Dishonor Thy Wife (5 page)

WIFE

Brad is
not
having a fit over Traci wearing shorts
and a t-shirt to his parents’ house. In the past he ordered, “Clothe the kid in
a frilly dress and make sure her face is clean, no sticky candy. If Traci gets
fingerprints on the car, she is going to be smacked.”

“Really, Brad? Maybe we should keep our daughter in gloves
so she no longer smudges your life.”

“What a great idea! Get her a pair of those Mickey Mouse
gloves so she’ll want to keep them on.” Brad always laughs at his own cruel
jokes, at least he used to.

The crème-de-la-crème of Austin rule over their money from
above the ripples of Lake Travis. Brad won the lottery when he was adopted as a
newborn whereas I grew up at a rundown trailer park. The O’Boyles reside in a
three-story red brick 7,000 square foot house. Visiting my in-laws is like
having an impacted tooth yanked without anesthesia. I climb the walkway to the
house feeling like a child again with the wrong tooth tied to a door handle by
a drunken grandpa.

Brad’s mother, Viola, sits with mint tea bags on both eyes
held down by smashed grapes. She yanks the tea bags from her eyes, handing them
to Ethan. “Here, make us some
Mint Julep
cocktails.” She tosses the
grapes at her husband. “Use ‘em as garnish.”

Ethan scuffles away walking like an old Japanese woman with
bound feet.

He returns with a pot of acrid cocktails, smacks Brad on the
back and bellows, “hello, son.” Ethan is half-deaf and yells to make up for
it. He grabs my hand and squeezes so hard my bones crunch. He then waves his
fingers at Traci.

Viola shoves an article under my nose about the booze gene being
inherited. “Your grandfather was a drunk,” she informs me as if I am too dumb to
remember Pops wobbling over to the sink, opening the curtain below, and yanking
out a cheap bottle of wine for breakfast. “He was a fuckin’ alcoholic,” she
slurs between teeth stained red from wine.

Viola slurps her fourth before-dinner
Manhattan
. She
puffs on a cigarette, dropping the ashes on pillows of rich satin and velvet. Viola
distinguishes drunks by the quality of alcohol they consume, not the quantity. She
considers socialites such as herself social drinkers, not alcoholics. Viola
socializes six days a week with her narrow-minded friends. She cheats at
mahjong while sipping
Dirty Martinis
. She sticks out her foot and trips
the leading bocce player, while hiding behind a
Taj Mahal
. When she’s
losing, Viola topples the dominoes with her
Pisco Sour
. She zigzags a
golf cart across the golf course while guzzling a
Tinto de Verano
. Viola
skips the ball across the bowling alley, splashing her
Sidecar
so that
the next player falls on her rear. At the weekly luncheon with the “girls”
where they gobble-gobble about their turkey necks, Viola gargles a
Clément
Créole Royals
. At the country club swimming pool, she drinks a
Fuzzy
Navel
while sunning in a thong, her saggy tanned skin rolling in waves
across her bones.

I jerk my head back to avoid her long cigarette holder,
which resembles those from old glamour movies. Viola has the look of a decrepit
Gloria Swanson
from the film
Sunset Boulevard
. The hag would love
to burn my eyes out and her cigarette stalks my every move.

Brad’s father drags me from the sofa, rescuing me from
death
by tobacco
. “Just sit there and get stinking drunk, Viola. I’ve something
important to say to this young lady,” he hollers in a Texas twang thicker than
Brad’s.

“Lady, my ass,” she slurs and glares at my mini-skirt which has
a leopard pattern with claws.

I tower above my father-in-law on
yes-I-am-a-slut
stiletto
heels.

“I had my colonoscopy, Veronica, and the doctor removed a
polyp as big as my fist.” Ethan clenches his hand and shoves it at my face. “Can
you imagine this in my butthole?”

Yes, I can. Ethan is a fruitcake. I have even seen him
dancing at the Country Club with a man. He gravitates around the pastels and
his dinner jacket is white with blooming lavender flowers. His socks are pink
and his slacks and loafers white. A sunny carnation is stuffed in his lapel but
Ethan is anything but happy. He is a man living a lie. Really, he should just
come out of the closet.

Viola makes a small circle about the size of a dime with her
index finger and thumb. She points to his butt with her middle finger. She
mouths,
his polyp was the size of a pimple.

Ethan does tend to exaggerate like the time he claimed Brad
was his biological son because he donated enough sperm to fill a bank.

Ethan now shoves his face closer so that he has my full
attention. He bombards me with an alphabet of ailments. “I even have Zinc
deficiency,” he hollers.

“Well soil gets that, too. You know…dirt?”

