Chapter one---Choices

CHOICES
BY
Anonymous
Writing under the name of
STUART “SANDY” CARSON






Chapter 1
Choices

June 12, 2005
I guess it was my fault. Yeah, it was, but who likes to admit that they screwed up? It’d been a hell of a week for me. Oh, I don’t mean shit with my business or problems with my grown kids. It was a lot deeper than that. Over the years I’ve gone through periods of depression, and that week I kept sinking lower and lower until, on Friday, I was barely able to function at work. Of course, I really didn’t even need to show up for my business to carry on. My staff could keep things running quite well without me, so I spent most of Friday brooding with my office door shut. When my door is shut, it’s like a red flag that the boss is out of sorts. Yeah, I was going through one of those dark moods again. Hell, I walk around town like a self-made man, always in control, but that’s just posturing. I’ve secretly been seeing a psychiatrist for over a year. It’s taken her most of the year to dig through the shield I put up, but our last visit brought out some things that disturbed me. Hell, let me be honest; it was a lot more than just “disturbing” to me, and, after that visit, I was shaking with regret.
By about two that afternoon I couldn’t stand it any longer, and I bolted out of the office, leaving my staff wondering what was going on. I knew exactly where to go. There’s a place down on the river called Pigeon Hill, where giant beech and pin oak trees are clustered around a steep bluff. When the first settlers arrived in the area it was a roost for Passenger Pigeons. As a boy I had hunted squirrels up and down the river, and that spot has always had a calming, head-clearing effect on me. In a few minutes I’d pulled off the pavement, and, after another fifteen minutes, I arrived at a locked gate meant to keep trespassers off the property. I ignored the gate, walked around it, and was soon leaning back against one of the big beech trees, looking out over the river. For a few minutes things were better. Maybe it was the peace and calm, which assured me that everything was going to be all right. There’ve been times when I’ve pulled away from my family and my work just to contemplate life. Am I going in the right direction? Should I do this or that? The questions over the years have changed, but they have always been there. Questions-----always questions, and sometimes I have reflected back and wondered if some of the choices I’d made in life were the right ones. But, you know, it’s human nature to try to justify your choices. We all do it, and, after you’ve justified those choices for long enough, you actually believe that you made the right decisions, even if you didn’t. Well, a good psychiatrist will sooner or later make you face up to some of those past choices, especially the ones that have been troubling you subconsciously. And when that happens, it can be very therapeutic or---very troubling. Deep in my past was a choice I had made that has tormented me for years.
It was almost dark when I walked back out of the woods. I wish I could say, as I have so many times, that I felt refreshed and sure of my direction in life. However, it was just the opposite. The depression was even worse, and I was mumbling some long suppressed regrets. I felt as if I had no direction in my life.
Well, my habits are so rutted that being two hours late coming home from work and missing from the office since two o’clock had my wife fuming. With the irritable, depressed attitude I was bringing home, I knew we were in for a rocky night, but I never thought that it would turn out as badly as it did.
“Hey, I’m home,” I yelled as I walked in from the garage. The back door banged behind me, shaking the pictures on the wall in the hallway. My wife turned toward me with her hands on her hips. Not a good sign, but she let the slamming of the door slide.
Our conversation was civil for a few minutes. I thought maybe we could relax over a martini and manage to get though the evening, but, before I could mix the drinks, she said in a flat, mater-of-fact manner, with that hint of a sneer on her lips, “Not even going to have the courtesy to tell me where you’ve been?”
You know, when you’ve been married as long as we have, you’re able to pick up little nuances. Sure enough it was there, that tight-lipped, cocked head attitude. I could feel the prick of disgust, but I held my temper.
“Had to drive over to El Dorado to look at a geologic log.…..Hey, how about a martini?” Hell, I figured a little gin was about the only thing that would salvage the evening.
She was shaking her head before the words were even out of my mouth, and it wasn’t because she didn’t want a martini. I pulled out the Bombay Sapphire and started to make our martinis.
