Strangers on the Beach

"I've been thinking about having an affair," Cindy said, glancing quickly at Mark for his reaction. "Would you be interested?"

         They were standing alone at the shoreline, looking out at the lake. Blazing stars and a luminous full moon cast a silver glow over the water.

         Behind them laughter and Hawaiian music drifted from the brightly lighted Starlight Ballroom, where bank employees were enjoying their annual luau.

         He smiled. "An affair?" he said. "What would your husband say?"

         She turned away from him and began ambling along the beach, her pink blouse pale in the moonlight, her grass skirt rustling. Mark fell in step with her.

         She'd started the game of "Strangers" they used to play when they were first married and romance was a major part of their life. Mark's remembering the game pleased her.

         "I'm looking for someone who isn't thinking business every minute. Someone who doesn't answer his cell phone every half hour."

         Mark turned and pointed. "Back there is where all the romance is. Music. Dancing."

         "Too many people back there," Cindy said. "I've decided I want to be alone with you."

         Abruptly, she reached for him and kissed him on the lips. Before he could respond, she backed out of the embrace. "Are you married?" she asked, a gentle breeze tossing her dark hair.

         He smiled. "I'm happily married. Got a dynamite wife."

         "Is she pretty?"

         "Outstanding. And very smart."

         She clamped her hands on her waist. "If you're married and your wife is so beautiful and brainy, why did you let me kiss you like that?"

         He stared at her. "Look, Cindy, let's not play this game."

         "Leilani... Call me Leilani. " She took a step closer.  "Do you like the orchid in my hair?"

         "Very beautiful." He grinned. "Especially in the moonlight. All that black hair, very exotic."

         "Does your wife know you're happily married?"

         He cocked his head. "What kind of question is that?"

         "To be happily married both people have to be happy," she said. "Is she happy? Have you had time lately to think about that?"

         "I think she's happy," he said. "She's busy. She has a job she loves. A nice house. Car."

         "A job, a house, a car—you think that's happiness?" Cindy turned away from him, arms folded. "When we were first married, I thought my husband and I had invented love.  Nearly every night—"

         "Look, Cindy..."

         "Leilani..."

         Falling into an awkward silence, they began strolling again along the moonlit beach, her grass skirt swishing across her bare legs.

         "My husband and I have a nice house, too," she said. "Three bedrooms. No children. He doesn't have time. I'll be a librarian all my life. Never a stay-at-home mom." She sighed deeply.

         "Maybe your husband wants everything in place before starting a family. "

         "Maybe he's lost sight of what's important," Cindy said. "Before we left tonight, he'd said he had to be home by eleven. He had a few papers to take care of before going to bed. Can you believe that?"

         She stopped walking. "Let's leave our sandals here and walk in the water," she said.

         He glanced back at the ballroom. "We're missing the party."

         "Off with your sandals," she insisted.

         "All right." They kicked off their sandals, leaving them in the sand. As they splashed along the beach, the sand squished between her toes, and the cool water swirled around her ankles. His hand touched hers briefly, and her heart skipped.

         "Want to race?" she asked, and looked at him mischievously.

         "Don't be silly!"

         Taking off, she sprinted fifty yards down the beach, grass skirt flying.

         He pounded along behind her on the wet sand, breathless in twenty steps.

         Suddenly after a fifty yards, she was running out of sandy beach. Tall brush loomed ahead, then pine trees. No path in sight. She stopped and turned to wait for him.

         Laughing and breathing hard, he thundered up to her, ready to collapse, dropping his hands on her shoulders for support, gasping for air. His weight forced her to her knees in the sand, and he knelt in front of her, trying to catch his breath. "What are we? A couple of kids?" He laughed. "Are we crazy?"

         "Maybe not." She kissed him again.

         "Careful," he said. "We're close to the water. That grass skirt will get wet and sandy. You'll ruin it." He staggered to his feet, trying to help her up. He stumbled. She shoved him, sending him sprawling backward into knee-deep water with a splash. "Hey!" he cried.

         She pounced on him with a laugh and wrestled him into deeper water. When they surfaced, they were laughing in water up to their waist, arms around one another. He gulped and wiped the water from his face. "What are you trying to do"—he was still laughing—"drown me? Look at us! Drenched!"

         "My husband and I swam naked in the moonlight nearly every night of our honeymoon," she said softly, her heart thumping.

