Marriage On The Rocks

That was all it took. After I told her my predicament, she calmed me down, reassured me and told me she'd be down to bail me out as soon as she could get downtown.

It was a little past 7 o'clock, and the sun was hanging low in the sky when I finally got out of the jail. I didn't even bother putting my heels back on, but just walked out of there barefoot.

I was dirty, exhausted and depressed. And I was mad at Steve for leaving me in that jail for as long as he did, but I wasn't ready for a confrontation. At that point, all I wanted was to go home, take a shower and crawl in bed.

Of course, it wouldn't be that easy.

The first substantive clue to what lay ahead came when we stopped at an ATM. I wanted to go ahead and pay Joyce back the $200 it took to bail me out, but the machine wouldn't accept my card. Again, there was that gnawing in my stomach, but Joyce just nodded like she understood what was up.

The sun had gone down when we finally arrived back at the house. It was dark and the house appeared deserted. Steve's car was gone, and all the lights in the house were out, except for the front porch light.

I thanked Joyce for helping me, got out and walked up to the front door. I thought it strange that she made no move to leave.

I was glad she did, because when I put the key in the door, it didn't work. And that's when I really knew.

Apparently, while I was languishing in jail, Steve had had the locks changed, and there could only be one reason for him to do that. He was kicking me out of the house because he'd learned about my relationship with George.

I just collapsed in a teary heap on the porch, and Joyce came out to hold me while I cried. As we sat on the porch, we both noticed the manila envelope that sat on the porch swing, but we ignored it while Joyce got me under control. It wasn't easy.

I honestly believe that Joyce saved my life that night, because if I'd been left alone I probably would have done myself bodily harm. As far as was concerned, my life was over, and it wasn't worth it to go on living.

I had thrown away a good life with a good man and good children, and for what? Drunkenness and debauchery.

Joyce got me calmed down – again – got me to my feet, gathered up the envelope and walked me back to her car.

"Come on, you can stay with me until you get on your feet," she said.

At the time, I didn't know a lot about her personal life. I knew she'd been divorced for almost 10 years and shared a nice house with another woman. But I didn't think she was a lesbian, because she went out on dates with men all the time, and, as it turns out, she's not.

When I got to her house, I was as low as a person could go. I'd reached my bottom.

As far as I knew, I had no possessions but the dress I was wearing, the panties underneath it and the stuff I was carrying – my shoes and stockings. I had about $40 in cash on me, a checkbook and a handful of credit cards that I strongly suspected were worthless.

Joyce and I are about the same size, so she let me borrow some clean underwear and some clothes, after I took a shower. I confess that if she hadn't stood there in the bathroom watching while I showered, I'd have probably pilfered her medicine cabinet for drugs to put myself out of my misery.

Then she put me to bed, and despite my emotional trauma, I was out like a light within seconds of hitting the pillow. I was so exhausted, physically and emotionally, that I just crashed.

I woke up early, with the dawn's rays filtering gently through her window blinds. I looked up and saw Joyce asleep on a chair by the bed. She'd sat with me all night, because she was afraid for me. I was touched.

Later, after I got fortified with some coffee and a bagel, I steeled myself for confession. Joyce sat across the den from me while I told her every detail of my sordid relationship with George. I didn't get too graphic, but I made it clear that I'd become his whore, and a slut for any man he pointed me to.

I expected her to be angry with me, as I was at myself, but instead I just got a sad, wistful look.

"I think it's time for you to see what's in the package Steve left for you," she said. "If you'd like, I'll leave and let you look at it in private."

I did, and when she left the room, I took a deep breath and opened it up.

The first thing I saw was a stack of pictures, computer printouts of me in action. There were probably a dozen of them.

The first few were from the previous week, and several showed me with George in our bedroom. That puzzled me until it dawned on me that he'd secretly put a hidden camera in there.

The next group of shots was also from earlier in the week, of me meeting men at a variety of locations around the city.

Finally, there were the orgy shots, about a half-dozen that were culled from a party I'd done some months earlier at the home of a friend of George's.

I recalled that one in particular, because I'd set a new record, taking on 31 men in a two-day long weekend bacchanalia while Steve was overseas and the kids were at his folks for a week.

Next, I encountered two envelopes, one of which contained a certified check for $1,532.65 from the bank where we'd had our joint accounts, $500 in cash and a key with a tag that read E-106.

