Two Feet Below

Two Feet Below

This one's a little dark, and it could easily have fit three other LIT categories. I put it in Loving Wives because I felt it worked here best.

As most of my followers can probably tell, I like to write the 'Kobayashi Maru,' or no-win scenarios in this category. I think I've done that in all but two, and one of those, "Reader's Block" was mostly satire in the fashion of a Mickey Spillane barroom therapist/ with some BTB side revenge and words of wisdom for the cheated husband, so he might put his life back together. Lots of readers didn't quite get what I was going for on that one, so if I ever attempt it again, I'll need to be more concise - or funny!

Warning: Descriptive, nonconsensual sex occurs between characters of legal age. Unintended consequences occur as a result, but work themselves out as the story unfolds.

Relax; it's only a story, people.

[Copyright 2023. All rights reserved]

I didn't and still don't have a very good point of reference with which to micro-analyze my relationship with my wife, Rebecca Stevens, nee Carter. I knew I loved her very much. I knew that during our two-year courtship, while we were in college, I felt that she loved me equally. I knew that when we married after we both graduated, she seemed just as happy with her life as I. Our intimacy was, well, off the chart those years in college and continued after we wed. We also spoke intimately, almost every night, about our plans for the future, which included the proverbial white picket fence and at least two children. She'd tell me - I'm Marshall Stevens, by the way - that she loved me more every day, and I believed her. Those feelings carried on through our first five years of marriage.

Our financial situation was meager. Becca - my pet name for her - worked at an animal rescue shelter. She'd tell me constantly, she was so happy in her job, doing what she loved, that it put her in a better place to 'love the shit' out of me when she got home. I took full advantage of that love and did everything I could to give as good as I got.

My degree was in public health, so as you can imagine, I became a public health inspector for the county where we lived. Plenty of people changed their disposition when I'd announce myself and show my credentials, but it came with the territory, and I learned to make a little game of winning them over while writing them up for any infractions I discovered.

If I had to find something about Becca to put in the minus column, after seven years of being together, it was her flightiness. She was flighty and fanciful. Not even one suspicious bone in her body. Becca always looked for the good in people and was trusting to a fault, which worried me at times.

None of those were bad qualities on their own. Taken all together though, I could see the potential for a disaster if she ever ran across a deviant mind and soul. I realized that it could be my inherent mistrust of people that caused my concern for my wife. After all, most of the businesses I inspected, and that was three or four per day, had something to hide. They knew it, and they tried to exploit me or the situation to their benefit, almost always.

One of the few minor issues Becca and I had discussed several times was when we would start a family.

She wanted us to save for a house first, and reviewing our financial situation, that timeline always put us at about twenty-eight. I didn't like that idea, mostly because I wanted to be young while our kids were growing up. Becca would soothe me, reminding me that twenty-eight was young.

So our lives settled into a routine. I had multiple promotion opportunities as long as I did my job well. Becca received regular raises because the shelter was also run by the county. Our shared interests included hiking, kayaking, and horror movies. Most times, we had full weekends.

Becca had grown up with her father. She was an only child. Her mom had met a man at work when she was nine, and her mother took off with the guy, never to be seen again. I think that was one reason that Becca cared so much for abandoned animals. My Mother and Father, along with my Sister, took to Becca right away, and she to them. She liked spending time with my family, and we usually did so once per month.

My Becca was by appearance, the typical girl next door - straight strawberry blonde hair, with a soft complexion and rosy cheeks. There were no hard lines, or disproportionate features, like nose or ears. She had wonderful, flawless skin and was one of those women who looked better without makeup. Becca's deep blue eyes and full lips were two of the first things that drew me to her. The rest of her was just perfect for me. She was short - only coming in around five-foot-one, and weighing one hundred-five pounds. She was definitely petite, with B-cup, handful-sized breasts, and a nicely sculpted ass. Becca also had these tiny Kristen Bell hands and wore a size six shoe.

