My Wife's Li'l Secret (5 page)

Liefie’s lousy attitude continued. Not only did she ignore me, she also ignored the kids. They must have sensed the tension because they spoke in hushed tones, and I noticed them staying away from Liefie.

I was flabbergasted by that most of all, because Liefie was essentially a great mother. She adored her kids, gave all of herself to them, never yelled at them, and they loved her.

We work so we can be happy at home. We work extra hours, over weekends and take shit from customers, so we can earn good money and use it to buy all the comforts we need to be …happy at home.

I worked long hours, over weekends and on holidays, took shit from my customers in the security business I ran with Bear, yet I wasn’t happy at home.

Not at all.

Liefie had basically checked out of our marriage and motherhood. I felt abandoned and alone, overwhelmed with work, the house, and the kids.

I have to admit, I was angry enough
not
to try to mend things with her, so she showed me a point, really she did.

Her answers to my questions were monosyllabic and curt, and she acted as if I had done something to offend her. That was the most irritating part.

When I wasn’t furious with her behavior and sense of entitlement, I missed my wife, my best friend. I missed her warm laugh, her gentle touch, the way her eyes lit up when I entered the room, her arms around me at night. I missed walking into my home and being seduced by wonderful aromas of food cooking. She always tried to please me, even attending cooking classes so she could become a better cook. I had never asked her to, but she wanted to make me happy and wanted to see me smile. She told me so. What happened to my little treasure? I asked myself over and over again.

Overnight she had changed, became a stranger to me and to our kids. What happened to that loving, warm person who was happiest when she was lying in our king-size bed with both kids next to us?

As for the money, I was still confused as to how she went through so much in such a short period.

It wasn’t like she was wearing anything new or sporting expensive jewelry. Liefie was simple and unpretentious and those were some of the qualities I fell in love with. Books were her thing. When we were able to afford it, I had a very large bookshelf built for her in the study and with the help of my sister, stocked the bookshelves with all her favorite authors. When I surprised her with it, she cried. That was how much she loved books.

So what the hell was she spending her money on?

Drugs?

Liefie didn’t do drugs. She was maternal, nurturing, literary and grounded. She had never even smoked in her life!

Booze? There was no way booze would cost thirty-six grand. Not even the most expensive bottle of Cognac.

Clothes? No, Liefie wasn’t the type to splurge on herself. Everything expensive that she owned – designer bags, gold jewelry, expensive perfumes, was from me, because she just wouldn’t spend on herself. Clothes usually did not interest her and she always dressed down. Long sleeved, unflattering shirts, jeans that didn’t in any way draw attention to her figure, and simple low-heeled shoes.

Baffled, I constantly scratched my head, my mind a muddle of questions.

Sometimes, I felt like I was in a dream. A really unpleasant one. Not a nightmare as such, but a very nasty dream that left you wondering when you awoke.

It was all Viggo’s fault. Somehow. It just had to be.

I wondered who I could talk to.

My sister? Sure. Arena was cool, smart, and a good listener. I could tell her anything and she wouldn’t judge Liefie or me. Her advice was always sound, practical, and valuable.

But she and Liefie had a good relationship and I worried that if I confided in Arena, being as protective of me as she was, and given Liefie’s brand-new shitty attitude, the waters between my wife and my sister would become muddied.

I did not care to cause a rift between them, two of my favorite women in the world.

My brother-in-law Bear? He was a stand-up guy, loyal and full of integrity. He too had my back, but it was so damn embarrassing to talk to him about matters of such a personal nature.

It was tantamount to me badmouthing my wife. Not to mention how humiliated I would feel when confessing that as a husband and spouse, I felt neglected and even
unwanted
by my wife.

Maybe I just needed to be patient, I told myself. Three days more and Viggo would be no more. Then I would once again have my wife back.

Three more days.

Patience Macmillan, patience!

****

I awoke early the morning of Viggo’s departure, keen to drive him to the airport, impatient to see him board the flight and watch it take it off and explode mid-air. (Okay, just kidding about the explosion in mid-air. There are other passengers to consider.)

The first thing I would do on my way home, I promised myself, was stop at a liquor store and stock up my bar.

Like a kid at Christmas, I was bouncing all over the place, eager for everyone to wake up.

“What time is Viggo’s flight?” I asked Liefie the moment she stumbled into the kitchen, a leopard print sleep mask on top of her head.

She squinted at me, dark rings around her eyes from the mascara and eyeliner she had failed to remove the previous night before bed. “Flight?”

Fear clutched at me. He wasn’t leaving?

