Coming Together With Pride

by Alessia Brio, J Buchanan, Lisabet Sarai

  "Cooler?” David asked. A big smile crossed his face. “Did you bring a pie?"

  David's father snorted. “Pies."

  "A chocolate, a lemon meringue, and a coconut cream,” Bernice said. “Well, I figured since Muriel is too busy to bake you anything, someone had to do it."

  I smiled while trying not to break my teeth from clinching my mouth so tightly.

  "Where is everyone?” David's sister yelled.

  "Patty, we're back here!” David called and hurried to his sister. “Dad, I'll get the cooler."

  The older man nodded.

  After everyone's coolers were unloaded and the goodies put on the picnic tables, Patty held out a bag and said, “Here's your kitchen rug, Muriel."

  I opened the bag and pulled out the hand-braided rug. “Oh, I love it. You picked the perfect colors. The rug will suit my kitchen to a T. Look, honey, isn't it beautiful?"

  David ran his fingers over it and said, “Sis, you did a good job on this rug. It must have taken you weeks."

  "Not really. It wasn't that hard. Besides, nothing is too much for my little brother,” Patty said. “Oh, Mom, you have to come over and see the new curtains I made for the dining room. They turned out better than I hoped."

  I saw David nudge his sister.

  Patty cleared her throat. “Uh ... You, too, Muriel. Please, come over."

  "Yes, she should see them,” Bernice said. “A man loves it when a woman decorates their home. It shows she appreciates how hard he works for her. Muriel, dear, I've noticed that you don't have flowers anywhere in the house. That's a shame."

  I smiled, shrugged, and clinched my teeth.

  "Patty, did you try that recipe for sweet potatoes I gave you?” Bernice asked.

  "Last night. Harry loved it."

  "You know, Muriel, it wouldn't hurt you to try to cook a little. David loves my sweet potatoes. Cooking is a much more necessary skill than dancing. A man loves a woman who cooks. It's not always about sex, dear."

  "My goodness—pies, curtains, flowers, sweet potatoes, and no sex. I'm going to be a busy girl, and apparently horny,” I said.

  Bernice stiffened, and Patty giggled.

  "Uh, honey, can you help me get the hamburgers from the kitchen?” David asked.

  "Of course.” I got up and almost ran into the house.

  David was right behind me. “Now, Muriel, please. My mother means well."

  "I just don't understand.” I pulled out a chair and plopped down. “When we were dating, she seemed to like me."

  "She does. She just worries about me."

  David knelt beside me and took both of my hands. “It doesn't matter if you can't cook or make things. I love you."

  "Does that mean you'll go to the Crystal Ball with me?"

  "No!” David kissed my hands and stood. “Nice try, though.” He got the hamburgers out of the refrigerator and headed outside toward the grill. “Come here, Dad. I need your expertise."

  David's other sister arrived and from that moment on, I was left out of the conversation. Not that I had much to contribute. I didn't sew, cook or make rugs.

  * * * *

  "They get in this huddle and go on and on about their latest project. I have nothing to offer,” I said to David while we were cleaning up.

  "You worry too much. I love you as you are.” David kissed my forehead, and I sighed. “Muriel, if it bothers you that much, sign up for one of those sewing classes that Patty told you about."

  "I don't see why I have to change to please Patty or anyone else in your family."

  "You don't have to change—just bend a little. My mother and sisters don't understand a thing about your activities. They don't hike, bike, or swim. God knows they don't dance. So, they discuss what they know."

  He was probably right. They were homemakers—homemakers of the June Cleaver variety. I'd never known anyone who made her own clothes, let alone knitted sweaters and scarves, crocheted doilies, made afghans, and hooked rugs. On top of that, those women were excellent cooks. I burned toast. David was the chef in our home, and that was only on the grill.

  "Look, all I'm saying is go to that place and check it out."

  I gritted my teeth but nodded. There was no need for a repeat performance of what happened when David asked his mother to sew a few buttons on his favorite shirt. I thought the woman was going to have a stroke. She gasped and clutched her chest. If she knew how those buttons got loose, I'd be more than dead.

