Marriage Made Me Do It

by Ashley Fontainne

  Without a word, Carl Andrew Davenport wrapped a towel around his waist, hobbled downstairs, gathered up his pre-packed belongings, and slithered out to the garage. In seconds, his precious, expensive toy roared to life.

  Watching the taillights from the living room window, I stared in silence until they disappeared. Once gone, I glanced at my watch. Eight-fifteen. Oh, right on schedule. Damn, but I’m good!

  Bounding up the stairs, in a rush to clean up the mess before Carol returned, I laughed. I needed to hurry so I’d have time to write down the night’s fun in my journal so I could relive the memories for years to come.

  While cleaning the mess upstairs, it dawned on me I was humming. God, I had crossed the line of sanity, done things I’d never thought I was capable of, all with a smile on my face and song on my lips.

  Guess I’ll always be a suburban housewife at heart, just one with a newly discovered mean streak.

  A very, very mean streak.

  That’s certainly not in the Handbook, but it landed at the number six spot in my new one.

  Roxy’s New Rule Number Six: Release the inner beast when someone hurts you.

  Check! I’d earned a bunch of credits tonight! No negative marks here, except on Carl’s end. His red, bleeding rear end.

  ***

  Twenty minutes before ten p.m., I finished removing all traces of the evening. Sweat dripped down my face while I bundled the trash bags up and carted them to the garage. It was time to celebrate with wine, smokes, and hot water, after adding my first adventure in the journal. My handwriting was atrocious as I scribbled on the pages.

  Satisfied I’d entered enough to give me plenty of enjoyment later, I hit the water. I needed to give my body and mind a treat before Carol arrived home. The wine would take the edge off my overtaxed brain before I told her the news.

  Grabbing a full bottle of Moscato and the cigarettes, body clad in my demure one-piece, I entered the water. I managed to down two glasses and inhale three smokes when I heard Carol’s VW Bug pull into the driveway.

  “Sorry, baby. I know this is going to hurt, but believe me you’ll thank me for it later. You’ll figure out soon enough what kind of man your father is.”

  The front door slammed and Carol’s footsteps drew closer. My heart pounded.

  “Mom? Mom?”

  Clearing my throat, I yelled: “In the hot tub, baby. Come join me! The water’s perfect!”

  My beautiful daughter appeared at the sliding glass doors, all young, fresh-faced, and full of innocence. I was angry at Carl before, but now, I downright hated him for the pain I was about to cause her.

  “Put your suit on, honey. I want to hear all about your visit with Grandma.”

  Normally, Carol would scoff and ignore the offer. The last two years had pulled us apart. Maybe it was the look on my face, the cool breeze and inviting hot water, or simply that Carol wanted to spend time with me, knowing school would occupy all her time soon. Who knows? Whatever the reason, she nodded and disappeared back inside. Less than five minutes later, she joined me, dressed in strips of material sold as a bathing suit. Bra and panties cover more skin than the skimpy thing.

  “So, how’s Grandma?”

  Carol’s pert nose crinkled. “Same. She didn’t recognize me or Liz. Well, not true. She still thinks I’m her friend Emma. It’s so very sad. The vacant, distant look behind her eyes breaks my heart. Don’t be mad, but I took one of the funeral card things—”

  Stunned, I interrupted: “You took a remembrance announcement?”

  “Yes. Please, don’t be mad at me.”

  I softened my tone. “Honey, I’m not angry. Promise. I just wish you’d have waited until Aunt Becca or I were with you, in case Grandma had a moment of clarity and remembered. I wouldn’t want you to deal with that on your own.”

  Carol blew out a huff of air. “Thanks for not being upset, Mom. It didn’t matter, though. When I handed it to her, there was no spark of recognition. She stared at it for only a second then asked me if the girl who died was one from the old neighborhood. It’s so sad. God, I don’t think there’s anything worse than losing your mind.”

  “I agree. A little piece of me dies every time I go see her. She looks so frail, so confused. Grandma’s body is somewhat healthy for her age, but her mind isn’t. When I’m old, I’d much rather my situation be the other way around.”

  Carol grimaced. “Don’t talk like that, Mom. You’re still young! All my male friends think you’re a MILF.”

