"Myra's Little Book Shop"

I had to stop thinking.

After dinner we all jumped in and out of the regular pool. Zoey wore a bikini, light blue of course, just enough color to prevent transparence but light enough to allow just the right amount of socially acceptable translucence. I hated her. No I didn't.

We played Marco Polo. I had to carry each of the kids down to the deep end and let them dunk their heads. It didn't matter that Diana and Keith both were good swimmers; dunking heads was a daddy job. We were so busy I barely had time to think about anything.

Later as the sun was going down we all crawled back in the house. The kids were so totally exhausted it was easy to talk them into an early bedtime. Zoey and I carried and helped all three upstairs. We got Diana and Keith each in their beds. We all said our prayers; the usual 'now I lay me' stuff. Zoey got Wayne settled in the nursery, and finally she and I had a chance to sit and talk.

The first thing out of her mouth, "You'll sleep in our old bed. I'll sleep in the nursery with Wayne."

I tried to intervene, "But..."

"No, you need a good night's sleep for tomorrow, and..."

I asked, "Why? What's tomorrow?"

She patted my arm, "Tomorrow's Wednesday silly; your regular day. The kids want you to take them to Busch Gardens. I couldn't tell them no."

I realized what Keith had meant when he mentioned tomorrow, "But that's..."

Zoey clipped me, "Only a little over an hour away. Don't forget tomorrow's a Wednesday; it won't be as crowded."

I replied, "It's always crowded at..."

She stopped me, "It'll be all right."

I said, "But we won't all fit in..."

She had me again, "Dad's lending us his van."

Another shocker; I knew her father hated me, "Your dad's going to let me..."

Again she cut in, "Oh Gosh Curt dad's not happy but he's not crazy. He thinks what happened was at least partly, I mean mostly my fault..."

"Well that's gracious of him."

Zoey gave me one of her imploring 'Labrador' looks, "I told him everything. He knows every detail. He knows more than anyone. He just wants us all to be happy. He wants you to be happy."

I interrupted her, "He does?"

"He never approved of...you know...Brandon, and he thinks I was naive, and...uh, too empathetic. And I was childish not to listen to you about my medications."

I was starting to heat up, "Well you..."

Zoey looked off and sighed, "I wish," but then tugged my wrist, "Its old news now Curtis. You know how sorry I am, but Dad and I ... and you, we all agree; you and I are joined at the hip. We've got two wonderful children. They'll be with us as long as we're alive. Whether we ever get back or not, we'll always have them. That makes us a couple no matter what. My mom and dad love our babies, and they'll always love you for that gift you gave them."

I'd thought about that before, but never heard it articulated quite so warmly, "So it's Busch Gardens."

She smiled, "Mm hm."

I had to ask, "What about what I sent you?"

She had my right hand in her two hands, "There'll be time enough for that after tomorrow."

Here I was with the first woman who ever betrayed me, the first woman I ever loved; why did she have such a calming effect on me? Why did she...? I replied, "Yeah. Look you're tired, and I'm ready to crash."

She wrapped her left arm around my waist, "I got out some of your old boxers. Think they'll fit?"

I thought, 'Why does she keep that old stuff?'

I replied, "Won't know till I try," we went on in the house, Zoey to the nursery, me to our old bedroom. When I got there I found the old boxers, an old worn white paint-stained Tee-shirt, some of my old cologne, a fresh razor, shave cream, an old toothbrush, all the accoutrements I'd need. I cleaned up and climbed in our old queen sized bed. I was so tired and so sad; all the old smells, the old sensations, her smells. Why? Why'd she do it? Zoey why?

I was all set to quietly cry myself to sleep over things I just didn't want to think about and didn't understand, but it never happened. Twenty minutes after I turned out my light I heard the soft rustling of someone's nightie and the gentle patter of a child's feet.

"Daddy?"

I opened one eye, "Diana."

"I can't sleep."

"Why what's wrong?"

"I need a story."

I almost broke, only almost though. For Christ's sake I hadn't told a real bedtime story in nearly two years. There'd been an attempt or two when they were with me and Myra, but it hadn't quite worked. I wanted it to, Mayra wanted it to, the kids wanted it to, but try as she might, Myra wasn't Zoey, she couldn't be Zoey. Now here I was in my old bed, and my first, well almost first child.

I remembered Zoey's first miscarriage. I found out she'd had a second when we were separated. That wasn't my fault. I swear it wasn't my fault. I hadn't known.

Diana climbed in bed with me. "Anything special," I asked?

