MY JERRY SPRINGER MOMENT

AUTHOR’S NOTE

This is a bit of an odd one, folks. A little left field. All I ask is that you persevere when you get to the yuck scene.

Van1 shook his head at me when he proofread for me. He called me a sick puppy and has been looking at me a bit strangely ever since. Lucky he loves me!

Happy Reading!

*****

I LOOKED AROUND, HALF expecting someone to jump out from behind the couch and laughingly tell me I was on Candid Camera. I’d have said Jerry Springer, except in his case I’d have been lured to his studio under a false pretense.

It had to be a joke. It was too surreal, too bizarre, too warped to be true. I longed for it to all be one huge joke, bad taste and ill-conceived, but a joke nonetheless.

But it wasn’t.

It wasn’t because there was Marcie, following me around, babbling on with every sentence containing the word, ‘sorry.’

What was Marcie sorry for? It will probably take me a lifetime to decipher it all but the gist of it all I will try to share as best I can.

Marcie and I – I being Daniel Goodwin – weren’t babes in the woods when we met. We weren’t childhood sweethearts. Hell, we weren’t even young, up-and-coming twenty-something-year-olds. We were comfortable-in-our-skin thirty-somethings. So, I guess, no naivety excuse for me.

We were, however, both first-timers. Neither of us had been married before. I had come close once back in the days when I was young and innocent and ruled by my small head and Marcie had once been in a short-lived de-facto relationship back in college.

We met through our respective careers. Me, as the manager of a small but lucrative mine, and she, as the consultant engaged to conduct personality tests on our workforce.

Perhaps her expertise in reading people is what made her think she could get away with what she did. More on that later.

I can still picture her as she sat opposite me in my office, explaining how she intended to conduct the testing. I’d found it hard to concentrate on her words. It was totally unprofessional of me but there was something about her that took my breath away, took my common sense away. Took all sense away.

It wasn’t that she was Helen of Troy incarnate. One might say she was too tall. Too slender. Many a man would have said her nose was a tad too long, her mouth a touch too wide. The same could be said of Julia Roberts and she was considered one of the world’s most beautiful women. Too this or too that didn’t matter. For me, Marcie was all too perfect.

As it happened the attraction was mutual, something up until a short while ago I’d always been grateful for. I was (am) under no false illusions as to my rating on the handsome scale. My mother, God love her, had always said I have an interesting rather than a purely handsome face, and, according to her, interesting was better. So, I wasn’t a George Clooney, more a David Strathairn. What I did have, however, was a keen intellect and a good sense of humour, though I wasn’t laughing much of late.

Throughout the testing period, Marcie flirted, and I responded but I waited, not so patiently, until her contract was complete before calling her and asking her out on a date. I put some thought into that date. A lot of thought. In the end, I took her on a picnic by a pebbled stream and after imbibing pâté and brie with sliced apple, grapes, and cherries I taught her how to pan for sapphires. She “found” the one I planted in her pan, and I can still recall the look of wonder and excitement on her face. She trusted me with her gem, and I got it cut and set for her in a pendant. A pendant she still wore right up until the day she ripped my heart out.

Dating rapidly became betrothed. Betrothed. Such an old-fashioned word. Pity it didn’t come with old-fashioned values. Our engagement was equally short. Within twelve months of meeting, we were married.

The bliss of those early years has only served to deepen the pain of recent times. How could we, and I sincerely believed it was a ‘we’, have been so happy only to end up here? How could it all have gone so pear-shaped?

How did excitedly house-hunting, laughing and loving as we painted and renovated and made it our dream home turn into my current nightmare? How?

The beginning of the end began innocently enough with a knock at the door. Marcie returned to the kitchen where we’d been sitting at the table, sharing our traditional Sunday coffee and paper. How I enjoyed that simple ritual.

She was pale. Shaken.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” I asked, fearing one of our parents had been involved in a fatal accident. Why else would she be so upset by a knock at the door?

“Daniel… Daniel. Julian. Julian has found me.”

I spilled my coffee. I knew who Julian was. He was her first flush of love confession. The love child conceived with her childhood sweetheart. Both being only seventeen, the families decided that the best option for all concerned was to put the baby up for adoption. Marcie named him and handed him over to the young childless couple. Every now and then, with one or two extra wines under her belt, she’d wonder where he was and what he was doing.

“What? How?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know. He’s in the living room.”

I rose and followed her. And there, seated on our lounge was a young man. All I could see was the back of his head. His hair was dark and kinked up at the ends. It would seem he’d inherited Marcie’s waves.

Marcie clutched my hand, the squeeze on my knuckles was borderline painful. She led me around the lounge until we stood facing Julian who rose and extended his hand.

I tried to control my reaction, but I couldn’t help the questioning glance I sent in Marcie’s direction. She’d never mentioned that Jay, her childhood sweetheart, was Indian or Pakistani. It could explain why both sets of grandparents thought it best to have the baby put up for adoption.

“Hello, Mr. Goodwin. I apologise for just landing on your doorstep like this. I didn’t know what else to do.”

I nodded, extending my hand and gripping his firmly. “Hello, Julian. Please, call me Daniel.”