  “Gee, um, thanks for sharing?” I laughed.

  “It’s been a long day for me, so, may I?” Carol pointed at the bottle of Moscato. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Following her gaze, I contemplated saying no. In the end, knowing it wouldn’t be the first glass of wine she’d tasted, and certainly not the last given she was heading to college soon, and the news about her parents’ divorcing was lingering, I acquiesced. “Just one.”

  “Three?” Carol countered.

  “Two—and you’ll need a glass.”

  Smiling, Carol stood and went to the outside bar and brought a wine glass back. After filling it to the rim, she slunk back into the tub. “How are you holding up, Mom? I know this has been really a rough last two weeks.”

  Choking back a lump of tears at how much Carol had changed during the last few months, I contemplated saying something along those lines. I didn’t, fearing if I dared broach the subject, even if said with flowery words and a huge grin, she might perceive the comment as a dig at her past behavior. It was wonderful to see and hear the concern in her voice, which I equated with love. “Don’t worry about me, sweetheart. I’ll be fine. I’m more concerned about how you’re handling Aunt Rachel’s death. I know how close you two were.”

  Carol’s eyes filled with tears. “I miss her so much and can’t believe I’ll never get to talk to her again. I wanted her to see me graduate from college and veterinary school. You know, I had this mental plan of opening a vet clinic and asking her to work with me. It would be her dream job, and mine.”

  “That’s so sweet. How come you never told me that before?”

  Shrugging her shoulders, Carol took a long gulp of wine while staring at the water. “I don’t know. Maybe I thought it was a silly, childish dream.”

  “Baby, it’s not silly. It was a wonderful idea and Rachel would have loved it. You just stick to the original plan and follow your heart. It will be the best way to honor her memory.”

  “You really think so?”

  “Of course I do. I’ve always urged you to follow your dreams, take the path that leads you to happiness and success.” Well, that was a bald-faced lie—not to Carol but to myself—because I’d always hoped Carol would continue on the tradition of the Rayburn women since Rebecca didn’t and Rachel couldn’t. “I think your love of animals came from spending so much time with Rachel, so it seems a natural progression to become a vet.”

  “I guess,” Carol answered while wiping a tear from her cheek. After clearing her throat, she asked: “Where’s Dad? I didn’t see his car in the garage. Is he out playing poker with the guys?”

  Poker. The word had a whole new meaning to me now that I knew what poker night truly meant. Poke Her. Ha ha, very clever, men of the world. Very clever indeed. Though I was glad she’d changed the topic from Rachel, I dreaded the new direction of the conversation. Unfortunately, it couldn’t be helped. “No, he’s not.”

  “Then, where is he?”

  Taking a deep breath, I downed the rest of my wine and immediately refilled it. “We need to talk about some things.”

  The back deck fell silent as my lovely daughter scanned my face. It didn’t take long for her to read the signs. “He’s not coming back, is he? You two are getting a divorce, right?”

  I did one thing right in my life—I raised an astute young woman. “I’m afraid so, honey.”

  “He cheated on you, didn’t he?” Carol hissed. “Can’t say I’m surprised. Jesus! How many times did I defend him
over the years when my girlfriends mentioned he was looking at them funny?”

  I forced my mouth not to drop open from shock. Carol Claire Davenport didn’t miss a thing, and apparently, neither did her friends.

  “Oh, I’m sure they were mistaken, sweetheart. Your father didn’t cheat on me! I know it sounds trite, but we’ve simply grown apart over the years and headed in different directions. Sometimes, the death of a loved one changes your perspective about things. Makes you question your life and such. What you’ve accomplished or what’s missing from your life. Your dad hasn’t been the same since his parents died.”

  “Bullshit, Mom. Gram and Grampa died four years ago. The only emotion he expressed was giddiness after buying his freaking car. I don’t remember him shedding a tear at their funerals.”

  “Men from your father’s generation were taught not to cry or show much outward emotion, sweetie. Don’t hold that against him. He was devastated when they passed away. I believe it started the inner examination process. Rachel’s death just added to it. He wants his freedom to explore new things in his life, so who am I to stop him from achieving what his heart desires?”

