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Summer/Fall 2016

Shark Week

 

by Robert McGuill

 

She hung up after telling him she loved him, dropped the phone on the hopelessly cluttered nightstand and thought, good God this place is a disaster—I’m a disaster!

Also on the nightstand was Cal’s little black bag of sex toys (What, did he just carry them around in the glove box of his Audi?), and the novel she’d picked up in the classics section at Barnes & Noble last weekend while out shopping with her best friend, Amber Leigh Donovan.

“Homework?” Amber Leigh had giggled, nibbling on the lip of her Starbuck’s cup when she saw the book’s preposterous title—Lady Chatterly’s Lover—guessing, immediately, her friend’s interest in the read was more than a casual one. “Elaine, Elaine, Elaine.” She wagged her finger, flashing a naughty little smile. “Is there something you want to tell me, you wicked girl?”

Wicked.

Yes.

Wickedly stupid!

“Get dressed,” Elaine said to Cal with no particular urgency, eyes wandering from the book to the alarm clock to the young man’s handsome, if boyishly androgynous face. “Andrew’s on his way.”

Cal grunted and sat up, arching his neck to look out the window. When he sat back, a wedge of black hair fell across one blue eye. He muttered something Elaine couldn’t quite make out, some nasty little remark about husbands, and shook his head as if reallyReally?They were supposed to have had the whole afternoon to themselves—an orgasm triple header, three big ones each, at least, along with a knuckle bump or two for style points and maybe some night-game afterglow—and it was plain by the unamused look on his face he didn’t like the way the stats were working out.

Elaine lay there not saying a word as he kicked off the covers. His half-erect penis, still glistening from its escapades between, and above, the sheets stared at her, crossly, with its little dark eye, making her feel like a cold hearted bitch for insisting he throw a leash on it, ASAP, and walk it back to the park.

Cal spoke with his faced turned. “You said he wouldn’t be home until this evening.”

“Just be thankful he called.”

“Why?”

“Because it gives us time for a leisurely goodbye, that’s why. This way you won’t have to jump out a window. Or go scampering across the lawn, half naked, when he walks through the door.”

“Do I look worried?”

“I suppose you ought to. I am his wife, after all.”

Cal scoffed bravely, rolling his thickly muscled shoulders, which in turn rippled his washboard abs…which in turn rippled his long, lean lats…and so on and so forth down the line. “I’m in love with you, Elaine. Would it sound rude or mean-spirited if I said I’d be a hell of a lot more grateful if he’d just go away and never come back?”

“It might. A little.”

He dressed, slowly, taking his time with each article of clothing, letting her know he was moving to the jewels of his own clock, not Andrew’s.

“Don’t pout.”

He reached for his undershirt. “I’m not pouting.”

“Well, whatever you’re doing, stop it. I don’t like it.”

She grabbed a sock from the floor and pitched it to him, underhand, far out of reach. Though his head and arms were tangled in his undershirt, he managed to pluck it from its desperate trajectory with a nifty sweep of the hand. She smiled at the effort, half-expecting to hear a cheer of appreciation from some unseen fan peeking through the bedroom window. But when she realized he was watching her watch him, she looked away, as if it wasn’t so impressive after all.

“Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

“Ask away,” she said.

“Do you love me?”

She slumped. Good GodAgain? She took a deep breath and held it. He wasn’t very bright, was he, Cal? (The nickname, “Sparky,” she’d realized with a forlorn sigh after their first few times together, lent itself to far more than just his electrifying slider.)

“Well? Do you?”

She cringed. Amber Leigh had warned her that young guys were dumb and needy and a giant pain in the ass, but she hadn’t listened. She’d signed on for it anyway. Cougar town. She’d ignored what the mirror told her, and taken up with a twenty-year-old jock—a kid who played baseball for a living—and in exchange for the pleasure of watching him swing his big league bat, she found herself besieged with interrogatories like this one, leaving her feel as if he’d mistaken her for his mother.

