It's Only Fair Ch. 03

It was like a brick wall fell behind her face. Her expression became empty, her eyes soulless. Even the air felt cooler all the sudden. "No," she answered. "And let me tell you something in case you're thinking about fucking me over at one point, Mr. Masters." She thrust her shoulders back, taking on an imperious stance as she proceeded to lay down her thoughts. "I'm the woman, remember that. Which means, that if we get divorced, you're going to get screwed."

"Give me a fucking break, Elle. I don't want to get divorced."

"You say that now, but that's only because you don't know shit. I'm telling you, New York is a female friendly state, and if we do get divorced, you're going to have to either lose this house or sell it. Amber will live with me. And you will be fucked."

"It's not like that anymore, Elle. The 70's called, they want your bullshit statistics back."

She smirked, "Try me. Just try me." She leaned in, her face less than a foot from mine; that cruel twisting of her lips and almost manic gleam rekindled in the back of her pupils. "You hate me, don't you? I'm driving you crazy, aren't I?" She leaned in closer, now only inches separated us. "Well either hit me or deal with it, because that's the way it is."

She waited a few seconds to see if I would actually swing at her. I waited a few seconds to see if I would swing at her also, totally in shock at the state of things. This was my wife? This was the woman I made love to last night? The mother of my child? Now she's almost bat shit crazy and talking about divorce and handcuffs and stuff I don't know about? It was obvious to me that there was more going on than I could find out now, and after today's fiasco, she was going to be on guard with whatever she was doing.

My ruminating was taking too long so she sat back and said, "I thought so," with smug self satisfaction. She looked at my face, "I'm sorry about the eye," she offered, like that was going to make everything better.

I stood up, taking my big gulp from the table. "Elle. I don't know what's going on, but this isn't healthy. Not for you, not for me, not for Amber. I want to help, but I won't be made a fool of. So keep that in mind before we find ourselves in a place we can't get back from. And trust me, we're just about there." I picked up my keys. "I'm going to Home Depot for a piece of sheet rock. Amber is napping. Please take care of her until I get back."

She nodded in response, her expression once more serene. She sipped her coffee again as I walked out the door, climbed into my Equinox and drove away.

Did you ever beat the shit out of your steering wheel? I mean really go to town on it? Squeezing it like it was someone's neck, twisting it like you could choke it? And the yelling - what good is it to beat the crap out of your steering wheel and dashboard if you can't unload every dirty foul curse word you could imagine to the empty seat next to you and then go back to the beginning of the list and scream them all again?

I had no memory of actually driving to Home Depot, but I am sure that the people who had driven next to me or were stopped at the lights in the next car were getting quite a show. When I finally calmed down I was in the parking lot, my heart racing and my knuckles sore. The interior of the truck didn't appear to be damaged which made me thankful that my rage was not unbounded. I killed the ignition and got out, drawing a shaky breath before exhaling slowly.

I did this twice more and felt marginally well enough to go in and get what supplies I needed. It didn't take long and within the hour I was back home screwing new drywall into place and cleaning up the worst of the gouges. Amber seemed unfazed from the problem earlier and was happy to scoot around the floor in her wheeled chair. As for Elle, she stayed away from both of us, working on her computer with only the minimal of interactions. A few times I managed to catch glimpses of what she was doing and it was evenly divided between some sort of messenger or chat program and her actual freelance work.

The day was strained and it passed slowly. Dinner was hotdogs and burgers on the small Weber grill outside, Elle opting not to eat with us, saying she wanted to get everything done tonight. Truthfully, I didn't care. My mind was in turmoil, no solution was forthcoming. Mostly because there was no actual explanation of what the entire problem was either.

Eventually Amber was put to bed and I took a fast shower after folding the laundry and putting it away. I crawled into bed and rooted around for the latest Destroyerman novel I have been reading. I read maybe 30 pages of Captain Reddy and his fight against the Grik when I realized I was falling asleep. I put the bookmark in, tossed the paperback onto the floor, and turned off my light.

9:53. I could hear Elle tapping away in the office. She hadn't said a word to me for almost 5 hours and I was wondering, when I woke up in the morning, would she even been sleeping in the bed with me? And then to my shame just before I faded away, I hoped that she wouldn't.