         "Is that a fact?" His arms slipped around her, his lips moved closer to hers. Her blood danced—and then the cell phone attached to his waist sounded off.

She jumped back, startled. "Not that thing again—it's waterproof? Who's working tonight at the bank? Isn't everyone here?"

         "A few programmers are installing new software. They're probably in a jam and need help."

         Quick as a cat, she flicked her hand out and snatched the phone. "My husband has one of these..."

         "Cindy—"

         "Leilani...!" She whirled. "I should've done this long ago." She flung the wretched cell phone far into the lake, a mighty heave—she'd been softball player in high school. She couldn't see the phone flying through the darkness, but she heard it splash into the water like a stone.

         He stared at her. "Do you know what you've just done? What you've just cost me?"

         "Yes. Of course. And I'm glad."

As she trudged across the sand on her way back to the ballroom, Mark followed silently behind her, picking up their sandals on the way. She heard his dogged, scuffing step. Regret twisted in her heart. She'd ruined their evening. Big time. They couldn't even go back to dance: she'd drenched them. They'd be home before 11:00. He'd shower and retreat to his study to finish his paperwork. First thing tomorrow morning, he'd be out looking for a new phone.

         "Will you get my purse?" she asked quietly, brushing sand from her legs when they reached the ballroom.

         "Certainly."

         She stood outside alone, shivering in the marquee lights. Inside, the place rocked with music and laughter. She hoped her purse was still at the table where they'd eaten with friends.

         A couple came strolling out holding hands, music spilling into the night when they opened the door. The woman looked at Cindy, then the man looked. "Are you all right?" he asked.

         "Yes..." Cindy tried to smile, thankful she didn't know them. "It's a long story." She tucked her wet hair behind her ears. "I...I fell in the lake."     

         "Oh, my," the woman said.

         "Hope you were having fun," the man said. They smiled, then strolled off into the moonlight.

         Cindy bit her bottom lip.  Her orchid was missing. The water and sand had demolished her lei. Sand clogged her grass skirt. She must look like a shipwrecked sailor, recently washed ashore.

         What was taking Mark so long?

         Maybe he couldn't find her purse.

         Maybe he was making a telephone call to the office, finding out why he'd been called.

         When he marched out of the ballroom, her small white purse in hand, his face was expressionless. Wordlessly, he handed it to her. Inside the car, as he stuck the key into the ignition, she said, "Did you call the office?"

         "I asked someone else to do it," he said. "Trying to explain to everyone why I look like a shipwrecked sailor is what took so long."

         She stifled a smile. "What did you tell them?"

         "A beautiful dark-haired Hawaiian princess threw me overboard." The parking lot lights bathed his features in a soft, silvery glow, and she felt his eyes travel her face like tender fingers. Was he amused? It seemed so.

         Cindy said, "I just explained to a couple that I'd fallen in the lake."

         "What a pair we are," he said, smiling. "We better go home."

         "Paperwork?"

         He turned to look at her. "That's not exactly what I had in mind, Leilani."

         She blinked. Drew a breath. Faced him.

         "We need to be alone," he said. "At home."

         He moved closer to her, close enough to kiss her forehead. His hand stroked her cheek, and her heart melted. "You remind me a lot of my wife. Stubborn. Impetuous."

         "I thought you'd forgotten her," Cindy whispered.

         "I nearly did, Leilani."

         "Cindy..." she breathed as his lips touched hers. "Call me Cindy."

The End

Suite Number Nine

 She turned the shower on full last, hoping the hot water would relieve the dull ache between her shoulder blades and the tightness in her neck. Jerry. She wondered what Jerry would think of her now, shacked up with another woman's husband, a man taking her for all the could get and she giving him all he wanted, never saying no.

Amber lay on her stomach, face buried in the pillow, arms and legs spread-eagled, but with the sting of his swat on her bare butt beneath the sheet, she jerked and rolled over.

He wore swimming trunks, a well-built man of forty, hairy chested. He smiled his brown-eyed smile, but she closed her eyes, stretched her legs straight, clenched her fists, and reached for the ceiling. Cocking her head, she grimaced and tried to snap the kink out of her neck.

"Getting late this morning," he said. "Let's take a dip in the pool before it gets crowded."

Her eyes opened. She rubbed the sleep out of them with her fists. "We have something to talk about," she said, yawning vastly. "I've been lying here thinking."

"Sunshine, blue skies—looks like a great morning for a dip."

