Shock, A Short Story by KC Brock

KC Brock (1,479 words)

SHOCK

                I’m driving to the home of my lover to tell him it’s over.  Ed…Jenny’s Ed…my lover?  What an overstatement.  It was a one night stand and wrong on so many levels.       

            “It was the martinis,” I say aloud, half believing myself. I take my Venti Starbucks from the cup holder.  A front tire dips in a pothole. Coffee splashes out of the drink-hole onto my wool suit.

            “Shit!”  I put the coffee back and dab the spill with a napkin, yelling at myself.  “I don’t have time for this crap!  I’ll have to go home and change before my 11:00 appointment. I won’t have time to beat around the bush with Ed because if I’m late…I can’t be late…I need this deal.  The commission will take care of those lawyers, get me caught up on the mortgage, pay off this car.”  I look around the interior of my Lexus.  Extravagant, I admit, for someone so new in such a competitive business, but I had to get something decent enough to drive clients around in. 

            I hate how gray the day is.  It’s been raining for all of November. Not exactly ideal weather when you’re a realtor.  People prefer to buy houses when the sun is shining. It’s been hard this past year since Gerry and I split…getting by on my own.  A real challenge. But I’m doing okay.   Mom raised us to be tough.

            I check my watch.  9:30. Jenny should be at the gallery by now for her meeting.    

            I continue talking aloud to myself.  “Poor Jenny.  Her work is so beautiful.  She shouldn’t have to schmooze all those rich old farts.  And for what?  They come to buy Ed’s work, not hers.  Edward Hammersmith.  When someone mentions Hammersmith Gallery, it’s Ed they think of not Jenny.  Why is it so easy for him? What is it about Ed that makes him such a ….. a magnet?  He looks like a slob… raggy, paint-splattered jeans and old t-shirts.  He’s rarely clean-shaven…his hair’s a mess.  But, when he starts talking, somehow, you’re drawn to him.  It’s not confidence.  More like…passion.  He is a wonderful artist.  Charming and funny…when he’s in the mood. And he smells so good all the time.  It’s as though his aura has a smell.  For years I’ve wanted to stuff my face in his neck and just suck it in.” 

I inhale through my nose, long and deep.

“He’s a big guy too.  Tall and meaty.”  I’m thinking of the weight of him in bed.  Smothering me…making me want to scream but I can’t get air because he’s taking it all…with his sheer size.

            I come to my senses just as I’m about to miss the turnoff.  I stop, sliding a little on the wet asphalt and wait for a break in the traffic.  Marine Drive is busy for a Sunday. 

I wait for joggers to cross the road.  I moan and rub my forehead.  My hand is cold.

“What am I thinking?” I ask myself out loud.  “Ed’s a jerk. And he’s lazy, selfish, egocentric…a complainer.  I hate what he says about Jenny.  He calls her a nag…a killjoy.  He’s the diabetic, not her. How many times has she saved his life in thirteen years of marriage?  She’s tried to get him to stick to a good diet, to exercise, to keep his doctor’s appointments.  She’s had to called the ambulance for him when he was too sick to get to the car.  This last time…when was that?  Six weeks ago?  She found him in bed foaming at the mouth and he wouldn’t wake up.  I was at the hospital when the specialist spoke to Jenny.  He said that Ed had to give up alcohol, quit smoking and follow a strict diabetic diet.  He gave her the ultimatum.  I remember it word for word.  That doctor said, ‘Either Ed cleans up his act or he’s going to die.’  Jenny was a wreck that week…told me she couldn’t take it any more and I don’t blame her.  It’s not fair.” 

I turn onto 29^th Street and head up the hill; a neighborhood I’ve always loved for the size of the houses, the huge lots, mature gardens, ocean views….wow.  These are the kind of places I want to list.

“How can I talk about being fair?  Who was replenishing Ed’s drinks last night?  Who was lighting his cigarettes?  Who told the cab driver to leave when Ed asked to come in for a ‘quick sec’?” 

I shake my head, disgusted with myself.

“But, we were having such a great time.  I’ve never seen him be so sweet and funny.  And Jenny did insist we go together while she prepare for her meeting,” I say in my own defense, except I’m the only person in the car to hear it.

“Listen to me,” I groan. “I really am a terrible person.” 