I awoke Sunday morning feeling like hammered shit. My mouth was scratchy, the left side of my face ached, and my hands hurt. I glanced over and saw that Elle had come to bed at some point, she was still sleeping. I rolled up and eased my way out of bed, hands pressing against my knees as I lifted myself upright.

7:03. I shuffled to the bathroom and flipped on the light, stopping in shock at the figure in the mirror. I had a big assed black eye. It had gotten worse well before it would get better. Also, the white part of my left eye had a pool of blood in the bottom right corner, making me appear sickly. "Holy shit, Elle. What the hell did you do to me?" I washed my face with care, the skin tender and raw.

I went into the kitchen, seeing nothing new, and then into the office. Her orange paper cup from 7-11 was here, along with her dish from dinner and two other glasses each half filled with water. I went to go clean it up and then stopped myself. "Fuck her," I muttered and left them there. Most likely she would just plop them in the sink, but even the miniscule victory in inconveniencing her to clean up her own mess from her desk was something, wasn't it? Damn, was this as petty as I was becoming? I hated to think it, but I felt like my actions were something that Elle would do.

"Crap," I whispered as I went back and cleaned up the plates and glasses. I dropped them in the dishwasher and then perked my head up. Hearing no one moving around, I tiptoed back to her computer and shook the mouse. Her screen flared to life and I dove into her browser history, trying to get an idea where she was yesterday.

"Fetlife? Kink.com? What the fuck is this shit?" A quick detour to Chrome gave me my answer. "BDSM? Is that what you're doing?" I poked around some more, finding a couple of log in screens. "Fuck, Elle. You actually ON some of these sites?" I then pulled up her gmail login screen and was surprised to find not only her work email address and her personal one, but the system said there was a 3^rd address. "Lacycuffs@gmail? Are you fucking kidding me?"

I did not know her passwords and didn't want to risk poking around. This wasn't some internet story where I was a secret computer guru with a team of ex-CIA hot employees waiting to help me crack some 128-bit encrypted file and then blow me as a reward. What I was was a regular guy who could poke around some and get enough of an overview that there was something else going on in her life and she was exploring it while Amber and I were gone all day. She had nine or ten hours at least to herself every weekday, Monday to Friday. How was I supposed to know what she was doing with her time?

What did I know? She had been in a 'down' period more often than not since her pregnancy before Amber was born. She had become increasingly separated from me and our life together. She had little interaction with real people outside of the house anymore. She had few actual friends that she could call upon and even her family relations were strained this last year. She flat out refused to see a therapist no matter what I had tried. Her actions had progressed to violence against me for the first time ever. She was no longer willing to talk about or problems and instead devolved to screaming and losing her temper. She had handcuffs that she apparently used in the basement. And she was engaged in some budding interest in some online BDSM activity.

I didn't want to see her today, knowing it would become something worse. I tore off the back of an envelope and scrawled "Taking A out for the day. Be home before dinner. -R". I then woke up Amber, got her changed and clean, snagged her diaper bag and left the house by quarter after 8.

Stan was out this morning, I could see his garage door open and from the looks of things, he was going to be mowing his lawn soon. I waved to him as I got in the truck, backing it down the driveway and then stopping on the side of the street as he sauntered over. "Hey, Rick," he greeted me. "Going out today?"

"Yeah, Elle and I ha..."

"What the hell happened to you!?" he exclaimed, interrupting me. "Holy shit, Rick!"

I grimaced. "I know, I know. It's ok, really. Looks worse than it really is." Stan just looked at me, saying nothing as his gaze shot past me through the car window to my house and then back. I held my hand up, "Really, Stan. It's my problem."

"Rick...I gotta tell you. There's a limit, man." He seemed uncomfortable, rubbing his hands back and forth. "Did...did she do that?"

"Stan, keep out of it, ok?"

"Crap, Rick," his voice dropped lower, his eyes unable to hold mine, "Did you hit her?"

I looked hard at him. "You know me, Stan. You know my story. I'll never, I mean never, hit a girl. Period."

"I know, I know. But damn, you look like you got your ass kicked."

