I Hate Surprises Ch. 03

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Part 3 of the 3 part series

Updated 10/31/2022
Created 08/11/2005
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ohio
ohio
4,418 Followers

If I wasn't capable of being angry at Jennie right then, I had no trouble being pissed off at that bastard George Atherton! A smug, smooth, self-righteous asshole. It took me just ten minutes to drive to his house.

When I rang the bell his wife Angela answered. "Hi, Brad! Nice to see you—this is a surprise!"

"Hi Angela. I'm sorry to bother you, but is George here? I need to see him for a moment—it's urgent."

"He just came back a few minutes ago. Let me get him. Come on in!"

As I stood in their front hall, George emerged from the back of the house. He was clearly shaken when he saw me, but he recovered after a moment and came forward with a big self-satisfied smile and his hand outstretched. "Brad! How nice to see you. How is everything? How's your lovely wife?"

Ignoring his hand, I stepped forward and kneed him hard in the balls. He collapsed with a loud groan, bringing Angela back into the room. As she watched in horror, I grabbed him by the hair, pulled up his head, and slapped him across the face, back and forth, a dozen times or more, until I was sure I was raising bruises.

"So you think you have the right to fuck my 'lovely wife', you self-important, hypocritical cunt? I ought to cut your balls off and shove them down your throat!" I punctuated this last remark by kicking him in the nuts again, leaving him groaning in agony on the floor.

Angela ran to me and pulled me away. "Brad, have you lost your mind? What is going on here? Why did you hit George?"

"Because, Angela, I'm sorry to say that I watched your husband fucking my wife this afternoon in my marital bed." I handed her the six photos. She looked quickly at the first few, then gasped, "that bastard!"

I calmly sat down on the sofa, watching George's writhings. "Angela, why don't you bring your loving husband a glass of water? He seems to need it. And then I need to speak to you both for a minute."

Looking shell-shocked, she did as I asked. A few minutes later, George had managed to get himself into a chair, where he was still hunched over in pain. He didn't look at me once. Angela sat across the room, looking at him furiously.

"Okay, George, here's how it is. You certainly demonstrated this afternoon that you're not a fit leader of our congregation, wouldn't you agree? So tonight you're going to call the pastor and the Board of Governors, and you're going to resign your position. You can tell them it's for personal reasons, or health reasons, or whatever you like. I don't give a shit.

"But you're going to do it. Because if you haven't done it by noon tomorrow, copies of those photos are going to be emailed to every member of the Board of Governors. I'm sure they'll be quite concerned about the morality of what you've been up to.

"And one more thing. Don't even think about dragging Jennie's name into this. Because if you do, I promise you I will come back to this house and kill you with my bare hands. Slowly. And it will be a pleasure."

He didn't even try to fight me. He caved instantly, still not looking at me. "All right, Brad, I'll do it. Do you promise you won't send the photos?"

"You resign, and the photos stay with me. Though it's kind of a shame, don't you think, that more people won't know about the other side of George Atherton?"

I turned to his wife. "I am sorry, Angela—truly. Maybe it wasn't my right to make you face this too, but I couldn't help thinking that you'd want to know the truth about him."

She nodded grimly at me. "No need to be sorry, Brad—I've known for a long time he's been chasing skirts all through the congregation. It's actually sort of nice to have proof of it."

Without another word I headed back to my car.

********

AFTERMATH

Terri and I made the best of our weekend in Chicago. I felt sorry for her, actually, because I was so sad and it didn't make for a lot of fun. We ate well, we both enjoyed Christmas shopping with the city all lit up, and we skipped the ballet in favor of a entertaining musical. In other words, I did the best I could.

On the way to Chicago, I filled her in on everything I'd seen, both of us remembering sadly that eighteen years earlier I had done the same thing, the first time Jennie cheated on me.

As before, she listened to me with loving sympathy and concern, holding my hand gently when I cried. The worst of it was over by the time we reached the hotel, and we managed to enjoy the dinner and the terrific view.

Over the years I had thought idly about Terri—who at 53, five years older than I, still was a beautiful woman—and wondered what it might be like to have her as my lover, rather than as my best and most trusted friend. There was no question I found her attractive, and I imagined she felt the same way about me. But it never came up between us, which always seemed like a good thing.

