Dishonor Thy Wife (3 page)

WIFE

It has been a week since my husband came home from
Philadelphia and Brad has not turned back into a frog. Hell must be freezing over
if my husband has really shed his skin into a new-and-improved Brad.

Our daughter no longer hides behind the sofa when he is at
home. Brad sits on the recliner watching television, holding Traci on his lap.
He watches the children’s station while
Pussy
sits on the arm of the
chair, licking her paws and cleaning her fur.

 Brad plays computer games with Traci, or reads to her. He
helps our daughter with her homework. For the first time in our marriage, Brad
is acting like a daddy, and Traci is blossoming.

In the morning, he fixes two bowls of cereal and eats
breakfast with Traci. He ruffles her hair and yanks her ear. Giggles fill the
kitchen.

“Would you mind driving Traci to school? It’s just for this
one morning.” I try to keep the whiny pleading from my voice because Brad has
told me countless times, “When you are in one of your pathetic moods your voice
rises, making you sound like a cat in heat.”

“Sure, I’ll drive the kid.” Brad drops a few strawberries in
Traci’s cereal bowl. He does not scream about how, “I am too busy to drive the
damn kid! My job is more important than your measly dental appointment! You are
a lazy-ass parasite taking part-time classes yet want me to drive your daughter
to school? I put a roof over your head and feed you both, and now you expect me
to drive Traci? Well, screw you, bitch!”

Nor does Brad kick over the kitchen chair and throw his
cereal bowl at the wall.

“Have a nice day and I hope your visit at the dentist is not
painful,” he adds.

“Thanks,” I mumble, unused to kindness in his voice.

Quick! Run out the door before he changes his mind about
Traci!

WIFE

This evening, again none of the cars is missing from the
garage. Brad has suddenly become a homebody. He even loads the dirty dishes in
the dishwasher. A devil does not suddenly change into an angel. The one and
only time I ever asked him to clean up the kitchen, he broke all the dishes in
the sink. “Oops, sorry, Ronni, slippery fingers. Ha!” He then picked up a
carving knife and jabbed the blade at me. He then stomped on the dishtowel and
flung it at my face. So forgive me for repeating that the new Brad is odd.

He has never enjoyed reading classics before but Brad sits
on a comfortable study chair reading
Pride and Prejudice
of all books
and a paperback no less. Brad has always claimed to prefer the
True Crime
genre and reads ebooks but more likely smutty pornographic hard-core erotica.

The study is my homework domain in the evening. I push the
power button on the computer and cough as a hint for Brad to take his book
elsewhere.

He burrows his rump more comfortably into the leather chair,
turning the pages.

Fine, I am used to ignoring you.
I wrap myself in an
imaginary cocoon and pretend Brad does not exist. A prophylactic suddenly comes
to mind when thinking of a cocoon, with me inside the silk condom vibrating
against the sides because of the condom I found in Brad’s pants. He wore the
pair when he came home from Philadelphia. I was not snooping but washing
clothes. The condom was labeled
Trustex;
like in
trust your ex to
still want to have sex with you until he finds someone else
. The wrapper
read that the rubber was made of animal membrane, so of course, it belongs to
Brad, and did not leap into his pocket from another man’s pants.

Brad lifts his eyes from the book and stares at my legs,
rolling his eyes upward. He boldly stops at my crotch and licks his lips as
though he can see what pair of panties I am wearing.

I cannot concentrate on my schoolwork because of the creepy
feeling that Brad has been spying on me this past week. He is memorizing my
routine. Again, he looks at his watch as I walk up the stairs to bed.

“Ronni, whatever you want, just ask.” he says in a voice
that would chill wine.

I toss my head, yet a devil in me makes me shake my behind.

“You’re a tease, spreading your legs under your short
skirt.” His voice is hoarse with yearning.

My heart rises to my throat. I grip the handrail,
deliberately stopping high enough where he can see my panties.
My hand is
shaking and my chest, I cannot breathe.

He slowly begins climbing the stairs and I spread my legs
even wider and bend slightly so my skirt rises.

Brad is looking up my skirt, and I am letting him.

I move my rear slightly, a few times in a humping motion,
thinking of pole dancing.

He moans slightly and his footsteps quicken.

I walk slower until he catches up to me.

His fingers walk up the zipper of my skirt and grasps at the
clasp.

With trembling hands, I grab his thumb to stop him.
Not
here
,
it is too hot. I am going to faint.
“No,” I manage to gulp
out, “the past haunts us, Brad.” My voice cracks with remembrance.

He holds up his hands as though burnt by a hot stove and
steps back.

Breathless, I scurry down the hallway to the master bedroom
and quietly lock the door.

His knees crack as he kneels in the hallway breathing
heavily against the wood. Brad is watching at the bedroom door, his eye to the
keyhole.

