Chapter 1

This is based on a story that I read some time ago, “The Man Next Door.” It’s one that stayed with me, as some stories tend to do, in this case because the husband didn’t make sense to me (to be fair, I realize it was not the husband’s story). This is not the place for a critique of that story, so I won’t offer one. Instead, I’ll offer this alternate ending. Since I didn’t ask permission from the author of the original, I did not use any of the character names. Mine aren’t the original characters, which is really the point. I suppose I could be accused of plagiarizing the situation, although it doesn’t seem all that unique. If it makes you feel better, I’ll agree to split everything I earn from publishing on this site.

...

The door opened and there he stood, his hair wet, in a pair of worn boxer shorts, and nothing else. I saw him stand a little straighter when he recognized me.

“Where is she.” I controlled my voice to make it a statement, not a question.

“Huh?” he grunted. “Where’s who?”

“Are you going to lie to me about fucking my wife? You really are a scumbag, you know that?”

He stood silently in the doorway; I guess he didn’t have a response to that.

I raised my voice, but resisted the urge to scream. I called her name once, waited a few seconds, and then said, a bit lower, “It’s over, I know. Hiding like a child isn’t going to make the problem go away. Come out and let’s get this over with.”

She came shuffling out with only a towel wrapped around her, her hair also wet. My stomach churned as I realized they weren’t just fucking, they were sharing the intimacy of bathing together. “I’m sorry--” she began to say.

“Save it,” I replied. “Just shut up and listen. Listen carefully, because I’m not going to repeat myself. I’m going to leave for a while--a few hours--and while I’m gone, I want you and scumbag to go over to the house and get everything you’ll need to live over here: clothes, toiletries, makeup, shoes, whatever the fuck. You live here, now, understand? Not with me. Not any more.” I paused for a moment.

“No, wait--” she cried.

“I said shut up,” I interrupted her. I saw the scumbag adjust his feet, and ball his fists. Shifting my focus to him, I said, “Are you going to take a swing at me for talking mean to your girlfriend? We can tangle, if you want, but I don’t think she’s worth fighting over, and you and me busting up your living room is not going to change anything. It’ll only delay the inevitable a little longer.”

He turned to her. “He won’t even fight for you. What did you ever see in this guy, anyway?”

“I did fight for her,” I said. “I wooed her, and won her, married her, and have supported her. All you’ve done so far is flirt with her and fuck her. You don’t know what fighting is. How many really serious relationships have you been in?”

He just glared at me.

“So,” I continued, turning back to her, “you’ll get your shit out of my house while I’m gone, and I’ll be back later tonight. I expect to see your closet empty, and your house keys on the kitchen table. If you forget something important, leave me a note; I’ll box it up and leave it on your front porch. After tonight, I never want you in my house again, do you understand?”

“But I love you--” Scumbag didn’t like that. He tensed up and gave her a look.

“Fucking this loser is a hell of a way to show me. No, I get the message, loud and clear. I hate you, too, and we are definitely done. I’m leaving now. I’m serious: get your shit out of my house, or I’ll toss it out on the lawn. That should entertain the neighbors, watching you walk around the yard picking up your clothes.” I turned and went down the porch steps.

She followed me to the door. “Please wait for me to get dressed so I can come talk to you.”

Scumbag said, in a low voice, “Let him go.”

“Better listen to your boyfriend,” I sneered. I didn’t bother to go back to the house, just got in my car, started it, and backed down the drive. Scumbag stood in his doorway, in his underwear, and watched me drive away.

I went to the school, first, to the gym, for a good workout. I ran for an hour on the treadmill, then worked my upper body for another hour, until everything above my waist was throbbing and mushy. It helped. I didn’t feel like breaking something, anymore, and I actually had an appetite. I went to one of those family steakhouse franchise places, got a booth, and ordered a beer and a huge, ridiculous fried onion. It didn’t taste like anything, but eating it, one little fried strand at a time, took forever, and it gave me something to focus on, other than the fact that my wife was a cheating, lying, worthless piece of human garbage who had wasted several years of my life. When I finished I had a steak that tasted a lot like beef, and by that time I’d finished that, I’d had another beer, which was plenty. Full now, and flushed with overeating, I checked my watch: 8:37; too soon. I drove to a movie theater and bought a ticket to something that had just started. I don’t remember what it was, but the sounds and images occupied my brain, mostly.

At about half-past ten I drove by the house. The lights were off. I could see that she had moved her car out of the drive and onto the street in front of his house, where I saw the glow of lights from several windows. The happy couple enjoying an evening of domestic bliss. I pulled in the drive, shut off the car, got out, and closed the car door.

