The Missing Link 01: Steve

I pushed her a few inches back. "I listened," I said. "Remember? And all you did was show me you are a slut who thinks she can fuck her way into my understanding. Do you think that would have convinced me? Do you think so little of me, Liza? Who are you? Who have you become?"

She broke down again and I again thought I never saw her cry as much as these last few weeks. I held her. "I am sorry," she said after a while. "It was s-stupid of me. I don't know what came over me. I was desperate for you. Please forgive me, I was a silly cow."

I rocked her gently. "It was a spectacular striptease, though," I said at last. "Didn't know you had it in you." Her smeared face looked up, suspiciously. She doubted my sincerity. Maybe she was right.

"Liza," I said. "What can be so horrible that you'd rather ruin our marriage than tell me?" She let go of my embrace, still sniffing. I handed her my handkerchief; she promptly used it to blow her nose. It made her look like a thirteen-year-old suffering from a spectacular cold.

Could I ever not love her?

But then she said: "Nothing! I told you over and over there is nothing; it is all in your mind. You tell me I lie. So I try not to repeat what you consider a lie. I try to show my love by seducing you and you divorce me! Now who is the crazy one here?"

She shook, but I felt shaken too by her last words.

"You still call me crazy?" I asked. Then I saw the faces of our neighbors peep through their curtains. I took Liza's shoulder and pushed her inside, closing the door behind me. "You still think I am crazy?"

She looked up at me. The thirteen year old had gone; the tears and the redness had stayed -- a less attractive combination.

"How could I not?" she asked. A belligerent note crept back into her voice. "You accuse me of making a male cufflink disappear that you allegedly found in our bedroom. I NEVER SAW THAT GODDAMN CUFFLINK!!" The exploding voice made my ears ring. Fearing the consequences of her sudden outbreak, she grabbed my shoulders and almost whispered: "Sorry, honey, I shouldn't scream, but please believe me! Maybe it was something else? Maybe you never brought it into the kitchen? You drank a lot, darling. Maybe your memory was, ehm, compromised?"

I rubbed my tired eyes. "Darling," I said, using the endearment without thinking. "You were so damn adamant about the fucking thing not existing that I started believing you. And then you thought you had to be clever and throw in your body. But you only cheapened us, and all we ever had. Do you really think that a piece of ass and a quick blowjob would get you off the hook? That I would want to be married to a woman like that? Who do you think I am?"

She shook her head wildly. "It wasn't like that, Steve! I was at wit's end. You didn't believe me, so what could I do? I already said I am sorry."

"I am sorry too, Liza," I said. "I am sorry I let you talk to me. First you try to fuck me into believing you. And now you try to fuck with my head."

"No, honey, oh please don't ever think that!" she cried out. But I pushed her hands off of me and turned to leave. The thud I heard behind me, made me turn back. Liza had fallen to the floor, unconscious.

People falling down and staying down, unmoving, are a scary sight -- whoever they are. This was my wife of seven years, the love of my life, the mother of my only child. She looked pale; she looked awful. It scared me shitless.

I walked over to the kitchen and got a cold, wet towel and a glass of water. When I returned, she moaned and tried to sit up. I put the towel in her neck and slid the rim of the glass over her lower lip, pouring some of the water in. It made her cough. It also made her return to the land of the living.

A smile tried to lift the corners of her pale lips. She groaned and mumbled before her words became audible. "Don't leave me, Steve. Please." I lifted her up and carried her to the couch. Her head was in my lap; a thin blanket covered her limbs. I should have left, but I couldn't. Not enough asshole genes, I guess.

I thought she fell asleep. I checked on her breathing. The house was eerily silent. But she either didn't sleep, or she woke up pretty soon, for her voice suddenly filled the air.

"I never cheated on you, Steve. Never. I love you. I never want to lose you. The cufflink..." her voice petered out. She rose and turned a bit, so I could see her face. "The cufflink never existed. You must have either dreamed, or your memory must have been playing tricks. Maybe it was like sleepwalking. You always told me you did that a lot, as a child. Please, believe me, Steve. I would have told you, if I had seen the thing -- even if I really had cheated on you. It hurts me that you think I could lie to you."

Now she says it's been a dream, I thought; sleepwalking. It's no longer a stroke; I'm no longer a nutcase or an alcoholic. I dreamt it all, how novel. How convenient.

