dontravis.com blog post #606
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MOMENTUM
Over the next few weeks, I
came to understand something seriously dark was taking place in our household.
I gave up trying to repair things and merely indulged in silence more often
than not. Was that helping? Of course, not, but it was about all I was capable
of at the moment.
There was usually a short
break after the Christmas and New Year’s holidays before the after-hours social
calendar fired up again. This meant Francine and I were stuck with one another.
Go to work and come home. Home to an irate, unreasonable wife. She continued to
harp on Helen, apparently genuinely convinced there was something between us. That
didn’t mean she didn’t bring up the subject of James now and then, but I don’t
know how she reconciled those two, unless she considered her husband of thirty
years to be bisexual or something.
Finally, I’d had enough. We
either had to settle this thing between ourselves or else do it through divorce
attorneys. I couldn’t take any more.
Before going to our separate
beds, I walked up behind her as she smeared cream over her face. I was never
sure whether this was to remove the paint or to moisturize her skin, but in
truth, I didn’t care. Her shoulders--bare except for the thin strap of her
negligee—were still good, but again, I didn’t care. Nonetheless, I rested my
hands on them, probably to keep from putting them around her neck.
“Francine, we can’t go on like
this.”
Cold, blue-green eyes stared at
me through the mirror. “And what do you propose we do? Are you prepared to give
up your girlfriend. And your boyfriend.”
My hands tightened of her
shoulders as a sudden anger gripped me. “Don’t be ri—”
“Ridiculous?” she asked.
“What’s ridiculous is a man your age tomcatting around like that. You’re the one
who’s ridiculous, and you don’t even know it. Laughingstock of the bank.”
“Where do you get ideas
like that. My god, woman, all I do is work.”
“Oh, yes, work. Work at the
bank. Work at parties. Work at golf. Work at the country club.”
“And you’re there with me
damned near every time,” I blazed. “There’s no talking to you. I want a
divorce.”
“A divorce? All that would
mean is two houses, two sets of expenses. How are you going to afford that.”
“We’re not exactly poor,
Francine.”
“Nor are we rich. We have
what? This house… and its mortgage. A quarter of a million in investments.
Split those up and see how long they last. You aren’t vested in your pension. The
only thing of real value is the life insurance. And we won’t see a penny of
that two million until you’re dead. And you’re disgustingly healthy.”
“I can’t believe this. Are we
really going to end this marriage by divorcing.”
She studied me through the
mirror. Her eyes—they were really nice eyes—softened a touch.
“I don’t know,” she said.
“Maybe. Or maybe not. You’re right, it’s time for a frank talk. See if we can’t
salvage something. She touched my hand on her shoulder. “I need a cup of
cappuccino. Let’s go downstairs.”
Well, that was progress.
“Okay,” I agreed, turning for the door. “But we have to be frank. Lay it all on
the line. That’s the only way it will work.”
“Of course.”
“And you have to be prepared
to take it, not just give it.”
“Of course, darling.”
As she trailed me to the
stairway landing, I seriously—and I mean seriously—considered giving her a
shove down the stairs. I could only imagine the peace and quiet of my household
after that. And who knows, Helen might offer me comfort in the face of such a
tragedy. After all, she’d suffered through her own.
To quell such wild thoughts, I
started down the stairs before her. I hadn’t taken more than two steps on the
steep staircase than a strange chill ran the length of my back. If I was
thinking that way, why couldn’t she? And she got my insurance proceeds,
not me.
The moment I felt her hands on
my back, I lurched sideways against the banister.
A screech escaped Francine as
she fought to regain her balance from the momentum of her hands pushing shin
air. She almost succeeded but tripped over my right leg as I sprawled across
the width of the step. Her voice died about hallway to the bottom, but she
rolled silently the rest of the way, leaving her slippers strewn on the stairs.
As she lay sprawled motionless on the hall floor, I couldn’t help but notice
how shapely her ankles still were.
Snapping out of my spell, I
raced to the bottom and felt for a pulse in her neck. Nothing. Nor was there a
beat at her wrist. I stood for a moment staring stupidly before racing to the
phone and dialing 911. With a sob—genuine, I think—in my voice, I cried for an
ambulance and opened the front door before returning to sit at her side.
Then tears—for real this
time—streamed down my cheeks. My wife was gone, but so was the harridan in my
house.
The ambulance arrived with the
police hard on their heels. There would be an investigation, I knew, but I was
appropriately devastated, and the neighbors, friends, acquaintances would all
swear we were a devoted couple. No financial irregularities, no affairs, no
nothing to raise suspicions.
When they were gone, taking
her with them, I sat on the bottom step and let my mind wander. I wasn’t the
only one with a life insurance policy. She’d had only a million-dollar one. Not
as stout as mine, but if I recalled correctly, it had a double indemnity
clause.
I wonder if Helen would be receptive?
Or better yet, would James?
Definitely James. It was time I
tried something new.
****
One might say Francine took
the Stairway to Heaven. But wait, she was heading down, wasn’t she? And perhaps
Chuck will get off scott free. After all, he didn’t do anything, did he? Or was
his leg stuck out there specifically for his wife to trip over? Something to
think about, at any rate.
Hope you enjoyed my story.
Stay
safe and stay strong.
Now my
mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say…
so say it!
A link
to The Cutie-Pie Murders:
https://www.dropbox.com/s/ambxgy7e5ndmimk/CutiePieMurders%5BThe%5D.zip?dl=0
My
personal links:
Email: don.travis@aol.com.
Facebook: www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982
Twitter: @dontravis3
See you next Thursday.
Don
New Posts every Thursday morning at 6:00 a.m. US Mountain time.
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