February Sucks - Another Version

Linda was obviously hurt by my lack of feelings toward her. It was also obvious that she regarded our return to a normal loving marriage as something that would evolve in time.

I turned the conversation slightly. "Apparently, the Asshole didn't regard his night of sex with you as highly as you prized it. He didn't even remember your name. And he had no interest in dancing with you. I had the impression that since he had already fucked you, you were no longer of interest to him. He seemed to be after new meat, namely Mary."

"Yes, you are right. Nevertheless, we had one night together that was incredible and I will always remember it. I just hope that, eventually, you will get over it and we can be as we once were."

"You are deceiving yourself, Linda," I replied. "I am over it and we will never be as we once were."

I went on. "You still don't feel what it is to be totally in love with someone and then find out that you are not enough."

"You are enough for me, Jim. You always have been," She asserted.

"Except for one night," I added.

We each realized that we held diametrically opposed views on Linda's night with the Asshole. And we both decided to be quiet for the rest of the ride home.

We continued through the rest of spring, through summer and into fall with the relationship I had outlined to Linda. I was happy to spend a lot of time with Emma and Tommy. We did a lot of boating, fishing and camping when the weather was good. Linda was almost always included. On the surface, we were a happy family. I was a happy dad. Linda was not difficult to live with even though I didn't love her. We were always friendly, polite and courteous to each other. In bed, Linda initiated sex so often that I didn't have to. We did everything to each other that two heterosexual adults could think of. She would often say, "Do anything to me you want." And I would rejoin with," I'll do anything to you that you want." Also, she would often say, "I love you," while we were making love. I never responded similarly.

I made several trips to the Maryland marina to supervise the re-rigging of Will's sloop. We took it out on several shake down cruises before we sailed to Fort Lauderdale. The voyage was very memorable. We stopped at several marinas along the way where Walt, who was a member of the Annapolis Yacht Club, had exchange privileges with local yacht clubs. Linda, Emma and Tommy sailed several legs of the voyage with us and enjoyed it immensely. After reaching For Lauderdale, I helped Walt make arrangements for the lease-back of his sloop. After he and Wendy left, I spent three days with my sister.

We had a good Christmas and a good News Year's Eve/Day and moved into January. Linda's sister, Lidia, and her husband, James, were close to us because they had a boy and two girls about the same ages as Emma and Tommy. We went on many boating/camping/fishing trips together. We decided to take a snow holiday in mid-January and rented a cabin in the woods near a quaint little town that had a variety of snow sports for kids. Unfortunately, Linda was not able to get the time off to go with us, as sometimes would happen. It was cold but we were ready for it. We enjoyed the snow tubing, the cross-country skiing and the snowball fights. In the evenings, we enjoyed the fire in the over-sized fireplace.

One evening, when it was just Lidia and me in front of the fire enjoying a hot toddy, she asked me, "What's wrong between you and Linda?"

"What makes you think anything is wrong?" I answered.

"When you are around her and when you think no one is looking, you seem so formal with her. It was my experience in the past that you two couldn't keep your hands to yourselves when you thought you were alone."

I didn't want to go into this discussion with Lidia and I simply said, "Things change."

"What things?" Lidia wanted to know.

"You will have to talk to Linda," I said and dropped the conversation.

When we arrived home on Sunday night, we were meant by a morose Linda. I asked her what was wrong, but she wouldn't talk in front of the kids. After dinner and after I put the kids to bed, I returned to the family room to find Linda weeping.

"What's wrong, Linda? What has happened?"

"It was on the news this morning. Marc has been badly injured. He was the victim of a hit and run accident. Both of his ankles have been crushed. They don't think he will ever be able to play football again. And his beautiful Ferrari was totaled."

"Well, that's too bad," I said in a tone that could be construed as either sympathetic or sarcastic.

"I know you hate him," Linda blurted out. "But you can't have wanted anything like this to happen to him."

"You are right," I said. "I hated him. I wanted to hurt him like he hurt me. I wanted to break his legs, I wanted to scar his face, I wanted to rip his balls off. The hate I had for him almost turned me into a dark soul. However, I was fortunate enough to have a wise sister who saw how messed up I was and put me into therapy with a very good psychologist. I saw my doctor three times a week for six weeks. She helped me get rid of the pain I was in and the anger I had for you and the hate I had for the Asshole. I let it all go. That's the only reason I came home, and came home a happy man."

