Foul Language

"Oh for Christ's sake, Joyce. Grow up! You destroyed me! You couldn't have done a better job it you'd carved me into pieces with a scalpel. You left me with nothing; not even my self respect." I was shouting at her and I'm sure my face was red and the look must have been enough to frighten her.

"You think I hate you. It just shows that you still don't get it, woman. I don't hate you. I love you. I always have and it's my fate that I probably always will. But you took me apart and threw me away. It's not hate you hear, it's anger. I'm furious. I'm livid with everyone and everything that have put me here in this place without a single shred of hope. I'm angry because I knew you were making a mistake. I'm angry because you wouldn't listen to reason. I'm angry because I couldn't convince you that you were wrong. I'm angry because I couldn't stop any of these shitty fucking things happening to us. Does that explain it clearly enough!" I finished.

She was in tears now, her face buried in her hands and her shoulders shaking. I had finally vented my spleen and unfortunately, I didn't feel any better. It would take more than her confessional to restore my ravaged psyche.

I got up and went into the kitchen and poured two glasses of wine. I was pretty sure she would still drink a white wine and I had some open from the previous evening's meal. I walked back onto the deck and Joyce was trying to compose her self and wiping away the tears with a small tissue.

"Have you had lunch? Can I get you something to eat?" I asked quietly. She just nodded her acceptance of my offer and I went back into the kitchen. I made up a plate of cheese and crackers and pulled out some pate I had saved from last week. I opened another bottle of white and left if in the fridge and took the food out to the deck.

"Where are you staying tonight?" I asked softly.

"I don't know. I thought I'd find a motel room. I didn't know if you'd be home. I didn't know if you'd even talk to me." she said, still not looking at me.

"You can stay here. I've got a spare room and you can be pretty sure there won't be any funny business." I smiled; again without much humour.

She nodded her agreement and looked up with a faint smile. "Thanks. I'm tired and I still want to talk to you about things ... if you'll let me." she said carefully.

Chapter Seven: Confession and Catharsis

We finished the food and after I took the plates and utensils in I refilled our wine glasses and asked her if she'd like to take a tour. We walked around the property and I talked about how I had decided where I wanted to live and why. She seemed to understand and I guess we had both calmed down from the frontal attack I had mounted against her. I think she now understood some of my pain and maybe, for me, it was something of a release to have her here and be able to confront her with my emotions. But it really didn't solve anything.

I meant it when I told her I still loved her and just saying the words caused me pain and pushed the anger once again to the surface. I promised myself I wouldn't let that happen again if I could avoid it, but I wasn't sure I could keep that promise.

I set up the barbeque on the deck and I cooked a small steak for each of us. I wasn't eating much these days and I was able to keep my weight down thanks to that and a reasonable amount of exercise. Joyce must have noticed because she said something about my looking healthy in spite of myself. I spent a lot of my time outdoors largely because I think I was becoming claustrophobic; particularly in the winter rainy season. My face had a permanent tan and I imagine that fooled people into thinking I was the picture of fitness.

After dinner we sat on the deck until sundown and the mosquitoes began to arrive. Joyce had brought her travel bag inside earlier and she was set up in the second bedroom after she put on some clean sheets and a pillow case. We had consumed a bottle of French red wine at and after dinner and I offered her a brandy and we sat in a couple of big old chairs by the fireplace.

In the past several hours, Joyce had opened up about her time after the divorce and I could tell it was painful. She had made a mistake she couldn't undo and had fallen into depression. She saw a psychiatrist for several months to get her life back in some kind of order and it seemed to help. She had quit her job and had been working swing shift at a local long-term care hospital. It didn't pay much, but, like me, she had no social life and so her needs were minimal.

When Kirsten called her and told her about the day care center idea, she thought it was so right for her that she offered to invest what money she had with our daughter to get the business going. She moved to Calgary a year ago in September and had rediscovered herself. If the Swami had done anything right, he had identified that she didn't belong in the insurance business; she was a mother and a nurturer and she was perfect in the day care role.