I have to fix this now.  It will never happen again and I’ll make Ed promise…no I’ll make him swear never to tell Jenny anything.  No one is getting hurt.

            I’m somewhat relieved by my resolve and reach for my coffee.  It’s lukewarm now so I gulp it like water.

            At Roseberry Lane I turn right.  At the second driveway, after the highest privet hedge, I begin to pull in but jam on the breaks just in time. In front of the house are two West Vancouver police cars and an ambulance. 

            Right away, a cop waves me to back out.  I reverse, pulling the car in so close to the hedge I can hear the spiky branches scraping the passenger side door.  I scramble into the torrential downpour, hurrying toward the house just as paramedics emerge with a stretcher.  The body is covered in white sheets from head to toe.  My hands clamp over my mouth as I watch the paramedics heave the weighty load.  Two cops step forward to help and the stretcher slides into the ambulance.

            “Excuse me…Ma’am?”  One of the cops comes toward me.

            From behind my hands I say, “This is my sister’s house.”

            Rain is thumping on his cap, splashing off the circular rim like a fountain.  He leans toward me with his gloved hand near his ear.

            The coffee I just drank is in my chest, inching its way up my throat.  I swallow twice.

“This is my sister’s house.”

He nods and puts his hand on my shoulder guiding me to the front door.

Inside, the house is hot, but I’m shivering and my suit is soaked.  Stuck to me, it feels too heavy to be made of cloth.  Jenny is sitting in the living room.  A cop sits across from her, notepad in hand.  There are two full glasses of water on the coffee table between them.  Jenny looks my way and gets up.

“Here’s my sister,” she says. “Camilla.”

We meet in the middle and hug. 

“I was just about to call you.  Ed’s dead.  Insulin shock.”

“Oh no…oh my god…oh no.”

“I know.”  She shakes her head, eyes closed.  “I slept in the guest room last night. I don’t even know what time he came home, what he ate, how much insulin he took. You remember what the doctor said?”

 “Of course I do.” I take my sisters hands in mine.  I notice they’re warm and steady. 

“I was leaving for my meeting and at the last second decided to check on him.  There he was, a big lump in the middle of the bed, eyes shut, and mouth open.  All normal except I couldn’t hear any snoring.  I knew instantly, Camilla.  I just knew.”

The room feels as though it’s spinning.  I put my hands on Jenny’s shoulders.  They’re like stone. 

“If only I’d heard something…like all the other times.  Maybe he’d still be alive.” She turns her head toward the officer.  “But I didn’t hear anything.” 

I give her shoulders a loving squeeze and she looks at me. I see her wink, but before this has time to register the officer intervenes. 

“Mrs. Hammersmith says you were with Mr. Hammersmith last night.”

“Ah…yes.” Immediately I’m picturing in my mind Ed’s big, sweaty face bobbing over mine, red from exertion. 

“I assume, because you’re his sister-in-law, you’re aware of his serious health issues.”

“I am.”

“What was Mr. Hammersmith’s condition when you last saw him?”

I clear my throat.  “We were at a party.  Alcohol was consumed.  At around midnight I called a taxi that Ed and I shared.  I was dropped off first.”

Jenny sighs heavily. “He knew he wasn’t supposed to drink.  His doctor told him.”

The officer thanks us and tells Jenny he’ll call in few hours when the coroner has finished.

I’m overwrought with guilt.  This is my fault and I know it.  When we’re alone I’ll confess everything.  It’s too much to keep from my sister.  She deserves the truth.

            Jenny closes the door and turns to me with an expression on her face I cannot describe except that it’s nowhere near what I’m expecting.  I open my mouth to speak, ready to spill my guts.

            “Shhhh, little sister,” she says.  “Trust me…all is well.”

THE END

             

Cheating Kim, A Short Story by KC Brock

Approx. 4800 words

Cheating Kim

The rain was coming in sideways through the open window of my SUV.  The police officer squinted at me from under the wide brim of his hat, rain dripping down his nose and off the bottom of his clean shaven chin.  His lips were moving, but I didn't understand what he was saying, because I was transfixed on his yellow poncho and how every car that went by splashed him with the dirty stream running down the road.

"Hey.  Are you going to be okay?" He paused, looked at my driver's license he was holding, and then continued.  "Kimberly?  I can follow you home, just to be sure."

