SWIB 01: We Need to Talk

SWIB is a self-coined acronym; She Wanted It Bad. For the grammarians among us, whatever this "it" she wanted -- she wanted it bad, not badly. Badly would refer to the extent to which she wanted this "it"; instead, she wanted "it" bad - as in immoral, evil, vulgar, or obscene.

I have three stories in progress with this general theme, hence the acronym. All will carry SWIB in the title.

In this particular tale, she might also be described as wanting "it" badly. But SWIB,B is a poor acronym and no more worthy of your time than is this introduction, so I'll move on.

I enjoy most of the stories in this category. It is amazing, to me, how creative people can be with the simple premise of adultery, discovery, reaction, and resolution. Much as I hate to admit it, my favorites tend to dwell in the world of over-reaction and harsh retribution. Despite that, I think there are many untold and interesting stories in the more likely response and reaction range.

Hopefully, this is one such tale (at least, for the protagonist). It does require that one believe an accountant and attorneys can be good friends, which, might require suspension of disbelief, but if you can get by that --

The tale is all from the point of view of a naïve accountant, whose wife has strayed. He never discovered her infidelity(ies?), instead overhearing her talking to her lover. The story, and his knowledge, progress in the absence of information from or about her. As in life, he must infer from actions against him, what she is doing -- and why she might be on that path.

This story is entirely fiction. No character or event exists other than in this story. Any character involved in any sexual activity is over 18 years of age and the sex, itself is not described in the story (sorry). The author has never been to Omaha (which does exist), though admits to liking their steaks.

The Rehearsal

It was a gorgeous spring day, April 25. My name is Bob Watson, I am a tax accountant, in Omaha, NE. Even though tax season was extended, due to the pandemic, most of my accounts filed last week. All of them owed a bit more and even though the date for filing was extended, interest payments would be due, for taxes owed. The smart thing to do was file.

My office is nice enough, I guess. I work on the third floor, on the North side of an office building. I have a wall of windows, trouble is they are North facing, not much light, and my view is mostly of the similar office building across the street.

If you know a tax-accountant, we spend most of the late winter and early spring with our nose in a computer, filing returns. It wouldn't matter if my office looked out at the most romantic setting in the world, I'd still be nose-down, in numbers.

I went out for a breath of air at lunch time and the day was so gorgeous, I decided I needed an afternoon off. My wife, Marie and I live in a beautiful home overlooking the Platte River, a few miles before it joins the Missouri River. The day was too perfect, I needed to just watch the water flow by.

I headed home.

As I approached our home, there was a BMW in the driveway. The "BIGRICH" license plate told me whose Beemer it was. Richard Newberg III (or big Rich, to the prisoner who stamped his license plate) was visiting my wife.

I drove by the house, around the corner, parked, and walked back home.You see, Dickie, as most called him, was the ne'er-do-well son of Dick, Jr. I had presumed his license was because his wallet made him big and rich. He claimed some other reason for being referred to as big; but said they would not allow a plate that read, big dick. One thing was certain, his ego was huge. If you could buy him for what he was worth, and sell him for what he thought of himself, you'd not need to work again, in five lifetimes.

Dickie was well known. In part, because of his father, Richard Newberg, Jr. who is one of the wealthiest people in Omaha, one of the wealthiest, anywhere, I suspect. These days he made his "new" money mostly from his commercial real estate holdings. Junior, as he is called, tried everything with his playboy son, to no avail. The "old man" was brilliant, driven, and good at everything he tried. Dickie was a fuck up.

Our home has a large porch that wraps around two side of the house. It enables sitting and enjoying the river view, no matter where the sun or from what direction the wind comes. I crept onto the porch and started walking toward the front of the house. When I approached the living room, I could hear Marie and Dickie talking. All the windows were open, and I was only about five or six feet from them, just outside, on the porch, while they were inside, seated side-by-side near the windows.

I got my phone out and turned on my recording app.In my business, it is common for people to go through intricate detail, which they know from familiarity, but I must review, to assure all the detail is as it should be. Consequently, I am quite familiar with my audio app, and use it frequently.

"Marie, it is never going to be easy. When he gets home, tell him he's too boring and you're moving on."

