Marriage Made Me Do It Page 4

  The words were genuine. I heard the heavy sentiment in Carl’s voice. Looking over, the aqua-colored lights from the hot tub made Carl’s face look younger. Concern, and was that—holy cow, there it was—the look of love, danced across his face.

  I didn’t tell my husband he was right about sex and funerals with words, I showed him with my body.

  Looked like I’d gain back the demerit for dismissing Rule Number Ten earlier, though I wasn’t about to ride the pony for Carl’s sake.

  It was all about me.

  CHAPTER 3

  I’m Supposed To Handle This How?

  After Carl and Carol left to start their busy days, I stood in the kitchen, staring at the coffeemaker. My head thumped in time with the impatient foot taps as I waited for the liquid gold to brew. Between the stress, an untold amount of wine, and a night humping like a teenager in the hot tub, I needed an entire pot to set me straight and vanquish the disturbing thought patterns from yesterday. Rather than dwell on the fact my inner beast had roared to life, I decided to chalk up the violent imagery as a by-product of my grief. No blood and gore for this demure housewife! Nope, those yearnings needed to stay inside my demented dreams. I would, however, take serious stock of some other areas of my life.

  It certainly was time.

  Fridays were earmarked for mopping the floors, dusting, and cleaning the pool. For over fifteen years, I’d adhered to the strict schedule I set up, only deviating when I was sick or one of Carol’s school activities popped up. Every other day of the week had a list of items to check off, and I stuck to them like superglue on fingers. Just because I didn’t work “outside the home” didn’t mean I wasn’t organized! Taking cues from my mother, Rule Number Fifteen about maintaining a tidy home was a snap.

  Ever since my taxi days ended after Carol got her license, I started a new tradition. I gave myself forty minutes of me time each morning after the hubster and offspring departed. I’d enjoy several stout cups of coffee, smoke like a freight train on the back deck, and read. Once finished, I’d head inside and hit the weights and treadmill in our home gym. The extra bedroom had been earmarked for another child but, again, uncooperative reproductive organs changed the plans. I’d spend an hour each morning to rid myself of the poison I’d consumed the previous day.

  After bypassing the dreaded 40 it took a lot more effort to maintain a nice figure. Unlike several of my neighbors, who were too lazy or pampered to sweat, I refused to keep up my looks by visiting a doctor and have he or she whack, slice, or inject shit, to stay young.

  Nope! One trip to the plastic surgeon for breast reduction was all I needed, thank you very much. No knives, needles, or chemical alterations will touch this body!

  Rule Number Fifty-three: A suburban housewife must maintain a pleasing appearance for her spouse at all times, no matter what.

  Score one for me; a huge demerit for Elaine Shock.

  Today was different. I’d finished the erotic romance already and couldn’t quite remember which novel was next on the reading list for book club. If my headache would ease up just a tad, I could go look for the list, but meh, why? Sasha was on a romance kick, and if I read another sappy, Oh, baby, I love you so much I’ll show you by giving up everything to prove it novel, I’d puke.

  Literally.

  Toss up my cookies all over my clean floor. Romances were nothing but trash and drivel and completely unrealistic. I didn’t know one single couple who married because of true love, not even my parents. They married because they were supposed to—again, sticking to the rules—not because they couldn’t stand being apart from each other. Of course, that little bundle of truth I didn’t discover until Mom’s mind deteriorated and I put her into the memory care facility. While going through all her belongings, packing, sorting, and crying like a lost goat, I discovered the truth about the sham marriage of Roger and Claire Rayburn: Pregnancy.

  Hmmm. Like mother, like daughter. Wonder if a sinus infection fucked-up her life too?

  Demerit!

  The real marriage certificate, with a date only three months before I burst from the womb, had been stuffed in the back of Mom’s closet, buried underneath piles of paper. I laughed and cried at the same time, realizing all the massive anniversary parties thrown for Mr. and Mrs. Roger Rayburn had been off by six months.

  No, I wouldn’t think about the dream marriage I’d always looked up to and strove to emulate. Knowing the union of Roger and Claire Rayburn was faker than Rebecca’s new tits made me feel nauseated. I’d already dealt with that load of emotional garbage anyway, months ago.

