A Simple Case of Infidelity

A brief preface:

~~~v~~~

This is the last installment of Leslie and Francis. All comments are welcome. Vote if you like. I know the temptation to skim can be almost irresistible, but try to really read it.

~~~v~~~

Seven days, it's been seven days since Leslie's 'accident'. Some accident; the asshole should never have gotten involved. I'd warned her; OK, my dad warned her about running out to help every time someone was in the midst of a domestic crisis.

She should have been out of the hospital in two, not seven days. Total waste of time and money, my money. She couldn't stay on her feet, woozy was the way she described it so 'they hired', read 'I hired' an ambulance to take her to Cumberland for the full treatment; an MRI, lab work, more X-rays. I never heard of such a mess. They told us she had T.B.I.; that was 'Traumatic Brain Injury, concussion, neuropsychological testing. Anyone who's ever been there knows the deal - 'ka ching', 'ka ching'!

When they were finished and I was broke they told all of us they couldn't find anything. I knew when they scanned her cranium they'd come up empty. Oh mom, dad, Victoria, Richard, Mrs. Bielson, the reverend, they were all ecstatic! I was surprised about one thing. The doctors told us the scars from her three old broken ribs looked good.

I asked them what rib scars? That's when Leslie 'owned up'. She admitted when she'd had the accident that had caused Victoria so much pain she'd broken three of her own ribs. I guess I was told, but I swore Leslie had said they'd only been bruised.

I should've known. There'd been other times back when the kids were small when Leslie had been really sick. I remember once I could tell she was awfully hot, probably running a high fever but she'd never let me see the thermometer. Once she got so bad I ended up having to take time off so I could bathe her in cool water and keep her head wrapped in cool cloths. She'd always been stupid that way; thinking it was all right for her to get sick while taking care of everybody else.

Well it had been seven days, and I was standing in what I thought was 'my house'. Leslie's been asleep in what used to be my bedroom. Insanity; that's what it's been!

OK, I agreed Mrs. Bielson's and mom and dad's places were out; that left my house. So the very day after Leslie was released everyone converged on my place. What a joke; everything had to be changed. Their voices have been ringing in my ears ever since; 'Oh that won't work', 'that'll never do', 'we can't have that', 'no, that's out of the question'. I swear; nothing I had was right.

Leslie needed the biggest bedroom. If she got the biggest room then there would be room for Victoria. Of course we needed Victoria; she'd get home from school earlier than me and she'd care for her mom giving the 'old folks' a break. But if Victoria were to move in, and she was, then my queen sized had to go, that meant two twins. Richard said he was sick of boarding; that meant the smaller bedroom for him. Me? I got the sofa.

When I'd bought the house I'd taken up the old rugs. I'd planned on sanding the floors. That was out. Dad and I loaded up Leslie's as yet unused carpets and they went in the big bedroom and the living room. It got worse. Aw gee poor Leslie couldn't get about so satellite TV had to be brought in.

Dad got a wild hair up his ass; it was winter, cold as the bejeebers, and he said my propane wasn't getting the job done. He said he had a friend who knew a guy who was trying to get rid of an old Fischer woodstove. My old house had a fireplace and chimney so Dad and Richard installed the stove and a liner for the chimney. Guess what? It was a Grandma Bear stove, Fischer's second largest; the house became an oven.

I didn't have any firewood, but there was plenty back at dad's cabin. I figured two cords. Dad and Richard figured four. Guess who got to load it, unload it, and stack it?

My furniture seemed to be OK, just the curtains, the doilies, the stainless steel silver, and the bathroom, read single bathroom, were all inadequate. Just a few other things after that; a big new lazy boy and new lights. Gosh, Leslie couldn't get about so she'd want to catch up on her reading. Oh poor hapless Leslie. Whatever happened to poor hapless Francis?

So there I stood. In 'my' house, the house that was supposed to be 'my refuge', and my adulterous almost ex-wife was asleep on her bed in my bedroom. My mom, dad, Mrs. Bielson, and my kids were all slouching around in my living room, on the sofa where I was supposed to sleep. Well, all right; I said I figured six weeks. No sir! They all figured ten at the very least!

What happened to my house? Where did my sanity go? Where had my life gone? And who the fucking hell had sliced my balls off?

~~V~~

What do they say? Things couldn't get any worse? Who the fuck made that up? Old Woodrow had retired; he was dying. He'd recommended me for his supervisory job. Uh huh, sure.

