How to Kill Your Husband (14 page)

George laughed. “Yeah, right. Have fun at your movie.”

Claire called her friends at work when she got off the phone with him.

“Biotech Industries.”

“Hey, Melanie?”

“Yeah, Claire. What's up?”

“George just called. He said he's getting off at five today.”

“
Five
?”

“Yeah. He's leaving here at six. Can you still make it?”

“I leave at five-thirty,” Melanie said. “I'd have to dip out a little early…”

“You don't have to pick up Trevon?”

“Rodney ain't doing nothing. He can pick him up.”

“I really appreciate it.”

“It's cool. But if I ever think Rodney's cheating on me, you'd better be the
first
one
offering to help me follow his ass around.”

“You got it,” Claire promised. She hung up and called Becky.

“Provincial Insurance.”

“
Becky
?”

“Hey, Claire. You ready for the big night?”

“
No
. George just threw a monkey wrench; he's getting off at five today instead of six.”

“
Five
?”

“I just found out. Can you still come?”

“I leave at five, Claire.”

“I know.”

“I have to pick Courtney up from school. I can't make it to your house until six.”

“That's fine,” Claire said. “That's what time George is leaving. Melanie's going to be waiting on him just like last time.”

“Okay,” Becky said. “I'll be there. You can count on me.”

“I know I can,” Claire said. “Thank you.”

* * *

The plan was laid perfectly, and George was none the wiser.

Claire already had the kids at the dining table when he got home at five-thirty. He went upstairs to change, and she didn't follow him. She enjoyed her chicken primavera like a good wife and listened to the children recap their peculiar days.

At 5:45 Melanie called and said she was in position.

At 5:50 George came downstairs wearing gray slacks and a long-sleeved black button-down. He asked his wife if she'd seen his Stacy Adams loafers. Claire directed him to the spot in the closet where she took all of the shoes he left out. George gave her a kiss on the forehead and headed back upstairs with a big smile on his face.

At 5:58 Becky and Courtney arrived just in time to see George leave at 6:02.

Melanie called at 6:07 to inform them she was on his tail.

Claire and Becky left a few minutes later.

* * *

George's second stakeout proceeded much like the first one, but there were two notable exceptions: First, he didn't stop at the car dealership to pick up the mystery woman. Second, he didn't head towards the south side of town where Sherman lived. He got on I-35 headed north, and he was still on that freeway thirty minutes later.

No one knew where he was going, but there was an advantage to all of this time on the road: Becky booked it ten miles over the speed limit for a while, and she was able to catch up to Melanie. They pulled within eyesight once, but Melanie urged them to hang back a little.

“If you can see
me
,” she said, “then George can see
you
, 'cause I'm right on his tail. Get that big-ass truck outta here.”

Becky lowered her speed and put a couple of exits between them.

George stayed on 35 past the Meacham exit, and then he got on Highway 820 headed east. He booked it all the way to 121, and Claire had to throw up her hands. She knew of absolutely no destination in that direction. They were headed for the airport, and Claire decided to call the stakeout off if that's where he was going. There was no way they could follow him in the terminal without being spotted.

But George didn't stop there. He zipped by all of the airport exits, and continued his drive all the way to the fair city of
Irving
. Melanie called to voice her disapproval as soon as they entered the city limits.

“Claire, where the hell is your husband going?”

“Melanie,
I don't know
. He's still on the freeway?”

“Hell, yea! Girl, I've been following his ass for more than
forty-five minutes
. I'm gonna have to get some gas soon. I didn't know he was going this far.”

“If you need to stop, then we can stop,” Claire said. “We'll try again tomorrow.”

“I'm still over the E, but—hold on, Claire. I think he's getting off.”

“He is?”

“Uhh,
yeah
. He's about to get off on Story Road. You got lucky.”

“No,” Claire said gloomily. “I don't think I'm lucky at all…”

They followed George from the freeway, through the business district, and into a residential neighborhood Claire had never seen before. Just when Melanie started complaining about her gas again, George pulled into the parking lot of a private school called St. Martin's Academy. Melanie parked a block away, but she crept past the entrance when George got out of the car. The school's parking lot was bustling with parents arriving for
God-knew-what
, and George entered the building alone. It was exactly seven p.m.

Becky parked around the corner a few minutes later, and Melanie got out of her car to meet them.

“What the hell is your husband doing
here
?” she asked when Claire rolled down her window.

“I don't know,” she said. “I don't know anything about this city. I don't know anyone who lives over here, and I damned sure don't know anyone who goes to
that
school.”

“Well, George does,” Becky said, stating the obvious.

Claire's face was like granite; they couldn't tell how this news was affecting her.

“Well, let's find out who,” she said.

