The Moving Finger Writes

Vincent purportedly killed himself with a shot in the stomach. That was the commonly accepted theory. But a controversy arose over the fact that there were no gunpowder burns on his shirt. If it was murder, then there was an abundance of candidates.

The gun that shot him belonged to a young man named Secretan. Vincent had a history with that dude involving a lady of the night who they'd both fancied. The other prime suspect was his brother's wife, Johanna. Vincent had scrounged off his younger brother Theo his entire life. Hence it was rumored that Johanna took the train up to Auvers-sur-Oise one fine day to relieve her husband of his costly burden.

There was even the theory that his own doctor did him in. Van Gogh was behaving crazier than he had when he cut off part of his left ear and gave it to a local prostitute. I bet she was thrilled by THAT gift. So, maybe the good doctor opted to treat Vincent's increasing insanity with a 30-caliber pill.

Anyhow, I'm a nerd, and nerds love puzzles. I suppose it's the mental exercise that we adore. More important, spending the day immersed in Van Gogh's untimely demise kept my mind off my wife. She was playing in the Super Bowl of capitalism. So, she would be wrapped up in a whirlwind of gripping and grinning from the moment she arrived.

Sal was clearly there to enchant the rich geezers who underwrite our academic ventures. The fact that she was going to spend her time doing that with nobody but her bestie Millie and Douchebag as a backup was somewhat daunting. But I knew my girl, and I was sure she'd be on her game, captivating all those dirty old men and their overbred wives.

It was a gorgeous Saturday morning, as only a fall day in New England can be. The trees in that leafy part of the world were all in their extensive autumn finery. Temperatures were in the low seventies, and the sun was bright. So, I called Millie's husband, Charlie, to see if he wanted to watch some Ivy League football.

Millie was off with Sal and Dickhead this weekend, and I figured her husband, Charlie, would like some company. Hence, I was shocked when Millie answered the phone. Millie said "hello" a couple of times. I finally sputtered, "I thought you were at Wyndhurst this weekend?!!"

Millie said with barely disguised anger, "So did I, but Lawton called just as I was leaving yesterday and told me not to come. He said that he and Sally would manage the whole thing."

I smelled a giant preppie rat. I said, appalled, "Do you mean to tell me that Sally is up there all alone with Fuller??!!"

Millie said, "Yes... It was frustrating to get yanked out of the game at the last second. But what can you do? I'm sure Sal can pull it off."

I was feeling a little uneasy when she put Charlie on the phone. Maybe I was clueless.

Charlie and I agreed to meet at the Russel House Tavern by the Harvard stop on the Red Line. We could walk the fifteen minutes over to the stadium from there. I didn't have a car, but the MBTA was better because I could drink as much as I wanted after the game.

Charlie's a big man, my height but maybe fifty pounds heavier. The glittering dark eyes peering out of his full beard makes him look like a Grizzley bear. He's also about as opposite of me as you can get, larger than life and always full of fun. He's a great companion.

Even so, what I'd just heard from Millie troubled me enough that I was somewhat distracted while the Crimson dismembered the hapless Lafayette Leopards. He and I were having a beer at the Russell when I idly asked, "How did Millie feel about being pulled off the Wyndham project?"

Charlie is an odd duck. He looks like he could have suited up for Harvard at defensive tackle if they let their players sport thick red beards. But he's actually a Presbyterian minister.

He said, "How do you think she'd feel?" A typical counselor... answer a question with a question.

I said, "Based on how Sal would react, I assume Millie was disappointed and probably a little bit pissed. Those retreats are excellent networking opportunities. Why do you think Fuller canceled her at the last minute?"

He looked at me blandly and said, "I don't know. What do you think?" Again, with the non-answers.

I said, "The only thing I can imagine is that Fuller wants to be alone with Sally this weekend."

Charlie said, encouraging me to speculate further, "And why do you think he'd want to do that?"

I thought for a second, and it hit me. I said, "The douchebag wants a shot at Sal." I added, "She's incredibly sexy, and Fuller's always had a thing for her. It would make his life if he could turn me into a cuck."

Charlie said, "That's what I was thinking. Don't worry, though. Sal has a good head on her shoulders."

I said firmly, "Yes, she does, and she is locked in on this opportunity. I'm just sorry that Millie couldn't benefit from it too."