  As I wiped off the counter, I couldn't get that look out of my head. Perhaps I could bend. Since it was summer and I was off for the next couple months, it wouldn't hurt me to check out Needles & More. After all, I'd overheard Patty telling her mother that David's ex-fiancée was back in town and single. I knew she could do all those things that Bernice wanted me to do.

  Needles & More was huge. The brochure stated that classes were offered on practically anything involving a needle—basic sewing, crocheting, knitting, cross-stitch, needlepoint, quilting, weaving, rug hooking, even stringing beads.

  After I entered the building, I didn't move. There were groups of people everywhere, and all of them seemed to be talking at once. I was getting ready to leave when a well-dressed woman rushed over to greet me. “Hello. My name is Anna. Welcome to Needles & More. Can I help you?"

  I blinked and realized that I was totally out of my element. “I, uh, I wanted to make something, uh, simple, to show my mother-in-law."

  Anna grinned. “I'll fix you up. Having so many choices can be a bit overwhelming.” She glanced at her watch and said, “There's a new class about to begin. Participants will learn how to make a skirt in an hour. Very simple. Class starts in a few minutes. Interested?"

  "Make a skirt in an hour? You bet I'm interested.” This might not be so bad after all—and only require an hour of my time.

  "Let's get you signed up. Then you can purchase your pattern and materials.” Anna led me across the room to a small group of women and ten workstations. I added my name to the list, and she led me over to bolts of material. “See anything you'd like to wear?"

  I nodded and pointed.

  Anna frowned at the shiny black fabric I selected. “It's not a recommended choice for a first project, my dear. Especially for a beginner. That type of material is hard to work with, even for trained experts."

  Well how hard could it be to make a short skirt? I didn't need much material and might finish it in half the time. “I understand, but that's what I want. Black goes with everything."

  Anna shrugged and cut the yardage needed for my project. She picked out the zipper and totaled the bill. Almost seventy-five dollars. A back-pleat side zip from Victoria's Secret was only $39.95 with shipping.

  Since the class participants had to wait until I was seated at my workstation, I got more than one dirty look directed my way. When I tried to pin the pattern to the material, the straight pins stabbed my fingers. Damn! The scissors cut crooked. Shit! The material slipped off the table and puddled on the floor, much like I wanted it to do when I removed it for a night of seduction. Fuck! The instructor, Edna, reminded me several times to watch my language.

  I had planned on keeping the class a secret, but Edna informed me that I needed extra evening classes to keep up with the others. I had to tell David and made him promise to keep it a secret.

  "A shiny black thing, huh? Even if my mother doesn't like it, I'm sure I will."

  He said he'd be fine without me for an evening or two and that he was pleased I was making an effort. I was surprised, however, that he didn't argue about the expense and time it was taking away from him.

  Seven days, a broken pair of scissors, loss of patience, and a couple less strands of hair later, I was ready to model my skirt for the class. Luckily, I had discovered that duct tape worked well to keep the zipper, which had been ripped out so often that the material of that section was frayed at the edges, in place. The skirt hung a bit crooked, but with the blouse I'd selected, it looked good when I practiced a twi
rl in front of the mirror. I couldn't wait to get home to show David.

  When Edna called my name, I strutted in front of the ladies wearing my stilettos and a big smile. Edna clicked her tongue and gave a hard tug on my skirt. The zipper pulled out in her hand and the skirt puddled at my feet. It looked really nice lying on the floor, just like I'd imagined. I thought the silky thong I wore made my hips look pretty good, but Edna didn't see it that way.

  "Please cover yourself,” she said and summoned Anna. I was asked to try another class.

  Anna suggested knitting. I bought knitting needles and yarn. I wanted to make a scarf. The instructor, Betty, said I had to learn the basics. I couldn't cast the yarn on the needle or keep straight the difference between knit and purl. But I could imagine the scarf as a G-string, and I could imagine dancing in front of David wearing only that. I could just picture him taking a strand of the skimpy G-string yarn and pulling. I'd unravel like a Christmas present, standing in front of him in my birthday suit.

