Waters Fall

by Becky Doughty

  “Got it loud and clear, Nor. Anything else?” Sarcasm dripped from every word. The morning's debacle in the bedroom, and the guilt he must have felt, were apparently forgotten, and Nora was relieved. She didn't want to hear his apologies. She came around the counter and sat down at the dining table, her hot teacup held between both hands. She looked across the back of the couch at her husband, making sure he was listening to her.

  “I will still take them to and from school every day. We will come home in the afternoons, I will feed them, help them with homework, spend the evening with them in some semblance of normalcy, and after they're in bed, I will go to my own place to sleep. I will be back in the mornings to get them up and make them breakfast. Until school is out, my new place, wherever I end up staying, will be my new workshop as far as they are concerned. I will not, nor will you, ruin the last of this school year with our sordid affairs.”

  “Your sordid affair. I’m not the one who screwed around.”

  “Excellent. Glad you’re on board.” Nora rolled her eyes, then took a sip of the strong tea. The mint would help settle her stomach, she hoped. “When school is over, we’ll tell them what our plans are, because hopefully, by then, we’ll actually have more permanent plans to tell them about.”

  “Wow. You've got this whole thing figured out, haven't you? Did you come up with all of this in the shower?” Jake sneered at her. “Did you find a place to live while you were in there, too?”

  “Grow up, Jake. Someone has to figure things out in this family, and it never has been you, so why are you acting so surprised? Yes, I came up with all of that in the shower. And yes, it's the way things are going to be. If the kids ask questions, we'll just deal with them as carefully as we can.”

  “You mean, lie to them.” It wasn't a question. Nora rolled her eyes again.

  “Call it what you want. There are some things better left unsaid until the right time.”

  “Like the fact that you're screwing another man? What's the matter, Nor? You worried about how that will go over with our precious children?” He was kicking the corner of the sofa without realizing it: thunk, thunk, thunk.

  “Just don't make this any harder on them than it needs to be. You can say your mean little things to me, you can call me names, you can rape me if you need to, but don't take it out on them.”

  “I did not r—rape you, Nora!” He practically choked over the word. “I might have been a little rough, but I did not force you to do anything you didn't want to do.”

  “Call it what you want, Jake,” she said, tugging at the neckline of her top so that he couldn’t miss the marks he’d left at the base of her neck. “Just keep your attacks between us, you understand? This has nothing to do with the kids.”

  “I can't believe that you're accusing me of r—rape—raping you!” He could hardly get the word out, but he was staring at her shoulder, his cheeks flushed with guilt. “You came in here all proud and... and alluring.” He drew the word out to emphasize his distaste. “You baited me; seduced me! What did you expect would happen?”

  “Like I said, Jake. Call it what you want.” Nora stared down into her nearly empty cup. Even knowing how blind he sometimes was, she couldn't believe he really thought she’d set out to seduce him. Because she didn't scream bloody murder when he pinned her to the door? Because she clamped her mouth shut around the pain as he shoved her, twisted her, bent her in ways she didn't know she could bend? Because she didn't cry when he bit her, squeezed her, forced his way inside her unreceptive body? Because of this, he assumed she wanted him?

  Jake charged across the room, gripped the edge of the table with one hand, and leaned forward so that he was looking down his nose at her. She took note of the rage he wanted her to see, as well as the fear and shame he was trying desperately to mask behind his snarl. He pointed a finger in her face. “I'll tell you what I call it. I call it just rewards. I got what I wanted—a long, overdue release—and you got what you wanted—some wild and crazy sex with a complete stranger. You've never met this side of me before, doll, so you'd better pay attention. Don't, for one second, think that you're calling the shots around here.” He pounded his fist on the table to emphasize his point. “I'm not the one walking away.” He jabbed his finger at her again, nearly taking one of her eyes out. She closed them, just in case, but didn't flinch. “You,” he growled, “are the bad guy this time, Nora.”