I perform a slow striptease in the bathroom with the door
flung open, humming a burlesque song, and probably looking ridiculous as I throw
my bra across the room. I pour glass after glass of water on my head to wet my
t-shirt.

I stand, facing the door with breasts thrust out and nipples
soaking wet.

Surely, he has gotten an eyeful so I drop to the floor and
strip off the rest of my clothing.

I crawl to the bed, not wanting him to see my naked sweaty
body.

I slide beneath the covers and listen with my breath in my
throat.

There is panting outside the door, and God help me, I grow
even more excited and touch myself, imagining Brad in my bed, wanting my
husband, remembering how he felt when I squeezed him through his pants.

 I throw off the covers and leave the light on, knowing that
Brad is watching. I loathe him for making me act like Mama.

At the age of ten, I snuck out of the house to the titty bar
Mama worked at. I hid under a table and watched while she stripped in front of
leering men. One gruff-looking biker stuck his hand in her underpants, filling
her crotch with cash.

When it was the next stripper’s turn, Mama went to the alley
with the biker who gave her 10 five-dollar bills.

I hid inside the garbage can with the lid lifted an inch,
spying on my alley-cat mama.

The girl I once was with stringy hair, hollow stomach and a
face washed with spit, still lives inside me. That poor pathetic child cries
out, her heart wringing because her mama abandoned her when she was ten,
running off with the biker who didn’t like children.

The child inside me still longs for the daddy she never
knew, and searches for
respect
in the face of every man she sees. She
tells herself,
I am as good as anyone is
.

I often stroke the fine wood and luxurious leather in my
Tudor-style mansion and the girl inside me is comforted. I never really
expected love in a marriage, not when my own mama left me and my daddy did not
want me. The only time I have had sex was the date rape with Brad.

When I first met my husband, his healing hands made me
think,
what a wonderful man he is
.
Here is a man who saves lives.
Soon after marrying, I learned that Brad O’Boyle is more destructive than
healthful.

Well, I was never the brightest kid in the projects and am
playing a dangerous game with Brad.

I am masturbating while he spies through the keyhole.

And God help me, for the first time in my life, I am
enjoying the power of my sex.

WIFE

Brad is only technically married to me since our marriage is
celibate, but if Barbie Simpson was free, Brad might murder me. Ha! I am
joking, but still Brad would see me as a threat to his financial health. Pops
made sure there was no prenuptial contract, a condition of Brad not going to
prison for statutory rape. Brad accused me of not telling him I was 17. “It’s
about disclosure, Ronni, full disclosure, something you know nothing about.”

“It’s about disclosure, Brad, full disclosure, something you
know nothing about.” Brad never revealed that he was engaged, or that he had a
fight with his fiancée Barbie on the day we met. The dumbest lie a girl can
tell herself is
he did not tell you about his fiancé because he loves you
and does not want to lose you.

It will take about four years attending college part-time to
become a dental hygienist and earn financial independence. Given Brad’s
volatile moods, I plan to walk out on him then. I was never mean until my
husband taught me to be.

I was not always cynical. When we first married, I was naïve
enough to think that his anger towards me would abate and we would have a real
marriage and live happily ever after. Brad remained cold and distant all
through the pregnancy. Traci was born and the baby should have brought us
closer together. We created a life, a miracle, but a child born of a loveless
marriage widens the gulf between man and wife.

Brad only became friendlier after we made an agreement to
stay out of each other’s way. Giving Brad a peep show last night violates our
agreement. All week long, I dress like a nun in long skirts and shapeless
shirts, my feet in manly shoes. I hover in a corner expecting him to lash out
at me for being like my mother.

The darkness eats away his insides—the darkness he usually
shows his wife and child. Brad is resisting his mean urges such as yelling,
“Goddamnit, Ronni! I told you to hang up my jeans as soon as you take them out
of the dryer! Get your butt over here and iron them!"
His rotten
behavior is before Philadelphia, and I sniff his shirts before doing the wash
but his scent is unchanged.

Traci has become a traitor. A little attention from Brad for
the first time in her life and she is all giggles and grins for her father.

This morning Brad says “good morning” and I bark at him,

“Well, who got into your panties?” he says.

“Not you,” I snap.

He laughs as if that is the funniest joke he has ever heard.
“Your eyes are puffy and red, like you’ve been crying.”

His gentle voice makes me want to slap him. What has Brad
been playing at, acting so nice since Philadelphia, yet his eyes appear cold
and his smile is creepy. Last time I told him good morning, before Philadelphia
transformed him into a kind man, his response was, “go to hell, Ronni.” He then
pushed my coffee cup with lipstick marks away from him. My favorite cup fell to
the floor, shattering to pieces. The cup was in shards but I pieced the words
together on the ceramic—
My husband went to Vegas and came back a bigger
asshole!
The devil will have to stick his pitchfork up his own butt before
I ever wish Brad O’Boyle a good morning again.