“You’re lying, Sandy. Your secretary said you’ve been in one of your rotten moods all day, and then you just walked out. Looking at a log in El Dorado?---Bullshit! Were your e-mail and fax down?”
Hell, I knew better than to push the lie after that.
“Damn, can’t I go to the pot without checking in?” I turned my back to her and went back to pouring the gin.
“What’s wrong with you, Sandy?”
“Nothing---still want that damn martini?”
She was seething, but she held back and muttered, “Yeah,” before walking into the living room.
Over the years my wife and I have developed a habit of having one martini before dinner, sitting back and listening to jazz, and relaxing while we unwind. That night didn’t look very promising, but hell, I thought maybe a martini would give me some relief.
We sat down, and things went fairly smoothly for about half an hour, but trouble was brewing right under the surface, and we both knew it. Usually, we sip our drinks slowly while we talk, but I finished my drink quickly and cut off the conversation.
“Hey, let’s have another martini. I really need it tonight.” That wasn’t a question; it was more of a demand, and I saw her take a deep breath before she answered.
“Sandy, we always stop at one. We’ll feel terrible tomorrow if we drink another.”
“I don’t give a fuck about tomorrow. Do you want one or not?” Well, I knew that was a snappy, rude response, but she took a deep breath and said, through tight lips, “Well, I guess if you are, fix me one, too.” There was sarcasm in her voice, and I could almost read into it, “You alcoholic.”
I didn’t answer her except for a shrug of my shoulders. Tension was rising, and we could both feel it.
Looking back on that evening, I’ve always been tempted to blame what happened on the second martini. But it wasn’t the second, or even the third, martini that caused the problem. The problem was there, and even stone cold sober, sooner or later it was bound to boil to the surface.
We drank that second martini without saying a word, which is really unusual for us. Normally we talk nonstop about our day, the latest town gossip, or where we’re going on vacation. The room almost felt suffocating to me. As her lips got tighter and tighter, I knew it was only a matter of time until we went into one of our classic, screaming cuss fights.
“Hey, I’m having another. How ‘bout you?”
She looked at me, her head tilted slightly back, and her steely gaze told the whole story—wow, was she pissed off.
“Sure, why not?”
My God, she spit those words out like bullets.
That surprised me, because my wife is an exercise freak, and having something extra to drink is one thing she never does. Now more than a hint of disgust, barely hidden below the surface, came with that “Sure….”
“Bitch,” I muttered under my breath.
“What?”
“Nothing.” But a nod indicated that she had heard.
She crossed her legs, leaned forward on her elbows, and waited for me to sit down. Hell, I knew what was coming then. That was her attack posture. I straightened my back and waited for the blast that was certain to come.
She grabbed the third martini out of my hand, spilled about a quarter of it, and started in on me.
“Sandy, I’ve had it with your damned moody, depressed attitude!”
Damn, when she started out with that high-pitched near-scream, I knew shit was about to fly.
“Hell, you’re not even good company drunk. What’s wrong with you?”
Of course, she didn’t wait for a reply. Then she really started digging, and in seconds she had ended up exactly where I didn’t want her to go.
“Let’s see, you’re not drilling anything, so it can’t be a dry hole. Hummm.”
That damned woman had more insight than anyone I’ve ever met, and, after a few minutes of probing, she managed to zero in on the problem. But she didn’t understand, not one little bit.
There was a nod of her head, and then she said, in almost a whisper, “I’ll bet I know.”
I could feel the assault coming like a rushing wind as she raised her voice to a shout.
“Depressed about her again, aren’t ya?” The words had a cutting, shrill edge and promised more of the same. Then she went through the damn irritating motion of raking her fingers through her hair. God, when I saw that, the warm-up for a real blast, I gritted my teeth and got ready. That was just her opening salvo, and, knowing my wife as I do, I knew she was going to have a lot more to say. Of course I tried to cut it off, but she was wound up.
“Oh, hell, surely you’re not going to go through that again? Don’t overreact!” I yelled. “I mean it! Don’t overreact!” I’ve hit her with that overreacting line for years, and I knew just what the response would be.---Yeah, I had just punched one of her hot buttons.
