Surprising Stacy

There's nothing really new here, just my way of responding to George Anderson's "February Sucks" without rehashing the same characters and situations. That is to say, no willing cuckolds, happy wife-sharers, hapless husbands, etc. Also, however, no bitches burned, so if that's your thing, spare yourself, or, if you must, go ahead and skip to the end and write the same nasty comment that you did the last time you reached the end of a story without reading that the cheating wife was hanged, drawn, and quartered. To everyone else, I hope you find that the reading passes the time not unpleasantly, and I would be happy to hear what you think, unless your aim is to explain to me how I would be a better writer if I would only write the way you think I should. Thanks for reading.

*

Standing in the hallway outside the meeting room I listened as the low, droning voice of the speaker inside came to a stop, after which there was a brief pause, and then a round of applause that sounded somewhere between polite and mildly enthusiastic. Not bad for the end of the day, when everyone in the audience had probably for the last half-hour been thinking about where they were going for dinner, and which of the many convention-related parties they wanted to drop in on later. As soon as the applause died down I could hear a different voice asking a question, and at the same time I heard the metallic slap of someone hitting the latch release bar on the inner side of the door, which swung out into the hall toward me, permitting a woman to bustle into the hallway, where she glanced briefly at me before hurrying off to the restroom. Before the door could close, a man pushed it wide open and held it for someone behind him, and a steady stream of people began to emerge, and soon the hallway was filled with the sounds of speech and laughter that the crowd had been holding in for the past hour or so, soft at first, but rapidly gaining in volume. Through the open door I could now see the speaker patiently holding forth before the dwindling group of dogged questioners.

Leaning against the wall opposite the door, I was out of the flow of the crowd, and perfectly placed to spot my wife as she came out. I was there to surprise her, and take her out to dinner for our anniversary--our third--which fell this year in the middle of the Grande dame of conferences for language and literature professionals, the MLA--that stands for Modern Language Association--annual convention. Stacy (that's my wife) had proposed to give a talk (i.e., read a paper she was preparing for publication), and had been given a morning slot (the afternoons being given over to the heavy hitters in their fields, which she was not then, nor is she now), which was a pretty big deal for an assistant professor with a tenure review coming up in another year and a half. So we agreed she should go, and we would celebrate later.

As I scanned the faces streaming past, I suddenly heard another metallic slap, and saw a second door (which I had not noticed before, having been drawn by the placard announcing the speaker that was next to the door I had chosen) swing open, about thirty feet down the hall in the direction of the hotel lobby. Among the throng who poured into the hall from that exit I recognized Stacy, talking animatedly to a man I didn't know, who was gazing at her with rapt attention, nodding along as she made her point, whatever it was. I didn't get more than a quick glance, but what I saw was that he was olive-skinned, with a shaved head and a dark mustache and goatee. As I was registering this I was working out how to catch up to them, and my immediate difficulty lay in the fact that everyone around me was doing the same thing--that is, walking and talking and not paying much attention to anyone who wasn't engaged in their particular conversation--which I quickly saw would make it impossible for me to catch up to her as she and her companion headed away from me. My surprise spoiled, I pulled out my phone to call her and let her know I was here, but it went straight to voicemail, probably because she had turned the phone off, or set it to airplane mode, while she was in the session, and had not yet switched it back to check for messages. Rather than leave a message she wouldn't see until, I hoped, after I had caught up to her, I simply ended the call.

Walking in the direction she had gone I soon reached the hotel lobby. I went in and walked around the hotel bar, but didn't see her there, and assumed that she had gone up to her room, since it wasn't quite five o'clock yet. We normally ate later, usually around eight, so I doubted she'd be heading straight to dinner now. I found a seat in the lobby and waited for her to text me when she turned her phone on again and saw I'd called, which I was sure she would do. After a while with no word from her, I went to the desk to ask what room she was in, but they wouldn't tell me (we have different last names, since she saw no reason to change hers when we got married), although they did agree to ring the phone in her room; but there was no answer. They also agreed to hold my bag for me until she called to have it brought up to her room. I held onto my coat--it was January in Chicago, after all.

