Читать книгу Marriage Made Me Do It: An addictive dark comedy you will devour in one sitting - Ashley Fontainne - Страница 7

Our slice of Heaven on Earth, a large McMansion with four bedrooms and three baths (Rule Number Nine—check—thanks to Carl’s wealthy family!) built on the backside of the suburbs I grew up in, was crammed full of people. Fancy cars filled the tree-lined streets. A smorgasbord of all sorts of metal chariots driven by grieving guests, ones insistent on paying their respects by trudging through my house, stuffing their faces with food, spilling wine on the expensive hardwood floors. Cleaning up after the invasion would be fun. Not.

Rule Number Fifteen: A woman’s job as housewife is to maintain a pleasant, always spotless home for her family.

Joy.

The display of food made me hate Rule Number Twenty:

When someone dies, you must put on your best clothes, your saddest face, and pay your respects. This act must be accompanied, of course, by a homemade dish to feed the mourning relatives of the recently departed.

Freshly prepared food had been replaced by stopping at any given superstore and buying a tray of assorted meats, cheeses, and vegetables. My kitchen table and counter looked like the deli aisle.

“You outdid yourself with the service. It was beautiful. Of course, I had no doubts it would be, since you plan everything out to the minutest detail, even when overcome with grief. You’ve always been such a rock.”

The voice of my best friend Elizabeth (and neighbor, three doors down) made me smile. Elizabeth and I had maintained our friendship since second grade, and she was the only person in the world I truly trusted.

Rule Number Seventeen: Have a best friend to lean on, gossip with, shop, drink, cry to.

Check!

“Thanks, Liz. I still can’t believe she’s gone. It hasn’t really sunk in yet, you know?”

Liz nodded while picking up a tray of full wine glasses. She nudged me aside. “Here, let me. You look tired, and it’s not your job to cater to these fools. They are supposed to be helping you get through this, not looking for a free meal and drinks. Go and have a smoke out back. I can tell you need one. Oh, and listen—Sasha just told me she canceled book club this week. We’ll pick up next Friday, okay? Give those dumb hags who always complain they haven’t finished the book time to do so. Maybe we can actually discuss the book rather than listen to them gossip.”

Shoulders sagging with relief, I smiled. “You’re a gem. Is she here? I haven’t seen her.”

Liz frowned. “Honey, you seriously need to get some rest. Better yet, let me get Roger to give you some pills that are guaranteed to knock you out for a week. Your mind is on the fritz from all the grief.”

“What do you mean?”

“She’s still out front talking to Mr. Shock, just like you were less than three minutes ago.”

Annoyed by yet another silly game of Let’s Confuse Roxy that people had been playing on me during the last few months, I said: “Today’s not the day to mess with me, Liz.”

A wounded look creased her brow. “I’m not joking, Roxy. You were just talking to her. Lord, did you get any sleep at all last night?”

“Pft. Sleep? I haven’t had time to do much of anything except plan a funeral. Not even sure I put deodorant on today, so I’m not surprised a superficial conversation with Sasha and Mr. Shock slipped my mind. It doesn’t really matter. I’m not in the mood to listen to her today, so please tell her I’m grateful. I’ve been looking forward to the discussion. It was our first ever erotic romance, so things might get really interesting! I’ll be right back. If I don’t inhale some nicotine, I’ll snap.”

Elizabeth’s perfectly waxed eyebrow lifted in curiosity. When surprised or amused, Elizabeth Gelmini Rosenbaum was downright gorgeous. “I thought you already snapped once today? From my perspective in the back, it looked like Rachel’s boyfriend got an earful of foul words. I didn’t think it was possible for him to be any paler. Boy was I wrong.”

“Men don’t take being threatened with castration very well,” I answered, chuckling. “He’s damn lucky the alcohol in my system saved his little nutsack from getting whacked off.”

“Roxy!” Liz gasped. “Shh! Save that sort of talk for when we’re alone!”

Heat raced to my cheeks. Normally, I only let my demented thoughts escape my lips within hearing range of my bestie. “What can I say? It’s been a really difficult two weeks. Better to only say my sick thoughts than actually commit the act, right?”