“Overreact? Why not? God, how in the hell can I overreact to someone who’s been hanging over this marriage for decades? Let’s talk about her! Get her out on the table! The whole sordid mess! I want you to talk about her until you’re blue in the face! Come on, Sandy, get it out! Say you made the wrong choice!”
Maybe it was my imagination, but the word ‘choice’ seemed to echo through the room.
She’d punched my button now, and I reacted just as I had hundreds of times before. But tonight I was on another level of anger, depression, and, yes---I was drunk.
I took the argument to another level when I yelled back at her, “You fat, worthless bitch! Don’t mention her again!” Ha! I could see her seethe when “fat” hit her. That was another one of my buttons to push, and I smirked as I leaned back on the couch and took a sip of my martini. Take that, you bitch! I thought.
She glared at me, and I swear her nostrils flared. The words seemed to spit out through her pursed lips.
“Bring her up again? Damn, Sandy, you’ve brought her up for the last forty-five years! Shit, last week when they put you under for that little colonoscopy you mumbled her name for almost an hour!”----Then she leaned back, carefully enunciating her words-- “Can’t forget that last night in Fayetteville, can you?’ Those words just slipped out of her mouth like slime. Then she hit me again with, “You sorry, worthless bastard!”
That last “bastard” was loud enough to break glass, and, yeah, that last night in Fayetteville was my most sensitive spot. Hell, over the years we’ve tried to forget that night, and we’d never talked about it, but now, after forty-five years, she had finally brought it up. It was like a knife had been driven into my chest. I felt as if I couldn’t breath for a few seconds as the words penetrated to the depths of my soul.
I tried to recover, but my breath was coming in short jerks, and my face turned from a splotchy drunk red to a pale, sallow white. My hands shook, but I managed to take another swallow of my martini while glaring at her. Damn, that woman could jerk me around. It was all I could do to just sit there.
“You lying,--uh---uh---fat bitch!” I slurred.
There was that look of disgust I’ve seen so many times. Then she pointed her finger at me, twirling her head as if she were speaking to a lowlife dog, and threw another zinger.
“God, you’re so sick and obsessed that nothing goes through that pea brain of yours! You strut around town like you’re some big shit---God’s gift to Magnolia! Don’t you know people think you’re just rich trailer-park trash?”
Damn, that really pissed me off. Well, I guess I do have a thin skin when it comes to how people in Magnolia think of me. I’ve worked like a dog to pull myself up from the pits of poverty, and I’ve given that damn town more than you can imagine---a hell of a lot more than so called “old” Magnolia. Damn bitch! First she brings up that last night in Fayetteville, and now she belittles everything I’ve done for the past thirty years. I was so mad that I could hardly speak.
“You worthless!---Worthless!”---I couldn’t think of anything else to say for a few seconds. Then I added, “I ought to throw this martini in that fat, double-chinned face of yours!” Boy, did that double-chin punch nail her. Hell, she had to put her martini down, she was so mad. Yeah, that’s a good comeback, I thought as I leaned back on the couch and gave her a little smirk.
It took her a few seconds, but then she tossed off the double-chin remark like it didn’t matter. She shook her head and laughed as she pointed to where my martini was sitting.
“Ha! You haven’t got the guts to throw that martini! If you so much as touch me, you’ll regret it for the rest of your sorry life! How would you like for the divorce papers to read, ‘Spousal abuse?’ Try to live that down, Mr. Magnolia! So take your drunken ass out of my sight, you spineless piece of shit!”
She picked up her martini and took a big sip as she flipped her hair back, knowing that she had pretty much nullified everything I’d just said. God, that woman could absolutely drive me crazy. Of course, I was speechless. What do you say after someone has nailed you with the absolute facts, and you both know that they’re true? Boy, was I pissed off now. I’ll show the bitch. Then I reacted like a pissed-off drunk. I walked over to where she was sitting, and I threw the last half of my martini in her face. Of all the rash things I’ve done over the years, I’ve never regretted anything as much. She looked shocked for a second. In all of the many arguments and fights we’ve had, I’d never touched her. She slowly wiped the gin from her face, and I immediately began to regret what I’d done. There was a fiery glare in her eyes, so intense that it made me step back. Then she leaned forward, made a sweep of her arm, and cleared the table of her martini glass, two candles, and a vase full of flowers.