Charlie said off-handedly, "She'll get over it. Millie isn't as competitive as Sally is."

Sal's over-developed need to achieve was what worried me. My wife was driven to succeed. So much so that she would do almost anything to accomplish a goal that she'd set for herself. The contrast between her career and mine was one of those paradoxes that make us a perfect fit.

Every last one of us has an idea about our destiny. That vision makes us who we are. It's how we judge our progress in life. I didn't EVER see myself competing in my wife's world. It wasn't that I was a wimp. I can be utterly ruthless when it involves things that I care about. It was just that I had a different idea about what I wanted from life.

I get paid to live in my head, not indulge in piracy on the high seas, which is how I view the business community. Hence, I can always be Sal's rock. My wife's a spitfire. She often tells me how much my calm presence means to her... to anchor her when she gets over-emotional. But people can lose track of priorities while chasing ambition. That left me room to ponder.

Sal called me late Saturday afternoon. It surprised me because I'd assumed she was too involved in the self-congratulation to take the time. She sounded a bit "sheepish," if that's the right word. She said casually, "I just wanted to let you know I'm staying in a different place tonight."

I said, surprised, "Okay -- and where's that?"

Sal said, "It's the Marriott Courtyard in Lenox." That was just up the road from the festivities.

I said, puzzled, "How did things go? Why did you move?"

She said, kinda matter of fact, "Everything went fine. I just wanted to get away from it all. I'll sleep here tonight and be home early tomorrow afternoon. Maybe we can do something together. I just wanted to tell you that I loved you, Erik."

That was a little disquieting. Typically, Sal is the first one to arrive at the party and the last to leave. What made her so drippy, and what caused her to stay elsewhere?

I said distractedly, "That's great." Then I added, as if it was an afterthought, "Did Millie come with you?

Sal said, her voice sounding a bit heated, "No, she didn't show up on Friday. I don't know what happened to her. Lawton said that she was sick. I'm not pleased. It left just Lawton and me."

That was a test, of course, and Sal passed with flying colors. I would wait until she got home to fill her in on the reason why Millie didn't come. I said blithely, "Well, I'll see you when you get here. When are you getting back."

She said guardedly, "I'm not sure. Lawton wanted to do a debrief tomorrow."

I'd hoped she would be back bright and early and we could do something together. It's just a two-hour drive from Lenox back to Cambridge. I said, disappointed, "That sucks... Well, just let me know when you leave."

She said, "I'm sorry." There was something odd in the way she said that. Then she added, "I'll see you tomorrow, and you'd better be ready for some good loving."

Sal called around noon that Sunday and didn't appear until closer to three. She looked glum when she walked in. My wife fussed and then rolled her bag into the bedroom. I followed and tossed it on the bench at the foot of the bed so she could unpack it.

Sally turned to me, and I could see in her eyes that she had something to say. Then it passed. Instead, she stepped into me, put her arms around my neck, and said, "Wouldn't you rather throw something else on the bed? It's been a long and difficult weekend."

I looked into those deep, dark bedroom eyes, and there was a lot of hunger. As I said, she thinks about it a lot. Sal weighs maybe one-fifteen. So, I scooped her up and tossed her laughing in the middle of the bed.

She immediately skinned her panties off and had her legs spread wide in the way a woman's hip structure permits. I would have given myself a double hernia if I had tried to get my legs that far apart.

As soon as I crawled up to position myself between her legs, Sal reached down and inserted tab A into slot B. This was clearly a case where there wouldn't be any foreplay. She was ready. She emitted a loud grunt as I slid into her. Then she whispered fervently, "Fuck me!! Make me yours!!"

I was more than happy to try. For perhaps five minutes, the sound in the room was heavy breathing, wet squishy sounds, and the occasional whap-whap-whap as we established the ancient rhythm. Then Sal began to moan with an intensity I'd never heard from her before, and she came violently.

It was one of those instances when my wife was way down the road in front of me. Normally I would have waited until things settled down inside her. But this was a strange new dynamic. So, while she was writhing in ecstasy, I sped up to catch her.

"It's just sex" denotes a physical act without attachment... nothing more than a stiff unit inside a warm tunnel. There's nothing spiritual about it. It's totally selfish. You do it to get as much sensual pleasure as you can. That was the situation here. We weren't making love. We were fucking.