“True.”

Rebecca strolled—no, she wobbled—up beside us. During the last hour, I’d counted six glasses of wine disappear down her throat, compared to my measly two. She was a drunken mess, which wasn’t a first. An intimate relationship with alcohol was another thing she’d inherited from our parents. Of course, I did too, so I really couldn’t count that as a demerit against her or I’d have had to add it to my bag as well.

Good thing she lived only a block away, or she’d take out anything and everything in her path driving the enormous SUV Stephen bought her last year. The Escalade sported every single option, and even had a personalized license plate with L.B.’s name on it. Er, well, her real name, not my preferred name for her. (Score one for Stephen and Rebecca Wilson—they passed Rule Number Eight with flying colors!)

The fancy silk dress she’d purchased from Nordstrom for just this solemn occasion, the perfectly applied makeup and stellar hairdo (thanks to some very expensive trips to the salon to attach extensions probably made from horse hair!) didn’t hide the fact ol’ L.B. was bombed.

Pointing a well-manicured finger behind her, Rebecca muttered, “Uh, Roxy? You might need to pay more attention to Carl. He’s ogling the Shock’s daughter again. You know, Cherrywood Estate’s resident Kardashian wannabee? Guess in the midst of his sorrow, he’s forgotten Coco’s underage. Maybe you should go remind him before he gets into trouble? If Mr. Shock catches a glimpse of the eye-fuck Carl’s giving Coco, he’ll beat your worthless hubby within an inch of his life.”

Liz gasped, gave me a sheepish smile and then turned tail and headed to the living room to pass out more booze. I contemplated asking her to come back and give me the tray so I could storm over and dump it on Carl’s crotch to cool the blood heading south.

What little love I had left (and it was little—close to the size of a pea) for Carl from all of our years together vanished. Rage made my fingers tremble. How could he? At Rachel’s wake?

It would take a lot for me to best Carl physically, so I turned the brunt of my anger toward Coco. Taking her down would be a piece of cake and oh-so enjoyable. Visions of wrapping my fingers around the girl’s slender neck, squeezing until her fake face turned three shades of purple, filled my mind. Oh, better yet! Grab a handful of the expensive, blonde extensions recently purchased by her mother, Elaine Shock (because her daughter was going to be “a famous model” after getting a nose job, silicone-infused lips, fake, human hair, and bonus! saline-filled breasts) and drown the little whore in the pool.

No, that wouldn’t work. Those knockers were buoyant. Drowning the skank was out of the question.

Coco. Who the fuck names their kid such a ridiculous name? Wait! I know the answer! A former beauty queen who married some real estate mogul, gained about 50 lbs, and spent the remainder of her life living vicariously through her daughter’s body, and had an obsession with Chanel.

Yep! Nailed it!

My cravings for nicotine disappeared. It was overshadowed by raw fury. Rebecca was right—Carl stood at the edge of the den while Coco leaned against the doorframe, her gazongas dangerously close to escaping the thin material covering them. And where was my husband’s gaze? Laser-beam focused on the boobs.

Not in my house, in front of our friends and neighbors.

No. Fucking. Way.

It was one thing for Carl to self-abuse himself in front of a computer screen, drool and sperm shooting out of him like a 14-year-old boy, while staring at pixelated images. I’d learned to live with Carl’s porn addiction, but this? Practically popping a boner during Rachel’s wake? If left alone any longer, he’d start humping Coco’s leg.

“Excuse me, L.B., I’ll be right back.”

Rebecca downed the remainder of her drink, smearing the last traces of red lipstick, and laughed. “Let me know if you need help burying the body. Those breasts and her enormous ass added on at least twenty pounds. After all, what are sisters for if not to help hide a crime? You already look like a serial killer in that cheap dress. Seriously, Roxy, you could have at least bought a designer label for Rachel’s funeral. It’s disrespectful to look so damn frumpy.”

Pulling my gaze away from my pathetic spouse, I glared at Rebecca. An apocalyptic comeback brewed inside my head. Lowering my voice, I whispered: “If I had any doubts before about you being the reigning Queen of Shallow People, you just wiped them away. Allow me to let you in on a little secret. L.B. means Lunatic Bitch. Always has.”

