Dishonor Thy Wife (8 page)

HUSBAND

I was sick of flying. I traveled to Philadelphia nine weeks
ago and then a few weeks ago made a fast trip, just an overnighter to another
city to meet up with my new best friend, the guy I met in Philly.

Texas pretty much had a flattop, a crew cut like a military
recruit. There were no mountains to contain the wind. Even in slightly hilly Austin,
wind howled through the broccoli-top trees.
Yeah, it is so windy in Texas
there are cows flying about.
A mail carrier blew through the office.

Brandy barged into my office waving a package. She was
looking to catch me with a female patient. Whenever an attractive woman sat in
the waiting room, Brandy would look at her with a surly expression. She threw
dirty fingers at the women when they were not looking. She was a married woman
who was sexually frustrated because I denied her my office couch. Brandy was
not part of the plan and there were already too many women in my life.

“Here’s a package for you, boss.” Brandy tossed her brown
hair and her bangs fell across her eye like the old time sultry actress
Veronica
Lake
.

“I see you’ve opened my mail again, Brandy.” I smiled grimly
at her. It would be lovely to get rid of Brandy. She made me feel guilty,
always watching my next move.

“It’s my job
to be nosy for you, Doctor Boss.” She waved the package
above her head. “A video from Canada, probably advertisement to buy Canadian
drug samples for your patients. Shall I play it?”

I nodded my head no, but she shoved the DVD into the player
any way and hit the play button.

What the bloody hell!
Elvis Presley’s voice blared
out from the player singing
Hawaiian Wedding Song
.

Beneath a sign that read:
I Want to Marry Elvis Wedding
Chapel,
a groom, dressed as Elvis tap-danced down the aisle in a room
filled with white flowers. He wore a replica of the infamous white, rhinestone-studded
jumpsuit, minus the big belly. A pair of dark shades balanced on the bridge of
his nose and a blue-black Elvis wig jiggled on his head. From the current
timestamp, it was August so like 130 degrees in Vegas. I could have fried an
egg on the sizzling sweat on his forehead.

Brandy and I leaned closer to the screen.

He stopped at an Elvis shrine with a picture of the king
meant to watch over the wedding ceremony.

An hourglass bride skipped down the aisle in a white mini
dress barely skimming her bottom. Steam puffed from beneath her skirt.
Yeah,
the devil lives in the heat of Vegas;
everyone knows this
after watching
Hollywood films featuring the devil sunning at a casino pool.

A veil cascaded down the bride’s back, brushing her fake
diamond-studded white satin heels. She skipped across a green-carpeted aisle,
singing, “Going to the
I Want to Marry Elvis Chapel
, and gonna get married.”

 I recognized the bride—Vanessa!

The groom stood with his hands clasped below his flat belly,
thumbs hooked in his belt, classic Elvis pose. A white cape flared out from his
broad shoulders. Fake rhinestone rings circled his fingers. He removed his
sunglasses and the camera took a close-up of his face.

Ohmigosh, I am so fuuuuuucked!

Brandy’s eyes were like saucers. “The groom is you, Dr.
O’Boyle and that’s not Mrs. O’Boyle you’re marrying. You committed bigamy and
could go to prison. Should I start looking for a job?”

The video started playing again and I pounded my head with
the remote. It was just like the klutzy bride to not wear her glasses and bump
into the minister, an Elvis impersonator who moonlighted performing Elvis
weddings. The minister was dressed in a copy of Elvis’ infamous black outfit.
Black shirt. Leather jacket with collar up. Leather pants. Black leather hat
cocked saucily on his head. He looked more like one of the
Village People
than Elvis the way he shook his tight buttocks in a feminine fashion. He even
had the same perspiration marks on his crotch and underarms as Elvis.

The minister smiled to the side of his mouth like Elvis and
drawled in his best Elvis voice, “Do you…”

I yanked the electrical cord from the outlet right before my
bologna sandwich spewed forth from my stomach and onto my desk.

Brandy gaped at the pile of regurgitated baloney.

I ordered her to, “Leave! I will clean up this mess. Don’t
breathe a word about the wedding to anyone.”

“Not even your wife?” she said, grinning.

“Shut up, Brandy, and close the door on your way out!”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Especially do not tell Ronni. Go! You can have the day off.”

The door closed behind her.

I clenched my fists longing to kill somebody! Someone was
messing with me. I would need to rent a room to watch the rest of the video. I
plugged the DVD player back in and hit the eject button with a shaky finger.

Frankly, I could give a crap that I was walking out on the patients.
Screw this medical practice! As far as the vomit on the desk, let it rot.

HUSBAND

Cheap tricks called for a cheap motel where men with no
homes and no teeth loitered in the parking lot. The dregs of society drank from
paper bags, puffing on used cigarette butts. One bum was spraying his throat
with hair spray. I bought a paper sack from one wino but turned down throat
spray to drink.