"You promised last night—first thing this morning—before anything else—we'd talk again."

"How about breakfast? Canadian bacon, two eggs over easy, toast, juice, coffee. What do you think, hon? We'll get dressed."

Sitting up straight in bed, she tossed the sheet aside. "Carl, we have to talk. Once and for all."

"Not here. Not now."

"Why not here? We do everything else here, suite number nine, Voyager Motel, a hundred miles from home. Ten of the past twenty-four weekends."

"Hon—"

"And why not now? Can you think of a better time?"

She bounced out of bed and strode toward the closet, conscious of his admiring stare. She might be twenty-eight, the mother of two kids, but the figure was still there—firm breasts and belly, gently rounded hips, slender thighs and flawless legs.

Plucking her red robe from the closet, she slipped into it and belted it. She flipped her tousled auburn hair behind her back. She adjusted the slats on the blinds so that the early Saturday morning sunshine streamed into the room. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she faced him and shoved whips of hair out of her blue eyes. "Look, Carl," she said gravely, "I know in the beginning we had no agreements, no commitments—just two people, the neighborhood widow with two kids, sick of loneliness and vulnerable. Lord, very, very vulnerable. I admit it—a pushover."

"Amber, sweetheart, not so early in the morning."

"A dip in the pool, a few drinks on the sun deck, a few more in the cocktail lounge, an afternoon tussle in bed—and I'll lose sight again of what I have to say."

"Hon, listen to me—"

"I said it before Carl. I'm going to say it only one more time."

"Aren't you hungry?"

She took a deep breath. "Let me see. The widow is a pushover—yes! We both know that. Did I get to the part about the neighbor man? The tall, muscular, tanned neighbor man from down the street? I didn't, did I? A bit older than the widow. No—on second thought—quite a bit older. Distinguished-looking, though, and quite handsome. Lord, yes. Handsome. With gobs of money, the president of a tile manufacturing firm. A man with expense accounts, he travels a lot, sometimes gone for weeks at a time, no children, his marriage to a woman a bit older than he running cold for the past ten years—if you listen to him."

Sinking down next to her on the bed, Carl licked his lips and said, "I know exactly what you need." He gathered her into his arms, the left circling her waist, the right her shoulders. He leaned in, pressing her to him, and forced her back onto the bed. She stretched her neck and rolled her head, straining to avoid his lips, but he kissed her on the throat. A shiver rippled through her. "Carl—please! Don't..."

He grabbed for the belt the held her robe closed. "Yes, indeed—I know exactly what you need, sweetheart," he said, his voice raspy.

"Carl, Carl, Carl..." she whispered.

In the beginning she had never meant it to be like this. In the beginning it had been only a neighborhood block party. Tons of spare ribs, lots of laughs, plenty of games, and countless bottles of booze and beer. Just before dawn, after everyone else had either passed out or gone home, the widow and the neighbor man found each other in the widow's bedroom, no less—the kids were spending the weekend with their grandparents. She had no illusions about what she was doing that first time: grabbing all she could in one night of fun. Who could blame her? But somehow her one-night stand mushroomed into weekend romps soaked with sun, gin, and sex. Sending the kids off to see their paternal grandparents whenever necessary was a cinch. The kids and grandparents adored each other.

Then one morning when Amber was home from her job as the head librarian at the public library—Martin Luther King Day—Gloria Henderson, the neighbor man's wife, invited her over for ten-o'clock coffee, saying that she and Amber should be more than casual friends, suggesting that she, too, was lonely—practically a widow herself—what with her husband gone much of the time, then not much company when he was home, especially lately.

Amber listened nervously as Gloria tried to rationalize and accept her husband's indifference. Amber offered comfort, saying all women go through the same thing; it's just a different kind of same thing. And it was then Amber realized she had become something worse than the neighborhood pushover. She'd become the neighborhood whore. Maybe worse—the neighborhood hypocrite, a person who was doing her neighbor's husband every chance she got while now trying to console his wife. Shortly after that, feeling she could no longer live with herself with things the way they were, she told Carl he had to make a choice.

"There's only one choice, sweetheart," he said quickly. "It's you and me."

"Then tell her, Carl. Tell Gloria."

"I will. I promise."

But he never had.