She was about to answer when we heard the second whisper, "Daddy?"

"Keith?"

"Can I sleep with you tonight?"

I opened the sheets so he could fit in. I whispered, "I was about to tell Diana a story."

He whispered back, "I know. What're you going to tell?"

I thought back, "Remember the one about the mean man who tried to hurt the mommy and how the super dad fought him off and rescued her?"

I heard Diana, "Yes, tell it again daddy."

Keith, needing to be included, whispered, "Yeah, the mean man one."

So I told them the old story about the bad man who wanted to hurt the mommy and how the daddy rescued her. When I finished I asked, "How was I?"

I didn't get an answer; they were both asleep.

Stomach tied up in knots I lay there awake almost all night. I was going from blind fury to just nervous anger. I buried my head in my pillow. I couldn't let myself cry, not with my two older children in bed here with me.

But God Damn! Zoey betrayed me; that was over two years ago and I'm still so fucking pissed. It's all I can do to keep from strangling her. Now Myra's betrayed me, and sure it hurts, but it's like nothing in comparison to Zoey's... Christ I'm pissed at Myra, and I'm going to fix her whoring cheating ass, but I'll get over it. Shit I'm already starting to get past it, but that bitch Zoey! How could she?

It's a real conundrum; I've got two houses. I feel like a dog with two homes. Up until this I've had it great with Myra, nice house, good career, wife working on her dream, adorable little baby boy. But before!

Before I had Heaven! Zoey, oh how I hate her. How many times have I come over and felt...well felt like I was home, like a moth to a flame; then only to remember... It isn't fair. It just isn't fair!

~~V~~

So I lay there. Damn it; how do I get even with Myra? Well, there's no such thing as 'getting even' in something like adultery. I, no, 'we' had a problem.

Wayne had been born in late January. From January until April Myra had been able to stay home and care for him. Though at the start she'd not wanted a child, and she'd griped and moaned through the whole pregnancy she'd been a good mom. In late April we got her little bookstore open. Her dream was coming true, but we needed an au pair. All through the end of April into late May we'd gone through hell running young women in and out.

Thanks to Zoey's dad I had a respectable and well-paying position. I taught in college and was gone from late morning until late afternoon, and then there'd been the usual evening meetings. Myra and I just couldn't find anybody to watch our baby, but then fortune smiled on us.

We got lucky in late May when a girl came home from Virginia Tech; she's been the greatest, but what would happen when her school started the end of August? That was just days away; we'd be back to square one again.

Myra and I had vowed; no day care centers-not enough personalized attention. I had to come up with something.

As I glanced at the morning clock the only logical answer came to me. I was already paying child support for Diana and Keith, and Zoey only worked part time. When the school year started would Zoey agree to drop her job to care for Wayne? What would Myra say? It was a possibility. I'd ask. I'd ask Zoey today.

~~V~~

Diana and Keith had me up first, then Zoey. By 9:00 a.m. it was off to Busch Gardens. The drive down and back was like a Norman Rockwell painting; excitement and eager anticipation all the way down, exhaustion and discomfort all the way back, but oh the time between!

Between the kids and Zoey I never had a chance to think about my other problem. The four of them just took over my life; we roller-coastered, we ate junk food, we roller-coastered, we ate more junk food, then we all got sick. I had the best time of my life; it felt like it anyway.

I'd been a little afraid Zoey might put the moves on me, but that never happened, she played the doting mom with Wayne, the happy playmate with Diana and Keith, and the supportive friend to me. I loved it. I appreciated it.

On the way home, well back to my first home I slithered out the question, "Zoey can I ask you a question?"

"Sure anything. What is it?"

"Well Myra's got her bookstore now, and I'll be teaching and writing, and..."

"You need a babysitter..."

"Well sort of, I guess. I mean...finding a good au pair isn't easy during the school year and..."

After a long day in the sun riding rides and such my hair was greasy and in disarray, and I admit it's always been kind of shaggy. Zoey reached over and finger tipped some of the worst of it back behind my right ear, it felt good. I got a chill.

As she reached across I got a good glimpse of the curve of her breast through her short sleeved top. I'd been discreetly watching her all day. Her underarm was damp from perspiration. I thought, 'Her dampness was attractive. Had it been mine it would have been gross.' I surreptitiously gave my armpit a look; not only was it wet, it smelled.

She saw me look at her and look at myself. She smiled. I blushed.