"Maybe some angry husband felt the need for revenge just as I did, and instead of just imagining what he would like to do, he really took action."

Linda lamented, "I can't believe anyone would be so angry about their wife spending a single night with Marc, that they would physically cripple him."

I replied, "I wouldn't doubt that they were actually trying to kill him.

"However, I can see that you are still hung up on the Asshole. That pretty much lets me know you still regard your one-night stand with him as a memorable interlude.

"Jim," she pleaded, "you have to understand. It was a one-time..."

I didn't let her finish. "We don't have to go through that again. I don't care."

Late Friday afternoon, soon after I returned home from the office, I heard the doorbell ring. I opened the door to find two men standing on the porch. The one in front wore a sport coat and tie while the man to the rear wore an inexpensive day-time suit also with a tie. They had a serious look on their faces.

The man in front introduced himself. "I'm Detective Sergeant Harry Morgan," she said as he held up his badge. He went on. "This," he said while turning his head to indicate the man behind him, "is my partner, Officer Ben Alexander."

"What can I do for you Sergeant?" I asked.

"We would like to ask you some questions," the sergeant replied. And then he added, "May we come in?"

I stood aside, indicating that they were welcome to enter and then led them to the family room. When I motioned for them to sit down, they declined saying that they would prefer to stand.

"Is your wife here?" Sergeant Morgan asked.

"She is upstairs changing her clothes," I said.

"If you would, please ask her to come down. What we have is for both of you."

I took the stairs two at a time and entered the bedroom. Linda had just finished changing into slacks and a short-sleeved blouse.

"We have two policemen downstair," I told her. "I don't know what they want but they want to talk with both of us."

Once we were both downstairs, I made the introductions and then asked, "What do you want from us, Sergeant?"

The policeman was direct. "You both know who Marc LaValliere is, don't you?

Both Linda and I stiffened visibly.

The policeman Sergeant Morgan continued, "According to our sources, you, Mrs. Carisle, had a one-night stand with Mr. LaValliere in late February. Further, he picked you up at a lounge called the Iris Club at a time when you were there with your husband. Is that correct?"

Linda was reluctant to answer and looked to me for guidance. I held up my hand to indicate that she was not to say anything.

"Sergeant Morgan," I interjected, "we would like to know what this is about before we answer any questions that are very private in nature."

The policeman acted as if he hadn't heard my statement and he went on. "Based on that event, I imagine, Mr. Carlisle, that you were not a fan of Marc LaValliere, were you? In fact, you might have entertained thoughts about hurting him."

"Maybe," was all I said since I wanted to be non-committal until I learned more.

I repeated myself, "Before we answer your questions, we want to know what this is all about. Either tell us why you are here or we will call a lawyer before we say anything further."

The two policemen looked a one another and nodded. Officer Alexander took the lead.

"You undoubtedly heard that Mr. LaValliere was struck by a hit-and-run driver last Saturday evening and was severely injured."

Linda and I both nodded yes.

It came to me in a flash and I said, "And you think I may have been the hit-and-run driver?"

Linda broke into the conversation. "At one time my husband might have wanted to hurt Marc, but even if he had the chance, we would never do anything like that."

Officer Alexander continued. "Where were you last Saturday night around 11PM, Mr. Carlisle?"

"I was 115 miles away, in a cabin at Blue Lake with my kids, my sister-in-law, Lidia, and her husband. We returned late Sunday afternoon.

"Can they vouch for the fact that you didn't leave your cabin on Saturday afternoon or evening and then return in the very early morning?"

"Yes," I said and then asked Linda to give Lidia's contact information to the policemen.

Sergeant Morgan began to speak. "Actually, we know that you were not the hit-and-run driver, Mr. Carlisle, because, in fact, Mr. LaValliere was not injured in an auto accident. He was brutally assaulted.

"Assaulted?" Linda gasped. "Who would do that?"

All three of us men in the room looked at her incredulously.

Sergeant Morgan continued with a description of the assault. "Mr. LaValliere has given us the names of about a dozen women whose husbands probably hated him with enough passion to want to hurt him.

"Where was he attacked?" I inquired.