Julian smiled. “Thank you. I have been searching for my mother for such a long time. I just arrived in town. I know I should have organised somewhere to stay and made contact in a less, ah, surprising way, but I’ve been dreaming of this moment for so long I couldn’t wait another day.”

Julian’s English was excellent with what I was certain many a young lady found a pleasing sing-song accent. I studied him, searching for a glimpse of Marcie in his features. Other than his glossy dark hair there was none. His father must have been one good-looking guy. Julian reminded me of the guy who played the rival for the girl’s affection in the second of the Best Exotic Marigold Hotel movies. He had movie star good looks.

Marcie squeezed my hand even tighter. “You can stay here.” She turned to me. “Can’t he, Daniel?”

What could I say? Not much without looking like an asshole.

By the end of the day, Julian was ensconced in our guest bedroom and Marcie was all aflutter. Never, not even in our early days, had I seen her so excited. She was visibly trembling.

To be honest, I wasn’t keen to have Julian under our roof, but I wanted to support Marcie. I knew she had doubts and guilt over going along with her parent’s decision of all those years ago. If having Julian here for a time helped her, I would swallow my reservations.

In subsequent months, I tried not to resent Julian’s intrusion into our lives. The way our little rituals were changed or discarded to accommodate his presence.

No more sharing a glass of wine while we prepared dinner side by side. No more leisurely Sunday mornings spent in bed before sharing a coffee and a paper, doing the crossword together. No more Saturdays spent wandering the markets or browsing in antique shops. No more drives to the mountains to go for a hike. Even our weekday messaging dwindled off to almost nothing.

And then there were the new traditions.

Now it was Marcie and Julian cooking a meal together. Most of it curries. As much as I enjoyed all manner of Indian cuisine, having it almost every night wore thin. If I wanted something like a steak, I had to prearrange it with Marcie so she and Julian could go out for the evening as Julian was raised as a Hindu and my eating of beef was offensive to him.

It became the pair of them going on weekend outings. Though nothing outright was said, both made it clear that they preferred I didn’t tag along. Apparently, I would find museums and galleries boring.

Evenings were spent watching them with their heads bent toward each other in conversation and shared jokes. Or witnessing their hugs which always seemed to go on a tad too long. Or listening to the irritating way he, as a grown man, called her ‘Mummy’ like a small boy.

I felt like the third wheel in my marriage. An intruder in my own home.

I tried to stem the flow. I asked her out on dates. Surprised her with flowers. The list goes on. Her lack of reciprocation hurt. I can’t deny it.

Bit by bit my wife was slipping away from me, and all the while I felt like my hands were tied, my tongue sheathed. I couldn’t say anything without sounding like an unsupportive, selfish, insecure, jealous prick.

I found Julian various jobs, none of which for one reason or another were suitable. I sent him and Marcie links to apartments to rent. I offered to pay his rent until he was settled. Again, nothing came of any of the leads, of my offer.

My frustration grew. My resentment right alongside of it. Our previously wonderful sex life faded to a dribble. Quick. Late at night. Purely physical relief. Gone was our intimacy. Our lovemaking. Gone was the sensuality, the experimenting. My wife, my marriage, was disappearing before my eyes.

The months dragged on and with each day my happiness was eroded that little bit more. I was lonely living in a house with two other people. I might as well have lived alone for all the effort Marcie and Julian made to include me. If Marcie saw my pain and bewilderment, she ignored it. She certainly avoided being alone with me for any length of time. Done, I was certain, to pre-empt my confronting her.

Marcie scaled back her contract work so her only financial contribution to our household was her income from her college lecturing which was a part-time position. So not only was I being excluded, I was also being asked to fund the exclusion. I felt like I was only kept around to pay for their lifestyle. He was the reason for her loss of interest in her career, in me, in our life together, so I resented him, and in time, I came to resent her.

The final straw was when their actions began to affect my work. I was responsible for the lives of one hundred and sixty men. Not only their livelihood but their well-being. Their safety. The decisions I made could kill if poorly made.

On the spur of the moment, I decided to take a week off. I needed to get my head together. I needed to have a serious conversation with Marcie. No more pussyfooting around. Things had to change. I couldn’t—wouldn’t—continue the way I had been.

I organised my time off on Thursday and went in for a half day on Friday to tie up a few loose ends. On my way home I stopped to buy flowers and wine. I planned to steal Marcie away from Julian for the evening and take her to one of our favourite restaurants, a small French bistro. Perhaps, away from our home, away from Julian, she would not only hear my words, she’d listen. And, as a bonus, I’d get a steak cooked to perfection.

I felt buoyed by my decision, quietly hopeful my calm and reasoned arguments would reach my emotionally absent wife of the last nine months.

I let myself in, juggling flowers and briefcase. The house was quiet except for some Indian sitar music coming from the upper floor. I assumed it was coming from Julian’s room.

I dropped my case in the entryway and the flowers in the kitchen sink. I made my way up the stairs to our bedroom, intending to shower and change out of my work clothes.

Not surprisingly the bedroom door was open. The music issuing forth confused me for a moment. I stepped into the opening and froze. I couldn’t comprehend what I was seeing. It couldn’t be.

