Tribute Tales: I Screamed...

I Screamed at the Top of His Lungs

This story is something of a tribute to an author error. Slirpuff has a story that features several accidental jumps from first person to third, but the most dramatic of them is the phrase "I screamed at the top of his lungs." In my first week or two of exploring this site, I caught that phrase (or it caught me) and I couldn't really get rid of it. It seemed to go a long ways towards explaining the intensity and ferocity with which some people defend the Loving Wives ground against reconciliation or forgiveness stories. It also seemed to define for me why some people need to read that same vilified happy ending. Lastly, I thought, maybe it said something about why anybody reads this stuff in the first place.

So now I'll scream.

I remember letting out a great, ragged sigh and pressing my palm to the middle of my chest.

My heart was setting a runner's pace. No matter how much air I expelled from my lungs, there still seemed more left asking for release. It was as if my very soul were abandoning me, leaving nothing but a collection of tissues that, for no reason other than that they couldn't see a reason not to, continued to perform their respective duties. That breath went on forever.

It's the most vivid memory I have of the moment that I discovered that my wife was cheating on me. It's also the only tactile one.

It was 11:14 on a Tuesday morning...a time which should, by all accounts, be about as insignificant as they come. The sky was an expressionless gray, the few inches of snow that hadn't melted yet turning hard and shiny by the sudden return of winter. Believe it or not, I had been sent home early because of pink eye. It was going around the school system, they told me, and a few days prior one of the women in my department had picked it up from her daughter. Apparently, I must have hit the vending machine or the coffee pot after her and gotten in on the deal, because I awoke with some mild itchiness and hadn't been at work more than two hours before it became obvious that something was wrong. By 10:30 it was plain to anybody who looked at me: conjunctivitis.

I was going to hit the Express Care, but decided to run home and grab a book first. Any trip to the Express was sure to last an hour or two...the people who worked there went about their work in angry defiance of the name...and I didn't want to be stuck spending that time watching Fox News or whatever they had on. And if it struck me as a little bit odd that my wife's car was in the garage when she ought to have been at work, it was downright alarming to hear the sounds of Schubert's Piano Trio No. 1 playing when I opened the door into the house. We have a multiroom audio system, and my wife has a liking for playing classical music radio when we make love. Neither of us is a classical music fan. I just think she likes to have music playing to mask the sounds a bit, and the classical music both feels more romantic and is easier to tune out than pop radio.

The thing is, though, that we never, ever put that radio station on unless we're making love.

I almost called out her name, but decided against it. Looking down, I saw her work slippers sitting next to a pair of dressy men's shoes. Hers were small and light blue. His were large and well-cared for. My entire perception of my wife and of my marriage began to twist and crumple. At this point, as I began making my way quickly but quietly into the house, I began to unknowingly hold my breath. I only realized what I was doing when I reached the bedroom and looked in on the two of them. I immediately released that previously mentioned sigh and pushed my palm to my chest. Few moments in our lifetimes can be worse than that single moment when one discovers betrayal by a loved one. It feels like a small part of our own death has been visited upon us, too early. In fact, lot of my life ended at that moment. The sixteen years that I'd loved her, which had previously been the best of my life, died first. Seen in the same light which illuminated the way her hands clung to his back, they looked like nothing more than sixteen long lies that she'd told me in incremental, mocking detail. The future that we would share together went next. The experiences we would share and the people we would become were murdered, their corpses burnt by the frictive heat of his pumping into her. In an instant, I was redefined. Whatever I would be, from here on out, she would get no part of it.

They swung around. Once astride him, she began rhythmically lifting and lowering herself onto the place where they connected. It vanished, over and over, coming out glistening wet. I couldn't remember a time when she was ever that wet. Then she dropped down one last time, and his hands reached up to grip her hips firmly. He held her against his pelvis and smiled up at her. In response, she leaned back and rested her hands on his thighs. I could see her bite her lip seductively as she began rocking her hips against him. His smile changed from affectionate to cocky, and he took his hands off her hips and put them behind his head. His eyes took in her figure as she danced. I'm not sure anything could be more destructive to a man than to see the inherent eroticism of his wife riding another, silhouetted in the sunlight, her back arched and breasts pushed out, a stray strand of hair hanging down over her sweat-sheened face.