I had to pay an upcharge for a DVD player since the rooms came
with VCRs. The motel had videotapes to rent such as
The Giant Claw
starring
a monster with a face like
Big Bird
attached to his arm. Some of the other
doozies were
I Bought a Vampire Motorcycle
and
Death Bed: The Bed
That Eats
. Mm, that title did have possibilities.

Bigamy demanded a quart of whiskey and painkiller samples. My
pockets were stuffed with samples from the office stockroom which when mixed
with cheap wine could be toxic.

The sun shone through the thin windows of the room I rented
for an hour. The rays heated up the sand-colored carpet. The motel was stifling
hot like all inexpensive to-go rooms, but the internet was free, unlike
expensive hotels. Go figure.

The A/C of the heat pump was on full blast. Why did red-district
motels hang curtains longer than the air-conditioner flow? The curtains were
freezing but to watch the rest of the wedding I had to slouch in my undershorts
because of the stifling heat.

Every academy award potential film deserved a scratching of
sweat-soaked balls and munching on throat-sticking popcorn. The motel, like in
The
Bates Motel
, advertised a bag of piping hot popcorn with every room renting
for $22.99. Chopped-off shower curtains hung from nails above the windows,
except where the A/C unit was.

I sipped purple wine from a plastic hotel cup, the kind normally
reserved for piss during a urine drug test.

Yeah, I was a doctor who could afford a room at the Ritz,
but a video starring a man who could go to prison for marrying two women
without a divorce, deserved a nickel-vibrating bed. My head wobbled on my neck
from the massaging mattress, wine drops joining urine stains, but not my urine
stains. I already pissed myself in the office while watching the bride skip
down the wedding aisle
and hearing Brandy yell out the word BIGAMIST as I snuck out of the
office.

The Elvis minister drummed on his big belly. “Do you, Elvis
Presley, take this hot babe to be your wife?”

“I do take the hottie,” the groom belched in a botched impersonation
of Elvis. “I surely do, as my one and only wife, forsaking all others, ’til
death do us part.” He fished a black velvet box from his pocket and voila, the
box flashed a glittering diamond wedding ring.

“And do you, missy, take Elvis to be your lawfully wedded
husband?”

“I dooooooo,” Vanessa sang out.

“By the power invested in me by the state of Nevada, I
pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride, Elvis.”

“Ooooh, I feel faint. Elvis has never kissed me before!”

“That’s because he’s dead, Sugah. Do not forget to sign your
real name, Elvis, on the marriage certificate. Next!”

The groom moved closer to the camera. His eyes were laughing
at me.

“Asshole!” I threw the popcorn at the stilled video, and the
groom had his mouth frozen open. “I hope you choke on popcorn! You got married
again, you stupid bigamist!” I flipped him off, pushing my middle fingers at
the screen. “Suck me, man! You want to mess with my life, huh? Come on!”

I danced on bare feet like a champion boxer, punching at the
groom as he placed a ring on the bride’s finger and then covered the lens with
his hand.

The film went black.

A jackass of interest mailed the video from Canada.

Was I being blackmailed?

WIFE

My hubby (Yes, I now think of Brad as
hubby
like old
comfy shoes.) picks up the telephone on the eighth ring.

Farm-girl love shyness slams my heart against my lungs. “I,
uh, got your flowers, Brad. Thanks so much for your pleasant surprise.” The
roses are yellow like the color of a chicken’s beak. A large note card is
clipped to a leaf, with words written, scratched off, written, scratched off,
etc., until finally, the note reads,
How about going with me to the dance
Saturday night, the yearly ball the doctors are having for charity?
Like
the other flowers he sent, the note is unsigned.

“Uh, Saturday night sounds lovely. I’m looking forward to
the dance.” Brad has never asked me to the ball and I do a little kitchen dance.
Yes! Yes!

“Good. Good.” I can hear him swallowing and loosening his
tie. He is as nervous as I am, as if we are going to my missed high school
prom.

“Well...I know you are busy, so I’ll hang up now,” I offer.
Will
you bring me a corsage, a flower that hugs the wrist?

“Bye. Have a nice day,” he responds warmly.

“You, too, Brad.”

The phone clicks and I rush to buy a Cinderella dress, not a
kid’s princess ball gown, but a low-cut, butt-hugging, thigh-rising,
I’ll
make my husband proud
, red glittery dress Cinderella would wear if she knew
how good sex is with Prince Charming. I even get a sassy new haircut.

Something wonderful will happen after the dance. Brad is
going to say he really does love me and he wants us to try for a baby. We will conceive
in love the boy Brad always longed for.

