Ch. 3 Worse Than Death

Consequences

By H. Jekyll

CHAPTER 3: Worse than Death

There's a little sex in this chapter.

*****

"What are your feelings about Laura now?" They were in the third week.

His eyes got wet and he breathed through his mouth. He'd sworn to himself that he'd stay dry-eyed no matter what. He couldn't bring himself to say anything at all but the therapist waited him out again.

"Now. Oh, fuck. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to say that."

"It's okay. But now ...?"

"Now. It's worse than before. I don't know. I hate her and I don't. It's almost funny. I know she's sad. I think she's always sad now. She's filled with guilt. She even hides from friends. And I know she'd like us to be back together permanently. It's not what I want."

"Which one?"

"Her being sad. Sometimes I wish she weren't so sad, so guilty. She deserves it, but even so ... you know?"

"What about being back together? Permanently?"

He sighed again and sat a moment, looking around the room. He stared at a potted plant.

"That's what I'd want in a perfect world. To be really back together. But that's not going to happen."

"Because?"

"It couldn't ever work. She'd have to love me and I'd have to trust her, and she'd have to ..." He tried to think of a phrase that wouldn't be loaded. "She'd have to want me sexually."

"You think she doesn't love you."

"I think she does love me, actually. Maybe surprisingly. But the sex? She made a choice about that, and I wasn't in it."

"You think that's gone forever?"

"We actually tried, a few days ago. It wasn't planned but it happened, and it completely cratered. Anyway, if we had sex it would be out of obligation. You can choose what you do, but you can't choose what you

want

."

"And the trust?"

"How could I ever trust her? Six months! Six goddamn months she's doing him and pulling the wool over my eyes. Six months..." John's voice trailed off. The therapist let the silence cool him down.

"Do you want her?"

"I guess I have mixed feelings. Is that normal?"

"Yes. It is. Frankly, if you didn't you probably wouldn't be here unless a judge ordered it. What about love? You say you think she loves you. Do you love her?"

"Sure."

"'Sure'?"

"It's tough. You ask if I love her. Do I love her? I ask myself that. I can say this much: I haven't gotten over her. I can swear to

that

!"

"And your mixed emotions?"

"That's another thing. Maybe I shouldn't tell you. She'd have to pay for it. I mean, really

pay

for it."

"You don't think she's paying for it?"

"Just feeling remorse since she's been caught? Shit!"

"But you don't want her to be sad."

"Sometimes I do. Hopelessness. There you have it. My stew of emotions."

*****

They barely coexisted after the sex incident, even around the kids. John stopped talking to Laura again, almost completely, and he was careful not to touch her

ever

. But the larger world was about to fall on them, and it came via Myra, who brought it into their house.

"I bumped into Marge again," she told them. "I can't act normal around her. And people are asking what's going on with you two. How many friends have each of you confided in?" She waited. "Yes. That's what I thought. She's going to find out, and she'll be the last one to know. You

have

to tell her."

"Maybe she already knows," said Laura.

"Maybe, but it doesn't matter. She'll know her so-called friends were hiding it from her. You

have

to let her know!"

"I can't do that..."

John cut in. "Yes we can. But it shouldn't come from us. We need to give George a chance to tell her first. I think we owe her that much, to hear it from him."

Laura couldn't stand it.

No!

She thought. "I can't tell him that!"

"How can you not?" It was Myra, who stared hard at her daughter and didn't say anything else.

John looked at each of them and said, "I'll do it. On speaker phone, so we can all hear it. I'll give him the chance to tell her and, maybe, three days to do it. Then we go to their house. Together."

Laura looked like she was going to break.

*****

"Hello, George? It's John Reynolds. Don't say anything until I'm finished. We're telling Marge about the affair."

"My God, John! Don't do that! It'll kill her!" He sounded strange on speakerphone.

"You can tell her first. It's your call, but she's going to know."

"I can't."

"Look. Consider this a courtesy call. You have three days. If you don't tell her first,

we're

breaking it to her, Laura and I

together

." He stared at Laura with that last part.

"I can't! Do you hate me that much? Have you told Laura you're planning this?"

"She's right here. Tell him, Laura." He held the phone to her.