Expecting an angry response, Rebecca surprised me by laughing so hard she farted. “Oh, I can’t wait to tell Stephen! That’s his pet nickname for me in the sack! How funny is that?”

“Fucking hilarious,” I replied with a smirk.

Rebecca stumbled away to find her husband, still chuckling as she rounded the corner to the living room.

I did the same, yet made sure to keep my steps straight and head held high.

Once I reached Carl’s side, I dug my nails into his forearm with enough force to draw blood. “Honey, would you please come help me get some more wine from the garage? We’re almost out.”

“Oh, sure thing, sweetie,” Carl muttered, startled at my interruption and, probably, the pain in his arm. “Coco was just offering her condolences, weren’t you?”

The biggest blue eyes I’d ever seen in person stared blankly at me. Maybe the doctor removed some of her brain matter and used it to overstuff her tits? That would explain the vacant, vapid look on her face. Her eyes were framed by at least two sets of false eyelashes, making her look like a real Barbie. The urge to rip them off and shove them down her throat until she choked hit me.

Hard.

“I’m so sorry about Renee. You must be devastated,” Coco said in a breathy whisper.

What the fuck? The girl sounded like she was channeling Marilyn Monroe. Any second, she’d break out into “Happy birthday, Mr. President.”

“Rachel,” I hissed through clenched teeth, a forced smile on my face. “And yes, I am. Please tell your mother we appreciate the apple pie.”

“Thank you! I made it all by myself! Mom says the way to a man’s heart is through his—”

“Excuse us, please,” I replied, giving Carl’s arm a yank, pulling him away before Blow-Up Barbie finished her sentence. “I need my husband’s help.”

Coco smiled, revealing a set of teeth so white they looked like painted Chiclets. She turned and strutted down the hallway toward the living room. The sway of her hips hypnotized every male over the age of six in the room, and infuriated the females stuck watching their men’s tongues hit the floor.

“Okay, you can remove your claws from my arm,” Carl mumbled.

Rather than heading to the garage, I took a detour and pushed him into the guest bathroom. After shutting the door and turning on the overhead fan, I let him have it.

“Are you insane? You do realize she’s underage, right? If you try and play around with that piece of plastic, you’ll end up in jail. Think about how that would devastate our daughter! That little bitch-in-heat is younger than our daughter! How would you feel if some of your friends drooled over Carol like that? Huh?”

“Ah, honey, calm down. I was just talking to the girl. She’s really quite nice. Besides, I’ve only got eyes for you, Roxanne. Come on, let’s play around. I’ve read that funerals are a great time to have sex. The best way to deal with death is by doing something to make you feel alive.”

Carl broke out into his favorite song, one that was cute the first 100 times I’d heard it. After the first 1,000, it ceased to be funny, especially since Carl sang it every single time he was in the mood.

“Roxanne, you don’t have to—”

Carl never finished his awful rendition of the song made famous by The Police. I ended the tune, and his amorous intentions, by knocking the wind from his lungs after balling up my fist and punching him right in his bulging watermelon. “Lay off the bourbon, Carl. Today is the day to mourn my sister, not attempt to put your dick into jailbait, or me, for that matter. Jesus, you’re pathetic.”

I left my husband gasping for air in the bathroom, returning to the solemn festivities. After all, one must play the proper hostess no matter what mishaps occur, right? Anger made it impossible to recall which Rule Number that was, but I knew it was one of them, and I’m a suburban housewife—I am supposed to follow the rules.

The question burning inside my mind of how much longer I’d let the rules govern my thoughts, attitude, and actions, made a wicked grin appear. Allowing myself a bit of release—first with Benny and now with Carl—was intoxicating. As I re-entered the kitchen, I put the mask of serenity back in place, almost a bit frightened from glimpsing my inner monster twice in one day.

Almost.