Their business took off and due to a shortage of manpower in Alberta and a ballooning population, they had already applied for a grant to expand the existing unit in South West Calgary and to build a new one in the North Central area. The grant was awarded and they had a contractor ready to go in the next couple of months, as soon as he was finished another job. I was surprised and impressed at how well she had done considering it was an almost spur of the moment decision to get into this business with Kirsten.

Joyce gave all the credit to Kirsten. She was the brains and go-power of the operation and she was the one who proposed the expansion and then the second location and she was the one who filled out the grant application and made the submission to the appropriate people. I was surprised at that even more, considering the last thing I'd heard about her was that she was in some commune in the Kootenays. It just goes to show you never know about your kids.

Rick was living in Edmonton currently. His wife, Beverly, had tired of the vagabond life they led as he wandered from project to project in Eastern Europe. She wanted to come home or at least back to North America and when a job came open with Interprovincial Pipelines, he took it. They now had a nice home in the south west part of town and apparently there was little likelihood that he would have to move in the near future.

Joyce wanted me to call them and let them know I was OK, but told her I wasn't ready yet. I didn't mind if she told them about our meeting, but I needed to think what I could say to my kids to make them understand. I was curious about what Joyce had told them about what happened to us and while she wasn't anxious to tell me, she finally did.

"I told them their mother was a stupid, selfish old woman who didn't know a good thing when she had it. I told them I had badly damaged you and that I probably could never make it right. I told them that it wasn't anything you had done and that you were a model husband and I was the crazy one." she confessed.

"And how did they react?" I asked.

"I don't think they believed me. I think they thought I was covering up something and that I couldn't tell them the truth. I think that's how the idea that maybe you were to blame came about. I couldn't seem to make them understand that it was all me. They had decided I could do no wrong, so it had to be you." she said with sadness in her voice.

"Well, I guess that makes three of us." I said. "I was thinking those same things. There must have been something that I wasn't doing or recognizing that had made this possible. I guess I can understand how the kids feel after all."

Joyce was near tears again and I got up to get us a final brandy. We sat by the fireplace for a while and I must have nodded off. I woke up and looked at the schoolhouse clock on the wall and it read eleven fifteen. I looked at the other chair, but Joyce wasn't there and then I saw her head. She had moved to the floor beside my chair and she too had fallen asleep, leaning on the side of the chair. I reached down and gently touched her hair and then I began to cry.

I cried like I hadn't cried since my dog got run over when I was nine. Big, wracking sobs and heaves and a flood of tears. I cried for what I once had and what I had lost. I cried for Joyce and I cried for me. I cried for our kids and I cried for the whole damn world. At some point I felt Joyce's arm go around me and hug me, but I was alone in the world at that point.

Suddenly, I felt a wave of nausea wash through me and I got up quickly and went to the bathroom, slamming the door behind me and just barely making to the bowl before I emptied my stomach. I must have heaved for at least a couple of minutes; long past when I had anything but bile to spit out. I stayed over the bowl until I was able to gather myself and flush the toilet. I pulled myself to my feet and turned on the cold water.

I tried to rinse out my mouth, but the taste was still there. I fumbled around in the drawer and found a motel sampler of mouthwash I had once liberated and washed my mouth out with that. I heard a soft tapping on the door and Joyce asking me if I was alright.

"I'll be out in a minute. I'll be OK. I'll just clean myself up." I said.

I looked at myself in the mirror and it wasn't a pretty sight. I suppose I could blame it on having too much to drink, but I knew it was something much different than that. I washed my face and hands and sprayed a bit of deodorant to cover the smell of my upheaval. I opened the door and Joyce was standing right there. And then the tears started all over again.

We clutched at each other like we were our own life preservers. I don't know how long we were like that but it was a while. Finally, I took her by the hand and we went to the little sofa by the side window and sat down together. I didn't know what had happened, but something fundamental had changed. Her touch, her scent, her warmth; I had lost them all and now it was all coming back and intensifying the pain. It was at that instant that I knew I wanted all those things back.