* * *

Claire wanted to go in right away, but her friends thought someone should look the place over first. George might be waiting right inside the lobby for all they knew. After a quick discussion, they decided to let Becky go inside by herself. Fresh off work, she was dressed as professionally as all the other guests. Plus she was the most
innocent-looking
of the three. She headed off on foot, and Claire and Melanie waited a mind-numbing fifteen minutes for the news she would bring back.

Claire knew it was going to be bad, and she wasn't disappointed. She held her breath when Becky returned to her truck, a little paler than before.

“Uh, you guys better see this for yourself.”

The trio crossed the street and walked around the side of the building with little regard for the negative attention they garnished. They walked through the front doors of the school boldly and were greeted by two fourth-graders handing out programs for tonight's presentation. Claire took one, and the sweat from her hand left a large stain on it by the time they made it to the auditorium.

Becky led them in, and they found three seats near the back. A dozen small students were on stage singing
Texas Our Texas
. It didn't take a lot of looking around to locate George's bald dome and broad shoulders in the crowd. He sat on the third row; next to the woman who most likely held the seat for him.

“
That's her
,” Melanie whispered. “From last time…”

Claire leaned forward in her chair and tried to memorize every detail, but mostly all she saw was long hair that was auburn tinted and slightly curled. George turned a few times to whisper in his lady friend's ear, and Becky took a couple of pictures of his perfect profile.

Sitting there watching her husband enjoy time with another woman was hard enough. Trying to figure out why George was there in the first place was even more stressful, but luckily they had to wait only ten minutes to figure that part out. The first group of youngsters finished their song, and a first-grade teacher with pudgy cankles took the stage after they departed. She started to brag about the many extracurricular activities the students at St. Martin's were involved in. She harped on about the Girl Scouts in particular, because she was once a member of that fine organization herself.

“So, without further adieu,” she screamed, “let's bring out our girls from Troop Number 84!”

Everyone cheered as a group of fifteen children marched onto the stage in full Girl Scout regalia. In addition to their uniforms, some of the girls also wore cardboard cutouts that resembled the sun, the moon, and an assortment of simple flowers. They arranged themselves on the stage and began to sing a song Claire recognized from Nikki's stint with Camp Fire so many years ago.

“If all of the raindrops were lemon drops and gumdrops, oh what a rain it would be. I'd stand outside with my mouth open wide. Ah, ah, ah ah, ah, ah ah, ah, ah ah!”

When they got to the last part, all of the girls looked to the sky with their mouths open, as if to catch imaginary candy falling from the clouds.

“What's this shit about?” Melanie asked.

“Look,” Becky said.

They did, and they all saw the same thing: George wasn't sitting anymore. He was standing with a camcorder, following the actions of one of the little girls.

“Who's he recording?” Becky asked, but that question pretty much answered itself. St. Martin's Academy didn't have very many students of color, and only one of the girls on stage was black. She was as cute as a button, light-skinned like George Jr., wearing a card-board cut-out that looked like a sunflower.

Claire was out of her seat before she knew her legs were moving.

“If all of the snowflakes were chocolate chips and cupcakes, oh what a snow it would be!”

She stomped down the middle aisle with her fists balled and her teeth clenched. She had no definite plan in mind, but yanking George's girlfriend's hair out seemed like a good start. Claire got within ten feet of her husband then someone grabbed her in a bear-hug from behind; lifting her feet almost off the ground. They turned her and let her go when she was facing the opposite direction.

A good number of parents stared in awe, but Claire didn't give a damn about them. She turned back towards George, but Melanie blocked her path sufficiently.

“Go,” she said. “Get out of here, Claire.”

It seemed odd to move in one direction when her heart and soul tugged her in the other, but Claire heeded her friend's advice. She allowed Melanie to push her down the aisle, and soon they were in the foyer again. She could still hear the children singing behind her.

“If all of the flash floods were lemonade and Kool-Aid…”

Melanie grabbed her shoulders and stared into her eyes. “Are you gonna cry?” she asked.

Claire shook her head. “
Hell, no
.”

“You gonna blow our cover?”

Claire shook her head again.

“Then what are you gonna do?” Melanie asked.

“
I'm gonna get his ass
,” Claire hissed.

Melanie squinted at her. “You sure?”

Claire chuckled nervously. “Oh, yeah.
I'm so freaking sure
.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

GEORGE'S SECRET OTHER FAMILY

Claire stood at the kitchen sink the next morning slicing a banana for George Jr. and George Sr.'s cornflakes. Today she wore a white sundress with pink floral prints. When she pulled it from the closet a couple hours ago, Claire had to rack her brain to remember the last time she wore the dress. But it still fit, and it was pretty, and sexy. The billowy fabric stopped right at her knees, exposing brown legs that were smooth, long, and freshly shaven. Today Claire would wear sandals to work for the first time since—
ever
.

She turned with the knife and cutting-board in hand and looked upon her beautiful family. The girls were neat and clean, bright-eyed and bushy tailed. They both sat on one side of the table eating oatmeal with toast rather than cereal like the men.

