Defiled Page 17

  After a bit, she said, “We’ll be better this time, won’t we?”

  “A lot of things have changed. Jamie is grown and on her own; I’m not chasing success anymore. After AMA goes public, I’ll be more like a volunteer helper to the medical industry, so I’ll have a lot more time to devote to us.”

  “And I have a team I trust at the shop,” she said. “It’s not my entire universe anymore.”

  “If we make it all about us, it will work.”

  She smiled and leaned into me. “I love you.”

  It wasn’t difficult to tell her that I loved her too.

  Southern families revolve around food and gatherings for meals. Ruth prepared fried chicken for dinner, and then we laughed along with her as she enjoyed her favorite TV programs. As the evening dragged on, ennui and angst attacked my being like parasites crawling through my veins. Soon I’d be sleeping with my ex-wife for the first time in many years. Tomorrow morning a judge would decide whether my current wife should be examined by State psychiatrists.

  Finally, Glenda said, “Let’s call it a night.”

  In our room, Glenda used the bathroom first. When she emerged, she wore a plain cotton gown that touched her knees. I must have betrayed my disappointment, because she wagged a finger at me and said, “No, not in my mother’s house.”

  She got into bed and propped herself on a pair of pillows. Pointing to the bathroom, she said, “Your turn. I want to see if you’ve got Sponge Bob Square Pants pajamas.”

  I unbuckled my belt and dropped my shorts on the floor, pulled my Polo over my head, and did a pirouette. “I forgot to pack the PJs, but we can buy some in town.”

  Glenda squealed with delight. “Don’t take all night in there. I want you next to me.”

  I found Glenda’s toiletries stacked on the far end of the double-sink vanity, leaving the rest of the countertop clear—a welcome distinction from Carrie, who was a walking bomb, exploding and spreading Carrie-shrapnel everywhere she went. It was a power play, a land grab. I brushed my teeth and peed. When I returned to the bedroom, Glenda was still awake, still propped up. She patted the side of the bed next to her.

  I crawled under the covers and she rolled into me and laid her head on my shoulder. We adjusted positions a couple of times and settled on spooning. She felt good. Out of the blue, she said, “You feel good.”

  When Glenda emerged from the bathroom Friday morning, I sat at the dresser with my back to her, appearing to be engrossed in the text messages I was trading with colleagues as there was no Wi-Fi in Ruth’s house. The bath towel wasn’t large enough to wrap around her and tuck, so she had to hold it together with one hand as she groped in the chest of drawers for underwear with her other hand. She glanced at me and, satisfied that I was occupied, dropped the towel to put on her bra. I watched her the entire time in the mirror above the dresser. As she fastened her bra, she caught me spying on her.

  “You can peek, but it’s not polite to stare.”

  “I’m fascinated by the process—women hurry to cover their breasts while they leave their, ah, lower half, exposed.”

  One eyebrow arched, but she didn’t hurry when she reached for her panties. “I’m sure you have much more experience with how women dress than I do.”

  Abashed, I said, “You’re the only woman I want to watch.”

  I turned back to my text messages and didn’t look up, so in a conciliatory voice she said, “Hit the shower, big boy. You have the rest of your life to watch me.”

  I took a quick shower, and after declining Ruth’s offer to cook yet another meal, we drove into town to have breakfast at a diner. Before we got back to Ruth’s house, my cell phone rang. It was Tony.

  “I beat her, buddy.”

  “Way to go, Tony. When is the examination?”

  “September 30th, next Wednesday. De Castro complained that the Baker Act was just a way to disrupt the divorce and should be deferred until the divorce is final, but I told the judge you’ve been trying to get her help for years, but your wife wouldn’t maintain a treatment program. That’s one of the criteria for an exam—that the patient won’t participate voluntarily. It worked!”

  “Super, Tony. Where will she be examined?”