In the bathroom, Amber decided to shower before slipping into her bikini and taking a dip with Carl in the pool. She dropped her robe to the floor, then inspected her face in the mirror, probing gently under her eyes and the corners of her mouth with a fingertip, touching the little blemish on her chin. The looks were still there, too, along with the body: The blue eyes, the delicately hollowed cheeks with the high cheekbones; the fair, finely-textured skin; the wide mouth; the long, light hair the color of ocean sand, Jerry used to say.

She turned the shower on full last, hoping the hot water would relieve the dull ache between her shoulder blades and the tightness in her neck. Jerry. She wondered what Jerry would think of her now, shacked up with another woman's husband, a man taking her for all the could get and she giving him all he wanted, never saying no.

Big, lovable, blonde Jerry—husband and father of her two daughters, Kim and Lisa, ages five and three. How difficult it had been to explain to the kids that daddy was a civilian ordinance specialist with the U.S. Army. That's why he was gone months at a time across the ocean to a faraway place, but they were so lucky that Grandma and Grandpa lived close by. How difficult it had been to tell them that Daddy was gone because he was making lots and lots of money for them, and he thought that was important, but he'd be home for good soon because after having been gone so long and missing them so badly, Daddy now realized they were more important than money. But of all the stupid, goddamned, senseless, illogical, unreasonable ironies of life—he was killed over there in Afghanistan. He died face down in the burning sand, a victim of a sniper's bullet.

To be sure, all that had been difficult to explain to the children, but there were some things she could never explain: The void that Jerry's death left in her life. Her never-ending struggle to move on with her life, while at the same time her heart rotted in her chest and her body ached at times from disuse. And what about her sobbing and crying and hiccupping at night out of loneliness, curled in a fetal position, Jerry's pillow clutched in her arms, squeezed strategically between her legs?

She had rinsed the soap away and stood braced now against a stinging spray of cold water, hoping it would do more to rejuvenate her than the hot water had, when she heard Carl's frantic tapping on the sliding shower door. "Amber! Amber!"

She twisted the shower off, slid back the glass door, then peeked out. "What's wrong?"

His eyes bulged. His mouth trembled. Under his tan he looked balanced. "Jesus!" he said. "Jesus Christ!"

"What's wrong with you?"

"Gloria—Gloria is sitting in her car right outside this room—parked right next to your car!"

"That's crazy! How could that be?"

"Christ, I don't know! But she is—sitting right there! I just happened to look out the front window, and there she is—twenty feet away. But I don't think she saw me. I pulled the blinds."

"Oh my God!"

Dripping wet, Amber jumped into her robe and hurried to the front window. She parted the Venetian blind slats a bit and peered out.

"For Chrissake!" he said. "Be careful! She knows it's your car—that stupid LOVE YOUR LIBRARIAN bumper sticker.

Gloria Henderson sat in her flashy yellow Volkswagen, a tight, pinched expression on her face, staring ahead, not so much at the front windows of the suite but perhaps a bit to the left, at the door, probably at the number on the door, number nine. Her hands worked nervously on the steering wheel.

Amber turned from the window to face Carl. "What'll we do now?" she whispered.

"First—get dressed!" He stalked into the bedroom and slammed the door.

In the bathroom, Amber quickly dried herself off and slipped into the clothes she'd left hanging on the back of the door—bra, panties, a sleeveless red blouse, a crisp white skirt, and sandals. She pulled her hair back and bowed a red ribbon around it at the base of her neck, ponytail fashion. She felt strangely cool and calm. Gloria's presence could be the solution Amber was looking for.

Carl burst out of the bedroom dressed in blue slacks and a white polo shirt, his eyebrows bunched together, his lips a thin line. A suitcase dangled from his right hand.

"What are we going to do?" Amber said.

"Pack your things," he said, and dropped his suitcase on the floor.

She'd brought only a few items: bikini, slacks, shorts, two t-shirts and the blouse and skirt she wore now, plus toilet articles. She packed quickly. From the bathroom, she gathered his razor, their toothbrushes, soap dish, his after-shave, and her lotions.

Jamming his articles into his suitcase, he said, "I've been watching her.  She realizes she's got us trapped. But she's petrified. She's turned our world upside down, and now she's afraid to do something about it. Maybe she'll sit there forever—frozen to the steering wheel."

"What are we going to do?" Amber asked again, and sat on the edge of a lounge chair.

Carl ran his hands through his hair. "Somehow she found out—a slip somewhere. Maybe she suspected all along." His eyes land on Amber, and she felt them penetrate her. "You look like nothing's happened," he said. "So cool. You didn't tell her for Chrissake, did you?"