“To…to Ukraine? Isn’t he leaving today? It’s six weeks, Liefie.” My voice was filled with panic.

Her wave was dismissive. “He’s not leaving today. He’s leaving in six weeks’ time. Three-month visitor’s visa.”

I wanted to hurl, scream, smash things, throw things at her.

With my breath in spurts, I said, “He’s fucking leaving today, you hear!”

She glared at me, arms akimbo.

“I don’t want him around. He’s not a good influence. I want my home back. He has to go. Today. Now!”

With a sneer on her face, she looked me in the eye and said, “It’s my house too, remember? If you don’t like it, leave!” She turned her back to me and began to make coffee.

Fury took hold of me. “Fuck you!” I snarled. “Fuck you and your brother!”

“No, fuck you, Ritchie!” she said, whirling around to glare, coffee pot in hand, eyes blazing. “He’s my brother and he’s here to help me and he
has
helped me. If you want him to leave, then I will leave with him. I will go back to Ukraine and come back when …” she shrugged, her red-outlined mouth distorted, “when I’m ready.” She turned around and busied herself with her coffee-making while I stood like a cretin and watched her in disbelief, all my plans to get my home back, to return to normal life, going up in black plumes.

Then go! I wanted to say. Take your broke-arse brother and your ungrateful, self-absorbed self and fuck off! Come back when you appreciate us!

But of course I didn’t want her to leave. We had two kids who needed their mother. She'd been a good mother in the past, and I felt that with time, she would revert back to her normal self.

The way I looked at it: when you marry and have children, you form, and become part of a foundation. If you decide to leave the marriage, have an affair, cause discord, you affect so many lives and so many moving parts of the foundation that many people choose to stay, rather than leave and cause further upheaval in the foundation.

They probably feel like they are being selfish by putting their shredded feelings first, above their children’s. At that moment, I felt that way.
Exactly
that way.

Something told me that if I said anything else to Liefie, she would leave, go back to Ukraine.

It was not something I wanted. I loved her and all I wanted was my family back. Feeling like I had been slapped with a gag order, I shut up and took my resentment-filled self out of there, my anger white-hot. Her scorn, her disdain, and her unbridled desire to distance herself from me left me highly confused, not to mention deeply hurt.

Six more weeks.

On a calendar, I crossed out every single day leading up to that final day when he boarded the flight, in a bright red Biro. In my mind, that is. It got me through the days, prevented me from going ballistic and taking Viggo into a headlock, punching him repeatedly in the head and saying, “Leave now, motherfucker! Never return!”

I stayed late at work, reluctant to return home, and when I did, everyone was asleep. The next morning, I left before any one was awake.

This went on for a couple of days as home had become a cold and hostile place, a far cry from the warm, welcoming abode it once was.

The frostier it became at home, the more I continued blaming my wife’s brother for the
climate
change. Because of him, Liefie had morphed into a spoiled, demanding woman with an unhealthy sense of entitlement.

Those traits must have been there all the time, because nobody changes like that overnight. But somehow, I was so loved-up, I missed the signs, failed to notice all her flaws. But after the credit card fiasco, I sat up and started to take notice of the changes in my home and my wife, and I didn’t like what I saw.

Having little choice, I stayed away from both Liefie and Viggo, and they seemed content with that, to my ire.

Six more weeks.

That’s forty-two more days of watching him enjoy all the comforts of our home, my comfortable bed, my big-screen TV, the contents of my fridge, access to my almost-new motor vehicles, my money, and all the booze he could get his hands on. Not once did he lift a finger to help around the house – not even to take out the trash.

One thousand and eight hours more of watching him parade in spiffy threads – Van Heusen shirts, Salvatore shoes, Nike sneakers, Calvin Klein t-shirts – all paid for by Yours Truly.

One thousand and eight hours more of watching him smoke a pack of Camels a day (sure, it was twenty-two dollars a pack, but hey, money was no problem for him as long as his sister was around), of watching him strut around shirtless, wearing just a tiny pair of shorts (more like boxers than shorts). I hated that. I had two kids, two
girls
for Christ’s sake; I didn’t care for another man parading around in the semi-nude state he existed in. The semi-nude, drunk state he was always in with all his non-stop boozing (call me old-fashioned if you want, I don’t mind).  I wanted to scream,
Put on a fucking shirt, dickhead!
One thousand and eight hours
…

****

One evening I returned home from work to find my lounge furniture had been changed around.

“What’s with the lounge?” I asked Liefie, who was busy in the kitchen making a sandwich. Judging by the number of fillings present on the table, it had to be for Viggo. Neither me nor the kids were lucky enough to get that kind of time and attention from Liefie anymore.