"Dickie, can't you be here with me? I do kinda love him and I'll hate to see him go all glum. It would be better to tell him we are in love, and I still have a big place in my heart, for him."

"Marie, you know I love you, but think about it. You don't have a place for him, other than the trash heap. You are moving on. As for me being there, Daddy has told me if I fuck around, well excuse me, what I mean is if I get involved with another married woman, he is going to remove that large appendage you've grown so fond of."

She laughed, like an infatuated schoolgirl. "Dickie, your daddy will never harm you."

"Don't kid yourself. The old man is ruthless. He'll not neuter me, but he might cut my income to nothing, or worse yet, make me work, again, a few hours here and there. Besides, you need to appear destitute, so you can take the bean-counter for all he's got."

"Oh, Dickie, surely not. It is bad enough I am leaving him. You have loads of money, surely we can leave him with his money, if not his pride."

"No, we cannot. I want it all. If you want me, you must show me. Stomping on him hard will make him hate you and then, I don't need to worry you'll get all weak in the knees the first time one of your ankle-biters gets weepy and wants to run back to Daddy."

We have two children. Claire, our oldest is 7, Bob, Jr., Bobby, is 18 months.

"You are consistent, I'll give you that. OK, when he comes in, I'll lay it on him..."

They went on talking, I realized the tears were streaming down my cheeks and it was all I could do to keep from sobbing. While I was still recording, I had to stop listening to the woman I love casually talking about destroying me personally and financially, just to make a point.

It got quiet. They'd obviously moved from discussion to another pursuit. I decided it was time to make my exit and call "Ben and Nancy". I crept away. No one knew I had been there.

Ben and Nancy

One of my longest-standing clients was my friend, Edwin (Ed) Dover. Ed and his wife had a family law firm, which did quite well. His wife, Sally, practiced law under her maiden name, Joyette. Jokingly, they had knick-named themselves, Ben and Nancy. The first time I had to ask, why. She told me without so much as a smile, that it was a good name for a family law firm, Ben Dover and N. Joyette.

Ed and I work with several of his clients, whose personal wealth often requires both legal and financial planning. It is not unusual, at this time of year, for one of them to have forgotten some crucial element of their plan and need emergency assistance. I got Ed on the phone and briefly told him I was beside myself and needed their help.

"Bob, here is what we are going to do. I am tied up for a while, but Sally can get free. Go to our house, she will meet you there. I'll call Marie. If she picks up the phone, I'll tell her a big account has a bigger problem and you are buried in it. You'll be able to call her tomorrow and let her know when you'll be home."

I was grateful to have such good friends, no detail and they are taking me in. By the time I was at their home, Sally greeted me with a hug. She wanted to know what was so wrong. I said one word, "Marie" and started sobbing, like a fool.

She squinted and looked me in the eyes, "Illness?" she paused, I was blank. "Betrayal", tears. "That bitch! Ed is going to be here in less than an hour. Let's see if we can drink two large martinis before he arrives. No business 'til then. I hate mixing martinis and betrayal."

And so, we did. She is a great conversationalist. She didn't get me out of the dumps, but between her charm, whit, and a half-pint of gin, I was no longer tearful when Ed walked in.

"Hi, you two, what's up?"

"Bitch betrayed him."

"The whore! Well, let's see what we can do to fuck her life up more than she's fucked his."

That made me feel good. I got out my phone and played the recording. When it finished, I said, "I have two thoughts, first we use it in court, then we take it to his father. We fry that bastard."

Ed and Sally looked at one another and spoke some invisible language. She nodded and turned to me. "Bob, you're new to this arena. Things are not done as one would think. At least things are not done straight-forwardly, in a matter like this, if you want to win. Ed, tell him about taking the tape to Daddy."

"You know Dick, Jr. a little, I think. Isn't he officially your firm's landlord?"

"Well, yes, but I don't write rent checks, nor does he receive them. That's all done by others."

"Junior as he likes to call himself, inherited a fair amount of money, but he acquired a taste for it early in his life. Almost nothing he does is unrelated to becoming wealthier. He is one ruthless bastard. He has a love/hate relationship with his son, but Dickie is his truly weak, blind spot. He has spent fortunes getting that worthless hunk of nothing out of one scrape and another.

