M1911A1 - Aftermath Pt. 02

I realize it has been some time since my last story went live. I have been extremely busy with projects that have kept me tied up - not literally, but sometimes I wonder. My latest novel is finally complete - something I've been working on since early last November, and my website has gone live.

Many thanks to demander for graciously giving me permission to write this sequel to his recent 750-word story, 1911 A. I enjoy demander's stories and admire anyone who can tell a story in 750 words. I have tried many times, but they always end up becoming novels or novellas...

I also want to thank QuantumMechanic1957 for beta-reading this story. His suggestions have helped tremendously, and I want to thank those who have reached out by email and those who have offered comments and constructive criticism on my previous stories.

The original story dealt with a man who responded to his wife's in-your-face cheating by killing himself with a .45 caliber pistol. I agree with the commenters who said suicide is never the answer, but it sadly happens far too often. There are resources available, and I strongly suggest taking advantage of them.

This story is broken into two parts. The first is from the husband's point of view, and the second is from the wife's. As this is a sequel and not a rewrite, the husband's fate remains the same but explores his possible thoughts and what could have driven him to do what he did. The second part explores the cheating wife's reaction and the consequences.

And now, the disclaimers:

For those who want to say this or that would never happen, remember this is my universe, a place where nearly anything can, and often does, happen. At least on paper... In addition:

1. Characters in this story may participate in one or more of the following: Smoking, consumption of adult (meaning, alcoholic) beverages, utterance of profanities.
2. All sexual activity is between consenting adults 18 years of age or older.
3. Statements or views uttered by the fictional characters in this story do not necessarily reflect the views or opinions of the author.

Please refer to my profile for more on my policy regarding comments, feedback, follows, etc. (Yes, I DO moderate comments) And please remember, this is a work of fiction, not a docu-drama...

...

End of "M1911A1: Aftermath, Part 01"

I sat up in bed, my body drenched in sweat. Sunlight filtered into the hotel room and I looked at the clock. 8:30 am. Damn. I knew I had fallen asleep last night, but felt like I had just finished a marathon.

Exhausted, I stumbled into the small bathroom and did my business, then looked at myself in the mirror. Dark bags hung under my bloodshot eyes, and my face looked more wrinkled than ever. I'm only 46 years old, but the face in the mirror looked at least 10 years older. I recalled Terry telling me many times I looked 10 years younger than my age and sighed heavily.

I had a full day ahead of me, so I showered and then dressed in a casual pair of jeans and a plain blouse. After checking myself one last time, I went downstairs to grab some breakfast and a much-needed cup of coffee.

Today was the first day of the rest of my fucked-up life. I just didn't know at the time how fucked up it would be.

...

And now, "M1911A1: Aftermath, Part 02"

I walked into the small dining area and picked up the morning paper. I was morbidly curious to see if there had been any reports of Terry's suicide. After I got a light breakfast and a cup of coffee, I sat in a corner out of sight and opened the paper.

There was a small blurb on page two that said that Terry Baker had apparently shot himself and was survived by his wife, but I was not mentioned by name, which made me feel slightly better. The last thing I needed was a lot of unwanted attention from well-wishers. I finished my breakfast and walked to my car.

I heard my phone ring when I got into my car, so I fished it out of my purse and saw it was a call from Ray. I remembered that Wilson Bledsoe wanted to see him early this morning, so I answered the call.

"Hello, Ray," I said. "How did it go?"

"About like I expected," Ray replied in a resigned tone. "They put me on administrative leave while they investigate and determine my fate. You know they have policies and procedures for this sort of thing they have to follow. But it doesn't look good."

"When will you know the result?" I asked.

"Sometime in the next two weeks," Ray said. "But I'm not just sitting on my laurels. I'll be putting out some feelers. See what shakes loose. How are you holding up?" he added as kind of an afterthought.

"I'll be all right," I said bravely, not wanting to disclose last night's disturbing nightmare which still haunted me. Then another thought hit me. "By the way, does anyone else at the office know?"

"Only everyone with an internal email address," Ray said, exasperated. "It seems your 'pussy cat' of a husband told everyone."

