The Jacket to Hell

This is a tale of cheating, corporate mischief and a revenge of sorts. A man whose wife took advantage of her husband's absence but paid a price. My thanks to blackrandl1958 for her editing skills, which have made this story a much better read.

*****

That damn jacket! If I had not left my jacket at home, things might have been completely different. My eighteen-wheeler was loaded and ready to roll on its 600-mile delivery, but my jacket was at home in my wardrobe. The foreman was not happy about it, but allowed me a few minutes extra to drive past my home to collect it.

Cursing as the trailer wheels clipped the kerb rounding the last bend into my narrow street, the brakes sneezed as I drew to a standstill in front of my home. Strange, I thought. That looks like the boss's car in my driveway. Leaving the truck motor idling, I bounded through my front door and down the passage to the bedroom I shared with my wife.

The room was fully lit when I opened the door, finding my loving wife on her hands and knees, with my boss pounding away happily. She was unaware of my presence, but he noticed me straight away. For a moment he looked guilty and paused his thrusting for a split second, then he just grinned and kept boring away.

I reached into the wardrobe, trembling with rage, grabbed my forgotten jacket and yelled at the pair of them, "I'll see you two later." Storming out and trembling with rage, I slammed the bedroom door hard, slammed the front even harder and clambered into the cabin of the big Kenworth. The big truck barrelled through our narrow suburban street until it gave way to the freeway, where it stretched its legs and charged through the night to our destination.

My anger was a strong as ever, though I regained control of the tremors that racked my body when I stumbled out of my home. Home? Hell, I wasn't sure I even had a home anymore. I was trying to get my head straight when the front wheels hit a bump in the road, the truck veered wildly off to the left and my last memory was a huge tree trunk looming in front of the windscreen.

*****

"I think he's waking up," said a female voice in the distance.

I tried in vain to open my eyes. My arms would not move and I couldn't feel my legs. Another voice, closer to me, whispered: "Thank God." It was a voice I recognised immediately: my wife Dianne.

Other voices joined in and I could feel hands touching my face.

"Good morning, Mr. Hammond. Nice to have you with us again. How are you feeling?" an authoritative male voice boomed out.

I tried to speak but could not form any words. With intense effort, I was finally able to open my eyes. My surroundings were brightly lit. I made out several shapes moving around the room without being able to identify them.

"Mr Hammond," the male voice boomed out again. "Blink your eyes if you can hear me."

I blinked.

"Good. Good. Mr Hammond you have had an accident and you are in a hospital. Do not try to move. You have several broken bones and we've had you in an induced coma for fourteen days while we tried to get you stabilised. Do you understand?"

Yeah, I get it, I thought. I blinked again.

"Okay, now we have to get to work to get you on your feet again. It will take some time, but we will get you better."

I felt very tired and groggy, closed my eyes and nodded off into dream world again.

When I opened my eyes again, who knows how much later, I was able to see clearly. I surveyed my surroundings. Various tubes penetrated my anatomy, but I found I could turn my head a little to the side, which allowed me to see that I had company. My wife sat in a chair in the corner of the room, reading a book. She sensed rather than saw my movement and immediately dropped the book and hurried to my bedside.

"Oh Steve," she started. "I'm so glad you're awake again. I thought we'd lost you. How do you feel?"

What a dumb question, I thought. How on earth was I expected to feel after weeks in a coma and unable to get up and walk? I was spared a reply, though. I tried but still couldn't speak. She gently touched my forehead and returned to her seat, wearing an expression I could not understand. Compassion? Anger? Sympathy? Guilt? I steadily returned her gaze until finally she broke eye contact and looked away. Yes, no doubt about it. It was a guilty face that had me under surveillance. I struggled to clear my mind. The tree my truck slammed into flashed through my consciousness. Did I slam the front door and run from the house? Why?

The concentration was too much and I let myself drift away again, no doubt helped by morphine, or whatever they were using to control my pain.

It was dark when I awoke again, and the chair in the corner had been replaced by a makeshift cot. Dianne was curled up, sound asleep, with a thin hospital coverlet over her body.