She had a hard time saying it. "I'm ... here, George. We're going ... to do it."

John pulled the phone back and repeated himself. "You have three days. We're not the only ones who are going to go through this."

"Give me more time. Please!"

"Three days!" John punched the end-call button.

*****

The messaging began late Saturday morning. Their entire little community was passing it around: calls, texts, emails.

George Mathis had shot himself.

Laura went "Oh God. Oh God. Oh God," when she heard. She staggered back to a chair and almost fell, holding the phone to her ear and finally managing to sit while a friend from church told her the full news. She was shaking her head, back and forth, again, again. "No, no, no, no, no."

John came downstairs still reading his text messages, one hand holding the phone, the other holding the banister. He stopped on the landing and read it again, then read the next text. When he saw Laura, he walked carefully down the last of the stairs and over to her. She was still shaking her head, looking like she didn't believe it. She looked up at him and held a hand over her mouth. She began shaking her head back and forth, again, again, again. No, no, no, no! She couldn't stop herself. Maybe she didn't even know she was doing it. John didn't know what to think. He sat beside her and didn't say anything.

Nothing else--nothing substantive--came from the community. Sure, reams of speculation but few facts. No one who was talking knew anything, really, except that George Mathis had put his pistol to his temple and pulled the trigger and was dead.

*****

When she didn't have chores, Laura stayed alone in the bedroom, even staying away from the twins as much as she could, sitting at the window and looking out over the neighboring yards and houses to the wooded hills across the way.

John came to her Sunday afternoon. He stood behind her and put both hands gently on her shoulders and leaned down.

"I want you to promise me something."

She barely looked up. "What?"

"I want you to promise that you'll never try to hurt yourself."

She put her face down in her hands and moaned.

"Promise me. Please. Do it."

"Okay. Okay. I promise. I do." She reached a hand up to her shoulder and lay it on his. They were silent. Both of them looked out the window to the distant woods.

"I keep wondering what I'd do. What if it were me and I had to tell you?" They both thought about that. Laura leaned her head on her hand, the one on his hand, the one on her shoulder, feeling the warmth, that lost emotional warmth.

"You ... wouldn't try to hurt yourself, would you?"

"I don't think so. I just wonder how I'd do it ... tell you. I don't know how I could." After another moment, "I didn't know he was so weak." Laura stiffened and leaned away from him and the entire scene changed, but he didn't notice at first, so fully was he wrapped in his thoughts of how he'd tell Laura if he'd cheated on her. He'd never once thought about it, not because there hadn't been temptations, and not because it would be utterly impossible for him to cheat on Laura, but because he never had. "It never crossed my mind that he'd take the easy way out."

Oh no. Laura rose and turned toward him angrily. "Well, I imagine you're pretty happy about

that

, aren't you? Fucking George Mathis is

dead

! Isn't that just

wonderful

! Your big competition is out of the way!"

John slapped her. He'd never hit her, never, he wouldn't, he never thought he could, but he slapped her hard, and while she stepped back and held her hand to her cheek, her eyes wide and her mouth open, he stepped back too and looked first at his hand, then at her, and said, "I'm not glad he's dead. I'm not glad he killed himself. I'm not fucking glad about

any

of this." Then, "If you want the truth, I wish he were still alive so he could suffer like I do!" At that he turned and left the room.

They stopped speaking to each other.

*****

At work, Laura struggled to focus on the job and tried to stay away from the gossip about Mathis and his wife. In a small city a handful of topics can dominate. People who don't even know those involved help pass them on because it's interesting and life can be dull. There were several lines of gossip, not all of which focused on sex, but the sex ones seemed the most popular. Maybe Marge had had an affair and George just found out. Or maybe it was George, and he couldn't face her. Laura left the room whenever anyone started up. She spent a lot of time in the restroom.

*****

George's visitation. The fact is they had to attend. Laura almost backed out and her first words to John since he slapped her were "I can't go in. I can't see him ... or her." But they had to go. It would be unspeakably cold not to, and with the rumors of an affair swirling, attention would surely focus on them if they didn't show. So, they went.