  “His wife, that’s who!” Carol yelled. “God, I’m so pissed right now! He leaves you the day after Aunt Rachel’s funeral? What a jerk! I’m sorry, Mom. I really am. I know you love him, but he’s a Grade-A asshole. Let him go. We’ll get through this together, I promise.”

  “Yes, we will. Both of us are strong women.”

  “I’m strong, but you aren’t.”

  Oh, I beg to differ. Your father’s busted backside is proof!

  “You’ve been Dad’s doormat for years. Gave up your life to be a fucking housewife, and look what happened? I’m so glad you raised me to be independent, to not look to a man to make me feel complete. I think that’s why you and I butted heads for so long.”

  Stunned, I replied: “What do you mean?”

  “I mean,” Carol responded then took another long swig of wine. “I would get angry at you, sometimes, because you are such a contradiction.”

  My mouth dropped open.

  “Don’t look like you’re surprised, Mom. Come on! ‘Don’t take home economics, sweetie—I can teach you how to cook! Pick an elective you’ll enjoy and that will actually help you out in life.’ Remember that conversation, Mom? Or the ones every single time I talked about someone I was interested in you would say: ‘Take your time, honey. You’re too young to get serious.’ You pushed me to be strong and independent, yet then would turn around and be subservient to Dad. It turned my stomach.”

  “Carol, honey, I’ve never been—”

  “Don’t try to deny it, Mom. I’ve watched you my entire life! Ugh! I had my doubts before about the whole traditional marriage lifestyle, but I don’t anymore. It’s not for me. Ever. There is no such thing as true love. It’s nothing but an illusion concocted by jewelers, candy and card companies to make money.”

  Wow! When did my child turn into such a cynic? Had she been secretly spending time with L.B., the only other cynic I knew who could give me a run for the money? Rebecca Denise Rayburn did not marry for love. She married for prestige, comfort, and notoriety. Though her husband adored her, Rebecca’s eyes and hands tended to wander when the good doctor wasn’t around. “Carol, just because things didn’t work out with our marriage, doesn’t mean the same will happen to you! Just—do a better job than I did picking out the right man. Marry for the right reasons, unlike us. We tried to make it work, but it simply didn’t. End of story.”

  “I don’t need a man, anyway. I can achieve the same satisfaction with a vibrator and then stuff it into a drawer when finished. Easy-peasy, and no fear of unwanted pregnancies or STDs.”

  “Carol!” I laughed so hard I choked on my wine.

  Leaning over to hug me, Carol smiled. “Sorry, couldn’t help myself. I wanted to make you laugh, and it worked. Don’t worry, Mom. I’ll help you get through this. So will Liz, Aunt Becca, and all your other friends. Between us all, you’ll be just fine. That’s a promise. Now, I’ll finally be like all my other friends, instead of the odd one of the bunch.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Mom, all of my friends, every one of them, came from broken homes. I was the weirdo with parents still married. Now, I won’t be.”

  The tears I’d held inside since Hottie Habanero appeared and dropped the bomb in my lap, broke free. Sobbing in my daughter’s arms, I wept for what I thought I had, what I really had, and what would never be. The tears of sadness were mixed with ones of pride I felt for my daughter. My sweet little girl was the freaking Rock of Gibraltar!

  A few drips were from the concerns over the vicious person I’d become. Honestly, she scared the hell out of me.

  Demerit. Demerit. Too many fucking demerits to count.

  CHAPTER 5

  Book Club Revelations

  I dreaded book club. This wasn’t a first, but today, I really dreaded it. Other than L.B., Carl, Carol, and my attorney, I hadn’t told a soul about the divorce. However, that would all change when everyone got around to reading the newspaper. Reginald filed today, which meant the case of Roxanne D. Davenport vs. Carl Andrew Davenport would be listed in the legal section, and the topic of discussion tonight rather than the stupid erotic romance.

  Ugh.

  True to my sister’s narcissistic ways, she’d yet to stop by, call or text me (Rebecca’s preferred way of contact, just like her personality: Cold and boring) and enquire as to why my marriage was kaput. It didn’t affect Rebecca’s life one bit, so why would she strain her arm to pick up the phone and call? Risk ruining an expensive manicure by texting? Waste her precious fucking time by dropping by after work?