“Elaine?”

“Jesus, Cal.”

“I’m just asking.”

She looked at her nails, frowning. The color was all wrong, and she blamed the tech at the day spa who’d talked her into the hideous new shade, telling her it made her “look younger.” Bitch. When she got around to glancing Cal’s way again, the frown was still tugging at the corners of her mouth. “I had to say something, didn’t I?”

He stood there, brooding, hands on his hips. A pose that made him look as if he’d stepped off the mound to question an ump over a bad call. “Why is it,” he said, buttoning his shirt, “that whenever I say ‘I love you,’ your response is always ‘that’s nice,’ or ‘you’re so sweet?’ Why can’t you just give the word back to me, like you do him?”

His other sock was lodged in a crease between the pillows. She tugged it free and lobbed it to him.

“I love you,” she said. “Now finish getting dressed.”

Their affair (God, that didn’t sound trite, did it?) was only four months old. But it was a ponderous four-months old, and with every passing day its weariness and disappointments multiplied. She wasn’t bored of his splendid physical gifts yet—the ones the newspaper gushed over whenever they wrote about his crunch-time performances on the mound—but his attitude, Jesus God Almighty. His insufferable petulance was driving her out of her skull. He still amused her in bed, but the afterglow of their amorous jaunts had come to feel like post-game press conferences in a losing locker room, and all too often now she greeted his goodbyes with the same thrill of anticipation she did his hellos.

“We should go away somewhere,” he said. “Then we wouldn’t have to put up with these stupid inconveniences.”

“Go?” She smiled, sadistically. “Go where?”

“We could get a hotel room at my next away game.”

“What about curfew?” she said, giving the word a mocking little twist. “Don’t they have curfews anymore? In the minors?”

“I could sneak out after bed check.”

She sighed. “We’re already sneaking out, honey bunny. Why bother leaving town? It’s hardly worth the trouble, don’t you think?”

A car horn sounded in the distance, its long, aggravated peal drawing their attention to the window. When they turned back to one another, it was as if they’d traveled through time in opposite directions, Cal suddenly looking five years younger than he already was, and she, Elaine, bearing the frumpy appearance of a fat-ankled aunt from Cincinnati.

“I hate leaving you,” he’d grumbled, slipping into his loafers. He gave his head a defiant little toss. “It feels worse every time.”

“It does,” she agreed, “doesn’t it.”

He straightened himself and came around the bed, making a half-hearted attempt to kiss her. But she was already up and about, tidying the room. Removing the sheets and pillowslips, and tossing them into the clothes hamper.

“Go,” she said, handing him his little black bag as his lips strained for her cheek. “We can talk tomorrow. Call me after practice.”

 

Andrew looked like the wrath of God, or the wrath of Khan, or the wrath of somebody when he came dragging ass through the door with his attaché and overnight bag. Everything about him lent the impression of being—what? Wilted? Harried? Haggard? There was a word for it. His shirt and tie were a sight, his wool suit a rumpled mess—not just wrinkled, but wrinkled like he’d run a marathon in it—and even his Sunday-best Florshiems were scuffed and untied.

Elaine held the door, greeting him with a double martini and a sympathetic smile. “Welcome home, lover.”

The drink elicited a grateful sigh.        “You’re a saint,” he murmured, putting down his briefcase and trading his grip on his valise for the martini glass. He paused and glanced around the foyer, the look of a little old man returned to his boyhood home. “What a week,” he sighed. “I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck.”

He sipped the drink, eagerly, then handed it back to her, divesting himself of his coat, which he tossed carelessly over the staircase banister. “It’s good to be back. It feels like I’ve been away forever.”

“I was sending good thoughts your way,” she said, punctuating the admission with demur little laugh. “Did you feel them?”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “I sure did.”