"For a while, he forced Dickie to work, but it seems Dickie has a talent even larger than his father's. His father's talent is acquiring money, Dickie, on the other hand is even more adept, if it can be called that, at losing money. Junior could not keep him employed, so, effectively, he's enabled his philandering. That has cost him a bunch, but not as much as his idiot son's not-so-bright business ideas."

"Oh, for goodness' sake, Ed, he doesn't want to know the family history, he wants to know if he can take the recording to Junior?"

"Of course not! Junior will kick Dickie's ass, but he will destroy you for pointing out his son is a shithead. You heard yourself, Dickie wants Marie getting all your money. She and Dickie will squander that in weeks or months. When Junior needs to replenish Dickie, again, he will not help Marie.

"Dickie is a bad boy, the kind some women get drawn to. He is also, reportedly,well equipped", with air quotes, "and quite the lover. His image and his bedroom skills get him many married women. He uses them 'til he is bored, and they are broke. Then he asks Junior for money and moves on.

"Junior will help his son. On the other hand, Marie will be broke, homeless, and will need to move to another planet, to avoid Junior's rath. In Dad's eyes it won't be his darling son's fault lives were destroyed, it will be your bitch of an ex-wife.

"In that way, you are lucky. This story ends very, very, very badly for her. But, in the meantime, we must figure a way to get you and your kids through this coming Armageddon."

I had heard the phrase my blood ran cold, I thought it a metaphor. Suddenly, I was shivering. This was worse than I thought, and it had really not even started, yet. "What if I sneak in tomorrow and take the kids, then disappear?"

Sally smirked, "Great idea if you can really disappear. I mean vanish, no trace, never to be seen by anyone or anything for all of eternity. Short of that, it is a really bad idea."

"I could buy fake IDs..."

Ed offered, "Junior will spend about 30 seconds finding who made your IDs. There is nothing you can do which he cannot discover. You kid yourself. The only way to avoid his wrath is to get him to agree not to impose it. There will be a way, it sometimes is painful getting to it. Our job is to minimize the initial pain and see you come out well on the back side."

Sally saw the hurt in my expression and called a cease fire, "Enough of this for tonight. Give me your phone. Tomorrow go buy a new one, buy an identical one, if you can. We will keep this phone so we have the original of your recording and Junior cannot have it stolen from you. Your only other assignment is to go home tomorrow, and be surprised when you hear, 'we need to talk'."

We enjoyed a late dinner, they put me up for the night, and we turned in relatively early. I didn't sleep well. My "Pearl Harbor" was no longer going to be a sneak attack.

Act one, Scene one

I was like a long-tailed cat, in a room full of rockers, all day. At work, everything made me jump. Several asked if I was ok. It was hard to say sure, for now; and not acknowledge that my world was about to blow up.

I drove home, pulled into the garage, took a long deep breath, let it out, and walked into the house announcing, "Honey, I'm home", as usual. A voice from the dining room said,

"In here."

I quietly sighed, my last chance to acknowledge I knew what was going on -- and walked into the dining room, "This is unusual, what's up."

"Sit. We need to talk."

Holy shit! Sit, like I'm some stray dog. I don't get a hello, by name? Even though I was prepared, emotion started rising. I decided to sit without comment.

"Bob, as you well know, things between us have not been right, for some time. I have decided to file for divorce."

The coldness of her words was matched by a steely countenance. She was well rehearsed. I got my new phone out, and hit record, setting it on the table near me. "I am not sure I understand. I am not aware things are not right between us. Why are you filing?"

"What is that?"

"My phone?"

"Not your phone, asshole, what are you doing?"

"Asshole? You've rarely sworn and never called me names in your life?"

"See that is how we've come to this. You lie and do it in a way it makes me look bad. There are no recordings of our fighting, of your demeaning me, and my smiling and taking it. Now you start recordings, making me look like the villain. Turn that off, or this conversation is over."

"I am not turning it off."

"Then get out."

"I am not getting out. This is my home, too. Why can't we talk? You asked me to sit and talk, why won't you do that?"