  “That’s enough, Roxy. It’s time to refocus and stop thinking about the ugly truth behind the shiny façades everyone wears. Back to book club woes!” I muttered while pouring a full cup of black gold.

  We’d kicked up the heat level several notches last month at the request of Sasha. The latest erotic bestseller destroyed countless brain cells after reading. Gag. Gag. Double gag. Yes, a woman’s lonely, fucked-up life can be fixed by a man with bulging biceps, abs and chest tight enough to bounce quarters from and slipping his enormous schlong inside every available orifice.

  Same is true for the uber-wealthy, emotionally damaged billionaire playboys: The right pussy to control would save them from a lifetime of sorrow and loneliness.

  Please. Orgasms are great but they certainly aren’t life-altering!

  The next time our group of bored housewives converged at Sasha’s, I planned on lobbying for a thriller, one full of psychotic deviants wreaking havoc on unsuspecting victims, rather than the next book on the agenda. I’m sure it will be yet another literary masterpiece entitled The Perils of Pussy or Adventures of the Perilous Penis or something equally gross. Yeah, I was ready for something dark, sinister, and full of gore.

  Oops. Another demerit.

  Rule Number Thirty-seven: Housewives must always maintain a happy, well-adjusted demeanor, a perpetual smile on their faces, even when sad or disgusted.

  Seriously, who cares about the freaking rules? Didn’t I decide yesterday to make my own, anyway? The Suburbia Handbook was grossly outdated and in desperate need of an overhaul. I was a dying breed, and it was time to start Roxy’s Rules for Living.

  By nature, I was a note taker. I wrote down everything from detailed grocery lists, family schedules, vacation itineraries, you name it. My OCD drove Carol to the brink of insanity when she was applying for scholarships. In the end, she gave up and opted to take the free ride offered from Carl’s university (another perk of being a tenured professor!) not because Carol wanted to go to college so close to home, but because she couldn’t take another tenpage list of notes from me.

  Since I was sober, Carl’s ridiculous suggestions prior to our hot tub encounter drummed inside my head. The man had some nerve to suggest I see a shrink or that I was losing my memory like Mom! Hello pot, I’m kettle—have you considered plopping on the psychiatrist’s couch to discuss your own issues? No, I’m sure the great Professor Davenport wouldn’t dream of baring his soul to a stranger then hearing the words: “Sir, I believe you have an unhealthy addiction to pornography. We need to work on that issue.”

  Getting a job was out of the question. Seriously, what the hell would I do? Two years of college spent taking general classes (because I was too busy partying and going to football games to watch the once hunk of a man play ball—then got knocked up) wouldn’t help me in the least.

  I had no discernible skills to speak of, so what could I do, realistically? Sling java down at the local coffee shop to my snobby neighbors as they rushed off to work? The only enjoyment there would be me spitting in their double latte skim mochas. Work the counter at some superstore? Greet strangers with a fake smile while urging them to enjoy their day? Biting my tongue each time I wanted to say something snarky, like: “Thanks for choosing to shop with us! I hope you enjoy your shopping experience of purchasing cheap shit that will last all of five minutes. Get your crap, go home, and then attempt to pass it off as expensive pu
rchases to all your friends and neighbors.”

  Thank you, but I’ll pass.

  No, instead of giving my spouse the satisfaction that he’d offered up viable solutions to my problems, I’d fix the hole inside my chest all by myself. Today, I would start a new tradition—actually writing down my new life rules, rather than adhering to the non-existent, antiquated set embedded inside my mind. Trudging back inside, head still pounding, I snatched a notebook from the junk drawer and headed back to the deck. Pen at the ready, it took me a few seconds to remember the first rule I’d come up with last night. Wine, it had something to do with wine. Ah, yes:

  Roxy’s New Rule Number One: Always maintain a constant supply of wine and the jets on at full blast to keep from going insane.

  A sense of giddiness after writing down the first rule made me smile, despite my throbbing head. It didn’t take long for me to come up with the second item.