Chapter Eight: What now?

We sat on the sofa for what seemed like hours while I tried to understand what had happened and what I was going to do. We talked, finally, to and with each other, not at each other. Joyce was happy in her new job and I was happy in my new home. How could we reconcile that much less our former lives? There was only one solution we could both agree upon. We needed time to think. We needed, strangely, more time apart to understand what kind of life we could have together, if any.

We finally fell asleep in each other's arms. We never did go to bed. I awoke with her head on my shoulder and the wonderful scent of her body in my nostrils. I looked over at the clock and it read five thirty. I put my head back and tried to go back to sleep, but I couldn't. My mind was working full speed and I was trying to image a scenario where I could make our relationship work again without sacrificing the things we both had come to depend upon.

Just after six, Joyce stirred in my arms and I could see her eyelashes flicker and knew she was waking. I held her softly while that process evolved and in a minute or so, she tilted her head back to look up at me and then smiled. She closed her eyes again and wrapped her arm around mine and pulled me tightly against her. I was close to falling apart again and it was all I could do to keep my composure.

We stayed like that for a couple of minutes before she began to climb off my lap and I realized she was headed to the bathroom. I stood as she left and stretched my aching muscles. Sofas were never meant to be a bed for two adults. But it was a pleasurable pain, one that I had welcomed and one that I had longed for during these past two years.

I walked to the kitchen and started to make some coffee. I had a headache and I'm sure it was a result of too much alcohol and the stress of the emotions that had been coursing through me in the past hours. Luckily, I had a small bottle of aspirins on the window ledge and I popped two into my mouth and washed them down with my usual morning orange juice.

Joyce came out of the bathroom and walked up behind me, wrapping her arms around my waist and pulling me tightly to her. She kissed my neck and then uttered those famous romantic words:

"I need a shower. I stink."

I snorted my laugh and patted her bum with my free hand and she headed off to her bedroom to get a change of clothes. I headed for the linen closet and pulled out some fresh towels and put them on the bathroom counter. She reappeared with a handful of underwear and a light housecoat and waved to me as she closed the bathroom door. I don't know if I was expecting an invitation to join her, but that didn't happen.

I would like to be able to describe my feelings that morning, but I can't. On the one hand, I felt lighter somehow; as if some weight had been lifted off my shoulders. On the other, I felt fear; fear that I couldn't find a solution that would satisfy us both and bring about a complete reconciliation. Were we doomed to be just friends or would one of us have to sacrifice our new life to be with the other?

When I finally realized what I was feeling above all else, it was the absence of anger. I didn't know if it had just gone into hiding or whether I was repressing it for the sake of my ambitions but it wasn't where it had been; sitting right on the surface, waiting for some spark to trigger it.

That afternoon, Joyce put her bag in the trunk of her rental car and drove off down the driveway and back to her life in Calgary. We had hugged and kissed and talked about the puzzle we wanted to solve and promised to talk to each other regularly. We did not make love. We weren't ready for that I guess. If it was going to happen, it would happen, but not this time. It didn't matter. For the first time in more than two years, I felt just the tiniest hint of optimism. Maybe, just maybe, we had a chance.

Epilogue:

There are two housekeeping items as I call them. First, Joyce finally told me that she had gone through a cancer scare just before she went on that infamous trip with the other women. She had not told me because she thought I would worry and it would just add to her concerns and fears. The insensitive lout that I am failed to see that and she masked the fear until she was given the all clear by her doctor. However, it had made her feel very vulnerable and it was that, combined with a very persuasive con-man that made her susceptible to the guy I still refer to as "The Swami".