The other held the divorce papers Steve had apparently had drawn up. I noticed that the date on the petition was for Friday, my birthday. I had thought Steve was flying in from his trip that evening, but obviously he'd come home early, and spent the day arranging my downfall.

For some reason, this infuriated me, and still does, to an extent. Instead of confronting me directly, he concocted this elaborate charade to get me out of the way – in jail – then took off for points unknown. Apparently, he didn't have the guts to deal with me face-to-face.

At the bottom of this stack of documents was a typewritten letter from Steve. The coldness of the language shocked me, even though I understood a little bit of the pain he must have been feeling. There was no greeting or anything, he just began:

"If you are reading this, then I assume you conned someone into bailing you out of jail. Congratulations. If it had been up to me, you'd have rotted in there. As you can see, I know all about you and my boss. Don't worry, George is going to get his, but good. You two deserve each other.

"I'm not interested in your excuses for what you did; they don't matter. Maybe if you'd come to me and unburdened yourself, there might have been a chance I'd forgive you. But you lied to me when I asked you a few weeks ago if there was anything wrong, lied to me about what you were doing with your time, and deceived me with a man of such shockingly low morals that it takes my breath away. I thought I knew you, but apparently I was mistaken.

"You have doubtless seen the divorce petition. I am suing you for divorce on the grounds of adultery and mental anguish. The only time I want to see you again is either in court or in my attorney's office. Of course, I intend to seek custody of the children, and you'd be smart not to fight me on that. Some terms of the divorce could be negotiated, but not that. As far as I'm concerned, you aren't a fit mother for my children.

"The cashier's check represents half of the value of the jointly held checking account at the bank as of Friday. That account is now closed. The cash in the envelope is for you to pay back whoever bailed you out and for you to live on for the next few days until you find some place to stay. The savings account has been frozen pending negotiations to determine how much – if any – of it you should get. I intend to keep the house, and if the time comes when I decide to sell it, there will be a fair split of the proceeds. That is what my lawyer tells me I legally must do, since we are both co-signers of the note. If it were my decision, you wouldn't get anything.

"The key in the other envelope is to a storage facility across town. I packed up all of your possessions – all of your clothes, makeup, toiletries, knick-knacks, photographs, books, anything that might reasonably be considered yours – and took it to this location."

And the address and directions to the facility were written down there. After that, the letter continued.

"The car you have been driving has been put up for sale. I'm asking $5,000 plus the note. You're welcome to buy it from me, although you may want to think about more economical transportation. Whatever. Your movements – where you go and how you get there – are no longer my concern.

"I have changed cell phone plans, so the phone you have in your possession is useless, until you get a plan of your own.

"You have no concept of how deeply you have hurt me by your actions. I've loved you with all of my heart, body and soul, and you have taken that love and just crushed it. There is no way I can forgive you for what I saw you do on camera, IN OUR BEDROOM. God, how could you?

"I would suggest you get a lawyer so that our attorneys can work out a visitation arrangement for you and the kids. I cannot legally or morally keep them from you, but I can set conditions under which you can see them. Don't try to call or write. Your calls won't be answered and your letters will be returned unopened. I want nothing more to do with you personally. If you must contact me, do so through my attorney."

At the bottom of the page was his lawyer's name, address and phone number. And that was it. He didn't even put his name at the bottom.

Strangely, I looked at all of the material he'd put together almost emotionlessly. I was just drained. I had no more tears left to cry. In fact, in a sense, Steve's note jolted me out of my stupor. I knew then that I had to take control of my life. But how?

It was Joyce who pointed the way. I showed her the letter and the divorce notice, and asked her for advice.

The first thing she did was to give me the name of the lawyer who had handled her divorce. The second thing she handed me was a card with the address and phone number of the area's leading substance abuse rehab center. I looked at Joyce with a puzzled look.

"But I'm not an alcoholic," I said. "My problem is a predator named George Fazekis."

"And how do you think George Fazekis got you to spread your legs for him?" Joyce asked pointedly. "He got you drunk. How do you get through these sessions with him and his friends? You get drunk. Teresa, you may not think you're an alcoholic, but you've got every classic symptom of alcoholism. Your life as you've known it is over, thanks to alcohol. These people will help you save the life you have left. You've still got a lot to live for, but you've got to get help. You can't fight this on your own."

"How do you know all of this?" I said, still in a state of denial.