She raised herself on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek, and while she was up there, dusted his lapel with the flat of her hand. She had no desire to please him, physically—or be pleased herself (Cal having already tended to that bit of business)—but she believed a well-cared for man was a confident man, and confident men rarely troubled themselves with doubts of their wife’s fidelity.

She took him by the end of his loosened tie. Escorted him down the hall.

“Did you amuse yourself while I was away?” he chuckled, allowing her to lead him through the house like a prize bull through the market.

“I did my best.” She smiled over her shoulder. “You know, the usual. Books…gardening…lunch with the girls.”

She stopped and turned. They were standing on the rug in front of the fireplace, and Andrew, whose mind seemed to have drifted elsewhere, appeared not to notice that his body had been commandeered out from under it.

“Take off your clothes.”

“What?“

“Your clothes,” she, said, releasing her hold on his tie. “Take them off.”

He cocked his head. “Why?”

“Because I’m going to have my way with you.”

He laughed, genially, as if they were new at this and he’d found her advances flattering yet impossible, for reasons of propriety, to accept.

“Andrew?”

He glanced aside, uncomfortably.

“What is it?” she asked. “Is something wrong?”

An apologetic shrug worked its way up his shoulders into the muscles of his face, which gave way to a sheepish grin. “I smell like a gym sock, honey.” He looked at her. Basset hound eyes. “I’ve been sitting in a rent-a-car all afternoon. A rent-a-car with a broken air conditioner.”

“So?”

He set the martini on the mantle. “So, can I grab a shower first?”

The request surprised her. She was calm, outwardly, but inside warning lights were going off and the voice of self-preservation was standing on its tiptoes shrieking in her ear. Danger! Danger! Something was wrong. Not just wrong, but wrong. He was wise to her, trying to snare her in a lie. He’d found something, or suspected something, and was only pretending he needed a shower so he could go upstairs and nose around. Inspect the tub, or check the drain for telltale DNA.

It took a bold lie to bring the moment to balance.

“I haven’t seen you in days,” she said, recovering her grip on the conversation. “I’ve wanted you since I heard your voice on the phone. So forget it, mister. The shower can wait. I can’t.”

Andrew’s face took on a pale expression and he stammered like a twelve-year-old boy caught in the commission of some petty crime. But she ignored his protestations insisting she wouldn’t take no for an answer, and pushed him to the floor where she tugged at the buttons on his shirt.

“I can’t promise you anything,” he cautioned, as she stepped out of her slacks and took to her knees.

“Promise?” She looked over her shoulder and laughed. “God, you’re dumb. Just shut up and fuck me, will you?”

 

She deserved a trophy. A participation trophy, anyway. She’d stepped up, taken one for the team, and when Andrew had rolled onto his back (promises neither made nor broken), spent and sweating, she’d kissed his forehead like the dutiful wife and good sport she was and excused herself to go upstairs to fetch their robes.

She was gone a long time—long enough to be missed—and when she didn’t return, Andrew picked up their scattered clothes and went looking for her. He found her in the bathroom, sitting on the edge of the tub, naked, clutching a tissue. She raised her head, frightened, and let out a soft, keening cry. “Look.” She held out the tissue, hand trembling. “Blood.”

He hurried to her side. “Are you hurt?” He put his arm around her shoulder. “Jesus. Are you sick, sweetheart?”

She shivered and shook her head, which explained all of nothing, and he posed the question again, but she still didn’t answer. She was too shaken, too confused to even speak. All she could do was sit there, staring at the tissue, wondering in horror if Cal had done something to her—scratched her, somehow, with his fingers, or hurt her, further up, inside—with one of his ridiculous toys.

“You couldn’t be pregnant, could you?”

She shook her head, violently.

“No,” he said. “No, of course not.”

He knelt on the cold tile, taking her by the hands. “Listen.” His voice was consoling. “It’s nothing, all right. I promise.” He nodded at the tissue. “See? See how there’s hardly any blood at all? That means it’s nothing. That means there’s no reason to panic.” He pressed her fingers to his lips and kissed them. Pointed to the faucet. “Here. Let me fix you a bath. It’ll make you feel better.”

