Untraditional

Untraditional

A series of unconventional changes defeats a marriage.

In a way, this is a tribute to Satindesires for expanding his series on "Traditions". His stories certainly got my creative juices flowing, so thanks, SD! By association, since he mentioned HDK's "No Reply" and the follow-up by George Anderson, I'll acknowledge them as well. I also remember one from ten or so years back, that involved a ritual, an island, and a volcano. I can't remember the name of the story or author, but there's the acknowledgment.

My trouble with most of these is the lack of detail, not the plot, surprisingly. For one thing, the wives have to be either brain dead or under extreme peer pressure from family/ friends. Then there are the traditions/ cultural differences. People residing in say, Wyoming, versus New York City or LA, are different enough in how they live their day-to-day and how they think, to easily believe customs would hamper a loving relationship, let alone a total culture shift. Millions have been spent on public and private grants over the last two decades, trying to disprove "tribalism" and instead, they basically proved it's as real as something can get.

I'm asking for a little help here from the readers. I wrestled with what category to put this in. Obviously, Romance is an easy choice as the other side of a coin to LW. I couldn't put it in non-erotic because it has an explicit sex scene. I like LW, normally, because it's a tougher category with more discerning readers, which challenges my writing abilities. Some of my other stories could have gone to Romance, and scored in the high fours, but where's the fun in that? So, if after reading, you can think of a better category for the story, please leave it in the comments.

I want to thank my editor, StrikesandBalls, for his collaboration on this one. Sometimes, a writer can get bogged down within the story and his thoughtful suggestions helped me big time!

I've submitted all three parts, two days apart to reduce the wait and make sure they are published in order.

Relax; it's just a story, people.

As I sat on the long flight, trying to rest, I half-dreamed and half-thought how I, Robert Higgins, and my wife, Melanie, got to this point in our lives.

I met Mel in college but much in my younger life had come to pass or meeting my wife of nine years wouldn't have happened. You see, my adopted name is Higgins but I was born Robert Dufort - of the very wealthy, East Coast Duforts. Dad wasn't only rich, he was a philanderer. His wife, Elizabeth, was also wealthy, yet she was barren.

Through an arrangement with the two families, Elizabeth granted my biological father, Montgomery Dufort, access to lower-status women to bear his offspring. The women were paid handsomely for their silence. Even after researching the sordid tale as an adult, I still had no idea how many biological half-brothers and sisters I had.

In my case, my mother, Alicia, got tired of the arrangement and decided to go for more money when I was ten. We'd been relocated to the Detroit suburbs after I was born. She got it into her head that she might have some success blackmailing the Duforts but soon found out what kind of power money affords. The result was that she was found to be an unfit mother in a payoff scheme with county child protection services and I ended up in the system. By the time I landed on my feet, my mother was long gone, either on the run or really gone.

Fortunately, my third-grade teacher, Mr. Higgins, and his wife petitioned the court for my adoption. He was well-liked in the community and both he and his wife were deeply entrenched in the local church and politics. They weren't rich by any stretch of the imagination but once I went to live with them, my life improved greatly.

I was moved to a Catholic school at the end of third grade but didn't start to make friends until the start of the next school year. Jon Urena and Steve Carter were among my best friends from fourth to sixth grade. I wasn't cut out for the rough and tumble of Catholic school. Besides mass three times per week, I found the kids excelled at everything. Some of those things made the kids in my old school look batshit crazy.

For example, after our cafeteria lunch each day, we divided up the fourth through sixth-grade kids into two teams and played tackle keep-away on the playground asphalt. My adoptive parents became furious when they had to keep buying more uniform pants and told me I needed to find something else to do during our recess.

The kids were rough. It seemed to me that the group of kids at large saw their entrance into Heaven as a done deal.

You may imagine that with my childhood woes and the influence of school, I became quite a tough bully or a violent person. Quite the opposite occurred because fighting never appealed to me. Sure, I had to learn how to fight, for no other reason than self-preservation.