My first reaction was self-loathing for conjuring such an abhorrent image. Why? Why would my imagination conjure an image of my wife coiled naked around her son? What kind of sick excuse of a man was I for harbouring such thoughts in my subconscious?

The floor beneath me seemed to shift. Spiral and roll, like vertigo. I gasped. The music masked it. Same as it masked their sighs and whispers, the soft rustle of sheets as they undulated together. Their sinuous movements continued while I stood, rooted to the spot. Swaying, yet skewered as if someone had nailed my feet to the floor. My stomach kept spasming, my throat at war with it, swallowing the bile of my disgust that was seeking an exit.

Her pendant, the one I had made for her, swung like a pendulum. I wanted to drag my gaze away from it, from the abomination before me, but I couldn’t. It was the anchor stopping me from toppling over as my world shifted. It was like watching a car wreck about to happen. One where people were bound to die. You want to turn away but can’t, the crash a magnet too powerful to resist.

My wife, the love of my life, was sick and perverted. Depraved. Marcie, Marcie, what have you done? My heart broke.

As much as I’d grown to dislike Julian, what Marcie had allowed to happen—it didn’t matter who had seduced who, she was supposed to be the mature adult—was wrong. He was only twenty. As much as he might think himself a man, he still had a lot of growing up to do. And Marcie with her knowledge of personality types had the skills to manipulate him.

I had to do something. What? Call the police. They’d need evidence. I fumbled in my trouser pocket and extracted my phone. My hands were shaking. It took me three attempts to open my phone. I inhaled, trying to steady my hands, and videoed them. They were oblivious. Seeing them on the screen of my phone made it all seem worse. A disgusting porn clip. More bile rose into my throat. It burned.

I couldn’t take anymore. Pocketing my phone, I turned and descended the stairs and made for the kitchen. I wet the tea towel and held it to the back of my neck. The coolness soothed. I left it draped across my neck and shoulders while I filled a glass with water. I took a hefty gulp, swishing it around to rinse the bitterness from my mouth before spitting it into the sink.

With shaking legs, I lowered myself to sit at the kitchen table and once again pulled my phone from my pocket. My conversation with the police was short. Hopefully, they wouldn’t take long to arrive. I couldn’t bear the sounds of the sitars wafting down the stairs much longer. It might as well have been fingernails being run down a chalkboard. Each note was excruciating; I just wanted to escape the hell my home had become.

I heard car doors opening and closing and made my way to the front door. It seemed to take forever to cover the short distance. Two police officers, a man and a woman, were framed in the doorway. Not a word was spoken as I indicated the stairs. The officers crept forward, police batons in hand, and slowly and silently climbed the stairs.

That’s where the sound of strumming sitars ended, and the screaming began.

Thuds and scuffling sounds reverberated. Each one made me flinch.

And then there was quiet. No music. No thuds. No cries. Only muffled voices.

I stared up at the landing. The male officer appeared first, guiding a handcuffed and clad only in boxers Julian. Marcie and the female officer followed. I gulped. Marcie was also handcuffed. She wore her favourite dressing gown, tightly knotted at her waist. She hung her head, but I could see her face was white. And worse, the flush of passion still coloured the ‘V’ of her chest visible in the opening of her robe.

Marcie swivelled her head toward me. My feelings of horror and revulsion must have been plain on my face.

“He’s not my son!” she wailed. With each step she repeated herself. Over and over again, “He’s not my son. He’s not my son.”

Her voice set me free and I turned and walked away, back to the kitchen, her words following me.

“You will have your chance to prove that, Mrs. Goodwin, down at the station.”

I hovered near the table, unsure of what to do next. The male officer returned.

“Mr Goodwin, I’m Officer Caplan. Are you able to share with me the video you mentioned taking? It’s evidence.”

For the third time in less than an hour, I pulled my phone from my pocket and forwarded Officer Caplan the clip I had made of their Marcie and Julian’s coupling.

“Daniel, may I call you Daniel?” At my nod, he continued, “Daniel, you’re probably in shock. Is there anyone I can call for you?”

“No. I’ll be all right. I just need time to think. To wrap my head around this. I had no idea until I walked in on it.”

Caplan fished in his shirt pocket and handed me a card. “That’s got my cell number on the back. I will be in contact as we may need to collect evidence in order to prosecute. Are you able to stay elsewhere for a few days?”

“Yes. I can’t stay here. Not now. I’ll book myself into a hotel.”

“Keep your phone with you, if you don’t mind. We may need to ask you some questions.”

“Okay.”

With that he was gone and I was alone, the house now eerily quiet. The silence pressed in on me. I needed to escape. I looked at the stairs. I would need to climb them to pack a few items of clothing. Dread clawed at my belly. Clothes could be bought but things seen could not be unseen and I didn’t want to see the aftermath of Marcie’s betrayal in a mess of bedsheets and discarded clothes. I already had enough images to deal with. I grabbed my keys and briefcase and walked out the front door.

Within minutes of being behind the wheel, I knew I shouldn’t be. I was an accident waiting to happen. I pulled over, doing a shitty job of parking but that was the least of my worries.