“Wait! Stop! Are you crazy?” I started waving my hands, but she was so mad that I took another step back to get out of swinging range. I yanked out a handkerchief to wipe her face as I tried to mouth the words “I’m sorry,” but it was way too late for that. She was out of control, mumbling “bastard” and something that sounded like “I’ll teach you.” She seemed to be looking for something, and then her eyes fixed on the glass-top coffee table in front of her.
“Hey! Stop! What in the hell are you doing?”
She’d picked up a big trilobite fossil that I’d brought back from Morocco, and I thought she was going to throw it at me. I backed off another couple of steps and raised my arms to catch it. I’d been deep in the Atlas Mountains, doing surface geology for Exxon, when a young boy came up to my car and held out the most perfect specimen of a large trilobite that I’d ever seen. It was about eight inches long and maybe four inches thick---solid rock. God, don’t let her break that fossil, flashed through my mind.
“Don’t throw that! It’s a perfect trilobite, and I’ll never find another one like it!” I jumped around in front of her and put up my hands to deflect or catch the several pound rock. But she stared at me, and, without saying a word, turned toward a tall glass case that contained my collection of Pre-Columbian figurines and pottery. I’d spent twenty years buying them at Sotheby’s, in Santa Fe, and even in central Belize. I had collected four shelves of figurines and pots---mostly Mayan and Colima. A few years ago I had found an eight-foot tall glass case in an antique store, and, for the first time, I’d managed to put my entire collection in one display. The case had a solid front of curved glass, well lit, with a motion detector alarm.
“No! No!” It all happened so suddenly that just the thought of what she was about to do froze me in my tracks. I gasped and watched in horror. She drew back, threw, and I dived toward the case. I’ve played out the scene in my mind many times over the last several months, and that moment always seems to be in slow motion, the heavy fossil rock flying out of her hand and heading for the case. I could feel my body tense as I reached for the fossil, which cleared my outstretched hands by inches. I fell sprawled out on the floor in front of the case. I remember hearing a thundering crash and then more and more crashes, and then glass and pieces of Mayan pots cascaded down on me. The fossil had hit the glass case above the top shelf, shattered the front of the case, and hit a priceless Mayan pot, smashing it to pieces. But what happened next was unbelievable. The rock crashed against the next glass shelf, breaking it, and the contents of that shelf crashed down onto the next shelf, which also broke. Then everything from the top and middle shelf hit the third shelf, and the whole mess collapsed at the bottom of the case in a pile of rubble. Pieces of Mayan figurines and broken pottery were scattered across the base of the case and the living room floor, and the motion detector wailed an alarm.
I staggered to my feet, brushing off glass and fragments of Pre-Columbian pottery. Then I stood there in shock as I looked at my wonderful collection, destroyed in an instant. It took a few seconds for it to sink in: my overreacting wife had destroyed $500,000 worth of Pre-Columbian art.
“Oh, my God, Sandy, I didn’t mean to do it! Oh, God, no, no!”
She staggered back, sank down on the couch, and buried her head in her hands, sobbing.
When I looked at my pride and joy, destroyed in such an irrational act, I knew that I couldn’t live with her for another minute. I walked out the front door and never looked back, and the next day I filed divorce papers charging infidelity as grounds for divorce. Of course, my wife had never been unfaithful, just like she wasn’t fat. But I was enraged, and I had to lie to my attorney friend in order to get him to file the divorce papers.
Maybe, when she destroyed my Pre-Columbian pottery collection, it gave me the reason I needed to file the divorce I’d been wanting for years. She was right about one thing: that last night in Fayetteville was still as vivid in my mind as if it had happened a week ago.