  She almost smiled as she heard her own guilty verdict being spoken aloud. But she was going to call the shots around here. And he was just going to have to deal with it.

  “Do you have a better plan then?”

  “Yeah. How about this? You tell our kids the truth about yourself, then get on with your sorry life. I'll pick up the pieces of their broken hearts.”

  “And you'll put a roof over their heads?” She snorted softly. “You'll make sure there's hot water for their showers, and bread in the cupboard and milk in the refrigerator for their cereal? You'll pay the phone bill so the school can call you when you forget to pick them up? You'll mow the lawn without having to be reminded every week, like a child?” She looked pointedly out the window at the scraggly back yard. “Are you actually going to go out and get a real job, Jakey?”

  “Ah. The claws are out.” He straightened and crossed his arms over his chest again.

  “Why don't you sit down. Maybe we can talk this over like adults.”

  “Hm. I think not. I don't really feel like sharing a table with an adulteress.”

  “You and Jesus, huh?” She put a finger to her lips and furrowed her eyebrows. “Wait a minute. That's not how I remember the story. There was something about being without sin and throwing the first stone.” Nora shook her head and shrugged her shoulders. “I must have misunderstood what I was reading.”

  “Shut up, Nora.”

  25

  Jake sat on the sofa all morning, getting up only to refill his coffee, then to urinate it out again. His stomach ached, and the high doses of caffeine and coffee bean oils did nothing to settle it, but he found strange pleasure in the self-inflicted discomfort. It was better than dealing with the pain in his chest, he decided, as he brewed another pot around noon.

  Nora had been gone for over an hour now. She took only her purse, so he knew that even if she found something right away, she'd be back for her things. Besides, what was she going to do about Leslie and Felix? Her ridiculous plan didn't address weekends when the kids were home all day and up late at night. Did that mean she'd be sticking around the house all weekend long? And if so, where did she plan on sleeping? He shivered at the thought of her in their bed beside him, his body betraying him while his mind was repulsed by the thought of being with her.

  He couldn't help thinking of this morning—he’d been going back to it over and over. Yes, his anger had gotten the best of him, and yes, he'd been forceful with her, but how could she accuse him of rape?

  “She reciprocated, I know she did. It wasn't like she just lay there.” He dropped his head in his hands, running his fingers through the hair at his temples. “I didn't force her. Things just got a little rough.” He felt like he was arguing with himself. “She certainly didn’t seem to mind.”

  He shuddered, imagining Nora giving herself to someone else in the same way. Responding. Going back for more. Coming home to him. Responding to him. Then going back…. How long? Days? Weeks? Months? It couldn’t be years. It wasn’t possible.

  The countless late nights at the office when she didn't come home until two or three in the morning. Mornings when she'd left dressed in loose, flowing dresses, or jeans and t-shirts, quite a departure from her normal classic attire of suits or blazers. Then there were the long weekends she'd taken. They were rare because of the kids, only two that he could remember, but both were home conventions she insisted she needed to attend.

  How convenient for her that he trusted her.

  How convenient for her that she was such a good liar.

  Granted, her first trip away, he ha
dn’t been so innocent himself. She'd made arrangements for the kids to go to her mom's house, and he'd spent the first night in front of the television. Before he made any concerted effort to be careful, he was watching a late night show that was beyond borderline pornography. With no one around to hold him accountable, he'd watched the whole thing, indulging in self-gratification at its basest. When the show was over, he called Nora, hoping to have an intimate phone call with her in order to ease his guilty conscience, but she didn't pick up. He even left two sexy voice mails asking her to call him back. She never did, and he'd gone to bed feeling both alone and lonely, and called her back in the morning, leaving another message apologizing for his inappropriate requests.

  She, on the other hand, was apparently participating in things about which he was only fantasizing, and now it made him cringe as he considered what a pathetic loser he'd been. When she returned home, he assumed her air of discomfort and stand-offish attitude were because she’d guessed the reason behind his sick phone calls. Now he knew better.

