Tribute Tales: I Screamed...

Four months? Jesus.

As soon as the garage door closed I ran back to my car.

I drove and reparked about a block away...no reason to hide, now...and then I called Sherrie's work. I was told that she wasn't in today...that she'd taken yesterday and today off sick. I acted surprised and admitted that I knew nothing about it, and then hung up.

Next I called the house phone. It rang and rang...I knew it would. That was the plan. Sherrie wouldn't dare answer the phone when she had no way of knowing who might be on the other line. Not when everybody in the world except her boss was supposed to think she was at work. When the machine picked up, I hung up.

Finally, I called her mom.

"Hi, Mark!" she answered.

"Hey, Marv," I said jovially. Marva was a sweet old woman, but she was tough as nails and I'd taken to calling her Marv many years ago. "Listen, are you and Edward busy right now?"

"Oh," she said, "we were about to go out to look at a new snowblower is all. Why do you ask?"

"That's perfect, actually. I'm just concerned about Sherrie. She was up and ready for work when I left this morning, but I called her at the office and they said she's taking a day for illness. I called the house phone but nobody answers. Do you think you could swing by on your way and check on her?"

"Hmm," she sounded thoughtful, "sure we can. You think anything serious could be wrong?"

"No. Maybe she's just in bed. But I'd like to know she's alright. And, if she is sick, she could probably use a little help."

"You're a sweet man, Mark. We'll check on her."

"Thanks."

After we hung up, I rubbed my hands together and waited. I had the engine turned off...Sherrie's parents lived just over a mile up the way in the other direction, so they wouldn't go by me on their way in, but I didn't want the exhaust drawing their attention.

Sure enough, ten minutes later they were pulling up into the driveway. They must not have called ahead, or if they did they didn't leave a message either, because shithead hadn't left the house. I was glad. Using the key they had, Marva and Larry went straight in through the front door.

I felt a little bad for them, for what was no doubt happening right now. They didn't deserve to be hurt by Sherrie's decision any more than I had. We were all just down in the mine, she'd lit the match. But, after more than twenty-four hours of hurting on my own, I was downright giddy when I thought of what Sherrie must be experiencing.

Not three minutes after they walked in the front door, the garage door opened and shithead's car tore out the driveway and down the street. His tires screeched, he was in such a hurry.

The garage door closed.

After that, silence.

I had a thought. I called work again.

"Hey," my boss said. "How are you, Mark? Things looking any better on the home front?"

"Yes and no," I said. "Do me a favor...if anybody not work-related calls looking for me, have the secretaries tell them I'm out on assignment. I don't want to talk to my wife or her parents just now, and I'm worried that they might not take no for an answer."

"I can do that. Should we be expecting you back soon, or is it still a week?"

I thought about that. "I'll be in tomorrow, Tom. I might as well be."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure."

"Well, I'm glad to know it. See you then, Mark."

I watched the house for two more hours, curiosity driving me crazy, before I finally just decided to up and head out. I wasn't going to find anything else out this way, and it should be enough for now to know that the first step in my plan had worked. I spent the rest of the day driving around, window shopping at sporting goods stores. I did stop and pay cash for a 375 of tequila to take edge off, and it helped. Although I had shied away from it since college, my family was a crew of drinkers and my tolerance level seemed to be inherited. My own father, now living in Texas and in his late 60's, still bought two bottles of scotch every Friday night, and they would both inevitably be gone by the following Friday. I never remember seeing him drunk...he would just have a drink at lunch, another at supper, and a third before bed. Every day. Always. Mom was just as bad. Today, I decided it was okay to join them.

When I got home that night, Sherrie was in bed. Her parents had gone by that point, and there was a note in my wife's handwriting on the table. It simply said that she still wasn't feeling well and that she had taken the day off, and that she loved me. Nothing more. Huh.

I wondered what all her parents had said to her. I mean, there was really no doubt about how they would view their daughter's indiscretion, but as far as just how severely they'd come down on her I couldn't guess. Obviously they hadn't been too nice to shithead, from the way he'd torn out of there, so I imagined they must have been pretty livid. I peaked my head in the bedroom, but she was either asleep or faking it.

