The Man She Married

by Cathy Lamb

  Who would have guessed that a man who looked like a gangster could be so gentle and caring? I would never, in my life, forget that Zack was there for me every day, hours every day, when I was in that coma. I would never forget him begging me to wake up, his tears, how he fought for my life.

  He was my soul mate.

  He was the life of my heart even if he has secrets that he is not sharing with me. The police were suspicious of him. They knew something I didn’t. They thought he had something to do with this dangerous debacle we were in.

  But I knew this: Zack loved me. I loved him. I would protect my husband. I would be loyal to him, and to us, as he has always been to me. He would never do anything to hurt me. I don’t know what’s going on, but he’s my man.

  Sleep grabbed me, pulled me over and, hugging Zack, my tired brain shut off for the night.

  * * *

  I went to work on Monday at ten o’clock. For the first time in what seemed like forever I was wearing business attire, a blue skirt and blazer. There was black piping on it, which I liked, and I was wearing knee-high black boots, but it did feel constricting to be without my flowing cotton shirts and jeans. Justine greeted me with a hug, as did our employees, who clapped and cheered and rushed out of their offices to greet me. They smiled, they laughed, they hugged me again and welcomed me back. I thanked them for coming to see me, for the cards and flowers. I got teary eyed and said, “One thing you all should know. I cry all the time now, I’m a total baby.” They laughed. “Just ignore it.”

  I was overwhelmed, I was nervous about my abilities, and it felt absolutely surreal to be standing in our offices after being gone for so long. It was as if I went to another planet where a lot of bad things happened, then returned to civilization.

  It was great to be back at Knight and Fox, where I am the Fox.

  * * *

  Justine and I went to my office. She shut the door. Her hair wasn’t its usual neat, black silky mass, and she’d buttoned a blouse button wrong. She was clearly stressed and anxious. “We have way too much work here. I feel as if I’ve fallen off a cliff and I’m still falling,” she said. “Hope you’re here to catch my butt.”

  I buttoned her up right as we laughed.

  “I didn’t know you were going to come back to work and try to take off my clothes,” she said.

  “Had to check which bra you’re wearing.”

  When she was all buttoned up correctly, our jokes over, we had a business meeting. It took two hours. I could see why she was overwhelmed. I was overwhelmed thirty minutes into the meeting and had trouble tracking everything. At one point she stopped and said, “Are you okay?”

  “Yes. No. I’m trying to be a competent accountant, but it’s not working so well.”

  “Let me tell you about the Andreskys, then I’m out.”

  She gave me a few files. I shut the door when she left and lay down on my couch to breathe. I have a corner office, as does Justine, two windows. The front of my office is all glass, so I can see out. I have a long, wide desk. I have a table in the corner with four chairs and red pillows on my couch. I have two metal hummingbirds in one corner from my dad and a picture of Zack and myself in our drift boat.

  Our offices aren’t typical. We’re accountants, but we’re cool. We have an open work area and a conference room, with offices surrounding it. We have a collection of guitars hanging on one wall and framed posters of rock stars on another.

  Everyone was encouraged to decorate their offices in a way that resembled them. Abigail is a surfer, so she hung two of her old surfboards on a wall. Maggie plays drums in a rock band. When she’s stressed, she bangs on the set in her office. The rule: No longer than ten minutes.

  Monique is getting a master’s in literature. One of her walls is lined with the classics, and she has a life-sized cutout of Jane Austen. Terry likes knitting so she has baskets of yarn. She knits when she’s nervous.

  In the open area of our offices we have a table that people often work at together. The table is long and painted blue. A mural we all painted one afternoon stretches across one wall. Each person painted something/someone they loved. We had people and pets and childhood homes and a lake.

  We have plants on bookshelves. Ten colorful umbrellas hang from our high ceiling. We have wine in the fridge and coffee and tea all day. First Friday of the month is Pasta Day. Fourth Friday of the month is Chinese Food Day.

  I loved our firm.

  I was there for four hours.

