Jealousy

You read about and hear all the time about the husband who comes home unexpectedly, or shows up some place where he's not supposed to be, and sees his wife doing something he wasn't supposed to see.

You always think it's going to happen to someone else, until that fateful moment when it happens to you.

I wasn't supposed to come home from that particular business trip until mid-afternoon on Saturday, but here it was Friday night, and I was slumped on a stool in the bar of a suburban dance club in my home city.

I was watching my wife of 21 years and some man I'd never seen before cutting a rug like they were long-lost lovers. They were part of a larger group that I assumed were people from Susan's workplace.

Let me back up a second. Susan and this other guy didn't look quite like lovers, but there was a little too much familiarity, a little too much flirting for it to be completely innocent.

I'm a great believer in the old adage, "where there's smoke, there's fire." And my wife and this fellow, who looked to be about the same age as she and I, were creating what appeared to me to be an awful lot of smoke.

I could smell trouble brewing, and I didn't like it one bit.

Before I got too far into this, I suppose this is a good time to introduce myself and my lovely wife.

I was born in October of 1960, and my full honest-to-God given name is Hans Deiter McDonald, and when I was a kid I'd punch anyone who called me that.

My name arises out my mom's very sad history, and while I have grown to accept it, now that I know that history, I've been called Dutch for so long that it's really irrelevant.

My dad, Kenneth McDonald, met my mother when he was stationed in Germany with the Army around 1956. Mom was part of the steno pool, because she spoke and wrote perfect English, and Daddy was the company clerk to which she was assigned.

The happy part of my parents' story is that they fell head over heels in love, got married and she came with Daddy when he returned to the States. They remained deeply in love right up to the day my mother finally succumbed to cancer in 1997.

It's not hard to imagine why Daddy was smitten with my mother. She was beautiful, with sandy blonde hair, classic Teutonic features, big brown eyes and a figure that was close to being statuesque.

Daddy was also good-looking and powerfully built, although he was actually an inch or so shorter than she was. He had dark red hair and the open ruddy features of the Scotsman. Needless to say, they made quite a couple.

No one ever talked much about my mother's background, so it wasn't until she was on her deathbed that I finally heard the story behind my name. She sat me down on the bed in my parents' bedroom about six weeks before she died and told me the saddest tale you can imagine.

By a cruel twist of irony, my mom was born Birgit Schilling in Berlin on Jan. 30, 1933. If you know your history, you will know that was the very same day that Hitler became Chancellor of Germany. Needless to say, Mom's birthday was never celebrated in our house with any enthusiasm.

Her father – Hans – was drafted into the Wehrmacht at the start of World War II and was killed in the Ukraine in the fall of 1942. Considering what happened to his unit – they were annihilated at Stalingrad the following winter – he was probably one of the luckier ones.

Mom, her mother and her little brother – Dieter – managed to survive in Berlin as the war turned bad for Germany, and it looked like they might make it to the end.

But one afternoon in early April of 1945, Mom was sent to the market, and while she was gone their neighborhood came under attack from Russian artillery. When Mom returned from the market, all that was left of their apartment building was a pile of smoking rubble.

There had been no warning, and no one who had been in the building – including her mother and brother – had made it out alive.

Now, Mom was a smart girl. She had heard the stories about what the Russians were doing to German women in the towns they captured, and she knew that a pretty 12-year-old orphan would have no chance in their clutches.

She never hesitated and she never looked back. She took off with just the clothes on her back, her little purse with her ID, some photographs and few worthless marks, and the meager food she'd just bought from the market. She walked to the west – followed the sun, as she put it – managing to sneak through what was left of the German frontline, until she came to a British Army unit.

The Tommies got her safely to the Red Cross, who put her into an orphanage in Bonn, and she managed to rebuild her life. There she learned how to speak and write English.

Mom was a strong woman of impeccable character, but she never really got the chance to grieve for her mother and her brother, and there were always those odd moments when she would dissolve into tears, seemingly over nothing. She'd leave the room, stay behind the closed door to her bedroom for awhile, then come out later with her composure restored.