At this point my brilliant plan for surprising my wife on our anniversary was beginning to look pretty stupid. She didn't appear to be in her hotel room, which meant she could be anywhere in Chicago, and unless or until she checked her phone, which I knew from experience she might not do for a while (one of the little things I loved about my wife was the fact that she was not phone-obsessed), especially since she had no reason to expect that I'd be calling until later in the evening. I had known she'd be at the talk this afternoon because she'd told me she was looking forward to it, but I had no idea of any plans she might have made for afterward. I will admit now, which you may doubt, considering where I have posted this story, that at this time it did not even occur to me that she might be in someone else's hotel room, cheating on me; after all, we'd only been married for three years, and we had what I had every reason to believe was a healthy relationship, including frequent, vigorous, and, as far as I could tell, mutually rewarding sex. My disappointment was entirely due to the fact that my only option appeared to be to wait in the lobby until either she called me or came through the lobby, whether on her way out to dinner or, which I really hoped would not be the case, in from wherever she had been. The eight o'clock reservation for two at Swift & Sons was looking like it might go to a lucky standby couple; whoever they were, I hoped it was a special occasion for them, too.

I almost missed her again. I'd been waiting nearly two hours, and it was approaching seven o'clock, when I saw her leave the elevator alongside the same man she'd been talking to coming out of the conference session earlier. He was dressed now in a dark suit with a colorful tie, carrying a bulky winter coat. She had changed out of the sweater and pants she had been wearing earlier, into a black cocktail dress that showed off her athletic figure, and her hair was no longer pulled back into the ponytail that was her "I'm working" style; she had let it down and done something to give it volume, and the effect, with the dress, and a pair of high heels I don't think I'd ever seen before, was very much "notice me." And it was working: just like before, the man she was with was paying her the full measure of his attention, and she seemed to be eating it up. As they reached the door, she stopped, and he helped her into her coat, which he'd been carrying, along with his own. She thanked him with a stroke of her palm against his cheek. That was the moment when I started getting angry.

Even as it occurred to me to walk over and confront them, I realized what a mistake that would be. Sure, I could cause a scene in the lobby of the Marriott, and I could spoil Stacy's plans for our anniversary, but I couldn't prove that she was doing anything other than going out to dinner with a colleague. And, if she was fucking this guy, then my real interest wasn't in stopping her--she could always do it again, some other time, when she was sure I couldn't catch her at it, and interfering now wouldn't change that. My real goal was to get at the truth of what our marriage meant to her, which I didn't think I'd get if she could preserve even the slightest scrap of deniability. I was done with her--a woman who will cheat on you on your third anniversary is not a woman who is going to remain faithful for the rest of her life--but maybe I could learn something from the experience. But, in order to do that, I would need the unvarnished truth, and that I would only get if she knew there were no secrets left to protect.

So I sat where I was while they walked out. There was no chance they were going to notice me unless I put myself in their way. When they had gone I got up, went into the bar, and ordered a Vieux Carré cocktail. It's my way of finding out if a bartender knows what they're doing, and it's a good drink if made correctly. The pretty girl behind the bar admitted she didn't know how to make one, and let me walk her through it--which, to my mind, is next best to someone who can make one perfectly--which went a long way toward calming me down and helping me to think clearly.

I haven't introduced myself, and maybe it's too late, but my name is Ward Egan. I'm 32 years old, and I am the Director of Digital Library Services at Marlowe College, a small, private college in North Carolina, just outside of Raleigh, the state capital. That's where I met Stacy Pelletier, who, as a newly minted Ph.D., had joined the English faculty, and whose research interests, with their focus on digital humanities, led her to me, when she discovered that Marlowe's internet infrastructure was not on a par with NYU's, which was where she had done the research for her dissertation. I was able to solve most of her problems, and our time together gave me the chance to learn that she was not only very intelligent, but also fun to talk to, with a sense of humor that seemed to match well with mine. She was also a former college volleyball player, tall, and athletic (as I've mentioned), with a pretty face, and lush, dark chestnut-colored hair, which, as I've also mentioned, she usually kept in a tight ponytail. I am also tall (6'3" barefoot), relatively thin (200 lbs.), with wavy dark blond hair, which I wear long. I'm also fairly athletic, having finished the New York City and Boston marathons with respectable times, and I run usually 60-70 miles per week. I'm no Casanova--I've never enjoyed playing the field, and I'm always happiest when I have one woman to focus my attention on--but I've also rarely lacked for female companionship. I will be okay without Stacy.