I shook my head, more to clear it than respond.

Someone honked.  He turned and waved at the tow truck as it pulled back onto 25^th Street and drove down the hill.

"Well, I think I will anyway."  He reached in and patted my shoulder with his big wet-gloved hand, smiling warily.  He had a nice smile with white teeth, I noticed.  "I wouldn't want to push your luck any further today."

****

I’ve always loved a good secondhand bookstore, the musty smell of stained carpet, moldy paper and years of dust and dirty fingerprints.  The building is usually too cold or too hot and poorly lit so that one has to watch out for the stacks of old, out-of-print books with coffee cup rings on the jacketless covers.  This time, I’d felt a strange vibe as soon as I walked in the door greeted with an overwhelming waft of cheap imitation-rose perfume that made my eyes water.  Two older gals with white curler-set hair, sat side by side behind the front counter eating from a plate of thin triangle-cut sandwiches set before them with a brown tea pot and a couple of dainty cups.  Whatever was in those sandwiches was crunchy or else their jaws were clicking.  No music played and all I could hear was click, click, click.  

I was looking for a book by Tim Winton, an author recommended to me by a friend.  I hurried through the W's as quickly as possible because the clicking was irritating. I’d had a clicking jaw once when the twins were babies.  The doctor said it was hormonal and one day it would just stop, which it had. 

On the floral papered shelves I saw Wang, Wakefield, Waketon, Wall, Wallace.  Wallace! I’d remembered.  That was when my jaw-clicking had been at its worst, when we had gone camping on Wallace Island.  I'd groaned remembering the hellish trip and glanced up to see the chewing ladies turn their heads toward me, briefly, before returning to their afternoon tea. 

We were with Mark's old school friend Dave and his wife Shelley.   They didn't have kids and never planned to.  Shelley wasn't a motherly type.  She was a party girl who liked to drink and smoke pot and socialize.  Yes, that's what Shelley was best known for, socializing.  Dave worked for Shelley's dad, who owned several apartment buildings in the lower mainland, as a building manager. 

What a struggle I’d had those three camping nights trying to nurse the twins to sleep, completely unable to get into a comfortable position on the airbed to nurse both of them together, as I was used to doing at home.  After some time they’d dropped off and I'd crawled out of the tent hoping to sit by the fire and participate in some adult conversation.  The lawn chairs stood empty around the nearly burned-out campfire.  I’d thrown some sticks on it and sat down to wait.  Minutes later, I’d heard them coming from behind the shack, a derelict cabin that once belonged to the family who ran a resort on Wallace Island in the 1940's and 50's.   When they were close enough to see me Mark had jerked in surprise.

"I thought you were asleep."

"I was just getting the girls down.  Where's Dave?"
            Shelley unknotted the sweatshirt from around her waist and pulled it over her head, then said, "He went back to the boat earlier.  He was tired.  I guess I'll go too."

I’d watched as Mark reached over and tucked the tag in at the back of her neck.  "Sit with us and have a beer."

"I'll have a beer," I'd said.

She'd pinched his cheek then patted it.  "Goodnight, Mark.  Goodnight."

"Goodness!  Oh my goodness, Dorothy.  Just look at the rain," said one of ladies at the counter.

I burst out of my memory as the wind blew a sheet of water against the front window with enough force to make it vibrate.  Both ladies gasped.  The smell of their perfume was choking me.  I rushed toward the door.

"Perhaps you should wait, dear, until this storm settles down a bit."

I can't recall driving on the highway, but I made it to 25^th St.  I remember hearing the screech of tires and then the police officer was with me.  He followed me home, as he said he would, and tapped his horn twice when I turned into my driveway. 

The rain stopped and the sun was out, making the grass and leaves on the trees look as though they were covered in diamond dust.  Toby was on the porch, visibly perturbed that he had been left outside in the rain, mewing as though he was being tortured.  He didn't care that my car and I had just been hauled from a ditch. I hurried to let him in and I wanted to get inside as well.  My first instinct, whenever I'd been in a stressful situation, was to call Mark.  I picked up the phone to dial his cell, but then stopped.  I didn't have a clue what to say to him.  I dialed the girl's dormitory at UVic instead. 

"Hello?"  A cheerful young woman's voice had come on the line.

"Could I speak to Elizabeth or Tara Evans?"

