It's Not Like It Looks

The following took place years before personal computers, cell phones, or the internet so don't bother Googling it. If you're ambitious, though, you might try searching one of the newspaper morgues but good luck since I changed the names and locations.

As always, I am a mere scribe, presenting a story which was told to me by he who lived it. He swears the story is true. I leave that to the reader to decide.

Constructive criticism is always welcome. Ad hominem attacks will, of course, be deleted.

If you enjoy this missive I encourage you to read my earlier works. Thank you.

"It's not like it looks"

The death of a marriage, a three act play.

Act I

The living room of the Rockwell residence.

The stage is set, the overture is over, and the curtains have opened.

"It's not like it looks."

Somehow I expected something a little more eloquent from a woman who teaches creative writing at the local community college.

The room was dark, very dark and I could barely make out Sally sitting on my favorite recliner; her legs were pulled up and a blanket wrapped around her. When I got closer I could see her hair was wild, make-up ruined. And she stunk from vomit.

"Let me tell you how it looks then you can correct any inaccuracies."

My wife started to protest but I barked, "Shut your mouth...I'll tell you when you can talk."

I stood over her and began to speak, "It looks like I was walking through customs with my crew when two men in suits flashed badges and told me to come with them. They identified themselves as Chicago Police Department detectives and escorted me into one of Immigration and Naturalization Service's interrogation rooms.

The older one followed me inside and closed the door; the room was bare with the exception of a single chair. He said, "Take a seat." then asked, "Where were you at twelve noon today?"

Through a gap in the curtains I could see the younger agent interviewing my crew.

I looked at him like he was an idiot. "You do realize I'm an airplane captain and just landed from Frankfort. That's in Germany, not the suburb out by Joliet. Since I've flown through half a dozen time zones today I'll assume you mean Chicago time. In that case I was piloting a Boeing 747-200 at 35,000 feet over the Atlantic Ocean. We were cruising at Mach 0.84. Here's my log book if you want to verify that." I opened my case and offered it to him. He didn't look.

So I continued, "I had a crew of fourteen as well as 416 passengers who can vouch for me. Now what exactly is this all about?"

The younger agent walked in and announced, "They all agree, he was flying the airplane."

It was amazing how quickly their attitudes changed when they realized how foolish they looked.

"Well Captain, I'm sorry to have inconvenienced you but we are following up on a murder."

"Murder! No died on my plane." I protested.

"No sir, earlier today. Back here in Chicago."

"Since I've been in Europe for the last couple of days I think I have a pretty good alibi."

"Yes sir."

"Then who said I killed someone?"

"Your wife did."

"What!" I screamed. My reaction was genuine as Angelo's friend was only supposed to beat the crap out of the bastard, break his nose; his jaw too. Not kill him.

"What! My wife said what! Who did my wife say I killed? Wait a minute. This is a joke, right?"

"This is no joke. I'm sorry to have to tell you this but she said you murdered her paramour."

I jumped out of the chair and got in his face. "Paramour! You mean like a lover."

He didn't back up an inch. "Yes sir."

"This isn't funny. My wife is faithful...she would never cheat on me. You've got the wrong man." I was rambling a hundred miles an hour. "That's it, you must have me confused with someone else."

"I'm sorry Captain but your wife said she was certain you did it. She said you beat him to death in your driveway with a baseball bat."

"How! I was on an airplane...she knew that. She knows I was in Germany. Explain that to me."

"I'm sorry but she said she thought you traded your trip when you found out she was having an affair."

"Stop saying that, "I screamed. "My wife is not having an affair. She would never betray our wedding vows."

The detectives stared at me with blank looks. I guess they had seen too much death to show compassion.

I dropped back into the chair and started sobbing.

"For what it's worth it looks like your wife got played by a lothario...the bastard preyed on women whose husbands spent a lot of time out of town. It's probably no consolation but we've got three other cuckold husbands to interview.

Hearing it said out loud by a cold, unemotional voice made my heart feel like it was being ripped from my chest. I doubled over in agony. One of the detectives placed his hand on my back and asked, "Captain, is there anyone I call for you."