As I sipped my drink I worked out my plan. I reasoned that Stacy and her boyfriend would be back at the hotel by around nine o'clock, since they clearly have plans for after dinner, and she knew that I'd find it odd if she left it until really late to call, especially on the day of our anniversary. I could watch them come in, but what then? I couldn't follow them into the elevator without giving myself away. Or could I? If they were as into each other as I suspected they would be, maybe they wouldn't pay much attention to a guy with sunglasses and a hoodie carrying a pizza box.

I taught Megan, the cute bartender, to make a 12 Mile Limit. She was definitely flirting with me, which helped my mood, even though I knew she was just hustling for tips. She advised me on where nearby I could get the things I'd need for my disguise (no, she didn't know what for). When, a few minutes later, my phone rang, it was Stacy, apparently nearing the end of her romantic dinner, making her duty call to the clueless husband. Megan, who knew I was expecting a call from my wife, drifted away to the other end of the bar.

"Hi Hon," said Stacy. "I'm sorry I missed your call earlier. I turned my phone off during the last session, and forgot to turn it on again after. I hope everything's okay. How are you?" I could hear music, voices, and restaurant noises in the background. I imagined the bald guy sitting next to her with a smirk on his face. I also noticed that she didn't say anything about our special day. Had she forgotten? Or was she just waiting to see if I would remember?

"I'm fine," I lied. "I just wanted to wish you a happy anniversary, even though we can't be together. I miss you."

"Oh, that's so sweet. I miss you too. I wish you were here. I'm just finishing up dinner by myself, here at the hotel bar."

Just for fun I looked around the bar. Nope, she wasn't here. And still no mention of our anniversary. Maybe she's worried her new boyfriend would be appalled to realize he's out with woman who is so cold she'd fuck a stranger on the one day of the year she's supposed to celebrate the fact that she's married.

"You mean to tell me no tall, dark strangers have offered to buy you a drink and keep you company?" I asked.

"Hah!" she laughed with a snort, which I had always found cute before, but now just seemed repulsive. "No, well, there are plenty of women here who are giving off the 'I'm available' vibe--it is a convention, after all. But not me. So they're leaving me alone."

"Good girl," I said. "I hope you know how important it is to me that I can trust you."

"I do," she said, "and it goes both ways. I hope you're behaving yourself."

"You know me," I said. "I'm strictly a one-woman man. You won't get rid of me unless you replace me with someone else."

"Hah!" Another snort laugh--definitely repulsive. "Not a chance, mister. I'll always come home to you."

"That's good to know," I said. "Try to get plenty of rest. I know your talk is tomorrow morning."

"Thanks," she said. "I know that material backward and forward, so I doubt I'll even look at it again tonight. You sleep well, too. I love you."

I ended the call without saying anything. Let her wonder.

I asked for the bill, and matched the cost of the drinks for the tip as I signed the slip. Sliding off the barstool, I shucked into my coat to go looking for the discount store Megan had suggested.

I got what I needed--a bulky, dark hoodie, a Cubs ball cap, and a pair of dark glasses that covered most of the top of my face. I put on the hoodie and the cap in the store, then walked back towards the hotel. On the way I stopped into a pizza place and gave a guy behind the counter five bucks for an empty pizza box. Back at the Marriott, I went into the bar, and gave my coat to Megan, who agreed to hold it for me.

"I'm off at eleven," she said, smiling at me.

"I'm still waiting for my wife," I replied, smiling back at her, "but if she hasn't shown by then, I'll buy you a drink somewhere else."

"Okay."

I took a table away from the bar, where I had a view of the lobby. It wasn't long before I saw Stacy and her new friend come in and head for the elevators. Keeping behind them, I approached slowly. I didn't want them to notice me until I got into the car behind them. I didn't have to worry, though, because they were clearly engrossed with one another.

When the doors opened he ushered her in, pressed the button for the eleventh floor, then took her in his arms, turning them both away from me. I realized I could have saved the money I'd spent on my disguise. I doubt either of them even noticed I was there; they definitely didn't realize that I hadn't chosen a different floor. Using my newfound power of invisibility, I retreated to the rear corner opposite them. He murmured softly to her, and she twittered back at him. I couldn't say for sure, not having had that experience, but this was possibly worse than actually watching them fuck. I was really looking forward to upsetting their plans for the evening.