Whatever.

I didn't sleep at all that night. The next day I went into work early, but I couldn't concentrate on anything. Images of my wife rising and lowering herself on another man's pole kept intruding. The imagined sound of her voice eagerly calling him after her fool husband had left for work. The way she leaned back and rode him, sillhouetted by the sun streaming in through the thin material of the curtains.

After a few hours, without thinking much about it, I opened a Word document and began typing. I just mindlessly began telling my story in the guise of a fictional tale. I don't know why. I don't even really know if I thought about it. I just wrote. I changed the names, but wasted no time in punishing my protagonist with the same bleak scenario I had faced:

I looked in on them, my whole life deflating by the instant, I wrote. This wasn't mindless rutting, or some horny drive to couple. That would have been painful enough. This was worse. It was lovemaking. My wife making love to another man. The woman who was half of me, taking that half away.

I had effectively told the story of my day up to that point. But then, though I didn't know why, I began to change events.

I couldn't bring myself to move. I thought I might vomit at any moment. I felt two simultaneous urges ...one sending me towards the betrayers for vengeance and the other begging me to run as far away as I could get. My feet moved before I could react, each inclined towards a different goal, and so instead of doing either I simply stumbled and fell to the ground.

The sound alerted them. I kept my head down, not wanting to see any more, but I heard a lot of movement from the room and the sound of my wife cussing. For my part, I was still dazed. I pushed my back up against the wall in a sitting position, drawing my knees up to my chin. The door opened and Beth's robe-covered legs came into view. I heard her gasp my name, but I didn't look up.

"Wha....what are you doing home?" she asked. "Are you okay?" I thought that was a funny question to ask.

"Can you ask him to leave?" I responded quietly, my voice as hoarse as if I'd spent the entire morning yelling.

"Who...yes." She shuffled away, and a moment later I saw him rush past. I didn't bother looking to see who it was. It didn't matter.

For a while I was alone, there. She didn't come back out right away. I heard the shower running, and her talk to somebody on the phone, and then finally Beth was with me again. "I'm so sorry," she said.

"Do you love him?"

It took her too long to answer. "No," was the word she gave me, but it was a bad joke. I couldn't help it. I started crying. "I asked my parents to come get me," she said. "I'll stay with them, until...until you decide what you want to do."

"What do I want to do?"

She crouched down next to me. I could see that she'd been crying, too. She shook her head sadly. "I know you won't believe me when I say this, but I do love you and I do want to stay married."

"You shouldn't go."

"I shouldn't?" She looked hopeful.

"No. I should. It's not like I could ever sleep in there again," I waved to the bedroom. "I'll find a place and...call you. If that's okay."

She put her hand over her mouth, fresh tears growing, and nodded. Then she ran back into the bedroom and I heard her sobs.

After a while, I got up and left.

I sat back, looked at my story, and frowned. I was exhausted, half-dazed from lack of sleep, and swimming in emotional turmoil, but none of that explained why I would want to write such a story. Why had I taken and turned myself into such a wimp? Why would I write a new version of events in which I totally succumbed to the agony I had in reality buried deep down? The agony that I was making a concentrated effort to contain.

I couldn't answer that, so I quit writing.

I got some work done and, at the end of the day, I went back to that story and wrote a little about the sorrow I felt at the complete way my wife had failed me. I even wrote a little about the questions I had as to whether I might have done something differently in order to prevent it. But the plot remained stagnant. When I closed it, I hesitated at the computer's question before ultimately deciding to save it. I was so exhausted I almost decided to call a cab to take me home.

That night was the first I'd seen of Sherrie since the shit hit the fan. She was quiet and reserved, but also seemed a bit contrite in her behavior. I noted the circles under her eyes, but didn't bother saying anything about them.

"Hi, honey," she greeted me. "How was your day?"

"Oh. Alright. Not as exciting as yesterday, that's for sure." I let that hang a moment. "How about yours? Are you feeling better now?"

She looked away. "I think so. I'm still really tired, but I think that...whatever I had...is over now." She brightened up. "And I'm glad, because we've only one more day until the weekend. Are we still planning big things?"