Secondly, but best of all, was my revenge on Claire LaPointe. Sit back dear readers and enjoy my little tale. It was the only bright spot, save my patent sale, that I had in those wretched months of my divorce. During the preliminary negotiations with the buyers, I was meeting with Scotty at his office downtown and when the meeting was over, I would often stop at the bar in the middle of the block for a drink or two before I headed back to Guelph.

I was drinking quite a bit more in those days, but I was still careful that I wasn't going to get picked up for being over the limit. Anyway, one day I was sitting at the bar where I usually did and I couldn't help but overhear a conversation between two men sitting beside me whining about their divorces. I got interested when I heard the name Claire LaPointe and then a string of expletives. I decided to get nosey and asked them if they were victims of the female vulture and they both said yes, among other unrepeatable expressions.

I told them that I too was a refugee from her clutches and we all compared stories about how she had ravaged us without mercy. I was in a contemplative mood I guess as I absently asked the question about how many others there may be of us in this club of victims of her wrath. One of the guys suggested that was easy to find out. All we had to do was check the court records for divorces and see which ones where she had represented the wife. We talked a bit more and I had the germ of an idea, but I didn't want to get their hopes up, so I asked them for their business cards and gave them mine.

I went through the court records for a couple of years and I have to tell you, it was tough slugging. Luckily, I had all kinds of time since I had resigned and besides it was a labor of hate. I carefully noted the names of the defendants in each of her cases and it was obvious that she only handled women clients. This bitch had a very specific mission; destroy as many men as possible. It got me to thinking that there may be more to this that meets the eye.

I had gathered as much information as possible about the men she had victimized and started to track them down. Again, I had all kinds of time and in this case, I had a mission to accomplish. One by one, I contacted the men on my list and asked them if they were interested in my plan of revenge. After twenty contacts, I had eleven affirmatives and I thought that should be enough, but if we needed more, I had a list of many names with which to follow up.

The plan was simple, risky and had no guarantee of success. I had come to the opinion that this woman was a man-hater and I suspected she would act this out in her lifestyle. There was only one way to find out. I proposed that each of us contribute up to a maximum of five hundred dollars and we would hire a private detective to follow her and find out what we could about her private life. Eleven of the men I contacted agreed. Of those who didn't, almost all of them had been left in a state of near poverty and couldn't afford to join us. I told them that no matter what, I would keep them informed of our progress. Each and every one of them was with us in spirit.

Scotty knew of a detective, Terry Bolton, who would do the kind of work we wanted. In addition, since we were never going to take any of this to court, we could count on him to use whatever means necessary to get information with the stipulation that he never tell us how he got it. I met with him in his office uptown and I was quietly amused that it looked nothing like the offices I remembered from the movies. It was new and modern and very efficient looking. I gave Terry the background and just how many men had been victimized by this woman and our objective. We needed to get any dirt we could on this woman.

Terry was sympathetic, but cautious. He explained the law and what he could and couldn't do, but in the end, he agreed that what we needed was within the scope of his capability. I gave him the requested $2000 retainer and he promised to keep me informed regularly. I had no option but to trust him and I fervently hoped I wasn't throwing my fellow victims' money away on a wild goose chase.

It was almost two weeks before I heard from Terry, but it was worth the wait.

"Well, I have some interesting information on Ms. LaPointe." Terry began. "She is, without doubt, a lesbian. Moreover, she isn't particularly loyal to any one partner. She seems to have more than a couple of 'girlfriends'. I'm also pretty sure she is the dominant partner in these relationships. Very dominant, if you catch my drift." he said with what I could detect was a note of triumph.

"Nice going Terry." I replied. "I have to tell you I suspected this, but now the question is, what do we do next?" I asked.

"Well, Ms. LaPointe is a bit careless. She often entertains her little friends in her apartment near her office. She doesn't live there, but she uses it for her business and personal liaisons." he stated. "Let's just say that if someone wanted to bug her place, she makes it fairly easy for them." I could almost see the smile on his face and I hoped he could imagine the one on mine.

"Well, that makes things fairly straightforward, doesn't it?" I suggested.