It was after 8 p.m. by the time the final, drunken guests staggered out the front door. Liz and Rebecca stayed, helping me clean up the kitchen. Per the usual nightly ritual, Carl locked himself in the study. I wondered how many times he’d get it up while imagining Coco Shock sprawled out naked, firm, giant ass up in the air, taking it like a champ up the ol’ wazoo. Considering how much bourbon he’d tossed back, he should be passed out, balls emptied, sleeping like a baby the rest of the night on the couch.

God help the man if he tried to put the moves on me again. The evening might just end with a man’s balls getting sliced off after all!

Demerit for me for bypassing Rule Number Ten.

Do I care? Not in the slightest.

Carol surprised me by helping clean up too. The girl who spawned countless arguments about the deplorable state of her bedroom, never once lifting a finger to help me keep the 5,000 square feet of house clean, worked by my side the entire two hours it took to return the home to normal. She even put down her favorite toy—a small pile of plastic and metal known as a cell phone, which never happened—and showed sincere interest in tidying our destroyed home.

Thank goodness, because L.B. didn’t do much at all other than polish off another bottle of wine and eat leftovers. A few times, she snapped pictures of several floral arrangements then fiddled with her phone. I assumed she was tweeting or posting the images to some silly social media site. L.B. was obsessed with making sure everyone knew what she was doing at all times.

The fascination by vapid, self-centered, and superficial fools like Rebecca, who assumed their pathetic lives needed to be shared with the world, made me wonder about where our society was headed. I get the need to have relationships with others—it’s an inborn human trait for people to congregate, from small family groups to neighborhoods, cities, states, and ultimately countries. But with the invention of the digital age came the loss of the real art of communication: Looking someone in the eye while talking, watching, and hearing the inflections in their voice or the emotions on their faces; the joy of going to the mailbox and discovering someone had taken the time to handwrite a note or send a card was yet another thing of the past I missed. Colorful emoticons inserted next to a sentence didn’t possess the ability to convey the real meaning or thoughts behind characters strung together to make words.

I steered clear of the whole digital age, much to the dismay of my daughter, L.B., and even my friends. I didn’t care if they considered me some weird, old-school dinosaur. I wouldn’t risk putting something into the superhighway that would come back to haunt me later.

I kept my eye on Rebecca while she tapped the keys on her cell, ready to pounce if she dared move her hands anywhere near my beloved Moscato.

“Are you going to visit Grandma tomorrow?” Carol asked after putting the last of the silverware away. “If so, may I come too? I know she doesn’t understand Aunt Rachel’s gone, but I do, and I feel sort of bad she didn’t come to the service today to say goodbye.”

I damn near dropped the vase of flowers in my hands. Wow, how much wine had I downed? Enough, obviously, I was hallucinating. Carol hated the memory care facility Mom lived in. The few times she’d accompanied me before, all she did was complain about the smell and how Grandma thought she was an old friend from high school rather than her granddaughter.

“We aren’t going to see Grandma tomorrow,” Rebecca piped up, words so slurred it was difficult to understand them. “It’s too soon after losing Rachel. Your mom and I can’t handle that much sadness in twenty-four hours. We’ll go next Friday. Grandma isn’t coherent enough to realize we missed a week.”

Carol’s pale face scrunched in disgust. “I can’t go next Friday, Aunt Becca. It’s freshman orientation at college.”

Annoyed by Rebecca’s audacity to speak for me, I added: “If you want to go see Grandma, I’ll take you. She won’t remember our visit, or even who we are, but that doesn’t matter. We’ll know.”

Liz set the dish towel on the counter then walked over and put her arm around my shoulder. “I haven’t seen your mom in weeks. I’ve just been wrapped up with helping Richard study for finals. How about I take Carol, and you rest? This has been a difficult time for you, and I need to add some credits to my friend jar. Okay?”

Leaning my head against Liz’s shoulder, I sighed. My God but did she smell good. The expensive perfume was heavenly. “I don’t know how I’d survive without you, Liz. You keep being so wonderful, and soon, I’ll move you from number two to one on my list of favorite things, beating out Moscato.”

Carol bristled, crinkling her pert nose. “Hey! Where do I rank? It sounds to me like I’m third, right behind booze and a best friend.”