" I want to talk to my whore wife." I pounded my fists in the air.

"I don't think that's too good of an idea until you cool down."

The older detective whispered something into his partner's ear then stepped out of the room. When he returned he apologized and said they had to get going.

"Wait, before you leave...who was he?"

The older detective took out a well worn notebook from his jacket pocket and thumbed through it. "One Michael Wakeman, 30 years of age."

He was the same age as our son.

"If I can ask one more question. Did he die fast or did he suffer?"

A sadistic smile swept across his face. "His assailant lured him outside by starting his brand new Corvette convertible on fire. Wakeman ran out your side door in his skivvies. The first swing of the baseball bat caught him across the chest. The ME said it broke several ribs. The next broke his back. The assailant then rolled him over and kicked him several times in the groin. Just before the car exploded he delivered the fatal blow to his skull. The paramedics said he was still moaning and spewing blood out his ears and mouth when they got there. He lingered a couple of minutes before his heart gave out. So yeah, he didn't die peacefully at all."

I tried not to make my smile too obvious.

"I should probably warn you your wife might not be there when you get home. It was damaged when Wakeman's car exploded. All the windows on that side blew out and there was some fire damage.

Part of me wanted to scream for joy, instead I buried my face in my hands and started wailing.

The reality hit me and I stayed in that room unable to move until someone from INS knocked on the door and said they needed the room.

Somehow I managed to find my car and drive home...or what's left of it.

"So now you tell me, what's not like it looks?"

Act II One month earlier.

A quiet suburb just west of Chicago.

In the late 1960's there was a TV show named Bewitched. One of its quirky characters was Gladys Kravitz, a neighborhood busy body who was frequently shown peeking through the curtains at the Stevens' home.

In my neighborhood the role of Gladys is played by Angelo D'Agistino, an elderly widow who lives directly across the street from my house. Since Marie, his wife of fifty-two years, died last autumn Angelo spends his time keeping track of comings and goings. On nice days he sits on his front porch shouting hellos to passersby. When the weather is bad he sits in his bay window and waves.

Today was July 15th and the weather was perfect. Angelo kept watch wearing an old luau shirt, a pair of black shorts, and black knee high socks. Most people, my wife especially, avoided him like the plague because he would talk your ear off. Since I was gone for extended trips several times a month I appreciated Angelo keeping an eye on my house.

He was always waiting for me to return home and filled me in on the local gossip. I would usually give him an inexpensive present from my trip, German chocolates and coffee being very well received.

He stood up as I pulled in my driveway and waved for me to come over. He looked eager to share some bit of gossip so I left my bags in the trunk and crossed the street. "That friend of yours sure has a beautiful Corvette."

"Friend. What friend?"

The one who parked in your driveway yesterday. I would have thought Sally would have told you because she invited him in. He showed up at twelve sharp and stayed for exactly three hours.

"What did this friend look like?"

"Good looking...playboy type with fancy mirrored sunglasses. Nicely dressed; khaki pants and a polo shirt.

I tried to think who it could be. My guess was one of the other pilots bought a substitute penis and wanted to make me jealous. I was a Porsche fan and had argued the merits of the two sports cars many times and was sure another pilot wanted to take me for a ride.

But who? And why would he have stayed so long? And why hadn't Sally mentioned anything about it when we talked. I guessed the mystery driver wanted to surprise me with his fiberglass toy and he asked her not to say anything.

I was in our bedroom unpacking my bags when Sally got home from shopping. She bounded up the stairs and threw her arms around me almost knocking me off my feet, "How's my lover boy?"

To say this was a much warmer greeting than I typically received was putting it mildly. We were soon in the throes of passion and all thoughts of mystery cars forgotten.

The rest of the week was like being newlyweds. Sally was the perfect wife and lover. And when we went out to dinner she wore one of the outfits I bought which she had labeled inappropriate for a forty eight year old woman. She even wore nylons and garters; I discovered what she hadn't worn when she got out of the car.