The car eased to a halt with a slight bump, the doors opened, they got off. I hung back, let the doors almost close, then stopped them with a hand, peered out, and saw them walking slowly, bodies held tightly together, down the hall. I kept close to the wall and followed quietly as they approached their room, where he took a card from his pocket and opened the door, holding it wide for her to enter ahead of him.

In a few long strides I was at the door, grateful that the solid floor and padded carpet muffled my footfalls. I put the toe of my shoe in the way just in time to prevent it from closing, doubting either of them would notice. A minute later, when no one had come to see why it hadn't shut, I replaced my foot with the empty pizza box, turned on its narrow edge. My plan was to wait until they'd had time to get their clothes off and into bed, but not so long as to let things get seriously underway. All I had to do was to shred the last vestige of deniability, to prove that her betrayal was utter and absolute. I'm not sure why I felt this was necessary, but I didn't question the need.

I waited until the sounds of rustling clothing had stopped, then slowly opened the door and let myself into the room, closing the door softly. The first thing I saw was Stacy's handbag, lying where she'd dropped it on the floor, which gave me an idea. Quietly picking it up, I looked inside and removed her room key card and her wallet, then set it back on the floor. I could hear bodies moving and what sounded like kissing coming from the space around the corner at the end of the corridor, telling me that things were rapidly getting underway. Scanning the top of the dresser, a few feet away, I saw a small booklet with a maroon cover, and the words, "Union européene" and "République française." Opening it, I saw that his name was Thierry Faraj. I pocketed the passport; it wasn't much payback, but at least I could make him sweat in the French embassy for a few hours while they decided whether to give him a replacement.

Hearing Stacy moan, I decided it was time to announce my presence. I walked to the end of the bed, where they were both naked, he between her legs performing cunnilingus on my cheating spouse.

"Happy Anniversary, Stacy," I said, in a louder-than-normal voice.

Stacy opened her eyes wide and gasped. Monsieur Faraj rolled away from Stacy's pussy onto one elbow, and said, "'Oo aire you, an' what you do in mah roooom?"

Stacy just said, "Ward!"

"I'm the husband," I said, "and I'm just verifying that my wife is a cheating slut. I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it for myself, but, now that I have, you can go back to what you were doing. Stacy, when you're finished here--and I mean, finished with the conference--don't come to the house. It's mine, I owned it before we were married, and your name is not on the deed. Your lawyer can arrange with mine to retrieve any items that you will need in the short term, and we can divide the rest in the divorce settlement."

"Eef yoo don' get outta mah roooom raht naow, I call th', how yoo say, le directeur."

"I think you mean the manager," I said. "No worries--like I said, I'm done here, and I'm leaving. Stacy, remember, don't come home."

I picked her dress up off of the floor, and her coat from a chair, and walked back toward the door.

"Ward, wait!" I heard Stacy say, as I let myself out of the room.

I took the stairs down a couple of flights, found a garbage can near the elevator bank, and stuffed Stacy's dress into it. A couple of more floors down, I got rid of her coat in the same way. Childish? Petty? Yes. But I had to do something.

Next stop was the bar, to get my coat.

"Did you find your wife?" asked Megan.

"Yes," I said. "Too bad, really. Maybe next time I'm in Chicago I'll stop by to see you."

"I'll look forward to it."

At the hotel desk I showed them the receipt they'd given me for my bag, and collected it. It was too late to go to the airport without a ticket--I had booked my return flight for a couple of days from now, when the conference would be over, and I'd planned to come back together with Stacy--so I told the cab driver to take me to the first airport motel we came to. At the Red Roof Inn I found a dumpster and dropped in Thierry's passport and Stacy's wallet and key card. She'd probably be able to get back into her room in time to get ready to give her talk, as long as she didn't decide to spend all night with Pepe LePew, but at the least it would cause her some embarrassment and maybe knock her off her game enough so that she'd screw up her presentation. I was a little worried that Stacy and shithead might call the police on me for stealing their stuff, but all they'd actually seen me take was Stacy's dress and coat, and it was their word against mine, so I doubted that I would have a problem with it. I was pretty wound up still, and worried that I wouldn't sleep, but once I got undressed and in bed I dropped off pretty quickly, and didn't wake until six the next morning.