It was in a nice funeral home, a converted old church, lovely and bright inside, as cheerful a place as it could be given its function. There was a line of people waiting to offer Marge their condolences--friends, other parents of young children, people from each of their jobs, neighbors, folks from their church, family who'd come into town. People made small talk while waiting. Something that made this different from most visitations was George's head wound. It was so gruesome that there had to be a closed casket. There was another difference. It was what happened when John and Laura got to the head of the line.

The moment Marge saw Laura she stood up and lunged at her. "What are

you

doing here? How

dare

you come here! Get out, you

slut

! Get out! Get out!" She'd have gone for Laura if John hadn't stood between them. Laura hurried out of the chapel and Marge deflated. Just like that. She told John, in a suddenly softened voice, "I'm sorry for you, John." Everyone was staring and whispering.

"Can we talk? Some other time?"

"Yes." She said it quietly. "I'd like that." But she wasn't through. She shouted again, jabbing her index finger toward Laura, who was trying to look dignified as she hurried out, "But! Not! With!

Her

!"

*****

He found Laura leaning against the car, broken down, hyperventilating. "I wish I were dead! I wish I were dead! I killed him! I killed us! I've ruined everything!" He'd been wondering if she might have gone away somewhere to hide. She began to sway, and he grabbed her.

"Stop it, Laura! Stop it! Stop it!" She was crying onto his suit jacket. "You're responsible for what you did. You're

not

responsible for what

he

did. He

put

this on you. It's not your fault! Just stop it!"

Two couples walked by, gazing at them, not talking. John stared at them until they looked away. One of the men was slower to turn than the others. He put a hand over his heart before continuing on. "Stop it, Laura. We'll figure it out somehow." Laura swayed again. She almost went down but he pulled her closer to him, and they held each other until she could manage to stand on her own. "Hold your breath, Breathe slowly. Hold it again." He had to hold her up. Other people walked by, also looking at them, some not even trying to be discreet, but John ignored them. "Okay. Okay," he sighed. He touched her hair with his lips until he realized what he was doing and turned his face away. Finally, they got into the car and drove home.

*****

By Tuesday night

everybody

knew.

*****

Laura wouldn't get out of bed Wednesday until John tore her covers off. He felt he had to take charge.

"Get up! You're going to work."

"I can't."

"What you can't do is hide in here. So, get dressed. This is our first day of living it down. It'll be the worst one for both of us." He didn't actually know if that was true. "You're going to go in with your head high. Don't slink. Don't let them make you talk about it. Just tell them you won't. Do your job. And Laura," he grabbed her wrists and pulled her up, "remember, George's death

wasn't

your fault."

*****

Frankly, it could have been worse.

At first no one would look at her. Even that wasn't as bad as she felt it was. Not everyone really knew her or knew the situation, and they mostly went about their regular days. They found out soon enough, though, after which they'd glance at her and hurry past. Most who knew the situation tried not to look at her or talk to her--the invisible woman, brightly illuminated under the microscope--so there was precious little of trying to get her to talk about anything at all.

Someone patted her on the shoulder. It was a woman Laura didn't know very well, from Accounts Receivable, Betty something. Betty Lang. "Hang in there, Laura," she said. "It'll get better. Trust me. And if you need to talk with someone who's lived through this, you know where my office is." No, Laura didn't know, but she could find it. Betty squeezed Laura's arm and said "Stay strong," and then walked on. What was there about her past? Laura didn't know. She watched her walk away, then found she was hyperventilating again and had to put her head down on her arms. When she looked up, everyone was busy focusing away from her.

About midday, Laura's manager called her into his office. He was a chunky guy who reminded her of Jason Alexander.

"Take a seat." Laura slumped into one.

"Is this where you tell me I'm fired?"

He jerked his head up and his eyes widened.

"Not a chance! Laura, we all know you're going through a bad time. But you haven't violated any company rules. You're a good worker and you still have friends here. If you need a few personal days off, we can arrange it. Take what you need. If you think you need a new job, well ... I'd put in a good recommendation. But that would be your decision. Certainly not mine."

At that Laura broke down right in front of her manager. She'd have tried to say "That's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me" if she could have, but it was out of the question. He hurried over and shut his office door--something the company lawyers said he should never do when alone with a woman employee, especially one who was emotional--and brought her a box of tissues. She was going to put the tissue manufacturers' kids through college. When she was finished, he brought in his executive secretary. "Laura needs to leave early today and may need a few personal days. Will you get the paperwork for ..." he looked to Laura, "... three days?" Laura nodded. "Three personal days. Laura, I look forward to seeing you back at your desk next week."