  “Wherever they find a bed.” Then Tony switched back to talking about today’s events in court. “Then de Castro puts your wife’s psychologist on the stand, and she testifies that Mrs. Marks isn’t mentally ill, she’s just depressed about her failing marriage and has anxiety attacks because she worries you’ll cheat her out of the money. So I walk her through your deposition and you know what? Carrie hadn’t revealed any of those incidents to the counselor. So your wife had never been treated for any of her real symptoms of mental illness.”

  “I told you that was the case. How do they know Carrie will show up for the exam?”

  “She’ll be picked up Tuesday evening at six p.m. by a sheriff’s deputy.” That didn’t answer my question—will she allow herself to be picked up—but Tony was on a roll. “The judge was particularly upset about the incident where she cut herself with the hedge trimmer and didn’t want you to stop the bleeding, because that implies she might hurt herself. And then the incidents in which she attacked you were important because they imply she might hurt others. Another criterion for an involuntary examination.”

  “Cool. Did you give him the prescription records?”

  “Oh yeah. The prescription records were the icing on the cake. The judge wanted to put the psychiatrist on the stand, but de Castro didn’t have the psychiatrist in court, so the judge says, ‘Obviously, the psychiatrist feels Mrs. Marks requires antipsychotics, so we’ll accept that as her testimony.’ Then he orders the examination, and de Castro is shocked that it will happen so soon. Isn’t that great?”

  “It’s terrific, Tony. Buy yourself a drink and have a nice weekend.”

  Tony wanted to bask in more glory, but I cut him off so I could internalize this major victory. People told me I should be sad and depressed about the divorce, and for a while I had been, and maybe when it was over I would be again, but at that moment I was elated. Often were the times I became so infuriated with Carrie’s behavior that I wanted to punch her lights out, break her long Irish nose, bash in the pearly-white smile I had paid to perfect. Now I had done it figuratively. Pow! Take that!

  My elation was no match for the cloying ambience at Ruth’s house. She wanted to play cards, so we passed the day playing gin rummy. Ruth won consistently. In a good mood, she cooked catfish for dinner, breaded and deep-fried, of course. If I married into this family again, I’d be signing my death warrant.

  Once again, the television anesthetized us through the evening and then we retired to our bedroom to sleep chastely, albeit with arms and legs entangled like snakes in a den. It felt good to both of us.

  Saturday it rained. Hard. Glenda suggested we drive to Tampa and find something to do indoors. An hour later, she parked in front of the Tampa Bay Grand Prix, an indoor go-kart track. “You game?” she said.

  “Is that a challenge?”

  “Take it any way you want, Bubba.”

  She was out of the car and running to the entrance before I could manufacture a smart retort, so I followed her onto the track.

  From our first ride, it was clear that Glenda wanted to compete. I was placed in a kart several positions ahead of her, but she jumped the starter’s signal and flew past me on the outside. I got trapped in kiddie traffic and never caught up. When it was over, we went to the back of the line to wait for another turn.

  “You cheated.”

  She grinned. “If you’re not cheating, you’re not trying.” I had no idea she knew that old sports bromide.

  She won the second race too. No matter what I tried, I just could not keep pace. I slid through turns NASCAR-style, stayed inside to shorten the track, and tried the police maneuver of tapping her inside back tire to make her spin out. Nothing worked. Glenda knew the correct line to take around the course and stood on the accel
erator. There was no stopping her.

  When I finally won a race, she said, “I had a bad car.” I believed her.

  Several races later, I won again and she said, “I let you win. I don’t want to destroy your self-confidence.”

  Overall, Glenda won three of every four races. She was exhilarated, as happy as a kid who got everything she wanted on Christmas.

  After hours of racing, we called it a day. There was no one home at the house, but Ruth had left us a note on the dining room table. Her church group had picked her up for an afternoon of Bingo. We had reached the go/no-go point in our rekindled relationship. Glenda gave me a naughty smile, took my hand, and led me up the stairs. We locked the bedroom door and simultaneously undressed each other.

  When she was naked, I said, “You’re gorgeous.”

