~ T h e O t h e r W o m a n ~
Shayna sat at the kitchen table, staring into space, where, for the better part of the afternoon, she had been lighting and relighting cigarettes. In the cloud of smoke that settled around her, she closed her eyes, hoping a few minutes of sleep might descend upon her, relieving her of that unrelenting, internal voice – he doesn’t love you, he never loved you, he used you, you deserve to be used – but she could neither nap nor stop the refrain, undeserving as she was. She opened her eyes and took another drag. He wasn’t the real problem anyway. It was HER, the other woman, the cliché, the whore who wrapped her ankles behind her ears, the bitch who did anything to get him.
Jeremy was defenseless, as many men were, ambushed by feminine guile, undetectable to male radar. Ironic, how men could land on the moon, build towers to the sky, chart the human genome and yet get so easily short-circuited by some horny-assed vamp.
How did it happen? Perhaps, SHE, vigilant to his whereabouts at any given moment, waited for him at the water cooler, and as he approached, SHE, in a skirt as short as her crotch, bent over and filled a cup, allowing him a private, unencumbered view that froze his furtive glance and stiffened him quick, and once the pleasantries started, “Good morning,” “Have a good one,”, SHE may have seen him in the cafeteria, and as he surveyed the room for an unoccupied table, SHE may have smiled and nodded slightly, as if they shared some history, and perhaps later, SHE followed him to the copier located in a private, closed room and brushed against him, body to body, and his hardness became a hapless, conditioned response, that no man, not even her husband could extinguish, no matter his resolve, no matter the consequences.
When had it begun? Had Shayna missed the clues - a lingering scent, a hang-up call during dinner, a cigarette stub, not her brand, crushed in the truck ashtray? But there were no clues, at least not until three weeks earlier when he moved out. What other proof did she need? After all, a husband didn’t go to a motel when he had HBO and crushed ice at home. What would be the point?
Shayna glanced at the clock. Still another three hours until dark and before she could leave. Taking a shower would be a good idea, or opening a can of soup. Instead, she emptied the bullets from the chamber and rolled them in her hot palm. After a few minutes, the cold metal felt liquid. She rubbed the small cylinders along the back of her neck. They rolled across her stiff muscles then slipped from her hand and scattered onto the floor.
In the few short weeks Shayna had been stalking her husband, she had become aware of the ever-changing landscapes, not only of her life, what she believed in, worked for, prided herself in, but in the physical surroundings that had previously gone unnoticed. In a matter of a few weeks daylight had shrunk a full half hour. How insidious darkness could creep into one’s life. But it was of great consolation since each minute earlier that the sun set, Shayna could leave her house and finally get down to business.
The motel where Jeremy stayed was located at the entrance to the Interstate, off a six-lane highway in an area of lax zoning ordinances and over development, a shopper’s paradise. Car dealers, restaurants, dollar discounts and outlet stores vied for attention, encroaching onto the road with flashing lights and signs a blind man could see, if not with his eyes, with his ears. A constant hum of electricity permeated the area.
Shayna inched the rented beige Taurus beside a dumpster in the McDonald’s parking lot, where minutes earlier she had ordered a large black coffee. She rolled her seat back, cracked the window open and took a deep breath, her first of the day. Ironically, in this seemingly desperate situation – alone, outdoors, unprotected – she felt relaxed. Her home, no their home, was like a mausoleum with its echoing silence and chilled, stultified air. But here in the plushy softness of a late-model rental car with everything at hand, she felt safe, cocooned rather than entombed.
The Sweet Dreams Motel was located next door to the McDonald’s. From where she parked, Shayna was able to get a clear view of the back half of the motel property, specifically Room 16 on the ground floor.
Initially, Shayna had spied on Jeremy outside his office. Unfortunately, she did not go unnoticed and shortly after her return home, he called her with threats of court action. “Protection from your wife?” Shayna had screeched. “The only one who truly loves you.” An abrupt click and dial tone had answered her.