I recognized him, vaguely. I knew he was someone from her work, higher on the totem pole than her but not someone who worked directly with her. I had met him at a company party once, just long enough to talk football. He didn't leave any distinct impression at the time...he sure was making up for that now.

I considered ruining the party, crashing in and violently ruining the fun, but was stopped short when she let out a low moan and softly told him, "I've really missed you."

"I've missed you, too," he responded. "I wish we could see each other more often. It's been almost a week."

"I wish we could too, baby," she practically purred. "God, you feel incredible."

And just like that, I was stopped from intervening. I could honestly find no energy to do so. What would be the point? This wasn't the first time. She had betrayed me and come back for more. Who knows how many times this had happened, here in my bed. Suddenly, I was exhausted, feeling sorry for myself, and I was aware that somewhere deep down in my belly I was angry. Incredibly angry. I found that it simmered deep down inside, like a fire that was only beginning to be stoked into combustive brilliance.

Like the rushing, lifting hot air that warns the miners of an incoming blast.

But I needed time to think, and to decide my best course. So I didn't barge in. I didn't reveal myself. I didn't even take pictures. I did the only thing any sane man could do in my situation.

I went to the Quick Care.

Turned out I didn't need any reading material. I spent the entire ninety minutes of my visit that didn't involve getting looked at and filling my prescription thinking about my life. I couldn't find anything in my marriage that might reasonably be construed as structural weakness. I know that one person's perfect is another's disappointment, but Sherrie and I had always been very communicative about our feelings. If she was ever dissatisfied with a decision I'd made or something I'd done, she would let me know...and she would do it in a way that felt like open honesty rather than attack. I would always do the same for her, and if she got maybe a little bit more emotional about my directness than I did with hers...well, she's a woman. What can you do? She never snapped at me for it, or held it against me, and after she'd had a little time to process she would inevitably come back to discuss solutions. We looked out for one another.

So how did it come to this?

I don't care what you read online. People who are caring and affectionate don't just wake up one day and risk destroying the person they love. Not unless they're a sociopath. It has to build to the point where they're willing to do so...they have to be brought to the point of questioning the relationship itself. So how did Sherrie get there? What was her logic? Or, if not logic, what was her emotional base for her actions? What fork in the road had she reached, that I hadn't even noticed? Why had she decided to take that turn, and why hadn't she been honest enough to tell me first?

How long had I been walking the path alone, and not even knowing it?

None of these questions could be answered in the antiseptic calm of an express care clinic, so I turned my thoughts on consequences instead. I knew that my marriage was over. This wasn't something that I was going to be able to just shrug off, or eventually get past. I didn't know this at the time, but I've since learned that the majority of people who are cheated on will attempt reconciliation with the person who let them down. Good for them...that's probably the Christian way. But it's just not who I am.

I also wondered if maybe divorce would seem perfectly acceptable to Sherrie. Clearly her feelings for me weren't what I thought they were. She may not love me any more...hell, maybe she'd checked out a long time ago. If that were true, she would happily sign the papers and go on with her life as she had been. Where would that leave me? Undefined and alone, without a thing to show for it. Whatever rage festered inside me only grew as I imagined that she might tear me apart and then waltz off into her happily-ever-after. Surely my feelings were worth something, in all of this? How was I supposed to recover myself, if the universe deemed me unworthy of justice?

Survival was the name of the game. So the question was, what consequences did I need for my wife to experience in order for me to be able to heal? What punishments could I reasonably hope for her to face as a result of her betrayal?

Goddamn it, it was simpler than that. I was in a doctor's office and feeling terrible, wasn't I? So the question was as simple as the problem:

What would make me feel better?