  She gave me a tentative smile. Then she tumbled on top of me and the trouble began. Suddenly we were all knees and elbows and hipbones; movements started and abandoned; arrhythmic thrusts; missed cues; awkward tugging and pulling and pushing. Although we had done this hundreds of times, we were now strangers starting anew. Sadly, we were more accustomed to the patterns of other people, and it hurt to realize that Glenda had learned new moves from other men.

  When it was over, we did not lie in bed whispering sweet nothings to one another. Naked, we padded to the back balcony overlooking five acres of pecan trees.

  She sat in a rocker, legs crossed, feet dangling, smoking a cigarette. “I’m not nervous,” she said.

  “I can see that.” I lit a cigar and we rocked in unison, gazing at the orchard. It was pleasant with a hint of sexual tension. If she insisted upon walking around naked, I would insist on an encore.

  Sounding philosophical, she said, “It takes practice.”

  “We’ll get better at it.”

  “We’d better, or someone will get hurt.” We laughed.

  “I have bruises everywhere.” We laughed harder, calling attention to ourselves if anyone was listening.

  “Something poked me in the eye, but I have no idea what it was.” Louder laughter.

  “I can guess, but it would sound like bragging.”

  She choked on her cigarette smoke, coughed, and slapped her chest. When she recovered, she said, “Your ego is the biggest thing you’ve got.”

  Waving my cigar like a conductor’s baton, I said, “You are a fine musical instrument, my dear, in the hands of the maestro.”

  “Ha! Too much of the woodwinds and not enough brass and percussion, maestro.”

  Good-naturedly, I said, “Whatever you wish, my dear.”

  It was left at that for a while, and I had time to marvel at how comfortable it was to be sitting beside my ex-wife, trading quips, relaxing, enjoying her proximity.

  Then she blurted a surprising admission. “It was my fault. I was out of sync with you.”

  My immediate reaction was to let her off the hook. “I didn’t give you a chance to settle into a rhythm.”

  “No, I tried to control everything. I wanted to show you that I could be as sexy as the women you’ve been with since me. That was silly. Next time you lead, Randle, and I’ll follow. Like we’re dancing.”

  “All I want to do is dance with you.”

  She looked at me as though she could read my mind by staring at my forehead, where my thoughts might scroll by like the electronic newsfeed in Times Square. I guess she saw what she wanted to read because she said, “I love you, Randle.”

  “I love you too.”

  We never heard the car coming up the driveway, but we heard the car doors slamming shut. In a panic, as Ruth called our names from downstairs, we scrambled from the balcony back to the bedroom and into our clothes. When we walked down the stairs, blushing and out of breath, Ruth gave us an indulgent smile. She knew what we had done … had perhaps planned her afternoon away.

  In the morning, I packed my bag in silence.

  “You okay?” Glenda said.

  I assured her I was fine, but I don’t think she believed it.

  Before she could challenge my assertion, Connie called my cell. “Where are you?”

  “Away for the weekend.”

  “With your ex, no doubt. Carrie went to the boat, but you weren’t there.”

  “How many times do I have to say that she needs to let me know when she’s coming?”

  “She doesn’t want you to set a trap for her, Randle.”

  I didn’t bother to remind her that it was Carrie who had concocted a murder plot. Frustrated, I said, “Well, she blew it. Now we’ll just have to see how mediation turns out.” I rang off.

  Glenda said, “Let the lawyers handle it. Don’t talk to that bitch.”

  Probably good advice. Glenda went quiet again. She gave me the by now well-known stare. Not a glaring look and not a mean look, just a look of concentration, wanting to read the answer from my expression.

  She cleared her throat. “Was this weekend just another one of our flings?”

  “No.” I shook my head. “No.”

  Her head bobbed slowly, like a teacher guiding a student through some convoluted logic and making progress. “Was it a test?”

  “Every day is a test for a relationship. We know we love each other, but a relationship requires more than love.”

  “How did I do?”

  “I’m still upset about the go-kart track, but otherwise you were better than average.”

  “Dammit, Randle. You don’t have to be flippant all the time.”

  “Sorry. It was a test for both of us, and I think we did well. What do you think?”

