Simple Math Ch. 01

You tried to talk to her, tried to figure out what was happening, but she just snapped at you and acted like you did it all on purpose. Whatever 'it' was at the time. You kept at her, until she finally blurted out some dumb thing or other and stormed off.

It was short, cold, and to the point.

What was it?

Oh, yes.

"Even Mikey seems to care more about what happens to this family than you do!"

And then she'd ran out of the room, leaving you looking at that empty doorway and wondering if maybe, just maybe, a dragon was going to come flying out of it next.

One didn't, thank god. We have problems enough in this world, without dragons.

Instead it was her that appeared, rushing back in your arms and sobbing apologies for being so "moody." And, in its way, that seemed just as unexpected.

When do women ever admit to guilt?

Oh, take that look off your face. Half of me is kidding, and the other half is right.

Anyway, there was the old reconciling thing after that. You talked, you consoled each other some, and then you agreed: you both needed to put more effort into the marriage.

And no, since you brought it up, she really wasn't jealous of your job. It had just sounded that way for a minute.

She was proud of you.

Really.

Now, did she tense a little when you suggested that it was time for Michael to find his own place? Maybe. Those types of memories are unreliable. And when you mentioned starting a family? Was her reply just a little too slow in coming? It's hard to say.

You weren't watching for that kind of thing, back then.

But she did agree, and Michael did get an apartment. And things got a lot better after that.

Didn't they?

-

I thought so, at the time.

But here I am. Right, Dad? Pretty hard to draw a straight line from "getting a lot better" to "deep and ominous distrust."

Or, it should be, anyway.

I slip into the house, and sure enough all the lights on the main level are off. A faint sound drifts down from the upstairs region, almost certainly a voice but indistinguishable, and it occurs to me that something as simple as a decision to get a glass of water could ruin my whole plan.

So I slip along into the hallway quickly, noting potential hiding places as I go, and when another voice comes from upstairs I hesitate and try to concentrate on it.

Impossible. It's Sally, but she could be saying or doing anything. I simply don't hear her well enough to know anything other than that she's there.

It's like lying in bed at night and thinking you hear an intruder. The harder you focus on the sound, the less clear and more mysterious it becomes.

I am the intruder here, though, and I am oh so quiet.

Sally's keys are on the counter, right alongside Michael's. His chain is unremarkable, lean and unburdened. Hers are weighed down by marriage, a tangle of various keys with the blue sand dolphin I bought her in Florida dangling off the end.

Florida. Wow. What a trip that was. Six perfect days and five heavenly nights. Sally was so loving, so delightfully eager to be...really be...with me, that I never even noticed for the longest time afterwards that our bedroom life never returned to its pre-Michael ways.

There was something else, too. She been... Bald... On that trip. And as exciting as that had been for me, it was also incredibly incongruent with the woman I'd been married you all this time. It had caught me by surprise, excited me, and then...Become a sort of mystery that lingered at the back of my mind.

-
I remember that. Not one of the times a father wants to be reading his son's thoughts, mind you.

But it wasn't that you were worried, I don't think. Or even suspicious, yet.

It just struck you as...wrong, somehow. Not right.

Foreign.

-

Interesting. Foreign is a good word.

Someone or something that does not belong. That has no history.

The sight of her that way both titillated and upset me, the way something can when it suddenly pops up and suggests to you that your spouse...a person you think you know and understand as well as you understand yourself...might in some small way still be a bit of a stranger.

It is intoxicating, and alarming, to imagine that they might be having thoughts that you aren't privy to. Might be nurturing something new in their mind, or in their heart. It eats away at a man.

There's a thud from upstairs, followed by a playful squeal. It doesn't sound sexual, exactly...

...but then it doesn't actually have to be sex, does it?

People find so many ways to tear each other down.

I'm standing at the bottom of the steps. Voices. Plural. Indecipherable.

I guess it's time.

So I move, sending myself little reminders as I go. Remember to avoid the squeaky third step. Keep to the left side of step seven, or it groans. Don't grab the railing. There's a looseness to it lately, and it emits a noise that might draw attention.