Sergeant Morgan went on, "He was waiting for a lady outside the rear entrance of the Iris Club when three men—three big men—approached him. They took him by surprise and wrestled him to the ground. One of the men then produced a long-handled sledge hammer and struck each of his ankles several times.

"About that time, a very beautiful woman emerged from the rear door. She saw what was going on and started to scream, but one of the assailants slapped her several times and told her to go back inside and beg for her husband's forgiveness.

"While Mr. Lavalliere was still being retrained, the man with the sledge hammer went to work on Mr. LaValliere's Ferrari. He bashed in the front end, the windshield, the instrument panel, the rear end and the side panels. Then, he pulled out a boxcutter knife and proceeded to cut up the Ferrari's leather seats."

"Oh my God," Linda said while shaking her head back and forth. "My poor Marc."

The two policemen looked grim. Sergeant Morgan nodded to Officer Alexander to go on.

"Mr. LaValliere's badly fractured ankles were not the limit of his injuries."

The officer waited for us to understand what he was saying.

He continued, "Mr. Lavalliere was also disfigured."

"Oh no! Please God, no!" was Linda's response. "Not his beautiful face?"

At this point, Sergeant Morgan interceded. "His face was not touched. Disfigured is probably not the most correct term. More accurately, Mr. LaValliere was maimed."

"What do you mean, maimed?" Linda asked.

"Oh, shit!" I said. "They cut off his balls, didn't they?"

"No, not his balls. Mr. LaValliere was dismembered. About half of his penis was cut off by the man with the boxcutter. The severed penis was thrown on the asphalt and the man with the sledge hammer pounded it into mush. There is no hope of surgically re-attaching it."

"No, no, no!" cried Linda. "This can't be happening." She bent over in her chair with her arms wrapped around her body.

"Jesus Christ!" was all I could say. Then I added, "He fucked one wife too many. He humiliated a husband he shouldn't have."

Sergeant Morgan went on, "We're sorry to have laid this information on you this way but we had to see your reaction to the news. It's obvious to us that all of this is very unsettling to both of you. We probably won't bother you further. We still have list of additional suspects to interview."

I walked the two policemen to the door, at which point Sergeant Morgan asked me to accompany him outside. I checked on Linda first and found her to be inconsolable. I left her sobbing on the stool of the easy chair.

"Mr. Carlisle," the sergeant started, "we were pretty certain you had nothing to do with this assault even before we came over here. Nevertheless, we are obligated to follow every lead."

"We believe we know who committed the actual assault."

"Can you tell me what you know?" I asked.

"I will tell you more than I should and I will rely on your discretion.

"About seven weeks ago, Mr. LaValliere picked up a very beautiful woman at the Iris Club who was the wife of a mild-mannered accountant. The accountant actually tried to protest when LaValliere pulled her from the table to the dance floor. Mr. LaValliere pushed the man back into his seat and told him to sit quietly. He then sneered at the accountant and told him that he should go home and that his wife would be returned to him the next day. What made it especially humiliating for the accountant was that his wife laughed at him, too, as she left the table.

"The accountant and his wife were not with friends, so the man sat at his table alone until it was obvious that his wife was not coming back. He was seen to be crying by other patrons at the club. Finally, the club manager asked him to leave.

"The accountant's wife was a trophy wife and a bit of a gold-digger. Nevertheless, the accountant loved the shit out of her. And, he could afford her. The loss of his wife in such a humiliating manner sent the accountant into deep depression.

"According to our white-collar crime division, this particular accountant is suspected of keeping the books for the East Coast arm of a national gambling syndicate. They have used him for years to help them launder their money, advise them on investments, shuffle funds from one account to another, etc. He really isn't directly involved in gambling, but he is highly regarded by the syndicate. Part of the reason he is so effective is that he has a photographic mind. Many of the ID's, passwords, account designations and other information are kept in his head. When he became distraught, he started neglecting his business. His associates were able to take up the slack on his legal accounts, but not the accounts he kept for the syndicate.

"Those members of the syndicate that he dealt with openly began to worry about him personally as well as professionally. He was well-like and respected by the more public members of the syndicate and often had socialized with them. The wife of one of these associates took a personal interest in helping him. The first thing she did was convince the accountant to throw his wife out and start divorce proceedings against her. Once she was out of the house, she took it upon herself to make certain the accountant did not lack for companionship. She arranged dinners at which her sister or a girlfriend of hers would be present. She arranged double-dates and day trips with her friends hoping the accountant would snap out of his depression. And he did for the most part. He began to realize there were other women he had an interest in and that had an interest in him."