To my knowledge, my mother never absolutely insisted on getting her way in anything. Growing up in Hitler's Germany will do that to a person. But she absolutely insisted on naming her first son after her father and her brother, and Dad never put up the first objection.

But my Pappa McDonald had served in the Navy in the war, on anti-submarine patrol in the Atlantic, and while he had the utmost respect for my mother, and was quite fond of her, he had a little trouble accepting a grandson named Hans. So he called me Dutch, and it stuck (thank God).

Of course, inevitably some schoolyard joker would call me Hans, and we'd argue, then we'd fight. Until about the seventh grade, it wasn't certain whether I'd ever amount to anything in school, because I spent so much time in detention for fighting.

I guess with puberty came some kind of understanding, both internally and externally. I came to a kind of peace with my name and with myself, and the fact that I was tough enough to fight for my honor gave me the respect of my classmates.

I grew to be right at six feet tall and fairly athletic, with dark blond hair, and I now have a thick mustache that is my trademark, I guess, to make up for my rapidly-receding hairline. I played football and ran track in high school, then went to the university, and on into the work force in business.

When I was 23, I had a job about 100 miles from the university where my younger sister was going, and her senior year, she moved into an apartment. She soon became good friends with her next door neighbor, a nursing student named Susan Waldorf.

Sissy quickly became convinced that Susan and I would make a lovely couple, so she set us up for a blind date. To this day, I don't know what it was about Susan that appealed to me, but by the end of the night, I was in love, and so was she.

By the third date, I was spending the night with Susan and enjoying her very active body. We both loved sex, and we were totally compatible from the start. Just 18 months after meeting, we got married, not long after she graduated from college.

Let me tell you about my wife, because this is a key part of what happened in this story.

I happen to think Susan is very pretty, but she's not someone who stops traffic. She has straight dark brown hair that she usually wears about shoulder length, with cute features. She's about 5-foot-5, and her breasts aren't anything special; they're not too big, and they're not too small. Ditto her butt; it's just right, but nothing excessive.

Her personality is the same way. She's fairly shy in most situations, but get a few drinks in her, get her started and she can be the life of any party. I'm the same way, except I'm not nearly as shy as she is.

The point I'm getting at here is that my wife is about as average a person as you'll find. So, to my mind, a man who makes a pass at my wife has to really want to make a pass at my wife, because she's not someone that most men automatically think of in those terms.

But until that fateful Friday night, the very idea would have made me laugh. Susan and I have been devoted to each other from Day One, I've never cheated on her and I never imagined that she'd cheat on me.

Along the way, we had three kids – Peter is 17, Brooke is 15 and Keith is 12 – and we settled into our careers. I moved up into a middle management position for a national corporation and Susan got into hospital administration after a dozen years in nursing.

Less than a year before this incident, Susan accepted a position with a large hospital, and I began to see some subtle changes. She dressed up for work a lot more than she did in previous jobs, and this group was a lot more social than in her other stops.

About once every few weeks, a group from her work would have a social night, always on a Friday, and they'd hit some clubs. I was rather surprised in the middle of that summer when Susan started joining them. She has never been the type to be a bar-hopper, but she's always been able to knock down drinks with the best of them, me included.

I must stress that these nights always ended innocently. Susan always came home around midnight, maybe 12:15, always a little tipsy, but not sloppy. We'd go to bed, and she'd let me do about anything I wanted with her. So, truthfully, I didn't mind them one bit.

But I never went with her. I don't know why, but it just never came up. It wasn't that I was specifically not invited, but I wasn't directly invited, either. And, the truth is, I wasn't that keen on going anyway.

After the kind of weeks I have in my job, when Friday night rolls around, all I'm interested in is getting home and relaxing. When the kids' high school has a home football game, we like to go, but otherwise, my idea of a good time on Friday night is to lie back in the recliner with a cold beer and read.