That night in the suite, there was a mildly embarrassing moment. Terri wandered into the bedroom and came out holding the beautiful—and incredibly revealing—nightie I had left there for Jennie.

"God, Brad, this nightie on Jennie could have given a dead man a hard-on!"

I laughed, but then wondered if I should offer it to Terri. She saw my thoughts in my eyes, and smiled ruefully. "No, Brad, I don't think so. I love you better than any man I know—certainly better than that jerk, my ex-husband—but you and I are better off as friends. And tonight of all nights, neither of us would feel very good about me giving you THAT sort of consolation."

I went to her, smiling, and gave her a big kiss on the forehead. "Bless you, Terri. You are my very best friend. And a big part of why I love you is that you're smarter than I am!"

We hugged, fondly, and then went back to our coffee and dessert.

When I got back to St Louis I found a couple of short phone messages from Jennie. In a listless, hopeless voice she said that she was ready to talk with me whenever I wanted.

I called her Sunday night and suggested we meet at the house the next day after work. She agreed, and after a moment asked, "did you go ahead and go to Chicago anyway?"

"Yes, I went with Terri. We had an OK time ... but needless to say, it wasn't the same, Jennie."

There was a long silence. I could hear her quietly crying. I waited, then said, "I'll see you tomorrow, sweetheart," and hung up the phone.

I didn't feel angry. Intellectually, I knew that I was angry, and that I was supposed to be enraged, furious, ready to kill my unfaithful bitch of a wife. For the second time she'd taken my happy marriage and stomped on it! I should want to kill her, right?

But those thoughts didn't connect to my feelings. What I felt was just sadness, as much for Jennie as for me. I didn't know why Jennie had fucked George Atherton—or rather from the looks of it why she'd let him fuck her. I imagined it was all about attention again—about her need to feel loved and attractive.

But I knew that she was now regretting it deeply, bitterly—blaming herself (and rightly so, of course) for killing her happy marriage once and for all. Given the pain she was in, I just didn't feel like piling on with my own anger.

********

On Monday I called Barbara McDonald and asked to see her. A little surprised to hear from me after so long, she said that she'd prefer to see Jennie and me together.

"I'd really like to come in by myself," I said. "Jennie's cheated on me again."

She took a deep breath. "Brad, I am so sorry to hear that." We made an appointment for later in the week.

Jennie met me at the door Monday evening. She looked like a zombie—if a zombie could be breathtakingly beautiful. She was pale, with deep circles under her eyes. She hadn't spent much time or attention on her make-up, and from the looks of things she hadn't gone to work that day.

It was so hard for me to know what to feel. Should I be pleased? Good, you bitch, suffer and die, you deserve it? Or, this is my wife who is suffering here; and yes, she brought it on herself, but it still saddens me to see her so miserable? Or even, the hell with her, I'm facing the death of a marriage that meant the world to me?

We sat together in the living room. She seemed to want to begin. Looking straight ahead of her, she said, " you won't have to worry about the water-works tonight, Brad—I'm all cried out." Then she sat silent for a minute.

Suddenly she said, "I've been an idiot, Brad ... I've been a fucking idiot!" Her use of the swear word startled me—it was completely uncharacteristic of her.

"I've been over this and over this, as I'm sure you can guess. Why did I do this, how could I have done it? With George Atherton, that pompous political skirt-chaser? Did you know, by the way, Brad, that a bunch of ladies in the congregation think he's hot stuff? Everyone knows he screws around, and I heard a few rumors about how great he is in the sack. What bullshit!" Her voice had risen from apathy to spirited mockery—but then it subsided again.

"And the note you left me, describing the weekend you'd planned for us—it just about killed me, Brad. I just about cried myself to death. I guess that was your intention. What a lovely, amazing, generous surprise it would have been! If I could only go back and undo Friday ... I've had that thought ten million times this past weekend."

She lapsed into silence. I waited, then said, gently, "can you tell me about you and George?"

She sighed. "He's been sniffing around me for months, Brad. I see him all the time at church business meetings, as you know, and he's been giving me lots of attention. It wasn't as though I couldn't see where he was headed—I just don't understand why I didn't give him a big No weeks ago, even before the question became imminent.