She softly trilled, "You don't have to ask. Diana and Keith are both in school. Bring Wayne over in the mornings. I'll handle things for as long as you need."

Afraid to look at her I kept my eyes on the road ahead, "I'll have to check with Myra."

"When you do tell her if she'd like I'd be glad to bring Wayne over to the store during the day and we could share sitting chores, or if she wants a break she could come by the house, and we'll have lunch together."

I did turn around then. Involuntarily I blurted out, "You're the greatest Zoe." 'Shit,' I thought, 'why'd I say that?'

She ran a finger down the back of my neck. I got another chill, "You deserve...Hey! Watch out!"

I'd been so engrossed in her I'd lost my concentration. An eighteen wheeler had slowed to a stop in front of us and I almost ran into it, "Jesus," I said, "That was close."

Zoey turned on the radio and we listened to country music the rest of the way home. Country music; there's something about that stuff, somebody's always got, or getting, or getting over a broken heart.

Home. Home? Once we got back Zoey told me, "I'll finish with the stuff you sent," she touched my wrist, "from what I've seen I don't think you'll be very reassured."

As I got in my SUV for the last lap back to where Myra and I lived I replied, "No, I don't think so." With a grumpy Wayne in the back I pulled away; it was a melancholy end to a terrific day.

~~V~~

Over the next several days I laid out my strategy. It was painful; painful because Zoey sent me the content I needed to see. Fortunately Myra rescued me from having to survey the material from the house, as she'd told Wallace early on that she'd never bring him home. They might meet at his office, the bookstore, or they might set up a rendezvous point someplace, but she'd never "entertain" him at our home. 'Entertain' she said; that sure put the match to the pyre.

I had to give Wallace credit; he was good, as good as any philanderer I'd ever been around, and I'd been around a few. In all my life I'll never figure guys like him out; he had money, the best education, he came from a good White Anglo-Saxon Protestant family, and he had a terrific wife. He had it all. I guess with the advantages he had a sense of entitlement went with the territory.

He'd gone to work on her almost right away. That first conversation sealed the deal; it sealed the deal for him, for her, and my decision to divorce her. It was awful having to watch him work on her. It all started right in the store just days before the school year ended, even before that graduation party she'd mentioned. Like I said, good just didn't cover him.

He'd walked in and staked his territory from the first, "Hi, I'm Dr. Wallace Prendergast, Headmaster up at Saint Agricola's. I heard someone had opened a bookstore down here. How are you doing?"

And my wife? She was right there, all ready to open up, "I've only been open a day or so; haven't even had my first customer."

He smiled, I thought, 'What brilliantly white teeth. Wonder how much they set him back.' He said, "Then let me be your first. Have you any Zane Grey?"

My wife looked stunned, "Zane Grey, the western writer?"

He chuckled, "My therapy. All day long it's this or that trustee, this or that teacher, this or that politician, this or that parent; the old westerns take me to another time and place."

My wife nodded. I could see she was impressed. I had to admit he looked handsome, tailored suit, stiffly starched white shirt, bow tie, school colors. She said, "Zane Grey...no, but I have some Francis Bret Hart." The look on her face? Hopeful.

Wallace grinned, "Ah, 'The Outcasts of Poker Flats'. Marvelous book; you have a copy?"

My wife nodded, "Yes, I think I have one," she turned and started down the nearest aisle.

He stopped her, "No, don't bother. I've already read it, got a copy of my own, but let me put that down," he pulled out a small pad and a pen. He started to write something, "I'm going to pass this along to our history teachers. Have you any philosophy?"

Myra nodded again, "Yes a small section. Want to..."

Again he stopped her. He looked at his watch, "Not now. I've got an appointment, county councilman I think." He hesitated only a second, "Hey listen I have an idea. I'll check back at school, get some input from my teachers, maybe you and I could meet later, say tomorrow or the day after? No hurry. We could go over what my people are assigning their students this fall. Perhaps we could...talk...over dinner."

My wife beamed, "Yes," she reached to the counter and found a card, "here's my card with my number."

He took the card, "Delighted. Miss uh?"

"Mrs. Carothers, Myra Carothers."

I saw my assassin smile warmly, "Myra, Myra, how poetic. Means peace I believe. Greek originally, but it was Fulke Greville, Sixteenth Century English poet, admirer of and admired by Elizabeth the First, a truly noble character; he was first to pen the name. And look at you; your gracious face, your thick brown hair, so demure...there's something of the Elizabeth in you." I watched the phony as he chided himself, "Oh sorry, I do get carried away. Please don't think... Don't feel insulted..."