I let my mind wander. Slowly my thoughts crystallised. I remembered collecting my truck from the depot and finding my jacket was still at home. I remembered bursting through the door of my bedroom to see my darling wife on her hands and knees with my company boss pounding into her doggy fashion. Everything started to fall into place.

I tried to speak.

"You bitch!" I wanted to scream. What came out of my mouth was little more than a gurgle, but it was enough to wake Dianne, who scampered out of her cot and rushed to my side. I flinched when she tried to touch my face, trying to turn away. I hoped my eyes conveyed the anger I felt.

For days, the doctors kept me drugged-up to control pain. I found that in addition to breaking both legs, I had sustained a back injury which was not yet fully investigated. The truck I was driving was a complete write-off but I was lucky that a car following me had reported my crash immediately when it happened and an ambulance was on site within moments.

Doctors began explaining the extent of my injuries and detailing my rehabilitation program. Throughout all this the constant in my room was my darling whore wife, Dianne.

My voice returned. What I should say to my wife? One of the nursing staff, during a rare moment when Dianne slipped out to use the bathroom, observed that she had never seen a more loving wife. Dianne had arrived soon after I was admitted and had refused to leave my side since. I did not disillusion her.

When Dianne returned and the nurse had gone, I decided to ask for some answers.

"How long, Dianne?"

She turned to me in surprise.

"They think you fell asleep at the wheel," she ventured cautiously. "Your recovery is expected to take several months."

"That's not what I meant and you know it." I shot back. "I definitely did not fall asleep at the wheel, but something caused my truck to veer off the road. Now, what about you and my boss? How long have you been fucking him behind my back?"

"Steve, I really don't want to talk about him right now. I love you, only you, and I'm devoting myself to helping you recover from this awful accident."

"Well you may think me ungrateful for saying so, but the last time I saw the two of you, it certainly didn't look like you were in love with me. On reflection, it also occurs to me that this time was not the first time you two have been together, right?"

She didn't have to answer. The guilt was plainly visible in her face as she looked down at the floor to avoid my scrutiny.

"So, my faithless Dianne, how long?"

"Steve, I really don't want to talk about it."

"Do you want a divorce then?"

"Oh, God no, Steve. Please believe me when I say I love you and only you. I want to bear your children. I want to grow old with you."

"That is most unlikely now, Dianne. You crapped all over our wedding vows. Remember the ones where we promised to be true to each other? Until death do us part? Well, I'm truly sorry to disappoint you by surviving the crash, but it seems that you couldn't wait until my demise in any case, so the chances of us living together in harmony for the rest of our lives is fairly unlikely, don't you think?"

She flinched from my vitriolic outburst and fell back into her chair, sobbing quietly, hands covering her face.

"I think you should go home, Dianne. You will probably think me ungrateful for not appreciating your dedication, but each time I look at you all I can see is my boss defiling you."

She sobbed louder, grabbed her little overnight case and stumbled from my room into the hospital corridor. I was alone and felt miserable. When a nurse came by, she immediately commented on my wife's absence. I decided not to comment, but asked her to contact my work foreman to tell him I could see visitors. He turned up less than an hour later.

"I've seen the truck Steve. You're a lucky bastard; I can't believe that you got out of there alive!"

"Yeah, well thanks for coming down, Phil. I've been replaying the crash in my head for a few days now. Even though my memory of the event is a bit hazy, something on that truck broke. It was uncontrollable Phil. The wheel got wrenched out of my hands and the whole damn rig just speared off the road after it hit a bit of a bump. Have they checked the rig yet?"

"Nahh. The word is that you fell asleep."

"Phil, go and talk to the workshop foreman, will you please? Ask him to look at the wreck and see what he can find that might have forced me to run off the road."

I could see he wasn't really convinced, but Phil agreed to talk to the workshop guy. We talked about other things when finally, he faced the elephant in the room.

"I thought Dianne might be with you. Has she been in?" he ventured cautiously.

"Just left. Why do you ask?"

"No reason Steve. Just thought she would be here, that's all."