"They're not here right now.  Do you want to leave a message?"

I felt my throat swell and when I tried to answer my voice cracked.

"Excuse me?"

"No, thank you," I managed and then pressed off.  The message light was blinking.  It was Mark, letting me know he was staying a few extra days in Toronto.  The Trade Show was going well for him.  There was a lot of interest in his newest software design and some customers wanted him to "personalize" it to meet their specific needs.

"At least he had the decency to call and tell me he’s staying longer this time?"  I said to Toby as he rubbed his damp fur against my calf. 

The house was so quiet.  A five bedroom Craftsman I’d chosen because it was the least ostentatious of the half-a-dozen monster-homes Mark had picked six years earlier when he started bringing in mammoth-sized checks for his work.  It had once been a hubbub of giggling teenaged girls and loud pop music. The silence I once dreamed about had become a dark rain cloud over my heart.  I suddenly couldn’t stand it and let out the loudest scream I could, for as long as I could, and watched Toby bolt up the stairs, his tail puffed out as fat as a raccoons.

My throat hurt from screaming. I went to the kitchen for a glass of water and was distracted by movement in the neighbor's garden.  It was Starla stringing up her dahlias that had bent in the rain.

****

The next morning, instead of driving to tennis, I jogged to the club.  I played for hours in the hot, late summer sun, offering to play doubles with anyone who needed me, until 3:00 when I couldn't hold my racket any longer; my right hand was so stiff.  I walked home and went straight to bed, where I slept until 5:30, when I woke up hungry.  In the kitchen, making a cheese and tomato sandwich, I saw Starla in her garden picking dahlias.

"Look Toby, she's put on a shirt, it's must be cooling off." I craned to look over the privet hedge that separated our properties.  Toby was asleep on a chair in the corner, but including him in my conversation was better, in my mind, than admitting I was talking to myself.  "I guess it's a little chilly gardening in a bikini."

I couldn't help but admire the leanness of her limbs and the feminine curve between her waist and hips.  I knew she was older than me and even though I played tennis and was a regular jogger, her figure put mine to shame.   She picked about a dozen of the large pink blooms, examining each individually before placing it in a basket.  She smiled as though taking pleasure in the beauty and uniqueness of every one.  I couldn't remember the last time I'd done something that had made me feel the way she looked.  I seem to have forgotten about simple pleasures in life, the act of doing something small just because it makes me happy.  She set the full basket on the ground and stretched her arms in the air, her back arched into a C.  Her eyes caught me at the window where I stood in my kitchen.  I wanted to look away but I froze.  Then she picked up her basket and disappeared through the side door of her house.  I released the breath I hadn't been aware I was holding. 

****

Starla lived in the 100 year-old Tudor style house for as long as I'd been on Vista Lane, yet I’d never spoken to her.  She was the topic of gossip at the tennis club and Cashews Restaurant in Dundarave Village where my friends and I met for coffee.  A place where people with a lot of time on their hands would come to talk about somebody and Starla was an easy target because she dared to be different - she didn't follow the fashion trends, she was a loner, and always held an expression of having a secret - and these qualities attracted attention. There were stories that she was part of a fanatical religious group who met during a full moon and fornicated with pig's blood smeared all over themselves.  Because I was her neighbor they quizzed me about anything strange I may have witnessed. 

"She works in her garden, even in the winter," I said.  "And she sells homemade pies from a cooler at the end of her driveway."

"I saw her the other day at Ambleside Beach," said Audrey, scooping organic brown sugar into her dark roast.  "She had a bird on her shoulder.  But not a parrot or anything normal like that.  It was a crow."

"It's a raven," I said. "It's her pet.  It splashes around in a bird bath while she deadheads her roses."   

"I bet she still does drugs."  Audrey paused to slice her morning glory muffin in half.  "She went to high school with my cousin, right here in West Van.  He said she was a druggy.  That's why she moved to Hornby Island.  Her parents sent her there to stay with an aunt or uncle or something.  She was there for 25 years, probably waiting for them to drop dead so she could inherit the mansion."

"Well, that explains why she never wears a bra," said Meg.  "And her clothes." Meg adjusted the waist band of her black sport pants and straightened her spandex halter, the uniform all three of us wore. "I've never seen so much crocheted hemp."