I didn't know what Sal's motives were. But I knew mine. For some unexplainable reason, I wanted to breed the bitch... nothing more. I might have taken time to think about WHY I felt that way. Because I had never been like that before. But I was sawing in and out of her like a wild man, merely fulfilling a biological imperative.

Surprisingly, Sal appeared to like it. Because she became very vocal, repeatedly crooning, "Yes, baby!! Give it to me! Punish me!!" Then she shrieked, surprised, "Yes!! YeSSSS!! Oh, Baby Jesus!! Yesssss!!" And She came so hard that I heard the first contraction... sort of a wet "Bork" sound.

There was a minute of furious action while we both took care of business. Then we were lying, still fully clothed, next to each other, panting like a brace of beagles in a hot car. Both of us with an arm more-or-less thrown across our foreheads.

I finally said, "Wow!!"

She said weakly, "I must have missed you more than I thought."

I said, "That was different."

She said, "Well, that's how it's going to be from now on."

I wasn't sure that I liked that prospect. It'd been primal mating, not lovemaking, and that wasn't what our marriage was about. It raised a troubling thought. But I couldn't get my mind around what it was.

But then again, man plans and God laughs.

*****

We returned to work the following Monday, Sal in a tartan wraparound and blue alpaca sweater and me in my chambray work shirt and jeans. The trip featured the usual comfortable back-and-forth bantering. To me, marriage is for life. So, you had better like the person you'll be spending all that time with. Sal was the world's best friend, full of intellect, wit, and fun.

We parted company when we got to campus, she to the College and me to Maxwell-Dworkin across Cambridge Street. I had a slightly longer walk, but I wasn't keeping business hours, and it's always invigorating strolling through the Yard any time of the year.

The weather was ideal, and I was in a chipper mood. I was planning on spending the day touring the souks of the Darkweb. I would no doubt feel safer cruising the market stalls of Mogadishu in the flesh. But you've gotta stay on top of things, and that godawful place is where all the action happens.

The first thing I did was check messages. I don't like to be distracted by everyday matters once I'm on TOR, and there's always one student with a stupid question. The typical spam collection was in my inbox, one of which was the link to the daily staff newsletter.

That was a gossipy site that the PR minions updated with shit aimed at making the University bosses look good. Does anybody ever really read that stuff? So, the newsletter would typically be the first thing I'd nuke. But today, it was headlined by "University Plots New Course at Wyndhurst."

Well-well-well... That was Something I needed to dig into. I was hoping to find Something that I could tease Sal about. I knew she wouldn't have time because she had work.

The site was mostly pictures from the event. They were the usual collection of snaps designed to convey both seriousness and bonhomie. Of course, there were the meeting pics and all the hijinks from the receptions. I enlarged the page to see if I could find Sal. The first one showed her standing at the head of a table full of old white guys with a PowerPoint display in the background. She looked sensational.

The next time she appeared was much further down the page. She was standing with a group holding a champagne flute. She looked self-conscious and a little drunk. The caption said, "Another Successful Day." My wife was in her hottest LBD. Sal's fantastic boobs were hoisted to stun and mounded beneath the spaghetti top of her dress. She was absolutely sizzling with her dusky skin and wide sensual eyes.

She was standing with Fuller on her left. He was side-eying her succulent cleavage while he smirked at the camera. But the thing that really caught my attention was the fellow on Sal's other side.

He was some species of sixty-year-old plutocrat with a gut as big as his wallet and a shit-eating grin on his fat face. He had one arm draped over my wife's shoulder, and his left hand dangled just above Sal's delectable left breast. It looked like he thought he owned her.

I checked the caption, then did a quick "Whois?" He was Herbert J. Pullerman, Harvard class of '85, CEO and principal shareholder of Deep Harbor Holdings, a Fortune fifty company. I didn't need to guess that he was a big donor. I supposed Sal had to put up with some manhandling from those horny fuckers.

The pictures were on a timeline, and the party was getting drunker as I scrolled down the page. There was another one of Fuller in his shirtsleeves, obviously shitfaced and grinning like an idiot. He was surrounded by a group of older women with the predatory look of a pack of velociraptors. It was an exclusive gathering. So, maybe they felt safe letting their blue hair down.

