The Madonna and the Manatee

It was a few days before we found our footing again. Ashley never apologized, but my stony silence seemed to leave an impression. Over the next few nights, she brought home dinner, working her way through my favorite restaurants. On Wednesday, I found a gift card for J. Crew on my dresser. That night, I had enough pants to see me through a week, and when I went to Thursday happy hour at Pierce, Bateman, she met me with a huge hug and a big kiss. It seemed we were back.

In addition to teaching me to be VERY careful about checking trash bags before hauling them to the curb, the pants episode taught me an important lesson about Ashley's revenge--while she seemed to get a sense of satisfaction out of being the instrument of divine retribution, her actions didn't give her joy. She approached revenge as a grim responsibility, not a hobby--the kind of thing that must be endured, if only as a means to set the world right.

In the case of my ten pairs of missing pants, that responsibility carried a cost of about $500--not counting my now-incomplete suits. We weren't hurting for money, but replacing our clothes strained our finances for a month or two. Still, she accepted our fate stoically, almost as if the cost of our new wardrobe was a tithe or tax that we had to pay before we could move on.

Ashley's payback never again rose to the level of the missing pants, but every now and again, I would see that strange, satisfied look flash across her face--usually around the time I discovered something odd, like salt in my cereal or that the book I was reading had somehow disappeared. I eventually accepted it as part of our life together. I had my quirks--like my die-hard belief that peanut butter belongs in the fridge--and Ashley had her quirks, like her psychotic need for vicious revenge. But, I reasoned, when you love someone, you accept the whole person, both the hot sex kitten who likes to get railed behind trees in Central Park, and the scary revenge monster who sometimes does a commando raid on your closet. I learned to apologize if at all possible, although I also didn't want to live in fear of my wife's temper, so there were times when I dug in my heels, battened down the hatches, and waited for hurricane vengeance to come whipping through the apartment. We found a balance and most of the time it worked for us.

That was, until Kaitlin came along.

*

Let me start by saying that I didn't hire Kaitlin--that decision was made by people three or four steps further up the food chain, in a mysterious vetting method that I'm pretty sure involved drawing a pentagram and slaughtering a goat. I was involved in one series of reviews, at which I pointed out that her journalism experience and her ability to grind out first-rate copy on a short deadline put her miles above the rest of the available applicants. The HR poohbahs listened to my group's feedback, thanked us for our time, and moved on.

Needless to say, I was surprised when they actually followed our advice and hired her.

Neither Kaitlin's impressive resume nor my lack of direct involvement in her hiring made an impression on Ashley when the two of them met at a work-sponsored weekend run. The trouble was, in addition to being a highly skilled writer/editor, Kaitlin was also stunning, with the trifecta of a tight body, firm breasts and gorgeous face. And while her standard work uniform of baggy sweaters and blue jeans hid her figure, the same could not be said of the spandex leggings and thin hoodie she was sporting when she met my wife.

Ash and Kaitlin did the woman thing, complimenting each other on their respective running togs and sneakers and chatting about the weather. To an outsider, it might seem like a perfectly banal little exchange between a wife and her husband's coworker, but I could see a flinty look in Ashley's eye that boded ill for my marital harmony.

On our way back to the apartment that afternoon, Ash was uncharacteristically quiet. I knew what was coming: She was silently marinating in her anger, festering and fermenting, getting ready to explode. Realizing I needed to head this off or risk losing my pants again (I had just gotten my stock back up to seven pairs and was hoping to keep them around for a while), I spoke up. "I'm glad you finally met Kaitlin. You two seemed to hit it off."

"Yes, Charles. She's lovely," my wife muttered. "Where have you been hiding her?"

Charles. Not a good sign. "Hiding, sweetheart?" I smiled. "We don't do too much with my coworkers. In fact, I think today's the first time you've met half of them."

"Nonsense. I saw them all at the Christmas party."

I kept the smile plastered on my face. "That was eight months ago, Ash. Hell, half the office has moved up, moved on, or moved around."

"Or, in Kaitlin's case, gotten hired." She scowled. "What were her qualifications again?"