  Roxy’s New Rule Number Two: Mentally incinerate The Suburbia Handbook and move into the twenty-first century like every other woman has done!

  Oh, I’m on a roll! This is liberating! Hmm, did the new ideas spring forth after last night’s sexual release in the water? Possibly, though it certainly wasn’t because of Carl’s great moves. While doing the nasty in the hot tub, I closed my eyes and pretended I was riding Tom Selleck, cowboy hat and chaps still on, rather than my bland husband. Did I feel guilty about this switch of identities? Absolutely not! There was no doubt in my hungover mind Carl was picturing himself thrusting his cock into Coco, so we were even. I got my rocks off while grinding on Quigley Down Under while Carl blew his wad by porking Blow-Up Barbie.

  Roxy’s New Rule Number Three: To achieve multiple, mind-blowing orgasms, picture Matthew Quigley. Check! Ride ’em cowboy!

  Satisfied with my progress, I lit a smoke while enjoying my coffee. More new rules bounced about inside my head, each one more disturbing and twisted than the one before. My dark fantasies were interrupted by Rebecca’s assigned ringtone on my phone: Lunatic Fringe, er, Bitch.

  “How’s the head?”

  “Pounding,” Rebecca whined. “That cheap wine you served did a number on me.”

  “Alcohol is alcohol. Drink too much, no matter how expensive, you suffer the next day.”

  “Whatever. Listen, though I enjoy our little verbal sparring matches, I didn’t call to discuss my hangover.”

  “Okay, so why did you?”

  Rebecca huffed. “I told you we need to talk about the trust and Mom’s house. We don’t have much time to make the changes before Stephen and I are liable for the taxes.”

  “God, you are a vicious wench. Your life revolves around money. Rachel hasn’t even been in the ground a day and you’re already—”

  “Roxy, it has to be addressed! I’m the next in line for the house.”

  “Yes, I’m well aware of that. Recall I’m the one who went with Mom to get all her affairs in order before she forgot who she was? I specifically put myself last in line because I was trying to be fair to you and Rachel.”

  “Oh, how sweet. A moment of kindness from the great Roxy! Don’t try and play off that you did it for any reason other than you wanted another feather to add to your hat.”

  “Goodness, sister, what a low opinion you have of me. I’m so hurt,” I responded, a devious grin on my face. “Shouldn’t we try to make amends, bury the sisterly hatchet now that it’s just the two of us?”

  Rebecca snorted. “Please. We’re way beyond that, Roxy, so stay on topic, please. I explained to you a hundred times while Rach was in the hospital why we don’t want the house. It’s not that we can’t afford it we just don’t need the tax liability! We already have four rent houses, and I don’t want the hassle of handling another. I’ve had our lawyer draw up the papers, passing ownership over to you. What you do with Mom’s house after it’s transferred to you is not my business. And who knows? You might just need the place soon.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “It means, dear sister,” Rebecca responded, softening her tone, “with Carol leaving, you’ll need something to occupy your time. Being a landlord is full of all sorts of activities. Collecting the rent, maintaining the residence—”

  “Enough. I get it. Sheesh, you’re just as bad as Carl. I got an earful last night about what I should do with my life now that things are changing. Fine. You win. What do I need to do?”

  “Nothing except sign on the dotted line. I’ll have a courier drop the papers off this afternoon.”

  “A courier? That’s silly and beyond pretentious! You live around the freaking corner! Just bring them by after work.”

  “Unlike you, Roxy, I have a very full life and little time to spare. That’s why God invented young men who enjoy wearing tight bicycle shorts. I’ll make sure to request one who has the thighs of a Greek God.”

  Yes, my sister is a bitch, but sometimes, she is hysterical. “Make sure to ask for one with no body hair, okay? I can’t stomach a man-beast. I’ll be home all day.”

  “Well duh, what else would you be doing? Your nails since you’re too cheap to get them done professionally? Slaving over a hot stove cooking some meal that no one will appreciate? Wait, I know! Not a damn thing except cleaning.”

  “If Mom heard us—or anyone else for that matter—talking to each other with such disrespect and ugliness, our fake personas would disappear. You know, up until today, I didn’t really grasp how odd our relationship is.”