I sighed. "Thanks man, rally. It's ok." I looked at my watch. "Listen, I gotta go. I'll see you later today, alright?"

He backed up, shoving his hands deep into his shorts' pockets. "No prob. Take care, buddy."

"Will do," I replied and then drove away.

I made my way to the Sunrise Highway and then travelled east, watching the signposts overhead pass behind until I spotted the exit for Lakeland Avenue. I pulled off the highway and took the residential streets for a few minutes until I arrived at a modest high ranch on a small parcel of property. The lawn looked freshly cut and the bushes were trimmed. Someone had planted small pink flowers around the stoop and black colored mulch had been added to the existing flower beds. "Come on, Sunshine," I said to Amber, unstrapping her and snagging her bag. "Let's go see Grandma."

I walked up the driveway and climbed the concrete steps to the front door. Peering through sidelight, I could see my mother in the kitchen upstairs, already awake. I rang the doorbell and heard her dog barking in response. The sounds of her descending the stairs came next and then she opened the door with a smile and a greeting on her lips that changed instantly to one of horror and outrage.

"Rick! What the fuck happened to your face!?"

"Hey, Ma," I replied, hoisting Amber up a notch and staring meaningfully at her. "Language."

"Fuck language, oh my god. Come in." She leaned in and gave me a kiss on the cheek, taking Amber from my arms in that time honored manner that all grandmothers knew how to do. "Hey sweety," she said to my daughter, kissing her on the lips five times in rapid succession. "You want some breakfast? I can make you breakfast."

"No, Ma. Nothing for me thanks. But Amber might be hungry."

"No problem!" We climbed the stairs to the 2^nd floor and she entered the kitchen while I paused, looking to the right in what had been called the 'living room' while I was growing up. It had been decorated in whites and oranges, but the focal point was the old upright piano against the back wall and the grey marble urn sitting on top of it. The walls were decorated with pictures of me and my younger sister throughout the years growing up, but a number of them near the piano showed my father instead. His easy smile and large grey 1970's looking moustache were prominent in all of them.

I turned away and joined the two other women in the kitchen. "So," my mother started.

"So?" I asked in response.

"Did you kick the bitch out?"

I laughed. "No, Ma. I didn't."

"You should. She should know how good she has it with you."

"She knows, Ma."

She grunted, that one sound telling me that she thought I was a moron. "Right. I'm sure."

"Ma, we bought the house together six years ago. It's her place, too."

"Your father and I, god rest his soul, gave you the money for that place. It's yours."

"The courts don't work that way."

"Well they should." She put a plate of very scrambled eggs down in front of Amber and mushed them up with a fork, taking delight in feeding her granddaughter who cooed and giggled in response.

My mother still had that Brooklyn mentality to things, even though they had moved out here over 25 years ago. In her mind, everything was simple, straightforward, and only sissys didn't say what they meant. Elle and my mother had gotten along terrifically when we were younger but the last few years had been difficult at best. Elle thought my mother was an opinionated ex-thug and my mother thought Elle was a selfish and self-centered crazy bitch who needed to get fucked and then fuck off.

Needless to say, we didn't share the holidays this last year.

"So what are you going to do? Let her punch you in the other eye to even things out?"

"No, Ma."

"Holy shit, Rick. What the fuck happened to you? Did she cut your balls off too?"

I was quiet, looking at the aged face of the woman who had raised me and my sister, loved me, and supported me even when it got tough. "I don't know. It's just so much more...difficult." I folded one hand over the other. "I miss, Dad."

Her gaze softened. "Me too, honey." She smiled at me. "You know he was very proud of you."

"I know, Ma."

"Really, not a day went by that he didn't feel that way. Me too."

"Thanks."

My father had been dead now three years. Massive heart attack at 61. No warning, no clue. He was sitting in his chair in the den, watching TV, when he just died. My mother was a wreck for all of two days and then she gathered her emotions together and strangled them into submission. After that, she was just like she had been before my father had died, the only difference was she was now alone and less worried about what people thought.

"You know, Rick, you don't have to be punching bag for that twat."

"I know, Ma."

"If someone hits you, you hit them back."