"Please don't divorce me, Steve. I couldn't live without you. And little Eric..."

I pulled my hands from hers. "Keep the boy out of it, Liza," I said. My voice had a rough edge. "And as for talking to you again, first stop lying."

I rose and ignored the renewed sobbing. The front door's hinges needed some oil, I noticed.

***

Of course Liza refused to accept the divorce. She did take a lawyer too and the unavoidable battle commenced. Every initiative of my attorney was stonewalled by the simple phrase that she first wanted to talk -- face to face. Luckily her lawyer talked her out of keeping me away from Eric. We even succeeded in being as normal as possible around him. Up till now we also succeeded in keeping friends and relatives at bay. We had problems, we said; a rough patch that we tried to smoothen by a short separation -- bla bla. Isn't it funny how we believe we can deceive people we consider intelligent?

My attorney made it clear to me that I could forget any speedy divorce as long as Liza wouldn't co-operate. He advised me to go and talk with her. I showed him the four remaining names of the men with the corresponding initials. Would it help to have them dug up by a PI and maybe have them interviewed? Carl (my lawyer) wasn't optimistic. He asked me if I thought Liza was continuing the affair, if ever there was one. I answered with another question: should we have Liza followed? He said it was my money.

Another two weeks went by, with two more adamant responses from Liza. I talked with a detective who was recommended by Carl, be it reluctantly. I guess my question stirred the man's interest. He had never been asked to follow a trail of cufflinks, I suppose. He thought that confronting their supposed owners might hardly do it; at best it would warn them off. But after some searching he came with another possibility. "If the seal is genuine," he said over the phone, "it ought to be found in special family registers. It could of course be some fantasy trinket you found, but as you believe the thing was real gold we might try and see." I gave him a go and already the next day he informed me that the seal with the prancing horse and the three balls belonged to a family called Moreland, heralding from Essex, England. It seemed I had found my M. It also seemed I could throw away the list of names I had found before, including Roger M. Chesterton.

"This won't help you any, Steve," Carl said. "Go talk to the woman. Half an hour might save you years. It won't hurt you, would it?" He obviously wasn't the one who had to do it. "And go find yourself a decent apartment. Staying in that shabby hole doesn't exactly project the image of a man bent on divorce, does it?"

He was right and I followed up on his advice to find a more definite place. I found one pretty soon -- fully furnished and close to the office. Close enough to Eric's school as well. Following up his other advice wasn't quite as easy. All I really did was procrastinate to give myself the time to think of silly alternatives.

***

"Just sex?" she asked. Her voice struggled for control. A nervous grimace floated across her face.

"Yes, Liza," I said. "Just sex. It was good, but it meant nothing ¬-- it was just gymnastics. She had a great body, though -- lovely tits. A bit bigger than yours I'd say, and firmer, but then again, she was at least ten years younger. Other than that, just sex. Sweaty, athletic exercise."

Her eyes darkened under her knitted brow -- I saw the anger brewing. "Bullshit, Steve," she spat. "There must have been more. You are not a "just sex" guy. I know you."

"You know me," I repeated. "But do you really, honey? Do you know me as well as I thought I knew you?"

She ignored my question. Her face darkened until she exploded into a scream. "You fucking asshole! For months now you harass me with your childish accusations and your trumped up allegations about men dropping their cufflinks in my bedroom, no doubt after fucking me. You accuse me without a trace of proof. And now you tell me YOU cheated on ME??" She rose, her arms forward, fingers clawing into an invisible throat. "Get out! You cheating asshole, you'll never ever see your son again. I'll divorce the pants off your cheating ass. Get out. GET OUT OF MY LIFE!!"

I stood and grabbed her arms when she attacked me. I held her tight, our faces close. I started laughing, stunning her into silence.

"I lied, Liza," I said. The words dropped calmly into her sudden silence. "I never cheated on you -- never, ever. You are right; I could never do that."

She gasped as if lacking air. "You... lied?"

"Yes," I said.

"Why?" she asked, stunned, her voice distracted. "Why... lie?"

I followed her wandering eyes, trying to capture them.