  Betty interrupted my daydream. “Your stitches are getting much too tight."

  She was right. I couldn't get them off one needle and onto another. For a moment, I considered asking Betty if I could learn to make a G-string in a caramel color to match my pussy hair. One look at her stern face changed my mind.

  "This is just for practice, Muriel, but you need to focus. Now rip the stitches apart and start again. When that's done, you'll do it again and again. You need practice, practice, practice."

  After that reprimand, things got out of control. My patience was gone. During my practice, practice, practice, I used too much force, force, force—and the yarn knotted into a clump. When I pulled on it, the clump shot across two workstations and landed on the head of one of the women. It looked like a bad toupee, and I laughed out loud.

  "Maybe knitting isn't your thing,” Betty suggested.

  Next was cross-stitch. That class wasn't any better than knitting. Crocheting turned out to be just as bad. Quilting wasn't for me either. Anna had to be summoned again.

  "Muriel, perhaps you're not meant to sew,” Anna said.

  "Well, I've spent a lot of money here over the last several weeks, and I've made nothing to show my husband or my mother-in-law. There has to be some class that is perfect for me."

  Anna sighed and led me to another workstation. She handed me a long, blunt needle with a piece of rawhide tied to it and a bucket of beads. “You can thread some lovely necklaces. Children love to make them for gifts. I'm sure you'll have no problem with this project.” She walked off.

  I looked at the needle and at the women watching me. They twittered when I picked up the needle and a handful of beads. I grabbed my purse and left. Once I was in my car, I realized that I still had the beads in my hand. Maybe I could string them together and do a belly dance for David.

  Perhaps I could tie them so they hung at different lengths and as I shimmied and shook, they would brush against my legs, my pubic hair and my butt. For a brief moment, I wondered if I should return the beads, but decided they could bill me. A naughty thought crossed my mind. David could insert a bead into my pussy and fish it out with his tongue. Then an even naughtier thought crossed my mind. Quivering with anticipation, I clinched myself, my pussy, and my asshole both. I drove home as fast as possible, with every intention of flinging myself into David's arms and confessing my ineptness. His mother would love this.

  Except my adoring husband wasn't home. I checked the kitchen, the living room, and the den. Everything was spotless, just as I'd left it. Then, I went upstairs to check our bedroom. There was evidence he'd been there and had taken a shower. Wet towels lay on the floor along with his dirty clothes. I noticed his wristwatch on the nightstand. That's where he always put it right before showering.

  My inner alarm went off. Where was my husband? Why hadn't he been fussing over my absence from home? I returned to my car and drove to his office building. David's car wasn't there. I checked out two clubs, two bars, and a strip joint located on the outskirts of town—all the places his office “entertained” clients from out of town. No David. I wasn't sure whether to be angry or worried. I drove back home.

  David's car was in the driveway and the lights were on in the house. The moment I opened the front door, I heard, “Honey, is that you?"

  I went into the living room. There was David surrounded by the newspaper, page after page scattered about him. It looked like he'd been home all evening.

  "Thank God, you're home,” David said. “I've missed you."

  "And apparently the trash can. What a mess.” Even though my mind was racing, I kissed him and cleaned up the papers. I might not cook, but I am tidy. Next, I went into the kitchen. Dishes were everywhere. After putting things away, I hurried upstairs. The towels and clothes were gone. Even his watch was absent. He'd covered his tracks. My husband was up to something.

  Two nights later, the phone rang. I peered at the clock and saw it was only one in the morning.

  David answered it without me asking. “Hello. Yes. Yes. Uh, same time. Bye."

  "Who was that?” I asked.

  "Uh, my mom."

  It wouldn't have surprised me if it had been his mother. I rolled over and went back to sleep.