When I left for work the following Wednesday my sex drive was fully sated. She even slipped a romantic note into my suitcase.

I was the happiest guy in the friendly skies that trip. I couldn't wait to get home.

Unfortunately Angelo dropped a bomb shell on me. "That friend of yours with the Corvette came by again yesterday."

I pressed him for more details..."He's a younger guy." he laughed and said, "well every ones younger than me...I guess he would be 30 maybe 35. looks to be in good shape too. Real punctual. Got here at high noon and stayed until three."

"Who the hell was this mystery visitor?" I thought.

Once again Sally got home while I was unpacking. I walked down the stairs and was rewarded with a bear hug and Sally's tongue down my throat. When I broke the embrace to catch a breath Sally announced she was going to make me a culinary masterpiece from a recipe she found in a magazine.

She had bought a couple of expensive steaks and was going to feed me like a real man. "I have to run to the grocery to buy one last ingredient. But you take it easy while I do the cooking," she purred as she handed me a beer.

Red lights were flashing and alarms screaming in my head. In thirty years of marriage my wife had never brought me a beer and told me to relax when I got home from a trip.. She always had a honey do list to hand me before I even took my uniform off. That little voice in my head said she was feeling guilty and trying to make herself feel better.

I decided to do a little snooping to see if I could find anything amiss. As soon as her car pulled out of the driveway I hustled outside and began rummaging through the garbage cans to see if I could find anything . I didn't know what exactly I was looking for...maybe empty condom wrappers. They were filled with nothing but common everyday garbage.

I went back to our room and began carefully looking through her lingerie drawers. Sally had never given me even the slightest reason to doubt her fidelity so I felt guilty snooping through her underwear. Nothing.

I checked the nightstand...just the same crap that's been in there for years.

Next I opened the hamper in Sally's bathroom; it was empty. Then I noticed the bed linens were freshly laundered. I found this odd since they had been changed the morning I left. But I would need a lot more than clean sheets to confront her. I spent a few minutes looking through all of her shoe boxes--damn that woman has a lot f shoes--also without success.

I looked through her closet but didn't notice anything new. Everything looked normal.

I had to cut my investigation short when I heard the door open, "Where's my jet driver?" she called out.

I decided to wait until morning to see if Sally mentioned her mysterious visitor, after all, I knew there had to be a simple explanation.

I was glad I waited because she was a vixen in bed that night.

Over breakfast I tried to give her several openings without being too obvious but she never said boo.

I got a real bad feeling in the pit of my stomach.

After lunch Sally said she had to run to the store to pick up some things for dinner. I declined her invitation to join her because I needed some time at home alone. The moment she left I resumed my search for clues, beginning in the laundry room. There were two baskets; one was filled with Sally's clothes the other had our bed linens. That was two weeks in a row any potential evidence had been laundered away. I had to figure out a way to disable to washing machine to keep that from happening a third time.

I decided to become proactive. Ever since the airline began frying to Paris Sally had been after me to take her there. Since it was a new destination I didn't have the seniority to hold Paris in my line but I was able to trade for a friend's trip the following week.

When I told Angelo I would be flying to Paris the following week his eyes lit up and he told me stories about liberating the City of Lights.

I learned his one weakness was Chateau de Montifaud cognac, a craving he developed when he was stationed in France during World War II. Unfortunately the pensioner's Social Security checks would only allow a domestic variety from the local big box liquor store.

That night during dinner I sprung my surprise. I told Patty I traded my next Frankfort flight for Paris and invited her to come with. I promised her a day of shopping on the Champs Elysees then dinner at the Jules Verne, the restaurant at the top of the Eiffel Tower, followed by a romantic moonlight cruise along the Seine River.

Sally turned me down flat. When I asked her why she didn't want to go she hemmed and hawed something vague about being too busy to get away.

I begged her to rearrange her schedule and asked, "What could possibly be so important it can't wait?"

Again she gave me the bums rush and said, "Maybe we could do it some other time.".

Things were not looking good for our marriage.