Luckily for me, I was parked only a few doors away from a coffee shop. It was moderately busy but I found a table in the back corner. I didn’t feel like eating or drinking but knew I had to order something to justify taking up space. I went with a coffee and chocolate cake, mainly because I’d read somewhere chocolate was good for shock. And I was, indeed, shocked. Shocked to my core.

My thoughts ricocheted inside my head like a ball in a pinball machine. One thought sent it careening off in one direction, only to bounce off another thought that sent it speeding off on another tangent. None of which made sense.

My coffee and cake were set before me and I made myself take a breath. I felt like I was learning to eat and drink all over again. I had to give myself conscious instructions. Cup to mouth. Take a sip. Swallow. Use spoon to cut a piece of cake. Scoop up and place in mouth. Chew. Swallow. Repeat.

It helped. The rhythm helped me gain some control over my chaotic thoughts.

Marcie was having a sexual affair. With her son. Or maybe not. Were her cries of, ‘He’s not my son,’ the truth or just more lies? Either way, she’d moved her lover into our home. Carrying on with him under the roof I provided, under my very nose.

Lies. So many lies. Months and months of deceit. Of betrayal. The audacity of it took my breath away. I struggled to wrap my head around the sheer scale of it. I felt sick for a totally different reason.

I’d been so stupid. A fool. So gullible and naïve. I didn’t know what to believe. Was he her son? I never questioned the lack of resemblance. Julian’s obvious Indian heritage. Nothing. I’d questioned nothing. Just blindly believed. If I removed the lens of thinking of them as mother and son, it made their interactions seem glaringly obvious. All those hugs that went on for too long, the touches. I’d been such a trusting idiot. Oh, how they must have laughed at my expense.

I felt used. She’d used my love for her against me in every sense of the word. Emotionally, mentally, physically, and financially. How had I not seen this rottenness in her? How had she hidden her true self from me for so long? Almost six years. Almost six years from the time she sat in my office that first time until now. Never, not in a million years, had I thought her capable of such evil.

I lifted the coffee to my lips, surprised to find the cup empty. I looked down at the plate. All that was left of the chocolate cake was a few crumbs. I carefully replaced the cup on the table, feeling a little lost. The lack of something to do derailed me for a few moments.

Think, Daniel. Think. If this were happening to a friend, how would you advise him?

The answer came as quick as a flash. Protect yourself. She’d shown me who she was. It was time for me to believe her. She was a parasite. A skilled liar. Someone with no sense of right and wrong. No morals. No ethics. Ruthless. Probably a sociopath. Possibly a perverted deviant. She wouldn’t hesitate to throw me under a bus. In a sense, she already had. It was time for me to look out for number one.

I looked up and down the street and spotted what I was looking for – a branch of my bank. As luck would have it another bank had a branch two doors further away. They were about to gain themselves a new customer. I considered only taking half the funds but then remembered I’d been supporting the depraved pair for months. In the end, I left her ten dollars, and that was only because the account was a joint one, and I feared I would need her signature to close it.

That led me to credit cards. I rarely used mine and it currently had a nil balance. Marcie, on the other hand, usually racked up quite a bit each month. It was set up to be paid in full out of the joint account. She was paid by the university monthly a week prior to the direct debit of her credit card. Most months her earnings didn’t cover her credit card purchases. I didn’t want to be on the hook for the difference. She’d suckered enough out of me. It was while I was waiting for my new accounts to be opened that the solution presented itself.

I needed to make a public announcement to the effect that Marcie and I were separated as of today and that I would not be responsible for any debts she incurred. It might not work. It might have no legal standing, but it was worth a try.

I glanced at my watch as I left the bank, hoping I could place the advert online in time for it to be in the next day’s edition. Thank God, I’d grabbed my briefcase on my way out the house.

Fortune favoured me. After the public notice was placed, I researched lawyers, managing to make an appointment for the following Monday. That gave me the weekend to get all the necessary information and paperwork together.

Next on my list was a real estate agent. I needed an appraisal of the house. I didn’t want to keep it. Yesterday, it was my dream house. Today, my house of horrors. If she didn’t go to jail, Marcie could buy me out, or it would have to be sold. I sure as hell had no intention of continuing to live there. A quick Google search told me there were three agents located on the main street. I looked out of the car window and saw one of them. Great. Surely, one of them could meet me there over the weekend.

Tom Harris, of OneAgent, was more than happy to meet me the next morning at what I already thought of as my former home.

With the immediate protective measures in place, I felt calmer. Somewhat back in control. And exhausted. I drove to the Sheraton. It was where we always accommodated any visiting member of the Board when they came to site. I knew they had a few upmarket retail shops along with a restaurant and bar on the lower level. It was an expensive way to clothe myself for the next few days, but I had run out of steam and didn’t want the hassle of going from store to store to buy the things I needed.

After my third attempt using the electronic keycard to access my room – oh, how I missed keys – I finally gained entry. I beelined for the bed, throwing my purchases on it. I shook my head as I undressed. Who on Earth thought it was okay to pay over $50 for one pair of boxer briefs? Must be gold-plated. Naked, I strode into the bathroom, hoping a hot shower would wash away the images of Marcie fucking her son on our bed. Wash away the day, the last nine months.