"Crap," I sighed, seeing my career and reputation swirling down the toilet.

"Anyway... No sense in hiding it now. Do you want to get together for lunch or something?" he asked, with just a trace of hopefulness.

I stared at the phone for a moment. It was almost like I could read his one-track mind. He was on leave with nothing much to do but put out feelers for a job and get some more fucking in. Hell, I had just had my life upended. Finally, I broke the tense silence. "I have a lot to do today, so I don't think I'll have time. Besides, I don't think that would be wise under the circumstances, do you?" I asked in response, a bit pointedly.

"You're probably right. I'd better let you go. Call if you need anything," Ray said.

We ended the call, and I checked my messages out of curiosity. I saw a text from Jack letting me know he was leaving the house. The message was sent at 5:30 this morning, meaning he had been there all night.

I saw another message from my older sister, Janice: "I saw the paper this morning. Was that your Terry who killed himself?"

"Yes," I wrote back. "Will call and explain later," I added before sending the message. Janice was two years older than me, and while we always got along well, she tended to play mother hen. The truth was, I just didn't want to get into it with her right at the moment.

I drove to the house and parked in the garage. Entering through the door that led to the kitchen, I noticed the foul odor of Terry's blood and other bodily fluids was gone, but it was replaced by the almost overpowering smell of pungent cleaning fluids. I avoided taking a deep breath as I feared the air would dry clean my lungs.

Walking into the front room, I was surprised to see the couch looked nearly new. That would save me the hassle of replacing a $6,000 couch, but I swore I would never sit on it again. For a moment, I got pissed at Terry for not killing himself in his recliner. I also took in the painting over the couch and was pleased to see that Jack had managed to save that as well.

Satisfied that Jack had done a good job in cleaning and restoring the living room, I went upstairs to the room we used as a home office. I went through our files and grabbed what I would need. The folder containing Terry's bank information, another folder with our wills and other legal paperwork, and the folder that contained the policy for our mortgage insurance, all went into my briefcase.

I couldn't help but notice how quiet the place was without him around. It seemed too quiet to me. I could clearly hear the grandfather clock downstairs as it ticked the seconds away, and for a moment, I thought I smelled something... rotten; and a chill ran up my spine. Then I felt a knot of frigid air tumble through the room and I had to struggle with myself to keep from bolting. I shook the more than uneasy feeling off and continued with my business.

Then I remembered that Terry's work needed to be informed of his suicide. Looking at the answering machine on his desk, I saw there were several messages, so I played them. All of them were from his work, wondering if he was coming in and asking if he was okay.

Sighing, I returned the call and was put through to Allison Jones, Terry's immediate supervisor.

"Helen, is everything all right? We've called several times, but haven't heard anything. It's not like Terry to be late. Is he okay?" Allison asked anxiously.

"No, Allison. He's... dead," I replied in as calm and level a voice as I could manage, causing Allison to gasp.

"Dead? Oh my God! What happened? Did he have a heart attack?"

"No. He... shot himself," I said, surprised at how calm I was while casually informing Terry's boss that he had killed himself.

"Oh no," Allison gasped. "When did that happen?"

"I was told it happened Friday night. I was... out... for the weekend," I said, hoping to deflect any further questions.

"I'm so sorry, Helen. Please let us know when the memorial will be. I know everyone here will want to attend," Allison said. "I'll have HR get with you about his company insurance and 401K. And please feel free to call anytime if you need anything."

"Thank you, Allison. I appreciate that," I said, trying to sound sincere. But I was just relieved that she didn't seem to have any more questions. We exchanged goodbyes and ended the call. That went better than I thought it might.

I knew Terry's company had an insurance policy on all its employees that paid out two-and-a-half times their annual salaries. That would amount to nearly $250,000. I didn't know if their policy had a suicide clause, but I knew that Terry had quite a lot in his 401K. That would definitely come in handy.

I replaced the phone in its cradle and suddenly realized how still and quiet everything was in the house. We had lived here for over twenty years, and they were mostly good years, full of happiness and joy. But now, the place felt like a tomb. Looking around, I could see Terry everywhere as I recalled our lives together. At least it was just memories and not his mangled ghost.

