Dishonor Thy Wife (7 page)

WIFE

I drink a bottle of wine sipping slowly, and holding dinner
in the oven, waiting for Brad.

Around 8:30, he finally slams the front door and yells, “I’m
home.”

I had planned to fling myself at him but I stand there like an
idiot with hands hanging limp at my sides. There is something different about
my husband or perhaps too familiar—his mocking look has returned and his eyes
are menacing.

Traci hugs my legs and peeks out at her father.

“
Trace
acts like she’s frightened of a rabbit jumping
from hole to hole,” he snorts.

 Traci runs from behind my skirts, up the stairs, into her
bedroom, and slams the door.

“Don’t call her Trace. Her name is Tra-ci,” I remind him
through gritted teeth.

“I named the girl myself because she looks like a trace of a
human being and not like some real person. Traci is a shadow, a faded stringy
kid. She must look like your family, pathetic losers.” He yanks off his tie and
stares at the material as if he might strangle me with it.

I swallow a lump in my throat. After Traci’s birth, Brad
stared down at her bassinet. “It’s a girl,” he had snapped, as if he should
shoot me between the legs for not giving him a son.

Brad now glares with cold eyes, and my heart beats like a
deer sensing danger. Brad sometimes acts crazy, but then he is a man. After a month
of hot sex, I have earned the right of a wife to know, “Where have you been?”

Brad throws back his head and laughs as if he just heard the
funniest joke. He must be amused at my performance in bed last night.
The
sex was not as good for him. He wants a woman more experienced. I can do
better.

Brad wipes tears of laughter from his eyes. “I was seeing
about a once-in-a-lifetime deal today. How have you been the last seven weeks,
Ronni?”

“Since you came back from Philadelphia? You know how I’ve
been.”

Brad narrows his eyes.

“I’ve never been happier.” I smile and gulp at the same
time.

Brad’s face darkens, like a man in shadows. He clenches his
fists and says softly, “You think I’m a changed man?”

“Yes, for the better.”

“Well, the old Brad is back so you better get used to me!”

I am not appreciative enough
. “Thanks for the roses,
Brad.” I balance on my toes to kiss his cheek.

He yanks his head away and I nearly fall. He lifts an
eyebrow. “So how many roses did you get?”

“Come, see for yourself.”

Roses surround the den, engulfing the room with an
overwhelming scent of romance.

Brad grabs a handful of my hair and yanks.

“Ouch!”

“I don’t know if these roses are for you, Ronni.” He grins,
smirking. “There is no name on the cards.”

Of course, he kids—who else would the flowers be for—Traci?

The note from the black roses had read,
For giving me
what I wanted.
I blush at the remembrance.
Maybe later this evening we
could... “
Brad?”

“Now what do you want, Ronni?”

“Want to…Are you going to work on Traci’s horse tonight?”

“Nope. Traci is going to have to look forward to a lifetime
of walking.”

“Oh, Brad, she is going to be so disappointed.”

“No more horsy for Traci.”

“Maybe we can at least buy her a rocking horse.”

He contorts his face into an ugly mask. “Are you deaf, bitch!
I said no horse for your daughter!” He strolls up the stairs. “Quit being a
pain in the ass, Ronni. Leave me alone! I am dog-tired. It’s been a hard day.”

Really? Tell me about your day. Where the hell have you
been? No, wait. Poor man said he was tired. Brad has a stressful job as a
doctor. Maybe he was at the hospital.

I resist the urge to follow Brad and slap him for calling me
a bitch. I pull the steak out of the oven and conjure up magic for supper, a
special meal as a prelude to a romantic evening. A bottle of sparkling wine is
just the thing to put Brad in a good mood.

The table is set for a candlelit supper and I sit there
dressed in a sexy short dress, my feet in high heel sandals, and my toenails
painted red from a pedicure this morning. My toenails match my wet-looking
lips. I, Ronni O’Boyle, had a makeover today.

Brad is in a better mood after showering and changing his
clothes. He strolls down the stairs, two at a time, whistling.

He sits on the sofa and slides open his cell phone, punching
in some numbers. His voice sounds like rays of sunshine. “Hi, Mom, it’s me.”

He speaks in a low voice, soothing his mother and reassuring
her of his devotion.

“Really, Mom? You want me to? Now?” He blows a kiss into the
phone and then hangs up.

“Since when did you make up with your mother?”

“None of your beeswax.” He opens the door to the garage,
twirling his keys.

“Brad?”

His past hateful look is back on his face, cracking me in
two. Even my voice shakes as if Brad shattered my tongue. “Dinner is ready.
See.”

He blows out the candles and snorts. “I’ll catch a bite
later.” His eyes roll down my body, sneering. “I’m not hungry now.”