Audrey's wide blue eyes focused on me.  "Do you ever smell marijuana coming from her house?"

I shook my head, blowing on my steaming green tea.

"I wonder how much money she really has?" commented Meg.

I picked at my brioche with a plastic fork. "I wish I was a woman with independent means."

"What are you talking about, Mark makes tons of money."

"But it's his money."

My friends looked at me with puzzled expressions.

"She does it on purpose," said Audrey, getting back on topic.  "Really wealthy people like her get off on being weird just for the attention."

"I don't think she cares what people say about her," I said digging in my purse for an Aspirin. I could feel a headache coming on.  "Maybe she's comfortable with herself.  You know, just happy about who she is."  I looked up to see both of my friends staring at me. "I wish I could be like her."  Their astonished faces followed me as I got up from the table.  "I'll pay the bill on my way out."

****

I took a glass and a bottle of Chianti to the porch and stretched out on a wicker sofa smothered in floral print pillows.  It was still hot at 10:00 in the evening, more like August then September.  By the third glass of wine my stomach was warm, my limbs rubbery, my head murky.  I decided that I didn't care if Mark was a cheater.

"I don't care what he does any more," I said to myself.

A clicking, warbling sound, like an exotic African instrument, came from the other side of the hedge.  After a moment, I realized it was Starla's raven.  I knew of a space in the wide hedge where the privet leaves were sparse. With the moon overhead full and bright in the blue/black sky, I found it and crawled inside like a cave.  From here I could clearly see Starla, circling a bed of tall lavender that surrounded a cement bird bath where the raven flapped in the shallow water.  She was naked, waving her arms above her.  Then she got on her knees and tilted her head toward the sky. 

"The moon, oh the moon," she chanted.   

On the grass, she rolled over and over reciting her rhythmic call.  Her long hair wrapped around her neck and covered her face. She stopped in the position one would be in to make a snow angel and lay still, except that she turned her head in the direction of where I was hiding.  I backed away with dirty knees and my heart pounding in my chest.

****

The next day I got up early and kept busy in the kitchen where I could watch Starla's side door. I was curious to see if the ritual she had performed would cross over into the day.  By noon I grew tired of waiting for her to emerge and was disgusted with myself for being so pathetic and nosy.  I called Meg to meet me at Cashews for lunch.  I wanted to talk about Mark.

"He's scum, Kim," she said through a mouthful of salad.  "You've known that for a long time."

"Don't say that."  I stirred my minestrone.  My stomach was still delicate, the after effects of too much wine.  "I could be making more of this than it is."

"I've never known you to exaggerate about anything.  Even if he never cheated, you've been unhappy for a long time and you know it.

"I wouldn't say unhappy."

"Then you're bored."  She picked up a brown piece of lettuce with her fork and set it beside her plate.  "You're not used to having so much free time.  You could take a watercolor class at the rec centre."

"I'm not bored, I'm boring. I've never done anything worth talking about."

"That's not true."

"Really?  When was the last time you heard any juicy gossip about me?"

Meg stopped chewing and leaned in, brows tight as fists.  "You want people to talk about you?"

"No, of course not."  I leaned in as well.  "I just want to do something."

We straightened while our waitress filled the water glasses and moved on to the next table.

"I'm not jealous of Mark having an affair." I took a sip of water and continued.  "I just hate that his life is more interesting than mine.  I mean, if he is cheating, it's just one more bit of proof that he's doing what he wants to do.  What I mean is, he's getting what he wants out of life and I'm not."

"Strange logic, but who am I to judge?" She picked up a multigrain roll and bit into it.  "So, have an affair."

My eyebrows arched.

Meg put down the roll. "Have you got someone in mind?"

"Not really." I said pushing aside my bowl of tepid soup.  "Just forget it.  An affair is a selfish thing to do."

"Kim, please.  You have done the right thing your entire life."  She took a sip of wheat grass juice.  

"How can you drink that?" I crinkled my nose.  "It smells like a lawn."

"It tastes like a lawn, but you get used to it."  Meg wiped the emerald mustache from her upper lip with a napkin.  "Listen to me; I've been your friend a long time.  Think about what would really get you excited and just go and do it."