  She leaned into my chest and nuzzled. “We’re good together. I love you, Randle. Don’t leave me on an island.”

  “Or at the altar.” Trying to be funny.

  A big smile lit up her face. “You’ve thought about it?”

  “Of course,” I lied. “When this is all over—”

  “Can I move in with you? My mother is driving me crazy.”

  That opened Pandora’s Box and the discussion lasted for twenty minutes. I told her almost everything—the PI, the email snooper, the inability to obtain subpoenas, the unfair option split, the break-ins and the theft of my pistol, the sale of the beach house, the Baker Act petition, my threat of a trial—and Glenda’s sense of foreboding increased with each point.

  “My God, Randle! You’ve started World War III. Let the mediator deal with her.”

  “I’m not going to settle for a bad deal.”

  “We need to get on with our lives, Randle. I don’t care about money and neither do you. At least you didn’t while we were married.”

  I inhaled and held it. “I can’t work forever, Glenda, and I refuse to work merely to fund Carrie’s future. I need enough money to quit AMA so I can write and lecture and spread the word about my work. If mediation works, great. Otherwise, we go to trial.”

  She took a minute to think about her next comment. “A trial is a backup for a failed mediation?”

  “Yes, but I have no concrete evidence. Her affair happened long ago, and there are no naked pictures or hotel receipts.”

  “Then make mediation work, Randle. I’m ready to get married.”

  “We have to tell Jamie. About us.”

  “Leave her to me. She trusts me.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  It was a nice weather day, so I walked with Tony from his office tower on the north side of downtown St. Petersburg to the mediator’s office on the seedier south side. As we walked, I considered how many things in my life were undecided: Jamie wanted me to morph into a good father; Glenda wanted to remarry; Connie wanted me to cooperate today or be murdered; AMA might or might not survive to go public. And who was responsible for this state of affairs? Me. Now we were on our way to the financial execution of J. Randle Marks.

  I pulled an oversized rolling briefcase behind me, stuffed to overflowing with records, files, and photos that documented my unhappy marriage. Tony found my preparations amusing and said, “Drag it with you w
herever we go. Scare the hell out of the ladies.”

  The mediator’s office was a windowed storefront formerly occupied by a failed retailer, and Ross Smallwood turned out to be a gray-bearded black man who was well beyond full retirement age. I sincerely hoped he harbored old-fashioned ideas about marriage and fidelity. The old guy showed us to a small conference room with a window looking out to the side alley. Noting my dismissive glance, he said, “You got the luxury accommodation. Their room has no windows at all. Seems to make people more reasonable ’cause they wanna get out of that place.”

  I chuckled, but I was nervous. Smallwood told us that Ms. de Castro and Mrs. Marks were waiting in the main conference room. The session would start there, with a briefing about the procedure to be followed, after which the two sides would retreat to their private spaces. Then Smallwood would shuttle back and forth with proposals and counterproposals until we reached agreement.

  Referring to my rolling filing cabinet, Smallwood said, “You can leave your things here. The briefing only takes a minute.”

  Ignoring him, I dragged the briefcase with me as I trailed him and Tony to the main conference room. De Castro rose as we entered and shook hands with Tony.

  She said, “I hope this is the last time we’ll see each other.”

  Smallwood butted in with, “That’s the idea.”

  Carrie didn’t rise, and I didn’t offer my hand. Instead I avoided eye contact, pretended she wasn’t present, pretended I didn’t notice that she was deeply tanned and had brushed her hair like a boy’s again. She wore the yellow-diamond pendant and earrings too.

  I paused at the head of the table as Tony and Smallwood took their seats. Without being too conspicuous, I waited until I was sure de Castro noticed the briefcase. When she frowned, I knew that my first objective had been achieved—they knew I was prepared. I took the seat directly across from Carrie, who had her hands in her lap like a demure little girl.

  Smallwood reiterated the procedure and concluded with, “When we’re done I’ll have the terms typed up and both parties will sign. Then one of the attorneys”—he looked from de Castro to Tony—“can prepare the marital dissolution agreement. Are we ready?”