"BA in English from Brown, with a concentration in business writing. Five years working in journalism, three more years in digital marketing. Basically the same as me." I chuckled. "Apart from the Brown, of course. At the rate she's going, she'll end up being my boss."

Her tone was a little softer, but her gait was still stiff, like an attack dog on high alert. "So you'll be working under her?"

I glanced over. Ash still had a bit of steel in her eyes, but she was smiling. Thank God, I thought. "Of course not, darling." I smiled back. "You're the only woman I'm under. And I'd hardly call it work."

Ash's grin got wider, and when we got back to our apartment, it was a race to see who could get undressed first. In bed, she was on fire--pushing me onto my back and sliding me inside her almost as soon as I got my running pants off. It was hot, but it also felt tense, and I got the feeling she was staking her claim to me. By the time she was finished, it felt like there was barely an inch of my body that she hadn't touched, kissed, squeezed, kneaded, fucked, sucked, or marked.

The next couple of weeks went pretty smoothly, although it took a long time--and a lot of sex--before the tension went away. In the meantime, Ashley covered my body in love marks, to the extent that a few of the guys at the gym started asking strange, vague questions. I never ascertained if they thought I was a battered husband or if I was just showing signs of acute anemia.

Ash never brought up Kaitlin and I was careful to do the same. I suppose that's a standard move from the cheater's handbook--be sure to never mention the "other" woman--but in my case, I just wanted to keep from upsetting the applecart. I thought it was working, and that I'd somehow managed to dodge the bullet.

Meanwhile, work went on in its familiar way, at least until late October. Every year, my company releases a huge report outlining its projects around the world. Regardless of how long we make the deadlines or how many emails we send, the project leaders for the various charities inevitably wait until the last minute to send in their reports. And that means that my team and I then have to pull a week or two of early mornings, late nights, and canceled weekends to get everything out on time. We call it "hell week."

Imaginative, I know. Did I mention we're writers?

Things had almost gone back to normal between Ash and I when hell week hit. That Monday, my normal eight-hour day became a 12-hour editing marathon, and by the time I got home, I felt like I was being held together with rubber bands and duct tape. All I could think about was a hot shower and a warm bed; I certainly didn't have the energy to spar with Ashley. She laid into me before I even got my coat off.

"Where the fuck were you?"

"What...?" I paused, one sleeve off. "Didn't you get my texts?"

"You mean the ONE text you sent SIX fucking hours ago?"

I thought back: had it really been six hours since I sent a message reminding Ashley that I was going to stay late at the office? Honestly, I couldn't remember. Even in my dazed state, I realized I had two options: Get into a battle royale with Ashley that would likely end with me sleeping on the couch, or try to defuse the situation, make my way to bed, and crash.

"Was that how long it was?" I asked vaguely, as I finished taking off my coat and started poking through the closet in search of a hanger. "I'm sorry. I lost track of time."

She was tapping her foot. This wasn't good. "I bet you did."

I sighed. "You remember me telling you that this is hell week, Ash? That my team was going to be spending all day, plus some, trying to put together the annual report?"

Tap, tap, tap. "Remember me telling you to keep in touch so I'd know about dinner?"

Shit. "Yeah...Damn, I'm sorry, Ash. It was crazy and I wasn't able to keep checking my cell phone. It's going to be like this all week."

Tap, tap, tap. "Was she there?"

Fuck. "The whole team was on all day. Including Kaitlin," I said. I looked Ashley right in the eyes, with all the sincerity that I could manage, given that my eyelids felt like they weighed about 40 pounds apiece. "Ash, I'm really sorry about not checking in. I've spent the last twelve hours putting out fires. And, honestly, it's going to be like that until we hit the deadline next Thursday."

"That's eight days!"

"Ten. Remember last year, when I had to work through the weekend? I'm going to have to do it again this year." I let my shoulders slump. I needed to get to bed. "Ash, I really am sorry, but this is part of my job. It was part of my job long before Kaitlin got hired, and it'll be part of my job after she's gone."

"She's leaving?" The tapping stopped.

I gave a dry chuckle. "Eventually. You know how it is--team members get moved in and out all the time. The only reason they haven't bounced me somewhere else is because they don't have anyone else who can edit stories and run the website."