  But I knew something wasn't right. Instead of going to the next class, I parked down the street from the house and waited for David to get home. Sure enough, after just enough time for a shower, he left the house. I followed him, but I was afraid to follow too closely, and I lost him in traffic. Two nights later, the same thing happened. It took me four tries before I discovered where he was going. After that, I'd drive to the place and wait for him to show up. His behavior was like clockwork. I timed him by my watch. Right on the dot at six o'clock, he'd pull up in his Ford and hurry into the renovated warehouse. I'd found a secluded spot behind a privacy fence and clump of trees to park my car.

  Over the course of several days, I'd done a lot of reconnaissance and asked tons of questions. Amazing how much people will talk when you carry a clipboard and act professional. The elevator, which had been a freight lift, had an up-and-down wooden gate, which was much too noisy. There was no way I could reach the fourth floor without anyone hearing me. Then I'd discovered that the stairs were actually an emergency exit, and the outside door was never locked. That exit had been added to bring it up to fire code when the owners renovated the building into six studio lofts. The stairs were my only way up.

  The next late night phone call was handled a bit differently. Just as I went to answer it, David grabbed the receiver away from me and left the room. When he returned, he said it was his mother, but I didn't buy it for a second.

  That was the morning I noticed David's bruises when he stepped out of the shower. He had a big black bruise on his thigh and both of his knees were a brownish purple.

  "What happened to you?"

  "Nothing,” he said. “Why are you asking?"

  "You have bruises all over your body."

  "Oh, that's just tag football. The guys get a bit rough."

  Later that morning while I was doing laundry, I caught a whiff of perfume. Not my brand. David's clothes continued to have that smell for weeks.

  I'm not sure why I didn't confront David right at the beginning, instead of resorting to the subterfuge. Maybe in the back of my mind I knew I'd make him pay dearly if I discovered he'd been cheating. But I do know that the unexplained phone calls in the middle of the night, bruises on his body, and the strange perfume on his clothes pushed me over the edge.

  * * * *

  My right hand was jammed deep into my jacket pocket as I leaned against the windowsill. I couldn't help but finger the .357 Magnum hidden inside. David had bought the gun when there were a series of break-ins around the neighborhood and he'd known he was going to be out of town for a couple weeks. He'd taken me to the shooting range and made sure I knew how to use the weapon. “Pretend the target is a rapist,” he said. “Blow the fucker away."

  He'd been so sweet, worr
ying about me. The morning he left for his trip, I thought he was a bit teary-eyed. He called every day, but nothing happened while he was away. The gun was hidden in the closet and forgotten.

  The steel gray titanium barrel felt cool to my touch, reminding me that I needed to be as hard as steel. I traced the dips of the cylinder with my fingertips and wrapped my fingers around the rubber handgrip. The pad of my thumb rested on the grooved hammer, and my index finger poised over the trigger. I was going to kill my husband and the whore he was fucking, and I was going to do it with his own gun.

  It was hard to believe that only six months ago my life was fine, and now I was plotting to commit cold-blooded murder. If I pressed my cheek against the glass and tilted my head at just the right angle, I could see the approaching traffic. I'd done this many times during my tailing of David.

  My finger touched the trigger. I was going to wait until I was sure they were in the throes of passion. Then I'd step into the room, call out his name, and shoot him before he had time to pull his cock out of that slut's cunt. Of course, the whore would beg for her life. I'd pretend to listen before putting a bullet in her. After that, I'd scream and cry. Maybe I'd faint. I took drama in college—I could pull it off. The authorities would call it a crime of passion. I'd claim to have no knowledge of guns, and then I'd withdraw into a world of silence, never saying another word. I had it all figured out.

  The sound of the elevator brought me out of my reverie. I opened the door leading to the stairs and prepared to step inside. A quick peek assured me it was David. Somehow, I had missed seeing him drive up. I stepped into the stairwell and waited. When I heard the door close, I peered into the hallway. He was inside the apartment.

  In regard to most things, David was a creature of habit, so I knew I had a few more minutes to wait before making my entrance. His lovemaking was the same. First, some small talk. Then he'd kiss her neck before moving to her lips. His hands would caress her breasts, while his thumbs and forefingers tweaked her nipples. He'd remove her clothes. His would already be off. He loved to strut around with his dick bouncing to and fro. I loved it, too.