****

I drove home with Meg's words repeating in my mind.  I'd never done a risqué thing in my life, but the thought of it gave me an adrenalin rush.  As I slowed down, approaching my house, Starla was putting a couple of fresh pies into her cooler.    She wore a light cotton dress, unbuttoned low in the front.  Her hair was tied up in a chignon displaying her long, slim neck.  She followed me with her eyes as I pulled my SUV into my driveway, my stomach leaping.  I looked away, but it was obvious I’d been watching her too.  I pulled into my garage and let the door close before getting out.  I hurried to the kitchen window and she was by the bird bath watching me. 

"Oh my god." I sank to the ceramic tiles, burying my face in my hands.  Meg's words were still fresh in my mind.  "Go and do it."  I took a ten dollar bill from my wallet and marched out the front door, amazed at my own quick thinking. 

"I only want to buy a pie," I said to myself, practicing.  When I rounded the hedge she was there.

I held out my arm with the money on my open palm. "I want to buy a pie." My voice was confident but my face burned.  I had never been this close to Starla and was taken aback by how she looked.  Not young, but healthy and classically beautiful, like an ashen haired Sophia Lauren.  She had the kind of eyes that made the person who was looking at them feel safe.

There was only a step between us and she claimed it.  She smelled of cloves and honey and something musty like oregano.  She put her hand on my arm and stroked it with her thumb.  I felt like a pot that was about to boil over. I pulled away but she tightened her grip.  Her grey eyes focused on mine as though she were trying to reassure me.  The pulse in my ears competed with a leaf blower down the street.  I stopped struggling and when she relaxed her hand I pulled out and ran to my house where I hid, staying below the windows so she couldn't see me.  And more important, I couldn't see her.

****

Hours later,  I sat on the porch, my bare feet tucked under the softness of my sleeping cat, and drank my way through a fresh bottle of Chianti, waiting for it to get dark.  I thought about my daughters and how being a mother was a thankless job, but gratifying.  My girls were so happy and healthy and successful in their own right, I couldn't be anything but proud.  I was their age when I’d met Mark. My parents had successfully instilled in me the importance of being a wife and even though I knew marrying him would be a mistake, it was me who had instigated our engagement.  Opposites attract, but our differences grew tiresome fast, even before the wedding.  I was sure Mark thought so as well, but I guess we were both too young, too embarrassed to call it off.  Anyway, it was just a party for our friends and for my parents who had planned and paid for it.  For 20 years we had been roommates.  We shared a house and the girls and nothing else. 

The tap of Starla's side door closing roused me from my thoughts.  I downed the last of the wine I'd been nursing and stood.  The alcohol went straight to my knees, which gave a little, so I held the railing until I was steady enough to walk.  Halfway to the hole in the hedge I changed direction and took the driveway.  She was standing by the bird bath running her fingers in it and staring at the water, as though trying to look like she thought she was alone but she knew she was not.  I took this action as a gift; she was giving me the opportunity to change my mind without embarrassment.  I touched her bare shoulder and let my fingers trace the protruding collar bone.  She turned and unbuttoned my blouse, leaning in to kiss my throat. 

****

The next morning, a downpour outside roused me from concrete sleep.  The bedside clock read 8:43, but the dark clouds made it feel much earlier.  Hesitantly, I turned my head, to find that I was alone in my bed and that everything looked the same. Sighing, I told myself it was a wild dream.  I rolled onto my side, cuddling my pillow, and when my hands neared my face, I smelled them, and knew it hadn't been a dream.  They smelled of her. 

I jumped from my bed and ran downstairs to the kitchen window.  There was no sign of Starla in her garden and no lights in her house had been turned on yet.  I ran back to my room to shower and get dressed, meaning to escape as fast as I could, but when I was in my car and shoved the keys in the ignition, I stopped.

"What am I doing?" I said.  "Where am I going?"  My voice was loud in my ears and echoed slightly in my large vehicle.  I held very still listening to the inner noises of my body; my breath and heart beat and the faint creaking sound of my bones rubbing together inside my flesh.  Then, my stomach growled, so hard I felt it, and I laughed at my own dramatics. 

Back in the house, I made coffee and toast with three scrambled eggs.  After that I was still hungry so I made more toast and spread it thick with butter and strawberry jam.  The food calmed me down and brought me back to reality.  It was entirely possible that what had happened the night before meant nothing to her and that everything would go on as before.  The rain had stopped and the sun was drying the freshly washed world, while birds swooped and pecked at the grass, collecting worms that hadn't been able to return to the sodden earth.  There were dishes to wash and I thought I could start my Christmas lists for the girls, and pick up a few groceries in town. 

