Marriage Made Me Do It Read online

  Rachel’s ill-fated stint working undercover for some whiny, ASPCA-type sacks of shit, ended her life. While trying to save a dog from being put down, Rachel suffered a wicked bite. Instead of going to the doctor immediately, she waited until infection set in—and rabies. For two weeks, doctors fought to save her life, yet failed. The only Rayburn daughter to toss The Suburbia Handbook to the wayside and live in—gasp!—the big city, was dead. I hate myself for thinking it, but I’m sort of glad Dad passed on and Mom is lost inside her mind, wandering the locked hallways of Dementia Hotel.

  No parent should have to bury their child. It was wrong—a crime against the natural progression of the way the world was supposed to work.

  Rebecca pinched my arm, drawing me back to the funeral service. With a nod of her head, she directed my attention to the center aisle. If I wasn’t half-bombed on wine, I would have stood and said something. Opened my smart mouth and given the worthless piece of shit shambling toward the casket an earful of my internal thoughts. Maybe kicked him in the crotch with my high heel, laughing, while he fell to the floor clutching his busted ball sack.

  A funeral to remember!

  Instead, I simply glared at—oh, shit, what’s his name? I just drew a total blank, which makes no sense. Carl always said he admired my elephant-like memory, though I believe that was a Freudian slip—Carl meant he admired my elephant-sized mammary glands.

  Aha! The little panty-waste’s name is Benny Rogers, Rachel’s boyfriend. Gaunt and pale, he looked like a walking corpse. All he needed were some bloodstains and rotting skin to complete the look. Wisps of mousy brown hair stood up in all directions, his thin chest covered in a disheveled white dress shirt, tan khakis sagging around a non-existent ass. Some artsy-fartsy emo kid who spent his time and money on animals rather than buying things like deodorant or clothes that fit. The boy was a real winner. The kind of date you brought home to meet your parents just to cause a massive heart attack or stroke.

  Memories of conversations with Rachel popped into my head. She’d gushed over the phone about her new boyfriend, how he’d helped her see the light about the plight of animals that were tortured and lived short lives full of nothing but pain just so we could eat them. Benny convinced her to become not just a vegetarian, but a freaking vegan.

  A vegan! If Dad wasn’t already dead, the knowledge his youngest child refused to eat meat would have sent him to the grave. Nobody loved throwing animal flesh on a grill more than Roger Rayburn.

  Nobody.

  Rule Number Four: One must cook meat outside over hot coals (or propane if you’re lazy) and invite all friends and neighbors to partake of said charred flesh. This act must be done at least three times each month during pleasant weather.

  Dad missed the fine print which noted health concerns and advised to remain healthy in all other areas so as not to clog the arteries.

  Oops.

  Lunatic Bitch agreed with me for the first time since out of diapers, so we tag-teamed Rachel. Nothing we said changed her mind. In less than six months, she’d dropped so much weight, had the same gaunt, pale skin as Benny-Boo (her nickname for the sack of shit, not mine) Rebecca and I feared she was ill from lack of consuming animal protein.

  “He’s got a lot of nerve showing his ugly face,” Rebecca whispered. “He needs to leave. It’s his fault Rachel’s dead! He’s the one who convinced her to go undercover and risk her life—over freaking animals! Plus, he convinced her to quit eating any type of meat. It made her body weak and that’s why she didn’t respond to treatment. He doesn’t deserve to be here. Wait, that’s not true. He does deserve to be here—inside that casket, not Rachel! Thank God, Mom’s not here to see him.”

  “Mom’s not here because she doesn’t even know she’s our mother or her youngest child is dead. She’s a drooling, forgetful mess. You’re a heartless bitch, L.B. Heartless.”

  Rebecca bristled. “I am not! And stop calling me that! Little Bit was cute when I was, like, 2, but not now. You’re the oldest and have Dad’s attitude, so you should do something! Make him leave.”

  Despite the fact my beloved baby sister’s funeral was underway, I smiled. The little lie I’d told years ago when questioned by Dad about the meaning behind the nickname “L.B.” still stuck.

  Wow, I am a sick, twisted wench who loves her petty torments.

  Carl nudged my arm. “Shhh. The pastor isn’t finished with the service yet.”

