Chapter 3

I 'slept in' the following morning since Santa had already come. Heck, I was on semester break.

Martha had already left for work by the time I wandered out to the kitchen to get my first diet soda of the day.

There, held on the refrigerator door by a magnet disguised as a cupcake, was a note reminding me to look at the sink in Martha's room. I took it off, crumpled it and tossed it into the trash. Then I fixed some breakfast, ate and started my day. Maybe it was petty of me to just ignore Martha's request, but it made me feel better.

I was actually feeling pretty good as I showered and dressed.

You know, one of the things that happens when your wife seems to find you undesirable is you ask yourself, why? As I prepared, I wondered again, for the, I don't know, maybe thousandth time, what was wrong with me?

I hadn't changed in my hygiene practices. I showered every morning, and shaved most days. I used deodorant, and kept my nails (both hands and feet) clean and trimmed. I brushed my teeth twice a day, and went regularly to the dentist for cleanings, and to the doctor for check-ups.

I took a few medications, but just the normal things for cholesterol and mild high-blood pressure that almost everyone our age was taking. Nothing with side-effects like B.O. or bad breath.

My dressing habits were still what they had been when I worked.

Jeans just weren't my thing; too casual, so I wore slacks, usually with a collared shirt. When I was teaching, I would throw on a tie, as well. That made me one of the minority of teachers at the J.C., but I was also older than most of them. I had a couple of nice suits for more formal occasions.

As far as my overall condition, I didn't weigh five pounds more today than the 165 pounds that I weighed the day that Martha and I were married. Most days I walked a couple of miles.

My hair was fairly short, not a crew cut or anything, but I hit the barber every three weeks or so. And kept my body hair, in all of its intrusive incarnations, trimmed.

Not to sound too self-satisfied, but I thought that I was at least as well groomed and physically attractive or more so than the majority of men my age.

I just shook my head. It was a mystery.

At 10:10 A.M., I drove up to Tom's Gold & Jewelry, and pushed the buzzer at the door. When I heard the click of the electronic lock releasing, I opened the door and entered.

I wasn't sure how much jewelry I had purchase for Martha from Tom Martin over the years, but it probably totaled up to a tidy amount. Tom, knowing that as well, smiled at me as I came over and sat in one of the stools facing his glass showcases, filled with trinkets, gold, jewelry, watches and all of the other accouterments of his trade.

"Mark, what can I do for you today?" Tom asked with a smile.

"Tom, I'm afraid that I'm going to have to take advantage of your 30-day money-back return policy this time," I replied, as I put down the diamond pendant and took the original receipt out of my wallet.

"No problem, Mark. But may I ask why? Didn't Martha like it? It's a beautiful diamond," he queried, as he picked up the pendent and started examining it with his 10X monocle, as if he was expecting to find some sort of defect.

"No, no, Tom. There wasn't anything wrong with it, other than it turns out that Martha didn't really want another piece of jewelry for Christmas this year," I told him, somewhat stretching the truth.

"Well, that's no problem. That happens sometimes. What is it — she wants to do a cruise or something instead?" he was talking as he started doing the paperwork for the return.

"Something like that. You know women; I'll tell you what she wants when I figure that out myself," I communicated my confusion with him with a shrug of my shoulders and my tone of voice.

Tom actually looked up and smiled at me, when I said that,

"When YOU'VE figured out what women want, you just let me know too!" He laughed at that. He reminded me of the punch line of the old joke about understanding a woman's mind, "How many lanes wide did you want that highway to be?"

I mentioned that I should probably, for insurance purposes, bring in the more valuable pieces of jewelry that I'd purchased over the years, and have Tom update the appraisal. He told me, 'sure, anytime.'

So we joked some more and laughed a little, until he handed me a check for the purchase price, and I left.

My next stop was the bank, where, again, out of character for me, I cashed the check instead of re-depositing it in the checking account. I wasn't sure of what I wanted to do with the money, but I had been thinking about getting a new shotgun, either a Ruger Over-and-Under, or maybe a new semi-auto Benelli in 12 Ga. I would think about it.

I went back to the house briefly, to put most of the money from returning the diamond into my gun safe at home. In addition to my firearms, I kept other valuables in the safe — important papers, like passports, birth certificates, and the documents on the house. I also kept a box containing most of Martha's more valuable jewelry in there, and I had a cash box, which I used when for one reason or another, I had more than a comfortable amount of cash around the house.

What I was doing next was a plunge into the unknown, at least for me, and I didn't want to have $2,500 in cash on my person.

It was almost 11:30 on the dot when I pulled into the back parking lot, behind the single-story, rather non-descript building that said "Oriental Massage" on the sign in front. I was relieved that there was a back entrance, so that I could enter the building discreetly.

Oh, don't be surprised — haven't we all thought the same thing, that a 'massage parlor' was just a front for prostitution? I know that's what I thought, and I'd overheard a couple of guys at the trap-and-skeet club suggesting the same about this particular place.

That I was even there was a sign of my desperation, my anger and my depression.

I walked in from the back, but the service desk was still at the front, so I walked down a long hallway with numbered doors on either side. There was incense burning that gave the whole place a sandalwood smell. I actually kind of like that, it relaxed me for some reason.

At the desk was a bored looking Asian lady, in, I would estimate, her mid-forties. A little overweight for the tight-fitting dress she was wearing. I suppose it was Chinese — it had a shiny look to the fabric, with little wooden buttons that went into loops, rather than button holes, and it had a high slit up the side. She looked up as I got close to the desk, and gave one of those automatic, but entirely meaningless smiles to greet me.

We went quickly through the initial process: No, I'd never been here before, A massage was $40 for 45 minutes, $50 for an hour, yes, and she could fit me in now. I paid the $40 (which didn't include tip for girl, I was rather emphatically told) and was sent to room number 6 (very lucky number, she mentioned) close to the back of the building.

"You go, see Pearl. Pearl very good massage. You like very much," she informed me, as I was sent down the hall. I wasn't entirely sure whether she meant that I would like 'Pearl', or the massage, or both.

I knocked lightly on the door, and a voice asked me to come in.

As I closed the door behind me, I looked around at the room. The walls were painted in a pink or salmon shade (like most men, I've never been good about colors), there were various cheap 'Asian' or at least, Asian-style prints hanging on the wall.

A couple of wall charts showed an outline of a human body, with various places pin-pointed, accompanied with Chinese calligraphy. Or I should say, what I assumed was Chinese calligraphy. How the hell would I know?

There were a couple of tables along the walls, with bottles sitting there, and racks with white towels, looking similar to the ones you would find in hotels. There was a cubicle that looked like a changing room in one corner, with a fabric drape that could be pulled closed to provide a modicum of privacy.

The lighting was subdued, and in the middle of the room was a massage table, covered with a clean sheet. And standing at the far end of the room was an Asian woman, who I assumed was 'Pearl.'

Pearl came over, and we introduced ourselves, she as Pearl, and me as 'Mark', which somehow became 'Mr. Mark.'

"Ok, Mr. Mark, you hang up clothes here," she said pointing to a hanger on a hook in a small dressing room. "You take off clothes, and lie down on table. You put towel over you middle. Then I come back." Then she turned and left the room.

Sure enough, when I had undressed, and was lying on the massage table with the towel over my mid-section, she silently walked back in.