Ashley's brow got stormy again. "But for now, you're still going to be working with her."

"Yes, my love. I'm still working with Kaitlin. And Aaron, and Kim, and Jake, and Brandon, and the rest of the team. And that's all I'm doing."

We reached a compromise: Ashley allowed herself to be calmed down, and I agreed to answer her texts with the appropriate alacrity. She wanted immediate responses, but I talked her into giving me ten minutes leeway. It was a classic compromise in that neither of us was particularly happy with it--I was going to be stuck on an electronic leash during the roughest time of the year, and she was going to have to deal with her jealousy. When we went to bed, she still had a bit of that steely look in her eye, but was quick to snuggle up to me, and held my hand to her breast. It was still there when I woke up the next morning.

A fragile peace settled over our apartment. At work, I felt like I was constantly pulled between Ashley's insecurities and a pile of editing that kept growing no matter how fast my team and I worked. From the previous year, I knew that we'd eventually reach a turning point and the tide would start to recede, but that was almost a week away.

Meanwhile, Ashley was pushing the texts to the limit. At least ten times a day, a message would pop up, and I would have to pull myself out of what I was doing to respond. Usually, I just had to put aside my editing for a minute, but a couple of times, she texted in the middle of a meeting, and I had to write out a quick response under the table, hoping that nobody would catch on to what I was doing. Her texts were always innocuous--little notes like <How's it going?> or <Hope all is well!>--but the message was clear: I was under surveillance.

The timing, too, was a test. Sometimes Ashley would start the texts a few minutes after I got into the office, but other times she'd wait an hour or so. Sometimes they'd follow right on top of each other; other times, hours would go by between them. I got the feeling she was playing Battleship with me, hoping to catch me at an unguarded moment when Kaitlin and I were tearing off a quickie in a supply closet somewhere.

It might have gone on like that until hell week was over, except I made a mistake. My phone charger at home was on its last legs, and only worked if I tucked the cord under the phone and pulled it tight. It's an easy fix--all I needed to do was buy a new cord--but it happened during hell week and, between Ashley and the annual report, I didn't have enough working brain cells to deal with another problem.

The upshot was that when I got to the office on Friday morning, my phone was at seven percent. Normally, I would have plugged it in as soon as I got to my desk, but I'd barely gotten my coat off before Jake ran up with the latest calamity and I dove right in. By the time I came up for air, it was just after twelve. My phone was dead.

In retrospect, the terror that I felt when I realized that I'd been out of touch for a few hours should have been a red flag, but I'd been with Ashley for four years, and the frog was well on its way to being boiled. My pounding heart and rising sense of panic as I plugged in the phone didn't even strike me as odd.

Shit, shit, shit, shit...

My phone battery was dead empty, and it took almost a minute to get enough charge to start. My pulse was pounding in my ears.

Shit, shit, shit, shit...

The phone gave a quick vibration as it started the boot up routine, then a handful of vibrations that announced the arrival of a bunch of texts. Shit, shit, SHIT! The texts quickly progressed from innocuous (<Hey babe! How's it going?>) to angry (<Where the hell are you, Charles?!?>) to vicious (<You've got five minutes to answer your fucking phone or I'm cutting off your fucking balls, asshole!!!>). Given that the last message had come in a half hour ago, it was clear that I (and my balls) were well past the deadline.

Shit.

I quickly hit the "dial phone number" option, but I got two rings, followed by her answering message. She was screening my calls. I tried again and got the same result. The third time, I left a message explaining what had happened. Then I sent a text with the same, albeit abbreviated, explanation. No response. Another, shorter text. No response.

At this point, I was torn between running down to her office to plead my case or going back to work. One choice would preserve my marital harmony, the other would preserve my job--a key consideration, as I'd definitely need the paycheck to cover rent after she kicked me out. Either way, I had to wait about a half hour before my phone had enough charge on it--after that last batch of texts, there was no way I was leaving my desk without my electronic umbilical cord.