Pity the poor fool who invades someone else's home. They've got it all backwards. They don't even know where the danger lies.

Warning signs...

-
Was it really just that look...that simple, silent moment you saw pass between them...that did it? Or did you already suspect on some level, and just hadn't admitted it to yourself?

You'd like to think that you did, I'll bet. We all enjoy rewriting history in that way. But nobody ever really suspects, Joey, because nobody ever wants to.

Hell, you're not even supposed to. That's part of being in love.

-

Maybe. But there were hints. Plenty of them. I see that now.

And even if I didn't pick up on them then, it didn't really matter. In the end, Michael just couldn't miss the chance to brag about a great conquest, could he?

He played it off pretty well at first, sort of teasing me with bits and pieces of information. He was seeing "a girl," she was "a little older, but great." I'd "really like her."

But, no, I couldn't meet her. It "wasn't like that."

See, she was married, and her husband "couldn't get the job done." The old guy just didn't rev her up the way she needed (was there a smirk, there?), so Michael had been plowing away at her three, four times a week (so he said). And, he added, I could just take that goddamn disapproving look off my face and go judge some other idiot instead. I'd do it, too (he got real in my face as he said it), if I ever found a girl who was willing to do some of the things this woman does for him.

And then he'd listed some of those things, until it got to be too much for me and I asked him to quit.

I mean, I couldn't even imagine. I'd never met a girl who did most of those things. Some of them I don't think that I would have even wanted to, to be honest. Others...

But you should have seen his eyes, Dad. They were lit up. Amused. Full of malevolence and power. Dilated, fearsome, and soulless.

Just like when he used to get high.

He even asked me to keep it private. I bet he thought that was hilarious. Me, keeping a secret about my wife's own infidelity. Hush hush, don't rock the boat, and he'll mount her again tomorrow.

Above all, power. Over all trembling creation and all the antheap. That's the goal, remember that. That's my farewell message.

So the book goes.

But one night, as Sally was arriving home with groceries, I told her that Michael was dating what I very gently called "a real nice girl."

And she acted surprised, perhaps vaguely happy. But she also shot him a dangerous look that I couldn't quite read.

It seemed to have an awful lot to say, that look. Paragraphs. Speeches. But what exactly might have been communicated, there in the space between their darting irises, I was not able to say.

And then...just in case I hadn't yet gotten the hint...he responded to her look with a playful wink.

And that was it. As simple as that, all of those unrelated, distantly spread events coalesced into one great, terrible suspicion.

There hadn't really been anything remarkable about that wink. I mean, it's not like it was suggestive. Or...I don't know, sexual. It was just a friendly gesture. And it's one that Michael is kind of prone to tossing out there, anyway.

But for whatever reason, or because of some tiny unacknowledged detail that had crept into my subconscious and taken up residence...suddenly I had my grave doubts about my wife and my brother.

And the thing is that, once I got to thinking about it...I found that I couldn't stop.

It would be so easy for them, wouldn't it? My new job kept me away one or two evenings a week during the school year, and put me in the building all through the summer workdays. Sally, meanwhile, worked part time at a knitting store. It was a job for bored housewifes. She was always home by 1:30.

Michael? Evenings and weekends as a bartender.

I reach the top of the stairs. I hear that thumping noise again. This time I recognize it.

It's my headboard, bouncing rhythmically against the wall.

And there's something else, too. It's not nearly as obvious, but it's more than loud enough. I must've picked up on it before now. Why didn't it register?

It's an absolutely terrible sound. A persistent, plunging knife of a sound.

Two bodies, slapping together, hungry and happy and wet.

My stomach turns. I double over. Inside the bedroom, I can suddenly hear everything. My wife's moans. Her determined, savage grunts. My brother's belaboured breath.

The squeak of the bed.

Christ. Was it really there all along, Dad? Did I just refuse to hear it?

Dad?

Goddamn you. You're always leaving me when I need you the most.

I reach the open door, touch the knob, and calm my shaking hands.