It was getting toward the middle of November, just starting to get some chill in the air. I had to spend that entire week in Dallas, for a big meeting with some major stockholders in our company.

The plan was that we would spend the week with meetings, conclude our business on Friday afternoon, then we would attend a banquet that night, before flying home on Saturday.

Those plans all changed around 10:30 Friday morning. We were in a meeting, when one of the senior vice-presidents suddenly started to clutch his chest and the next thing we knew he was on the floor curled up in the fetal position in full cardiac arrest.

By the grace of God, where we were meeting was easy to get into and out of, and it was five minutes to the nearest hospital, so they managed to save his life. But the meeting was over, and the banquet was cancelled.

I had no interest in staying another night in Dallas if I didn't have to, so I got my flight changed and flew on home late Friday afternoon. I tried to call Susan's office to tell her I'd be home early, but she had already left.

When I landed, around 8:30, and got my luggage, I called home, and Peter told me that Susan had gone out with her friends from work. He gave me a couple of places where she thought they'd probably go.

I'm not sure why I decided to join them. I guess I just wanted to see my wife so bad, plus I was really keyed up from the events of that day. I tried her cell phone again, but got her voice mail, which I thought was unusual.

They weren't at the first place I stopped, so I moved on to the next club, a large sports bar. I walked in and I saw them, and I was just about to walk over to her table when the guy sitting next to her leaned in close to her and put his arm around her shoulder. He said something pithy, and she laughed heartily and gave him a very warm look. He pulled his arm off her shoulder, but stayed very close.

There was just something in the way they were interacting that knocked me for a loop. For one thing, Susan looked like she was having the time of her life. She was extremely animated, and not just with the guy sitting next to her. I hadn't seen her like that in years.

And she looked great. She was quite well made up, she was wearing a tight dress that accentuated her curves and I was soon to notice something I hadn't noticed until then. She'd lost about 15 pounds. I don't know how I could have missed it, but she was definitely slimmer than she'd been just a few months earlier.

I just stood there like I was stuck in cement, then did something I would later regret. I slipped to a side booth, out of Susan's line of sight, but where I could watch her. I ordered a beer, and just sat there.

So many emotions were churning in my heart, and jealousy was foremost among them. My wife of 21 years, the only woman I'd ever loved, was having a better time with some stranger from work than she'd had with me in probably 10 years.

I guess when you get to a certain point in your marriage things start to become mundane. You get into a rut, and that's where Susan and I were. I was working long hours, especially during the week, I was drinking more than I should and I was irritable more than I should have been.

And, to be fair, Susan wasn't exactly Little Miss Sunshine, either. We'd bitch at each other some – nothing major and we always kissed and made up – but there was some friction going on in our marriage, some baggage accumulating. The fact that we had three teenagers (well, two teens and a might-as-well-be-a teen) heightened the tension.

But Susan sure didn't look tense or irritable on this night, and that just made my mood that much darker. Remember, I'm half-German and half-Scottish, so you can only imagine how foul I can be when I'm in a down mood.

My mind was conjuring up all sorts of conspiratorial thoughts about what Susan might have gotten up to when I'd been gone on other trips, or what she might do later on that night, knowing I wasn't supposed to be home until the next day.

I drank three more beers before I heard her group rustling up to leave. I watched as Susan's friend helped her get her coat on, and sort of escorted her out with the rest of the group. By that, I mean he kind of took her elbow and sort of guided her out.

I sat way back in my seat, but Susan's attention was riveted to her friend and she never noticed me. As they walked out, I overheard one of them mention the name of a popular dance club. I watched out the window as Susan climbed into the passenger seat of a double-cab pickup truck her friend was driving, and another couple got in the back.

I waited 10 minutes, then settled my tab and moved on to follow them. I had to know what was going to happen, if anything. By this time, I'd calmed down a little bit and was thinking semi-rationally. I just wanted to see what was going on, then I'd decide what to do later, based on what I saw.

