Chapter Twenty - Louis Berry's Novel - Erstwhile

Chapter Twenty

 Richard sat in his partially reclined chair. The soles of his feet were on the edge of the footrest, and a Hemingway novel lay in his lap. He picked up the re-mote control for the television, pushed the power but-ton and mindlessly searched the channels, driven more by nerves than a desire to watch anything. It was nine forty-five and he had no idea what time he should expect Susan to come home. He knew that he could have done a much better job with his exit, but did not appreciate being placed on the defensive with so little help from his wife. And answer for what? That baffled him the most. Why did his wife feel that it was necessary to enlist the aid of a friend? He had always encouraged her to feel free to say anything she needed to him. That would be how he approached the conversation when she got home; that she was free to say anything. The only question he had of her was whether their future would be spent together or apart. Uncertainty drove him mad.
Richard recalled the night on the beach when his wife was the aggressor. The thought of it brought a smile to his face. He enjoyed feeling wanted and need-ed. Watching her nude body sway gently back-and-forth in the dim light of the bonfire was the most sensual expression of her need for him that she had ever dis-played. It wasn’t as though they had no sex life. It was wonderful and caring, gentle, yet explosive. It made him feel special. He knew that she had been with other men in her life. That night on the beach made him feel like she was telling him he was the most special person she had ever known and wanted to show him. Feeling as though he was third behind Ralph and Emma left him with a sense that there was no purpose to his life.
 Sex with other women paled in comparison to his experience with Susan. He always attributed that to the emotional bond that resulted from having a pure lover and a true friend. When they made love it was like they were one, with a single heartbeat. His mind darted about, searching for a way to describe what they had together that would capture the expression of love be-tween them. Why do I need to describe it? I know what it’s like. Then it came to him, I need to let Susan know how special I think it is. The thoughts that came to mind were of how physically beautiful she was. He needed her to know the emotional, spiritual attachment he felt. The best he could do would be to tell her that she is the only woman he’d ever known that he knew he could not live without. That was too cliché. She was special and deserved more. Richard struggled to come up with the words and he began to resent having to do so. She should know how I feel about her. Why do I have to tell her? My actions show her every day. I made a vow to her when we got married. The unspoken words sounded ridiculous to him. I have to tell her, but how?
 Hours passed while Richard sat and thought about how to communicate to his wife what she meant to him and to avoid anything else going wrong in their marriage. It frustrated him that the words did not readily come to mind. He sat staring at the television with the open book in his lap. Nervously, he looked at his watch, wondering where she could be.
 He stood and walked over to the bar-cart. There were four highball glasses turned upside down on its top. He picked one up and placed it right-side-up in the exact spot from where he removed it, then picked up his favorite whiskey, opened the bottle and poured until the glass was half full. When he screwed the top back on the bottle and placed it back where it belonged he noticed a smudge on the mirrored glass top. It looked like the tip of a finger had been dragged across it. Susan had always taken a great deal of pride that their house remained spotless. He shrugged it off and went into the kitchen to fill his glass with ice and Diet Coke.
 Richard returned to his chair and placed the highball glass on his right thigh. He sipped the drink occasionally, until he had completed it. When he finished the second, he fixed another, and then another. Each time he got out of his chair he checked his watch. The later it became, the more his worry turned into anger. At one point he walked across the living room, down the hall and into their bedroom. He switched on the light to see if Susan had somehow snuck past him, maybe when he had gone to the bathroom. She was not there.
 Richard walked to the back of the house. He peered through the window onto the beach. Maybe she had too much to drink and decided to walk home from Buster’s. It was past midnight, and he saw no one. He was blinded by the fury that raged within him, to the point of not understanding the strain that his own actions placed on their relationship. After ten minutes he walked back into the living room and stood in the middle of the floor. He lifted the highball glass to his mouth, tilted his head back and finished it. The ice was cold against his upper lip. He then moved back over to the bar-cart, placed his glass in the spot from where he had removed it earlier that night. “I’m not sleeping in the same room with that bitch,” he said aloud as he walked to the guest bedroom. He still believed she would be coming home. It was best that they not see each other until they had a chance to calm down. The alcohol that Richard consumed exposed his rawest emotions. He thought about a time when he was living with a young girl who swore she was committed to him, but would stay out until all hours of the night with her friends. One night she came home at four-thirty in the morning. He was so angry with her that he could visualize himself choking her to death. The memory was viv-id, and Richard knew he did not need to confront Susan tonight.
 He opened the door to the guest bedroom, reached in and turned on the light. His legs wobbled as he walked to the end of the bed, sat down and began to remove his shoes. Richard stood and removed his clothes, tossing them onto a chair in the corner. He walked to the head of the bed and noticed something that he had never seen before; a photograph on the nightstand. He picked it up and looked at it. It was Susan. She had a smile on her face like he had not seen in a long while. His wife stood next to a man, atop a picturesque mountain. Richard turned the picture over and looked at the back. He saw where the corrugated paperboard that held the photograph firmly in the frame had been torn away. In the center of the tattered patch was a round indentation that was the same size and shape as a ring. He traced the outline of the band gently with his finger, trying to ignore the pounding in his chest.
 He placed the picture back on the nightstand. His wife’s feelings for other men were obviously stronger than their relationship. He lay down, crossed his hands over his chest as he stared up at the ceiling. Death became a welcome alternative. The alarm clock on the bedside table projected the time-of-day onto the ceiling above his head. It read, 1:34 A.M. Richard watched every minute of his life pass by that night.