Her Next Husband

Being a small town guy, I started chatting with the driver. I even asked if I could ride up front with him as I could talk to him easier. WE became friends quickly and after a bit, I asked him if he knew where Bradley Morgan's house was. Of course he did and it wasn't far out of the way, so I asked if we could swing by there for a minute. Fifteen minutes later, we paused in front of a white three story mansion with a huge front yard and a ten foot wrought iron fence surrounding it. I got out.

I walked over to the intercom and on an impulse I pressed the button and asked, "Is Dolly Davis or Dylan in there?" I heard the driver chuckle at my lack of Holly-weird etiquette.

Shortly a woman's voice answered, "Just a moment."

"Don't bother her majesty, just ask her if she's still my wife, or Bradley Morgan's newest fuck-toy. And tell her that I'm at the Hilton, IF she wants to reach me—and unlike her, MY cell phone is ON!"

Not waiting for an answer, I got back in the limo and asked Roland, the driver to take me to my hotel. He was laughing so hard as we pulled away that he almost hit another car.

When we arrived at the hotel where Ellen's staff had arranged a room for me, I offered Roland a tip.

"Thank you Mr. Curt, but you made me laugh like I haven't laughed since I was a kid. I feel so much better because I've been fighting a lot of things in my life, like my own wife's cancer—she is beating it by the way. It's a much better thing you did for me than a tip. Thank you again, and good luck with your wife."

"Thank you for a great ride, and I hope your wife is better soon."

Shortly after I'd checked in, I collapsed onto the luxurious bed and slept the rest of Sunday, since I hadn't been sleeping well, and missed a whole night's worth of sleep flying out there. When I woke, there was still no call to my cell phone from Dolly or Bradley's people.

Bright and early Monday morning, a member of Ellen's staff arrived and escorted me over to the studio and prepped me as to what to expect, what to do, and what not to do. Ellen herself came in to meet me and put me to ease, so the on-air interview would go better. I told her that I'd accepted her offer because her show was my 'guilty pleasure,' and I'd been a fan of her comedy for many years.

I was the last guest of the day and Ellen began by asking how long we were married, how we met, etc. Then she asked me to tell my story. I tried to tell it exactly as it happened, trying not to embellish it any.

Ellen asked, "Did you ever get to speak with your wife."

"Yes, at eleven thirty our time, she borrowed some guy's phone in the hotel lobby and called me; chewed me out for embarrassing her publicly on Facebook, and hung up on me—again without a simple 'goodbye' or 'I love you.' The audience lightly booed her.

"Has Bradley Morgan or his staff called you?"

"I have not been contacted by them in any way. I hear they've been busy doing 'damage control,' which is probably why my wife had to borrow a stranger's phone instead of using one or their phones."

"Who told you this?"

"The nice fellow whose phone she borrowed. I called him back later using my caller I.D. He also told me what hotel she was in when she called me. I got the number of the hotel, and called them to see if I could speak with her."

"At first they told me that she wasn't there, but then I asked if she'd used her maiden name, which she had. It must have made her feel young and 'available' again. They were also kind enough to tell me that she'd just checked out and would be spending the rest of her time in L.A. in the luxurious home of Bradley Morgan himself, whom she has called 'her next husband' for many years, much to my dismay."

The audience was aghast. Ellen was slightly shaken by this, "That must've been quite a big blow to you. First she ignores you and your family, then she spends the night in his home. What's next on her list, picking out a china pattern?" She tried to lighten the mood successfully.

"So, what's next for you and your wife?"

"I don't know, but it's obvious she has no respect for me and I certainly can't trust her at her word. I guess it'll depend on what happened last night at Bradley's house and even if she wants to come home."

"Well, if worse comes to worse, you're a good looking man. I'm sure there'd be more than a few interested ladies out there." Squeals and cat calls went up from the audience. It was time for a commercial and she segued off to it professionally, thanking me for sharing my story.

Once the cameras were off, Ellen said, "I'm so sorry about how you've been treated by some of us West-coasters. Please, accept my offer to stay here a few days on me—heck, make it a week. Call it a mini-vacation, if you will. It seems like the least I could do."

"Thank you, but no. I need to get back to my kids and my life. You were so nice to fly me out here and put me up at that nice hotel. Hopefully now that I've done this interview with you, those tabloid vultures will mostly leave me alone. I belong at home."

