Kenneth Roberts begins his book "Rabble in Arms" with the admonition that "...this is no book for those who swear by old wives' fables, holding all Americans brave, all Englishmen honorable and all Frenchmen gallant."
I have to issue a similar warning here: this story is not for those who think that all stories must either end with BTB or RAAC, and who believe a story is a waste of their time if there is not happily-ever-after ending. If you need one of those for your enjoyment, skip this story. I'd love to give you a happy ending, but in reality, they are actually rare, which probably explains why so much of the audience here requires the escapism these stories usually provide.
I've tried to find a pleasing way to tell this story, but the reality that it's based on won't allow that. I have to tell the story basically the way I've heard it, or I'd be unfaithful to the principals of the tale. I have changed names, dates and places, and most of the surrounding events.
So be warned: no revenge, no secret ninja skills, and no hope in sight.
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I watched her walk out to the resort pool area, followed by her four children. Jennifer was still beautiful, even at 40, with a firm body filling a minimal bikini, belying the four children that should have ravaged that body. Her beautiful figure still commanded the attention of every male in sight. Her breasts stood tall and still entered a room long before her hips. Not a few younger women were punching their companions to regain their attention.
Her older children had inherited the beauty, grace and sensuality their mother personified. Aurora, the oldest at twenty, unconsciously battled with her mother for the crowd's attention. A walking fantasy wet dream blonde, her figure held even more promise than her mother had exhibited at her age.
Apollo, or Paulie, at 18 topped 6' foot, and his muscles were cut from stone. Women of all ages followed his movements with their eyes. His twin, Titania, was at least a half of foot shorter. Unlike her blonde mother, brother, and older sister, her raven hair shone in the sunlight, highlighting her pale skin and green eyes. She had grown up to be the pixie she was named after.
The last child was Balin. At 13, he was still struggling with puberty and was height challenged at 5'3''. His cheeks were cratered by pimples, his shoulders drooping as he walked with his face hidden by his long, straggly hair. A dwarf among a god and goddesses.
It was amazing how her children had grown into their names. They had been almost prophetic. I remember when we had chosen the names, newlyweds dreaming of a large family. Jennifer was into mythology and fantasy games and had chosen the first three names. I'd agreed with them, loving the whimsy and hope I'd thought that they represented. Balin had been my choice and one we had never agreed on. I loved it, but Jennifer hated it. She had been demanding that our fourth child be named Raoul. Who names their kid 'Raoul'? A name shouldn't have more vowels than consonants.
But I had stuck with Balin and she swore she hated it. Then why the hell had she stolen it?
I looked to see Jennifer's husband being wheeled out onto the pool deck by his attendant. I followed his movement until he joined his family in the shade of their cabana. It was easy to mistake his age, which I knew to be 70. His wracked and decimated body looked 90. He couldn't weigh more than that in pounds, looking like an advertisement for 'skin and bones.' His knees were locked together and pushed to the far right of his chair, given the man a twisted and deformed look. His gaunt face gave a hideous smile as his wife moved to tuck a blanket around his lap and legs. He reminded me of a dying dog looking for a final pat on the head from his master.
I stopped looking. On the one hand, when I looked at the children, I felt that they were the life I had lost, although I knew they weren't the life I had lost. I choked up at the thought of that life.
On the other hand, I looked at John Wesley Applegate and was torn between the thoughts, "Poor bastard, I wouldn't wish it on anyone, but you got what you deserved," and "Thank you, thank you, thank you, for the brief happiness you provided me."
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I'd married at twenty-two, to a wonderful girl four years my junior. I'd graduated from college and had my teaching credentials, and a job lined up with the local high school. I was ready for life, and so was Jennifer. We drove down to the gulf for our honeymoon, and thoroughly christened every flat service in every hotel on the way there and back. That girl was gorgeous and loved to fuck. But sex was also a path for her dream: motherhood. All her life, she dreamed of being a mother. And once I'd meet her, my dream was to make her one. I tried, oh, how I tried. But even though, while watching the sun set on the gulf during our honeymoon, we'd already started to debate what our kids would be named, Jennifer insisted on birth control. That debate and the protection would continue for the next two years, as we'd both grown up on the poor side of town, and Jennifer was determined not to have children until our financial footing was sound.
We lived frugally on my salary as a teacher and hers as the receptionist at a dental office. We pinched every penny and did without any luxury, saving for the future. Jennifer was determined that we'd have our first house before our first child, and we were on track. Our future looked bright as the debate on children's names had the first three locked in, with only the second boy's name still up for debate. We were ready. We went house hunting.
We'd found a charming three bedroom, just in our price range and had put our bid in. But while we were waiting on pins and needles for its acceptance, tragedy struck. Jennifer's father had fallen while cleaning leaves out of his gutters and had broken his back. Unable to work and unable to survive on what my mother-in-law brought in cleaning hotel rooms, it was soon apparent that we'd have to step up, and I did, using our savings to pay for his medical bills and household expenses. Jennifer cried but agreed we needed to help them.
When our bid on the house was accepted, the joy in my wife's eyes died when I told her we could no longer afford the down payment. Her father's medical bills had been too costly. She had agreed to pay the bills for her parents, but somehow had never realized that it would drain our account. After going ballistic, she locked herself in our bedroom and cried for the next two days.
When she did leave the room, for food or necessities, she wouldn't let me touch her or comfort her. She would just shake her head and mutter that she would never be able to have children until she was too old, that her dreams of motherhood had been destroyed. She stared at me. "You'll always be poor. You'll never have anything." As she turned and returned to the bedroom that she had locked me out of, she muttered, "I should never have married you."
My heart broke. I had saved her parents. I hadn't thrown away the money or run around on her, but somehow it seems I'd killed her love for me. "No good deed," I thought, "goes unpunished."