His car backs out of the driveway, and the stench of four
dozen roses is nauseating. “Jekyll and Hyde,” I mutter, “Brad number one is
back.” I hurl Brad’s plate, and two rare steaks slide slowly down the wall,
leaving a trail of bloody marks.

Someone is crying her heart out.

“Oh, Traci, sweetie.”

My little girl is sitting on the bottom step with her head
in her lap, sobbing. She mumbles in a voice filled with hiccups, “He’s back.”

The phone rings.

“Hello?” I answer in a harsh voice.

“Hello?” I say louder.

“Hello,” I yell.

Click.

I slam the phone on its cradle.

With any luck, the person will not call back. There was a
heavy breathing that creeped me out.

“Mommy?”

“What is it, Traci?”

“I heard a scratching at the window.”

I pat her head with a shaky hand, trying to reassure her. I tiptoe
around the house, listening for noises, and double-checking the locks, and then
set the alarm.

Traci kneels by her bed praying, “Please send my daddy back
to me.”

I lay in bed, listening for Brad, remembering all the ugly, threatening
things he has said to me in the past. I jump out of bed and lock the bedroom
door.

Finally, he stumbles into the house at 1:55 in the morning.

He was sober enough to disarm the alarm!

I jump out of bed and rearm the alarm. A button is marked
Police
.
The cops will be here in minutes if I ever push this button. It is insane that
Brad is frightening again. Just last night, we had sex and slept together. He
sent me roses! I am afraid to leave my room and get the screwdriver. I was an
idiot to put it back in the kitchen drawer.

At least Brad is not snoring tonight in his own room. Yet, I
am disappointed that he did not at least try the doorknob to my bedroom.
Stupid, stupid! Why even want such a thing when my meat is decaying on the
dining room floor! I will clean up the mess in the morning. Brad so
disheartened me that I just did not feel like dealing with the spoiled dinner.

I barely sleep and in the morning go downstairs to clean the
kitchen and dining room. The thorn of a rose jabs my toe. My beautiful roses
are scattered across the den carpet. Someone deliberately tried to destroy the
flowers.

Traci is mad at her father for not working on her horse
yesterday. She has never been destructive like Brad but his moods may finally
be affecting her. Did Traci swing the roses around her head, fling the roses to
the ground, and stomp on them?

I clean up the destroyed flowers, tears dripping down my
cheeks. Only a dozen are damaged. Brad sent me flowers and said he was sorry.
He deserves a second…a third chance.

Brad walks into the kitchen and pours a glass of water.

I smile brightly and sing, “Good morning, Brad. I made you
breakfast.”

He makes a face at the eggs and bacon, holds his stomach,
and gags. “What are you all of a sudden? Betty Crocker?” He dumps the plate of
food in the garbage disposal. “The smell of eggs is nauseating. You are trying
to make me sick! Is that what you want? To poison me!” he hollers.

“You are crazy Brad!”

“I told you to never call me crazy! You know my real parents
gave me up for adoption. Who knows if mental disease runs in my blood?”

You are welcome for breakfast, schizo.

Over the noise of eggs and bacon crunching in the garbage
disposal, Brad’s car roars out of the garage.

Quit messing with my mind, Brad, and driving me insane!  
I
clench my hands on the counter and want to scream. He is making me nuts. For seven
weeks, the man eats breakfast every morning. Now he claims eggs make him ill.

Traci is hiding under the table. She is gurgling as though
choking.

I wipe my mouth with a trembling hand.
I must see to
Traci. Oh, God, what is Brad doing to us?

“Why are you hiding under the table, Traci?”

Her eyes are round as saucers. Her teeth are chattering. “When
is Daddy coming back?” she whispers as if Brad might hear.

“Pay no mind to your father. He has a very stressful job
fixing sick people which sometimes put him in a bad mood.”

I drag her out from under the table and serve her a plate of
scrambled eggs.

Traci kicks the table, her face stretched into a tight mask.
She keeps repeating, “When is Daddy coming back? When is Daddy coming back?
When is Daddy coming back?”

WIFE

I sleep lightly, aware of my surroundings as my brain farts.

A hand crawls beneath my nightgown. “Brad,” I murmur and
turn on my back.

He buries his face in my neck, working his lips up to my
ear. “Ronni,” he whispers.

He lifts his leg on top of mine and I stroke his cheek. “It’s
midnight. Where have you been?”

“I was working late at the hospital.”

“On a Sunday?” I murmur half-asleep even though technically
it is now six in the morning on Monday.

“A doctor’s day is never done, my love.”

For that endearment, Brad deserves a fourth chance. I
straddle him, yank my nightgown over my head, and flip on the lamp. “You won’t
be disappointed in me.”

He grabs a handful of my hair, lowering my lips to his.

He is hurting my scalp but my voice is mum else the moment
may be ruined to prove that I am not a boring lover.

“I’ve never felt anything as good as your touch,” he groans.