For the rest of the week I was more of a zombie than a man. I couldn't look at Sally without bile running into my mouth. At night I refused her advances. She kept asking what was wrong. I never answered.

The morning of my trip I made one more attempt to talk Sally into a romantic 36 hours in Paris. I placed my hands on her shoulders, looked her square in the eyes, and begged, "Please pick me,"

Once again she said no. I almost told her of my suspicions but knew I couldn't prove them. So I held my tongue.

The last thing I did before I left was to slice the cold water hose for the washing machine, not a big cut but enough to discourage Sally from doing laundry. It began spraying water all over the wall. The laundry room floor was pitched toward the drain and when it got a couple of inches deep the water ran down it. I closed the door and was pleased to see it was not seeping under the wall. Sally would have to go in the laundry room to put on a load to discover the flood.

I was lost in thought on my drive to the airport and a little worried about being able to concentrate enough to fly the plane. Hundreds of people were placing their lives in my hands and did my best to repress everything except doing my job. My co-pilot recognized something was amiss after we went wheels up and offered to take the controls. I said I must be coming down with something and took an early break. The crew has a rest area in the back of the 47's distinctive bubble and I spent the next hour tearing my soul asunder. When we landed I apologized for being sick and said I would spend my entire layover in bed.

Angelo said the visitor arrived at twelve sharp. I took a calculated risk he had a reason for keeping that schedule and called home at exactly 12:02 hoping against hope Sally would answer or at least listen to my message as it was being recorded.

It was picked up by the answering machine on the second ring... "You have reached the Rockwell residence. Please leave a message and we'll get back to you as soon as possible."

I began, "Sally, my beloved, I'm in the most romantic city in the world but without you I may as well be in..."

I never got to complete the sentence as the recorder clicked me off.

I dialed 0 for an outside line then the country code followed by my area code and home phone number. The phone kept ringing which meant someone had turned the machine off. I could only hope that hearing my voice put the damper on their tryst.

True to my word I never left the room for my entire layover.

By the time I was sitting in the cockpit I had reconciled myself to the death of my marriage.

For a change Sally was home when I got back from my trip, except she looked like a drowned rat.

Without even saying hello she proceeded to tell at great volume me how the basement was flooded and everything downstairs ruined. She got very upset when I told her I would look at the basement after I changed out of my uniform. I have to admit I was curious why the water didn't go down the drain.

I put on a pair of cut offs and t-shirt then went out to the garage to get my boots.

The first thing I noticed was a laundry basket on top of the table ; I could see our sheets along with a pair of Sally's panties on top. I discretely slipped them in my pocket.

Water was gushing out of the copper plumbing fitting so I asked Sally why she removed the hose instead of turning off the valve...her response was not very nice.

I located the drain and pulled out some rags that were blocking it; a whirlpool soon formed in the water. I sighed as I watched the water level go down.

I told Sally to go upstairs and make a pot of coffee. I used that time to examine the gusset of the panties I had retrieved. They were caked with dried cum. I damn near pounded a hole in the wall but kept my cool long enough to examine the sheets. There was a big stain right dead center. I moved the basket to where it couldn't easily be seen and began to run the inevitable confrontation through my mind while I sorted through waterlogged things. I got out a large plastic garbage bag and began stuffing things in.

Ten minutes later I was hauling bags of junk out to the curb when Angelo called me over. "Let's go inside. We need to talk." This was the first time I had ever been invited into his house. He bade me to take a seat.

"Captain." Angelo always called me captain, "I have known you since the day you were born. Your parents were closer to me than most of my family." He held his hands in a tight embrace.

"I don't know any easy way to tell you this but your bride has been unfaithful. When the man with the red Corvette came by yesterday I snuck across the street and peeped through your living room window. I am sorry to tell you but they were kissing as they undressed each other. I watched until they ran upstairs."

My worst fears had been confirmed.

"It pains me deeply to see how she has disrespected you. My friend, I will try to put this as delicately as possible. A betrayal such as this cannot go unpunished I have, shall we say, connections to a group of individuals who operate outside of the law. Several of these individuals owe me favors from when we were in business together many years ago.