Right Down the Line Pt. 01

Those who regularly follow me will remember that I was having major surgery in early January. At that time I wasn't sure how quickly I would recover enough to feel like writing again. Thankfully my recovery time has been quicker than anticipated and I was able to write for a few hours some days. There is no sex in part one, it's all about the characters. Who they are, what makes them tick, what their past is about, what their aspirations for the future are.

A Master Sergeant I worked for when I was in the military loved country music. Especially Dolly Parton. The song I based the beginning of this story is based on one of hers. One I heard pouring from his office no less than 3 times a week. This one's for you Sgt. Griff.

Right Down the Line part one

Her name was Jolene, my nemesis, the one determined to ruin my marriage and steal my man. She was the epitome of the song's lyrics. Auburn hair, green eyes, her voice was like summer rain. Her cream-colored skin seemed to glow compared to the brown hue of mine. And like the song says, I could not compete with her. She could have any man, why did she have to go after mine? Like me his skin was dark. Though he was athletic and handsome I could not fathom why she had chosen him to seduce. After all, he was a married man. Surely that meant he was off limits.

The night he softly crooned her name in his sleep I realized that life as I had dreamed it might be would never happen. I should have confronted him and looked for a divorce lawyer, but when you love someone the way I did him you want to believe it will work out. To my knowledge he hadn't done the deed yet, but he was surely thinking about it. I would learn later that he had definitely been with her in a biblical sense.

At the tender age of 19 I had convinced myself Brian was the only one for me. I would try to become as attractive as Jolene, except ..... I wasn't attractive. I was as plain Jane as they came. With facial features that commanded no second look and a body that wouldn't catch a man's eye if I was half naked, I had little to work with. He was my first love, my first sex partner, my Mister Perfect. That is until he wasn't. I wound up pregnant in the fall after high school and in our little neck of the woods the boy was expected to step up and be a man if he got a girl in trouble.

With enough pressure applied by both sets of parents he married me about the time I began to show. I was thrilled, he was stoic at best. Imagine how much worse life became when I lost the baby at 4 months. In an effort to hang onto him after the miscarriage I bought the most seductive lingerie I could find. Tiny stretch panties that barely covered anything, bras that were no more than a bralette making it appear as though I wasn't wearing anything under my tops. I went so far as to buy a garter belt and stockings to wear with a skirt so short it barely hung half thigh.

He would drool and get horny, then fuck me savagely. There was no tenderness, no visible love, no intimacy. It was use me and be done. I went so far as to shave my puss at his request. Worst mistake of my heretofore adult life. He stuck his dick in it one time and told me I looked like I was ten. It itched and scratched, the stubble stuck to my underwear, uncomfortable is the best word to describe the feeling. He "laid pipe" as he calls it a week after I'd shaved, all the while complaining because my mound was stubble and scratchy. Since then the three times he's come home sober enough to screw me he's insisted it be from behind.

He hinted about ending my anal virginity, that will not happen. He hasn't touched me in two weeks. There used to be feels and tender touches as we passed each other, or playing with my boobs if I was at the sink or counter. His hand would at times drift across my butt ending with a gentle pat. None of that has happened since I lost the baby. It was three days after he moaned her name in his sleep that the final straw to break the camels back occurred. He had taken me with him to the diner, which he seldom did. I thought it might be the beginning of something loving and thoughtful.

What a fool I was. It had been months since I was allowed to go anywhere with him. Little did I know Jolene worked at the diner. I watched as she gushed and charmed numerous men in the room. I was sure it garnered her more tips. Nor did her attitude change when she brought us the menu. She didn't hide her flirting with my man in any way, shape, or form. The bright smiles, her hand touching his, the sweetness in her voice. What killed it for me was when she looked at me it was one of pure disdain. As if to say, "I'll fuck him anytime I want, and you can't do anything about it."

I ate in silence, humiliated and embarrassed. When I got up to use the bathroom, I kept on going out the door. Our apartment was two miles away. Half an hour later I was nearly home when a car stopped at the curb. It was Brian, my no-good husband.