  At the end of those four hours I knew I would not be working as a competent accountant anytime soon. The numbers swam. I couldn’t concentrate. My head started to hurt.

  I was not competent.

  I put my head down on my desk.

  Not. Competent.

  * * *

  The next afternoon Jed came in to our offices. Justine does his taxes.

  She was nervous. She always became nervous around Jed. She tried on three different outfits in front of me to find “the best one.”

  “Hard to figure out what to wear for the man you’re in love with,” she said. “Who would hate you if he knew the real you.” Her voice cracked.

  “He would never hate you.” I knew where the hate came from, and it wasn’t from Jed.

  “I hate myself.” She covered her face with her hands.

  “Justine.” I gave her a hug. “Please don’t.”

  “I can’t help it.”

  “Tell him. You’ll see. He won’t react the way you think.”

  “No, I can’t tell him. I don’t want to see his reaction. He’ll never look at me the same again.”

  What a mess. In some ways I was surprised that Chick never told Jed. But we’d made a promise years ago, the Moonshine and Milky Way Maverick Girls, and we’d all kept it. What’s a friendship if you can’t keep the secrets?

  “Hi, Jed.”

  He gave me a hug, ambled into my office, and sat down at my table to visit. “Natalie, seeing you here, it makes my day. I am so glad.” Those eyes teared on up. Jed is so successful in his career, but all I see is a brother who is not officially related to me. I see the brother who saved my life in the lake and who we followed around when we were kids. I see someone I can trust.

  “Thanks for coming to see me in the hospital and the rehab center.”

  “Of course.”

  “I really appreciated it.” Jed had sat with Zack and my dad many times, and he’d been a friendly visitor at the Brain Bang Unit. We’d even made a necklace together. Architect didn’t think he liked him, Soldier saluted and said, “I’ve cleared out the enemy for your visit,” and Frog Lady gave him a frog. It had been the usual. He’d also visited me at our apartment, bringing flowers and chocolates.

  “I’m glad I’m here, but I can’t get much done, Jed.” I took a deep breath. “This isn’t working. My brain is broken for complex numbers, tax laws, tax codes. . . .”

  His eyes grew serious. “I would think that being an accountant this soon after that head injury would be difficult.”

  “It’s more than difficult.” I leaned forward. “I wanted to talk to you about something.” We talked about the hit-and-run, the mangled Barbie, the dead bird, and the bullet through our window.

  “What do you think?”

  “I think someone is after you or Zack. Probably Zack.”

  I swallowed hard. “He said he thought it was an employee he’d had a falling out with. I asked him who it could be, and he was vague then said he didn’t know.”

  “It sounds like much more than what an angry employee would do.”

  I sagged. “Yes. It does.”

  He spoke aloud what I already knew: “It’s dangerous. The whole situation is dangerous. You should move out and go live with your dad.”

  “I don’t want to leave Zack.”

  “He should force you to move.”

  “He told me he doesn’t want me going to my dad’s.”

  “That doesn’t make sense. He should want to protect you.” />
  “I know. I don’t understand his reaction.”

  There was a long silence between us and in that silence hundreds of words and questions and worries flew back and forth.

  “So you’re sitting down with Justine to talk about your taxes,” I said, because I had no answers.

  Jed smiled, he flushed, he twitched in his seat. “Yes.”

  “Have a lovely time.”

  “Thank you. I will. I’m sure of it.”

  “Maybe you should take Justine to dinner soon, old friends and all.”

  “I’d like that.” His smile grew wider. “Do you think she would say yes?”

  “I absolutely do. You need to stop being shy around her.”

  “I’m trying.”

  “Try harder.”

  “I will. And think about moving home, Natalie.”

  “I will.” Maybe. Maybe not.

  * * *

  After Jed left, Justine and I left early. First we went to our favorite lingerie store, Lace, Satin, and Baubles, so I could add to my collection. I bought a sweet little black lace number with garters and a seafoam-green slip. Justine bought a pink one, backless. “A woman has to hope. Today I thought Jed was going to ask me out, but then he didn’t. Whatever. Maybe I was dreaming that up in my head.”