“Viggo didn’t like it, so he changed it,” she mumbled.

“What? What gives him the right?”

“What difference would it make how the lounge looks?” she snapped, butter knife poised in the air. “You’re never here. At least with him here, I have another adult to talk to!”

“Liefie, I’m at work,” I hissed. “After work, I’m here.
Here
! I’m not stopping at a fucking pub or something, okay? You want me to stay at home like your brother? Who’s going to support us then, huh? Who’s going to pay for this…this…?” I poked my index finger into the cut up avocado, stabbed at the Honey Ham slices, dug into the Swiss cheese, slammed my closed fist onto lettuce, squelched the tomato with my hands, slapped at the cucumber, pushed the mayo and tomato sauce she was working with onto their sides, "this
wonderful
Dagwood or whatever the fuck you call it sandwich you are painstakingly making for your brother and not your husband or your kids, huh? Who’s going to pay off those credit cards you mowed through, huh?”

She went off into a tangent in Russian like she usually did when she was angry.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever!” I snapped and walked away, swiping the ham, cheese and avocado onto the floor.

“You idiot! That was the last piece of ham!”

“Tell someone who gives a toss!” I yelled as I walked away.

The next evening, the moment I entered the house, she did what she had been doing for the past month – dumped the kids with me and hurried out of the house with her brother.

“Yeah, have fun without your husband!” I said in a sarcastic voice.

With a scowl on my face, I gave the kids a bath and put them to bed, next to each other. Ever since their mother went AWOL, they seemed to like sleeping next to each other. I didn’t mind.

“Puss in boot’s, Dadda,” Ally said, handing me a storybook.

“Okay.” I began reading. “Once upon a time…”

“Dadda?”

I paused and looked at my daughter. “Yes, Ally Cat?”

“Dadda, what’s a hooka?”

“What?”

“The lady at school said, ‘Here comes the hooka,’ when she saw Mummy.”

Slowly, I lowered the book and stared at my daughter. “It’s …it’s …” How did I explain that to a four-year-old? I shouldn’t even be in a position where I had to.

“Read the story,” Becky said, nudging me, clearly not interested in Ally or her teacher’s comments.

“The lady shouldn’t have said that, Ally.”

“Read the story!” Becky repeated, a warning look in her eye. “Read the storrrry, Daddy!”

Ally opened her mouth to talk. “She …”

Becky spun around and clamped her hand over Ally’s mouth. “Shhh! Let Daddy read the story, Ally!”

Her voice was so threatening, Ally and I exchanged smiles. To prevent Becky from assaulting both Ally and me, I continued reading even though I was terribly distracted by Ally’s words.

“Talk about it tomorrow, Ally,” I muttered when the opportunity arose. Slipped it in between sentences.

Ally opened her to mouth to speak, but when she glanced at Becky’s hard stare, her lips clamped.

I was so distracted and disturbed; I lowered the book, leaned over, and kissed Ally on the cheeks, then her forehead. “Love ya, baby!”

“Love ya too, Daddy,” she said in a sleepy voice.

“Daddy!” Becky shrieked, so I quickly continued.

After the kids fell asleep, I sat in my lounge in the dark and pondered Ally’s teacher’s comment. Liefie had great legs, a great figure, and I had no problem with her wearing whatever she liked. But people were talking, and clearly her dressing needed to be …
addressed
.

Having my daughter embarrassed by her mother’s dressing – that was wrong in every way. Time to do something about it, I thought.

Although I expected her to become angry with our conversation, to accuse me of controlling her again, and I really didn’t look forward to another argument with my wayward wife.

When I saw her the following evening, all dolled up and ready to go out and party again,
hooker
was the word, all right.

Her red skirt was the size of a large belt, her top strained across her breasts and ended above her belly button, her fake tan looked like she’d dipped herself in egg-yellow food coloring, and that garish face paint with that dominating electric-blue eye shadow reminded me of
Braveheart
.

She didn’t look pretty; she looked like an aging prostitute. Harsh words, I know, but they weren’t out of malice, they were simply an observation. (People were talking, remember?)

Tarty make-up aside, to my absolute surprise, she sported two piercings above her left eyebrows. My jaw fell.

When did that happen?
How
could that happen? Why hadn’t she told me about it?

Of course it was her body and she was free to do what she liked to it, but facial piercings weren’t something I liked. She knew that.

She could have at least mentioned it to me
before
she pierced her face. We were husband and wife; it was reasonable to expect her to talk to me about something like that
before
she did it.