"What the hell are you up to Lainie? (My name is Elaine, he insisted on calling me Lainie) You embarrassed the hell out of me. I'll be the laughingstock of town. Dumb bitch, get your ass in the car."

Though he had never been abusive or rough physically, he regularly used his words to hurt and humiliate. I hung my head and got in. At home he was silent, not a word. When I tried to get in bed, he yelled at me.

"Go sleep on the couch bitch. You aren't sleeping in my bed."

That was it, I'd had enough. It wasn't "his" bed, it was our bed. The one my folks bought for us. I walked to the front closet, grabbed one of his precious baseball bats and returned to the bedroom. He was on his side facing away from me stroking his dick and moaning Jolene as the first blow hit just below his shoulder. He let out a scream, grabbed the upper part of his arm and turned toward me. That's when I landed the blow that broke his hand as he tried defending himself. I hit him several more times including his thigh before I stopped and slumped to the floor in tears. He was wailing in pain, loud enough that the next apartment heard him and called the cops. Handcuffed in the back of the police car, I watched as the ambulance carted him away with a broken humerus, two broken fingers and massive bruises throughout his lower body.

I didn't fight the court proceedings. I pled guilty to the charges of grievous bodily harm and was given a sentence of nine months incarceration. Thankfully it was in county jail and not the penitentiary. There were no gangs, no coerced sex, no outlandish drama. In fact, all eight of us women in jail knew each other in some way. None of us were close, but we weren't enemies either. Brian filed for divorce a week after I had assaulted him, the very day he was discharged from the hospital. He went looking for his pet Jolene who was nowhere to be found, she had skipped town.

I didn't fight the divorce either, I signed the papers the day they arrived. One of the other women in jail said I should go after his ass and get what I could. I laughed, we had nothing so there was nothing to go after. My dad and brother went to the apartment, packed my meager belongings and left without a word from Brian. Mom came to see me in jail every week. The visits weren't long, but it was a touch of home and a promise of somewhere to go when I was released. I would be on probation for two years, but so what, I wasn't planning on going anywhere anyway.

A job at my folks' grocery store would be waiting when my incarceration was done. All I needed to do was keep my head down and my nose clean as they say. I wouldn't be making much money but as long as I lived at home paying my folks rent, I wouldn't need much. Knowing I had somewhere to go and a job waiting helped keep my mind busy and life inside the jail balanced. It was a cold wintry day when Dad picked me up. It had snowed the night before. There was a stiff breeze along with a below zero temperature which made the wind chill factor nearly unbearable.

As I stepped outside the building and took a breath, I could feel my throat constrict. My body was telling me not to put that icy cold air into my lungs. That was nothing new, it happened every winter during the coldest days. You take shallower breaths and get on with it. Looking at Dad I grinned, the condensation from his breath had formed ice crystals on his moustache and beard.

When we got in the truck he grabbed a handkerchief from his back pocket. Yup, my Dad was one of those guys who held onto the old ways like they were a religious doctrine. He still used a pocket watch with a Case tractor watch fob attached. Most people think that little pocket above the right pocket of their jeans is for change. It's not, it's a watch pocket. As he wiped away the snot along with it came tiny icicles. His beard was dripping as the truck warmed, something we both laughed about.

It felt good to be back in familiar settings. I was truly sorry for what I had done to Brian. I should have handled it differently. But I was more sorrowful for the pain and hurt I had brought to my family.

My parents were the first mixed race marriage in the history of our town. He had been stationed in Georgia and married what he referred to as, *the prettiest girl he had ever laid eyes on*. Their move north after his discharge was a shock to my Mom. Most of dad's white kin and the townspeople stared in the beginning wondering where this dark-skinned girl had come from. She and the town's people adjusted, and in time she became accepted as one of the locals. I was seven when my folks bought an IGA grocery store. I would sweep, stock shelves and do whatever else Mom needed done. My brother was six years older than me and loved being in back with the butcher. By the time he was sixteen he was working full-time with the butcher after school and on weekends.