I forced a smile. "You'd better believe it." I turned to walk down the hall...I was eager to put something more comfortable on...when her voice stopped me.

"Mark?" she said. "I know I've been...well, I guess I feel like I haven't been giving our marriage as much attention as I should, lately. I want you to know that...that I'm sorry. I'm going to do better."

What was this? It wasn't an admission, but it sure sounded like a woman who actually wants to stay married. Somehow, that likelihood hadn't really occurred to me. I tried to figure how I might have responded to that statement before I knew the truth of her actions.

I turned around and walked back, taking her in my arms. "You have seemed preoccupied," I lied, "but I understand. I kind of assumed that, whatever it was, it had more to do with your job than with me. After all, if you were ever unhappy with me, or about anything that I could help you with, you would come to me before doing anything else, right?"

I felt her hug become weak. "Yes. Of course."

"And I hope you know that I would do whatever I could to help you with any problem," I said, enjoying myself. "So when you didn't come and talk to me, I assumed that it was something I couldn't help with, something that you needed to fix on your own. I hope this conversation means everything is back to normal?"

"Definitely." The hug found renewed strength.

"So can you tell me what it was?" I asked. She stiffened against me. "Was it work?"

"I...yes...it was....it was so many things. Just...little things. A lot of little things."

"Oh. Okay. Well, I'm glad you're back now." I stepped back, and went to change. "What's for supper?"

That night she was very attentive, trying hard to get me talking about my day, and then listening carefully and asking questions. Playing the devoted wife. I went along for the ride, but when she tried to entice me to make love to her that night, I drew the line.

"Honey," I said when she snuggled up next to me and ran her hand over my chest, "I'm really tired. Besides, we're both just coming off being sick. Let's save it for the weekend."

Her hand slipped away and she propped herself up in the bed. You can bet I never turned down sex. She looked at me in the dark for a moment.

"Are you sure?" she asked nervously. "I miss you."

"I miss you, too," I said, and in my own way I meant it. "Just give me a night to rest. I'm looking forward to destroying you." I said it with a sly tone, so that she took it to be a sexual promise. With a giggle, she lay down and rolled over. Shortly, she was asleep.

Me? I spent a second night in a row wide awake. I thought some about her new attitude, whether it changed things, but I ultimately decided that it didn't. There are a hundred thousand reasons why our marriage wasn't something I was willing to emotionally commit to anymore, and a hundred thousand other people who will gladly explain it to you. For my part, I'll just leave it as a statement of fact. We were done.

The next day I went to work early to avoid seeing her, and as I sat in the early morning traffic I wondered. I wondered what she was thinking, what she was hoping. It was hard to read. Did she want to repair the damage she'd done to our marriage? Was she hoping that it would all blow over and she could get back to her lover? Was she really even calling things off with him, now, or were they just being more discrete until the coast was clear?

Had her parents' discovery ruined her plans, set them back, or simply brought to light a terrible but ongoing mistake that she made with no real aim or direction?

I found myself getting sad. Probably, some of it was the lack of sleep. Going on three days with little sleep is bound to make anybody moody. I knew I could use that to my advantage after work tonight, but for now it feeling lonely and depressed was a burden, nothing more. For the near future, I had my plans and manipulations to keep me distracted. Little goals were being set and met, and that kept the big picture from intruding. But it was there, and it was ugly: soon to be divorced man taking his earliest steps into middle age, career healthy but not anything special...not anything that will ever make him wealthy. Hair still there but starting to show signs of thinning. Bags under his eyes from years of hard work. Hard work on nothing. I sat at one particularly long red light and looked at myself in the vanity mirror.

"Who," I asked the reflection, "is ever going to want to take a chance on you?"

The man in the mirror just looked back at me.

By the time I got to work, though, I was bored with the sulking. So I set it aside. There wasn't any purpose to it, except that it would help me define future goals once this mess was over and done. More exercise? A career change? Move to Europe? If ever I was going to experiment with who I was...

I didn't get any work done that day, but I didn't do much else either. I left three hours later than normal.