"Okay, if that's the way you want it, but we aren't all bad. Look, we usually tape a week ahead of time, but because of the timeliness of your story, we'll put this on tomorrow. So, watch tomorrow and you'll get to see yourself on TV."

"Thank you, Ellen. You've made me feel welcome here, but it's just not my lifestyle. You're truly a rose in a sea of thorns." She then gave a staffer instruction to arrange my flight back home. Three hours later, I was in the air and on my way. By ten that night, I was back home thanks to a ride from Scarlett. There were no more vultures circling my home.

Tuesday morning, I was awakened by someone banging on the front door and ringing the bell repeatedly. I dragged my tired rear to the front door, thinking, "If this is another damn reporter..."

I looked out the peephole and saw the back of a woman's head as she scanned the neighborhood from my front porch. The she turned back to beat on the door again and I saw it was...Dolly. The moment of truth had arrived.

"What's the matter, did Bradley get tired of you already?" I yelled through the door.

"That's not funny, Curt! Let me in!"

"If you couldn't bother to call home once in four days, you don't have a home. Go away!"

"Look, I'm sorry about that, but I was so busy."

"I thought I knew you, but now I hardly recognize you and your behavior. You made your choice—and it wasn't me. Go away!"

"Please, Curt, let me in. This is my home, too. I demand that you let me in!"

"So, you think that you can leave us, without so much as a 'goodbye' or telling us anything about where you were going, what you'd be doing, when you'd be back, but only a mention of 'finally meeting your next husband.' Then, you ignore my calls and texts. Then you ignore your kids' calls and texts for FOUR FREAKING DAYS! The only reason you took one lousy minute to call home is that I threatened to cause trouble for poor old Bradley Moron!

"I would venture a guess that the only reason you're here now is that your 'Prince Charmless' is a typical Holly-weird jerk who does his very best to distance himself from you, since you're part of the PR nightmare that I created. Otherwise, you'd probably still be in his home, sipping your morning champagne with a grapefruit as the two of you had breakfast in his bed!

"So when he finally booted your skanky ass back to Indiana, you come back here, arrogantly thinking that I'd be happy to have your sorry old cheating ass back in my house, and you have the big brass balls to actually DEMAND to be let back in! I have two words for you: FUCK OFF!"

"Curt...pleeeease!" she began to cry. She sat down on the fancy new suitcase they filled with the new clothes and makeup they'd given her, and tears began to run down her expertly done cheeks.

I called Scarlett, since she didn't go in to work as early as Rhett. "Sorry to bother you this early, but I'd like you to come get your mother. She's on the front porch DEMANDING to be let in, and I won't have her back in this house. Would you please come get her?"

"She's back?"

"Yes."

"She's on the front porch?"

"Yes, again."

"Why won't you let her in?"

"Would you let your husband in, if he'd done what your Mom did the last four days?"

"I get it; I'll be right there."

"Thanks."

Ten minutes later, Scarlett arrived and convinced Dolly to go home with her, because, as Scarlett said, "If she were me, she wouldn't let her in, either." Then I called Rhett and told him that his Mom was back and at Scarlett's house. As soon as I got off the phone, I drove to the hardware store and bought new locks. I was putting them on when Rhett drove up.

"Dad, is all this really necessary? I mean, locking Mom out...changing the locks..."

"Just ask yourself, what would I do if it were MY WIFE that had run off like that, and refused to call home, except to complain that I was embarrassing her. If I let her just waltz back in here like she did nothing wrong, with that big swelled head they gave her in Holly-weird, she would be out of control.

"Between her girlfriends swooning over her and her stories of who she saw and talked to, and maybe the local paper interviewing her...and what if...I say WHAT IF she actually did crawl between old Bradley's sheets? She couldn't keep her mouth shut about that for long. She'd soon arrogantly brag about it to her best friends. Then it would spread all over town. She'd be the middle-aged hottie that slept with Mr. Bradley Morgan, the (former) mega-star and the envy of all middle-aged women for a hundred miles, but I'd be the poor bastard that gothisleftovers when he was done with her. I'm no 'Mr. Macho,' and you know that, but I can not and will not live like that.