  The next time she'd gone away, however, he'd been a model husband and father. Jake went out and bought new sheets, putting them on their bed himself. He and the kids spent all day Saturday cleaning up both the front and back yards, then he bought two dozen roses and divided them into vases throughout the house. They were a soft, velvety coral-pink that made him think of her lips. The night she came home, he'd scattered rose petals on her pillow, and had a bottle of her favorite Moscato chilling in the fridge. But she was late. The disappointed kids were already asleep in their beds, and Jake was nodding off on the sofa, a half-full cup of coffee in his hand. When she stumbled through the door with her things, the noise startled him awake, and he had spilled the remains of his mug all over the carpet. She was obviously exhausted, and now thinking back on the night, it occurred to him that she looked like she'd been crying. By the time he cleaned up his spill, however, Nora was sound asleep, the petals in a pile on her bedside table.

  The amber bottle with its elegant label was still somewhere in the back of the fridge, he was pretty sure. Well, he decided, that would be the first thing to go. He would take great pleasure in destroying the evidence of his ignorance and stupidity.

  He found it lying on its side behind the large milk and juice jugs on the bottom shelf. Taking it out to the garage with him, he pulled out a locked case at the back of the highest cupboard, and lifted out his dad's old Browning 20-gauge shotgun. It had a brutal recoil from some mishap his dad had with it, something he'd always intended to get adjusted so he could use it, and someday train his kids with it. Well, today, he’d just have to deal with a bruised shoulder. He had some shooting to do, and he couldn’t wait for a gunsmith to pamper him.

  It was a beauty, his daddy’s gun. It felt manly just to hold it in his hands. Weighing in at just a little over six pounds, it bumped solidly up against his shoulder. It had been a long time since he'd fired this baby off, but it would be well-worth the effort it would take to get it ready.

  He'd get only one chance. The neighbors would call the police if he took more than one shot. People's ears might only perk up at the sound of one loud blast, but two or three would have them picking up their phones.

  When the gun went off the first time, the kickback was considerably stronger than he remembered, and he clutched his shoulder as pain shot through his collarbone and down his arm. It took several minutes to recover enough to realize he’d completely missed the bottle he'd set on the low wall separating Nora's flower garden from the lawn, but one of her rose bushes lay on its side, shredded by the blast. Lucky for him, he'd thought to put an extra slug in his pocket. He reloaded, relishing the sound of oiled metal sliding over metal, took aim, and pulled the trigger. Let the cops come. Let them arrest him. He didn't care. This time, the butt of the gun skittered off the top of his shoulder and slammed into his jaw just below his ear. He dropped the gun, cupping the side of his face, bent over double, in so much pain his vision blurred.

  “Argh!” He growled against his fist as he straightened up to see if he'd been successful this time. The remains of the bottle were scattered all over the yard, and he’d taken the tops off a few more of Nora’s bushes, but he realized too late that the kids would not be able to play out here until he cleaned up the worst of the glass. The flowerbed, on the other hand, was her problem, and he was looking forward to seeing her face when she noticed the devastation he’d wrought.

  “You're an idiot, Jake.” He clutched at his throbbing right shoulder; he was seriously hurting and wondered if he'd broken something. He needed an icepack and quickly. The glass would have to wait. “At least I hit it,” he grunted.

  Back on the sofa, ice packed around his pulsing collarbone and swollen jaw, he let himself sink into the pain he was feeling. Why was destruction the way to deal with this? Even injured, all he wanted to do was go out and destroy something else. He thought about methodically breaking each piece of the pink Depression glass she'd been collecting since before they were married. He considered driving down to her office and downloading a virus onto her computer. He even contemplated accidentally driving her car off a bridge, but he couldn't think of one close enough to make it worth his while.