"We had a lunch date Friday—but I swear, Brad, there were supposed to be three other committee heads there, just a working lunch. Instead when I showed up at the restaurant it was just George, a little table for two in the corner. He said that two of the others had to cancel so we'd re-schedule the meeting. He hoped I wouldn't mind the consolation prize of having lunch with him." She grimaced.

"I go over it and over it, Brad .... We had lunch, we had some wine, he was charming. I have to confess that turning 47 last summer kind of depressed me, made me feel old. I know I'm still good-looking, but I sure don't look the way I did at 27, don't get that total attention when I walk down the street.

"Anyway.... he brought me here after lunch, made a pretty strong pass, said he'd take me out that evening for dinner to a really nice, quiet place out of town he knew about. And I gave in. I just don't get it, Brad!" She looked at me, genuinely bewildered.

"I called Terri to beg off the theater for Friday night, and I let him take me to bed. In our bed!

"And it was awful. He practically tore my clothes off, pawed at me, gasped out compliments and endearments, and then pretty much jumped on top of me. For the first time in my life I felt like a whore—felt what it would be like to be a whore, letting a man take his pleasure with your body, you trying the whole time to pretend you weren't there.

"I could hardly wait to get into the shower and wash him off me, Brad. There is nothing I've ever done in my life that made me more ashamed than letting George Atherton masturbate inside me—because that's what it was.

And then I went to dinner with him, because I didn't have any easy way to get out of it. I knew you were away, and I didn't want to have a big fight with him, so I thought, I'll just have dinner and get rid of him. And when we came back here, I did. I don't know how much of that you saw." She looked at me.

I said, "I was here for a while, honey. I saw the last bit of your fucking with George." Her face reddened furiously, and she looked down. "And I could tell you weren't enjoying it—that it wasn't a pleasurable experience for you."

I started to say more, but she put up a hand to stop me. She got up off the couch, came to me, and kneeled before me, looking up seriously into my eyes.

"Brad. It may not make any difference now ... but I have to say it. I am sorry.

"This was the lowest, smallest, cheapest, most repulsive thing I have ever done in my life. If you knew nothing about it, it still would have been bad enough, believe me! I would have wandered around this house all weekend reproaching myself, wanting to scream, trying to scrub the whole thing off myself like Lady Macbeth with the blood.

"But the fact that you ... were here, that you know ... what I did ..." She broke off, starting to cry. "I said I was all cried out," she said, trying to smile, "guess I was wrong.

"The fact that I betrayed your trust, again ... after all the work that both of us have done ...." She stopped, still crying, but kept looking up at me.

"Brad ... are we done? Is this it, have I destroyed our marriage once and for all?" She was trembling.

"I don't know, Jennie. I've just been feeling so sad, the whole weekend. Not even angry as much as sad. I wanted to grow old with you, have you as my best friend for the next 30 years or whatever we've got left.

"And I don't know if that's still possible. I ... I don't know."

She started to sob, kneeling at my feet, her head hanging down; and I fought the impulse to pull her up into a reassuring hug. I simply sat, dry-eyed but wishing I could cry too.

Twenty minutes later, we were sitting in the kitchen, calmer, having coffee. It was dinner time, but neither of us was the least bit hungry.

"Do you want me to move out, Brad?" Jennie spoke wearily, quietly, without energy.

"No, Jennie, not for now. I have a hotel room for a few days. I've been thinking I'd look for a decent apartment downtown, near the office. Just until ... until we've decided what's going to happen."

"Diana will be home for Christmas break on Saturday," she said, in an unsteady voice.

"I know. I've been thinking of that too. We'll just have to ... see about Christmas.

"And I'm going to see Barbara McDonald on Wednesday," I added. She nodded, saying she thought that was a good idea.

After five minutes of unbroken silence, I got up and said I thought I'd better go. She came to the door with me, and before I opened it she spoke.

"Brad? I'm not sure I even have the right to say this."

She looked at me very seriously. "I love you. More than ... more than anything."

"I know, Jennie." I bent to kiss her cheek, resisting again the impulse to take her in my arms, and went out the door.

********

My session with Barbara was pretty somber. She listened sympathetically to the story, giving me time to recover when I broke down into storms of tears. I told it all, my surprise weekend plan and all that I'd seen and done at the house. And she waited a while after I finished before she spoke.

"Brad—I'm struck by the fact that you are full of sadness, but seem to have very little anger at Jennie. Why do you think that is?"