"Because I was where you are 10 years ago," she said, and I saw her wipe away a tear. That's when she told me about the circumstances of her divorce, and they were startlingly similar to mine, except that her drug of choice was cocaine.

But the nature of her decline was eerily familiar. There was the strong-willed dealer who lured her into an illicit affair using coke as the bait. There was the descent into more and more explicit acts, then the gangbangs started and it all spiraled in on itself. She said that by the end, she was turning tricks at a sleazy motel just to get up the money for her habit.

Like I said, Joyce saved my life. It was probably too late to save my marriage, but thanks to her I got the help I now know I needed.

I saw the lawyer she recommended the next morning and the day after that I checked myself into the clinic. I stayed there for three months, then moved into a halfway house, which is where I've live for almost the past three months.

When I left in-patient care, I went back to work for Joyce full-time. She's been a godsend, and she's become the rock that has held my life together through these trying times.

At first, Steve was adamant about not helping or acknowledging my rehab in any way. But my lawyer informed him that since I was still his wife, my rehab was covered under his medical insurance plan. And he softened his stance once he decided that I was committed to getting sober.

The kids started coming to see me every weekend and Steve finally came to visit a week before I moved to the halfway house. We finally talked candidly, and while it didn't repair the holes in our hearts, it did smooth over the rougher feelings.

I think he did finally get some sense of what George did to me – to us – and the way he did it. I also think he began to understand that by putting his work first and me second, that he helped grease the skids for George to seduce me.

It can't in any way mitigate the enormity of my transgressions, and I freely took full responsibility for my actions, which I think helped soften his feelings toward me somewhat.

The upshot was that he agreed to put the divorce on hold until I get out of the clinic for good, which should be in another month or so.

That's where I am now. I have little hope that we can salvage our marriage. Too much trust has been breached for him to ever trust me again, and I still haven't completely gotten over the cowardly way he revealed his knowledge of my affairs.

Although I think there is still a part of each of us that still loves the other, the pain of betrayal has killed most of what affection we had. The best we can hope for is that we remain civil for the kids' sake.

One thing that gave us both some sense of satisfaction was the Steve nailed George, and as he promised in his letter, he got George good.

Apparently, in the past, George had used his intimidating presence to cow the couples he used like he used us. The wife slipped off to try to find work of some sort and the husband cowered away, quitting and moving on.

We did neither. I stepped forward and went into rehab, admitting my problem with alcohol and taking responsibility for what I did, and Steve brilliantly outmaneuvered George, and ended up with his job.

Turns out, George was a better talker than producer. He let his underlings do the work, and he took all the credit.

But even though he was the president of the company, he didn't own the bulk of the stock in the company. In fact, he owned very little stock. He used his whores – i.e. me – to curry favor with those who did have significant shares of stock, and that was what he used as his power base.

However, the largest shareholder – by far – was Olympia Fazekis, George's wife. The company had actually been founded by her grandfather and George had married into it. She didn't quite own a majority, but she did own over 40 percent of it.

Steve went around to other vice presidents of the company, and other key personnel, told them what George had done to his marriage, what he'd done to at least a half-dozen other marriages, and devised a revolt.

Together, they met with Olympia – apparently sometime that weekend when I was in jail – they told her about what George had done to me and the others, and gave her an ultimatum. Either George went or they went.

Steve told me much later that it took her about a week to marshal up enough support from some other family members who owned stock in the company. But a week or so after he filed for divorce, Steve was summoned to see Olympia Fazekis, and was told that George was out and he was in as his replacement.

Oh, George threatened all sorts of things, but Steve just calmly turned the screws, filing an alienation of affection lawsuit against him, claiming that his seduction of me had wrecked our marriage, which it had.

I hear George is also facing a federal investigation for securities fraud and other white-collar crimes. You'll excuse me if I'm not very sympathetic.

I was glad to see Steve finally achieve his career goals, but it's bittersweet. We should have been able to enjoy those achievements together, but now that probably won't happen.

I expect that after I get out of rehab, we'll sit down in his attorney's office, hash out the final terms of our divorce and we'll go our separate ways. It's sad, but I think I'm better able to deal with it since I've gotten sober and learned how to handle my life without using booze as a crutch.

It would be nice if Steve and I could go back to the way things were, but my actions with George and his friends have made that impossible.

We let ourselves be manipulated by a master con man, who used my weakness to sow immense destruction in our lives, and it cost us our happiness together.

I just wish to God I could understand why it happened.