Sadly, with all my protective measures organised my ability to shut down the emotional side of my brain faltered. Image after image of Marcie, her limbs entangled with Julian, undulating as she rode him, her pendant swaying between her breasts, wouldn’t wash away like sweat. The pain and revulsion was physical. I wondered if the searing agony, the crashing weight I felt in my chest was a heart attack. It certainly felt like it. Part of me wished it was. Anything, death included, had to be better than what I was experiencing. I braced myself against the shower wall and prayed there was some truth to the old homily of time healing all wounds.

I ordered room service. Got my steak, and though I could see they’d cooked it to perfection, it tasted like sawdust. Damn the bitch. Damn her to hell.

I crawled beneath the covers, still cursing Marcie. The only blessing of the day was I was so emotionally exhausted that both my body and my brain shut down. I was out as soon as my head hit the pillow.

*****

I DIDN’T KNOW WHAT to expect when I walked inside the house on Saturday morning, but it certainly wasn’t Marcie dressed in a flimsy negligee-style dressing gown that left little to the imagination with a glass of wine in her hand. She had certainly made bail quickly.

Tom’s eyes nearly popped out of his head at the sight of her barely concealed breasts.

“Daniel, we have to talk,” she slurred, looking at Tom with confusion. That told me the wine in her hand wasn’t her first and it wasn’t even midday.

“Oh, I’d say you pretty much said it all yesterday, Marcie. A picture paints a thousand words and all that.”

I turned to Tom. “So, this is, as you can see, the front entryway. If you follow me, I can show you the kitchen. Its new. Only just over a year old.”

Tom looked uncomfortable but stepped past Marcie to follow me.

“The benchtops are quartz. The splashbacks glass. There’s a walk-in pantry—”

“Daniel, what are you doing?”

Without turning, I replied, “Giving Tom the grand tour so he can provide an appraisal.”

“An appraisal? For what?”

“For the house, of course.”

“But we’re not selling.”

“Um, would you like me to come back another time, Daniel?” asked Tom. “Would you like some time to sort the confusion out with your wife?”

“No. Not necessary, Tom.” I turned to Marcie. “You may not want to sell, but I do. So, you can either buy me out or we can put the house on the market. Either way, we need an appraisal.” I returned to Tom. “As I was saying, all the appliances are top-of-the-range. There’s also a wine cellar, though, I guess, technically, it’s a wine room.”

We went from room to room with me pointing out features and Tom taking notes and photos. Marcie trailed behind us, alternating between whimpering, and trying to interrupt. I talked over the top of both. Tom did his best to ignore her. I felt for the guy, but, hey, once sold, his fat commission would make up for any current awkwardness.

As I saw him out, he reassured me he would work out the appraisal overnight and contact me the next day. Excellent. One more job done in the separation of my life from that of Marcie.

I closed the door and turned. Marcie was so close I almost knocked her over. She reached out and grabbed my arm to steady herself and a waft of sour wine mixed with her perfume curled up my nostrils. My skin crawled.

“Daniel, please, let’s talk about this.”

“Like I said earlier; there’s nothing to talk about.”

“Please, Daniel, let me explain.”

I stared hard at her. “Will explaining make you feel better?”

“Yes.”

“Well, Marcie, after the perversion I witnessed yesterday, that being the culmination of nine months of deceit, nine months of betrayal after betrayal, I have no interest whatsoever in doing anything to make you feel better.”

“Daniel, you’re rushing into a decision you may regret.”

I laughed derisively. She had to be kidding. “What would I regret exactly, Marcie? Walking in on you fucking your son?”

“He’s not my son.”

“Says you, the liar, the backstabbing cheat. So, what would I regret? Being lied to? Being betrayed? Maybe being used? Being made a fool of? Which one would I regret?”

“Um, losing my love. You would miss me. We’re good together.”

“Losing your love? Oh, I think it’s clear I lost that nigh on a year ago. I was just too trusting to realise. Hell, that’s presuming I ever truly had your love in the first place. And, Marcie, you’ve been absent in all the ways that count for months now, so adding your physical absence to the list would hardly cause a ripple.”

“I do love you, Daniel. Truly I do. This thing with Julian took me by surprise. Blindsided me, you might say. He was in my class. There was something about him. I just felt this instant connection. I got, ah, um, swept off my feet, a little obsessed…”

“Instant connection? Blindsided? A little obsessed? Marcie, you moved him in. Flaunted your affection. Fucked him in our bed. Told me he was your son. You told my parents the same. For all I know he really is your son and you’re a depraved bitch. A sick deviant.”

“No. No. No,” she moaned, “You can’t really believe that. I am sorry. I never meant to hurt you.”

“Yes, your actions say that loud and clear,” I replied, sarcasm lacing each word.

“It’s true. You have to believe me.”

“No, I don’t, Marcie. I don’t have to believe a single word out of your mouth ever again. You gave up your right to my blind belief the day the first lie to me passed your lips.”

“I don’t want a divorce,” she whispered.

“And I didn’t want a depraved pervert. A backstabbing, lying, using, cheating bitch for a wife. Guess we both lucked out.”

“Daniel, please. I’ve told you; he’s not my son. I am so sorry. Please let me explain.”