She pulled a cigarette from the pack and stuck it between her teeth. For the past several days during the endless hours of circular thinking, Shayna had revamped her plans several times. Her options vacillated from maiming to murdering, and back again. Killing HER would be a resounding statement but the consequences of murder were distasteful. A life in prison thumbing through innumerable psalms was not her style. No, maiming HER held the ticket, blowing out her knee caps perhaps. Yes, not only would this be painful, but would serve double duty – Jeremy was a leg man. Shayna lit the cigarette and took a drag. Exhaling, she hissed, “Hang up the Manolos, bitch. Dr. Scholl’s a knockin’.”
At 7:45 p.m., Jeremy’s black bronco heaved up the drive into the parking lot. As it swerved and settled into the slot at Room 16, Shayna perked up. A shaft of light from the room next door illuminated the entire side of the truck. Her heart raced. This could be it. What would Shayna see first? A long tapered leg ending with a stiletto heel?
The seconds seemed interminable as her burning stare rested on the front passenger door. Desperate not to blink, not to miss the moment when the door opened, she kept her itching, watery eyes open through the dense cloud of smoke that hung around her. Haphazardly, she blindly stuffed the lit cigarette into the tray and moved her head closer to the windshield. A slam echoed in the night air. In response and barely perceptible, the truck quaked. Was Jeremy coming around to open the door and give HER his hand? Shayna braced herself by the injustice, the insult, the injury. Reaching to the passenger seat, she grabbed the snubbie.
Seconds passed. Hyper vigilant for any sound, she squinted and turned her head slightly. While the truck blocked the view of her husband, it didn’t obstruct the jingling of keys. Damn! He had exited and appeared to be alone . . . or was he? Maybe SHE was already inside, wearing some slutty strings of purple polyester that left nothing to the imagination and stunk to high heaven. After hearing the clap of a shutting door, Shayna weighed her options.
On previous evenings, Shayna had stayed until the pale flickering television light went out, sometimes as early as eleven, other times as late as two. But how many more hours, days, weeks was she supposed to stand by, remain on hold? She was his wife for chrissake. She had rights by law and in the eyes of God.
Decisively, she made her move and burst from the car. Raising her straight skirt, she climbed over a thick metal guardrail, then stepped down the small incline. Her spiked heels sank into the wet ground. Once on concrete, she walked on the balls of her feet, reducing the familiar clack of her stride. Puffs of condensed air emptied from her mouth as she approached the motel door and its blue numerals. Then, covering the peephole with her finger, she knocked.
“Who is it?” came his muffled voice. “Your wife.”
Long seconds passed before he cracked open the door. His tie was off, his shirt unbuttoned, untucked. “What are you doing here?”
“We need to talk. Or is this not a good time?” she said, peering beyond him into the dim room. “Are you going to be rational?” he said.
Shayna slipped her cold hands into her coat pockets. The hard, unrelenting metal from the gun grazed her fingertips. She inched forward. “Are you going to let me in?”
He reared back. “I don’t think this is a good time.”
“Really?” Shayna asked. “And why is that?”
“We never get anywhere. I only agreed to talk in a counselor’s office.”
Counselor’s office. What a joke! Why? To hear more lies, more denials. With a syrupy voice she said, “Please, honey, just let me in. I need to know there’s still hope.”
He glanced into the room. Her suspicio
ns flared. “SHE’s in there, isn’t she?”
Their eyes met. Without warning, the slit in the door narrowed, and with a quick thrust, the door slammed tight, blocking her out, alone, in the cold. Suddenly, her options converged irrevocably, blindly.
Each time a shot cracked, shattering the quiet night, the gun jerked backwards, causing another wayward blast. The door splintered, the window shattered.
Moments later in a blur, she ran. Grass passed underfoot. She scrambled uphill, until, out of the blue, an iron weight rammed into her. Once decked, the lights went out.