“Dirt?! You think I could have gotten Zinc deficiency from
dirt? You’re in dental school. What do you know about it?”

I am descended from a long line of drinkers and usually
avoid alcohol but now I reach for a
Fat Like Buddha
cocktail.

“Viola,” Ethan howls, “you been shoveling dirt in my food
again? You been digging up the garden drunk?”

Viola is all over Brad, raining kisses across his neck. “My
boy, my sweet boy. Your Mama loves you, Braddie, more than anyone in the world!”

This is the first time I’ve seen Brad try to free himself
from his mother’s embrace. He unwraps her arms from around his waist and slides
across the sofa. He tugs at his collar as if choking on his own spit. He
swallows and says rather proudly, “Traci learned to ride a two-wheeler today.”

“Do you ride your bicycle well, little girl, or do you fall
off your seat like your clumsy mother?” Viola does not wait to watch Traci’s
hurt look. She burps and attacks me next. “Brad confided to me, Veronica, when
you fell off your exercise bicycle and broke your wrist. Brad and I had a good
laugh about that incident for a long time, didn’t we, honey?” Viola chuckles
and slides across the couch shoving her hip against Brad. She strokes his arm,
purring, and mussing his hair. Her eyes glitter at me as if to say,
Your
husband is mine. Brad is my son. My boy will never belong to any woman but his
mother.

Ethan ruffles Traci’s hair. “Your daddy learned to ride a
two-wheeler when he was
four
years old. Now what do you think of that,
little lady?”

Traci’s puffed-out chest deflates at the comparison. She
hides her face in my skirt.

This is the first time Brad has ever boasted about his
daughter. “Traci has learned to ride a bigger bicycle than the bike I learned
on and she rides so well I believe Traci may be a champion bike rider some day.
You just wait and see. Traci will ride better than I ever did.”

Viola coughs and her cigarette drops from the long holder
and onto her lap. She screams from the burning and smacks the cigarette to the
carpet.

Ethan stomps on the cigarette and Viola’s toes, causing her
to screech even louder.

My mother-in-law has mastered the art of turning any
situation to her favor. “Aha, the little bicycle thing proves my theory! I have
insisted that child does not take after you, Braddie. Traci is unfortunately
like her mother and will grow up just as dumb.”

Brad stands to his imposing height. “Ronni is my wife,
Mother
.”
He spits out the word
Mother
as if the
endearment is a filthy word. “Treat her with respect.”

 “This woman...
Veronica
trapped you by getting
pregnant,” she snarls.

“Surely you exaggerate,
Mother
. It takes two to impregnate.”

“Now wait just a minute, son.” Ethan massages his arm where
I punched him in a sort of friendly manner. “Don’t talk to your mother in that
tone of voice.”

“Oh, but she can speak to my wife impolitely and with the
intent to hurt Ronni’s feelings?”

 “Wait, Braddie, don’t leave like this, darling,” Viola wails.

Ethan stomps his foot. “Shit, we haven’t even eaten and I’ve
got them ulcers, and vertigo, and whiplash, and Xerostomia—that’s dry mouth. I
need a blasted drink!” Ethan pours himself a
Mint Julep
cocktail,
spitting out some of his wife’s skin. Slowly, Viola has been shedding her
eyelids, the result of too much Alpha Hydroxy Acid. “This
Mint Julep
tastes like mint toothpaste!”

“There’s a
Brain Hemorrhage
I fixed for you, Ethan,
right there.” Viola points to a bloody-red glass with smoking dry ice, and it
is not even Halloween.

“When you learn to treat my wife with respect,
Mother
,
then we’ll come back,” Brad snaps.

Viola’s mouth hangs open, a cigarette dangling from her
mouth, stuck to her dry lips.

My mouth drops open and I grab onto the chair arm to stop
from falling.

Traci throws herself at Brad. He lifts his daughter in his
arms and she hugs his neck tightly. “You coming, Ronni?” he says.

I nod my head meekly.

Maybe something scared the crap out of Brad in Philadelphia.
Perhaps the plane almost crashed and his life passed before his eyes. Or it
could be that Bubba Simpson, Barbie’s hubby, finally took a shot at him, as he
has threatened to. Possibly, one of Brad’s patients died from heart failure and
the man was 32, the same age as Brad. My husband never had a heart for Traci or
me—not until he returned from Philadelphia.

Traci falls asleep during the drive home, and Brad carries
her into the house gently placing her on the bed. “She looks like a sleeping
angel,” he whispers.

“Funny, that between you and me, we could make an angel.”

He runs his hand across his head,
making his hair scruffy as if he just woke up. He yanks off his tie and
stretches, yawning. “
Well, good night, Ronni.”