We, I, lived in good old Maryland, the 'Free State'; free for somebody I guessed, just not me. It so happens the only state in the nation with more minorities than Maryland was Hawaii. Hawaii has all those Hawaiians and Asians. Maryland has a thirty percent black population, and Maryland has been as liberal as Massachusetts since the Kennedys, him being Catholic and all I guess.

Hell the whole rest of the state could have been black; there just weren't any black people to speak of west of the Hagerstown Valley. What was the deal? I assumed with local seniority and experience I was a shoo in for Woodrow's job. Not a chance! I submitted my paperwork and a few weeks later I got a registered letter telling me when and where my interview was to be; of course, on a Saturday morning in downtown Baltimore.

Who schedules interviews on a Saturday? Well they do if they're interviewing fifty people for six different jobs. My scheduled time was 9:00 a.m. I got there right on time and I waited, and waited, and waited. People were in and out. They had my name. They knew who I was. They knew why I was there. Others came after me, had their interviews and left. Around 11:45 I asked one of the women, a black person who seemed to be in charge a very simple question. I asked, "My meeting was for 9:00. I see it's almost 12:00. Will there be time?"

She gave me this snarky smile and said, "We'll get to you," then she added, "you do want us to be fair to everyone don't you?"

That did it. I hadn't seen ten white faces all morning, and as I stood there it occurred I hadn't seen a single white man. I was Mark Furman! I was being treated like I was Mark Furman!

A few minutes later I went in for my interview; three black men, two black women, and one white woman. What the fuck? I knew the interview was a farce. I went through the motions. Three weeks later I got my notice. They thanked me. I'd done well, but they'd selected somebody else for the position. Was I surprised? Hardly.

About three weeks later Thurmond Freeman showed up. He sure was a nice guy; born and raised in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, Penn State graduate, twenty-six, black, an Environmental Science major, and about as dumb as brick. For sure he had the paperwork, he knew the theory; he just didn't know what Poison Ivy looked like. I tried to warn him; 'no Thurmond that's not Red Maple'. Thankfully he said he wanted to set up over at Deep Creek Lake so I'd probably wouldn't see too much of him. That worked for me.

So I'd missed the promotion. My almost ex-wife had elbowed herself into my house, and my parents and children tried to sabotage my every move. What did I have to complain about? I told them; I meant it too, 'the jig was just about up.' They didn't believe me.

~~V~~

I guess the only thing that made it all even remotely palatable was how Leslie turned out to be a lot better tenant than I thought. She never whined, or complained, or cried, well not much, she almost never tried to get me to take her back, and for sure she was a pleasure on the eyes.

After the first few days my mom, dad, and Mrs. Bielson stopped coming around so much. Mom and Mrs. Bielson kept us all supplied with some pretty good foods, and mom did the wash. Victoria took care of Leslie when she got home from school; I never had to make a bed or fix a thing. Of course I was sleeping on the couch so making the beds didn't mean so much.

Time went slow at night. It was the dead of winter. Victoria was out when she wasn't doing homework, and Richard slept with us but that was about all. I guess it was inevitable sooner or later Leslie would want to talk.

Our first real conversation about what she'd done happened about three weeks into her convalescence. Knowing I was probably fucked at work I was idly looking through some of the jobs descriptions in different states when Leslie quietly crept into the living room. She sort of tentatively came in and whispered, "Francis?"

None too warmly I whispered back, "What."

She said, "I'm sorry I have to be here. I'm trying not to be a problem."

I answered, "You're not a problem," I was lying.

She came closer, "May I sit down?'

I moved a little further down on the sofa.

She sat down, "Francis?"

"Yeah?"

"Can we talk?"

"About what?"

"About...us...I mean me."

"What is it you want to talk about?"

"Well...I...I never said..."

"You mean what you did and why," I said.

"Yes I suppose."

I felt like being shitty, "What was it; like hey wow, I'm bored I wanted to fuck an old boyfriend?"

I watched her as she flinched, she murmured, "Maybe if I could...explain..."

I leaned back, "Sure, go ahead. It's only been a year."

I guess I wanted to know. I thought. 'Sure, why not find out what she did and why she decided to ruin a happy marriage and family. Criminy, why not wait a whole fucking year to get around to it.'

She started, "Well you know my mother had kept me supplied with..."

