has not
been used for reproduction purposes and of course, a man cannot clone himself
as a full-grown man.

“You’re joking, Brad.”

“Do I look like I’m laughing, Ronni? The cloning was done
with computer software,” he confesses. “Two of me was superimposed in this
picture at the medical conference in Philly where a company demonstrated the
technology.”

“Well, it’s not really cloning then. It’s a trick.”

My comment starts a fit of giggles. Brad doubles over with
laugher. “A trick. Good one, Ronni. It was a trick.” He wipes tears of laughter
from his eyes, looking happier than I have seen him in a long time.

He then rips the picture in two and shoves both ends at my
face. “Which man do you prefer, Ronni?” he says in an ominous voice.

I shudder from the look in his eyes.
How to answer him?
Which answer will get me in the least trouble?
“I’m unsure. I don’t think I
really know either of you.”

“Good answer.” Brad walks away, chuckling.

There is an evil sound in his laughter, making me glad that
I forgot to ask about the initials on the white shirt, the Victoria Airport tag
on Traci’s stuffed seal, and the Canadian travel bag with the bloody knife.

JAYDEN

Officer Big Boobs and Detective Pencil Dick were facing me down
for the murder of Vanessa.

Mental note:
Quit thinking of the officers as Big Boobs and
Pencil Dick or you might call them that to their faces. Remember, Big Boobs is
Detective Frisco and Pencil Dick is nicknamed Lead-Belly. Resist the urge to
punch the fathead in the gut to test his nickname.

These two geniuses did not believe that my chemistry was
getting in the way of my innocence. “You’re lying about an identical twin,”
they snarled with spit in their words.

“The judge turned down your request for bail, Dr. Tremblay,”
Frisco drawled. She imitated a Texas twang, making fun of my alibi. “So you
were in Texas at the time of your wife’s murder? Prove it, you lying sack of
shit!”

“The fact that you ran proves you are a flight risk” he said
in a high-pitched voice. Between the two of them, she had the balls. Lead-Belly
wiped his forehead with a tissue and breathed heavily.

My eyes kept drifting to his suspenders, which had the same
Canucks
hockey team logo as the baseball hat left at my pet cemetery. The detectives
concluded that I was lying about my crazy twin brother digging up my pets, too.

“We know that the first thing you’ll do, if you post bail,
is to leave Canada for America under the make-believe of helping this supposed
woman you claim is your sister-in-law.”

“But since your dead wife was an only child and you don’t
have a sibling, how can you have a sister-in-law?”

“My twin Brad is married to Ronni, and he married Vanessa,”
I insisted for the umpteenth time.

Frisco rolled her eyes to her partner. “Here we go again with
my twin brother killed my wife.”

“Uh, really his wife.”

“Uh, his second wife.”

“Uh, his illegal wife.”

“Uh, my brother is a bigamist.”

“Uh, my brother is the star in the video killing my wife.”

“Vanessa was never my wife. I wasn’t even in the country at
the time of her murder,” I repeated in a weary voice.

“Sure looks like your handwriting on the marriage
certificate.” Lead-Belly pretended to jerk off. “Ha, you’ve been spermed,” he
said, laughing.

I clenched my fists and leaned back against the chair, the
cheap plastic squeaking. My lower back felt like needles were pricking it, and
my skull pounded against my scalp. I rubbed the stubble on my face. I was dead
tired, lacking sleep because whenever I closed my eyes, a vision came to me of
Vanessa floating in a pool of blood. In the closet was a white coffin with squeaking
hinges, causing my skin to crawl. Ronni stared up at me from the coffin with
lifeless eyes.

My heart beat faster and I sounded desperate, “You’ve got to
arrest Brad!”

“Your twin brother you impersonated?” she said.

“Yes!”

“Is there anyone on the planet who can confirm that you were
in Austin at the time of your wife’s murder, any living soul who can
corroborate your story, Dr. Tremblay?” he said.

“In Austin everyone thought I was Brad, and Vanessa was not
my wife!”

The detectives plopped their dirty shoes on the table and
dunked donuts in cold coffee. “Even the internet doesn’t have any information
on a Dr. Brad O’Boyle in Austin, Texas,” they both blared out.