Inside, with the kitchen light on, I saw, with relief, that she had left her keys on the table. I doubted that she’d have second thoughts, but I locked the kitchen door behind me, anyway.

I had work the next morning, and calling in sick, if you’re a teacher, is more trouble than it’s worth, unless you’re at death’s door, so I needed to sleep. Looking in the bathroom, I saw that she’d taken most of her stuff, leaving the place looking weirdly empty. But I found a bottle of Zolpidem that my doctor had prescribed a while back, when I’d pulled a muscle and was having trouble sleeping, and I took one, knowing it would knock me out. Then I brushed my teeth, undressed and got under the sheet, and waited for the drug to take effect.

I awoke the next morning with the usual spacy hangover from the drug, but managed to drag myself through my morning routine. Zero grading and zero planning meant that today would be a day dancing to keep a step ahead of my students, another small addition to the mound of grievance I was building against the couple next door.

I managed to get through the day, and coaching the boys’ soccer team--the extra job I’d taken on, the one that she had bitched about, without bothering to ask me why I wanted to do it--was actually a relief. For one thing, it delayed my having to go home, but, more importantly, the physicality and the camaraderie with the other coaches and the boys was rejuvenating, and just what I needed. Afterward I ready to go home, either to face her, if she had the temerity to try to have a conversation, or to endure what would really be my first night, at home, alone.

She did show up, of course. It was after I had finished the tuna sandwich that I’d had for dinner, and I was grading papers and listening to music. I heard a knock at the kitchen door, and knew it had to be her.

“Can I come in?” she asked. She was dressed in a sweatshirt and jeans, with her hair in a ponytail; no makeup. So, no attempt to seduce me. Points to her for that.

“That depends,” I replied. “What do you want to talk about? I’m not interested in your apology. I don’t care why or how it happened. I sure don’t want to hear the sordid details of how sex with him is so much better. So, what’s left to say?”

“I know I’ve hurt you,” she said, earnestly. “I swear I never meant to. I do love you, and I love being married to you. If you’ll just let me come home--”

“Not going to happen,” I said, interrupting her. “We’ve lived next door to this guy for what, all of two weeks, and you’re already fucking him? Think about what that says about our marriage, that you didn’t even try to resist him--”

“I did try! But you were gone so much--”

“Bullshit. You never once talked to me about it. If you had, you can bet I would have stayed home for that conversation.”

“You shouldn’t have been gone so much in the first place,” she said, putting her lower lip out.

“Well, now my being gone isn’t a problem for you, is it? You can hang out with the scumbag all day, for all I care.”

“He’s not a scumbag! At least he listens to me.”

“He is a scumbag, because he fucks married women. And I’ll bet you’re not the first. But, you know what? I don’t give a shit. He’s your scumbag, so you be proud of him. Just don’t come to me to sing his praises.”

“You’re turning everything around! I didn’t come here to defend him. I came over here to tell you that I want us to stay together. I choose you, okay? You’re the one I want1”

“Well,” I said, calmly, “you’re not the one I want. Not anymore. Not after what you did. Maybe you are through with him, for now. But what about the next time I have to travel with the team overnight? Or I have to go to a teacher’s conference? Or, god forbid, I want to spend an afternoon fishing or playing golf? Will you be back over there in his bed? Or will you be off with some other guy, someone who seems more dangerous, or more exciting, or more successful than your boring, high-school-teacher husband, who drives a Subaru and doesn’t smoke and flosses his teeth and worries about whether he’s putting enough into his retirement account?”

“I’ll be good! I promise. But you have to try, too. You have to pay me some attention. You can’t keep putting me last and expect everything to be okay. I’m not a doll you can put on a shelf until you decide it’s time to play with it.”

“Fuck you. You don’t like the way I was treating you? Go ahead and fuck off, then. I’ve said I don’t want you anymore. I have zero incentive, after what you’ve done, to do anything to get you back. And I have no reason to believe, if you came back, that you wouldn’t do it again, if you wanted to. You’d just find some way to justify it. If it wasn’t, ‘he’s ignoring me,’ it would be, ‘he just doesn’t understand me,’ or ‘I just need this for myself.’ You’re a cheater. We know that. You just need to accept it. Pretending you’re a decent person who just made a little mistake is just you not facing reality. Which is only my problem if I stay married to you, which is why I plan not to do that.”

“I don’t understand you. Why are you being so mean? Don’t you love me?” She was really crying, now, and it hurt to look at her with her face streaming with tears, but, if I had failed to convince her with my argument, I had definitely convinced myself. Some of what I was saying I hadn’t even known, until I heard it coming out of my mouth, but I recognized the undeniability of its truth. The fact that she could continue to deny it only made her more dangerous to me, more likely that she would, if I forgave her, relapse and, with her own casually careless, selfish brand of cruelty, fuck me over again. No thank you.