  What he really wanted to do was to find out where this guy lived, and beat every last ounce of manhood out of him. He’d even be willing to take another hit to the shoulder if he could use the gun. He was sure it was that Tristan guy he'd caught her on the phone with yesterday—was it just yesterday?—and if he could find out anything about him, the Browning might just get a little more use. At least he knew he could actually hit his target.

  The police never showed up, and Jake finally fell asleep after giving in and taking something for the pain.

  ~ ~ ~

  The tiny cottage was a gift, one she knew she didn't deserve. The little stream running along the edge of the river rock patio made her think of water sprites and pixie hollows, and she was able to lay aside her cloak of guilt and her longing for what she couldn’t have when she sat beside it, her feet dangling in the chilled water.

  Whoever had lived here before her had spent some time in the little yard. There were perennials under the trees, rose bushes in the flowerbed under the kitchen window, and a honeysuckle vine twining with a star-flowered jasmine grew up and over the tiny entryway, forming a lacy arch leading to the front door.

  It was really just a box; one large room, a tiny bathroom, and a galley kitchenette that looked out onto the patio. By using folding panels and furniture groupings, she was able to convert the one room into several designated areas, and it suddenly became a miniature home. It was perfect in every way.

  Oh, she knew it was temporary. They couldn't do this forever. At least she couldn't. She was having a difficult time falling asleep at night, and the early mornings were beginning to take their toll on her. Yesterday she didn't get to the house until after Leslie was up and in the shower. Jake, much to her surprise, had covered for her.

  Every time she saw Jake, he seemed different to her. Sometimes he was moody, angry, and said incredibly horrible things to her. Sometimes he seemed distant and unaffected by her presence. Still other times he couldn't stop touching her; the back of his knuckles following the curve of her shoulder, his fingertips smoothing the hair away from her cheek, his body brushing against hers as he passed by. Sometimes he even rested his hand on her low back as they walked together.

  They spent very little time alone, and they never spoke of important things. Their conversations revolved around the daily activities of their children, meals, and the house. They didn't even discuss work, although it was pretty obvious they were both busy. Jake seemed to have tapped into a new source for referrals, and was heading out the door on most mornings, just as she was leaving with the kids. She didn't ask for details, and he didn't offer any. The bank account, still jointly-owned, reflected his increased income, and she was honestly happy for him.

  School would be out in two weeks, and Nora felt the pres
sure of anticipation. She knew the day was coming when they would sit down with Leslie and Felix and tell them the truth—or at least a version of the truth she and Jake thought the kids could handle—and life would permanently change for their little family. She dreaded it and longed for it at the same time, afraid of what was to come, but needing closure, too.

  Tristan called repeatedly the first several days. She finally agreed to meet with him somewhere public so they could talk.

  “I miss you, my Isolde. You're breaking my heart.” The words sounded cliché to her ears, but the pain in his voice seemed very real. He sounded terrible, and she was overwhelmed by guilt for all the lives her choices were affecting so terribly.

  They met at a busy sandwich shop about halfway between their homes. He didn't wait for an invitation. Cupping her face in his hands, he bent and kissed her sweetly, intimately, thoroughly.

  She pulled away while she could still stand upright. “Please don't do this, Tristan. Please. I can't take it.”

  “Come back to my place. I don't want to do this here. I thought I could, but it's not right asking me to behave like you're a stranger, knowing how we feel about each other. Let's get out of here.”

  Nora knew it wasn’t fair—none of this was fair to anyone, anymore—but she also knew exactly what would happen if she went back to his place. She couldn’t let things pick up where they'd left off. “I can't. I don't trust myself. I don't trust you.”

  “You can trust me. I love you, Isolde. I need you.” He pulled her close again and bent his head to whisper against her hair. “Just let me touch you. Let me hold you; kiss you the way you need to be kissed. I’m aching for you.”

  The whole public setting thing backfired horribly. Tristan’s powers of persuasion had her faltering, wavering, and then giving in all together. He wouldn't stop touching her and looking at her like he might devour her.