  Glancing over at my husband of close to twenty years, a spark of anger burned inside my chest. Carl Davenport sat next to me, all serious and sad, like a proud pimple on the ass of humanity. Though still quite handsome for his age, Carl’s thick, brown hair I used to love running my fingers through during heated sex was gone. What little hair he had left was all gray, including the newest addition to his sharp facial features: Long, white, obnoxious hair in and around his nose and ears. The little tendrils stood erect and strong, forcing your eyes to stare at them with disgusted awe.

  Seeing Carl’s new, unnecessary hair, made me think about my own. Mine opted to sprout in areas hidden by clothing—thank God! Several thick, black pubic hair follicles became lost, choosing to take up residence around my nipples and right underneath my belly button. No amount of waxing, plucking, or shaving helped. My next plan of action was a blowtorch.

  The strong, sexy muscles from his youth weren’t quite a fleeting memory yet, though dangerously close (similar to my once tight ass). Carl sported his own ripening watermelon right above the beltline. When we did get naked under the sheets, the sweaty monstrosity full of itchy hair rubbing against my body made me sick to my stomach. Thank goodness, Carl discovered Internet porn and spent most of his free time behind a closed, locked door in his study. Naked, pixilated sluts on a screen kept me from fulfilling, for the most part, Rule Number Ten:

  Housewives must service their husband’s needs when the man’s urges overtake him, no matter how tired, sick, in pain, or stressed the wife feels.

  Carl’s admonishment to remain silent worked just the opposite: It gave me the needed push to act a fool. So, of course, I did.

  “That boy isn’t welcome here. Look, he’s up there saying his goodbyes to Rachel while the preacher is talking, and you’re giving me shit for whispering? Talk about disrespectful! Dad’s not here to toss him out the door but I am!”

  “Roxy—wait!” Carl whispered.

  Ignoring my wimpy husband, I stood and stomped with purpose down the aisle. Several mourners gasped, and the preacher’s words dried up. Grabbing a handful of Benny’s collar, I pulled him backward, bringing his ear inches from my lips. “Leave, now, or I swear I’ll make you wish your daddy had shot blanks. I’m not even kidding. Better yet, I’ll make sure you shoot blanks from now on after I slice your balls off.”

  Ol’ Benny-Boo shook like he was in the midst of his own personal earthquake.

  Sensing his fear, I let go and he turned and disappeared through a side door. Satisfied with myself, feeling a rush of power at releasing some of my pent-up anger, I walked back to my seat.

  Carol and Carl looked mortified, their faces pale and mouths agape. Rebecca beamed with pride. We didn’t see eye to eye on pretty much anything, yet on this particular rule, we did.

  Rule Number Eleven: One must defend their family, no matter what. This rule trumps everything else. (In my mind, I added a footnote: Even if the defense comes in the form of bodily harm to another.)

  Once back in my seat, the preacher decided the service was over, and music filled the sanctuary. Tears welled up in my eyes. I should have acted on Rule Number Eight’s footnote sooner. Instead of trying to talk some sense into Rachel, I should have concentrated my efforts on forcing her to eat red meat and removing Benny’s eco-friendly ass from her life.

  Permanently.

  While those in attendance to the final adios of Rachel Danielle Rayburn stood and ambled outside, I remained stuck to the pew. Something sinister bubbled up inside my chest, worse than a wicked case of heartburn after
eating fried foods.

  Replaying Rachel’s entire life inside my head, watching memories zoom by of the life we once led and the one I hoped we’d continue living, made the mental safety valve break. Fury burned through me for failing to take care of her better. I didn’t keep the promise made to my mother years ago to watch over and care for my younger sibling. Mom seemed to recognize Rebecca could take care of herself and that Rachel was the neediest one of her three girls.

  And for some reason, Mom thought I was the nurturing one. Pft! Joke’s on her!

  Looking down at the remembrance card with Rachel’s sweet, happy face staring back at me—a picture I picked out from ones taken in our backyard last year—I swallowed hard, forcing my pain and sorrow deep inside. I’d failed my sister but there was no way I’d make the same mistake with my child. Despite all of the hormone-induced struggles during the past two years, Carol Claire Davenport was the reason I was put on this planet. With Rachel gone, all of my attention would be on Carol.