I ran through a variety of scenarios, including violent ones, but I ultimately constructed the following list:

I wanted Sherrie to have to take a greater active role in her deception. I knew my wife, in spite of my great miscalculation regarding her fidelity. I knew that, if she was cheating on me, then she was unquestionably using some carefully construed logic as to why it was okay, or why it wouldn't cause harm. Her perception of herself as a moral person was important to her...I should probably thank her Catholic parents for that one...and she would work hard to maintain the idea that there were reasons enough to justify her actions. The more immoral her actions became...the more she lied and snuck around, allowing her affair to become sordid and tainted...the harder that would become for her. And that would drive her crazy.

I wanted her to see the emotional toll her actions placed on me. I knew that a quick confrontation and divorce was probably in her favor, because it would minimize her exposure to my suffering. By and large, having destroyed somebody else's life isn't nearly as difficult to live with as having to SEE that you've done it. She could easily gloss over my pain, and that too would help her justify her actions. I wanted her to see a man falling apart, and for her to have to come to the realization that it was her fault. Showing her pain would be the easiest part of the plan. It was all I felt.

I wanted whatever relationship that existed between herself and this man soured. I wanted it trashed, with no hope of reconciliation. No matter what else happened, I didn't want her able to simply leave me behind and ride off into the sunset.

I wanted her parents to know. I cared about them. I liked them. They liked me. I didn't doubt that, in the event of a divorce, she would work hard to ensure that her affair was kept secret from them. No way was I going to be the bad guy in their eyes...not if I could help it.

My plan was simple: first, I needed to arrange for her parents to discover her affair. It had to be, or appear to be, of their own accord. I didn't think this would affect any plans I set up for afterwards, because they were a tight knit family. They would be horrified. They would be furious with her. But they also were not the sort to air other people's dirty laundry...and certainly not their own daughter's. And that worked in my favor, too. Their awareness of her terrible failing, of what she had done to me, would be all the more destructive to their relationship with her because their strict beliefs would keep them from coming to me with the truth. And thus they would feel complicit in it. It would also immediately place a damper on Sherrie's relationship with mystery man, as she worked to rewin the respect of her parents.

Soon afterwards, I would begin to act sulky and despondent. After some internal debate, I even decided that I would lose my job. Any attempts to get me to communicate about my troubles would be stonewalled. That alone would send up a red flag in her mind, and Sherrie would be forced to consider that she might be the source of my misery. She might even begin to suspect her parents of secretly going behind her back...why else would I suddenly start acting like I knew, at a time when I'm sure she would be cooling things with her lover while she dealt with the new problems? If it didn't add to the rift between them, it would certainly make reconciliation more difficult.

Finally, I would confront her...in front of her parents...at Christmas. It was two weeks away. Christmas was a big deal holiday in her household, more religious than merry. I had always put up with it without complaint. I cared about these people, and they cared about this day, so there it was. But when I finally broke down and asked her if she was cheating on me, on that day, in that house, with those people, she would effectively be left defenseless. Any attempt to rationalize the destruction of her marriage in front of her parents on a day set aside for spiritual purposes would make the growing divide between them permanent. She would be forced to confess, and to do so in a totally defenseless way. I would then tell her I didn't think I could stay married to her, but that I desperately needed one last Christmas gift from her: I needed her to help me punish the man who had taken my life away. What choice would she have? Her own parents would be on the verge of disowning her, they would be hurting for me, and I'd be giving her one small way to help make things a little better. So she would go to her superiors, admit the affair, claim him as the aggressor and as having initiated it at work, and that would be that. Would he lose his job? I don't give a fuck. What would matter was that, after she did that to him, she could never count on him to be her prince charming ever again.

On my way home, I called my boss and told him I needed to take a week's personal leave time. He asked if it was medical in nature, and I thought about lying to him, but in the end I simply said, "No. I came home early today and found my wife cheating on me. I don't think I'm in a place emotionally to be anything but a threat to those around me."

"Jesus, Mark," he said. "I'm so sorry. Take the week. Don't do anything stupid."

"I won't. And thanks." I would be sad to have to walk away from my job, and especially those people, but I couldn't really find another way to make my emotional "collapse" seem believable and sizable enough.