I shuddered, "I know, Ma. But the world doesn't work that way anymore. And I'm not some idiot kid, I have a life and a hell of a lot more to lose."

When I was younger, I was fat. Moving from Brooklyn and the urban world out to Ronkonkoma and the suburban life was a shock to my 9 year old self. I had a hard time fitting in with the kids here and developed a bit of a stutter. This made me a target for my new classmates which made it even harder for me to fit in. I became introverted and turned to staying inside reading every book I could get my hands on and eating to help me cope and stave off the pain of rejection.

My dad tried to help and signed me up for little league, even taking the time out to coach, but I was not very fast and was disliked by my teammates whenever I couldn't run the bases to their liking or catch the ball every time it came to me. My stuttering eventually stabilized but my weight climbed until I was "the fat kid" that everyone had in one of their classes. By the time my teenage years hit, I was also blessed with terrible acne and the need for glasses to fix my near- sightedness. Long and short, I was a nerd.

I spent a lot of time on my bicycle, riding all over the neighborhood, familiarizing myself with every street and block; pushing my boundaries out further and further. I also began exploring the large tract of woods near the railroad tracks; climbing and bounding and scrambling everywhere. I contracted poison ivy every summer like clockwork but didn't care. The upside of all this was my weight stopped climbing from all the inadvertent exercise I was getting. And when my growth spurt hit, it transformed into a very solid muscular core.

My dad got me a weight bench at 15 and I took to lifting with glee. Every morning I would workout and every evening I would do the same; trying to get to the point where I could use the entire 150 lb. set of plates properly. My social life was still a mess though; I had two friends in school and one on the block and none of them were what I would classify as "good friends"; more like serious acquaintances. I was an easy target for the jocks and popular clique and took to wearing my hair long and sporting bulky coats when able. "Rick the Dick" was a common call when I was in the hall, along with "Pizza Face" and "You Homo."

And then one day, it happened.

I was seventeen and walking home from school when a car drove by slowly and something wet splashed against my shoulder; the cries of "Loser!" following the vehicle's passing. I looked over and saw that someone had thrown a bottle of grape juice at me, the deep purply stain spreading over my shirt and down to my pants. I looked at the retreating car filled with laughing teens and kicked a nearby rock at it, screaming, "Assholes!"

By some stroke of luck, the rock actually struck the car, bouncing off the trunk with a sharp metallic clang. There was a chirp of tires as the driver stopped short, bursting from the car and coming around back to look for damage. "What's your problem, Masters?" The other occupants had gotten out, five in total, three guys and two girls, everyone one of them in my classes over the years and part of the larger party of tormentors I had accumulated since moving out here.

They approached, one of them shoving me hard enough to make me stumble back. I kept my feet and tried to dance away but they kept at it. I heard one of the neighbor ladies cry out from her front window that they should leave me alone and she was calling the police but the five of them didn't seem to care, constantly stepping up to give me a kick or a shove or a slap.

I remember feeling a peace flow through me, a sense of ease that came upon me at this time, chasing all my fears and worries away. I had never been able to stand up for myself before but on this day, I knew that it was all about the change. When one of them went to give me a punch to the head, I leaned to the side, his blow striking my shoulder instead. Then I reversed direction and stomped on his leading foot with my own, my own clumsily made fist burying itself in his gut.

He fell down, gasping and choking. Something hit me in the ear and I elbowed backward, striking someone in the chin. And then the fight was on. Three guys to one was not fair, but I was giving as good as I was getting, even better. All the rage I had felt was coming out of me. I fought without skill, only pure anger and eight years of public school angst fueling my punches, kicks, elbows, and knees. I knew I was 'winning' but I didn't care, I was fighting back at long last.

I know I heard someone yell, "Get off of him," and snatch my glasses from my face. My response was to wind up and whirl to the side, throwing the most anger fuel punch I had delivered to date. It connected and it was then that I realized that my target was not one of the three guys I had been fighting, but one of the two girls.

I had broken her nose, snapped her head back, and dropped her to the curb where she had bashed her skull on the decorative stones the property owner had placed around the base of the tree. She was bleeding and choking, her face a mangled ruin of what was one a fairly pretty teenage girl.