"Myra's Little Book Shop"

She took several kinds of meds. Anyone who's ever looked knows there're dozens of brands of pills and tonics for iron and hormonal deficiencies. I'd looked. I'd even checked for side effects. Some meds had a downside during the first trimester of a pregnancy. I didn't know she was pregnant! She hadn't told me! It wasn't till later she told me she'd kept it quiet because she didn't want me to worry while I was gone. The lying bitch! She had lied too. And the medicines! She could've looked them up for side effects. She didn't have to depend on me for everything.

It wasn't my fault! I'll give her credit though, about the second miscarriage and the subsequent depression; she never blamed me, not once, not ever.

All that winter and spring before my trip I'd been doing research, taking 'on-line' classes, and learning Turkish and Farsi. The trip was supposed to be a big step for Zoey and me; it was the culmination of years of work, a direct stepping stone to something professionally really meaningful. It was our ticket to the Ivy League! Zoey knew that.

I'm sure she lied; she lied about the guy. She knew if I thought she was pregnant I would've put the trip off, and then she wouldn't have had time for her 'lover boy'.

I told my dad. I knew I was right. I told him I was right. He told me I was wrong. He took her side! My father took the lying cheating whore's side!

OK, so I let her tell me her lies.

I let her tell me her sorry little story; it was shitty too. Being anemic leaves her tired, sort of dreamy sometimes; it all has something to do with sporadic over activity of her spleen coupled with equally erratic shifts in her hormonal activity. She could go from active, excited, vivaciously ebullient to be slow lethargic sleep-like, almost like she was sleep- walking. I'd seen it in her; it could be unnerving but sometimes I thought she faked it just to get attention.

She said her 'boyfriend' had a habit of showing up when I wasn't home. He'd show up at night when I was teaching or involved with some seminar. He'd show up during the day when I was at school researching and writing. She said he must have followed my schedule. OK, I could go along with that; I'm pretty much a creature of habit. Aren't we all?

She said he always found ways to be there when the kids were at school, or in bed, or sometime he'd bring something, a game or something that kept the kids occupied. He always had a reason to be around, to be around to help. She said he was so soothing, he spoke so softly, he was so comforting, so, so handy and helpful. He used to massage her back and her shoulders; he'd rub her temples with his hands. He showed her his artwork.

That morning she said without her meds she must have drifted off. He must have carried her upstairs. He must have just started when I got to the bedroom door. She said my appearance startled her; it woke her up, but it was too late. She swore, she vowed nothing had ever happened before. Not once, not ever! She said he must have planned it for that day, the day he knew I wouldn't be anywhere near. She said after I left she never cried so much in all her life. She cried for days, but I was gone, really gone. She said she just collapsed. Then she lost our baby.

They said she tried to kill herself. Her parents had to bring in a companion, someone who'd be with her night and day, to watch her and care for the kids. That much I did know was true.

I guess I'll never know. I do know I hate her. No I can't say that, it's not that kind of hate. But there was still Myra.

~!~ ~!~ ~!~ ~!~

The things I've said about Myra haven't really told her story; at least her earlier story. Myra had told me her first husband was some kind of jock, or more accurately 'almost a jock'. Football had been his thing in college, and I guess he'd gone a bit overboard with the training, and planning, and hoping, and such. She said he was a good defensive end at his Division III School, but nowhere near good enough for the NFL. He got a try out as a 'walk on' but failed, tried another team and failed again. That started him on the old downward spiral. Myra, introverted, sensitive, the classic care giver let her rescue mentality kick in.

The marriage didn't work. Her husband, too aggressive, too angry, too narcissistic couldn't accept failure and wouldn't accept help. From what I was told; grid iron failure was followed by failure in the workplace. He lashed out, and Myra became his most convenient target. From what I heard he degraded himself and then he degraded her. Near the end he turned into a real ruffian. I thought I saw that part.

Myra and me; how did it start? I was teaching a night class on English composition, and Myra had signed up. I noticed her, and since I was in the final throes of divorce and professional failure I thought to make a friend. I tried to make eye contact. She wouldn't react. Worse, she started in the back, but moved closer to the front. She seldom volunteered, yet she always had her reading and homework ready.