Actually, Nikki wasn't eating too much. She had a notebook on the table and was rushing through a vocabulary assignment she had
all last night
to complete. She chose to watch movies and shoot the breeze with Courtney instead, and now she was in danger of receiving an early morning butt-whooping if she didn't finish within the next sixteen minutes.

That whooping was going to come from her mother, even if it was wrong.

Claire made her way to the table with the detached airiness of a phantom. When she got there, she served her son first. That was a notable taboo, but Claire was simply girding her mind for the inevitable: George Sr.'s days were numbered, and little George would be the new man of the house. Claire even gave him the majority of the banana slices.

“
Wow!
Thanks, Mom!”

Her husband looked on with obvious envy. “Damn, baby,” he chuckled. “You gonna save any for me?”

Today George Sr. wore a navy blue Polo with khaki Dockers. Claire picked out that shirt at Christmas, and she bought him those slacks two months ago. Come to think of it, she purchased his socks, shoes, and even the drawers he had on. George was a good-looking man, but a lot of his fashion sense came from his wife. Claire wondered if his floozy knew that.

She whipped the knife quickly in a small arc that peaked right under George's Adam's apple. A beam of light glinted on the smooth blade. She hadn't sharpened the utensil in years; Claire expected it to scrape his skin and maybe leave a long, red welt once it healed.

Instead she opened him up like a cantaloupe. The hole was only two inches in diameter, but apparently every artery in his body ran through that small space. Blood sprayed the dining table as if from a shower nozzle. Stacy threw up her hands to block most of it, but Nikki just watched in astonishment, and she got splattered worse than Carrie did in Stephen King's tale.

George Jr. didn't have the sense to turn away either, but most of the gore landed on his chest and in his bowl of cornflakes. He stared at his mother in awe, and then looked down at his food oddly. He looked back up at his mom with a huge scowl pulling his chipmunk cheeks.

George Sr. gawked at his wife with more of a horrified expression. His eyes bugged like boiled eggs. He grasped at his neck with one hand and clawed at Claire's with the other. She backed away and he tried to follow. He stumbled out of his chair like a drunkard and fell to the floor, sucking air like a fish out of water.

“Why'd you do that?” he asked.

“Hmm?” Claire looked down and realized she dumped his bananas from too great a height. They fell into his bowl with a large splash; sending a couple teaspoons of milk flying at his shirt. The stain wasn't that big of a deal, but it was surely not a good way to start the day. George stood and brushed his stomach with a cloth napkin.

“Why'd you do that?” he asked again.

“Huh?” Claire asked, returning from a most pleasant daydream.

“Did you do this on purpose?” George asked.

Claire frowned at him. “Of course not, honey.” She looked at the knife in her hands and was almost surprised there was no blood on it. “It's not the end of the world,” she said. “Trust me; it could have been
a lot
worse.”

* * *

For lunch that afternoon, Becky took her to the Don Pablo's down the street from their office. She choked a little on her shrimp fajita when Claire told her about her
vision
this morning. Becky put a napkin to her mouth and patted her chest lightly.

“Ooh, excuse me.”

“Don't laugh,” Claire said. “For a minute, I thought I really did cut him. And you know the worst part about it?” She leaned forward and took a conspiratorial tone. “It felt
good
, Becky, the thought of him
bleeding
, staggering towards me on his knees.” Claire shook her head and sighed pleasantly. “It still feels like something I'm supposed to do.”

“Oh, no. We already went down that road,” Becky warned. “Trains go forward, not backward.”

Claire frowned. “I'm not sure that really relates here, but I was just fantasizing. It's okay to still think about it, right? Long as nobody gets hurt?”

“I guess,” Becky said. “What time did he get home last night?”

“Around one,
freshly showered
.” Claire's smile went away. She looked in Becky's direction, but stared past her, into nothingness.

“It's okay,” Becky said.

Claire met her eyes. “Really? How so?”

“ 'Cause your stakeout was a success.” Becky grabbed her purse from the seat next to her and dug through it in her lap. She came up with a handful of photographs wrapped in a plastic sandwich bag.

“You got those developed already?”

“Mmm-hmm
.
” She handed them over the table, and Claire fiddled with the wrapping.

“Wal-mart's getting a little cheap, aren't they?”

“
No
,” Becky said with a bright smile. “I developed those at home.”

Claire cocked an eye. “You've got a darkroom?”

“No, silly. I have a digital camera and a computer. You can buy photograph paper anywhere.”

“I guess I'm behind on the times,” Claire admitted. “You're going to have to…” She trailed off and gaped at the first of six photographs. It was a good shot of George and his mistress, not blurry at all. Becky zoomed in for a close-up, but both subjects had their back to the camera and neither offered a profile. Still, it was shocking to have it in her hands. A judge may not view the photo as definitive proof, but that bald dome was unmistakable to Claire.