  God help any fool who dared harm a hair on my precious child’s head.

  I whispered a silent vow, promising to not make the same mistake again. Rachel’s death made me question the Handbook I’d used as a mental guide my entire life. While “Amazing Grace” filled the small room, I decided to alter the rules to suit my world. I was sick and beyond tired of it being the other way around.

  I swear, Rachel, the next person who tries to disrupt my family—they won’t be granted a reprieve. I’ll do whatever necessary to keep the rest of us out of harm’s way. I promise.

  CHAPTER 2

  Don’t Bite The Hand That Feeds You

  Our slice of Heaven on Earth, a large McMansion with four bedrooms and three baths (Rule Number Nine—check—thanks to Carl’s wealthy family!) built on the backside of the suburbs I grew up in, was crammed full of people. Fancy cars filled the tree-lined streets. A smorgasbord of all sorts of metal chariots driven by grieving guests, ones insistent on paying their respects by trudging through my house, stuffing their faces with food, spilling wine on the expensive hardwood floors. Cleaning up after the invasion would be fun. Not.

  Rule Number Fifteen: A woman’s job as housewife is to maintain a pleasant, always spotless home for her family.

  Joy.

  The display of food made me hate Rule Number Twenty:

  When someone dies, you must put on your best clothes, your saddest face, and pay your respects. This act must be accompanied, of course, by a homemade dish to feed the mourning relatives of the recently departed.

  Freshly prepared food had been replaced by stopping at any given superstore and buying a tray of assorted meats, cheeses, and vegetables. My kitchen table and counter looked like the deli aisle.

  “You outdid yourself with the service. It was beautiful. Of course, I had no doubts it would be, since you plan everything out to the minutest detail, even when overcome with grief. You’ve always been such a rock.”

  The voice of my best friend Elizabeth (and neighbor, three doors down) made me smile. Elizabeth and I had maintained our friendship since second grade, and she was the only person in the world I truly trusted.

  Rule Number Seventeen: Have a best friend to lean on, gossip with, shop, drink, cry to.

  Check!

  “Thanks, Liz. I still can’t believe she’s gone. It hasn’t really sunk in yet, you know?”

  Liz nodded while picking up a tray of full wine glasses. She nudged me aside. “Here, let me. You look tired, and it’s not your job to cater to these fools. They are supposed to be helping you get through this, not looking for a free meal and drinks. Go and have a smoke out back. I can tell you need one. Oh, and listen—Sasha just told me she canceled book club this week. We’ll pick up next Friday, okay? Give those dumb hags who always complain they haven’t finished the book time to do so. Maybe we can actually discuss the book rather than listen to them gossip.”

  Shoulders sagging with relief, I smiled. “You’re a gem. Is she here? I haven’t seen her.”

  Liz frowned. “Honey, you seriously need to get some rest. Better yet, let me get Roger to give you some pills that are guaranteed to knock you out for a week. Your mind is on the fritz from all the grief.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She’s still out front talking to Mr. Shock, just like you were less than three minutes ago.”

  Annoyed by yet another silly game of Let’s Confuse Roxy that people had been playing on me during the last few months, I said: “Today’s not the day to mess with me, Liz.”

  A wounded look creased her brow. “I’m not joking, Roxy. You were just talking to her. Lord, did you get any sleep at all last night?”

  “Pft. Sleep? I haven’t had time to do much of anything except plan a funeral. Not even sure I put deodorant on today, so I’m not surprised a superficial conversation with Sasha and Mr. Shock slipped my mind. It doesn’t really matter. I’m not in the mood to listen to her today, so please tell her I’m grateful. I’ve been looking forward to the discussion. It was our first ever erotic romance, so things might get really interesting! I’ll be right back. If I don’t inhale some nicotine, I’ll snap.”

  Elizabeth’s perfectly waxed eyebrow lifted in curiosity. When surprised or amused, Elizabeth Gelmini Rosenbaum was downright gorgeous. “I thought you already snapped once today? From my perspective in the back, it looked like Rachel’s boyfriend got an earful of foul words. I didn’t think it was possible for him to be any paler. Boy was I wrong.”

  “Men don’t take being threatened with castration very well,” I answered, chuckling. “He’s damn lucky the alcohol in my system saved his little nutsack from getting whacked off.”