I'd never been into hands, fingers, feet, or toes. She had so much else going for her in the looks department, that I wouldn't have paid attention if I was. Her shoe of choice was a pair of her many flip-flops. The first year after we were married, the county, through some OSHA safety requirements, made it mandatory that all employees of the shelter had to wear closed-toed shoes. That made her really mad. It made me a bit happy, although I'd not admit it to her. I'd seen many men on the beach boardwalk, or when we went kayaking stop to stare at her feet. Sometimes, she'd ask for a foot massage while we watched TV or some horror flick. I guess they were as cute and petite as the rest of her. Her tiny toes were straight and in proportion with the rest of her, anyway.

Three months after our fifth anniversary, I was nearly twenty-seven and Becca was twenty-six. Trouble came to our door in the form of an unlikely suspect.

Theodore Rasmussen moved into our neighborhood, across the street, and one house over. He was an elderly gentleman, tall, and appeared to be in really good shape for his age. At about the same time, Becca sat with me after dinner one night and announced that she wanted to start working on a family. When I reminded her that we would be changing our plans, she told me "Of course, we are, silly. That's why we're talking about it."

During the first month after Theodore moved in, I caught him looking at Becca in ways I didn't like at all. In many ways, I couldn't legitimately object. After all, many men checked out my wife in public, some even made spectacles of themselves while doing so. Even the ones who were with a woman did the not-so-subtle thing.

Regarding Theodore, there was a look on his face. He looked at my wife as though she was prey. That happened when we'd gone out to get in the car, or returned, while he was in his front yard doing some work. I began to realize, or at least suspect, that he must be watching or anticipating when we left or returned just so he could be out front. Whenever Becca and I were working on our yard, he wouldn't be there, and then suddenly he was, pretending to do his own yard work or washing his car.

I brought it up to Becca a few times but she dismissed my concerns. "He's a harmless old man." She'd say. "Maybe he is checking me out, but so do lots of men."

That was new. I guess I should have realized that if I saw men looking, she did too. We'd never really had a conversation about it in all these years. I told her that the way he looked at her was what bothered me. It was more than just 'oh, she's hot.'

"Well, let him look," she replied. "It's a little flattering and I obviously have zero interest in him that way. Just so you know, I have no interest in any man, of any age, other than my wonderful husband. You're all I'll ever need."

I let it go. I had no intention of starting a fight, but I wanted her to know my feelings, and to perhaps be careful around him.

But over the next month, I'd come home for lunch or from work and find the two of them chatting with one another from across the road. The second time, I brought it up at dinner.

"So, you two seem friendly," I prodded. "When did you two start talking?"

Becca saw through my feeble attempt. "I know you don't care for him, for some reason," she said quickly. "But he's just a lonely old man." I noticed she no longer said 'harmless.'

"He's quite interesting, Marsh," she continued. "Theo just turned seventy. He's lonely, even though his wife passed almost ten years ago. It makes him happy to have someone to converse with, and I like to hear about his many travels and escapades."

So he was Theo, now. In my mind, I was going over boundaries that seemed reasonable, and that I was about to lay down when she shocked me.

"He's lived an incredible life, honey," she added. "He worked on a cruise ship for some time, and you should see his etchings."

What the actual fuck! I thought.

"What do you mean - his etchings?" I said, trying to maintain control over my emotions. "What the fuck. Are you telling me you went into his house?"

Becca's expression changed to shock in milliseconds. I rarely used the 'F' word in front of her, and never directed to her.

"His etchings," Becca responded weakly. She seemed confused about how to answer. "He's been creating metal artwork for almost forty years. He has over fifty different pieces in his garage. Theo said if one struck me, he'd be happy to sell it at a discount. A neighborly discount, I think he called it."

I let out a long deep breath that I didn't even realize I'd been holding in. "I don't want you in his garage, Becca. Not in his house, either." I finally told her sternly. "I don't like him, and I think he's trouble.

Please follow my wishes on this."

For the first time, my wife looked at me like I had three heads. She tilted her head like she sometimes did when she was trying to figure out if I was joking or serious.

"No," she stated definitively. "I won't. Marshall, why are you incensed about this? He's a senior citizen for God's sake.

He's lonely and lives alone. I work four days per week and not nearly as many hours as you. Sometimes, I'm lonely too. We're just talking. That's all.

