Coming Together: With Pride (30 page)

I blinked and realized that I was totally out of my element. "I, uh, I wanted to make something, uh, simple, to show my mother-in-law."

Anna grinned. "I'll fix you up. Having so many choices can be a bit overwhelming." She glanced at her watch and said, "There's a new class about to begin. Participants will learn how to make a skirt in an hour. Very simple. Class starts in a few minutes. Interested?"

"Make a skirt in an hour? You bet I'm interested." This might not be so bad after all—and only require an hour of my time.

"Let's get you signed up. Then you can purchase your pattern and materials." Anna led me across the room to a small group of women and ten workstations. I added my name to the list, and she led me over to bolts of material. "See anything you'd like to wear?"

I nodded and pointed.

Anna frowned at the shiny black fabric I selected. "It's not a recommended choice for a first project, my dear. Especially for a beginner. That type of material is hard to work with, even for trained experts."

Well how hard could it be to make a short skirt? I didn't need much material and might finish it in half the time. "I understand, but that's what I want. Black goes with everything."

Anna shrugged and cut the yardage needed for my project. She picked out the zipper and totaled the bill. Almost seventy-five dollars. A back-pleat side zip from Victoria's Secret was only $39.95 with shipping.

Since the class participants had to wait until I was seated at my workstation, I got more than one dirty look directed my way. When I tried to pin the pattern to the material, the straight pins stabbed my fingers.
Damn
! The scissors cut crooked.
Shit!
The material slipped off the table and puddled on the floor, much like I wanted it to do when I removed it for a night of seduction.
Fuck!
The instructor, Edna, reminded me several times to watch my language.

I had planned on keeping the class a secret, but Edna informed me that I needed extra evening classes to keep up with the others. I had to tell David and made him promise to keep it a secret.

"A shiny black thing, huh? Even if my mother doesn't like it, I'm sure I will."

He said he'd be fine without me for an evening or two and that he was pleased I was making an effort. I was surprised, however, that he didn't argue about the expense and time it was taking away from him.

Seven days, a broken pair of scissors, loss of patience, and a couple less strands of hair later, I was ready to model my skirt for the class. Luckily, I had discovered that duct tape worked well to keep the zipper, which had been ripped out so often that the material of that section was frayed at the edges, in place. The skirt hung a bit crooked, but with the blouse I'd selected, it looked good when I practiced a twirl in front of the mirror. I couldn't wait to get home to show David.

When Edna called my name, I strutted in front of the ladies wearing my stilettos and a big smile. Edna clicked her tongue and gave a hard tug on my skirt. The zipper pulled out in her hand and the skirt puddled at my feet. It looked really nice lying on the floor, just like I'd imagined. I thought the silky thong I wore made my hips look pretty good, but Edna didn't see it that way.

"Please cover yourself," she said and summoned Anna. I was asked to try another class.

Anna suggested knitting. I bought knitting needles and yarn. I wanted to make a scarf. The instructor, Betty, said I had to learn the basics. I couldn't cast the yarn on the needle or keep straight the difference between knit and purl. But I could imagine the scarf as a G-string, and I could imagine dancing in front of David wearing only that. I could just picture him taking a strand of the skimpy G-string yarn and pulling. I'd unravel like a Christmas present, standing in front of him in my birthday suit.

Betty interrupted my daydream. "Your stitches are getting much too tight."

She was right. I couldn't get them off one needle and onto another. For a moment, I considered asking Betty if I could learn to make a G-string in a caramel color to match my pussy hair. One look at her stern face changed my mind.

"This is just for practice, Muriel, but you need to focus. Now rip the stitches apart and start again. When that's done, you'll do it again and again. You need practice, practice, practice."

After that reprimand, things got out of control. My patience was gone. During my practice, practice, practice, I used too much force, force, force—and the yarn knotted into a clump. When I pulled on it, the clump shot across two workstations and landed on the head of one of the women. It looked like a bad toupee, and I laughed out loud.

"Maybe knitting isn't your thing," Betty suggested.

Next was cross-stitch. That class wasn't any better than knitting. Crocheting turned out to be just as bad. Quilting wasn't for me either. Anna had to be summoned again.

"Muriel, perhaps you're not meant to sew," Anna said.

"Well, I've spent a lot of money here over the last several weeks, and I've made nothing to show my husband or my mother-in-law. There has to be some class that is perfect for me."

Anna sighed and led me to another workstation. She handed me a long, blunt needle with a piece of rawhide tied to it and a bucket of beads. "You can thread some lovely necklaces. Children love to make them for gifts. I'm sure you'll have no problem with this project." She walked off.

I looked at the needle and at the women watching me. They twittered when I picked up the needle and a handful of beads. I grabbed my purse and left. Once I was in my car, I realized that I still had the beads in my hand. Maybe I could string them together and do a belly dance for David.

Perhaps I could tie them so they hung at different lengths and as I shimmied and shook, they would brush against my legs, my pubic hair and my butt. For a brief moment, I wondered if I should return the beads, but decided they could bill me. A naughty thought crossed my mind. David could insert a bead into my pussy and fish it out with his tongue. Then an even naughtier thought crossed my mind. Quivering with anticipation, I clinched myself, my pussy, and my asshole both. I drove home as fast as possible, with every intention of flinging myself into David's arms and confessing my ineptness. His mother would love this.