  She wouldn’t, not unless the effort benefited the uptight wife of Dr. Wilson in some way. Though she lived a block away, we rarely spoke. The week Rachel fell ill and died had been the first time we’d talked so much since, oh, pretty much ever. She even left me high and dry when our mother’s health went south.

  As usual, since I was the oldest, I’d been responsible for handling Mom’s mental issues and living arrangements. Rebecca had nothing to do with the entire process and let me be the one to sign the dotted line putting Mom into a memory care facility. Rachel wasn’t helpful, either. My flighty baby sister was a basket case once the diagnosis of dementia left the lips of Mom’s doctor. All Rachel could do was cry.

  Jesus, I hate being the oldest. And I miss my baby sister like crazy. What I wouldn’t give to hear her voice just one more time. If still alive, Rachel would be right by my side, offering support and a loving hug. She’d be full of inspirational words, assuring me things would be fine, and we’d get through the bump in the road together.

  Dammit!

  The relationship with Rebecca was screwed-up, yet when something happened to Rachel, from stubbing her toe to breaking up with yet another loser, Rebecca and I closed ranks. We surrounded our communal baby sister with an impenetrable wall of protective estrogen. Once the crisis was over, we disbanded quicker than liquid dish soap and oil. Yes, we traveled in the same social circles, attending monthly book club meetings together, etc., but all of our interactions in public were just great acting jobs on both our parts. We only made it through the holidays because of booze.

  So, it wasn’t surprising Rebecca didn’t offer up any sort of encouragement or support. Hell, she’d probably been celebrating at home each night, dancing around the living room, spilling wine, laughing, at my expense.

  At my pain.

  Bitch.

  Staring at the most recent demented ramblings in my journal, I sighed. The last week was sort of a blur, spent drinking too much wine and passing out in bed, after pretending things were normal until Carol went to sleep. Though I’d never admit it to anyone, I felt sort of lost and hollow. The emptiness wasn’t from missing Carl. Our marriage had been over for years, though keeping up the façade we were a happy couple obviously took up a lot of my energy.

  Sleeping alone in the
California King-sized bed was nice. No nocturnal emissions from Carl’s nasty ass; no fumbling hands reaching for me underneath the sheets. I could flop around, toss and turn all I wished, without rousing my grumbling spouse.

  I hadn’t heard a peep from ol’ Carl since the night he scurried away like a whipped dog. Not one phone call, text, or email. Zip. Zilch. Nada. I could only assume he’d shown up on Hottie Habanero’s doorstep, ass bleeding and pride wounded, begging the little knocked-up tamale to take him in. Did she? If so, the little tramp surely got an earful about her lover’s interesting evening with his soon-to-be-ex! Guess my little spanking session worked as I intended. Score one for me!

  Prior to this nightmare, a part of me had been proud to be one of the last of a dying breed—a woman who stayed at home, took care of things from A–Z, carried on the tradition passed down from previous generations. I’d been the one others ran to for advice when problems in their homes arose, just like my mother had been with her friends. With a divorce looming above my head, I wouldn’t be the “Go-To Woman” anymore.

  The sad truth was now I was just another statistic. A single woman over forty, her exhusband hooked up with a younger slut, leaving the bewildered ex-wife to pick up the pieces of her broken life.

  I simply didn’t know what to do with myself on a daily basis. Carol left and headed to work each day, and spent a lot of time at night with her girlfriends. There was no family meal to plan out, no reason to keep the house spotless. Everything was turned upside down, and I shouldered part of the blame.

  I wanted things to change; convinced myself to shift directions, move away from the old ways and create new ones.

  “Oh, stop it, Roxy! No more whining! You can do this!”

  Roxy’s New Rule Number Seven: Kill off the old woman so the new one can take over.

  Satisfied with the latest rule, I flipped back a few pages and read the previous week’s entries, Yikes! They were full of dark, ugly thoughts and gore-filled details about how I’d kill Ginger, Coco, and Carl, along with countless other whores my husband screwed.