Tell me what's going on in your head, Marsh. I've never seen you like this before."

"Nothing's going on," I lied. "He's fucking creepy, and I don't want him around my wife. That's it."

"But he isn't," she said pleadingly. "I know, let me invite him to dinner so you can get to know him.

He really is a nice old man, and I'm sure you'll realize that once you talk to him."

We went back and forth, and for some damned reason, I gave in and let her talk me into having him over for dinner. She promised she wouldn't tell him how I felt, because she was sure I'd change my mind when I got to know him. I didn't think so.

As it turned out, dinner never happened. The following Monday, I came home at midday, having left my follow-up report for a restaurant I needed to visit on my home printer. It didn't dawn on me until I'd left the office, and home was on my way to the restaurant anyway. When I walked in, my day got even worse. Theodore was standing in my kitchen, very near where my wife was sitting in a kitchen chair. He was turning in my direction, obviously startled by my entrance. Becca's chair was facing away from the table, pointing right at where he was standing. One of her legs was crossed over the other.

That one was missing a sandal, while the foot on the floor still had the shoe on. For some reason, I noticed that detail, but it wasn't the strangest one.

Something was very out of place.

Theodore had a kitchen towel in his hand and his cell phone in the other. The look of guilt was plastered across his old face, even as he tried to suppress it. Becca looked disoriented.

"What the fuck is this?" I growled. Becca was just staring at me, like she didn't understand why I was there, maybe more so like she couldn't believe it.

"Nothing," Ted said with a squawk in his voice. "You just startled us." His wan smile was a weak attempt at disarming the situation. He saw me look at the towel.

"I spilled some water," he added. It was weird that he went there. Certainly, he could draw a conclusion seeing me eye the towel, but it wasn't just his preemptive response, but the bold and definitive tone of voice he used. He may as well have said, "Yep, that's the sky alright," while looking up.

My wife found her voice then. "Marshall, what are you doing home so early?" I studied her face without answering.

"I'm not home early," I said as I glared at her. "I left part of my report on the printer last night."

We just stared at each other for a few moments, and Theodore filled the emptiness.

"Well, I should be going," he said. "It was lovely talking with you Rebecca." He nodded at me and headed for the front door.

"What was that all about, Bec?" I adamantly asked when the door closed shut. "What was he doing here?"

She didn't look guilty at all. "Just what he said - we were talking."

"About what?" I kept at it. "Why was he in my house?"

"I don't know," she seemed irritated now. "Just things. His life, my life. He has interesting stories, I guess. I get a little enthralled. He's lived an interesting life, and the way he tells it!" She quickly realized her excitement wasn't helping.

"And it's our home."

She wasn't lying - not unless she'd been the greatest liar in my life. "You didn't answer me," I stated folding my arms across my chest. "Why was he in here? Did you invite him in?"

"Yes, of course." She replied normally. "I was trying to pull one of those stupid vines from in the shrubs out front. He saw me struggling and walked over. He offered to help, and I let him. That damned thing even gave him a hard time, but eventually, he got it out. Then I asked him about coming to dinner, and I saw he was sweating and a little out of breath, so I asked if I could get him a glass of water. He followed me to the kitchen and I gave it to him. When he went to take a drink, he must have spilled it down the front of himself.

I didn't see that. Just the front of his shirt all wet, and water on the floor."

"And you gave him the towel?" I asked. She nodded. "I have to get my paperwork and go, Becca. I'm already late. We're going to talk about this when I get home. Order some Chinese or something. I am not happy about any of this."

Instead, she made meatloaf and mashed potatoes. Even that made me suspicious, and I knew then that we had a huge problem. After eating in silence, and doing a quick cleanup, I found her sitting in the living room. I sat in my recliner, and she gave me a look for not joining her on the sofa.

"Okay, Becca, what the hell did I walk in on?" I began. "Don't you dare lie to me. Something weird was going on with the two of you."

"Honest, babe," she was quick to say, "nothing was going on. We were talking."

"Bullshit, Bec. He was standing really close to you, or at least very oddly - maybe both. Why did you have one of your sandals off?"