"I never thought about telling her, Carl. You said you were going to do it."

"We've got to do something," he said, slumping down across from her in a chair. "And quick."

"There is an obvious choice."

"The only choice," he said, leaning forward, planting his elbows on his knees, "is that you go out there brazen as hell, see, then look surprised when you see her. Sort of laugh, maybe. Freely admit you've been here with someone—doesn't matter who—the mailman, for Chrissake." Carl jumped up and paced the room quickly, speaking rapidly. "But you tell her the guy left, like, and hour ago. You were just going to turn in the key card to the office. If you're quick, candid, and catch her off balance with a sudden admission, she'll believe it's someone else—because if it were really me, you'd be scared to death. And I'll be damned—you don't look scared to death at all."

"We have another choice."

"It won't take much. I know Gloria—I should. She probably doesn't want to find out the truth anymore than we want her to know it. Tell her once you get home you'll give her all the juicy details." He stopped pacing; he peeked between the Venetian blind slats again. "Still there. Hasn't moved."

"We could invite her in," Amber said. "Tell her the truth."

Carl swung away from the blinds. His mouth dropped open, speechless.

"The fact that she's out there," Amber said, "means she knows or at least suspects something. Maybe she's found it strange that my weekend jaunts to the kids' grandparents' house often conveniently coincide with your business trips."

Swallowing, Carl finally found his voice. "Are you crazy?"

"Crazy? Crazy to think you'd ever tell her."

"Look, that's not my car out there. It's yours. Mine's at the garage down the road, getting an oil change, remember? The only thing she knows for certain is that you're here. She can only guess about me, right? You want her to find out like this—trapping both of us, busting in on the privacy of our suite, eyeing our bed, our dirty sheets, out wet towels? Humiliating us?"

Amber stood up. "No more lies, Carl. I like Gloria, and I hate the way we're treating her."

"Look, sweetheart, you've got to do this one thing for me. If not for me, then for us."

"And then you'll do just one thing for us? You'll tell Gloria?"

"You have my solemn promise—I'll tell her. And it'll be in a kinder, gentler way than this. Kinder and gentler for all of us. You understand what I want you to do?"

"I understand."

"You can handle this, hon," he said softly. "You're stronger than she is. Smarter."

Gathering her strength, Amber picked up her suitcase and her purse. She looked around suite number nine for the last time, glad she'd never be here again. "I guess I've got everything," she said.

When she reached the door, he said, "Just one thing." He reached into his pocket and handed her the key card. Then, "You okay?"

"I'm fine."

Holding her briefly, he kissed her on the forehead. "I'll be watching. Good luck. Make me proud. I'll wait here until both of you are gone. No back door to this place. Nor a window that opens wide enough to climb out of."

"Maybe all of this has been a bad choice," she said, and stepped outside into the warm sunshine. The door closed behind her, the lock clicking. He suitcase hung from her right hand, and in her left she clutched the plastic key card. Feeling Carl's eyes hitting her between the shoulder blades, she didn't look at Gloria's car but marched straight for her own, a red Camry. Then, as if she'd just caught a sudden glimpse of Gloria out of the corner of her eye, she did a double take, stopped stone-still, mouth agape, trying to simulate surprise. Dropping her suitcase on the concrete walkway, she rushed to the driver's side of Gloria's car, bent low, and peered in the open window—mouth still wide with surprise. "Wow!" she cried. "What's going on, Gloria? What are you doing here? What in the world—?"

"The question is what are you doing?"

Amber smiled sheepishly. "You've caught me red-handed in a very compromising situation, neighbor."

Amber's eyes dropped. She couldn't handle Gloria Henderson's dark-eyed stare, her oval face with round cheeks pale. With her graying hair braded and coiled into a bun at the nape of her neck, she looked fragile. "You, Amber...you?"

Amber nodded contritely.  "I'm just leaving. Turning in my key card. Thought I'd dump my suitcase in the car first."

"You were with—?"

 "I wore the poor man out," Amber said, with a rueful smile. "He stumbled away no more an hour ago."

"Who? Tell me who."

"How long have you been sitting here? You must've seen him. Big, tall guy. Bronzed face. Cowboy hat, jeans, western boots. Not my type, really."