"If she'd kept in touch, sharing all the wonderful things that happened when she was there, and letting us know that she was alright and having a great time, it would be a lot easier to believe that the whole thing was innocent and that nothing happened. She CHOSE to shut us out; that makes me wonder what she was doing that she was so ashamed of that she had to hide it. I've known you mother for a long time, and she loves to share every detail of her (usually mind-numbingly boring) day with me, but she can't even call to tell me where she's staying? Then—just to add insult to injury, she used her maiden name all the time she was there. No, there's something rotten in Denmark. If it smells like crap, and looks like crap; it usually is a bunch of crap, and this reeks of crap."

"Mom says that her phone went dead shortly after they left. They hadn't made it to the plane yet. That explains why our calls didn't go through."

"Three things are wrong with that. First, Mom had me put it on the charger when we got home from work, because it was almost dead. It had been on the charger for over three hours when they 'abducted' her. Secondly, are there no iphone chargers in Holly-weird? Thirdly, why didn't she borrow a phone from one of the contest crew? I'm sure they all had one. Or she could've called from the hotel room—they all have phones, and she knows that. Oh yeah, and I'm sure it was her hitting the 'ignore call' button when we called, too. As much as I'd like to believe her, it's pure crap."

"I'm sorry that you feel that way, Dad."

"Look, I'd like to believe that maybe her phone wasn't on the charger right and it did go dead, and that the contest cronies were all self-centered bastards who wouldn't share their phones, and that by a weird coincidence the hotels' phone service was down. When she called, she wasn't the woman I'd fallen in love with and married; she was unrepentant and angry that I'd blemished her fantasy weekend, and maybe her best chance to rope in 'her next husband,' which I have every indication that she was trying to do last weekend. I will not be 'plan B' when her plans with old Bradley didn't pan out."

"I think I understand; is there anything you'd like me to tell her?"

"If my last name isn't good enough for her Holly-weird trip, she can keep using her maiden name here at home, too. Oh yeah, and don't miss The Ellen Show today."

"What do you mean by that?"

"I got my 'fifteen minutes of fame.' She got hers; it's only fair. I'm the last guest, by the way. Why did you think I went out there?"

"I thought you were going to see Mom in person, and try to get through to her...to bring her home."

"So, you thought Mr. Bradley Morgan is going to open his ten foot tall wrought iron gates with barbs on top to the first guy who says, 'My wife is in there and I demand to see her'? He ain't stupid; that's inviting trouble right into your own living room."

"So, you tried?"

"I was able to leave her a message with a servant on the intercom. That's all." I smirked inside, thinking of the message I'd left.

"That's rough, Dad. I'll give her the message."

"Thanks for understanding, Rhett. I don't want you and Scarlett to feel like you have to choose sides in this mess. Whatever the outcome, when all is said and done, she will still be your mom and I'll be your dad. There are just too many hard feelings right now and too many things that I don't know—and I'll never know for sure. When we've both calmed down, we need to talk it all out and maybe get some counseling to see if there's enough left to patch something back together. Tell her that, too. I'm just not ready right now."

"Hang tough, Dad. Love ya, man." He gave me a hug and went back to his place, or probably Scarlett's where Dolly was. I wished I was a fly on the wall when she saw me on the show that afternoon.

Scarlett told me later that she fought them and didn't want to watch Ellen. She just wanted to be left alone, but they practically dragged her into the family room when she hears my voice and saw me, she fainted. They played the recording of it back for her later. She just kept muttering, "I can't believe he did this to me..."

At three thirty that afternoon, I had a visitor from the local TV station, which carried Ellen. It seems that Ellen's people tipped off the locals that I was going to be a guest on her show, and since it was a hot topic on the coast, they wanted to boost their own ratings. By putting me on the news, more people would watch Ellen, and those who saw me on Ellen, would get more info on the local news: it's a win-win.

Through the peephole I saw a young woman, professionally dressed, so I thought I'd see what she wanted. When I opened the door, a man with a TV camera stepped in from the side of the porch and began filming. She raised her microphone up and asked, "Mr. Dylan, I'm from WFDET news, and we'd like to ask a couple of questions."

"No comment. I've said all that I'm going to say on Ellen. Good day!" I closed the door.

The kids both called to check on me, and Scarlett asked how I could've done that to my wife—airing out our private problems on national TV.