Raw emotions knocked at her soul like a restless tide, but she closed them off quickly. She squeezed her eyes shut, and when she opened them, they remained dry. She was getting into a habit of crying at lunch every day, but no more of that. She hated how George made her feel so weak and powerless.

“The next one's better,” Becky said.

Claire flipped to it and sighed raggedly. In the second photograph, George made the mistake of facing his girlfriend fully. His profile was unequivocal.

“This is a good one,” she said numbly.

“Keep looking…” Becky said.

The next picture was as useless as the first, but the one after that was definitely a keeper. Claire leaned forward to get more light, and she stared at this one the longest. She didn't think George's floozy made herself available for any good shots, but Becky snapped one when George was standing with the camcorder. His girlfriend looked up at him, and the scene was now preserved for eternity.

“You got her,” Claire breathed, unconsciously sizing up her competition. George's girlfriend
was
thinner than his wife; you could see it in just her face and neck. Her skin was the color of a walnut shell. Her hair was long and layered. It was full and rich. She had a thin, almost European nose. She wore a little blush on her cheeks, and autumn-red-colored lipstick. Her eyes were large and curious. Claire tried for a long time, but couldn't come up with anything bad to say about her.

“
Bitch
,” she mumbled, but that seemed immensely inadequate.

The next photo was another good profile of George.

The last two pictures were from a sick nightmare: Like Claire, Becky assumed George was there to support the one black Girl Scout on stage. She took a full body shot of the child and another that was a close-up of her face. Claire studied the girl's features for a long time before speaking.

“George has his own kids at home,” she said. “I can't believe he'd risk it all so he could support
hers
.”

Becky made a face but didn't say anything.

“What?”

Becky shrugged. The girls had come up with lots of opinions about George and his woman and the girl on stage, but so far no one wanted to state the unthinkable. Becky surely didn't want to be the one.

“You, you don't think that's
George's
little girl..” Claire prompted.

Becky pursed her lips.

“It's not,” Claire said. “This girl, she's, she's in the
first grade
. That would make her at least seven years old, right?”

Becky nodded. “She looks about seven.”

“That means he would have had to get that lady pregnant eight years ago,” Claire deduced.

Becky shrugged.

“So this
couldn't
be George's child,” Claire said. “We were still in New York then. We've only been in Texas for seven years.”

“All right,” Becky said.

“What do you mean, ‘
All right
'?”

“All right, if you say it's not…”

“Don't patronize me, girl. Just say what you think.”

“Well, I think she looks a lot like him.” Becky looked away nervously. “She looks a lot like George Jr., too.”

Claire's nostrils flared. She looked at the picture again and accepted it for what it was. She couldn't deny the resemblances between this
abomination
and her husband. The Girl Scout was physically similar to her son as well. Claire could even see bits of Stacy…

“So what are you saying, George has been cheating on me for
eight years
?”

“I'm not saying that.”

“Then why are you making all of those faces?”

“I'm not making faces.”

“Well, why'd you take the
damned pictures
?” Claire spat. She stacked them roughly and stuffed them back in their wrapping.

Becky observed her friend's pit bull countenance but didn't back down. “So it's okay if he's cheating on you, so long as that's not his daughter?”

“That's
not
his daughter!”

“What's the difference, Claire? He's having an affair either way, right?”

“ 'Cause
I'm not a fool
,” Claire hissed. “Do you know how stupid I'd have to be to let that go on for
eight years
?”

“Claire, you're not a fool.”

“Easy for you to say. At least Brent didn't have a secret other family. God, this is sick.”

A woman at the table next to them dropped her fork. Claire looked over and saw that she and her friend were eavesdropping openly.

“Like your marriage is all
perfect
,” she growled at them.

The strangers looked away quickly.

“Is that what it is?” Becky asked. “You think his infidelities are somehow a reflection of
you
?”

“I've heard about stuff like this,” Claire said. “I don't want to be
that woman
, the one who loved her man and never second-guessed
him, who thought her life was
just wonderful
, but it turned out he had a whole 'nother life right behind my back—a
whole goddamned family
.”

“Don't start,” Becky said. “You're not supposed to have to look through his stuff. Do you think it was your
job
to figure this out?”

Claire sighed. “I don't know.”

“You're victimizing yourself,” Becky informed her friend. “You're like the battered woman who tells herself, ‘
Oh, if I wouldn't have burnt his eggs, he wouldn't have hit me
.' ”

Claire shook her head.

“No,” Becky said, “that's what you're doing. You can't blame yourself for
anything
George did. He's a liar and a cheat. When he said he was working late, you believed him because
that's what you're supposed to do
. He's your husband, and your husband isn't supposed to lie. Even if George has been with her for ten years, Claire, it's not your fault.”