“Your reasons are of no interest to me, Marcie. Your actions say enough to fill an entire bookshelf.” As I said the words, I realised they were the truth. I knew I had done nothing to warrant her betrayal. “And nothing you say will make me look at you or think of you with anything other than disgust. With revulsion.”

“But you love me. You can’t have just switched it off like a tap,” she wailed.

“The Marcie I loved died nearly a year ago. That’s if she ever existed. Maybe she was a character you played. Maybe she wasn’t real. Maybe you were an illusion. More fool me. But don’t worry, Marcie, I’ve learned my lesson.”

Stepping around her, I climbed the stairs. I wrinkled my nose. Perhaps it was my imagination, but I was convinced that the smell of sex lingered in the master bedroom. I retrieved a suitcase from the walk-in-robe and, after a glance at the dishevelled bed, I placed it on the floor. I didn’t want to sully it with Marcie and Julian’s filth. Methodically, I worked my way through my drawers and hanging space filling the case and when it was full I retrieved a second case. I filled it too, along with a small carry-on.

Room by room, I removed my possessions. I wasn’t sentimental or stupid. I didn’t leave it all to Marcie. Screw her. If I liked it, I took it. If nothing else, I could sell it later. By the time I finished, I had too many boxes and cases for my car, so I called my father and asked him to come over with his trailer. For not the first time in my life, I thanked the universe for my father’s ability to read my voice and mood. He didn’t ask any questions. He’d save them for later.

Throughout the whole process, Marcie followed me, trying to initiate more conversation, perhaps hoping her pleas, her tears or her pathetic wailing would move me. They didn’t. In fact, the opposite. I shut down. They were just more lies and deceit. More manipulations.

I had no idea where Julian was. I didn’t care.

I heard the sound of my father’s car and turned to Marcie. “If you say so much as one word to my father, I will tell him how I came home to find you fucking your son.” Marcie didn’t acknowledge my words. “Do you hear me?”

Marcie nodded, flinching at the menace in my tone.

I opened the front door. My father looked at me and then over my shoulder at Marcie before returning his gaze to me. From his expression, I knew he’d correctly assessed the situation.

“Right, then, what do you need moved? I brought my trolley in case any of it’s large.”

I smiled and silently thanked God for my ever practical father.

He took his cue from me and ignored Marcie while we worked together. Quite a feat as she followed us from room to room sobbing and looking bedraggled. We worked almost silently, directing each other with nods and hand signals. I felt as if I had a forcefield surrounding me and Marcie’s cries bounced off my shield. Who knew how long my protection would last? Hopefully long enough for me to put some distance between myself and my current situation.

With the last of the load stowed, my father laid his hand on my shoulder. “Follow me, son.”

I nodded, the events of the last twenty-four hours beginning to catch up with me.

The drive was a blur. When we stopped, I saw we were parked in front of a storage facility not far from my parent’s house. I slumped against the wheel, realising that throughout all the packing I hadn’t given a thought as to what I was going to do with all the gear.

We went inside and I let Dad take the lead and handle the paperwork. I was exhausted. The attendant placed a map on the counter and using a red pen marked a spot. He handed over some keys. I blindly followed my father. We unpacked everything except my suitcases and the carry-on.

“Meet you at the house, Dan.”

I nodded.

Ten minutes later I was seated in my parent’s kitchen and my mother was pushing a cup of coffee toward me.

“We’re here when you’re ready to explain,” my mother said quietly. Her voice was gentle. The voice of my childhood.

That was all it took. My forcefield shattered and I broke down and sobbed like a child. She held me while my father patted my shoulder. The whole hideous story came out in a garbled mess, my words punctuated by gasps and cries of horror from my mother and father.

“Her son? No, no, no. Oh God, surely not,” Mum moaned, shaking her head. Perhaps, my words had put the pictures in my head into hers too. She’d liked and cared for Marcie from their first meeting.

“She says he’s not her son. I don’t know what to believe, Mum.”

“What are you going to do?” asked my father.

“I called the police. I assume they’re investigating. To be honest, I was surprised she was at the house today. I thought she’d be in jail.”

“Divorce?” my mother whispered, her voice barely above a whisper.

I nodded.

“You’d best protect yourself, Dan. After what she’s already done you can’t know what other depths she’s willing to plumb. You don’t want her to run off with all your savings.”

“Already done, Dad.”

We talked some more. Mum insisted I stay with them until I could find a house or apartment to rent. That was a relief. I didn’t want to be alone.

Alone. A state I supposed I’d have to get used to. A vision of my future stretched before me. It looked like a long, lonely, barren landscape. Damn Marcie. Damn her to hell.

That night, as I lay there in the darkness of my childhood bedroom unable to sleep, I remembered the lines from a book I’d read in what felt like a hundred years earlier. I couldn’t remember the exact words but the gist of them was that when something in your life went pear-shaped – things like bad news, a death, a spouse’s betrayal – it felt like sustaining a blow to the gut… like being winded.

Bullshit. Utter bullshit.

That was like saying being shot at close range was on a par with a mosquito bite.

