Chapter 8: Jerry

It was almost an out of body experience as I entered the Apartment that Jenny had rented for us. I hadn't slept in two days, and my mind was practically schizophrenic, except that sounds sane compared to how I felt. When I opened the door, saw all the decorations, and 'welcome home' banners, I was paralyzed. If I hadn't seen my old recliner, I'm not sure I would have made it through the door. I accidentally slammed the door behind me. I hadn't had many doors to close in the last two years, and those I closed were the heavy steel kind.

The sound startled me as I hurdled into my chair. I didn't recline, instead I collapsed forward, my head in my hands and I wept. What should have been one of the happiest days of my life had turned to shit. I loved my wife more than life, and I had just demonstrated I'd do anything for her. I hated sluts more to the marrow of my bones and my wife had become a slut.

To understand how I feel about sluts, you need to understand my mother. If it weren't for the tragedy, I'd cry at just how Freudian my life was becoming. My mother was a slut. She was probably certifiably mentally ill. She hadn't a clue who my father was, and never cared. Her idea of a good date was a gangbang. She was a Certified Public Accountant, and somehow she managed to keep her professional and personal life separate. At least I think she did. We lived in a nice house and always had plenty of stuff. She was an attractive woman, at least in most of my memories; I didn't keep a picture of her. Most of the men she dragged home were neither nice nor attractive. She liked slobs. I never knew who would show up for breakfast, or how many. Most of them scared the shit out of me, or shamed me. I do remember one man who hung around for almost a whole school year. I was in seventh grade and he wasn't a bad male role model. They'd met at a swinger's party and I guess he was okay with a lot of her slut shit, but even he eventually got fed up and split. I was a senior in high school when my mother contracted AIDS.

A few weeks after it was confirmed, she committed suicide, or she was murdered. I don't think the cops were ever certain, but I didn't care. I hated her, and I didn't go to her funeral. I'd been living on my own for two years before she died. At fifteen, I was already a mostly full-grown man. At least I looked full-grown. No one is a man at fifteen.

I left because a filthy bum showed up for breakfast one morning and said something I couldn't take. I beat the shit out him and my dear sweet mother decided it was time I experienced a "bit of freedom." I got a weekly check from her, and I worked after school. When she died I got a big insurance check; since her death wasn't ruled a suicide, they had to pay me. I kept enough to cover what she would have given me until I graduated and gave the rest to a group that tries to rescue whores.

I was determined to marry a virgin, and to be a virgin when I married. I took a lot of abuse when I did my time in the Army to earn money for college, but I was determined not to have a wife like my mother, and not to be like the scumbags she brought home. I'd set my standards impossibly high, and when I met Jenny I almost began to believe in miracles. We didn't wait for the wedding, but we both knew there was going to be a wedding that night in my dorm room. I put her on a pedestal and I was determined to keep her there.

I'd graduated from a good university with a degree in accounting. That was the only example of my mother I ever wanted to follow. I got a good job with one of the big accounting firms and had just gotten my CPA when Jenny and I finally got married. Jenny was a very high maintenance woman, and even before we married, I knew my salary couldn't keep her happy. I took a job with a company that wanted to make use of creative accounting to cover a multitude of problems, like tons of unaccountable cash. I knew what I was getting into, but I would have done anything for Jenny. When she insisted on a new car, I did something really stupid. I knew where some of my company's undeclared imports were kept. I took a couple of pounds and tried to sell it to someone I knew was trying to do business with my company.

It turned out that the reason my firm hadn't wanted to do business with him was because he was an undercover agent. As soon as I was arrested, I received an unmistakably clear message from my boss that if I would take a fall for importing the junk, the firm would consider my personal books to be balanced. I agreed, was given enough information about how I imported the heroin to make a plea bargain and I thought I'd get probation. Instead, I got seven to fifteen. I would be eligible for parole in two years but I soon learned that I was more likely to see Glen Miller and Sachmo in a private jam session at my house than to make parole the first time around. I was told I should expect to serve at least four years and more likely seven.

Prison was tough, but not what I expected. When I first got there the gangs tried to jack me, but an old lifer finally explained that if I didn't hang with the gangs they'd leave me alone. I had to be willing to fight but if I didn't go looking for one, I could probably do my time without finding one. I also learned that I didn't have to worry about "Big Bubba" making me his pet. There were plenty of volunteers for that role. Looking back, I could see the hand of Jenny's people helping me, but I knew in my heart that I could have done my time without what she did.