"Been there, done that, I have the T-shirt," I thought to myself.

"However, the accountant could not get over the humiliation he experienced. He thought people were always talking about him and that night he was pushed around."

"So, he did what?" I asked. "Did he arrange for the hit on the Asshole?"

"No," said Officer Alexander very firmly. "We are certain the accountant had nothing to do with it. Rather, the syndicate arranged for Mr. Lavalliere's encounter. They wanted to do it both as a favor to their friend and colleague and to send a message to anyone who might want to mess with their business interests again."

"Needless to say," said Sergeant Morgan, "people don't take the accountant lightly anymore."

"Jesus Christ!" was all I could say.

"I suppose you couldn't tell me the name of the accountant, could you?" I asked the officers.

"No, we can't. However, if you would like a recommendation for a good company to do your taxes, you might try Ronald Stone & Associates. And, by the way, he is a red wine connoisseur."

As the two policemen got in their car, I said, "Thank you, I will remember that."

When I returned to the house, Linda was slumped at the kitchen table with her arm on the table and her head in her hand. She was sobbing.

"Well," I said, "I guess you won't be having anymore nights of ecstasy with the Asshole."

"How can you be so cruel?" she retorted.

"You still don't understand, do you? He was the cruel one. And you too. I was just a husband who loved his wife too much."

There was so much more I almost said. I thought of saying, "At least they didn't cut out his tongue out. Maybe he can learn to use it in place of his dick."

I was angry that Linda was still so hung up on her former lover. Would anything ever make her believe that her night with the Asshole was the most calamitous thing that ever happened to her?

I grabbed my sport coat from the kitchen chair where I had placed it when I came home.

"Where are you going?" Linda asked.

"I'm going the Iris Club. I intend to sit at the bar, flirt with Brigitte, my favorite bartender, and make toast after toast to some unknown husband somewhere who said, "I've had enough. I'm mad as Hell and I'm not going to take this anymore! I will be blasted by the time I get home, which will probably be in an Uber cab and very late."

I left the house, and rather than going directly to the dance club, I went to the local grocery store. I bought a 'get well' card and a felt-tipped pen. I crossed out the letter 'W' and marked in an 'H". Inside the card I wrote, "Enjoy your new lifestyle, Asshole." Then, I signed it, "Jim (Husband of Linda)."

Next, I went to a florist and ordered a big bouquet of flowers. I gave them the address of the Asshole's townhouse and told them to include the card with the flowers. Then I went to the club.

Brigette recognized me as soon as I sat down at the bar. Tentatively, she asked, "How are you doing Mr. Carlisle?"

"I'm good, Brigette, thank you,"

"You look good, Mr. Carlisle. You look happy and relaxed. Are you happy at home?

"Thank you again, Bridgette," I said. "I've made some changes to my life that let me look forward to the future with a smile."

"What can I get you to drink, Mr. Carlisle?"

"I'm going to sit here for several hours, Bridgette. And I'm going to drink straight shots of Johnny Walker. When you see my drink is empty, bring me another. If it appears that I shouldn't drive home, tell me so, take my keys and order me an Uber."

"I'll do that for you, Mr. Carlisle," she replied. "What are you celebrating?

"I can't tell you that, Brigette, but you will start hearing stories pretty soon that will give you a good idea."

"How mysterious, Mr. Carlisle," she said as she handed me my first drink.

For most of the evening, I sat at the end of the bar, drinking quietly, and thinking.

It was obvious from Linda's reaction to the news of the Asshole's injuries that she still had feelings for him, even if he couldn't remember her name. I wondered whether or not our marriage might have had a chance of surviving if, when I returned from Florida, I had found her truly remorseful and regretful of her one-night stand with the Asshole. Maybe, under those circumstances and with some counseling, we could have saved our relationship, but she wasn't. She still held on to her memory of her night of sex with the Asshole as something special in her life. She thought that the conditions I imposed on our relationship would change over time and I would forget about the incident and fall in love with her again. She was delusional.