  Then we went for drinks in the city. I bemoaned the loss of my brain, she bemoaned not being able to be with Jed because of “the secret,” but she said, after a few drinks in a candlelit bar near the river, “Look at me, Natalie.” She waved a hand over her curves. “I want to give these lusty curves to Jed. I will say it again, loudly. I want to give these curves to Jed.”

  That time she said it on high volume, and many people turned to see what the sappy commotion was about. One woman raised her glass and said, “Go for it, girl,” and a man said, “I’ll take those curves, honey.”

  I clinked glasses with Justine, the guilt-ridden goddess. I was a CPA who couldn’t add numbers; someone was trying to kill me; and Zack, my yummy husband, had secrets and lied to me.

  It was a therapeutic, if semi-drunken night. As we left the bar, we stopped on a corner and sang Neil Diamond’s “Sweet Caroline,” and were delighted when other people joined in, with gusto: one group of men, in their fifties, who were obviously going to an event, all dressed in suits; a homeless man, who sang the best; and a couple who looked to be in their eighties, the woman holding a cane.

  We all then tootled our way over to “Cracklin’ Rosie” and a couple more of Neil’s songs.

  There is something about singing that is healing.

  My mother never sang to me.

  Chapter 15

  “I may have to leave Dell.”

  I brought my wineglass to my mouth. I was grateful the waitress had kept it filled. I needed it to help me get through this Mother Monster torture lunch. “Why do you have to leave Dell?” At the same time, I thought, We’ve had this conversation before. Here comes Divorce Number Five.

  “I am having a difficult time with his attitude.”

  I’d heard that line before, too.

  She flicked a hand through her blond hair. It was Amethyst Day. Light purple dress. The neckline was plunging. You could peek at her lavender lace bra. That’s what she wanted. When one marriage was going sour, she started hunting for a new husband, thus a plunging neckline.

  She was wearing amethyst earrings, necklace, and bracelet. She had driven from eastern Oregon, gone to a high-end salon in Portland, then arrived unannounced on my doorstep, as always.

  My mother simply appears. Like a vulture with a manicure. Like a shark with earrings. I had heard her high heels tapping outside my door before the ominous knock.

  Mrs. Godzilla insisted on going to lunch so she could “take you out of this hovel. My goodness. This is not how you were supposed to live, Natalie! This is not how the women in my family lived and it’s certainly not what I wanted for you. We’re not white trash!”

  White trash. Oh, geez.

  It was Saturday but Zack was at work. I had looked forward to a day of making necklaces as I shut out how wretched I felt about my fading accounting career.

  “You mean, Mother, you’re having a difficult time being married to Dell because he is limiting you to two thousand dollars a month in spending money?” I took a long gulp of wine.

  “No,” she snapped. “That is not it.”

  But it was, I knew it, she knew it.

  It was his lack of generosity, she said. His tight-fisted spirit. His excessive frugalness and selfishness. She took a swallow of her wine, her pinky up in the air.

  I tried not to laugh. We were in an expensive restaurant by a lake. My mother had ordered a salad. I had ordered steak, French bread, and a salad. I was eyeing a piece of caramel dulce de leche cheesecake.

  She said to me, after we’d sat down, “Now what kind of shirt is that to wear to a restaurant? Surely you could have dressed for our lunch?”

  “It’s a picture of one of Monet’s paintings, of his Giverny garden.” I loved this shirt. Every inch was covered with water lilies, the Japanese bridge, and shimmering water.

  She snorted through her nose. “Whose?”

  “Monet. I like wearing art.”

  “It’s a garden. Not art.”

  She surprises me sometimes with what she doesn’t know. I knew I would need a lot of wine.

  “Dell is simply not who he used to be when we were dating and at the beginning of our marriage.”

  “That’s because you were different when you were dating him and at the beginning of your marriage. You were flirty. You were kind. You listened to him. You didn’t take all his money. You didn’t make demands. You knew how to reel him in.