“Yes, I do love you,” I said. “And I believe that you think you love me. But let me ask you a question: do you love him, too?”

She looked at me for a moment, in silence, then looked down at the floor, without answering.

“That’s a problem, for me,” I said, more softly. “I need a woman who’s capable of loving me exclusively, and that’s not you. It hurts me that it’s not. I want you to be that woman. But--let’s be honest with one another, okay? I don’t mean to hurt you by saying this, but--you are not that woman. If you try to be her, you will fail. If I try to force you to be her, I will fail. Much better, don’t you think, for you to be the person you need to be, and me to find someone I can be happy with, instead of someone who will, in spite of her best intentions, keep hurting me?”

“You’re wrong,” she said, but it lacked the passion of her previous denials. “Let me try. Let me come back, and we can try.”

“I don’t know how to make you understand how much it hurt me to see you, yesterday, knowing you had just fucked him, after you’d lied to me about staying home sick, while he was standing there, thinking, ‘yeah, I just fucked your wife.’ You will never know. You will never understand, even if it were to happen to you, because you never did, and never will, love someone the way I love you. If you did, you would understand why I can’t let you do that to me again. Not when I know--and I do know it, as surely as the sun rising tomorrow--that you would. Not planning to, but being surprised by it, and letting it happen.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t want it to be over.”

“I know,” I said, and I believed her. “You should go now. I’ll see a lawyer next week, and get the process started. There isn’t much to separate, so it should be pretty simple.”

“We could go to a marriage counselor.”

“And say what?” I asked. “I just said everything I have to say, and I didn’t notice you having much to say, in response, except that you want another chance.” I paused, thinking. “I’ll tell you what: go back over there, let the scumbag screw you really good, a couple of times, then sit down and think about what you really want. If you still think, tomorrow, that it would help to see a therapist together, I’ll agree to a few sessions.”

“I’d rather have you screw me really good a couple of times.”

“And that fact that you can’t understand why I wouldn’t even consider it tells us both what we need to know about the state of our marriage. Now, I need to finish grading these papers, so, if you wouldn’t mind?”

“Can I talk to you tomorrow?”

“If you leave now, yes.”

“Okay.” And she turned and let herself out.

To go back to the scumbag.

I took a minute to think about how I felt about that. On one hand, it was a relief to have her gone, which meant that she needed a place to go. And I had, after all, sent her to him, so I couldn’t really complain about that. On the other hand, it seemed deeply unfair: she’s the cheater, and all she has to do is to take a short walk to be consoled in the arms of her new lover, while I sit here alone, unconsoled. On another hand (why not?), the guy consoling her is a scumbag, and, although I may be alone, at least I have my self-respect, which I don’t think I would keep if I were to take her back. What kind of a life would it be, waiting to find out that she had slipped again, and was fucking some scumbag--this one, that one, what did it matter--behind my back?

“I’m still young,” I told myself.”I will find someone else, someone who will love me, someone who understands marriage the way I do, someone I can trust, and start a family with.”

And then I finished my grading, and went to bed, alone.

The next day was Friday, and during my planning period I got in to see one of the assistant principals, who I knew fairly well, and who’d been through a divorce. He didn’t have much advice to offer, but he did give me the name of his lawyer. Since, as I’d told my soon-to-be-ex-wife, it looked to me to be a fairly simple thing, I didn’t see the need to do a lot of research, or consult with several different people. I called and made an appointment for the following week, after school. I’d have to miss practice, but there wasn’t any other time I could go.

At home, after I ate, I sat down to watch a cable news show, and wait for her to knock. She did a little after 8. I let her in, and we sat, again, at the kitchen table.

“You said you’d consider counseling,” she began.

“Yes,” I agreed, “I think my insurance covers it. I don’t see much point, but I’m not opposed to the idea. I have to tell you, I’m more interested in coming to terms with our divorce than I am in getting back together, but I guess a lot of people go into marriage counseling with goals that don’t exactly match their spouse’s. You have someone in mind?”

“I got a recommendation from someone. So, if I make an appointment, you’ll come?”

“You need to make it for an evening or a weekend. I’m not taking off from work. But yes, if it’s in my time off, I’ll come.”

“I’ll let you know.” She paused. “I miss you.”

I looked at her. She seemed sad, like she really meant it. I guess she did. “Scumbag wouldn’t like to hear you say that.”

“I wish you wouldn’t call him that. He has a name.”