Driving home that night, I was excited. It was time for phase two of my plan. A new short term goal, attainable and with immediate reward, to take my mind off the troubles. Sherrie was looking forward to a romantic weekend, to making up with her husband and getting on with her life. It would be so good for her, I'm sure, to have that little bit of reassurance that the consequences of her actions would turn out to be brief and relatively minor. In fact, if this were to turn out to be a reconnecting weekend of passion I'm sure she would tell herself that her affair had been a good thing because it ultimately led to us affirming our bond in a way we otherwise would not have done. She would think our relationship stronger because of it.

Instead, she was going to get two and a half days of sulky, withdrawn Mark and his refusal to talk about whatever was upsetting him. Nothing she could do or offer would help...in fact, if she made the mistake of trying to sooth me with affection or sex she would find that only made it worse. No, there would be no marriage saving weekend. There was nothing left to save. What Sherrie was going to get was the first ringing toll of the bell to let her know that it was, indeed, over.

I bought another 375 of tequila on the way home. I drank it fast, letting a good portion spill down my chin and onto my clothes. As I pulled into the garage, I could feel the first vestiges of a thick buzz running through the space behind my eyeballs. I stumbled a bit as I came into the house.

Sherrie was there, dressed up, and a little anxious looking. She must have been concerned about my lateness. She ran up to greet me.

"Honey! I was worr..." she trailed off as she reached me, saw the dull and angry look in my eyes, and smelled the tequila. "Wh...what's going on? Have you been drinking?"

I looked at her a long moment, pinching my face into a self-pitying bitterness, and said, "I have to pee." Then I pushed past her and stumbled into the bathroom. When I came out, she was sitting at the table with a glass of white wine in her hands. The bottle was sitting in the middle of the table, and an empty glass had been set at my place.

"I thought I'd join the party, if that's okay?" She was attempting a smile, but she looked positively terrified. I noted her careful decision not to push me into telling her what was wrong. Instead, she was trying to subtly bring me back to where she had hoped I'd be. It was a weak attempt on her part to roll with the punches and make the most of her relationship-saving weekend plans. But I wasn't about to give her even that much.

"Do whatever the fuck you want," I snapped. "I'm going to bed."

She deflated a little bit. "Is...is something wrong?"

I looked at her silently, and for the first time since discovering the truth I let my heartache show on my face. "Yes," I whispered, and then I turned and shuffled away. She didn't say a word, or try to come after me. I got ready for bed, climbed in, and lay there for a long time staring at the ceiling. I could hear her on the phone to someone, talking low. Probably, she was trying to find out if her parents had squealed on her. Would she believe them when they assured her that they hadn't? Or would a liar find it hard to trust others? If she believed them, what paranoias might infest her thinking? I smiled to myself in the dark.

The night passed quickly. Still no sleep...I might have dozed a bit, but I was awake enough to know I needed to fake sleep when she finally came to bed sometime after midnight. Mostly, I thought about how to best sell my position in the morning, and I listened to Sherrie toss and turn under the sheets. I don't think she slept real well, either.

Saturday morning, I got up early again and had a healthy breakfast. I noticed that the bottle of wine, still sitting on the kitchen table, was now empty. I threw it away.

It had snowed during the night, so I went out and shoveled off the walk. It felt pretty good, to be honest. I don't usually like the cold, and have often fantasized about moving, but being out there physically exerting myself was really enjoyable. It got the blood pumping, and helped me focus. It also made me think that maybe I should get myself a gym membership when all of this was over.

When I came back inside, Sherrie was up. She looked terrible. She never was much of a drinker.

She offered me a, "Good morning, honey," her eyes searching and hopeful. I nodded, gave her a searching look right back, and then went off to shower. By the time I came out she'd had breakfast, and was picking out what to wear for the day.

"Are we...are you still up for some romance this weekend?" she asked. "It would sure make me happy if you gave me the chance to cheer you up a little." I didn't respond, just went about the process of putting on a pair of ratty jeans that I only ever used for yardwork days. Take the hint, bitch. She watched me sadly. Then, she came over and tried rubbing my shoulders. "Baby, whatever is upsetting you, I...I know it can't be as big a thing as all this. Whether it's something at work, or....or something else, it can be fixed. I know it can. You just have to let go of it, and not let it consume you. Problems do go away, if you let them."