One night I noted she'd arrived late and she had an unsightly blemish under her right eye. After class I asked her to come back. We talked a while about, of all things Cleopatra VII; consort of Iulius Caesar and Marcus Antonius. She liked Classical history, she'd read a recent best seller, and was fascinated by the ancient Egyptian's life story. Somewhere along the way she interjected that she'd recently separated from her husband. I talked her into having a late night coffee, and things started from there.

It wasn't love at first sight, but she was very pretty and an interesting talker. After several post-class coffee breaks I inveigled a date out of her, but when I went to pick her up she wasn't where we agreed. She lived in a third floor apartment in an older grouping of garden apartments. She was supposed to be outside, but she wasn't. I went up and found her apartment door ajar. I went in and found her huddled in a corner. That's when she told me about her ex-husband.

I knew he wasn't someone I'd want to tangle with so I did the smarter thing; I talked Myra into getting a restraining order. It slowed him down but he didn't just disappear, there was another incident, but with some encouragement she called the police, a report was filled out, and that was pretty much the end of husband number one.

Just the same I had a nagging problem with Myra.

What about Myra? We'd met by accident. We'd started dating. I'd found out about her philandering abusive husband, but Zoey had said something, and Myra's first husband had some something too. Zoey had said I should remember the story about the African hunter who'd killed the lion. How he'd described the ferocity of the lion and how he'd nearly been killed in the killing. Zoey reminded me to remember that the lion had a story too, a story the hunter never told, a story I might want to know. Then Myra's first husband had said something; he'd said now that she was mine she wasn't his headache anymore.

I never asked him what he meant. I guessed it was time to find out. I re-contacted the investigator I'd used to get the goods on the Headmaster. I got him to get me Myra's first husband's address. It proved to be easy; he still lived in the area. I decided to pay him a visit.

~~V~~

Myra's first husband was named Jerry Battaglia. He had a lot to say. We agreed to meet at one of the local Denny's. Over eggs and pancakes I got the 'lion's story'.

I asked him, "So what happened between you and Myra?"

He replied, "First I want you to understand I loved her very much, and still do I guess, but I'm married to a nice girl now. We've started a family, and I'm doing OK. I think of Myra sometimes, but she's strictly in my rear-view. I don't want any trouble."

I told him, "She and I were still living together, but I would be divorcing her because of infidelity."

He said, "That's too bad. It was the same with me."

I replied, "Wait a minute. Just hold on. She said you cheated on her, and she had to get out." That's when the 'other' story came out.

"First off," he said, I never cheated. It was Myra who'd cut that cord."

Considering the Headmaster I wasn't completely surprised. This was what Jerry told me.

He'd met Myra in college through a mutual friend, another football player. The way he told it Myra wasn't what he'd call a slut; she was just easy. She had her dreams, and one of them was to marry someone who'd carry her to glory. She saw her herself the wife of some NFL or NBA superstar; black, white, yellow, she didn't care, what she wanted was the limelight, to bask in the reflected glory of everybody's idol, that girl on the sidelines everybody envied.

He explained all the guys liked her; not for the sex so much, but for her personality, her pleasant demeanor, and the way she could swell a guy's ego. She had a way about her that made a guy feel important. But she'd overlooked the fact they attended a Division III school. Jerry admitted he'd missed, or hidden from that one too. When he wasn't drafted he tried anyway, it didn't work. Sure he was disappointed, but his disappointment was nothing compared to hers.

He said she started to belittle him. Not in major ways, but in the little things; at parties or anytime they went out she was always there with the soft reminders, he'd failed, he'd let her down.

Jerry admitted he took it hard, but he got on with life. He found a job with a local insurance agency; he was determined to work his way up. He said he worked hard too, but that meant nights out selling policies and kissing asses. He'd get home exhausted.

Myra never worked; she stayed home and waited. Eventually he said she got bored. She needed to get out. Sometimes he'd get home and she wasn't there. It didn't take him long to figure things out; she was back in the hunt, she had to find that 'Holy Grail'. Tragically there were men out there, men more than willing to fill her head with promises, but there always had to be that 'quid pro quo'.