The detectives refused to look further than a quick internet
search of Brad’s existence. He must have hired a professional to wipe any
mention of him off the internet. I brooded at a cup of strong black coffee
Frisco earlier brought me. The word GUILTY was engraved in white letters on the
black porcelain.

“And is there any proof from the airlines that Jayden
Tremblay ever flew to America in recent weeks?” She chewed half a donut,
spitting out sugary glaze.

“I told you before and this sounds suspect, but I flew under
my brother’s name.”

“Dr. Brad O’Boyle.” Lead-Belly wheezed when he said the name.

“How do you expect us to believe a cockamamie story like yours,
Dr. Tremblay?” Frisco yelled. “Admit to killing your pregnant wife!” She threw
the rest of her donut at the wall.

“Shame you wasted half a donut, Frisco,” he said. “My
partner here is going to lock you in your cell and throw away the key. Confess
and save us all some grief so we can pursue justice for your dead wife and
unborn child.”

“We have enough evidence to fry you so admit you killed your
pregnant wife and it’ll go easier for you,” she said.

“Vanessa was not carrying my child. I’m not...I wasn’t the
father of her baby.”

“Oh, now we’re getting somewhere,” he said. “Did you kill
your wife, Doctor, because she was having an affair with another man?”

 “You killed her in a jealous rage,” she hollered and smacked
her hand against the table.

Great, now they had a motive. My lawyer advised me not to
speak to the police but I spilled the story out of worry for Ronni and Traci. “My
brother is a murderer. His wife and daughter may be in danger,” I said again in
a ragged voice.

“This identical twin brother you told us about?” Lead-Belly
said and a bit of donut flew from his mouth.

Well they were a tidy twosome and very much in tune with
each other. Frisco’s mouth was open and crumbs from his donut made a slam dunk
between her lips, and she swallowed.

My voice grew more frustrated by the minute. “Brad blamed
Ronni for ruining his life. He hates Ronni. The sick son of a bitch killed
Vanessa.”

“You know, if there is a Brad and he is your brother, you
just called your mother a bitch,” He said.

“You are not a nice man, you and this Brad,” Frisco said.

“He’s faking a split personality to plead insanity,”
Lead-Belly added.

 “Your DNA is all over the murder scene. I’ve never seen
such a sloppy murder, almost like you were begging us to catch you.” She poked
a finger on the table.

“I told you before that identical twins are the only beings
on earth who share exact DNA. Brad and I was one person until the egg split
apart into two duplicate people. Brad wanted to get caught because he framed me.”

“Now why would your identical twin brother, such a close tie
as that, want to frame you for murder?” he asked.

“Revenge,” I answered.

“Revenge, huh?” Frisco looked at Lead-Belly.

“Brad believes I slept with his girlfriend.”

“Ronni?”

“No, Barbie.”

“Just how many women are involved here, Dr. Tremblay?” She
narrowed her eyes at me, maybe thinking I was a serial killer.

Lead-Belly picked up the picture I earlier took from my
wallet and threw the photo on the table between us. “You still claim this
picture of the two of you was taken in Philadelphia?”

I nodded my head, yes.

“After your supposed, never-known-existed-long-lost-identical-twin
brother and you met?” Frisco added.

I licked my lips. “You can’t tell us apart can you?”

“The only thing I see is an image of the
Rocky
statue
stolen from the internet and then two photos of you superimposed with the
statue to use as a twin alibi during planning of your wife’s murder. What kind
of chumps do you think we are,” Frisco barked.

“He must have done the duplication trick with a computer,”
Lead-Belly added.

“I just said that,” she said. “You made up this photo to
blame your wife’s murder on your twin. It happens all the time.”

Smart ass. I had hoped the picture would explain everything
and voila, instant twin brother, and they would at least check out my story.

“What we are looking at in this picture is premeditated
murder,” he said.

“I already said that,” Frisco said with irritation.

“Look at the major difference. Brad is wearing a wedding
ring,” I said, pointing to the photo.

“And where is your wedding ring, Dr. Tremblay?”

“Yeah,” Lead-Belly added, “didn’t you love your wife?”