“He will always be Scumbag to me,” I smiled.

“We didn’t mean to hurt you,” she insisted. “He could see that I was lonely, and...” she trailed off, reluctant to finish her sentence.

“He knew that you were married,” I said, firmly. “Given how fast things happened, I don’t think you can have put up much resistance, but he still bears some responsibility. Unless you’re telling me you literally threw yourself at him. No, a decent man might have let you see he was interested, but he wouldn’t have fucked you while I was out of town, or at work. He’s a scumbag, and you two were made for each other.”

“I wish I could make you understand,” she said.

“Your trouble is, I do understand. Look, I have an appointment with a lawyer next week. I’ll get the process started, but, if you set up a time that isn’t too far in the future, I’ll go with you to see your marriage therapist. If it looks like it’s helping, I’ll hold off, but if I don’t see some progress fairly quickly, I’d just as soon get the unpleasantness over with.”

“All right,” she said, standing up. “Are you sure you’re okay? It looks like all you’ve eaten for dinner is a sandwich.”

“Sandwiches are food, and they suit my mood, at present,” I said. “I guess you two are enjoying cooking and eating together. If I know you, you’re fairly tweaking on the intimacy of it all, aren’t you? I should be jealous, but what I really am is disappointed. I thought your pleasure in being with me was about me. What I’ve come to find out is that I was just a convenient warm body. The guy next door will do as well as I.”

“No! I ... I ... yes, I enjoy being with him. But he’s not a replacement for you. We’re different together. I don’t know how to explain it.”

“That’s just as well,” I replied, “because I really don’t want an explanation. Good night.”

“If I bring you over a plate, will you eat it?”

“I will not eat the leftovers of your little love feast,” I said, with more bitterness than I meant to reveal. “Look,” I said, in a softer voice, “I think we should leave off contact for a while. If you schedule an appointment, text me the time, and I’ll be there, if I can. Until then, let’s just keep some distance between us.” With that, I opened the door for her, and she went out.

After she left, I realized I needed a plan for the upcoming weekend. I could do what I felt like doing, which would be ordering several pizzas and eating them while sitting on the couch and watching an endless series of football games, but that seemed pathetic, somehow, and, anyway, I could always do that another time. I could go away somewhere, if I had somewhere to go, but that seemed like fleeing the scene, so I decided to table that option, as well. I could put on a brave face, and spend the days working outside, around the house, daring them to confront me, but that seemed too obvious.

As it turned out, I spent Saturday morning at the public library, looking through books on divorce and relationships. I stayed out for lunch, and called one of the other soccer coaches, and got myself invited to watch a football game with him and a few of his friends, who regularly gathered to watch their alma mater play at a local sports bar. On Sunday I figured I could get up on a ladder and clear the gutters and check the shingles, which needed doing before the weather got cold. Then I could order a pizza and watch a game, in solitude.

I didn’t see the couple next door, although I heard the Scumbag’s motorcycle pulling into his driveway sometime in the wee hours of Sunday morning.

On Tuesday I had my meeting with the lawyer, who said, as I expected, that the divorce would be a simple matter, filed for irreconcilable differences. We both worked, so that balanced, and with no kids, no huge stock portfolio, no vacation home, boat, or even a parakeet, we would have a very simple split. The house was mine, inherited from my parents, so she had no claim on it. I told him about maybe getting counseling, and he said he would hold on filing unless or until I gave them the go-ahead. I felt a lot better leaving his office.

She texted me that evening, to ask if I could make an appointment Thursday, at 5:30pm. I texted her my assent, and she sent me the address, which was a number in a professional office complex, near the hospital.

On Wednesday, at school, I could tell that the grapevine had been at work: either the assistant principal, or the coach, or both, had talked to someone, and I could sense that I was getting some curious looks from some of the women teachers, like they were trying to figure out if it was because I was abusive, or alcoholic, or a serial philanderer. That afternoon, at bus duty, Lucy Calkins, one of the math teachers, invited me to the teachers’ happy hour on Friday, after school, at a Houlihan’s nearby, and I said thanks, and I’d think about it. I’d been invited a few times, right after I’d been hired, but I’d been much more interested in getting home to my wife, then, and the invitations had dried up, after a while.

Thursday evening I showered quickly after soccer practice and hurried over to the office of Regina Patmore, Psy.D. I pressed a buzzer to be admitted to the waiting room; a woman, whom I took to be Dr. Patmore, was standing in a doorway at the other end of the room; she greeted me, asked me to follow her. I saw my wife sitting at one end of a small sofa, facing a chair. Dr. Patmore gestured to the sofa, and I sat.