He shuffled his feet uncomfortably before making his excuses and leaving.

It occurred to me that Dianne's dalliance with the boss might not be as well-hidden as she believed.

The following day, I had a visit from two workmates. One was George Lambert, the workshop foreman, and with him was the union rep, a dour Scot called Jock MacGregor. Neither looked particularly happy.

Mac took the lead. "Steve, we have a problem. I brought George with me to explain, but your accident was inevitable and I have already started the ball rolling to have every tractor in the whole fleet checked and cleared before starting its next run. Management is furious because many deliveries will be late, and some customers have already said they'll use other carriers if we let them down. Have a look at the workshop log for your rig, Steve."

George dutifully handed over the greasy hard cover log book for the tractor I wrecked. On the last page, completed the day of my accident, was an underlined notation about a broken spring on the front axle.

"Go back to the previous page."

I flipped the page and between comments about uneven tyre wear was an almost identical notation about a broken spring leaf. The page before that carried the same comment. I went back three weeks and noticed that the broken spring was mentioned every time the truck was serviced.

"Jesus, George. Why didn't you replace the bloody thing?" I fumed.

"Management wouldn't let me hold the truck up. I had a replacement sitting in the workshop two weeks ago, but they would not allow me to take the rig off the road because they were too busy. It was always going to be fixed at the next service."

"And nobody thought I should be told about this?"

"I'm sorry, Steve. The boss was so certain that it was only a minor issue that it never occurred to me until the crash. I'm so sorry. It is really my fault that you're all busted up."

"Bullshit!" muttered Mac. "The bastards knew the risk and played Russian roulette with your life. I contacted our legal people today and they've appointed Tim Delaney to take your case. He already has copies of the log book entries and has statements from other drivers. This guy's a real shark, Steve. We have to fight on two fronts. Firstly, you need to be compensated for your medical expenses, rehabilitation and loss of wages, and secondly, you need a compensation package to counter the fact that due to your back injury, it is unlikely that you'll ever drive for a living again."

Mac's blunt statement rocked me to the core. I had not even considered the possibility of not being able to return to the job. I lay back in my bed and closed my eyes.

"Don't worry, Steve. You need to get better and get out of here to get on with life. We'll stand by you."

As I looked at their backs, retreating from my hospital room, a tear trickled down my cheek. I guess I had a right to feel dejected. In the space of a few weeks I had crashed my truck, lain in a coma for weeks and now had to confront the reality that not only had I lost my wife, but I had also lost my job.

Tim Delaney bounced into my room the following day. He was an imposing figure, probably in his early forties, well over six feet tall and with a physique suggesting he might well be a pro basketballer. We reviewed the crash, workshop reports and finally addressed future options.

"You completed two years of a business degree," he noted. "What the hell prompted you to give that away and turn to driving trucks for a living."

I smiled. "My old man was a long-haul truck driver and often took me with him during my school years, so it was not as drastic a move as it might have appeared to you. There is another reason. I met a gorgeous girl and we could not wait to get married. Before you ask, no, she was not pregnant. We were very much in love and the change in career choice let us get together."

"Lovely story, Steve, but I'm hearing that all might not be well between you two."

"Jesus! Am I the only person in the State who didn't know my wife was playing up with my boss?"

"With your boss?" Tim repeated incredulously. "I'm going to enjoy carving him up in court."

"I don't really care about him anymore, but I want you to prepare divorce papers as soon as you can."

"We don't usually handle divorces, but I'm happy to make an exception here."

Tim was great. In the short time we had been together, I developed a sense of trust in this man. He was compassionate, energetic and displayed a sense of integrity that gave me hope and comfort. He carefully explained his strategy in my action against my employers and promised to provide some expert advice regarding the handling of my split from Dianne.

For the first time since the crash, I began to feel some level of optimism.

Several days went by, during which time I began recovery therapy and doctors were able to examine CAT scans to work out a treatment plan for my back, which was giving me plenty of pain. When an unannounced visitor entered the room and asked me to confirm my identity, my senses were immediately on full alert. He handed me a small envelope and might have been about to ask for a signature when he noted the number of tubes attached to my anatomy and thought better of it.