The first time he caught her was in a nice restaurant, the second time the restaurant wasn't so nice, and the third time she was slinking around in a bar. He'd walked in and she acted like he wasn't even her husband. She introduced him as her friend. So there he was; her loser friend husband.

They, not him, were all laughing and chattering away. One of the guys had his hand on her neck with his fingers creeping down her blouse so Jerry said he grabbed her wrist and started pulling her away. She didn't resist, but she didn't cooperate either. As he pulled, the guy took a swing at him. He missed him and hit her instead. She came home, but moved out a few days later while he was at work.

Through it all he said he still loved her. He wanted to patch things up. He found out she'd started attending my night class. He tried to reconcile, but she wouldn't have it. He said that's about when I must have shown up. By then he reached the end of his rope; he tried to see her one more time, found her dressed up ready to go out. He lost it. He tore her apartment apart, but he never hit her. He made that clear he never laid a finger on her. A few days later he was apprised of the restraining order. Even then he tried to see her one more time. She left a message to leave her alone, that she'd found someone else. That's when he said he gave up.

I told Jerry my story. He said he wasn't surprised. He listened and figured she'd switched from the 'star athlete' to the 'great scholar'.

That made sense, but my struggles with Zoey had unraveled my academic dreams. Jerry said Myra must have caught on and had begun to plan her next move; she already had the store, Wallace would be the Headmaster, what could've been better? I agreed but only up to a point. I doubted if it was Wallace so much as the store. I'd come to believe the store trumped everything; it trumped me, our marriage, Wayne, everything.

About Jerry's tale, I only half believed what he told me, but half was enough. Worse for me I'd dumped one headache and jumped headlong into another. Moreover, Myra's alibi to me matched the alibis she'd fed Jerry. She was one sick puppy. It was time to cut slack.

But I had three kids. I had responsibilities. There was my dad and my mom; what would they say? It wasn't just about me and my needs. I'd been raised to be a man, and a man took care of his people, all his people. There just wasn't any easy way out.

~~V~~

I had to work through a thick soup of problems. OK, I'd play out the string with Myra. I figured with her past she'd probably move on soon anyway; always searching for that 'Golden Fleece'. But Zoey; what about her?

Since Zoey's expenses took the biggest chunk of cash she had to be my first order of business. But that brought up that other 'little problem'; what really happened with Brandon.

I needed to see her. I forgot how complicated, and yet how simple things were with her. We'd never really had 'that fight', that knock down drag out blood curdling free-for-all I'd been so assiduously avoiding. I knew that had to happen, but I knew I had to temper my anger, but I had to get the truth.

I'd seen a documentary on National Geographic. Some 'native' had gotten too close to a pack of elephants. The lead elephant ran the man down and trampled him to death. Trampling complete the triumphant elephant walked away. Then at the last moment, almost as an afterthought the elephant ran back and trampled the unrecognizable pulp that had once been a person a little more. Yes, I'd trample Zoey, but not to some theoretical pulp, not even if my darkest fears about her infidelity were confirmed. I could never do that to her.

No, certainly not, the girl wasn't well, she had her needs, but I knew what I was doing. For sure I had a pressing urge to crush her and crush her I would. But it was more than that; she was right when she said we were joined at the hip, more than I'd ever be with Myra. There was still more though; Zoey wasn't like anyone else. Zoey was an inherently weak person, weak in not easily described ways. She loved children, loved having them, but twice she'd had miscarriages, and both Diana's and Keith's pregnancies had been nerve wracking times with mom bedridden for much of them. Worse, her miscarriages had been physiologically and emotionally horrific. I'd been on hand for the first one and its aftermath, but I'd scoffed at her suffering. That was my shame.

But Zoey was weak; weak in people skills; by that I thought weak in her ability to see people as they really were. She was an only child. I couldn't say her parents were that much older, but to them Zoey had been that wonderful gift they thought they'd never have. The outcome; they lavished their time, their money, everything they had on her. To say she'd been spoiled would've been a mistake; she'd been treated like a prized pet. Never scolded, never seriously disciplined, always the center of attention, yet somehow she still managed to grow into the lovely person I'd met.

Then there was Brandon. Brandon was a lot like Prendergast, a conniver and a manipulator. My concern wasn't so much how far the schemer had gotten; my concern was how much Zoey would admit.