So, yes, it could have been much worse. She had thought people would be more overtly hateful, like Marge, but that came mainly online--nasty texts and emails and especially social media posts, some from people she had considered good friends, some from members of her church, calling her a slut and a whore and a murderer, threatening her, hoping she'd rot in hell. Stacey Abramson posted everywhere, and all her posts said something like, "This is what happens when a Jezebel betrays her family and friends!" Laura read everything. She didn't answer anything. She sat and read.

*****

*****

"I would have divorced him."

Except for a large stack of papers, cards, and envelopes on an end table, Margery Mathis' living room was exceptionally tidy. A set of friends had cleaned her house to help her deal with George's death. Marge wondered if any of them had known about the affair all along, but she didn't ask.

She sat in a large, overstuffed chair, her legs curled under her, a small comforter over her lap. She herself was small, almost tiny, dark-haired, large-breasted, with a tiny waist--the sort of thing people sometimes call 'wasp-waisted.' She would attract a lot of men, and frankly a lot of women. She must have attracted George, but obviously she wasn't enough for him.

Why not?

What's that terrible saying, that behind every truly beautiful woman there's a man who's tired of her shit?

Could that be it? That George felt he had taken too much shit from Marge and wanted someone clean and fresh? That would be Laura. Or maybe George was one those philanderers about whom it can be said, "Cheater's gonna cheat."

Well, I can't ask that SOB about it, can I?

Marge was somber but didn't appear to be a devastated widow.

"I'm sorry, Marge. And I'm sorry I brought Laura to the visitation. I didn't know you knew."

"How long have

you

known?"

He looked down. "Weeks. I'm sorry again. Things were so bad between us... and I didn't want to dump that on you. I didn't know what to do, so I didn't do anything."

"Are you going to divorce her?"

"I've filed."

"But she's back in the house." It was a statement, not a question.

"I kicked her out. She was at Myra's. But I've let her back in for now." John moved down the couch to be closer to Marge, so they could talk more easily. She reached up and turned on a floor lamp.

"Because of the kids?"

"Yeah. How do you kick her out without hurting your kids?"

"I know. Mine are at my folks' until I can get things settled. If George had been brave enough to live, I don't know where they'd be. Anyway, I guess it didn't matter when I was told. I already knew." John cocked his head and raised his eyebrows. "Not exactly, but pretty much. You see, Laura wasn't George's first rodeo."

"Oh."

"The first one ... the first that I know about anyway ... was about five years ago. He confessed everything, and he swore eternal fidelity and gave me all his passwords and we went to couple's counseling. The whole nine yards." John didn't say anything. He just nodded. "And everything was great. I got over it. We got past it. It was wonderful. I even forgave the other woman. Dear Lord, we were better together than before! We had Jeannie and Bethany. But I was more observant this time, and I began to see signs."

"How long ago?"

"October? November? I wasn't sure and I didn't want to dig if I wasn't sure. Maybe I was just being paranoid. Because of our history, you know. I became more certain by late winter. I even thought it might be Laura ... the way she began acting around us, but I concluded," she emphasized the word 'concluded,' "that it had to be someone from his job, like last time. Not someone from our church. Certainly not a friend. That was like a dagger to my heart." She took a sip of hot tea from a China cup.

"I'm sorry. How did you find out for sure?"

"There was talk that you'd thrown Laura out, so I put two and two together. Then George left a note. The bastard wrote a confession and killed himself." She was angry, not sad. "He could have just confessed again. I'd still have divorced him, but we wouldn't be going through all of

this

!" With that and a sweep of her arm, she brushed cards and sheets of paper and envelopes off the end table. Some of her tea spilled. John wanted to say 'I'm sorry' again, but after a while they just pile up like the paperwork on her floor. He got down to gather it up. "I heard you comforted her in the parking lot after you left the visitation." Now there was an accusation in her voice. John piled the papers carefully on the end table while Marge wiped up tea with a paper towel, then turned and spread his hands and shrugged.