I kept scrolling. There were no more pictures of Douchebag. Perhaps the ladies ate him? Then, I thought I spotted Sal's dress in the second to last photo. No other woman at the party was wearing an LBD like that. The old ladies were mostly sporting chiffon. So, it had to be my wife.

It was in the background of a shot of an elderly couple waltzing together. The person taking the pictures must have been drawn to the two geezers because of how they were dancing. It was romantic, in a geriatric sort of way.

The part of the picture that caught my interest was out of focus. It was at the bottom right corner of the frame. Nobody could tell what was happening unless they had a powerful way to enhance the picture. Unfortunately, I did.

I downloaded the JPEG. Then I used my editing software to cut out and expand the portion with Sal. The image was pixelated to a point where it was even harder to tell what was happening. But I also have the military-grade image enhancement software that the Pentagon uses with their Keyhole satellites.

It took the AI fifteen minutes to analyze, interpret, and render. But the result was crystal clear. Sally was lying back on a couch with Fatso leaning over her. Her arms were locked passionately around the fucker's neck, eyes bulging with effort and rolled up in her head, mouth wide in ecstasy. She looked like she was on fire.

Fatso was sucking on her naked tit. While his other hand was lost somewhere beneath her little black dress. My eyebrows shot up to my hairline. I mean, really!!! Anybody who did that to my wife was going to get himself seriously fucked.

It was dark where they were, and the party had faded to just a few people. Even so, Sal must have been entirely out of her mind to do Something that blatant. At least it explained her abrupt change in attitude when she got home.

It also explained the move to another hotel. Behaving like a slut in front of the big shots was bad enough. But then Sal had to spend Saturday interacting with a guy with whom she'd just shared a night of sweaty passion. She must have been mortified. Of course, that didn't tell me why she'd taken her time getting back Sunday. I was sure she had her reasons. I wanted to hear them.

I processed every stage of grief in the hours I spent locked in my office, staring off into space. First, denial, "It couldn't have happened." Then, anger, "That fucking bitch!!" Which was followed by bargaining, "Maybe I could live with it." Then, depression, "My life is over." Finally, there was acceptance, "It'd happened. I knew it had happened, and now I had to deal with it."

Honestly!! I'm fallible. I'm human, after all. We're all a blend of ego and urges. And none of us truly realizes what's going on around us. So, we put up with all sorts of appalling shit simply because we don't connect action with intent. Except, of course, until the consequences land on you. My eyes were wide open now, and it was all on me.

I've always envied the church-going set. At least they have certainty. Me?... while I agree that there's no way to explain the universe except by a higher power. I honestly don't believe that whatever's managing the cosmology takes the time out of its busy day to ask itself, "How can I make Erik's life better for him?" So, I knew I would have to do this without the help of the Almighty.

Nonetheless, I DID make up my mind about one thing. I'm a practical pragmatist. It's one of my saving graces. And I have my pride -- perhaps a bit too much, but that's who I am. Thus, there would be no caterwauling about unkind fate... no matter how much psychic energy it cost me.

You are defined by your choices. So, you've gotta CHOOSE to be tough. But toughness has a steep price. Of course, you can always go with the default -- not to act. That's weakness.

Responding to a betrayal by crying and feeling sorry for yourself is just so fucking pathetic and unmanly. It accomplishes nothing, and the blubbering is downright embarrassing. To me, the only honorable path is immediate and purposeful action. Hence, I was resolved to be tough and focused. This would take deadly concentration, not pointless self-pity.

The obvious question was the most difficult to answer: "Do you honestly think you can live with this?" Deep down, I knew that the answer was "no." That wasn't my ego talking - even if the feeling was reinforced by my bruised self-esteem. The relevant point was that our special marital bond was broken.

Sexual intimacy unites two people in a marriage. So, Inevitably, that link will vanish if one of the partners strays. You can forgive. But you can never reestablish the couple's unique sense of oneness. That's what I had sensed during the lovemaking after Sal's return.

That led to another obvious question, "What happens next?" I knew I had a lonely mountain to climb, and it scared the shit out of me. First, I had to find out why Sal did it. That is... if I wanted to keep a modicum of sanity. I didn't seriously believe that she had a lover waiting in the wings or that Pullerman was anything but a weekend fling. So, the question was, "What circumstances inspired her betrayal?"