I snapped my fingers. “My father knows about Brad.”

“Did your father ever meet your identical twin, the two of
you standing side by side in the flesh?” Frisco asked.

“No.”

 “We do cover all our bases and earlier checked with your
father. He confirms you told him the same bullshit story you’re telling us,”
she said.

“Bullshitting is usually inherited from the father right, Frisco?”

“That’s what the genetic books claim.”

“We did check with the adoption agency your parents adopted
you from and guess what? The agency never heard of a twin brother,” he said.

“Maybe my brother was adopted from another agency.”

“Did you ask your brother?” she said.

“Yes, but he didn’t really know what agency his parents
adopted him from.”

“Of course not,” she said in a motherly voice

“Course not!”

“So where does this Ronni O’Boyle, your uh brother’s wife
live so we can confirm your story. Can she give you an alibi when your wife
Vanessa was killed?” Lead-Belly asked.

I panicked at the mention of Ronni. “She doesn’t know about
the switch.”

“Of course not,” Frisco said.

“Course not!”

“Ronni is in danger. Someone has to warn her about Brad!” I
said.

“Even if this Ronni O’Boyle does exist, we can’t go running
to America to tell her to watch out!” Frisco held her fingernails up as if she
was saying, boo!

“We can’t just tell her that her husband is a murderer when
we have no proof,” he added.

“When it’s you who killed Vanessa,” she said.

 “Killed your wife and unborn child.”

“We know. We know.” Frisco held up her hands in mock horror.
“You didn’t marry Vanessa.”

“Brad did,” they both sang out.

“Look, Dr. Tremblay, we’ll leave you on your own for a few
minutes while you think up a better story to tell us,” he said.

“Like a confession,” she added.

The door slammed behind the detectives, and they left me alone
with a stale donut and a coffee cup that read GUILTY on the side of the cup.

I stared into the cesspool depths of the coffee and
daydreamed I was home.

The doorbell rings and I fling the door open.

She is here, at my house. Ronni has come to me. My
weariness turns to adrenaline, just to be in her presence, to look at her
sitting on my sofa in my den, a sight imagined a thousand times.

“Brad?” Her face turns white.

“I’m Jayden, Brad’s twin. You do believe me?” I grab from
the table the photo of Brad and me and shove it at her face. “You can’t tell us
apart can you?”

“It’s you,” she says with wonder and recognizes Jayden
Tremblay, a physical carbon copy of her husband, the man who lived in her
house, played pool with her, made love to her, slept with her, and sent her
flowers.

She holds a hand to her head as though her skull pains
her. “My God, I slept with my husband’s brother! You knew I was your brother’s
wife yet pretended to be Brad!”

She cringes and sinks deeper into the sofa. “You’re no
better than he is. You are Brad, all over again. Make the wife think she is
crazy. Make me think my husband has a split personality. Make me believe that I
am losing my mind. All along you were involved in Brad’s dirty little scheme.
Did Brad intend to commit me to an insane asylum, changed his mind, and then
murdered me instead? Why else would he keep a bloody knife?”

“Murdered you? Then you are a ghost! But you’re not
transparent.”

“Well, I can see right through you. The mace,” she screams.
“Where’s my purse?” Ronni fumbles around for her purse but the bag is not
within reach.

I stand from the sofa, crushed by her relief that I no
longer sit beside her. 

“Brad never told me he had a twin brother. Why have they
hidden you? Where did they hide you—the nut house where Brad should have been?”

“No, I’m in jail for killing my wife, I mean Brad’s wife.”

She cringes.

“I don’t mean you, Ronni!”

“You claim I am a ghost. Why? Did you murder me?”

“No, Brad did or he intends to kill you, Ronni.”

Reality crept into my nightmare. The interrogation room came
into focus; typical two-way mirror the bozo cops thought was a secret with a
metal table, and metal chair. If I stand up, the chair stays frozen to my butt
and travels with me.

My stomach ached but not from the poisonous coffee.

I took a sip from my GUILTY cup and made a mental note:
Do
not tell the detectives about sleeping with your sister-in-law else, they will
think you even more perverted.