Really, my joy and future plans are well thought out with a
clear head. Brad may have reverted to his old psycho self a while back but he has
not had a relapse since then. He is a good father and no longer taunts Traci to
tears. He does not yell at her if she asks help with her homework. “That’s
right, Sweetie, you’re really smart,” he says and kisses the top of her head
instead of asking me, “Traci doing well in school? Is she smart at least? Did
the kid inherit my brains?”

I trust Brad but Traci is always watching her father, as if
waiting for him to turn into someone else. She is blameless, however, because
of the couple of days here and there when Brad turned back into
Mr. Hyde
again. He had sat stiffly in his chair, diagnosing Traci’s flaws. “You should
feed Traci some calories. That little girl is skinny as a flagpole. She has
dishwater-blonde, stringy hair. Poor kid should have inherited my handsome
looks. Does she show any sign of aggressive behavior?”

No. Aggression is Brad’s territory, at least the old Brad.

“Does she show any wildness?”

Wildness is the former Brad.

Everyone deserves a fifth chance, even a waffling daddy. Traci
struggles to understand that because her father is adopted, he frets over his
unknown bloodline and what he may have passed on to her. Traci does not know
the pain of abandonment as Brad does. She really needs to believe Brad has
changed, as I do.

I even put the screwdriver that was under my pillow back in
the junk drawer. I had stuffed it back under my pillow after
Mr. Hyde
returned the first time but now that man is gone for good.

WIFE

My hand brushes Brad, groping for him in the darkness,
unable to believe that my prince sleeps besides me. The Texas Doctors’ Ball was
like a fairy tale and I drift off to sleep around three a.m., reliving the
dance like a favorite movie, and replaying scenes in my head.

We dance every slow dance and Brad holds me tight. I push
my body closer, shoving my leg in between his. Everyone else in the room fades
until we are the only couple dancing. Everything moves in slow motion. The
dance has a dream-like quality. At times, when the music stops, we dance and
when the music plays, we simply stand in the middle of the dance floor ignoring
other dancers. We talk about everything, about nothing, about the entire world.

A scream wakes me. “Traci,” I mumble to Brad.

The bed is empty on his side. There is an indentation on the
pillow and a note.

I run up the stairs to where the screams are coming
from—Brad’s room.

Traci stands in her father’s closet, her arms frozen at her
sides, and screaming bloody murder.

“What’s wrong, Traci?”

She rolls up in a ball and rocks. “My daddy is gone.”

“Oh, Sweetheart, Daddy isn’t gone. He probably just went out
somewhere. Maybe he’s playing golf or downstairs in the kitchen,” though this is
doubtful. Traci screamed so loud she would have woken the dead and Brad surely
would have come running to see what is wrong with her.

Traci stands on her bare toes, reaching for the hanging
clothes. She panics, sliding shirts across the wooden pole. She shoves pants,
and suits crowding the clothes over to one side of the closet.

Traci runs over to the hamper in the corner and throws dirty
clothes out, her eyes frantically examining each piece of clothing.

She knocks knickknacks off the shelves and looks under
trophies.

“Traci, what are you doing?”

“I’m looking for the clothes daddy wore from Philadelphia, the
new shirt and suit. The old suits never talk to me.”

“Don’t be silly, suits can’t talk.”

“Willard,” she says

“Who is Willard, Traci? Have you been talking to strangers?”
I shake her, thinking she has ignored my warnings.

“My horsey is finished,” she explains as if this makes
everything clear about why she is upset.

Traci drags me to her bedroom and points at the rocking
horse
with a
big blue bow around the neck, a sparkling brand new wooden creation smelling of
varnish and paint. My heart twists at the finished horse, and I fall in love
with my husband.

Brad made the horse so sad looking. The horse is a kid’s toy
for heaven’s sake, not a display for a mortuary to rock your way to the
afterlife.

“I don’t want Willard. I don’t want the horse!” Traci screams
and pounds her feet against the carpet.

“Calm down, Traci. Quit having a fit.”

I rock Traci on my lap in a corner chair until she is calm.

Brad’s golf bags are in his closet, so he is not playing
golf. Oh, well, he will be back soon. Brad finished Traci’s horse; else, I
would be peeved at him for not saying where he was going, or when he would return.
His travel bag is missing just like a few weeks ago.

“You keep looking so sad, Traci, and your face is going to
stay that way,” I say at the breakfast table.

Traci merely plays with her cereal.

I rip open Brad’s note, which he left, on my pillow.

I am sorry for everything.

What does he mean
everything
? Is he writing about the
other day when he was so cruel, or is Brad sorry for everything that happened
before Philadelphia?

I analyze every word spoken between us recently and come up
with nothing else for him to apologize for.

I will go crazy sitting in this house a moment longer.

I buckle Traci in the car and drive to Town Lake.

We sit on a bench watching the ducks swim.

I resist the urge to phone Brad and nag him with 20
questions.