When I finally got my pity party thinned out, I realized just how screwed I was. I had been paroled to her custody. This was my official residence, and it would take weeks to get it changed... if I wanted to change it. I knew what happened to most newly released offenders. The gauntlet I'd had to run in Huntsville had just been the first hurdle. I didn't know the status of my CPA. Since my crime wasn't job related, I thought I had a prayer of holding on to that, but an ex-con getting an accounting job wasn't something you'd want to place even a small bet upon.

Then there was stability. So many ex-offenders screwed up by wanting to find what they'd lost by being locked up. Men who thought they'd gotten their lives straightened out in prison wanted to pick up those lives where they ought to be. A good wife and a stable home. The problem was that no 'good' woman in her right mind would have anything to do with a newly released convict. More than half of us were going right back. The type of women who would take a risk on fresh ex-cons were exactly the sort that would help get us back inside quicker.

I knew that among the problems I'd developed were intimacy issues. That's almost universal with ex-offenders. I had been worried that I wouldn't be able to get it up with Jenny, even before I found out she'd turned into a whore. Now I was positive that my soldier wouldn't be reporting for that duty. I was not, however, prepared to resume a celibate lifestyle. That put me right out there with so many ex-cons. No family, no job, no money, desperately horny, and wondering if I needed to score some Viagra.

As I sat there in my chair, I was overwhelmed for the first time by a vision of my sweet wife rutting under one of the men I knew she'd fucked. I barely found the bathroom before I threw up. I didn't quite make it to the toilet. The smell made me lose what was left in my stomach. As I knelt before the porcelain god, I felt a cold emptiness start in my stomach and seep outward until even my fingers gripping the toilet felt like hollow tubes.

I've known men who have lived on death row, and I understand the term "dead man walking" as only a denizen of a maximum security prison can. I was a "dead man walking" as I made my way to the bedroom. I saw the bed, our bed. Jenny had our old bedspread on it, and I could smell her all over the room. I turned and went back into the hall and gave thanks that she'd been able to afford a small two-bedroom apartment. Had any part of me touched that bed, I'm certain I would have shattered like a fine crystal vase on a concrete floor. I fell across the guest bed and was asleep before knew I'd closed my eyes.

When I awoke it was dark, and I smelled something that ignited so many wonderful memories that for a few seconds I forgot where I was and why I thought I was alone. Steak! There is no smell like it. I'd smelled it in prison. Occasionally the ODR (Officer's Dining Room) served steak to the guards. The ODR was located right between the two chow halls where the prisoners ate. The smells from that place would drive a saint to sin. I followed my nose to the kitchen and saw Jenny with her back to me fixing all my favorites.

"Marci had special company coming in tonight and I couldn't stay there. I'll give you all the space you need, Jerry, but I'm going to fix the meal I had planned. I've had these marinating overnight and some of this needs to be cooked or it will go bad. I want to talk to you. I think I've got that right, but please, let me show you how happy I am that you're finally free."

Her voice was trembling and almost broke several times. She never turned around and I knew she was scared to let me see how much she was hurting.

Her pain was a knife twisting in my heart; I would rather sleep on hot coals than bring her pain, but at the same time I wanted to kill her. Those words that were much less hyperbolic now than they would have been two years ago.

She turned around and tears were steaming down her face.

"Please, Jerry, don't make me sleep in the car. You can't leave here until the CSO checks you out, and I don't have anyplace to go. I have to teach tomorrow. Please, can't we wall all that off for now and..."

I tried to keep my voice neutral. "I can't do that, Jenny. I can't pretend. But I owe you, and I can be civil. I've had to do a lot of things I didn't want to do. I don't want to be around you right now, and it would probably be better if we don't talk. Still, this is your place and I'm not going to make you sleep in your car."

Jenny looked so fragile. I've always thought of her as my bone china doll. Something that Madam Alexander might have crafted. Her skin is so perfect and her features so fine and delicate that I was always afraid she might shatter if I held her too tightly. Now, she looked like a dried flower, one whose petals might crumble at the slightest breeze.