INTRODUCTION: A few weeks back, Cloacas made a strong comment on a story. He proposed that the whole husband-runs-away genre was silly from day one, and it's high time we all put the whole damned thing to bed and come up with something more original. Unfortunately, originality has never been my strong suit, and I was already half way through this, my third and final attempt to get this story written, and didn't want to stop. So sorry about that, Cloacas. I still think you were right, though.
I know, third and final time. The first attempt was scrapped when it just didn't seem right. I took the wife's point of view, and it didn't work. I couldn't find the voice. The second attempt went way better, and I was almost a hundred single-spaced pages into a third person point of view story when I just couldn't make any headway. Another month wasted. Then, driving to work one morning, I decided to change the whole focus and write it from the husband's point of view only. That's always been easier for me, but I still had a problem. The problem? Well, neither of the prior incarnations had any of this first part in it. I've never been much of a fan of the stories that begin with we met, we fell in love, we were so happy and I was so perfect, and then she up and cheated on me. Still, the long intro of the type I detest seemed necessary to properly set up the story.
Thus, you are forewarned: This is going to start out slow. When you get to the later chapters, though, you'll be able to remember all that's here and see why I did it this way. It was the only way to make the husband-runs-away scenario believable and, if I succeed, compelling–compelling in that the husband has to run away.
This will be the first of four parts, all roughly equal in length. They will be posted on consecutive days, so you should have all of this with little or no delay.
Thanks for taking the time to read, and please take a moment to drop me your comments.
ONE
I stood on the balcony of our condo, looking out over the wide brown ribbon of the muddy Mississippi meandering by four stories below me. The sun had nearly reached the horizon, but it didn't seem in any sort of hurry to finish its daily trip. Instead, it just sort of lazed there, right on the cusp of dipping down, the muggy summer air hanging on the horizon and dulling it to a creamy lemon color. That lazy old sun, I swear you could just look straight at it forever and never go blind.
The dull, hesitant sun seemed the perfect metaphor for my situation.
For my marriage. My life. Everything I knew.
Everything.
I looked down at my hands on the railing. My wedding band stood out, the same dull yellow as the disappearing disk on the horizon.
I don't know if it was the poet in me or the curious kid coming back to the surface.
Whatever it was, I slid the ring off of my finger and stared at it for a moment. Then I reared back and threw it for all I was worth.
Straight at that lazy old lemon sun.
* * * * *
I have to admit it: They all played it perfectly. Truth be told, though, I don't suppose it was really that difficult. God knows I'd wanted Sandra Truelson since we'd first met in junior high school. She was everything a fine Southern belle was supposed to be. Pretty, demure, strong-willed, witty, intelligent, and . . . and just really pretty and incredibly cool in all ways you can name. Five feet four inches, slim, pert breasts, soft blonde hair, and bemused blue eyes that seemed to laugh at some inside joke concerning everything and everyone around her. Her dress was always conservative, and her make-up always lightly applied. All told, she was the perfect daughter for every family photo op that came her daddy's way.
Unfortunately, despite my obvious ardor for her, Sandy's idolatry was forever firmly fastened on my older brother, Stevie.
Stevie was everything I was not. He was tall and athletic with a full head of thick, curly brown hair, dimples when he smiled, and an easy grace and charm that won people over at the first firm handshake.
Stevie would eventually follow in our own father's footsteps. Everyone said it, and they were all right. He had that easy manner overlaying a fierce competitiveness that seemed central to all political powerhouses. He was definitely my father's son, and he'd someday succeed Daddy as the Senator from the Great State of Tennessee. To do that, he needed the perfect Southern belle by his side. Again, most everyone agreed that Sandra Truelson was that perfect Southern belle to be there in his own climb to the top. She'd look gracious and charming and give him a brood of perfect young 'uns with full heads of hair and toothy, dimpled smiles.
The fact that her own daddy was the Speaker of the State House sure wouldn't hurt, either.
* * * * *
I'd just gotten to bed after playing a gig when the phone rang.
"This better be important," I mumbled.
"It's Stevie," Mom sobbed. "He's dead. A car accident."
I don't remember much of the next week that followed, though certain images are still clear in my mind. I remember Sandy at the funeral, dressed all in black. I remember thinking her gauzy veil was the perfect compliment to the dark gray storm clouds sweeping toward the crowd gathered at the cemetery. I remember Mom and Dad just hustling past the gaggle of reporters shouting out questions as they ducked into a long, black limo and drove away. I almost chuckled. Imagine that, Dad avoiding reporters while in the middle of a hotly contested primary race.
"Maybe we should go now, son," the deep rumbly voice of the minister said as he took my arm.
I remember looking around and seeing no one else there anymore. Just me and him and the cemetery people trying to get that gaping black hole filled in before the rains came and turned it to muck.
* * * * *
Daddy won that Senate primary in a landslide, thanks in no small part to voter sympathies at the tragic loss of a young, charismatic son cut down at the beginning of his undoubtedly brilliant career.
Looking back on it, that's obviously where it all started.
Say this for the political gurus: They knew every angle and dreaded wasting any opportunity no matter how sleazy.
I think Faces said it best: I wish that I knew what I know now, when I was younger.
It's just so hard to believe your own family could do something like that to you.
* * * * *
A year and a half later–the day after Thanksgiving–Daddy sat me down for the talk. We were in the den, his office away from the office. It was all overstuffed chairs and dark wood paneling, deep burgundy carpeting and a massive oak desk. This was maybe the third or fourth time I'd ever been allowed inside for more than ten seconds, which meant serious business was at hand.
"What're you gonna do with your life, Mark?"
"What d'ya mean, sir?"
"I mean," he said, fixing me with a stare and sipping his bourbon before continuing, "you can't just put off adulthood indefinitely. You can't just keep bouncing from bartending gig to bartending gig while carrying on this silly ass dream of being a famous rock star some day."
"You think maybe you'll let me finish law school before I rush out and conquer the world?"
"Don't be a smart ass."
I said nothing, preferring to grind my teeth and seethe with fury. He stared, then I saw something click in his eyes. I waited to see how he would change course.
"It's your last year," he said. "Six, seven months and you've got to go out and get a job. Have you given that any thought?"
I smiled. "I've applied to the Public Defender's office," I lobbed at him. "In Memphis."
Now it was his turn to grind his jaws.
"Memphis," he finally said. "Public Defender's office."
"Exactly."
He shook his head. "Not gonna happen."
"Why not?"
"Because no son of mine is gonna be defending a bunch of crackheads and child molesters, that's why. Jesus, can you imagine what the press would do if you actually got some of these scumbags off?"
"Congratulate me on giving meaning to the Constitutional guarantee of innocent until proven guilty?"
"Don't push it. You know what I mean. You're not going to work for no damned Public Defender's office."
"And you'll stop me?"
He nodded. I went expressionless, knowing full well he could, and would, call in a few chits and get me blackballed.
"Then what? What plan for my life have you made out for me?"
I'll give him this, he held a straight face and didn't give me a condescending smile at my acquiescence.