"I don't know. I've noticed it too. I guess it seems so obvious to me that Jennie didn't mean to hurt me, that she loves me, that ... that she's just a weak person. Weaker than I realized. Unless I'm the world's most gullible jerk, she really loves me. And she wants us to be together pretty much as much as I do.

"As I've said, what she was after with Atherton certainly wasn't sex—seems like it was just a bit of flattery and reassurance. I guess the only thing that really does make me angry, is knowing that she could have had that from me simply by asking!"

"Yes, well," Barbara smiled wryly, "sometimes coming from a spouse it isn't quite as satisfying. She already knows you love and desire her. Most of us need to get some of that flattery elsewhere every once in a while. And in and of itself, there's nothing wrong with that. It's just that, now for the second time, Jennie went way too far."

"Yes," I said, "but I have to pay the price for it as much as she does. Dammit, now I am getting angry! SHE fucked up, but now we're BOTH looking at the end of our marriage!"

"Brad, she's hurt you deeply—again—and you have every right to feel angry, victimized, unfairly treated. But keep in mind that you also have a choice about what you do with those feelings.

"Let me ask you a question. Forget what Jennie might want. What do YOU now want?"

I thought. "I'm not sure ... but the only happy future I can imagine is one with Jennie in it. I have looked forward to us growing older together, traveling, doing things together that we both enjoy; to making love, though perhaps less often; to having grandchildren."

"Well," she said gently, "there's no reason you can't have that if you want it."

I snorted. "But if I can't trust her? And how can I trust her now, after this? The second time, after all our hard work...."

"Brad—in the past eighteen years, how many men do you suppose have expressed their interest in Jennie?"

I gaped at her. "Hundreds, for sure."

"And how many of those has she gone to bed with?"

I saw where she was going. "Just one. I guess ... how can I even be sure of that any more?

Barbara said, "let's assume for now it's just the one. Doesn't that suggest that Jennie has been trying to be faithful to you?"

I sat, thinking about her point. "Does that mean I'm just supposed to say 'no problem' when she does this, like it was some meaningless little accident, like she dropped the eggs on the floor?"

"No, it doesn't mean that. But you might think about reacting to this admittedly awful decision in the context of all the love and affection—and faithfulness—she has given you in your marriage.

"Look, Brad, cheating on you stinks. It was an awful thing to do. I've seen it destroy marriages. But I have also seen the strength of the bond between you, and how much you enrich one another's lives."

An idea began to occur to me. "Barbara, would it be reasonable for me to say to Jennie that I want to save our marriage, but that she has to earn it? Not a punishment exactly, but by acting in a way that proves to me that she really wants it and is willing to work for it?"

"I think so, yes. Obviously it depends on the specifics. What do you have in mind?"

I leaned forward and spelled out my idea. She nodded thoughtfully, gave me her first response, and we discussed it for the rest of the session.

********

On Thursday night I called Diana at school. I didn't want to bother her until her finals were over—but she needed to know that I had moved out of the house. I didn't want that shock to greet her when she got home.

We talked first about school, her exams, her plans for her last year on the golf team in the spring, a little bit about Christmas plans.

Then I said, "Diana—I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but ... your mom and I have separated for the time being."

"I know, Dad. Mom called me a couple of nights ago. She was crying—it was awful. She wouldn't tell me any of the details, just kept saying that it was all her fault. What is going on?"

"You don't need to know more than that we're going through a rough patch, sweetie. It happens to a lot of couples. Doesn't mean we're headed for divorce, just that we need to work some things out." I expressed a lot more confidence than I was feeling.

"But in any case," I went on, "we won't both be at the airport on Saturday to pick you up. I think I'll let Mom do it, and I'll call you on Sunday and we can get together, OK?"

We talked a couple more minutes, then said goodbye. I was actually relieved that Jennie had called her first. And I guess I was also relieved that, if our marriage was really over, our daughter was a college senior, and not a much younger child.

********

The Christmas season was a pretty dark one for us. Jennie and I met two more times to talk through things. Our meetings were calm, not angry, but pretty gloomy. I satisfied myself that Atherton really had been her only affair since years ago with Anderson. I no longer trusted her much, but her voice and words and body language all persuaded me she was telling the truth. She also had the insight not to resent the question, but to see why it was inevitable that I would ask it.

ohio
ohio
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