At the police station, in a windowless room lit by a pulsating fluorescent tube, Shayna raised her fingers to her nose and breathed the thick, pungent scent of gunpowder. It smelled sweet and oddly comforting, like a cloud of smoke from a kid’s cap gun. The memory dissolved when the keys rattled and the heavy metal door opened.
A man in a suit entered, extending his hand. “Mrs. Lutz, my name is Randall Curtis. Here’s my card. I’ve come on behalf of your mother. She called and asked me to represent you in these proceedings.”
His handshake was solid. Shayna asked, “How did she know?” Your husband called her.”
“Jeremy? He’s all right then?”
“Evidently. You’re very lucky he didn’t get hurt.”
The man’s starched blue collar dug into his neck. He continued, “First, we need to get you out of here. We’ll have to go before the judge and tell him you’re not a risk for flight and will abide by the order of protection. Is that doable?”
“Order of protection? That won’t be necessary.” “I’m afraid you have no choice. ”
“But the police took the gun.”
“Mrs. Lutz, the gun’s not the issue. Assault charges are pending. You must stay away from your husband and refrain from all contact until these issues are resolved.”
“But if we can’t communicate, how are we going to work on our marriage?” “Unfortunately, I’m a lawyer, Mrs. Lutz, not a psychologist.”
She looked into his uncomplicated face, clean shaven, wrinkle-free, devoid of the ravages of too much liquor or sun or worry. Her glance dropped to his left hand. “I see you’re not married.”
He stalled, then said, “But I am.”
Shayna looked into his clear blue eyes. Was he telling the truth? “Then you should understand. Sometimes you have to fight for what’s yours.”
He nodded. “Yes, but fighting has rules, parameters.”
So does marriage, she wanted to add.
“Your call, Mrs. Lutz,”he said with an easy smile. “I’m here to help.”
Her shoulders relaxed for the first time in weeks. “Okay, whatever you say,” she agreed. “And please call me Shayna.”
By daybreak she was back in her kitchen, frothing milk from their exported espresso machine. Through the curling steam and cigarette smoke she thought about men and their lies – like hell he was married.
Later that day, at 5:00 p.m., she parked across the street from her lawyer’s office and began
another vigil. Unlike previous evenings, her wait was quickly aborted as the heavy brass door sprung open. Remarkably, Mr. Randall Curtis continued to look unscathed, fresh, as if nothing had passed between them. But she knew otherwise.
This time her trek took a different path, not to the suburb but into the city, to a nicely appointed home in an upscale neighborhood. There he turned into a winding driveway that disappeared behind the house. She rolled into a parking spot, flipped down the mirror and checked her lipstick. She then got out of the car, stepped to the front door and pressed the doorbell.
He answered. His expectant face quickly froze. “What are you doing here?” “I’ve come to meet HER.”
“Her?” he said.
“Your wife. Where is SHE?” Shayna taunted.
Disbelief crept into his face. “You better leave,” he said.
A dark-haired woman, too round and plain to be a true contender, sidled up behind him. “Honey, what’s going on?”
“Get in the house,” he said firmly, pushing her back. Shayna’s shock turned to giddiness. “What a porker.”
From an inside pocket he pulled out a cell phone and pressed some digits. “This is an emergency, I have a woman here who’s – ”
Shayna smirked. “Surely, this isn’t HER.”
The piglet looked alarmed.
“Can I ask a rhetorical question?” Shayna said to the woman. “Do YOU squeal?”
Author’s Note:
My longest sentence, a craft moment, is in this story. It follows, How did it happen? The sentence tumbled out practically whole. Regarding the last line. I took the collective advice of a writer’s group and ended the piece a paragraph earlier, where there’s some punch. In rewrite, it’s not unusual for a narrative to start later and finish sooner. The Other Woman is a genre story with an ending that hangs. I hope the lack of resolution highlights how, when not reeled in, obsession metastasizes. The Other Woman was first published in A Cruel World.