She agreed, reluctantly. She was praying please please please, don’t let anything be wrong, don’t let anything be the matter with me—but then, out of all probability, she saw the comforting look in Andrew’s yielding brown eyes, and the panic subsided. She didn’t know how or why, but it was as if she knew that everything was going to be all right.

Andrew pried the wad of bloody Kleenex from her fist and dropped it in the trash, out of sight. Then he drew her attention to the bathwater. Steam was rising from an island of bubbles, and he smiled and said, “Come on. Slip in.” He helped her to her feet and held her hand as she stepped into the deep white clawfoot tub. “There,” he said. “See? Nothing like a warm shower to make everything better, is there?”

She laughed through unexpected tears, loving him, madly, for his sweet, foolish concern. “You mean, bath.”

“Sorry?”

“You said shower. You said there’s nothing like a warm shower.”

“Did I?”

“Yes,” she said, “But I knew what you meant. We know one another like that, don’t we? It’s something special we have between us.” She looked up at him, tears dripping into the bathwater. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I’ve gone and made you worry about me. But you’re right, it’s nothing. It’s nothing at all.” She drew a soapy hand from the water and caressed his fingers, his thin gold wedding band, giving him the words Cal so desperately longed to hear.

“I love you.”

 

When they went to bed that evening (rejuvenated by her bath and Andrew’s gentle assurances), Elaine drifted into a deep uncomplicated sleep, forgetting all about the stained tissue and the fright it caused, and remembering instead the short, sweet afternoon she’d spent in Cal’s youthful, athletic arms.

Andrew, however, who was awake with a book in his lap, was still thinking about the business of the bloody Kleenex.

Genevieve—yes, that Genevieve, who else?—had cautioned him not to see her that afternoon (insisted was the actual word she’d used), but he’d balked, telling her don’t be absurd. Of course he was coming. With all the phony plans he’d had to concoct—all the extravagant lies he’d had to make up, then repeat with a straight face to Elaine—in order to be here today, forget it. Hell or high water, they were going to have the afternoon they’d counted on.

“It’ll be a month before we get another shot at this,” he’d told her. “I can’t wait that long. I have to see you. Now.”

Genevieve listened, allowing a second or two of silence to hang on the line before speaking. “It’s Philip,” she said. “He’s been acting suspicious.”

“Suspicious?” Andrew snorted. “Suspicious how?”

“I don’t know. I can’t explain.”

“Philip’s an idiot,” he said, tapping his finger on the phone. “He doesn’t know anything.”

“Don’t call him that.”

“Why not? He is, isn’t he? He’s too stupid to know what he has in you, I know that much.”

“I’m just saying, Andrew. He’s trained to notice things. It’s his job.”

“He’s a mall cop.”

“He’s TSA, Andrew.”

“Oh, okay. My mistake. He’s TSA. He’s the moron who holds my coat and lunch bucket while his partner fondles my balls. ”

“Andrew!”

They’d met at a gaming convention in Dallas a year ago. The fellow who introduced them, a long-time drinking buddy of Andrew’s, Dave Perrault, told Andrew he was pretty sure Genevieve was either married or engaged—married, he’d later decided, after downing his third…forth… fifth shot of Jack at the bar—to some law enforcement geek from Pierre. Or was it Rapid? Anyway, it was one or the other of those crappy little cow towns in South Dakota, you know, where everybody drives a pickup and listens to AM radio. He couldn’t remember which, but it didn’t matter because the more important point he was trying to make was, if Andrew knew what was good for him he’d forget Genevieve, who was a disaster waiting to happen, and find himself a nice Asian call girl instead. You could get one online, you know? He’d be happy to email the link.