Becca gave me an odd look.

I could tell by her expression she was trying to think back, in order to give me an answer. I detected no deceit. "Did I?" she asked, offhandedly. "I mean, I don't know. It's kind of a habit of mine, you know that."

"No, I don't, Becca. When did he spill his water?"

"I suppose right after I gave him the glass." She said, now frustrated. "As I said, my back was turned.

I turned and saw water on the floor. He apologized for his clumsiness. He's elderly, Marsh. He was a gentleman and got a towel, and then cleaned it up."

I swiveled in my recliner, looking towards our kitchen. The same hand towel from the last several days was still hanging neatly from the oven door handle.

"You said you gave him the towel," I asked, raising an eyebrow. "How did he know where our towel drawer is? And why did he take the towel home with him?"

Becca's mood became darker.

"Just what exactly are you getting at? What are you accusing me of, Marshall?"

"I'm not accusing you of anything," I told her. "I'm trying to square what I saw when I came home, with something that makes sense."

"So you are accusing me of something then?" she said sadly. "When did you stop trusting me?"

I thought about that. It seemed like she was turning this onto me, or was she going for misdirection?

"Today," I said flatly.

Becca became even sadder then. "Marshall, I don't know what triggered you like that, I didn't do anything wrong. Not at any time before you got home, or at any other time, period. He's a nice old man, Marsh. Did you hear me?" She was trying to force eye contact when I looked down.

"An elderly man," she continued, "that I have no interest in, other than some conversation, other than keeping each other company - occasional companionship. That's it. He spilled his water, that's all. You're my husband. He's a lonely neighbor. A seventy-year-old neighbor.

"As for the towel, I don't know how he knew where to find one. He didn't use the one that was out.

As for taking it with him, he probably felt as awkward as I did. I'll get it back tomorrow."

I just stared at her. Something still seemed very wrong. I hadn't caught them doing anything objectionable, though. Her return stare was hopeful.

"No," I said. "He can keep the towel. I don't want him in my house ever again."

"What?" she replied indignantly. Then she recovered. "You're acting crazy." She got up shaking her head. "I don't know what's gotten into you husband, but you need some time to reflect. This convo is over for now."

Becca walked away from me and headed upstairs to the bedroom. I could hear her doing her nightly bedtime routine. It was only eight o'clock. I did sit there and reflect, but not at her request. I headed up about forty-five minutes later, in hopes of smoothing things over a bit, but our bedroom door was closed and locked. We both knew there was a lock - even from the week we'd moved in - but neither of us had ever used it.

There were some other 'firsts' in our relationship that night. We went to bed without a kiss or an "I love you," and I slept fitfully on the couch.

I was up at five-thirty in the morning. After getting the coffee started, I showered in the downstairs bathroom. If she was still asleep when I finished I'd need to bang on the door. It turned out she was in the kitchen and started right in.

"Marshall," she said sweetly, yet seriously, "I don't want to fight and I don't want this to cause problems between us. You've totally got the wrong impression of him, and of yesterday. I don't know, maybe something you read into what you saw.

I've been up most of the night and trying to put myself in your place. I can't.

There wasn't anything, except him being in the house, which could have thrown up any red flags. Tell me what outcome you're looking for and I'll do it.

I love you, and even though I can't understand what's causing you these feelings I want to work past it. Just tell me."

I didn't feel very good about her lack of vision, but I was pleased by her sincerity. "Alright," I started, "I don't want him in our house.

Not for any reason. I don't want to socialize with him, at all. Of course, if you're going to remain neighborly, then I'm asking you to do it out in the open. The yard, the sidewalk, public places."

I could see her face going through a range of emotions as I spoke. I could see the moment the lightbulb went on, too.

"Oh my God!" she cried out.

"You don't trust me!"

"You're wrong," I immediately responded, "I don't trust him. I don't have any concrete reason - yet.

But my radar and intuition are on high alert. My trust in you isn't an issue here. I'm just trying to protect you."

That calmed Becca down quite a bit. Her body language became more relaxed. "Can we both agree on my conditions?" I asked.