Except my adoring husband wasn't home. I checked the kitchen, the living room, and the den. Everything was spotless, just as I'd left it. Then, I went upstairs to check our bedroom. There was evidence he'd been there and had taken a shower. Wet towels lay on the floor along with his dirty clothes. I noticed his wristwatch on the nightstand. That's where he always put it right before showering.

My inner alarm went off. Where was my husband? Why hadn't he been fussing over my absence from home? I returned to my car and drove to his office building. David's car wasn't there. I checked out two clubs, two bars, and a strip joint located on the outskirts of town—all the places his office "entertained" clients from out of town. No David. I wasn't sure whether to be angry or worried. I drove back home.

David's car was in the driveway and the lights were on in the house. The moment I opened the front door, I heard, "Honey, is that you?"

I went into the living room. There was David surrounded by the newspaper, page after page scattered about him. It looked like he'd been home all evening.

"Thank God, you're home," David said. "I've missed you."

"And apparently the trash can. What a mess." Even though my mind was racing, I kissed him and cleaned up the papers. I might not cook, but I am tidy. Next, I went into the kitchen. Dishes were everywhere. After putting things away, I hurried upstairs. The towels and clothes were gone. Even his watch was absent. He'd covered his tracks. My husband was up to something.

Two nights later, the phone rang. I peered at the clock and saw it was only one in the morning.

David answered it without me asking. "Hello. Yes. Yes. Uh, same time. Bye."

"Who was that?" I asked.

"Uh, my mom."

It wouldn't have surprised me if it had been his mother. I rolled over and went back to sleep.

But I knew something wasn't right. Instead of going to the next class, I parked down the street from the house and waited for David to get home. Sure enough, after just enough time for a shower, he left the house. I followed him, but I was afraid to follow too closely, and I lost him in traffic. Two nights later, the same thing happened. It took me four tries before I discovered where he was going. After that, I'd drive to the place and wait for him to show up. His behavior was like clockwork. I timed him by my watch. Right on the dot at six o'clock, he'd pull up in his Ford and hurry into the renovated warehouse. I'd found a secluded spot behind a privacy fence and clump of trees to park my car.

Over the course of several days, I'd done a lot of reconnaissance and asked tons of questions. Amazing how much people will talk when you carry a clipboard and act professional. The elevator, which had been a freight lift, had an up-and-down wooden gate, which was much too noisy. There was no way I could reach the fourth floor without anyone hearing me. Then I'd discovered that the stairs were actually an emergency exit, and the outside door was never locked. That exit had been added to bring it up to fire code when the owners renovated the building into six studio lofts. The stairs were my only way up.

The next late night phone call was handled a bit differently. Just as I went to answer it, David grabbed the receiver away from me and left the room. When he returned, he said it was his mother, but I didn't buy it for a second.

That was the morning I noticed David's bruises when he stepped out of the shower. He had a big black bruise on his thigh and both of his knees were a brownish purple.

"What happened to you?"

"Nothing," he said. "Why are you asking?"

"You have bruises all over your body."

"Oh, that's just tag football. The guys get a bit rough."

Later that morning while I was doing laundry, I caught a whiff of perfume. Not my brand. David's clothes continued to have that smell for weeks.

I'm not sure why I didn't confront David right at the beginning, instead of resorting to the subterfuge. Maybe in the back of my mind I knew I'd make him pay dearly if I discovered he'd been cheating. But I do know that the unexplained phone calls in the middle of the night, bruises on his body, and the strange perfume on his clothes pushed me over the edge.

****

My right hand was jammed deep into my jacket pocket as I leaned against the windowsill. I couldn't help but finger the .357 Magnum hidden inside. David had bought the gun when there were a series of break-ins around the neighborhood and he'd known he was going to be out of town for a couple weeks. He'd taken me to the shooting range and made sure I knew how to use the weapon. "Pretend the target is a rapist," he said. "Blow the fucker away."

He'd been so sweet, worrying about me. The morning he left for his trip, I thought he was a bit teary-eyed. He called every day, but nothing happened while he was away. The gun was hidden in the closet and forgotten.

The steel gray titanium barrel felt cool to my touch, reminding me that I needed to be as hard as steel. I traced the dips of the cylinder with my fingertips and wrapped my fingers around the rubber handgrip. The pad of my thumb rested on the grooved hammer, and my index finger poised over the trigger. I was going to kill my husband and the whore he was fucking, and I was going to do it with his own gun.

It was hard to believe that only six months ago my life was fine, and now I was plotting to commit cold-blooded murder. If I pressed my cheek against the glass and tilted my head at just the right angle, I could see the approaching traffic. I'd done this many times during my tailing of David.

My finger touched the trigger. I was going to wait until I was sure they were in the throes of passion. Then I'd step into the room, call out his name, and shoot him before he had time to pull his cock out of that slut's cunt. Of course, the whore would beg for her life. I'd pretend to listen before putting a bullet in her. After that, I'd scream and cry. Maybe I'd faint. I took drama in college—I could pull it off. The authorities would call it a crime of passion. I'd claim to have no knowledge of guns, and then I'd withdraw into a world of silence, never saying another word. I had it all figured out.