I remove my hand from his rock hard shaft and circle his
chest with my nipples, running my tongue down his chest.

“God,” he says in a ragged voice with a tongue so thick I can
barely understand him. “Ronni.” He lowers his head and sucks on my nipple right
through my nightgown.

I throw off my nightgown and shove my breast in his mouth.
He sucks with loud gulping noises as if I am his lifeline.

I hump against him, moaning, crying with delight at the passion
this man makes me feel. I may pass out from the sensation as a warm liquid seeps
between my thighs and I actually weep there. All I can think of is
him, him,
him.

Brad makes love like a desperate man, as if we parted for a
month and not just a day.

I long to ask him where he went but then I might have to
confess that I ransacked his closet and discovered his overnight traveling bag
was gone.

Brad whispers sweet nothings in my ear, and I have my
husband back.
Dr. Jekyll
has returned.

We are both sated and sleep like two spoons, at least, Brad
sleeps.

I tiptoe to his room. The traveling bag is stuffed back in
its corner.

The sun rises like an over-easy egg poking from a fluffy
white cloud. I lay beside him, examining every line of his face, looking for
any sign of
Mr. Hyde
.

He flicks his eyes open. “How long have you been watching
me?” he says in a
curiosity-killed-the-cat
tone.

“You’re snoring again.”

“I, uh, am taking this new medicine. I need to get ready for
work.” He throws the covers over my naked body as if the sight sickens him.

“Now what?” His voice is biting, impatient.

“I was just wondering…” I play with the sheet not wanting to
look at him, fearing what I may see. “Was it, uh, good for you?”

He gathers his clothes as if the answer is in a blue shirt
or khaki pants. He sits on a corner of the bed and smiles with cold eyes. “Sweetheart,
you are so good that if I don’t get off your bed right now, I’ll definitely be
late for work.”

“Brad?”

He turns from the doorway.

“You didn’t ask if it was good for me.”

“It was.”

“Well maybe I was faking it.”

“You weren’t.”

“Do you, uh, think some time maybe you can stop using the
rubbers? It might be nice to have a baby before Traci gets much older.”

He staggers, clinging to the doorframe for support. He croaks,
“No way!” He has actually turned green at the thought of having another child
with me.

I yank the bed sheet over my head. Dryer tissue is toxic. I
could kill myself by simply breathing if enough of the perfumed tissues were
tossed into the clothes dryer—Death by Fabric Softener. If I shredded some
sheets of the tissues and sprinkled the bits in Brad’s cereal, would it soften
his heart? Would it help if I grab him around the waist and agitate him so that
the sprinkles of softener sheets bounce against his chest?

Having a baby with me seems to be agitator enough; Brad is
vomiting upstairs in his bathroom. Ah, now his shower is running and he is
scrubbing my fingertips off his skin. I cuss for bringing up the subject of
another child so soon. Our changed relationship is as fragile as silence or as
changeable as a Jekyll and Hyde.

By the time I shower and dress, Brad is wolfing down breakfast.

“I thought the smell of eggs makes you sick.”

He holds the fork in midair, his face flushing. “I’m
starving. I had a shitty supper last night. Tasted like airplane food.”

I slam a bucket on the floor next to him. “In case you need
to vomit again.”

Traci shuffles into the kitchen and stares dejectedly at
Brad.

He smiles.

“You’re back, Daddy!” Traci throws her arms around his neck
and kisses Brad on the cheek.

He laughs uncomfortably and drags her onto his lap, tickling
her.

“See, Traci, your father was overworked yesterday so he was
in a bad mood.”

“Well, I won’t be working late tonight,” he adds. “I’ll be
busy with Traci’s horse.”

Later, Brad is as good as his word and the hammering coming
from the basement is soothing.

Viola calls and Brad stands at the bottom of the basement
stairs, shaking his head no.

“Well, sweet mother-in-law, I hate to tell you (
not
)
that Brad refuses to speak with you.”

“You douche-bag liar,” she screams at me. “You are nothing
but a worthless, bottom-feeding leech. You…”

“Blowfish! Eat my scum!” I slam the phone down.

Brad pokes his head up from the basement stairs. “Are you
alright?”

“Your mother accuses me of turning you against her. Why
aren’t you speaking to her?”

“She’s too suspicious,” he mumbles.

“About what?”

“About everything.”

He is the new-and-improved Brad, my Dr. Jekyll, but more
secretive than ever.

All week long, we are a happily married husband and wife.

Every night a glass of wine gives me courage. “Coming to
bed, Brad?” My voice is soft and promising and Brad stumbles after me, his
pants swelling, and his tongue thick, his eyes glazed with passion.

In the mornings, he nibbles my chin, waking me to love
making.

Another week, he is still going into work late. “I can’t get
enough of you,” he whispers in a husky voice.

With each passing day, Brad’s voice sounds more tortured as
if he is heading towards his doom.