"Turn off your recorder and hear what I have to say or get out. Those are your two options."

"Well, politely, I must tell you I am exercising another option, to sit and wait for you to tell me what is going on, with my recorder running."

"Have it your way." She got up and walked away. I remained sitting, absolutely stunned. Who was this woman? There was not a hint of emotion, absolutely no warmth, only this cold stare and ultimatums. I was further frightened by the fact she was prepared for me to record and to refuse when I did.

I was lost in thought. I felt a tear on my cheek and wiped it away. She was returning to her chair. "Isn't that just cute!" she said as she sat back down.

"Isn't what cute? If I might ask."

"Tears, after what you've done and are doing, you have the nerve to fake tears!"

"Marie, talk to me, honey. I don't know what is going on. I come home and you surprise me with talk of divorce, and wonder why I have a tear on my cheek? What is wrong, why can't we talk about this?"

"The children and I are not safe when you are like this. Now you are even recording our interactions, so you can appear normal, while I am the heavy. I won't have it. Your abuse must stop."

I just sat and stared at her, mouth agape. How could she be this rehearsed? She was now using my recording to her advantage, which tempted me to turn it off. I knew "Ben and Nancy" would be harder on me than Marie was being, were I to do so. I left it on. We stared at one another. I heard police sirens.

A moment after that, the front door opened, and two officers entered the dining room with tasers in their hands. "Sir, I need you to calm down."

"I am sitting at my dining room table. What can I do to appear calmer?"

"Do not resist, sir. Stand up and place your hands behind you."

I quickly decided there was nothing to be gained from resistance. I stood and turned my back toward them, presenting my hands to them. I was shocked, they cuffed me. I asked, "May I know what this is about?"

"We received a 911 call saying your wife was in fear for her safety. We are responding to that call. We are going to take you outside, while you have a chance to cool down and we can talk to each of you separately."

They marched me toward the door. Both officers were flanking me, leaving Marie alone at the dining room table. "Wait!" I said, "I need my phone."

"Where is your phone, sir." The female officer said.

"Back on the dining room table."

She turned and walked back into the dining room. The other officer walked me out to sit on the porch. A few seconds later, she walked out and said to her partner. "There was no phone. The wife says she has no idea what he is talking about." She turned and went back inside.

"Now, we have a few questions we want to ask you. First, let me ask are you now calm enough that I can remove the hand cuffs?"

"Officer, at the risk of seeming uncooperative, I left my phone on the dining room table. My wife surprised me today, saying we don't get along and she wants a divorce. In nine years, we've not had an argument. I was totally shocked, so I started recording her conversation. She objected, told me to turn off the phone, I said no, she left momentarily, then returned. I assume when she left, she called you. Now I am accused of violent behavior and can disprove it, if you will just get my phone."

"Stand and turn your back toward me."

I did. He unlocked one cuff and then had me sit on the porch swing, which was suspended by chains from the ceiling. He fixed the open cuff to the chain, assuring I would stay put. "I will go find your phone."

He left. I didn't time it, but at least 15 minutes passed. "We did a thorough search and found no phone. We called your phone and got no answer. Then, my partner asked if you had the find my phone app turned on your phones. Your wife said you did, got her phone and we found your phone at a residence across town. Your wife said you worked there last night."

I thought to myself, she had a full mug of coffee. Maybe she put the phone in that. Sometimes, people don't think of the most obvious spot. Damn. My old phone showed up on the finder, that meant if I wanted to push the idea of her having my phone, I'd have to admit I knew about her wanting a divorce. That would not be good, or so I thought, I decided to give up on the phone.

"Sir, are you willing to admit there was no phone?"

"No, officer, I am not. I cannot explain what happened. I had a phone and recorded our conversation. Marie has gone nowhere; the phone must be close."

"Can you explain why your phone pinged across town?"

"I offer no explanation for that, at this time."

"Then, we will presume there was no phone here, and your statement is false."

"My statement is not false. I change no part of it in any way."

"Very well. How do you answer the allegations that you have become increasingly abusive toward your wife?"

"I deny them, categorically."

"You were out all last night. Were you running around on your wife?"