“Don’t forget about your parents this Sunday,” I remind him
before he heads out the door for work.

“Parents,” he squeaks. Brad is quite the mama’s boy yet he
pales at the mention of his folks.

“Our usual monthly dinner on Sunday, remember, Brad?”

“Oh, yeah, right. It’s just my mind is preoccupied with
work.” He gives me a peck on the cheek as if we are a normal couple.

I am seriously thinking of driving to one of those custom
t-shirt places and having them make up a design on a red t-shirt with words
printed in bold white:

My husband returned from Philadelphia with his brain
tattooed.

Pussy rubs up against his leg now, making me think Brad
has changed.

However, can I really trust a cat that licks my husband’s
balls?

HUSBAND

The more Ronni ignored me, the more I purposefully threw
myself in her direction. I would kneel in the hallway outside her bedroom door
after she retired for the night without even wishing me sweet dreams. Every
night my eye looked through her door as if the keyhole was a telescope,
watching Ronni strip off her clothes and give into her baser instincts.
She
wears a see-through red nightie with a big heart on the chest and wedge heels
with straps criss-crossing her long muscular legs like a Roman soldier. Yeah, I
could ride her like a horse.

She was so close yet unattainable and driving me crazy with
her striptease and all the other sex games.

She
went out Friday evening
dressed like she was meeting a boyfriend so I sat on the den sofa with my arms
crossed in front of my chest, waiting up for her. She found me amusing when she
got back after midnight!

She kicked off her shoes, aiming the heels in my direction
and laughing. She had obviously been drinking. “Why in heaven's name are you
staying home? Well I go out to get away from your suffering company! You make
me sick with your newfound sweetness,” she slurred and threw a beer can at me.

I must be more careful. Ronni accused me of being up to
something.

I began making a rocking horse
for Traci. I needed something to unleash my pent-up frustration and the
violence of cutting wood helped. When I first walked down the steps to the
basement, a wave of guilt struck me. Traci watched me make the horse, her eyes
dancing. She chattered away as if a bird set free from its cage. It was
unpardonable what I was doing to her and her mother.

To make it up to the kid, I was creating a magnificent
wooden horse with real horsehair, leather saddle, and beautifully polished.

Ronni again went out Friday wearing a skirt barely covering
her buttocks with a big zipper down the front as if she was advertising
Open
Me
. I would make one hell of a private eye and did not need the help of a
zipper
Yeah, I could take a magnifying glass, bend on my knees, and look up
her skirt. Just call me a private dicktective.

I stood with the garage door slightly ajar, spying on her
driving away from the house.

Hers was the Chrysler Cruiser, virginal white with fake wood
paneling across the sides.

Mine was the Darth Vader Death Star black Mercedes Benz, a
car forged in Hades that drove itself home when the driver was sloshed.

The colorless, grey SUV was ours. The color grey was middle
ground, but the wife and I could never meet in Middle-earth except on
quicksand. Lint grew beneath the gold band around my sweaty wedding finger—One
Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them. Except for disliking
hairy big feet, I was a fan of
The Lord of the Rings
.

I followed Ronni and with great stealth, parked the black
Mercedes several cars behind her Cruiser, watching her walk into a bar a half
block from Sixth Street.

I stood on the dark street across
from the bar, keys dangling in my hand. I have been tailing Ronni for a while
now but her peep show every night had given me the balls to get closer.

I swaggered towards a bar named Lovejoys.

My cockiness vanished as soon as
I walked into the bar. I never used to be so sneaky but since Philadelphia, I
have changed. I leaned against the bar, one boot on the footrest, and nervously
drummed my fingers against the wooden counter. The bar was carved in the shape
of a coffin.

What excuse could I make for
being at Lovejoys when she left the house just fifteen minutes ago? Ronni was
already suspicious of me.

Well, hell’s bells, America was supposed to be a free
country. I had as much right as anyone to be in Lovejoys.

“Hit me with a beer,” I told the
bartender and loosened my tie. I was dressed like a doctor or like an
undertaker.

I
removed my black suit jacket and slung it across a gold metal pipe that wrapped
around the wooden bar. I rolled up the sleeves of my white shirt and yanked a
black tie over my head, nearly choking in the process.

I grabbed a mug of beer and
guzzled the entire contents. “Hit me again.” I  burped.

The rest of Lovejoys looked more like a living room than a
bar. Ronni was sitting on a couch with her back to me chatting with another
woman.
Her friend, Riley, looked cheap. Her skirt
rode up her hips, and revealed a bit of white panty.