I was an 'A' student all through elementary school. When it came time to go to middle school, I attended my first public school. Grades seven through ten were inevitably boring. I was way ahead of the curriculum in seventh grade and it seemed they just kept covering the same material. Finally, after a lot of skipping school, I went into independent studies. I did have two male teachers in high school who did their best to mentor me, one in business accounting and the other had two specialized classes: computer programming and astronomy. Our school was the only one in the county that had a planetarium.

Science didn't appeal as much as business and that's what I finally decided on. I was accepted into Michigan State University and I met Mel there in our sophomore year. She was an incredibly deep thinker and her sense of humor was also endearing. I often found myself daydreaming just watching her talk to some group of students, or at a party. I got far less noticed at first.

That lasted until our second semester when we attended the same literature class. When we were randomly teamed up on a project based on political rhetoric in famous speeches, things changed for us.

I wouldn't say our courtship was remarkable in any way. Melanie was a beautiful woman of Pacific Island descent with straight long black silky hair, caramel skin, and green piercing eyes. I never bought into the idea that polar opposites attract, however, I must admit that a few of those things did help us become closer.

In contrast, I considered myself to be, well, plain. Average height, average weight, brown hair, and brown eyes, with a bit of a large schnoz. I couldn't figure out what an exotic beauty like Mel saw in a guy like me but I certainly wasn't going to dwell on it.

Before we became engaged, we mapped out our first ten years of marriage. Kids would wait until we established ourselves and made enough to put a decent downpayment on a house. I never saw a penny from my bio-dad, because of my mother's actions.

Mel was born on one of the Vanuatu Islands in Melanesia. Her island was unnamed and south of Emae Island and her given name was Mele. Accordingly, she was granted exchange student status even though she had moved to the States at the age of twelve. Mel's major was in comparative cultural studies into which she put her all.

We decided that I get a leg up in my field and I got a job right out of college with a worldwide conglomerate in Boston. That allowed Mel to continue in school and work a slightly more than part-time job. Many of her classes would be counted towards her master's.

We married in the fall right after graduation. The ceremony was very traditional, well, to my side of the family anyway. I got to meet Melanie's mother and father and her younger sister, Aleki. Mel's mother, Moana Kealoha, was a very wise, determined, and strong woman. Though she had only been to the US for about two weeks, when they brought Mel to live with her aunt near Lansing, Michigan, she got involved with the wedding and interacted well with my parents and others.

In stark contrast, Maleko Kealoha, Mel's dad, was somewhat frail for a man his age. Actually, I saw him as quite frail for a man in his mid-sixties. I had no idea what island life was like other than what Mel described from her childhood. It sounded more primitive but I always saw it as people who'd lived that way for centuries. And of course, they had some modern conveniences. I wondered secretly if her father was sick and perhaps too proud to share it.

Aleki was a cute-as-a-button ten-year-old. She performed the duties of flower girl, having brought an assortment of beautiful tropical dried flowers from the island with only a little help from her mother.

The wedding went off spectacularly. My parents paid for the wedding festivities and her parents surprised us with honeymoon tickets to Cancun. We spent six days glorious days there and neither of us was in any hurry on our last day to return and start our lives together.

Our new lives began, nonetheless. I put in a lot of hours in those first few years, working to get promoted and to reach our pre-established goals to start a family. Mel worked a restaurant job and Door Dashed to make spending money while continuing her schooling in Boston. Right around our fourth anniversary, Mel was offered a job as curator for the Micronesia Artifacts Museum, where she thrived. Life was very good.

Our sixth year together found our first little wrinkle. We received word that Mel's father has passed away. We agonized about how to get there together for their version of a funeral. My firm was bringing on our largest client to date and I was on the team designated to onboard them. I told Mel that family came first and I would make my bosses, VPs, and junior partners see that. She was adamant that she should go on her own. She didn't want to jeopardize everything I'd been working towards the past six years. Reluctantly, I conceded and I kissed my bride goodbye at the airport on the third of May. Her return flight was scheduled for one week later.

