“You went straight from the concert to Ophelia's?” I asked skeptically. “You didn't stop anywhere along the way, not to eat or anything else?”
She shook her head. “No, I went straight to Ophelia's. No stops.”
There were a few moments of silence, during which I found myself desperately wanting to believe her. Just why, I still couldn't explain, although it had something to do with the bizarre nature of the male animal—his vanity, his foolish pride, his desire not be spurned by a beautiful woman. Yes, in spite of everything, my masculine pride was still trying to convince me that my wife was faithful and that this was all some giant misunderstanding.
I took a deep breath and stared into the belly of the fire, relighting the flames of anger, hatred, and righteous indignation. “So how's Michael Burrico?” I asked, and then I looked up from the fire and stared into her eyes.
The Duchess recoiled. “Michael Burrico?” she said incredulously. “How on earth would I know?” She stared at me with a blank expression, and still I wanted to believe her. I really did.
But she was a lying sack of shit; I knew it! “When's the last time you've seen him, Nadine? Tell me! How long ago? Days? Weeks? Hours? Tell me, God damn it!”
The Duchess sagged. “I have no idea what you're talking about.” She looked away. “Someone's giving you bad information.”
“You're a fucking liar!” I sputtered. “A total fucking liar!”
She kept looking down, saying nothing.
“Look at me!” I screamed, rising from the ottoman. She looked. I plowed on: “Look me in the eye and tell me you weren't at Michael Burrico's apartment last night. Go ahead and tell me!”
She shook her head quickly. “I… I wasn't. I wasn't there.” Her tone was just short of panic. “I don't know what you're talking about. Why are you doing this?”
I took an aggressive step toward her. “Swear on the kids’ eyes that you weren't there last night.” I clenched my fists. “Go ahead and swear to me, Nadine.”
“You're fucking sick,” she muttered, looking away again. “You're having me followed.” Then she looked back at me. “I want you out of this house. I want a divorce.” She raised her chin in defiance.
I took another step forward. I was less than three feet from her now. “You… fucking… cunt!” I sputtered. “You no-good, lousy, philandering, gold-digging cunt! I didn't have you followed! Michael Burrico's fiancée called here. That's how I knew where you were, you… lousy—”
She cut me off. “Fuck you!” she screamed. “You're calling mea cheat! How many women have you fucked, you fucking hypocrite!” With that she popped off the edge of the desk and took a step toward me, closing the distance. We were less than two feet apart now. “I want you out of my life!“ she screamed frantically. “I want you out of my house!I don't ever wanna speak to you again!”
“Your house?” I sputtered. “Are you fucking kidding me? This is myhouse! I'm not going fucking anywhere.”
“I'm hiring a lawyer!” she screamed.
“Yeah, the best my money can buy!” I screamed back.
She clenched her fists. “Fuck you! You're a fucking crook! You stole all your money! I hope you die in jail!” The Duchess took an aggressive step forward, as if she were about to take a swing at me, and then suddenly she did something that I would never forget for the rest of my life. With complete serenity, she dropped her arms to her sides and relaxed her posture and tilted her head back all the way, exposing the most vulnerable part of her long bare neck, and she said, “Go ahead: Kill me.” Her voice was soft and mellow, completely resigned. “I know that's what you want, so just go ahead and do it.” She tilted her head back even farther. “Kill me right now. I won't fight back. I promise. Just strangle me and put us both out of our misery. You can kill yourself afterward.”
I took a step toward her, ready to commit murder, when suddenly my eyes lit on a picture frame affixed to the wall. It was just over the Duchess's left shoulder. The frame was long and narrow, perhaps one by three feet, and inside were three large pictures of our children. Chandler was on top, and she was smiling bashfully. She had on a fancy yellow T-shirt with a buttercup collar and a matching yellow headband. She was three and a half at the time, and she looked like a tiny Duchess. Beneath her was Carter, only eighteen months at the time, and he had on nothing but a snow-white diaper. His eyes were wide open, his expression full of wonder, as he stared at a bubble floating in the air. His blond hair shimmered like polished glass. His regal eyelashes were as lush as butterfly wings. And, again, all I saw was the Duchess. And beneath Carter was a picture of him and his sister. He was sitting in her lap, she had her arms around him, and they were staring into each other's eyes adoringly.
In that very instant the true irony of my plight hit me, like one of Zeus's thunderbolts. It wasn't enough that I couldn't kill my wife because she was the mother of my children; it was much worse than that. The simple fact was that becauseshe was the mother of my children I would never be rid of her. She would be in my life forever! Haunting me until the day I died! I would be seeing her at every birthday, graduation, wedding, confirmation, and bar mitzvah. Christ, I would even have to dance with her at my children's weddings!
I would see her in sickness and in health, in good times and in bad, and for better or worse, until death did us part. In essence, I would always be married to her, linked together by the intense love we shared for our two children.
And there she was, standing there, waiting to be choked to death.
“I'll never forgive you for this,” I said softly. “With my dying breath, I'll never forgive you.” I headed for the door, walking slowly.
Just as I reached the door, I heard her say in a soft, gentle tone, “I'll never forgive you either. Not with my dying breath.”
Then I left the room.
BOOK II
CHAPTER 11
THE MAKING OF A WOLF
“Yeah,” I said sadly—and, yeah, right!I thought. This is what you live for, Bastard! You relishstripping a man of all his worldly possessions! What else could make a feeble life like yours worth living? “It's sad for all of us, Joel, but I doappreciate your concern.”
He nodded dutifully. OCD, however, was shaking his head suspiciously. “I don't know,” he said. “I really thought you two would stay together; I really did.”
“Yeah,” I replied glumly, “so did I. But there's just too much water under the bridge. Too many bad memories.”
It was a little after ten, and I was singing on Court Street again, albeit to a slightly smaller audience. The Witch, the Mormon, and my towering attorney, Magnum, were all conspicuously absent. The Witch, I was told, was busy with another case today, no doubt destroying some other poor schnook's life; the Mormon was busy attending to personal matters—probably still in bed with one of his Mormon wives, trying to conceive a fresh litter of Mormon babies; Magnum, on the other hand, was busy doing nothing. In fact, the only reason he wasn't here this morning—in the heinous subbasement of 26 Federal Plaza—was that he thought it would be good if I spent some “alone time” with my captors. And while his words seemed somewhat logical, they also seemed suspiciously convenient, considering I had just written him a check for a million dollars last week. (Why show up anymore when he could take the money and run?)