My wife's eyes, even from the screen I could see how her were pupils dilated. Wide in admiration, barely audible she murmured, "No, no not at all."

Then the cad took my wife's hand in his fingers, "I'll call...soon."

My wife's reply, "I'll be here."

I can't remember my wife's behavior that night, but I did notice a change in demeanor shortly thereafter; she'd turned kind of a dreamy, ethereal. Now I know why.

~~V~~

I have no idea what transpired over the next two weeks, but it was Flag Day when I saw his first score. I remember now because my wife came home, bypassed Wayne and the au pair, and immediately took a shower. The film confirmed it; he'd gotten her in the storeroom. Jesus; he was good!

Yeah he got her back there, and in a blink of an eye he had her blouse open and her bra unattached. Myra offered no resistance, none whatsoever. In fact, smiling the whole time, she had his zipper down and it looked like she had her hand on his penis. I watched with revulsion as she lifted her pleated mini-skirt, something she almost never wore, and guided his 'greasy uncircumcised' dick in her hole. I didn't know if he was greasy or circumcised or what; I only hoped.

The whole time all they did was grope and gyrate. I didn't hear a single intelligible word. After maybe ten minutes they were done. He grabbed a handful of Kleenex and disappeared in the back bathroom. He hadn't used protection and she'd let him! My wife, my loyal, loving, dutiful wife, found her IPhone and called me. She wanted to know if we could eat out that night. I remembered that one; remembered it big time, because I suggested the Red Lobster, and wouldn't one know it? Once he came out she told him we'd be eating out. He asked her where, she told him, and wonder of wonders it was that very evening I got my first formal introduction to Dr. Wallace Prendergast. He'd brought his wife; sickening to think about it now, two conspirators having sex at work, them sharing their tawdry secret in the presence of their unsuspecting spouses.

Of course we four ate together. He was charming. My wife was subdued. In fact I believed she acted just a little obsequious; much like a highly paid prostitute in the presence of her pimp, head down, minimal eye contact, providing minimal comment. I recall now how much I liked him. He insisted he take the check. Looking back I guess he was staking some sort of claim for my wife to see, a kind of 'see me I bought you'.

That night? Of course Myra and I made love, or I at least did. I had and still have no idea who or what she was thinking about. Did or does it matter? Not anymore.

Future liaisons at the bookstore ran the same stupidly routine pattern. He'd arrive. They'd go back and screw. He'd leave. She'd call me at home. Later when she came home she'd be especially affectionate and that night we'd 'make love'. This all went on with clock-like regularity right up until the day I caught her. I never once heard a honeyed word, or mention of books from the slime ball.

After their 'exercises' he did regularly pass on a comment or two about me, but his remarks were always inane, banal, really quite ordinary. He never attempted to provide or receive any comparisons. He never suggested anything social. It was always the same, the same hackneyed mindless set of comments.

I'm sorry, but now I think I understand that was part of his formula. He was offering her a small degree of sexual excitement, but it was always followed by the trite and mechanical when it came to me. It made sense; he kept her on a string by giving her a petty thrill followed by the subliminal subtext, me, her husband as being bland and boring.

Tragically it worked. Even more tragically I think Myra wanted it to.

~~V~~

So I watched the videos Zoey had excerpted and then I made my plans. Interestingly, for a while I had two women on the string.

Myra wandered the house like a ghost; watching, spying, listening, surreptitiously going through the papers in my office. For the most part I was polite; her infamy was no reason for me to sink to her level. Oh no, I'd have something for Myra. I didn't know what it would be, but it would be...I don't know, meaningful. It was heartbreaking; the Myra I thought I knew had died, and her replacement was like some two dimensional shadow, some wounded animal.

I'd run over a young squirrel with the lawnmower once when I was a kid. I saw right away the thing would probably die. It didn't run away. It scampered a couple feet from the mower and just sat there. I got off and went over to it. I had a dog, a yellow lab, she came over too. The two of us, me and the dog got right up to that little squirrel. It was so close, and it was clearly hurt, little hind leg looked torn. I thought about maybe taking it back to the house and trying to help it, but its behavior was so out of the ordinary, it could've been rabid. The pathetic little thing wouldn't move so I gently pushed it. The dog and I watched as it half limped half hopped off toward the trees. It even looked back once, or I thought it did. I knew it would die. Watching Myra around the house reminded me of that squirrel. She was pathetic, and forgive me, I'm not inclined to torture.