“Brad!” My panicky voice causes him to spin, and he almost
falls in the hallway. “Do you believe that a couple can begin again?”

“Everyone deserves a second chance.” His hands are in his
pockets and he rocks on his feet, waiting for my response.

Okay, so I started this conversation but my tongue is stuck
to my throat.

His shoulders slump and he drags his feet to his bedroom.

For the first time, I leave the door wide open to my bedroom
and undress, slowly and deliberately, mimicking Mama, the stripper
.
I
hum the music to a burlesque movie because Brad is listening.

HUSBAND

For the record, I am not a sex addict, but Ronni looked so
seductive tonight, I squirmed at the parents, crossing my legs, adjusting my
pants.

She left her bedroom door open on purpose. I closed my eyes
and swallowed, listening to her undressing.

Ah, she unhooked her bra, leaving her breasts free to wiggle
about. Maybe one will bounce off and roll into my bedroom.

Zip. Her skirt scraped down her rear.

My breath caught in my throat at the footsteps in the hall.

Ronni stood at the threshold of my bedroom. She touched the dimmer
and lowered the light in my bedroom. She was dressed in a long-tailed shirt and
spiky heels. Suddenly, she turned red. “This…this is a mistake,” she softly
said and turned to leave.

“No, it isn’t,” I groaned and spun her around. My chest rose
painfully and I began to unbutton my shirt. First the cufflinks.

I ripped off her shirt and then her camisole. “You have beautiful
breasts,” I murmured.

She blushed.

I rubbed her back with my chest, fluttering my hands across
her body, brushing her tits lightly.
Burn, Baby! Burn!

She pushed her rear into me and groaned.

“Feel how much I want you, Ronni, and desire you to the
point where I…”

She turned, wrapped her arms around my neck, and shut me up
with her lips.

I placed a hand on each buttock and lifted her to my waist.

She wrapped her legs around me, shuddering. She grabbed me,
causing me to groan. “Did I squeeze too hard?” she said in a breathy voice.

“No, do that again. It’s a good kind of pain. I’m almost
past the point of no return,” I warned her, “so you better be serious.”

Her answer was to rub me as if wanting to start a fire.

She was glorying in her power over me and I shoved her back
against the wall, pushing against her, grinding my hips, pulsing into her,
throbbing, rocking, and making her feel all of me until her knees buckled.

I lowered her to the carpet and groaned, smashing my lips with
hers.

To hell with the consequences! I was condemned if I took her
and lost if I turned her down. This taboo was the most desirable of all. Ever
since coming from Philadelphia, Ronni tortured me with her presence. She was causing
me to act like a perverted teenage boy spying on her, like a peep show. I
really had tried to stay away from her and not touch her. I never meant for
this to actually happen but
she
came to
me
and I am not supposed
to act on her invitation?

“Cum. Cum to me,” I whispered in her ear. “Join with me. Be
mine.”
If only for one night. God help me, I am such a bastard!

Ronni opened her legs wide and I shoved myself into her as
deep as I could go. I rode Ronni like a man possessed. Damn she felt good!

“Move,” I grunted.

“Move harder,” I panted. “Dammit. Move like you mean it.”

Ronni became a wild woman in my arms and our bodies slammed
against each other.

Harder.

Harder.

Harder.

I must be a sex god and with every pound of flesh, Ronni
screamed as lightning zapped the sky.

I gave one loud cry and shuddered on top of her.

Our finale was the loudest boom of thunder. God may be
pissed at me for deceiving Ronni. He hurled from the sky a perfect dome of
light about six feet in diameter as if short aliens landed, but then the light
vanished from the window as lightning does.

“You can sleep in my bed tonight,” Ronni whispered, smiling
up at me in the soft light of my room.

I fell asleep on Ronnie’s frilly virginal bed. Oddly, my
conscience bothered me less though I should have felt guiltier for seducing her
into having intercourse with me. Ever since flying to Austin from Philly,
nightmares have plagued me, but tonight, I slept undisturbed by dark dreams.

Call me sentimental, but after tonight, I would no longer
think of the sex act with Ronni by the coarse word of fucking. Yeah, we had
intercourse, a higher class act.

My last thought as I drifted off to sleep was to put in a
good word for myself with God. I rarely talk to The Man in the white suit but guilt
ate at my guts for having sex with Ronni.

Ah, come on, God! Don’t be so pissed at me for my new
carnal knowledge of Ronni. I promise not to commit the act again.

To show God I meant every word, I snuck out of Ronni’s bed
around five in the morning to resist the temptation of morning hard-on, you
know when that part of a man’s body wakes up first.
Yeah, we guys have a
built in alarm cock.