"Good day, Sir," he mumbled as he shuffled through the door and back to obscurity.

I called in a nurse to open the envelope and read me its contents. She obliged, but paled when she started reading.

"It's a dismissal notice from your company," she whispered. "How could they do this to you while you're still in the hospital?"

I asked her to phone Tim for me and to read him the letter. Predictably he was by my side within minutes, fuming about cold-hearted bastardry.

"This will be the most expensive letter this bastard has ever written," he promised. "It effectively means we don't have to argue in court that you cannot continue in your chosen career; he's done it for us. His cold and calculating action towards an employee in hospital while recovering from a work-related accident will also not earn him any favours in court."

What began as just another day on the recovery trail turned from despair to optimism. Tim definitely had an innate ability to make me feel positive about the future.

"By the way," he said over his shoulder as he left. "You wife was served with divorce papers today."

Dianne had not been to see me since she left in tears but arrived in my room just after dinner with smoke billowing from both ears.

"How could you do this to me?" she wailed. "I don't want a divorce. I made a mistake, Steve, a mistake, but I love you and I want us to stay together and work it out."

I was much better prepared for this confrontation.

"You have a strange way of showing your love for me, Dianne. It was bad enough that I had to see first-hand what you did to our marriage, but it seems that I was the only person in the entire State who did not know what was going on. It's quite clear now that every time I started a long-haul trip, it was the starting signal for the next get-together with my boss. I asked you earlier how long you two have been fucking and you avoided the question. It doesn't matter anymore, Dianne. You have disrespected me and our wedding vows repeatedly."

"Have I ever denied you Steve?"

"Is that your justification?" I asked incredulously. "Seriously, Dianne, I thought you could do better than that. How many times have you two been together since my crash, Dianne?"

She lowered her eyes and went silent. If the answer had been none, could we still have had a chance, I wondered?

"We've had a good marriage until now," I pointed out. "Let's not destroy our good memories by getting angry and telling lies. We will need to talk about who gets what at some time, but now is not the time. Go home, Dianne. If he makes you happy, sign the petition for divorce and go to him. Please do not look to me as your life partner anymore. I cannot look at you without reliving that horrible moment I saw you with him. There is no way back after that. Goodbye, Dianne. Have a wonderful life."

Once again, she left my hospital room in tears. This time, I hoped it was for good.

My limbs healed first. With plaster casts in place, I hobbled around the ward and endured therapy sessions several times a day. The injury to my back was worse. It was decided by my medical team that the best option was to stabilise it with metal plates, effectively fusing several vertebrae. The operation was delicate and lasted many hours. Recovery was worse. I endured constant pain right up to the day I was finally discharged from hospital, struggling through each day on a cocktail of painkiller drugs.

Tim Delaney, meanwhile, had been on the warpath. He sued the transport company for everything he could find in the statutes. His hopes of settlement before trial were dashed, and I found myself in the courtroom gallery on the first day, sitting while Tim outlined his case to a judge. By the end of the day, witnesses had given evidence which all but buried the company's defense, and before the start of the second day, Tim was approached by the company's solicitors in an effort to settle out of court.

"I'm going for the jugular," he said joyfully as we entered the meeting room. "The bastards have lost, and they know it. All they're trying to do now is to mitigate the amount of damage."

True to his word, Tim threw down the gauntlet, demanding at least $10m in damages and compensation. He pointed out that I faced ongoing medical costs, a lifetime with debilitating back pain and retraining for an alternate career with no guarantees of success. Hell, he was so convincing that even I felt sorry for me!

The deal needed to be concluded before the court reconvened at 11am, a factor that worked in our favour. When the defence countered with $5million, Tim scowled outwardly and I knew he was holding back a resounding "gotcha" within, knowing that we would in all probability settle at the midway point when his original aim was $five-million, the amount of their starting point. In the end he won out, bullying them relentlessly until the two parties finally agreed on $8.5-million.