My mind replayed the horror of seeing Marcie sinuously moving with her son, her lover, in the bed she had shared with me. I could remember the moment as clearly as if I were still in it. I could still hear the sitar and the rustle of the sheets. I could still smell a waft of Marcie’s perfume and hear my gasp of shock. Feel the thunder of my heart, the tight band of compression around my chest. No amount of effort would stop my mind from making me relive the moment over and over again. It was a scab my brain just had to pick.

What I felt as wave after wave of horror and disgust washed through me as violently as it had when I’d stood in the doorway seeing if for the first time was so much worse than losing breath by being punched in the solar plexus.

The closest I could come to describing it accurately would be to say it resembled having someone attach a high-powered vacuum cleaner over my heart and sucking the very life out of me.

Everything. All the things that made me, me. Intangible things that had absolutely no physical substance, the way my height or the breadth of my shoulders did, and yet were so much more important in defining who I was. Things like my thoughts and feelings. My memories and experiences. Gone. All gone.

Gone… a pathetic word—so inadequate.

I was an empty vessel. What filled the void wasn’t good and kind and caring. It was anger and hatred. I didn’t fight it. It felt good to have them take over—better than opening the floodgate to doubt, better than succumbing to despair, better than collapsing under the weight of the loss of my dreams, and most certainly better than the unbearable pain trying to beat down my door and cripple me.

The hatred swamping my empty gut was a tangible thing, as real as the bed I lay on. It filled me to overflowing, oozing out of me like a thick, destructive river of corrosive poison. I made no effort to stem its flow or disguise its vileness. It felt good to let it see the light of day with no mask disguising its ugliness.

Somewhere deep inside, I registered anxiety, but I didn’t care. I knew my mother would hardly recognise the man sleeping in her son’s room—I hardly recognised him.

*****

THE ROAD TO DIVORCE was long and hard. The press reported the possible incest. That made the front page, their retraction a week later on page twenty. A tiny note easily missed. Marcie was notorious, me to a much lesser degree. It cost Marcie her position at the university and me money as the courts ruled I had to support Marcie until our divorce was settled. Something else for my monster to loathe her for.

As if the publicity wasn’t bad enough, Marcie fought the divorce every step of the way. I endured endless negotiations seated opposite her in the conference room of either her legal counsel or mine. Negotiations where I stared at her, mentally seeing my hand reach across the table, turning into a claw that broke through her chest cavity and ripped out her heart.

I waded through reams of legal jargon seeing the words in red, written in blood. Marcie’s blood.

Worst of all, I sat through hours of court mandated counselling.

Counselling sessions where Marcie wore her damned pendant and I had to pretend I didn’t want to wrap my hands around her throat and squeeze the breath out of her. Sessions where she reassured me again and again Julian wasn’t her son. She’d emailed me the proof and shoved hard copies into my hand at the first session. Like the only thing holding me back from reconciling with her was proof that Julian’s DNA differed from hers. Nothing I said, nothing my lawyer said, hell, not even the gentle questions of the marriage counsellor, designed to lead Marcie to understand the level of her betrayal, penetrated Marcie’s defences.

With every delay, every obstacle she put in my way, she fed the monster residing in my gut, the monster who was biding his time before exacting his revenge. Through his eyes, eyes not blinkered by rose-coloured glasses, I saw the depth of her selfishness. Had she truly loved me she’d have let me go, wanting my happiness above all else. That’s what I would have done for her had she come to me when she first fell in love (lust?) with Julian. It would have saddened me, absolutely gutted me, but her happiness had been of paramount importance to me back then and so if her happiness lay with someone else, as difficult as it would have been, I’d have let her go. Had she done that the monster would never have been born.

Not so Marcie. From my personal, one-on-one sessions with a therapist, also mandated by the courts, I came to understand Marcie needed my forgiveness, she needed my love to continue. She needed me to take her back and continue as if the last year-and-a-half hadn’t happened. Then and only then would she be able to live with herself. She needed me to help her erase her heinous deeds, her overwhelming guilt. She needed me to help her live in denial. Denial of her inner monster.

I didn’t give her what she needed.

What I gave her was temptation.

I found Julian, who, it turns out, was really Ravi Singh. Well, technically one of my engineers found him. The guy was on the spectrum and though he worked as an engineer he didn’t actually have the piece of paper saying he was qualified. Five years earlier I’d seen something in him and gave him a chance. I’d never regretted that decision. Quite the opposite. He was invaluable. I’d never met anyone who had a brain that worked like his. His social skills might suck, but his mind was razor sharp. He mastered software, wrote code, and came up with out-of-the-box solutions on a regular basis. And he was loyal to me.

Between us, we investigated Julian. Probably knew him as well as his family. We anonymously fed him information and led him back to Marcie. She, in her vanity, may not have realised the reason behind his interest, but I did. He wanted a shortcut to Australian residency.

I gambled on the fact that he was running out of time before being sent back to India and he’d already put months of effort into Marcie. Turns out, she lied to him as well. She told him we were in a de facto relationship. Apparently, he’d been most upset to discover we were married. All that effort for nothing. Not so upset, though, that he wasn’t prepared to take up with her again. Give her another chance.