Ronni and Riley drank the hard stuff and seemed to be having
a serious discussion. Neither paid attention to the men in the bar ogling the
women. I walked quietly with my hand hiding my face, and then stood against a
counter across from them and eavesdropped.

Ronni said, “Brad just seems so
different. He is somewhat sweet, you know? He actually fried me eggs for
breakfast on Sunday.” Ronni’s shoulders slumped and her chest sunk in. Her
voice sounded heartbroken. “I almost hoped...”

“You and Brad might have a
happily ever after?” Riley raised an eyebrow. She took out a cigarette and lit
the cancer stick. Riley then sucked on the cigarette, turning her face sideways
to prevent smoke blowing in Ronni's face.

“Traci runs down to the basement
every day when she comes home from school just to stare at the pieces of the
rocking horse he’s making. I swear that horse will rock Traci to heaven when
Brad is finished with it.”

“Are we talking about the devil Brad, your husband?
Well, I would not trust him. How can a man and woman live in the same house
together for over six years and not have sex? Brad has always been a bastard.
Your husband propositioned me one time.”

“I know,” Ronni said in a small voice, “but that was a long
time ago.”

“That a-hole wanted to have sex with me only because it
would be a coup to sleep with your best friend and forever put a wedge between
us.” Riley turned her face in my direction and blew cigarette smoke.

I shoved my hand in front of my face but still
Riley said, “Well, well, your
hubby is spying on us.”

Ronni swung her head over to me
and my heart beat so fast everyone at Lovejoys must have heard my blood
pumping. I threw some bills on the bar top, grabbed my jacket, and turned
towards the door.

Do not even look in her
direction, you ass. You will only make things worse.

Ronni
jumped in front of me, blocking my path. “Are you following me, Brad?”

“I,
uh, came over here to play pool.”

“We have a pool table at home.”

“I wanted a beer.”

“We have beer at home.”

“We don't have my favorite
homebrew that is sold only at Lovejoys,
The Leg Spreader
.”

She bit her lip. “Are you, uh, meeting someone here?”

“Nope. Not meeting anybody. No plans. I'm all alone.” I
sighed as if I was the loneliest man on the planet. “How about you and I play a
game of pool, huh?”

“Mm. We have that pool table at
home but you and I have never played a game. What shall we play for, money?”

“If I win,” and my voice dropped
two octaves, “you give me what I want.” A sensual gleam lit my eyes and a grin
split my face. My voice filled with intimacy making this bar seem too small for
the two of us.

“And if I win?” she softly said and swallowed.

“Then, I give you what you want,”
I said in a voice that implied she must want the same thing.

“Anything?” She grinned.

“Anything.” We shook
hands on the deal.

I stacked up the balls and Ronni
broke them.

I raised my eyes to the ceiling
and silently swore. The woman knew her game. Three balls went in on the first
break. “Hustler,” I muttered.

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing.” Damned if my pool
stick skipped and nearly tore a hole in the green fabric of the pool table. I
always had bad luck with green felt but figured Ronni would be an easy win.

She chuckled and I gave her a
dirty look.

There was nothing like the public
humiliation of having your ass kicked in public by a woman. In just four shots
Ronni announced, “Eight ball, left corner pocket.” Bam—the ball went in.

“Ball breaker,” I muttered.

“Did you say something, Brad?”

“You win.” I shoved the pool
stick back into the holder on the wall, so hard that the holder crashed to the
floor and all the pool sticks tumbled down on my head.

Ronni laughed aloud at me.

I glared at her.

She reached her hand up and
straightened my hair. “There,” she said, “now you don't look so wild.”

I turned my head and kissed her
wrist, one swift lick of the tongue, and then lowered her hand between us, not
letting go. My voice lowered to a husky tone. “What do I owe you, lovely lady,
for beating me at pool?” I stared at her expectantly, trying to act cool.

“Oh, I want what every girl
wants.”

Her hand scorched my skin, her
heat seeping through my bones, boiling my blood. Ronni burned for me.

She burst my bubble by adding in
a whiny voice, “I want flowers,” and then shook her hand free of my grasp.

“Fine! I doubt any florists are
open so I'm going home.”

“Well, you don't have to be such
a bad sport,” she said, grinning.

“And why are you laughing?” I said to Riley.

“Because if you knew your wife better, you would know that
Ronni has been a pool shark since sixth grade when she began hanging out at the
pool halls while waiting to escort her grandpa home after he'd had too much to
drink. Ronni was practically raised at the pool hall.” Riley turned to Ronni
and kissed her on the cheek. “I’ve got to go. There’s my date.”

Ronni
spun on her heel, ran out of Lovejoys, and pulled her car out of the parking
space.

I raced to my car and jumped in.

I
lifted my foot from the gas pedal and slowed the car down, hiding a few cars
behind her. The smile on my face was the predatory smile of the hunter.