"Meg's right," I said refilling my mug with coffee.  "Art classes could be exciting."

The familiar squeak of her side door drew my attention, and Starla emerged.  Her knowing eyes and gentle smile made my heart ache in a way I had never felt before.   It scared me how badly I wanted to run to her and cling to her body and tell her how much I loved her.  I felt swollen and numb.  Before allowing myself any time to analyze what I was doing, I went out the front door ran around the hedge.  Starla was standing where she had been, by the bird bath, but this time she was facing me.  My face burned like a shy teenagers, but I forced myself to walk on.  She took my hands in hers kissed them. 

"I'm so glad you weren't afraid to come back," she said.

It was the first time I heard her voice.  It was strong and low, yet feminine, with confidence in her tone that I associated with being educated or having been brought up with culture.

"I am afraid," I said, hoping my uncultured voice didn't sound awful and stupid to her.

She wrapped herself around me, her heart beating against my breast.   "Don't be," she whispered.

"What am I going to do?" I sobbed into the curve of her neck.

"Whatever you want."

****

That evening Mark arrived home from Toronto.  Starla had told me she was prepared to keep our relationship as private as she kept the rest of her life. As appealing as that was, I knew I couldn't do it.

"Mark," I said cornering him in the bathroom while he stood at the toilet urinating.  "Did you have an affair with Shelley when we were on Wallace Island?"
            I shocked him enough that he was able to stop midstream and look at me, white faced. I stood my ground, arms crossed.

"Do you mind?  I'm taking a piss here."

I stepped back, closing the door, and went to the living room.  I sat on the couch until I heard the toilet flush, the tap run, shut off, and I stood up again.  He came out rubbing his hands on the linen cloth that was supposed to be just for décor, not drying, and threw it on the couch  He'd had time to recover from my accusatory question, and I knew from his gate and the way he held his head, that he'd also had time to mount his metaphorical high-horse with full intentions of getting out of the mess he was in.

"What are you going on about now?"

"I know you've been cheating on me for years and I've had enough, Mark.  I'm done with this charade."

He snorted from his nose. "Do you think you can do better than me?  Just go ahead and try.  I guess there's a seat for every ass."

"Yes there is."

"What are you saying?"

I picked up the rumpled cloth and folded it in a square with the embroidered lily perfectly centered on top. "There's someone else."

I focused on the pink stitches of the lily, but I felt him staring at me.  For several minutes we stood in silence, and then he sat on the couch, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped in front of his face.  His breath pushed out his nose and whistled slightly as it blew across his knuckles.  Then his hands opened and cupped his face, his fingers turning white as they pressed into his eye sockets.

 "It didn't mean anything.  Nothing."  His words sounded juicy, his mouth full of saliva.  "I'm telling you none of them were anything to me.  Please, Kim, don't break up our family."

"I've been with someone else.  Don't you understand?"

He raised his face above his hands, the wetness on his cheeks shining by the lamp light, his eyes pink slits.  "No, no," he shook his head.  "I don't care about that.  You can sleep with whoever you want, I won't stop you, but please don't break up our family.  Think about the girls," he pleaded.  "What about Christmas?"

As surreal as it was watching my husband cry for the first time in our marriage,  his broad shoulders shaking like a child's who had just lost his favorite toy, I felt very clear headed, as though I had just dived into a freshwater river and emerged wider awake than I had ever been in my life.   I put my hand on his neck and he took it and kissed my palm over and over until it was wet from his tears.

****

Later, in the same position I had been in for exactly half my life, with my husband's breath in my ear, the residue of his remedy for all of our problems still sticky on my thighs, and his arm across my breasts like a rod of iron, I stared out the window at the circle of white light.

"The moon, oh the moon," I whispered.

Mark snorted quietly, rubbed his head deeper into his pillow, settling.  I moved his arm enough to slip out and stood by the bed watching him in his oblivious sleep.  By having had sex, for him, our conflict was resolved.  I bundled up my clothes from the floor and left our bedroom for the last time.

Soon to be released for ereaders "Dreams in Blue"