I replied, "Our story had already taken on a life of its own on Facebook and the internet rumor mill. I wanted to get it out there to the public without all the exaggerations and half-truths, so people could see it for what it is and make up their own mind. I did my best not to give in to embellishing it, to make me look better. Do you think I succeeded, or do you think I trashed her?"

"No, Daddy, I don't think you trashed her unfairly. You could've been a little more...well...understanding of her situation."

"Don't forget that I had no way of knowing what her 'situation' was at the time because she still wouldn't talk to me."

"She says that she tried to call you several times, but couldn't get through."

"I'll show you the call log on my phones. It'll show you a bunch of calls that did get through to me, but it won't show you how they trashed and threatened me for not 'being supportive of her in her hour of glory.' That was before I put the second post on Facebook. There were well over forty calls on Friday—so many that I could hardly get any work done, but I had to answer them all because they COULD'VE been your Mom. None of them were. I didn't miss any of the angry women cussing me out. It's just another lie. Tell her that she had better quit lying if she wants to haveanychance of reconciling.

"The rest of the time, my phone was charged and ready for her to call, but nothing came until I threatened her on Friday night. Ask her why she's lying like a cheap rug. Tell her that her lies are working against her."

"Okay, Daddy. Are you eating right? I don't want you getting sick because of this mess."

"I'm doing fine, Princess. I just have a lot of conflicting emotions and stuff in my head right now. I'll work it out."

"Okay, You take care of yourself. Love you, Daddy!"

"Love you, too. Talk to you later, Scarlett."

Everything was quiet until the next afternoon, when something totally unexpected happened. Once again, it started when my doorbell rang. I looked on the porch and saw a woman that I recognized as my new arch nemesis; the woman leading the contest crew that 'stole' my wife away.

"Dolly isn't here," I yelled through the door. "You took her away once, now you can keep her! Go away!"

"I'm not the one here to see you, Mr. Davis. I was sent to see if you were home. Can we come in?"

"Hell no! And I'm NOT Mr. DAVIS!"

"Oh, I'm sorry...I mean Mr. Dylan," she replied.

A familiar man's voice replied, "Are you sure, we've come a long way to see you, and I'd sure appreciate a chance to straighten out a few things. I'd like to do it face to face—man to man." Yeah, the old bastard himself, Bradley Morgan, came to see me.

I opened the front door, but kept my hand on the screen door. He reached for it, but I held it tight. "I don't let wife stealing bastards into my home."

His face started to redden, but he calmed down and said, "I'd really like it if we could sit down and chat. We need to clear the air about a few things."

I changed my voice to sound like Jed Clampett, "If you insist, we can sit for a spell on the front porch. I'd invite you for a dip in the cement pond, but it's full of Elly May's critters."

"What are you talking about?"

"When my stupid wife finally called me, I overheard one of your pack of arrogant asses tell someone that he was doing 'damage control caused by that stupid Indiana hillbilly asshole.' Just because we don't live in the glistening city of gold you call Los Angeles, doesn't mean we're a bunch of Jethro Bodines out here in rural America." I simplified the situation, leaving my 'phone buddy' out of the story.

"Okay, my first apology for my staff's rude and unprofessional behavior will be for that remark." He glanced back at his entourage. "I'm truly sorry about that; I don't know if you read my book, but I come from a town not much larger than this. I know for a fact that just because you don't live in a city, you're not a hillbilly. Are you sure we can't come in?"

"I tell you what, let's have a seat on the front porch, and keep this all out in the open. If something happens, my neighbors will be a witness—for me or against me as the need shall be."

"Fine, I accept your kind hospitality."

We sat in the two chairs on the North end of the porch; the ones that Dolly and I used many times over the years to watch a peaceful sunset. Two of his staff sat nearby, but didn't pull their chairs in closer.

After we'd settled in, he began, "I'd like to apologize for a major judgment error that one of my PR people made. She was supposed to contact you a week ahead, and give you and your wife a detailed itinerary, and an invitation for you to come as well. At the last minute, they decided that it would be more romantic if they just swooped in and took her away for a makeover and romantic weekend with dinner out and then to attend a movie premiere and the after party. By the way, I was informed that you both were to attend the after party, but your wife's contest entry had a check mark box that—if checked—indicated that she had a spouse and he—in this case, you—would've been automatically included. I'm told that it was not checked on any of the entries she sent in.