“I know, I didn’t even make the top ten,” Rebecca slurred.

Wrong, L.B. You’re number one on my list—the list of people I hate.

Turning my gaze to my beautiful daughter, I almost popped out a rude comment. I stopped short when I noticed genuine sadness behind her eyes, wishing I could open my mouth and suck the words back in. “Oh, honey, you’re on a list all alone. It’s called my reason for living list.”

Picking up her phone from the counter, Carol did something she hadn’t in a long time: She smiled. “Nice save, Mom. I’m going to meet Cheri and Ellen to go over Cheri’s college applications, okay? I’ll be back before midnight. Promise.”

Nodding, I leaned over and hugged Carol’s neck. Though she wore designer perfume, she still retained the scent of my child, imprinted the moment I held her for the first time. “Thanks for all your help, sweetheart. Not another minute after midnight.”

Carol returned the hug then disappeared down the hall. In seconds, the front door slammed and she was gone.

Rebecca stood and almost fell over. She caught herself, snapping off two fake nails, cussing a blue streak. “Dammit! I just had them done!”

“Rebecca, let me drive you home. I’m heading out too. Roxy needs to rest.”

Waving her bloody fingers in the air, Rebecca dismissed Liz’s words, flinging droplets of blood all over my clean kitchen. I contemplated grabbing her by the head and using her fake hair to soak it up.

“I live one block away. I’m fine,” Rebecca responded with her usual nasty tone.

“No, you aren’t. I insist,” Liz replied, snagging Rebecca’s purse from the counter. “Roxy doesn’t need to bail you out of jail or plan another funeral for a sister. No arguments.”

Stifling a laugh, I smiled while Liz lured Rebecca to follow her by jangling the keys to the SUV in front of her face. My twatwaffle, wealthy sister looked like a dog on an invisible leash. Better yet, the way she stumbled over her feet almost made her look like a shuffling zombie. Dammit! Where’s my camera? This would be a perfect chance to snap an unflattering picture to hold over her head for years.

“And this one here, children? That’s your great-aunt Becca, so drunk she could hardly stand. Yes, she’s the same one I told you about before—the one whose nose literally fell apart after snorting cocaine! Remember, kiddies, don’t drink or do drugs!”

God, why did it have to be Rachel who died? Why?

When the door closed and the SUV roared to life, exhaustion slammed into me so hard I considered curling up into a ball on the kitchen floor.

Instead, I grabbed a bottle of Moscato, bypassing Carl’s study without a second glance, and headed out to the pool. Once I reached the hot tub, I turned on the jets, shed my clothes (Rule Number—oh, hell, I’m too trashed to remember the number. No matter. We nailed the rule for having an eight-foot privacy fence surrounding our lush backyard so nosy neighbors are barred from seeing our nighttime shenanigans). After pouring a full glass, I slid into the warm bubbles, letting frothy water soothe my sore muscles.

Roxy’s New Rule Number One: Always maintain a constant supply of wine and the jets on at full blast to keep from going insane.

Nailed it!

The hot water and the additional wine helped ease the turbulence inside my heart. After the third glass, the wetness on my face wasn’t from the steam.

I cried for the loss of Rachel. Dad. Mom (even though she’s still breathing, her mind is gone, same as being dead) and how angry I am at the world. An entire life spent pursuing the American Dream, trying to do the right thing, and look where I landed? Mourning the loss of my favorite sister; drunk in a hot tub; a child heading off to college, leaving me alone with a porn-addicted spouse; a remaining sibling I hate; a mother who doesn’t even know her own name, and a wasted life.

“Want some company?”

Carl’s voice in the dark made me spill my wine, which pissed me off. Only one full glass remained inside the bottle. “You scared me!”

Naked as the day he was born (just with a bigger gut), glass of bourbon in one hand, a stogie in the other, Carl slipped into the seat next to me. “Sorry. I thought you heard me walk out here.”

I considered a smart retort, but the part of my brain in charge of witty comebacks was soaked with too much wine.

“I’m sorry about earlier, babe. Really.”

“Sorry for trying to bang me in the bathroom or practically dry-humping Coco in the hallway?”