While I was waiting it out, I tried to go back to editing, but my brain was fried and my heart was still beating out of my chest. I thought about the fact that, no matter what I did, I couldn't guarantee that Ashley would stand down. There was something wrong with that, I realized. Despite my determination to not become a hostage to my wife's hot temper and bizarre sense of justice, that was exactly what had happened. Here I was, stuck in the middle of the roughest week of my work year, and I couldn't focus because I had missed a couple of texts and was worried that my wife might go ballistic. Something was wrong with this picture.

I wondered how to express this to Ash. What could I say? How could I explain that I can't live in fear of her temper? Or that her need for revenge had the potential to tear our marriage apart? I thought about sending a text, then immediately dismissed the idea. This was a conversation that needed to be held face-to-face. Possibly in a therapist's office. I was thinking about how to broach that topic when another text came in.

<It's fine.>

"It's fine"? "It's fine"?!? Jesus! I'd nearly had a heart attack, and Ashley had spent her last three messages tearing me a new asshole. This was definitely not "fine." It's hard to read emotion through a text, but I figured that either Ash had realized that she was acting like a crazy person and was letting me off the hook or--more likely--she had convicted me of some crime and was already planning my punishment.

Then I had another realization: Regardless of what Ashley's message meant, there was fuck all I could do about it. Going down to her office was a roll of the dice, and trying to talk her off a ledge via text was a fool's errand. I realized that all I could do was ride out the coming storm and hope that, when it was over, my marriage--and my wardrobe--weren't damaged too much.

*

I really tried to get out of work early, but it was 8:30 by the time I got home and--just like every other night that week--I was wrecked. Standing outside my apartment door, I took a deep breath, gathered my energy, and went in. "Honey, I'm home!" I called out.

"In the kitchen!"

She sounded normal, and I let myself have a moment of optimism. Maybe this wasn't going to be as bad I thought. On the other hand, her cheery voice raised some worries of its own. Why wasn't she more upset? Had she already launched her revenge? Was my dinner going to be full of laxatives? Ipecac? Tacks?

As I hung up my coat and took off my shoes, I prepared for an onslaught. Instead, what I got was Ashley with a relaxed smile on her face. "Welcome home, honey!" she chirped as she went in for a hug. The kiss she gave me was warm, loving, and a little bit minty. What was happening?

I was still in damage control mode. "Hi, my love! I'm sorry about missing your texts today--my phone was dead and--"

She beamed at me. "Don't worry about that, sweetheart. You explained everything on your message."

"But--"

She reached up and gave me another kiss. "No buts. Mistakes happen. I picked up a new cord on the way home from work."

Who was this woman, and what had she done with my wife? Looking back, I probably should have investigated further, but it was almost 9, I'd just gotten home from over twelve hours of work, and having narrowly averted one heart attack, I wasn't eager to trigger another. I gave in with a sigh of relief. "Thank you, Ash. I'll make sure that my phone is charged tomorrow."

She gave me another big smile. "See that you do, baby!"

Ash and I had agreed that she'd handle dinner during hell week. She'd ordered takeout Chinese and I picked at it a bit, but the day had left me wrecked and it wasn't long before I found myself nodding off over my plate. "I've got to go to bed," I said. "You coming?"

She gave me another bright smile. "Maybe in a little bit. I'm going to read for a while."

"Okay." I stumbled to the bathroom, did my ablutions, and fell into bed. As I drifted off, I noticed a slight scent of something in the air. Maybe Febreeze? I didn't have much time to think about it before sleep took me.

*

The next day was Saturday, but I still had to go into the office. I got up, took my shower, and quietly dressed. Before I left the bedroom, I looked down at Ashley on the bed. Curled into the fetal position, swaddled in soft yellow sheets, she looked so peaceful. This was another of her chameleon faces--the soft, vulnerable woman I wanted to protect. Nothing like the hard-charging financial analyst in the dark pantsuit or the confident wife I'd seen the night before, with the satisfied look in her eyes.

Wait. Satisfied? I felt my good mood deflate. Shit.

I shook my head. No need to create problems where there aren't any. I told myself that my pants weren't missing, my clothes were intact, and there was no reason to borrow tomorrow's worries when I was already facing a tough day.

Even so, my mind kept going back to that look in her eyes. Was it really there?