This dance club catered to an over-30 crowd, which was why they chose it. Rather than the kind of techno-pop the kids dance to these days, this club features a mix of mostly rock, with a little bit of country thrown in.

And the place was doing a tremendous business that night, so I had no trouble getting into the place without Susan spotting me. I found a spot at the bar to stand, then slid into a seat when one opened up.

From where I was seated, I had a clear view of the dance floor, and I could look in the mirror behind the bar and see the large table where Susan's group was sitting, but she couldn't see me.

As in the previous club, Susan and her friend sat quite close together, but I didn't see any sort of touching that would indicate that they were lovers in any way. But they danced together for much of the time they were there.

The moment of truth came when a slow song came on. I expected Susan to retire to the table, but she and her friend stayed on the dance floor.

I could feel my heart breaking as I watched my wife slow-dance with this man. And yet, as I watched, they didn't appear to be exactly clutching at each other.

Yes, he had his hand on the small of her back and she had her hand on his shoulder, and their other hands were clasped together. But it was simply the standard pose for a slow dance.

When it was finished, though, the man put his arm around Susan's shoulder and she put an arm around his back as they walked back to the table. But that was it.

Still, they continued to flirt, and there were a couple of times when it looked like the guy wanted to kiss her, but never could get an opening. One time when he moved in that direction, Susan even shook her head, but she did so with a very warm smile and a pat on his hand, which appeared to linger.

I studied the man while I sat and sucked down a few beers. He was kind of tall, about 6-2, and slender. He was very good-looking, with a full head of dark hair, and he was dressed immaculately. Susan certainly appeared to be taken with him.

The more I watched, though, the less I liked him – and not just because he was a stranger making a pass at my wife. He just appeared to me to be too slick, kind of a glad-hander type, the sort who thinks they can make a person buy anything. The way he was dressed, the way he smiled, the way he acted all made me think that he considered himself God's gift to women.

Eventually, some of her group decided to call it a night, and began to drift away. At last, by about 11:30, it was just Susan and her friend, and the other couple who had ridden to the club with them. Susan and her friend were still dancing, but she had started drinking sodas, so I figured they were about to wind things up.

Sure enough, about 10 minutes later, the foursome settled their bill and left the club. Again, the guy she was with kind of escorted Susan out, but didn't do anything further, and they didn't notice me.

Nevertheless, I was about half-lit by then, and burning with jealousy. This guy, whoever he was, was stealing good times and close moments with my wife that should have been mine. And yet, I had already started to think about when it was that I had last taken Susan out like that. It had been awhile, several years, in fact.

I was also starting to think about a lot of things, not the least of which was just how good Susan looked when she worked at it. She hadn't dressed up like that for me in quite awhile, but then she'd gone and lost 15 pounds and I hadn't noticed it.

I followed them, and from what I could see, everything was above-board. They drove the other couple back to the first bar where they'd been, then the truck drove back to the hospital, where Susan's car was parked. My heart was in my throat at the thought that my wife was alone in this man's pickup truck.

I watched from a safe distance as the truck stopped behind Susan's car, and she got out. I was about to breathe a sigh of relief, when I watched her walk around to the driver's side. He had his window down, and they chatted for a minute or two, then suddenly Susan leaned in and appeared to give the man a kiss.

It was just a quick peck on the lips, then she stepped back and waved as he drove off. Nevertheless, I was shaken to my core. I just stared as my wife stood there and watched as the truck turned out of the parking lot. Then she kind of shook her head, and got into her car.

Having lived in this city most of my life, I know all of the shortcuts to get from one point to the other, and I raced home in order to beat Susan to the house. Along the way, I thought about how I wanted to handle what I'd witnessed that night.

And, really, what had I seen? I'd seen a ladies man clearly putting the moves on my wife, and I'd seen her flirting back, culminating in what was probably a quick goodbye kiss.

But I hadn't seen any real intimacy between them. They hadn't held hands, hadn't groped each other on the dance floor – when they'd had ample opportunity – and, except for their final moments together, hadn't kissed.