  “Roxy!” Liz gasped. “Shh! Save that sort of talk for when we’re alone!”

  Heat raced to my cheeks. Normally, I only let my demented thoughts escape my lips within hearing range of my bestie. “What can I say? It’s been a really difficult two weeks. Better to only say my sick thoughts than actually commit the act, right?”

  “True.”

  Rebecca strolled—no, she wobbled—up beside us. During the last hour, I’d counted six glasses of wine disappear down her throat, compared to my measly two. She was a drunken mess, which wasn’t a first. An intimate relationship with alcohol was another thing she’d inherited from our parents. Of course, I did too, so I really couldn’t count that as a demerit against her or I’d have had to add it to my bag as well.

  Good thing she lived only a block away, or she’d take out anything and everything in her path driving the enormous SUV Stephen bought her last year. The Escalade sported every single option, and even had a personalized license plate with L.B.’s name on it. Er, well, her real name, not my preferred name for her. (Score one for Stephen and Rebecca Wilson—they passed Rule Number Eight with flying colors!)

  The fancy silk dress she’d purchased from Nordstrom for just this solemn occasion, the perfectly applied makeup and stellar hairdo (thanks to some very expensive trips to the salon to attach extensions probably made from horse hair!) didn’t hide the fact ol’ L.B. was bombed.

  Pointing a well-manicured finger behind her, Rebecca muttered, “Uh, Roxy? You might need to pay more attention to Carl. He’s ogling the Shock’s daughter again. You know, Cherrywood Estate’s resident Kardashian wannabee? Guess in the midst of his sorrow, he’s forgotten Coco’s underage. Maybe you should go remind him before he gets into trouble? If Mr. Shock catches a glimpse of the eye-fuck Carl’s giving Coco, he’ll beat your worthless hubby within an inch of his life.”

  Liz gasped, gave me a sheepish smile and then turned tail and headed to the living room to pass out more booze. I contemplated asking her to come back and give me the tray so I could storm over and dump it on Carl’s crotch to cool the blood heading south.

  What little love I had left (and it was little—close to the size of a pea) for Carl from all of our years together vanished. Rage made my fingers tremble. How could he? At Rachel’s wake?

  It would take a lo
t for me to best Carl physically, so I turned the brunt of my anger toward Coco. Taking her down would be a piece of cake and oh-so enjoyable. Visions of wrapping my fingers around the girl’s slender neck, squeezing until her fake face turned three shades of purple, filled my mind. Oh, better yet! Grab a handful of the expensive, blonde extensions recently purchased by her mother, Elaine Shock (because her daughter was going to be “a famous model” after getting a nose job, silicone-infused lips, fake, human hair, and bonus! saline-filled breasts) and drown the little whore in the pool.

  No, that wouldn’t work. Those knockers were buoyant. Drowning the skank was out of the question.

  Coco. Who the fuck names their kid such a ridiculous name? Wait! I know the answer! A former beauty queen who married some real estate mogul, gained about 50 lbs, and spent the remainder of her life living vicariously through her daughter’s body, and had an obsession with Chanel.

  Yep! Nailed it!

  My cravings for nicotine disappeared. It was overshadowed by raw fury. Rebecca was right—Carl stood at the edge of the den while Coco leaned against the doorframe, her gazongas dangerously close to escaping the thin material covering them. And where was my husband’s gaze? Laser-beam focused on the boobs.

  Not in my house, in front of our friends and neighbors.

  No. Fucking. Way.

  It was one thing for Carl to self-abuse himself in front of a computer screen, drool and sperm shooting out of him like a 14-year-old boy, while staring at pixelated images. I’d learned to live with Carl’s porn addiction, but this? Practically popping a boner during Rachel’s wake? If left alone any longer, he’d start humping Coco’s leg.

  “Excuse me, L.B., I’ll be right back.”

  Rebecca downed the remainder of her drink, smearing the last traces of red lipstick, and laughed. “Let me know if you need help burying the body. Those breasts and her enormous ass added on at least twenty pounds. After all, what are sisters for if not to help hide a crime? You already look like a serial killer in that cheap dress. Seriously, Roxy, you could have at least bought a designer label for Rachel’s funeral. It’s disrespectful to look so damn frumpy.”