Now the island had no cell phone services which was common on many of the Polynesian islands. There was a Western Union on Emae, which was about a two-hour ferry ride from Mel's home. I received a message on the day before her return that she'd decided to stay an additional two weeks (that became seventeen days) to help her mother.

I was upset but determined it was stupid on my part. They had no phone service. We couldn't talk and of course, she had every right to attend to her family in their time of need.

She finally returned but something about Mel was off. It brought back some of the worries and fears I had when I found out she was extending her trip. Finally, in frustration, I confronted her about it. Mel swore it was just thoughts of her father, seeing the entire family again, and all the changes that had taken place in her village. She didn't seem to want to go into specifics. My gut drove me to continue to push as my fears about what may have gone on for nearly a month away ate at me. She refused and things between us were icy. It took another three weeks for things to return to normal and I forced myself to push the entire ordeal aside.

Now, here we were flying into Tongo, then hopping a prop job over to Emae, where we'd board the two-hour ferry. I felt some of those old feelings returning and they resonated louder during the week leading to our departure. Mel was excited but also seemed a bit guarded. Maybe some of her emotions from four years ago were still in the recesses of my mind. We were so attuned to one another that I expected that was it. We could occasionally read the others' thoughts.

Mel called that our mana, the elemental powers of nature embodied in an object or person. They really believed in 'the force' like Star Wars.

Mel and I slept as much as we could on the long trip. We spent thirty-two hours just getting to Tonga and another four sitting in airports awaiting connections. The last leg was the ferry ride on some typically rough seas. I was unable to sleep on the boat.

Mel warned me to try to sleep and eat. There would be a ton of people celebrating our arrival and there would likely be a big party that night. I told her it would be best to explain to them that we needed at least a day to recover.

We came bearing gifts as was the custom. My wife had brought two cases of strawberry wine since her people had never tasted a strawberry, and due to strawberries not traveling well.

I was going to bring two cases of beer until Mel told me there might be over two hundred people attending our welcome festival. I got a deal on 'more than' ten cases of Coors Light so I bought twelve. I know, very cultural.

It was all loaded onto the ferry, which was a twenty-foot fishing boat, and off to Mel's home island we were.

She wasn't kidding. There were in fact, 150-200 people waiting on the beach around the dock, clapping and waving as we approached. I recognized her mother standing on the dock with what I assumed to be a grownup Aleki. There was a man with them, about my age I guessed, who looked somewhat familiar.

There were hugs and kisses all around. The first thing I noticed was how people dressed or the lack thereof. Mel had told me what to expect, of course, but you can never put a proper picture in your head until you see it firsthand. I felt like I was in an old Tarzan movie.

I noticed the man with the family hung back a few steps, allowing for all the welcoming to happen. Finally, he stepped forward and hugged my wife like an old dear friend. The hug wasn't overly long but there was a passion behind it. My curiosity peaked as did a slight jealousy.

"Rob," he stepped to me. The inflection in that single word seemed... I didn't know. Then I studied his smiling face. This man knew me.

"It's me, Rob," he said moving in for a hug. "Jon."

Jon. Jon? "Jon!" I responded, unable to believe it. Instead of allowing the hug, I held his shoulders back in order to get a good look at his face. "Jon Urena?"

"Yeah, it's me you old dog!" Jon said as he wrapped his arm around my neck and rocked back and forth. I half-expected a noogie.

"What are you doing here?" was all I could muster in my shocked state.

"I live here," he casually stated. "We'll talk about it later. Right now, I have some people over there dying to take our pictures. When I came to the island, I brought my expensive camera equipment and taught some of my neighbors how to use it. They've been going crazy to photograph something besides waves and flowers."

With that, he kept his right arm over my shoulder and pulled Mel into him, his left arm around her waist.

"Smile!" he told us looking at a young islander behind the tripod.

Jon was blabbing and carrying on, mostly with Mel, as we made our way to the guesthouse.

Mel's mother, sister, and Jon showed us around what looked like about eight hundred and fifty square feet - a glorified mobile home, more like. As they headed out the door, Jon leaned back in and said, "See you at the celebration tonight. Get some rest." He looked at me and said, "We have plenty of catching up to do."

