It was a shock. Maddie started weeping, sobbing next to me in the car as I pulled into the driveway. I had to stop half in the street. I didn't want to run over Baltazar's head. It lay on its side, looking up, unblinkingly at me. I had the disjointed thought that I'd never seen his eyes before, as he'd always been staring down at the baby Jesus.
Maddie loved to decorate. Every holiday, any excuse. I'd been embarrassed several times on my birthday or anniversary to arrive home to a yard full of streamers and banners announcing the occasion to the world. Any occasion. Groundhog Day, St. Swithin's Day; heck, if she could find the banners, it being Tuesday would be enough for her to want to celebrate.
But Halloween and Christmas were her decorating Nirvanas. I couldn't park in the garage because of how much room her decorations took up. I didn't like it, but it was her thing, and it made her happy. So, floor to ceiling boxes of decorations, most of them for Christmas.
Each year, more and more were added to the display. This year, there had been a full sized creche, complete with wise men, donkey and sheep, with a glowing angel above the parents hovering over the baby Jesus. Then there was Santa calling out greetings from the roof, together with his sleight and all eight reindeer, and snowmen and elves prancing on the lawn. Every tree and bush had ornaments and lights, blinking in opposition to those on the eaves and around the windows of the house. And a big banner with Merry Christmas spelled out in lights over the front porch.
I found it all a little gaudy and overblown, but have learned first that my opinion doesn't count, and second, not even to offer it unless I'm ready to endure an ice age the rest of the day and into the night. But as I've said, Maddie loved it. She was proud of it and her greatest achievement was not, as I believed, our wonderful children, but the time our house, or rather her decorations, were featured on the front page of the neighborhood penny-saver newspaper. She strove every year to make a greater display, in hopes of repeating that achievement.
But it wouldn't be this year, not the way she wanted. We were likely to be featured in the paper, but only as the victims of massive vandalism. The Merry Christmas sign had been pulled down, and appeared to have been stomped. The creche seemed to have been attacked with an axe. Baltazar's beheading was the least of the damage that had been done. The other figures were smashed to oblivion, Humpty Dumpty fashion. The lights on the house had been pulled down and piled on top of a fire made from Santa and his sleight. There was probably some cooked venison as well, because the reindeer were no longer in evidence.
We lived at the end of a long, empty cul-de-sac, with only five neighbors. We were at the very end of the curving street, but over the years our house had become a "must-see' on most people's Christmas lights tours. The scene of our house, alone in the dark, appeared before the cars as they drove around the curve of the street in the dark night. The house blazed in all the dazzling glory that Maddie had engineered. People loved it.
How had the assholes who did this found the time for such complete destruction and how had they known we'd be out for the evening? That was a question I'd be hard pressed to answer. It was apparent that the vandals had had plenty of time to practice their destruction. I confirmed that when I saw that the ornaments in the trees had been shot out with BBs. At over a hundred ornaments, that had to take a while, although I could tell, given the number of BBs on the lawn and the number of pock marks on my windows from missed shots, that they'd used full-auto or burst fire BB guns. I saw one ornament they'd missed. Other than that, the destruction was complete.
Maddie was kneeling by the creche as I telephoned the police. "Why, why would someone do this? Why would they do this to me?" I gathered her up and brought her into the house; after making her drop the remains of the baby Jesus she was clutching to her breast. I sat her down with a cup of hot tea as we waited for the police.
The police had the same questions I had. Given how much time the destruction much have taken, and the fact that the hooligans would have had to climb up on our roof to destroy Santa, how could they guarantee themselves enough time to accomplish such complete destruction? To start, who knew we'd be out for the evening?
I explained that our daughters were off on a ski trip, and we'd been to my company's Christmas party, at the Pierpont Hotel Ballroom. It had been a big event, but other than my co-workers and our daughters, I hadn't really told anyone about our plans for the evening. The patrolman looked at my wife with the same question, but still broken hearted, Maddie could do little more than shake her head.
The patrolman's partner came back from canvassing our few neighbors with the news that a large van had been parked blocking our street for quite a while that evening. It had magnetic signage on it advertising a catering company, one that further investigation showed to be bogus. The one neighbor who had seen it assumed that we were setting up for a party and thought nothing of it. Neither the make of the van nor the license had been noted.
The policeman commiserated with us but felt that there was no worthwhile evidence and little action he could take, other than filing a report in the event we wanted to make an insurance claim. Before he left, the front windows lit up with flashes, which proved to be the local press recording the damage. Our house and Maddie's decorations would again grace the papers.
[*]
The night had started out so promising. Maddie had been in a wonderful mood, flirtatious and sexy, like she used to be. We'd been in a slump, she and I, for the past year. Irritable and morose, it'd been like being married to a porcupine. Any attempt to touch her would result in a sting. I couldn't figure out what I might have done, but something had thrown our relationship out of whack.
Maddie was only 39, but I wondered if she could be starting early menopause. Wanting to keep all my body parts intact, I resisted the impulse to question her about it, but it remained my best guess. I decided to give her the room she might need to adjust to her changes.
In June, when that space included her request that I move into the guest room, I bit back my knee-jerk anger and agreed to give her the room. I felt like she had slipped away but tried to be patient and understanding.
[*]
This weekend had started out well. Putting up all those decorations, with the new full-sized (and expensive) creche as this year's addition, seemed to have put Maddie in a great mood. My wife was back, the happy, flirty girl I used to be married to. As she prepared for my company party, she even stopped, and kissed me; a kiss that promised more, later that night. She batted her eyelashes at me and suggested that I might want to move my toiletries back into the master bath.
At the company bash, Maddie danced like a twenty-year-old; graceful, sexy, and glowing in her beauty and the love she showed, for me. It floored me. After a year of abuse, suddenly, my loving wife was back in my arms. Loving me. Only me.
I couldn't figure out what had happened. It felt like an emotional whiplash. After a full year of crap, I was finally ready to move on. Now this mood swing.
Had she gotten hormone therapy? Or drugs?
[*]
Maddie usually emptied the trash cans in the house, but she was out buying that new creche back in early October when I noticed the full can in the hall bathroom. So, I grabbed a trash bag, and made the rounds, emptying the cans to save my wife from the effort.
When I entered the master bath, for the first time in almost four months, and emptied the wastebasket, there was evidence that, no, Maddie hadn't begun menopause. She was obviously menstruating.
Looking further around the master bath, I found the round birth control pill containers in her drawer near the sink. Three containers, with the top one missing just one pill. The prescription was issued in the last week of January. I figured this must be her third three-month refill.
Nine months of birth control. Nine months of her pushing me away. Five months since she kicked me out of our bedroom. Nine months of patient understanding. Nine months of being celibate while my wife, who always eschewed birth control, suddenly found the need for them.
Nine months. Well, at least it wasn't nine months of pregnancy.