"Why indeed," I said. "It must seem crazy. But I had to find a way to let you feel how it is to be lied to. I obviously couldn't tell you I didn't cheat, like you did, so I had to use the reverse way. On the other hand, who knows; maybe I am lying now and wasn't before. Or the other way around. Getting dizzy, honey? I only have your word, don't I? Just as you only have mine. How does that strike you?"

Her sails had lost their wind. Her arms went limp with her sagging shoulders. "You... lied," she mumbled. "Maybe," I said. "Maybe not."

"You... asshole," she whispered, but there was no anger in her voice; she rather sounded surprised.

"I guess so," I said.

***

Yes, it was a truly insane plan I brought with me to the talk she'd wanted so badly. But by then it was all I had left. I hadn't a trace of evidence about her infidelity -- only the never fading memories of that night. The god-awful cufflink still seemed to stick to the sole of my foot.

The day I executed my silly plan was when we at last met in a small conference room at her attorney's office building. I let her talk first and was once again disappointed by the way she rehashed her standard story. This time it was wrapped in platitudes about love, trust and my fatherly responsibilities -- which only pissed me off more.

So, after half an hour of (again) tears and hot wind, I decided to give her my so-called confession of infidelity. And now here we were, sitting in impersonal office-chairs around a shining design table -- paid for with the misery of anonymous people like us. Liza just sat, silently staring. "No," she then said, as if coming to a conclusion. "No, Steve, you're not the asshole here, I am. But no more -- I've done enough, protecting the true asshole."

I looked at her, taken aback by her almost translucent paleness. She sat trembling, looking like a ghost.

"Roger is a charlatan, Steve," she said in a robotic voice. "I married him in college."

"You what?" I was completely thrown off balance.

"He is gay, Steve. And being gay is, well, let's say not done in his family. It would have cost him his career, his inheritance, everything, if his father would know. So I cut a deal with him."

I just looked and listened, not believing I was even there.

"But," I then muttered. "He has a wife in..." She shrugged.

"So many homo's marry to cover up, don't they?" she said. "He did back then, so why not now?"

"Anyway," she went on. "I had no money. You don't know that, but I had no funds at the time, just a small scholarship to pay for college, but that was all. My two meager jobs could just barely pay for the rent. As you do know, I am the only one who ever went to college in my family. And then my father died. I had to succeed, if only for his and mom's lifelong dream." She sniffed, running a sleeve over her eyes before going on.

"Right then I was over my head in debts. Roger offered me a way out when my expectations were the bleakest. Beside that, he made it look like just another silly prank. So he started taking me to this posh mansion of his father's, parading me like his fiancée. He dressed me in expensive gear and showed me off like the eye candy I was supposed to be. Only months later he married me in a way over the top ceremony, complete with a white wedding dress and a five-tiered cake. I hardly saw him during our honeymoon. The whole thing, I'm afraid, was scary, but also pretty overwhelming."

"That was when?" I asked. At last my head started working itself out of the shock and around the surreal surprise.

"First year in college, way before we met," she said, touching my arm. "Roger was the perfect gentleman in public, albeit a lying one. But then everything crashed down around me. There was a party one night at his father's mansion; his trophy stepmother turned thirty-five if I remember well. It was a big and posh affair with valets and butlers and a real life orchestra. We arrived in Roger's white Porsche... you remember it."

I did. He had several.

"At first, the party was like living a dream -- Cinderella, Sissy, the whole chandeliered shebang. There were champagne fountains and mountains of oysters, caviar. Guests paraded entire wardrobes of Dior, St. Laurent, Prada and Gucci. There were fur coats and sparkling jewelry, film stars and politicians. Millionaires were as common as cosmetic surgery." Liza's eyes still shone with the memory.

"I guess," she went on, "that I drank too much, but I certainly was high on excitement. So afterwards I could not tell how I finished up in this ballroom size bedroom, lying naked on the four poster Louis the Umpteenth bed."

Her eyes returned from the past. A sudden uncertainty seemed to stop her. Then she shrugged.

"Roger's father pinned me to the bed with his huge hands while his heavy body pressed down on me. His head was close to mine; he smelled of cigars. Then he mumbled something about "droit du seigneur" and I felt his cock enter my vagina. I was no virgin, but he was very large and I was rather dry. He also wasn't the last one who fucked me that night... not by far."