Then I lean right, tilt my head, and bear witness to the truth:

Sally. Michael.

Wife and brother.

Monsters.

She's standing, naked save for some unfamiliar white stockings, bent over at the waist with her feet sent outwards in a wide-legged stance. Her shoulder is pressed to the post at the foot of the bed, arms wrapped around it like it's saving her life, and she's yelping like a goddamn puppy. Even from this odd angle, I can see the flush on her cheeks, the wetness of her open mouth. The moment when her eyes roll back in her head.

Michael, ten years her junior, looks all the younger for standing behind this fully formed woman of thirty-one. He's a little on the short side and narrow all over. Just skin, really, stretched over undernourished bone.

And he's got his goddamn hands on my goddamn wife's hips for leverage, as he pushes into her body over and over again.

What is she, Mikey? A stand-in for mom?

One thing's for certain: she's not opposed to it. She's loving every minute, letting the world know all about her impending rapturous joy. Her cries increase in frequency, her free hand reaching back for him, fingertips tracing along his flexing stomach.

As though the physical contact they already shared wasn't enough. As though no amount of connection between them could ever be enough.

It's been three and a half seconds. In that time, fifteen thousand unlived happy days have died. Each accepted its execution quietly, surrendering long before I could ever see it through. Those were days that were supposed to involve love, serenity, family, and Sally. They were days where I had a brother, where blood was still binding.

The two people who mattered most have stolen more time from my future then I currently have tucked away in my past. I'm more than half-dead.

And they did it just because they could, like careless children tearing at scrap paper.

It feels like murder, Dad. It feels like watching you die all over again.

You didn't know that I saw that, did you?

My hands are numb and I can't see straight, but I do manage to make sure the recorder is running. What a stupid and insubstantial plan this was. Is that really all I brought? What did I think I was doing?

Suddenly, Michael slaps her ass like property. Then he growls out an, "Uhh, fuck."

How mundane. How puerile. How adolescently stupid. But she giggles around her newest moan like she's proud, or something...

...and suddenly, I'm surprised to find that I've hit the bastard.

I hit him hard, too, just below the base of the neck and with all the momentum that carried me into the room. He pitches forward onto her, knocking her shoulder into the post, then tumbles down onto the floor. Sally lets out a cartoony "Oomph," as her shoulder slams into the wooden slab, then struggles to stay upright as her lover tumbles away from her. She's still clinging to the post, trying to maintain her balance against all odds. The act leaves her sort of twitching and wiggling, as her socks slide this way and that on our laminate floor.

What a pathetic sight they are. The naked little man rolling around on the floor, cursing, while his woman remains bent over and on full display, convulsing like an idiot clown.

Something in the crack of her ass is glistening. Is it saliva? Lube?

Just stop it, goddamn you.

She does that nose breathing thing, pushes off the post to come upright, and says, "What the FUCK, Mikey? Was that some kind of punishment for not-AIIEE!!" She screams at the sight of me standing over her lover, or maybe at the sight of him rolling around on the floor in pain. Either way, she doesn't run away and she doesn't hurry over to protect him. She just sort of half covers herself, shrinks, and starts to whimper.

No words, no retreat...just looking right into my eyes and shaking like I'm the devil in the story.

I glance at Michael, then back up at my wife. "I only hit him once." But I'm speaking to no one, and I don't know why.

She gives a little shake of her head, eyes wide like Old Hollywood insanity, and swallows.

Michael is climbing to his feet, cursing. He scowls at me like I've wronged him. "Fuck you!" He's swaying back-and-forth like it's all he can do to keep from falling back down...or maybe from jumping right at me. It's hard to say which is more true. "You wanna fight me? Eh? You want to fucking fight, Joey?!" he sways a bit in my direction, this time to intimidate.

And the truth is, I do. I really, really do. But I'm recording this, so instead I say, "No. I want you to leave."