When I got home, an hour and a half earlier than normal, she was still there. I guess she'd taken a half day for the party. There was no sign that anything untoward had gone on, but her hair was clearly still wet from a shower. She looked more than a little surprised to see me...I'm sure my unexpected arrival reminded her just how dangerous her activities were.

"H...honey," she said, looking up from her magazine. "You're early. Is something wrong?"

"Pink eye," I said. "You're early, too."

"Oh. Yeah. My head was bothering me and I had already finished all of my important work for the day, anyway, so I took off a few hours early."

"More than a few, I'd say. The dishes are all done and you look like you had time to shower."

Her eyes flicked away from mine for a moment while she thought. "Oh. Yeah. I guess I didn't really look at the time, but it must have been soon after lunch. The shower made my headache feel better."

"Huh."

"Your eye is so red!" she said with genuine concern. "When did that start?"

"This morning. Maybe around 10 or so."

"Was the quick care that busy?"

"Not really," I walked over to the sink and got a glass of water, purposefully not looking at her. "They let me go a little before lunch. I ran home to get a book, first, before hitting the clinic."

A very pregnant pause met my admission. "Oh," was all she managed.

I poured my water and drank half the glass, stretching out the horrified silence, before smiling to her and saying, "Funny thing is, no sooner had I reached the end of the block then I remembered that I had that Brain Rules book bouncing around the back seat. So I just turned around and was on my way. Added twenty minutes to my drive time for nothing."

She looked relieved. "Oh. Well, that's good," she said absently.

"Good?" I asked. "How is that good?"

"It's good that you had a book. That's all." She looked flustered, now. "So will you be taking a few days off work? Maybe we could take them together?"

"Nope. Lady said that as long as I wash my hands regularly and keep putting the eyedrops in, I shouldn't have to worry about spreading the infection. I'll be going back in tomorrow."

"Oh." She seemed genuinely disappointed. That struck me as odd. Why the hell would you want to spend your afternoons with me, bitch? We both know you've got other things going on. "Well, maybe we can make some time for just us this weekend? I've been missing you."

That's what you told him, too. "Me, too. Tell you what: we should go out for supper tonight. What do you say? Maybe we can even find the motivation to enjoy each other's company tonight. It's been a week since we've done that." I did that cartoony 'get my drift' eyebrow up and down.

Her face flushed, and she looked away. "Dinner sounds nice, but...with my head and your eye...." she trailed off. How do you shoot your husband down when he's trying to give you exactly what you both know you want? Especially when you're shooting him down because you're a little sore from fucking another man?

I acted hurt. Hell, I was. I didn't want to touch her, but it still wounded. "Oh. Okay. Forget it. Let's just do dinner, then."

"Honey," she reached out to hug me, "I'm sorry. It's just..."

"No," I stepped away. "It's fine. I just need to put my eyedrops in and wash my hands before we go. You choose the restaurant...I chose last time."

I walked off to the bathroom. She didn't say a word.

Dinner that night was surprisingly easy to enjoy, and while I had great reservations about sleeping in that bed I figured I could manage to do so for a short while. I only needed to wait until they got together again. He'd said that it had been almost a week, but he'd said it like that was unusual. I would bide my time.

Turns out I didn't have to wait long at all. The very next day, I got up early and took off as if I was going to work. I drove around for half an hour, and then swung around and parked a few blocks from the house. Throwing on a hat and gloves, I walked back in the direction of my home. The plan was to hang out there all day, every day, until they made their next mistake. Then I would start phase one of my plan. I didn't have any idea on what I might do if it turned out that they didn't always use my house to fuck in...and I still don't know what I would have done. I never had to find out. I was stopped short about four houses down from my own by the sight of Sherrie scurrying out in her pajamas, robe, and slippers to put an envelope in the mailbox. She should have left for work right after me. Clearly, she wasn't going anywhere today. In spite of the cold, I made the decision to wait and see what happened. Sure enough, less than twenty minutes later that goddamn car was coming up the road. The garage door opened...I remembered that my opener had gone inexplicably missing about four months ago and I'd had to replace it. I wondered now if Sherrie had given it to her lover.