“What’s with the piercings?” I asked, mesmerized by them.

She shrugged and flashed me a deal-with-it look, then answered her phone, which she kept in her bra, something she had never done before.

Shaking my head and at a loss for words, I sought out Ally who was building a huge Lego house with Becky. “Ally Cat?” I dropped to my haunches in front of her.

“Yes, Dadda?” she said in a sing-song voice.

“Honey, did Mum pick you up today?”

At the mere mention of her mother, her light demeanor vanished and a wary look crossed her little face. “Yes.”

“Was she…like, how was she dressed, Ally? Like that?” I jerked my head toward Liefie.

Ally’s head bobbed, her eyes darting all over my face.

Fuck
!

After tossing her hair, I went back to Liefie.

“We need to talk,” I said.

A guarded look flashed in her eyes before it hardened.

“Liefie, you need to dress more like a mother,” I said in a quiet voice. “You have two children and …”

“What? You want to tell me how to dress now? You want to control me?”

“Hey, keep you voice down, will you? I’m talking to you, that’s all.”

“There is nothing wrong with my dressing, okay? Nothing.”

“Yes, there is. Your skirts are too short, your tops are way too tight, and the people at Ally’s school are talking about it. You need to –”

“Ally’s school?” Her eyes slanted.

“Yes!”

Her heavily painted, red-lined mouth twisted into a sneer. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not. I swear!”

She cocked her head and looked at me. “Who told you that?”

“Ally told me. She said one of the mothers or teachers, I can’t remember, after seeing you, used the word
hooker
.”

Her lips pursed and her eyes slanted. “Ally said …THAT?”

“Yea…”

“That bitch! Where is she?” She turned and strode off in search of Ally. Even though she was in heels, she almost ran.

“Liefie stop!” I cried, running after her. “Leave her alone!”

“Did you call me a hooker?” she demanded, putting her flaming face in Ally’s.

“Liefie stop this shit!” I warned.

Ally’s eyes flitted between Liefie’s and mine, a terrified look on her face.

“Lief…ie!” I hissed.

Liefie suddenly backhanded Ally across the face, sending her crashing into a doll’s house. Ally lay on the floor, so stunned she didn’t even cry. The only thing that showed her distress was the puddle appearing around her.

For a moment, I too was stunned. Liefie had never ever hit our kids before.

Then fury overtook me – I grabbed my wife by the hair and slammed her against the wall.

Putting my face in hers, I snarled, “You ever touch my child like that and I will fuck the shit out of you, understand? UNDERSTAND?”

Her attempt to look defiant failed and I saw fear flicker in her eyes. I had never hit Liefie before, never even called her names, so this wasn’t something she was used to.

“Don’t
ever
lay a finger on either of my daughters. Understand?” I pushed my face further into hers, resisting the urge to head-butt her.

“Daddy, stop! Daddy!” Ally cried, while Becky started to whimper. I looked over at my two children clinging to each other, terror on their little faces.

What am I doing?

Quickly, I released Liefie and stepped back. I walked over to Ally and Becky, scooped up both of them, and hugged them to me. “It’s okay, it’s okay!”

They looked at their mother, who stood holding her head with both hands, but did not try to go to her.

After a few moments, Liefie ran out of the room, shouting, “Your father is an abusive man!”

I looked at Ally. “Sorry, hon.”

“Why did you tell her, Daddy?” Ally whispered, holding her cheek.

“I’m sorry, Al, I was trying to get her to do the right thing.”

“You knew she’d hit me, Dadda. You shouldn’t have told her.”

I peered at Ally. “What are you talking about? She
doesn’t
hit you, Ally.”

No answer.

“Ally?”

“I need to change my pants, Dadda,” Ally said, ignoring my questions.

My head jerked to look at Becky.

Becky’s head bobbed, her eyes opening wide.

My eyes shifted back to Ally. “This is the first time she hit you, right?  Tell me, Ally.” I shook her. “Tell me.”

Becky’s head continued to bob.

“All the time, Daddy,” Ally finally muttered. “Yesterday she hit me because I took too long to get Uncle Viggo’s beer. From the fridge.”

“What!”

Ally nodded.

“Mummy hit Ally here,” Becky said, slapping her cheek.

If Liefie could backhand my daughter that way in front of me, what would she be doing behind my back? Aghast, I looked at my firstborn, who I idolized. “Ally, honey, why didn’t you tell me this?”

“You weren’t here, Dadda. And Mummy said if I carry tales she will make me sorry.”