"Fuck you!" He sneers. "YOU leave! We're in love." He puts his arm around Sally's waist and pulls her to him. She doesn't fight it. Goddamn, kid. She's even taller than you are. "This is going to be MY house! When she's done with you, you won't have shit." She doesn't lean into him, still staring at me. Her arm continues to protectively cover her chest, but her boob has slipped down and is clearly visible. Her lower lip quivers. She looks hurt.

Jesus Christ. She doesn't even know whose side she's on.

So I goad her. "Is it true, Sally?" I ask. "Is what he's saying true?" She just shakes, like I'm pointing a gun at her, and doesn't speak.

"Of course it's true!" He squeezes her tighter, chin up. He's manic, gleeful. Victorious. A hungry dog about to be fed.

But there's something else, too. He's angry. Incredibly angry. Far angrier than a single punch and a bit of coitus interruptus could possibly warrant. It's like he's trying to punish me for something, and I'm not giving him the reaction he wants.

Punish me for what, Mickey?

Or maybe the real question is, punish who?

He must misread my confusion as distraction, because he pushes himself off Sally and launches himself at me. She screams, falling onto her ass as he gets one good-but-inconsequential shot to my face in. She screams again a second later, when he gets thrown to the floor and summarily kicked.

Things start happening fast after that.

He starts climbing up. I kick him down.

He coughs, pushes. I kick again.

He tries catching my foot, but ends up cradling his injured arm. He curses.

Sally goes for the phone, panic obvious. She yells at me to stop.

Looks like she decided whose side she's on, after all.

"I wouldn't call the police, if I were you," I kick him one last time, and hold up the recorder. "All of this is being recorded. All of it. In my house."

I let the sink in, and we all hang motionless for the stretch of a moment.

-

Good move, son. They don't know any better than you how the law works in a situation like this. Would you get arrested? Maybe. Would Michael? Who knows. He did refuse to leave, and then attack you. That's on tape.

Would you all just get a warning, and all that will have happened is that their infidelity and belligerence will be that much better documented?

Say...isn't Sally's friend Amanda married to a cop? That brings a whole other set of questions to mind. Too many to process, in a moment this thin.

Emotions being what they are.

Anyway, Michael's got a history. He can't afford to throw dice on the chance that he'd be the one to get in trouble. Sally...well, who the hell knows what she's thinking? But no woman wants to let a stranger listen to a recording of her whooping it up in the bedroom, now, do they?
-

Maybe. Maybe not. Where the hell were you? I needed you.

-
That's not true. I'm always here when you need me.

The simple truth is that you didn't, just now. And, generally speaking, you don't need me nearly as much as you want to think you do.

Part of being a good father is stepping back. Part of being a good father is letting go.
-

If only you knew.

"Well?!?" Michael snaps from his place on the floor. "What are you going to do? She doesn't WANT you, asshole." He sneers through a split lip. "Nobody here wants you."

I look at Sally. She just stares back at me. That expressionless silence is driving me crazy.

Fuck it. My shoulders start to feel a little heavier, and I say, "I suppose you'd better take her back to your apartment with you. I see no reason for either of you to stick around here."

"Fuck you," he says again, stumbling to his feet. "This is my house, now! This is my-"

"Mikey," she says quietly, walking over and rubbing his arm, "let's just go. I don't want to sleep here tonight, anyway."

He wrinkles up his nose. "I'm not gonna let this asshole-"

"Please, baby." She kisses him on the cheek, tender and easy. "Not for him. For me." Then she turns to look at me, and once again her expression turns unreadable. "Will you let us have some time? I need to pack some things."

I can't believe it. She's dismissing me. I show her my disgust, notice that it makes her blush, and then turn and walk away.

There is some animated discussion in the bedroom after that, but I can't make most of it out. I don't really know that I care.

I just go down to the kitchen, sit down, and pour myself a tall scotch.

It should burn the inside of my mouth. The first sip always burns, at least a little. Tonight, I don't feel a thing. I don't taste a thing. I don't even know why I'm drinking.

The house falls quiet; the prophecy is fulfilled.

When they leave, about an hour later, they leave out the front door. She doesn't even bother to say goodbye.