Good for him? Andrew knew exactly what was good for him. Which is why when he took Genevieve’s warm little hand in his, and peered oh-so-soulfully into the bottom of her effervescent baby blues, the only thing on his two-track mind (the first being sex, the second being more sex) was adultery. Filthy, unrepentant adultery.
“You’re imagining things,” he’d told her. He was calling from a payphone, and the sky overhead was dark, clogged with heavy black clouds that boiled like fumes from a smelting plant. His head was pounding with traffic noise. He pressed the phone to one ear, his palm to the other, and insisted it was going to be okay. Nobody knew anything about anybody. Most especially Philip.

Genevieve sighed when he said this, and at last admitted the truth. It wasn’t just Philip she was concerned about.

What, then, Andrew wanted to know? Why the panic?

In a halting voice she told him she was indisposed. Shark week, she said, defensively. The monthlies. There. Was he happy now? She took a quick, teary breath. Did he feel better having pried it out of her, embarrassing her like that? Humiliating her? Her stupid period had come early, all right, and she was a bloody, smelly, icky mess, and the whole thing was just going to end up being a disaster!

Andrew blinked pleasantly and pressed the phone closer to his ear. Baby… His voice softened, slipping into a long slow easy glide. Jesus Christ. That was it? That was the reason she’d wanted him to stay away? Because her period had come early? “God, you’re dumb,” he said. “You’re not as dumb as your dumbass husband, but you’re dumb.” He lowered his voice even more, taking it way way down. Barry White down. “Don’t you know,” he whispered, “the taste of blood puts me in a frenzy?”

 

Philip—Philip Marlow, airport gumshoe, as Andrew now called her erstwhile husband—had driven to work early that morning, leaving Genevieve the last of the coffee and a kitchen sink full of dirty breakfast dishes. But before he’d saddled up and ridden off to wage his cyber war with would-be terrorists dressed as middle-aged American women in kitten heels, he told Genevieve to expect him home later than usual, the brass at HQ having decided to schedule a late afternoon briefing with the entire security team.

“What kind of meeting,” Genevieve asked?

“The interminable kind,” Philip muttered with a scowl, strapping on his sidearm and zipping his jacket.

Interminable! Genevieve smugly repeated the anecdote to Andrew as they lay in bed that afternoon, insisting it was proof positive Philip (whose intelligence had been under assault all day) wasn’t nearly the moron Andrew had made him out to be.

Andrew, however, remained unconvinced. “Sorry to disagree, sweetheart,” he said, scratching his belly. “But there’s no way Philip uses that word. No way. He doesn’t have it in him.”

“Well, I heard it,” Genevieve insisted, standing by her story. “I heard him say it.”

Andrew laughed, pleasantly. “I’m telling you, you heard wrong, honey. Philip has never made the acquaintance of the word ‘interminable’. He wouldn’t know interminable if it wandered through the front door with a giant nametag pinned to its chest that said: HELLO. I’M INTERMINABLE.

Genevieve started to scold him, then stopped. She clutched the covers and cocked her head. “Shit!”

“What?”

“It’s him. Philip.”

Andrew bolted up as a car pulled into the drive, engine growling. It was Philip, all right—who else could it be?

Genevieve plucked the alarm clock from the nightstand and brought it close to her face. “It’s only two o’clock! Fuck!” She slammed the clock back beside the lamp—bang!—and turned to Andrew wild-eyed, lips trembling. “What the hell’s he doing home? He isn’t supposed to be home until after seven!”

“Apparently he never learned to tell time, either,” Andrew said, searching for his pants. “I told you he was an idiot!”

Genevieve was the first out of bed. She wiggled into a sweater and a pair of loose-fitting khakis while Andrew gathered his clothes and hotfooted it down the hall toward the fire escape at the back of the house. She’d laid out a fresh towel and a bar of unscented soap for him so he could shower before going home to Elaine—or as she put it, “Scrub away the ‘red flags’ of their dirty doings”—but as it was, Andrew was obliged to take a rain check. That, or face the prospect of serious bloodshed.

 

[Check out Robert’s backporch wisdom here]

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