When I began dating Brian my brother warned me that he wasn't to be trusted. That he used girls and threw them away. There were only seven black kids in the high school and four of them were boys. I quickly surmised that he was talking about white girls as well as me. What is it about girls who think if they get ahold of what the community refers to as a 'bad seed' he will change for them? I still can't answer that question, but I was one of those girls.

He laid on the charm and had me swooning in no time. We did a lot of kissing and petting throughout our courtship. I was 19, he was 18 when I let him in my panties. It wasn't an every date sort of thing, which made no difference in the end. I was still knocked up by September. Both sets of parents knew that it takes two to tango. They also knew in a small town like ours it would ruin both families if we were not to get married. The procedure was fast and with no fanfare. I was head over heels in love, he was grudgingly doing what he'd been told he had to do.

Though sporadic, there were intimate times in the early days. The touches, the caresses, the spontaneous love making. Sadly they lasted a very short time. His affection stopped along with any tenderness shortly after I miscarried. I'm now convinced that with me no longer being with child he no longer had to pretend he loved me. The incident with Jolene happened in what would have been our seventh month of matrimony. I was 20 when I went to jail, I had just turned 21 when I got out.

Back to the present:

As we pulled into my parents' driveway it felt like paradise. A safe sanctuary, a place I wouldn't be watched day and night, a place where love would flow. In Mother's arms I would find warmth, a sanctuary in a hostile world. A place where I could rebuild my life. I had served my time, now I needed to get through the next two years trouble free. Once probation was over, I would be able to think about the future, until then living and working with my folks was the safest place to be.

My first few weeks working at the store were awkward at best. The little old ladies with bony fingers pointed and made faces which I chose to ignore. It was their ignorance, not mine. Then there were the guys who thought that because I had been in jail almost a year, I would be ready to fuck anything with a dick.

At the register there were housewives with the attitude of 'how could she' along with the nasty looks as I rang up their groceries. It wasn't all bad though. There were also those who would ask how I was doing in a sincere manner. Brian only came in once, which surprised me. My folk's store was across town from where he had lived, we never shopped there once when we were married. By the time I noticed him my brother was talking to him while pointing at the door. He had a limp and as he walked past me, he hissed, "Bitch."

The middle-aged housewife I was checking out leaned towards me, touched my hand and said,

"Pay him no mind. He's mad because that girl Jolene made him look like a fool. It was learned after she hightailed it out of town that screwing a black guy and ruining a marriage were on her bucket list. She hit the jackpot with you two. The world is full of sick-minded people Elaine. Don't let what happened destroy you, there's a guy out there who will love you just as you are."

I felt better and I didn't at the same time. In my heart I was sure our marriage wouldn't have stood the test of time. But I also didn't think it would end in a crumpled heap the way it did. Was she right? Would there be someone to love me as I am, a plain Jane jailbird with nothing to offer. Only time would tell.

The weeks turned into months as life slogged along. I had been accepted as a part of Bubbles IGA and was treated with kindness most days. My PO (probation officer) was happy and impressed that I was holding everything "together" as he called it. I reported to him once monthly, had completed the anger management courses and was holding down a secure job. The fact that I lived with my folks and not in a halfway house helped tremendously.

I saw a few guys I thought might be interesting, that was as far as I let it go though. A few thoughts and no more. I wasn't about to let myself become tangled in a hot and messy love affair when I was so close to finishing probation. No, I needed to keep my head clear and my nose to the grindstone.

It was toward the end of my two-year probation with three months to go when I first met Cliff. I say met. I didn't speak to him, it's more accurate to say that I saw him and found myself interested. In my folks' back yard stood a huge oak that had been through many a storm without showing weakness of any sort. That was until a wind sheer nearly split the tree where two branches had grown in opposite direction from the trunk forming what looked like a Y midway up the tree.

If that tree were to completely split, half of it would have crashed onto the 3-car garage that not only housed their cars, but Dad's prized 1969 Plymouth Super Bee with a 426 Hemi. Don't ask what all that means, but I had heard it enough times through the years to quote him verbatim. If I was in the room and out of sight while he told someone about his car I would mimic the story. Silently I mouthed every word, every action, every facial expression as though it was me telling the story. Mother would give me a scowling grin and wag her finger at me, I would smile and quietly snicker.