Zoey loved me, she'd do anything for me, but she was frail and she was emotionally needy. With the benefit of hindsight I believed before everything went south I'd been a good provider, but not much of a caregiver, hence the opening for Brandon. Career and ego had pulled me in one direction when she desperately needed me to be somewhere else. Well her weakness and my big plans had turned everything to piss so maybe it was time for me to turn to my main responsibilities. Now it was time for me to man up, be a father, a husband, a provider, and only last the big time academic superstar. I felt I had to do this even if it meant foregoing more pain, pain for her and for me. There was just no reason to punish Zoey any longer. Moreover, I had to face my own demons. I needed her too; she satisfied something in me I just couldn't explain, maybe it was the heroic husband and super dad thing? Who knew?

What had I already done? It had been easy, in and out of my first home all the time I'd had the master bedroom and the kitchen wired. I'd had an application activated on her IPhone. Yes, she'd been celibate since we'd split and I had the proof.

I had it all figured out. Zoey was to play Hector to my Achilles. My dream marriage had been my Patroclus, and her infidelity had killed it. For certain Hector had killed Patroclus in error, had Zoey's infidelity been the same? Didn't matter, it was my duty to bring her to justice. I'd beat her down, destroy her, but like Achilles at the end I'd restore the vanquished Hector to his family. I wouldn't just trample, and trample, and trample.

I called and told her what I wanted. She agreed. I waited till Myra got home, then I went over.

It was after 10:00 p.m. The kids were in bed. She was at the door to greet me, fully prepared; dressed in a soft loosely fitting filmy one piece romper set. It was, as always, a pale blue that matched her eyes perfectly. She had on all her other armor; the pale blue eye shadow, soft pink lip gloss, blond hair combed and parted just the way I liked it, manicured finger and toenails, the right perfume. And the jewelry; thin gold necklace with a single diamond drooping, no pointing to two perfect breasts , quarter carat stud earrings sparkling in the half light of our dimly lit foyer, tennis bracelet trimmed in small diamonds and blue sapphires.

I gulped; I knew this wouldn't be easy. I thought of pets I'd had; the guilty puppy, the sad eyes, wagging only the tip of its tail. Decent people didn't abuse animals or vulnerable people. No, I wouldn't hurt her any more. Hell, I'd already done enough.

I walked in; she evinced just the right demeanor, liquid blue eyes blinking like crazy, not quite tearful not confident either, lower lip softly trembling. What a manipulative bitch; no, not bitch, desperate ex-wife and mom.

I started for the den and my easy chair, but she interposed herself, "The room's piled with laundry. Can't we use the living room...please?"

'Sure,' I thought, 'the living room's just as good for what I had planned.' We walked in. I took a seat on the sofa; position of dominance, legs crossed, arm resting on the back. She climbed on and knelt beside me. Freshly showered, her skin was pink, it glistened. I smelt her perfume, Chanel Chance, my favorite. I started in, "It's been more than two years. You know what you did..."

She fell into my arms, "I only know that I love you."

I pushed her back, "You were a cheating bitch so I divorced you." I thought, 'Take that!'

She put her hands on my left thigh. Her lower lip was quivering, "I used bad judgment. I should never have trusted Brandon..."

I thought, 'Brandon, as a Casanova hadn't been much.'

She persisted, "I should have told you I was pregnant. I shouldn't have made you responsible for me taking my medicines. I was wrong. It was all my fault. I'm so sorry. I've loved you since that first day. You remember that first day?"

God I hated that she brought that up. Yeah I remembered. It was in late September at some pick-up game, Rugby I think. I was there alone, sitting on the bleachers, studying and trying to catch some sun. Like Scarlet O'Hara at the barbecue she was surrounded by her usual coterie of admirers. She was a freshman. I was a sophomore. I heard her whisper, "Who's that?" She was covertly pointing at me.

Someone said, "Nobody, just some skanky nerd."

I was a skank too; dressed in faded dirty jeans and a raggedy Tee-short, dirty unkempt hair. I guess I was making a statement too. She got up. She left her fawning herd of devotees. She came over and sat next to me, "What're you doing," she asked?