A chill ran down my back as I suddenly felt as if someone... Terry... was watching me. But my logical mind took over, and I realized lectured myself firmly that I was alone. I strode through the house, cracking the windows open, hoping that the throat-scouring chemical smell would dissipate while I was gone. I shook myself, grabbed my briefcase, and left the house, maybe a trifle hastily.

I got to the bank and went inside. When it was my turn, I asked the teller to give me the balance on Terry's account. Although we each had separate accounts, we had signed signature cards and had access to each other's ATM cards in the event of an emergency. I pulled Terry's second ATM card from his folder and noted the PIN he had written on the inside of the folder.

After the teller looked at his computer, he frowned slightly before turning back to me.

"One moment please, Mrs. Baker," he politely said before walking to a row of glassed-in cubicles. He returned a few moments later with Arnold Johnson, the bank manager. We had worked with Arnold for years.

"Mrs. Baker, could you step into my office for a moment, please?" he asked with a friendly smile.

"Uh, sure," I said, following him. I took the seat he motioned to and watched as he sat on the other side of his substantial, dark wood desk, looking at something on his computer.

"I'm glad you came in this morning, Mrs. Baker," Arnold said. "I was planning to call you later today anyway."

"Oh?" I asked, curious and worried in equal parts. "Why?"

"Our system noted many transactions made over the weekend from two of your accounts. I wanted to make sure you were aware of them," Arnold said.

"I know my husband made a number of charitable donations on Friday," I said. "He made those donations without consulting me. I was hoping those could be stopped and reversed before they posted. I also wanted to see what activity had taken place on his account."

Arnold's eyebrows raised at that. He looked at his monitor before responding. "I'm afraid that won't be possible, Mrs. Baker. It seems he made the donations right before the cutoff time on Friday, so almost all of them have already posted."

"I need that money," I pleaded. "Is there any way to get it back?"

"I suppose you could reach out to them, and explain the circumstances. They might release the funds. There's no guarantee, though," Arnold explained, almost apologetically. "I could give you a printout of all the recipients." He looked at the screen again. "It would be a fairly long list."

I weighed it very seriously. A simple appeal probably wouldn't get a refund. I suppose I could always sue them, but with all of these charities, I would probably end up paying more in court costs and fees than what I would recover. Plus, my reputation would take another hit. I had an empty, sinking feeling, and I could almost see the headlines now: Greedy Attorney Sues To Deprive Needy Children Of Food And Shelter.

I could also picture the jury deliberating the case: "So, we have a cheating slut whose adultery caused her husband to kill himself. Now she wants to starve orphans and make them homeless. I say we give her the middle finger." I'd be lucky if they didn't vote to tar and feather me in public.

"If nothing else, you'd have one helluva deduction for your taxes," Arnold said in a vain effort to lighten the atmosphere. I stared at him blankly, slightly bewildered at his attempt at humor. After a few awkward moments, he cleared his throat and hastily looked away.

"What about Terry's account?" I asked, trying to change the subject.

Arnold looked at his computer for a few moments, then looked at a copy of the signature cards and forms related to the account. He sighed, put on his professional expression, and looked at me before continuing.

"He has just enough to keep the account open. There was a lot of activity there on Friday as well. He paid off his credit card and then canceled it. It looks like he paid some other things." He paused expectantly as if he suspected I would say something, but I just gave him an empty expression. Finally, he finished with, "And there's one large payment to Westside Funeral Home and Crematory."

That hit me right between the eyes. I knew of that funeral home - it was the one that took care of Terry's parents when they died. Terry had obviously put quite a bit of thought into killing himself.

"What about our other accounts?" I asked.

"He didn't touch anything else. Your joint savings account and your certificates of deposit are still intact," Arnold said after consulting his computer.

"Good," I replied, relieved for that bit of news.

"Is there anything else you need, Mrs. Baker?" he asked.

"Yes," I replied, grabbing another folder from my briefcase. "I need to file a claim against our mortgage insurance." Our mortgage was handled by the bank, and they insisted we get an insurance policy that would pay it off if anything happened to either Terry or myself.