Liza coughed, looking away. I searched for her hands, holding them. "Bastards," I said. She winced at the word.

"The next morning I threatened to go to the police. They might call it whatever they wanted, I had been raped, I said. I had a very sore pussy filled with goo to prove it. Roger wasn't there, his father was. He just grinned and said I shouldn't be silly; no one would believe me. They would consider me a gold digging party girl who got clever after getting herself fucked. He said he was sorry and offered me ten thousand dollars..."

Another silence interrupted her story. She blushed fiercely before going on.

"I... Roger had money, of course, and he'd pampered me with dresses and trips, but I had never seen so much money -- let alone owned it. If you are hungry food can obsess you. If you are poor the mere sight of a lot of money can severely influence your judgment, believe me. Not that I wasn't already very confused by all that had happened. I was nineteen; I had gone through hell. I took the money."

She stared at me, almost challenging. I stared back until her eyes turned away.

"Three weeks later I missed my period. I was pregnant and of course I had no idea who the father was. Roger paid for the abortion. He also promised a large sum for my silence, a monthly allowance. I didn't even have to blackmail him, but I had to collect the money at his father's. It soon became all too clear what the money was really for, but by then I was past caring. I was a little rich, mentally wrecked girl; I dropped out of college for a year."

"These goddamned assholes," I said, surprised by my vehemence. "I'll kill them."

"Don't," she said. "They're not worth going to prison for." I shook my head, but of course she was right. "Besides," she went on, "this is not the whole story. In the end you may think differently."

I only discovered that her hands had been in mine when she started sliding them out from between my fingers. "I am thirsty," she said. "Would you pour me some water?" I got a glass and filled it from a pitcher. The noisy ice cubes were the only sound. She sipped. Then she smiled an uncertain half-smile.

"I was crazy for a while," she said, picking up the story again. "It was a stretch of... parties, one might call them, I guess. Exotic trips too. I was in private planes and on private yachts; there were tropical islands, big cities. I lived in incredible villas and square-mile penthouses. There was no limit on my credit cards. No walk-in closet was big enough for my wardrobe. There were lines of white powder too. And I have never been as constantly fucked as during that year."

She fell silent again, her eyes down. Her fingers strangled her glass. She looked up. "Sorry," she whispered.

I cleared my throat. "What made you change back?"

She stared at me as if the question confused her. "Ah, yes," she said at last. "Change back..." She took a gulp of water, making the ice-cubes tingle. "It happened at a... business trip to Vegas, ten months after it all started. I lay on a huge bed after a night of limitless fucking. I knew none of the participants, just that there had been many men -- women too. By then they had all left, leaving me sprawled amidst smelly pillows and soaked sheets. The sun pried at my caked eyelids. My jaws hurt, as did my pussy and my.... Well, anyway, I was a mess. And I realized there had been way too many mornings lately when I had been this same mess -- hair and skin caked with come, powder clinging to my burning nostrils. I crawled off the bed. On my way to the bathroom I broke down."

The silence was perfect. My breathing had stopped. I imagined the woman I had loved for eight years lying there as she'd described herself. A coke whore. A fucked out company slut. The room started spinning. Bile rose in my throat. Her voice came from a distance.

"Are you all right, Steve? Oh God, I feel so awful and I am so sorry. I can understand why you'd want to get rid of me. That's why I couldn't tell you this. Not when we met, not after. And certainly not after we had little Eric. I am so sorry, Steve. Steve?"

I must have been a sight, stumbling over a chair, trying to reach a wastebasket and throwing up in it. My head glowed like a light bulb. My throat retched with dry-heaves. I stank. When I felt her arm around me, my tears found a way out.

***

I guess I'd been pretty loud. Carl, her lawyer and a secretary rushed in, uttering their concern. I told them I would be all right, probably a bug or something I ate, you know? I freshened up in the bathroom and returned. Liza was fussing over me like a mother. She said it was all right with her if I wanted to go home and maybe lie down. I wondered if she might be talking for herself; she looked pale.

"No," I said. "We aren't finished, are we?" That at least sent a blush to chase the paleness away. "No," she said. "We aren't. But could we go... some place else? Maybe outside?" I thought she had a point. A few minutes later we walked into a nearby park. The air was lovely. Her hand searched mine, but I refused to take it.