As the door shut, I turned to Mel. She could tell I was searching for an explanation. Instead, she made her first mistake, although I didn't know it at the time.

"What?" she asked innocently. I tilted my head to one side and raised an eyebrow.

"How do you know him, for starters?" I asked since she wasn't going to offer anything.

"We grew up together," she stammered slightly, "on the island. He was born here, like me."

That was a surprise and I'm sure it showed on my face. I'd always thought Jon was a Mexican. I mean, Michigan is predominantly black, white, and Chaldean. There were very few Hispanics there when I was a kid so, how was I supposed to know?

"And when did he learn I was your husband?" I continued my interrogation.

"I'm not sure," she sounded honest. "You'll have to ask him. I saw him briefly when I was here for Papa's funeral but we talked of other things. Our wedding pictures are all over Mama's house and our families are very close, so maybe since he moved back here."

"And when was that?" I was getting steamed and wanted to hold it together. With both of us being so dragged out from the trip, any kind of disagreement could quickly escalate.

"I think about two years ago," she answered right away. "Two or two-and-a-half. You'll have to ask him exactly."

"What 'other things' did you discuss when you were here?" I sounded petty but couldn't help it.

"Rob," she studied my expression. "Oh my god, you aren't jealous, are you? We just caught up on things that were happening in our lives, that's all. We took about an hour's walk around the village the day after Papa's funeral. Puko... Jon was a pallbearer. Our conversation was mostly about fond memories. It was a perfect talk at a perfect time and I needed it, badly."

Needed what so badly? That was my next thought. It also hit me that what was to be a week turned into almost a month, and she was talking about one little walk around the island. I also realized we were both exhausted and I had no proof of anything running through my head, just then. I couldn't let it go at that though.

"Jealous?" I asked incredulously. "Husbands aren't jealous. They're suspicious and based on what you just said, I'm justified.

"Puko, that's his Polynesian name?" I asked, trying desperately to change the direction of the conversation.

"Pukaua, actually," she told me. "Puko, for short. You're being ridiculous and its beneath you. I am your wife."

"And damn it, I am your husband!" With nothing more to say, I turned with the luggage toward our bedroom.

"You wanna help me unpack?" I asked her and she followed along. We were quiet for a bit going about the work of organizing our clothes and toiletries. Finally, I decided it was too quiet.

"So," I probed, "Any other surprises you want to tell me about, before tonight's party?"

She could feel my words dripping with sarcasm and seemed uneasy. "No, Rob." She sat heavily on the bed. "Please, relax. Maybe take a nap so you're rested for later. There's nothing untoward going on. I want us to have fun tonight. I have something special planned for us, so you should probably try to keep Jon and the other men from getting you dead drunk." There was a sincerity there, so I let my shoulders release and let out a big sigh.

I did try to take a short nap. As I lay there, though, my mind was racing.

My childhood fear of fighting dictated that I had two friends like Steve Carter and Jon Urena. After Mr. and Mrs. Higgins adopted me and put me in a Catholic school, I learned that a lot of kids there had to establish the pecking order. I was near the bottom, although Steve and Jon's influence eventually helped me climb the rungs.

The first time I saw Carter fight was just two weeks into the school year. We were playing keep-away and Carter wasn't only tough, he was fast. This overweight eighth-grader grabbed the back of his shirt, thinking he'd just toss Steve to the ground, but Carter did an under-and-up football running back move and sent the large kid flying. When the ball was passed to someone else, the bigger kid came up and shoved Steve hard, sending him to the pavement. Steve was up in a flash and the fists started flying fast and furious. Steve pummeled the kid, four years his senior until some of the other eighth-graders pulled him off. The big guy was a bloody mess.

Urena fought just as hard. Nobody in fourth or fifth grade ever challenged them, and very few of the sixth graders either. Where Steve was sleek, muscular, and lightning-fast, Urena was built like, well, an eighth grader. More specifically, like a left tackle. Where Steve could punch you ten times in the face before you counted to three, Jon would hit you twice - pa-pow - and you were down for the count.