I stanched that little remark right away, "You're not going to use the old, 'it was the drugs that made me do it' are you?"

She stammered back, "Oh no, no, not at all, not that. But, I mean...I was taking some...sedatives. I was feeling bad. Down, depressed, you know."

'Christ,' I thought, 'this was going to be bad.' I told her, "No I didn't know Leslie, and don't throw the old drugs and depression bullshit at me."

She cringed, "No I mean I was...I was scared. You see..."

I stopped her again, "Scared? Scared of what? Scared you weren't getting fucked enough?" I guess a tinge of bitterness showed through, but I didn't care.

She said, "Oh please...let me say,"

I sat back. I figured, 'OK, finally, this was her show. Let her dig the hole as deep as she liked.'

She added, "Can I?"

I said, "Yeah sure. I'm all ears."

"OK, well...you see I'm what they call premenopausal."

I wanted to laugh, but kept quiet.

She went on, "I'd been getting hot flashes, and I wasn't sleeping well, and I felt fat and puffy all the time, and you...you were working. You were always...out, and I...I was...oh."

I interrupted again. I had to, "Oh I get it. This is where you tell me it was my fault because you were lonely and needed attention and I was a mean and uncaring motherfucker who just ignored your emotional needs."

She held up her hand, "Oh no that wasn't it. I was so fat. I was getting more and more grey hair, and I was getting wrinkles, and I was getting a double chin, and you were at the college with all those pretty girls, and you were so handsome, so distinguished, and I...I...I felt... so old!"

I had to stop her, "So you had to fuck Richard Weatherby."

She answered, "No, not exactly. It was just...just...he came back and..."

"You wanted to fuck him."

"No, I, I mean. He showed up."

I stopped her, "Tell me Leslie. When did he show up? I mean what brought him out here? Did you call him up?"

She answered right away, "No I didn't call him."

She stopped a second. I watched her as she rallied, "It was just a week before last year's Thanksgiving. It was a little after 2:00 and I was finishing up my shift at the library. I was shelving some DVDs when I looked up and he was there. I was surprised. I said, "Richard. What brings you here?"

He said, "I came out to see you."

"Honest Francis I never called him. I asked him, 'why are you here?' For Heaven's sake it had to have been twenty years."

And he said, "I remember, "I remember you. I missed you. I needed to see you."

I shook my head. This was unbelievable.

But she went on, "I asked him, 'What in the world for?' And he said, 'Is there someplace we can go. Someplace where we can talk?'"

With that I looked at Leslie and told her, "This is a little thick. You expect me to sit here and listen to this horse shit?" Right then I just realized I wasn't into any more of her bullshit.

She sort of looked down and whispered, "No I guess not."

I got up, "I'm going into town. Don't be up when I get back."

She nodded and got up too.

As I walked out to my jeep I thought at least she didn't try to pull the 'drugs' thing. I might have kicked her out if she'd pulled that. The menopause thing though... I'd have to think about that. I checked my watch, it wasn't late; we hadn't had dinner yet. I went on in to town and bought a couple Time/Life magazines; something to read the next day in the office. I'd just about made up my mind since I didn't get the promotion I'd have to find something else. Meanwhile my stomach started grumbling. I figured, 'What the hell? Why not stop in at the Denny's? I wasn't killing myself over her, my job, my fucking family, not anybody, not anymore.'

I drove on over to Denny's, got a booth, and ordered an omelet. The place was pretty empty, but I saw a few people. Over on the right were three acquaintances. One of them saw me and started over.

'Shit', I thought, 'Weldon McCorkle; one of the few people I thoroughly disliked. There was a reason why I disliked him and as he got closer I remembered.

McCorkle sat down across from me, smirked, and said, "You're dumping Leslie. We all know why," he leaned around and looked toward his companions.

I thought, 'Here it comes.'

McCorkle, still with a shithead smile said, "You'll have a tough time with her in court. This is Maryland you know. She'll clean you out."

McCorkle had no idea how impecunious I actually was. I nodded. I knew where he was headed.

He intoned, "You remember Winona Ruckert?"

I nodded that I did.

"If you want we'll help you out."

I kept any expression off my face, "I'll let you know."

He got back up, smiled and sort of slurred, "We're here for you buddy boy," then he walked away.