  “Can’t pull the wool over the eyes of the people who know the real you,” Rebecca answered, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “We’ve had each other’s numbers since childhood. I don’t recall there being a law or rule somewhere that said one must love or even like a blood relative.”

  “Neither do I. Good thing we get to choose our friends.”

  “No doubt, which is why I didn’t pick you. I mean, how could I? You waste so much of your time doing things you could pay another to do it’s ridiculous. We have nothing in common except DNA.”

  “Bitch. Actually, I’m busy plotting out some new directions for my life, thank you very much. Bye.”

  Ending the call before Rebecca had a chance to say a word, I decided to head upstairs and take a long, hot shower. I didn’t like the idea of taking over ownership of our childhood home for a variety of reasons, but at least I would make sure it was well taken care of.

  “Dammit, Rachel! You shouldn’t be dead. You should be here, minus Benny-Boo, living in the same neighborhood, chasing little replicas of yourself around the yard. Mom wanted you to live there, and now, you never will. Some stranger will be roaming around in our old rooms, defiling our memories!”

  I made it to the top of the stairs when the doorbell rang. Great! I’m still in my tattered robe with no makeup on. Rebecca must have already called the courier service before she contacted me, knowing they’d show up and I’d look like yesterday’s trash.

  Bitch!

  The doorbell chimed again, so instead of rushing to change clothes, I went back downstairs. The courier was probably close to jailbait age, so there was no need to primp and preen. The Davenport household didn’t need another sexual predator roaming the rooms.

  To my surprise, a courier with a cute helmet and sexy legs wasn’t standing on my stoop. Instead, I was greeted by a girl, maybe twenty, with long, blonde hair, entirely too much makeup, and a worried look on her face. Clutched in her left hand was a Manila folder.

  “May I help you?” I asked, assuming she was lost. She certainly wasn’t a Jehovah’s Witness. They didn’t wear designer jeans, makeup, fake fingernails, or high heels.

  “Uh, yes. I’m looking for Professor Davenport. Is he here?”

  “No, he’s at school.”

  An eerie sensation tickled the back of my mind. Though a rarity, a few students over the years dropped by unannounced, usually to beg for a better grade, chance to retake a test, or other such nonsense.

  The eeriness morphed into nausea when the girl’s hand rubbe
d her stomach.

  Her pregnant stomach.

  “Are you, oh, God. You aren’t the maid, are you?”

  Unable to form words, I shook my head. What a stupid question! How many maids worked in their robes? Answer—zero. The girl’s IQ probably hovered close to the size of her bra.

  It hit me then—she was just Carl’s type. I wouldn’t be surprised if her name was Dior since she looked like Coco’s older sister.

  Hmm, what is that sensation inside my chest and the weird, cracking noise filling my head? Was it possible I just experienced my heart breaking? If so, does that mean a part of me still loved the man who used to snuggle next to me years ago, stroking my hair, whispering his love? The other 50 per cent of Carol’s genetic pool, who enjoyed sneaking up behind me, cupping my breasts and cooing, “Oh, I wish I could be your bra for just one day.” The same man who looked genuinely sad less than one day ago as he professed he was worried about me?

  How about that? There was still a spark of love for Carl. Of course, the key word in that thought: Was.

  Oh! Another unfamiliar sound! Could it be? Why yes, yes it was—the snap of the last thin tendril holding my sanity in place.

  Something inside my mind broke loose at the realization my husband’s dick had played around inside the girl’s vaggie-shack. Though the chances to do so had been plenty, including one awkward, drunken encounter when Mr. Shock happened upon me sans clothes in the hot tub years ago, I’d never, not once, betrayed our vows. Oh, I sometimes fantasized about other men while my legs were up in the air, but I never acted upon them.

  Obviously, the whores onscreen weren’t enough for Carl and he sought out a real, live fuck-buddy. I was beyond livid yet calm at the same time, just like I recalled my mother acting when angry. The Rayburn clan never worried when she yelled—it was when her voice became a sugary-sweet mixture while her jaw was set tight that sent us all scattering.