  “Dell had been married for forty-one years. His wife died two years before you met. You knew he was vulnerable and lonely. You comforted him, made him laugh. Then you slowly started to change after the wedding. He now believes he’s your bank and that you want him only for his money and for what he can provide. You’re not making him laugh. You’re not listening to him. You’re causing problems with his long-term employees, especially Glenda, and his neighbors, whom he has been friends with for years, if not decades. They don’t like you because you haven’t been nice to them and, more important, they see how you treat Dell.”

  She gasped. She put her hand to her chest, right over her light purple dress and the amethyst necklace that she’d told Dell to buy her. “You talked to Dell. How dare you! I am furious with both of you, and I will tell Dell that I will not tolerate him sharing our marriage problems with my daughter. My daughter, of all people!”

  “Dell didn’t talk to me, Mom. You did. And I know your pattern with husbands.”

  “I have no pattern, I am patternless.” She pointed at me. “You didn’t talk to Dell?”

  “No, Mother. It wasn’t on my list of things to do postcoma.”

  She signaled the waitress, who came over smiling, but I could tell her teeth were clenched. I clenched my teeth, too. My mother had ordered her salad, extra this, none of that, dressing on the side. Heat the bread to medium heat, no further. Bring my coffee, black, one tablespoon cream, half a teaspoon of sugar, a thick white mug. This time she said to the waitress, “Please take my plate away. I am through.”

  I rolled my eyes at the waitress so she would know we were in cahoots. I asked the waitress if she could bring me another glass of wine, and I ordered the dulce de leche cheesecake. I needed alcohol and dessert.

  “I have always been a perfect wife to my husbands.” She folded her napkin carefully, but I could tell she was rattled.

  “Have you?” No, she hadn’t. I felt that familiar wave of frustrated anger at her and her selfishness. She had been a lousy wife to my dad. I remember their arguments. I remember her screaming and throwing a plate now and then, a chair once, a side table, his books, and his chess set and checker board.

  “Yes. I am a perfect wife.” Her tone was edged this time, anger simmering. “I cater to their egos. I listen to th
eir drivel. I perform in bed with passion and exuberance and lie and tell them I’ve never had better sex. I clean their homes.”

  “You hire maids.”

  “I hand them drinks when they walk in the door. I smile as sweet as I can. I tell them how wonderful they are. I compliment them and laugh at their inane jokes.” She stopped, her eyes suddenly tired and cynical. “It’s exhausting.”

  “It sounds like it.”

  “I earn my money.”

  “Don’t say that. Please. You make it sound like a job you hate performing.”

  “Maybe I do.”

  I saw the sadness in her eyes and I should have felt pity, but I couldn’t. Hard to feel sorry for someone who repeatedly digs herself into the same problem and hurts other people doing it.

  Her voice lowered, trembled a tiny bit. “Dell used to like my cowgirl porn outfit.”

  “When did you dress up in that for him?”

  “When we were dating.”

  “Maybe you need to dress up in the cowgirl porn outfit.”

  She dismissed that thought with a swoosh of her manicured nails. “That was for dating only.”

  “That’s my point, Mother.” I might need three glasses of wine. “You did all kinds of things for Dell when you were dating. I remember seeing you date Dell. You were loving and cheerful and hugging him all the time. You smiled. You bought him little gifts. Then you got married, and you changed on him. It was bait and switch.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “Think about it.” The waitress came by and gave me my goodies, and I thanked her.

  “Maybe I could try on the cowgirl porn outfit again,” my mother said. “If it will make him be more generous.”

  The waitress almost dropped the wine. I steadied it.

  “Don’t do it so you can syphon off more money. Here’s the thing, Mom. You do this every time to your husbands. You lie to them. You lie about who you are and who you’re going to be as a wife.” I held my hand up as she tried to interrupt. “You know you do it. Maybe one time, Mom, this one time, you shouldn’t hurt your husband. You shouldn’t crush him. You shouldn’t get another divorce. Dell is your fifth husband, Mom.”

  “Natalie, I will not tolerate—”