And Marcie, ever remorseful and I-love-only-you-Daniel, Marcie, didn’t take a lot of convincing. Once all hope of our reconciliation was dashed and our divorce became final it was only a matter of weeks before she started up with Julian again. Whatever the guy had in his trousers must be pretty potent stuff. My monster sneered.

My ever-kind mother looking, I think, to make me feel less rejected suggested that perhaps Marcie needed to delude herself that she’d done it all because of a “great love.” A bigger-than-both-of-us connection. A Romeo and Juliet type of love. A love that couldn’t be denied. A love that, in Marcie’s mind, justified all the hurt and betrayal and abuse of trust required for her and Julian to be together.

What a crock of shit. Not that I said that to my sweet, romantic mother.

As far as I was concerned, Marcie could tell herself all the bullshit she wanted. I knew better. My monster knew better. She was just a faithless slut who got off on fucking a guy young enough to be her son.

The difference was, now it didn’t bother me.

In fact, now I was counting on it.

And counting on Julian to step up his campaign.

He didn’t disappoint.

It only took him three months to knock her up. Shock, horror, gasp, Marcie must have forgotten that persistent diarrhoea and vomiting affected the efficacy of the pill. I wondered what Julian fed her. Hopefully, another effing curry.

Nothing could have pleased me more. Both her shits and her subsequent pregnancy. Predictably, Julian used his conservative Indian background to demand they marry. Not that I thought Marcie protested much. Vain bitch would never have questioned why a young, good-looking man seduced a woman old enough to be his mother.

When I told my father he laughed. He, too, could see the level of Marcie’s vanity and stupidity.

Actually, I had my father to thank for the inspiration for my means of retribution. My monster would have preferred something more permanent, more visceral, but even he saw the sense in not ending up in jail for the rest of our life.

“When a man steals your wife, there is no better revenge than to let him keep her.”

That’s what he said to me that first night when I’d revealed the level of Marcie’s betrayal.

It was the best advice he’d ever given me, and he’d given me a lot over the years.

So, there was Marcie, on the brink of forty, pregnant, and newly married to a guy nearly twenty years her junior.

Both of them had acted as predicted (my monster thanked Marcie for her insights) and now it was time to pull the trigger.

The newlyweds were off to the Whitsundays for ten days. When all was said and done, I should find a way to thank them both for making my job so easy.

Their absence made the job of planting in their garage the bags of fertiliser and aluminium powder easy – both collected over the course of many months from my mine. I really do love my job. That with cans of diesel oil and sacks of old nuts, bolts, and nails. All the makings of a homemade bomb.

Somewhat harder, well, impossible for me, but not for my trusty engineer was making Ravi a paid up member of a militant Hindu group calling for the genocide of Muslims. Throw in some floor plans of the Lakemba Mosque, Australia’s largest mosque, and, voila, you have a terrorist, just add fertiliser.

After that, all it took was an anonymous tip-off to the Federal Police by a concerned citizen. Julian was picked up upon his return from his honeymoon. Lucky for me, they weren’t as charmed by him as my ex-wife. I do wonder what I would have done if they’d just released him. Glad I didn’t have to cross that bridge.

Once again the delightful couple made the headlines. The notoriety couldn’t be for a more deserving pair. Marcie didn’t photograph so well this time. The pregnancy was taking its toll on her. I guess having a kid at forty was a tad harder on the body than for a woman in her twenties or thirties.

Months later, good old Ravi was deported. Back to India he went, with a note on his file that he was never be given entry to Australia.

And Marcie? Well, she moved to Australia’s equivalent of the Wild West, the Northern Territory, probably in the hope of escaping her notoriety. She gave birth to a healthy baby boy.

That was five years ago. I have no idea how she or her child have fared. What sort of employment she sought or gained. Whether she stayed in Darwin or moved elsewhere. I have no knowledge of her movements whatsoever and that’s the way both me and my inner monster want it. Turns out my inner monster has boundaries – no harming kids. And I couldn’t harm Marcie any further without her child feeling the reverberations of that harm.

He, my monster, my temporary insanity, has been asleep for a long time now, hopefully to remain so forever. My sweet miracle, my wife Cassie, and our bundle-of-energy toddler, have never seen or felt his presence. It feels good to have love and warmth and kindness flow through my veins again. I am at peace.

THE END

And now, borrowing from Vandemonium1. Here’s a joke!

A man returns home a day early from a business trip. It’s after midnight. While en route home he asks the cabby if he would be a witness as the man suspects his wife is having an affair and wants to catch her in the act. For $100, the cabby agrees.

Quietly arriving home, the husband and cabby tip-toe into the bedroom. The husband switches on the lights then quickly yanks the blanket back and there is his wife in bed with another man.

The husband pulls a gun from his pocket and puts the muzzle of the gun to the naked man’s head.

The wife shouts, “Don’t do it! I lied when I told you I inherited money. He paid for the Corvette I gave you. He paid for our new cabin cruiser. He paid for your season Panther tickets. He paid for our house at the lake. He paid for our country club membership, and he even pays the monthly dies!”

Shaking his head from side-to-side, the husband lowers the gun. He looks over at the cabby and says, “What would you do?”

The cabby replies, “I’d cover his ass with that blanket before he catches cold.”

`