Putting the word out at the store garnered him the name of Cliff, a young man starting up a tree removal business. His business wasn't big enough to go full time yet, but he had all the necessary equipment including a bucket truck with a 50 foot lift capacity. He worked evenings on smaller jobs and weekends for larger ones.

I had finished my shift and was on the way across the parking lot when I saw Dad talking to him. At 75 feet or so he didn't look special. Just another average build white guy trying to become an entrepreneur, a self-made man if you will. His beard was full but well kept, his hat was on what Dad would have described "the right way" and his clothes were clean. In my Dad's eyes those were essential traits in a man of good character. When I was across the lot approaching the sidewalk, I looked back to see them shaking hands. They had apparently reached an agreement.

It was the following Saturday as I was leaving for work when I saw a big truck pull into our driveway. It had one of those buckets with a long extending boom, the ones you see linemen for electric companies using. By the time I returned after my morning shift all the branches on the upper part had been removed and were in a huge dump trailer. I know it was a dump trailer cuz that's what Dad called it. What was left to cut were the larger lower branches and the trunk itself.

After an early afternoon snack with Mother I sat on the back deck watching this man work. There was a younger man as well. An older teen on the ground unhooking the rope as the guy in the bucket would lower them. Using one of those Bobcat things with forks on the front he would load them into the trailer.

The time of year was chilly enough that he started with a flannel shirt but was now in just a tee shirt covering his upper body. He wasn't covered in muscle mass, but what there was was solid as a rock. I caught myself thinking how nice it would be to be held by strong, loving and tender arms. Arms that make you feel safe and secure in their embrace. Arms that would hold you on chilly winter nights, to cuddle you after tender romance. Arms that would hold you and let you cry if that's what you needed.

By late afternoon the trailer was full to the top of what Dad wanted hauled away. He chose to keep some of the smaller branches to cut up for our backyard fire pit. I watched as they strapped the load down and connected the trailer to the boom truck. The younger guy and he were talking, the younger began to walk away and yelled, "I'll meet you there in half an hour."

Dad was sitting with me by then sipping an Arnold Palmer. As the man approached Dad stood and asked if he was thirsty.

"No sir. I've got cold water in the truck. I'm going to take this load and dump it before they close at 4:30. I'll be back in the morning. Do you mind if I leave the Bobcat here overnight?"

Dad reached forth to shake his hand, "Not at all, thanks for doing a good job. Cliff, this is my daughter Elaine."

I stood and shook his hand. I was expecting one of those bone crunching things guys do to prove their prowess and virility. Imagine my surprise when he shook my hand with a firm but gentle motion.

"How you doing today Miss Elaine?" He asked.

"I'm fine, thanks for asking. Have you done this a long time?"

He was shuffling his feet as though contemplating an answer. "Um, nope. Only a little over a year on my own. I work as a parts man at the Case/IH dealership during the day, but I'm hoping to have enough work by next spring to do this full time."

I needed to ask. "Where did you learn to do this stuff? I mean cut down trees. It looks dangerous."

"I learned working for a tree removal company in Crawford County before I moved here."

He shifted toward Dad and spoke. "I need to get going Mister Trowbridge. The guy who takes my wood closes soon."

He turned to me, "It was nice to meet you, maybe we'll see each other around town."

I wasn't about to miss my chance, "I work at Bubbles IGA. Stop in sometime."

We watched him drive away. Dad stuck his hand through my arm, grinning as he spoke.

"What was that about little girl? I haven't seen you that giddy in years."

I stopped to face him. "Number one I'm not a little girl anymore Daddy. Number two he was friendly, I was only being friendly back."

He laughed as we walked inside. Mom asked what the chuckling was about. Dad pulled her into his arms and cooed.

"Our little girl was flirting with young Cliff. "

I stomped my foot, "I was not. I was just being friendly."