We got the policy through the bank's home loan department and I already knew there wasn't a clause for suicide. I handed the paperwork to Arnold, who looked it over before consulting his computer again.

"Everything seems to be in order," he said before pulling another form from his drawer. "We'll need you to fill this out and return it with a copy of your husband's death certificate. I see you have a payment coming up in a couple of weeks. The sooner you can get this back to me the better. I'll inform the home loan department so they'll be expecting it."

"Thank you, Arnold," I said, putting the claim form in my briefcase.

"My pleasure, Mrs. Baker. And my condolences. If there's anything else we can do, please don't hesitate to call," Arnold said as we shook hands. His demeanor was strictly professional, but I couldn't fight the nagging feeling that he was... judging me. I tried to shake off the feeling.

I thanked him and left the bank, feeling a little better than before I arrived. By now I was a little hungry, so I stopped for a light lunch and then went to the Westside Funeral Home.

I was almost instantly met by a thin young man in a white shirt and tie. His hair was meticulously combed and appeared to be coated with a thin veneer of hair spray. He smiled and held out his hand, which I accepted.

"Welcome to Westside Funeral Home. I'm Alan Markham. How may I help you?" he asked in a friendly tone.

"I'm here about my husband, Terry Baker," I said.

"Baker... That name sounds familiar. Please, step into my office," Alan said with a smile.

I followed him to a nicely appointed office and accepted his offer of coffee. After handing me a cup of the hot liquid, he sat at his computer and consulted his screen for a few moments.

"Yes, I see it here. I tried calling him earlier today but was unable to reach him."

"That's because he's dead," I managed to say quietly.

"I... see," Alan said, slowly and quietly. "I'm sorry to hear that. When did it happen?"

"Friday," I said, determined not to volunteer any more than I had to.

"According to this, he ordered a basic cremation service and paid for it in full. On Friday. It's not unusual for clients to pay for their funeral in advance, but it is unusual for them to pay so soon before needing our services," Alan commented calmly. "Was he terminally ill?"

"No," I replied, again refusing to volunteer any more than necessary.

There was a pause before he answered, looking at the screen rather than at me. "Well then, it seems we need to make the final arrangements. Do you have his death certificate?"

"No, not yet," I replied. I knew it could take a couple of weeks to receive the certificate. "They took his body to the morgue on Sunday evening. When the coroner is done, I'll have it."

"When they release his body and you get your certificate, let me know and we'll proceed from there, Mrs. Baker," Alan said.

We spent the next hour discussing the various arrangements. Neither Terry nor I were regular church-goers, but I knew he was raised in a mainline Protestant denomination, either Methodist or Lutheran. As far as I was concerned, there was no need for a memorial service - they could just cremate him and be done with it. Alan asked if I wanted to keep Terry's remains, but the idea of that sent chills up my spine.

"No problem. Mr. Baker paid to have his remains interred in a columbarium if you didn't want them," Alan said.

I left the funeral home in a funk and needed to talk to someone. Looking at my watch, I realized Janice would probably be home since she worked part-time at the county library. I took a chance and called her at home.

"Well hello, little sister," Janice said when she answered. "I was wondering when you were gonna call."

"I've been a little busy this morning," I said. "I didn't imagine there would be this many details. Would you mind if I stopped by? I really need to talk to someone," I added hopefully.

"Of course," Janice said in her mother-hen voice I knew so well. "Richard is still at the hospital and won't be home until late, so we have plenty of time to catch up." Richard, Janice's husband, was a surgeon at the medical center and often worked long hours.

"Thanks, sis. I'll be there in just a few minutes." We ended the call and I drove the rest of the way to her house. We always got along well, and I knew that I could tell her anything. Although I wasn't sure how she would take this. She cheerfully met me at the door when I pulled into her driveway.

"I got your message. Do you want to talk about it over a cup of tea?" she asked kindly.

"Sure," I said as Janice went into her kitchen. I sat down at the dining room table and fidgeted on the chair, as I heard her bustling about. I wondered about how to spin this. She returned a few moments later with two cups of hot tea. I liked sugar in mine, so I stirred some in after she handed me a cup. I had wanted to immediately launch into the story I had been telling myself but was suddenly tongue-tied.