Buddy boy! What a fuck stick. I remembered Winona. Winona Ruckert had been a young women, finished high school and fresh out of college. Not very pretty so she'd never seen much action on the dating scene. She'd fallen in love with a friend of McCorkle's. I couldn't remember the guy's name. He'd knocked her up. When she told him he'd laughed her off. She tried to get him to marry her. He'd stopped her flat by getting several of his friends to spread the word they'd all fucked her. Poor Winona was crushed. She ended up leaving town.

I supposed the bastard McCorkle thought he'd get some friends to threaten to say they'd all fucked Leslie and she'd back off when it came time for a settlement. Stupid shits. They didn't know Maryland law. They didn't know Leslie. They didn't know me. I'd lost my appetite. I dropped a twenty on the table, got up, and went back home.

When I got back Leslie was waiting for me. She didn't say anything, but I saw she'd heated up some of my mom's homemade vegetable soup. Together we ate in silence. I was glad I'd skipped the omelet. It was funny. I hated to admit, but I was kind of glad I had Leslie around.

That was the last I heard from Leslie about her 'reasons' for a while. I wasn't sure if I was all that interested or not. I did get a call from Woodrow though.

~~V~~

Woodrow Patch was dying. Long about the middle of a Sunday afternoon I got a call from Woodrow's wife. She said she and Woodrow would like to see me. He'd been back and forth to the hospital a couple times. Everybody knew he was close. She asked me to come by that afternoon. I said I would.

The Patch's lived on a farm outside of town. They'd only had the one daughter, Charlene, and she'd only had the one girl. I pulled up their drive, parked my jeep, climbed the porch and knocked on their front door. They had a big farmhouse with two big separate verandas, but their main entrance had always been the side kitchen door.

I knocked and Mrs. Patch opened the door and let me in, she said, "Woodrow's resting in the sitting room."

I nodded and went in. He had his eyes closed. I thought he looked old, worn out. I went and sat beside his chair and tapped him on the shoulder. He opened his eyes and murmured, "Francis."

I said, "Woodrow, how you doing?"

"Not too good I'm afraid. I guess it's almost over. I'm glad you came by."

I asked, "Is there anything I can do?"

His eyes looked yellow, he looked kind of jaundiced. His hands shook. I wondered what he really had. He rested his head on the back of his chair and said, "There is."

I said, "What. You know I'll do it." He looked so weak. I felt bad.

He said, "You can forgive her. Take her back. Let her back home. She's a good..."

He must have read my thoughts because he stopped talking and leaned back just a little, then he added, "No, I guess not."

I had to say something. I might never see him again, not in this world, "Look I've been thinking about it."

He smiled, he reached for my hand and found my wrist. He squeezed it. God he was so weak! He said, "I know you'll do what's right," then he sort of leaned further back and looked off and out the window. He let go of my wrist.

Behind me I heard Mrs. Patch clear her throat. I turned. She nodded in the direction of their dining room so I got up and followed her. We sat down and she started to talk.

She sat with her hands in her lap, "He's almost gone Francis. Everything's shutting down," she dabbed her eyes with her apron, "Woodrow and I only had the one. He always thought of you as like the son he would have had if we'd had more."

She didn't offer a reason why they never had more kids and I didn't ask. These were people like my mom and dad; they kept their personal matters to themselves.

She added, "You know we think a lot of Leslie. We only had the one, and our girl, she only had the one. If anything had happened to her...well."

I remembered Leslie's role in their granddaughter's safety.

She kept talking, "I'll tell you Francis things haven't always been perfect for Woodrow and me. We almost didn't make it."

I guess she saw something in my face because she explained, "No nothing like you and Leslie, just, just fatigue I guess. We'd had plans, hopes. You know, the big house, a big family. Then there was the incident out on the highway where your Leslie...well she. It scared us, made us look at what we had I guess. Most people would've just driven by, but Leslie, well, you know...how she..."

Mrs. Patch looked like she was going to cry. I supposed someone about to lose the great love of their life was entitled. I wanted to say something; something that would ease her pain. I just couldn't think of anything. I wished there was something I could do.

She looked at me, "We really love her you know. If you could just..."

She must have understood what I was thinking because she stopped talking. She got up and stepped back, "You do what you think's right Francis," she started for the kitchen and her back door. I followed.

That happened on a Sunday. Woodrow went back in the hospital on Tuesday. He never came back home. The funeral was Saturday.

~~V~~