Oh! Guess the witty retort section sparked to life for a brief second.

“I wasn’t trying to upset you. Believe it or not, I was trying to make you feel better. I know how much you loved Rachel and how much responsibility you’ve shouldered during the last two weeks. I just, I don’t know. Ever since you got the call from the hospital Rachel was sick, you’ve changed. You disrupted the service by making Benny leave, which isn’t like you. And that little display of anger in the bathroom and your new smart mouth? All the years we’ve known each other, you’ve never, ever, been a violent person or said such rude things. I’m concerned about you.”

I snorted. “Hmmm. Guess alcohol and grief don’t mix well.”

Carl stared up at the stars, puffing away on the cigar. The smell made me want to vomit. If my hand-eye coordination was better, I’d reach over and stuff the expensive Cuban down his throat. Let him see what it’s like having something hard forced down the ol’ windpipe.

Instead of making my husband experience a blowjob with a cigar, I kept my hands busy by gulping down the remainder of my wine. He was right, though I certainly wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of agreeing with what he’d said. Sick, warped thoughts about others had remained inside my head for over forty years. I put on the serene face and polite act I was taught from an early age, keeping my ugly, hateful thoughts to myself and enjoying them when they took over my dreams.

Until today.

Oops. If I didn’t watch myself, my demerit jar would overflow.

Carl interrupted my maniacal thoughts. “The last few years have been stressful for you, Roxy. Carol grew up, which ended the role of room mother and taxi service. Your dad passed away. Then Claire went downhill and we had to put her in a memory care facility.”

“We?” I countered. “I don’t recall you helping, or anyone else for that matter.”

Sighing in frustration, Carl continued. “Carol’s leaving the nest, and now losing Rachel. Maybe you should go see a therapist or something? Work through the angst?”

“I’m not crazy, Carl.”

“I never said you were. Oh, who am I kidding? After all of the drama you’ve endured with your mother, you and doctors mesh like water and oil. How about getting a job, or going back to school? Like Rebecca, you’ve always been good with numbers. You kept us on a tight budget; scrimped and saved money; paid the bills. Insisted the majority of the money my parents left us went into savings rather than extravagant purchases.”

“Not all of it. I lost the battle when you bought that stupid Mercedes.”

Carl rolled his eyes. “Stop interrupting me, Roxy. Find something, anything, to focus your energies into, rather than drinking yourself into an early grave. You’ve been hitting the wine more than normal—which is understandable considering all that’s happened—but it’s starting to affect your memory.”

“Excuse me? What the hell does that mean? My memory is just fine.”

What I wanted to say was I’d give up wine if he gave up porn. Neither was among the realm of possibilities for either of us.

“Really? I beg to differ. You’ve missed appointments from neglecting to put them on your calendar; forgot to pay a few bills on time. Things like that. Oh, and last week, you spent three hours looking for your cell phone and Carol found it in the fridge!”

Annoyed, yet not really in the mood for an epic battle of wits (which of course, I’d win) I said: “There’s been a lot on my plate, Carl. Cut me some slack, will you? Don’t you feel the slightest hypocritical for chastising me about drinking too much? I’m the one who goes to the liquor store. I know how much bourbon you drink.”

Furrowing his brow, Carl stared at the bubbles in the hot tub. “All this has been hard on me too, Roxy. Watching you go through all this pain hurts me. I’m really worried about you. I don’t want to lose you. I think that’s what sent your father into cardiac arrest—he couldn’t handle watching Claire lose her mind. I certainly couldn’t handle the devastation of you looking at me without having a clue who I was. It would break me. You’ve always been my rock.”

The words were genuine. I heard the heavy sentiment in Carl’s voice. Looking over, the aqua-colored lights from the hot tub made Carl’s face look younger. Concern, and was that—holy cow, there it was—the look of love, danced across his face.

I didn’t tell my husband he was right about sex and funerals with words, I showed him with my body.

Looked like I’d gain back the demerit for dismissing Rule Number Ten earlier, though I wasn’t about to ride the pony for Carl’s sake.

It was all about me.