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The foundation is shaken. Can it be rebuilt?
This story is about a man who would rather fight for his marriage, than let it collapse. Who'll fight hard, pulling no punches. There is some domestic violence, and implied very serious violence at the end. It's a story of making amends, reconciliation, and rebuilding.
I never understand stories where the husband sees his wife on the verge of cheating and just watches to see what will happen. It doesn't compute for me. I would like to believe that true love is worth fighting for, as is any marriage, particularly with children involved. I guess that's just the romantic in me.
I have to confess that Life as a House is one of my favorite movies. I'm a big fan of Kevin Kline's work. The story does not have anything in common with the movie, except my play on the title.
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I walked in the door, and immediately could tell something was up. The place was clean, sparkling, pine-sol, polished chrome clean, the first time in ages. Donna was standing nervously in the entryway, dressed up. Not to go out, but not in her typical (as of late) slovenly way. Her hair was up and shone. The children were out from underfoot, and there wasn't a sound of them in the house. Her face betrayed her guilt and nervousness.
I was reminded of our early years, not all that long ago, actually. She never had much money growing up, and went to school on loans, working co-op, and using summer earnings. She was very frugal. When we were married, I had been working for two years and earned a good living. Almost $50K a year. I encouraged her to buy things she needed, and even things she didn't need, but wanted. Every time she bought something for herself, she'd feel guilty, and she'd clean like mad. The entire house, top-to-bottom. It was as if she was punishing herself. It took me years to break that habit. The house had that look again. Guilt.
I had imagined things might come to a head soon, the way things had been going. My concerns had increased dramatically in the last couple of days, when the worst of my fears were confirmed. A concerned 'friend' had brought the issue to the forefront, after seeing my wife in an intimate embrace with another man. I'd started my preparations less than 48 hours previously. I had hoped for more time.
Admittedly this was one of a few scenarios I had anticipated. Confession and confrontation. I silently said a prayer that she hadn't succumbed completely.
"Allen," she said anxiously, "We need to talk."
No preliminaries, no gentle lead up. Right to the point. Too fast, almost, I had to act quickly before she ruined everything to the point of no return.
I shook my head, putting my briefcase on the floor, and walked toward her. "After," I said softly.
She was wringing her hands, face red. Her arms were trembling. "I'm having an...
Ooof!
" she gasped as my fist sped forward, plowing into her stomach with as much force as I could generate. She folded around it, clutching my forearm, unable to breath. I put my arms around her shoulders, holding her so she wouldn't collapse onto the floor. I wanted her on her feet. This worked better if she was standing.
After 30 seconds or so, the first wheezing gasps of air entered her lungs, and tiny cries of agony escaped her lips as she slowly regained the capacity to breathe. I examined her, still snared by her beauty. The tendons in her neck straining, nostrils flaring, mouth open wide in an effort to admit the life giving air she so desperately needed.
When her legs could support her again, she stood shakily, one hand grasping the door-jamb, as her breathing steadied. She stared at me in shock and fear. Understandable, I'd never so much as lifted a finger against her. Then again, until that moment, there never was cause. I, on the other hand, maintained an air of calm, waiting for her.
"I...I can't believe you hit me!" she finally whined.
"I did nothing of the sort. Was there something you wanted to say? If not, why don't we have a drink? It's been a stressful day."
"No, Allen. I can't live like this. I want a...
Aaaah!
", she screamed as the blow to her stomach lifted her off the ground. Solar plexus shot, leaving her gasping and breathless. Her eyes were on mine, fearful, as I eased her to the ground on her back. Her lips opened and closed, desperately grasping for air. I straddled her, and sat on her chest, lowering my weight, crushing her rib cage. My legs pinned her arms to her side and the tears started trailing from the corners of her eyes, as the battle for oxygen was slowly lost.
I rose up a little, and heard the faint rush of air into her lungs. A wheezing, whistling sound, it brought focus back to her eyes. The instant look of relief on her face vanished when I put my hand over her mouth and nose, suffocating her. She fought it, twisting, shaking her head, all in vain. I pressed down on her chest, and watched the light extinguish in her eyes.
I think she got the message.
* * *
She was only out for maybe 30 seconds. Enough time for me to lay her on the couch, her head resting in my lap. I hadn't even needed to deliver mouth-to-mouth, she came back all on her own.
My wife of 8 years sat up abruptly, gasping loudly, eyes open wide. She was obviously terrified. I held her and gently eased her down. I waited for her to get her bearings, and felt the fear and trembling take over her body. She turned her eyes to me, tears streaming freely. I brushed them away.
"Was there something you wanted to talk about, baby?" I asked softly, my hand caressing her cheek. I let my hands glide lower, encircling that long slender neck of hers.
Her eyes locked with mine, hers nervous, questioning, evaluating. Mine patiently waiting. I didn't even squeeze.
"I...I made lasagna," she whispered. "Beer or wine with dinner?"
"Wine would be perfect," I answered. My hands starting moving, rubbing and massaging her neck. I could see the glint of fear in her mesmerizing green orbs. "You know I love you more than anything, don't you, Donna?"
She nodded carefully.
"I would do anything for you. I would fight for you. I would die for you. I would gladly, without hesitation, kill for you. You matter that much to me."
Her eyes filled with tears, and she nodded again. "I know."
I lifted her into my arms, and hugged her firmly. "You look like Hell," I whispered. "Into the bathroom with you and clean up. Don't come out until you're presentable." I walked with her to the master bedroom and guided her into the bathroom. As soon as the door closed I leaped into action. I wanted us incommunicado for at least a few hours. It took all of 30 seconds to rush outside, and unplug the phone access where it entered the house. That also took care of the DSL internet. I located her purse in the kitchen where it normally was, and had her cellphone in only a few more minutes. I turned the ringer to vibrate, and put it in my pocket.
She was still in the bathroom. Feeling a little bit better about my control over the situation, I changed out of my work clothing. For a moment I almost put on my sweats and old t-shirt, as I did most evenings. Instead I opted for Dockers and a nice polo. She had dressed up for me, it was the least I could do. I brushed my hair in the mirror over my dresser.
I heard the door opening, and saw my wife peer out nervously, brace herself, and enter the bedroom. She flinched as I walked toward her, arms open.
"This evening started badly," I told her, as I approached. I hugged her. "Hi baby. I'm so sorry I was a little late. You look marvelous."
She hugged me tentatively, then a little more firmly. "You were only a few minutes late, thanks for calling ahead. The lasagna will keep," she said softly.
"Kids out?"
"I left them with my parents. I...I thought we needed some time together. Alone."