Gloria looked at her, bewildered. "I steamed open Carl's credit card bill. Found charges to a Voyager Motel. Googled the name and found that there are three Voyager Motels within a five hundred miles radius of where we live. This is the first one I stopped at. I never thought I'd find you shacked up with...with a stranger."

"Unbelievable, isn't it? I don't know what's wrong with me."

At that instant Amber shot a glance at the Venetian-blind-covered windows of suite number nine. She pictured Carl watching them, hunched over, the slats of the blinds held ever so slightly apart with thumb and forefinger, eyes squinting. He would surely be proud of her.

But a great sadness overwhelmed Amber. Turning back to Gloria, she felt a sudden rush of pity for all vulnerable creatures—herself included. And especially for Gloria. Amber sighed deeply. She walked around the front of Gloria's car. She picked up her suitcase, unlocked her car door, tossed the suitcase into the backseat, and slammed the door shut. She opened the passenger's side door on Gloria's car and slid in, the door clicking shut.

Gloria looked at her. "For a time," Gloria said, biting back tears, "I thought you were shacking up with my husband. I couldn't believe it. My friend. I didn't want to believe it."

"Give me your hand," Amber said, and pressed the key card to suite number nine into her neighbor's sweaty palm. "Go inside. When you come out, I'll still be here, waiting here for you. Go..."

 The End

Phone Call

You don't tell the bartender that  the guy your wife's fucking with is in this hotel right now waiting for her to show up. You know it's true—you hacked into her e-mail a month ago. They've had this meeting planned for weeks. You know the exact time she'll arrive.

You sit at the hotel's plush bar, alternately staring at the Miller Lite clock above the back bar, then into the bottom of your drink. You rotate the glass between the palms of your hands and you think of the bitch. Your gut hurts. You could crush the glass in your hand. But why waste the booze? You gulp the drink down.

You feel the bartender's eyes on you, and when he sets the second double Scotch in front of you he says, "Hey, ain't you Mean Maxie Malone? Played pro ball for the Bears, couple of years back? Linebacker?"

You raise your head. You try to be friendly. You smile. "Yeah, man. That's me."

"You the same guy who tore them up in the league with them blasts through the offensive line to crunch the quarterback? Season after season?"

You nod. "Yeah, man. "

He gets excited. He grins from ear to ear. "I'll never forget that Sunday afternoon a couple of years back when you killed the Packers. I mean, killed them single-handed. You must've laid out six of them. A wide receiver, a defensive end, and their quarterback, for sure."

"Had a good day," you say, remembering especially how you drilled the quarterback.

The guy's short, pudgy, red-faced. Toothy smile. He pours another double. "On the house," he says, and slides the drink across the bar. "Chirst, I always thought your were the greatest—right up there with the best of 'em. Including Butkus. Must've been great to make it in the pros." And he rattles on how he played only second string in high school but still loved the game.

You don't tell him how it really is with you. How you grew up with an old lady and old man who were drunks. You don't tell him how your old lady never cooked a decent meal in her life and your old man beat the shit out of you whenever he got drunk and never provided you with decent house or clothes. Or how you took out your anger and frustrations on the football field and wrestling matt. That you were so dedicated to getting even with the world—so mean—Mean Maxie Malone—that you earned scholarships from everywhere for both sports, but you chose football because of the money, but you only made it through high school and college with the help of a bunch tutors. You don't tell him about the concussions, the torn ligaments, the cracked ribs, the fractured collarbones, the twisted ankles.

And you don't tell him how after twelve years with the pros you thought you'd mellowed out. You'd proved your point. You'd almost become jovial. Now you got some money saved, you make motivational speeches at high schools and colleges all across the country, and you got a taste of the good life. Except you got a wife who's fucking around when you're gone.

You don't tell the bartender that the guy your wife's fucking with is in this hotel right now waiting for her to show up. You know it's true—you hacked into her e-mail a month ago. They've had this meeting planned for weeks. You know the exact time she'll arrive. You know his room number. You don't tell the pudgy, red-faced bartender that the guy you're wife's fucking is a writer who ghost wrote your success story—Mean Maxie Malone Mellows Out. The book'll hit bookstores in hardback first of the year. You got a hundred-thousand-dollar advance. And there's talk of a movie deal.

You keep it all inside and it ties your stomach in knots, and when you see it's nearly eight o'clock you cut the bartender off. "Got to make a phone call," you tell him.

He lays a napkin on the bar, gives you a pen, and asks you for your autograph. "Sure," you tell him with a smile, and scribble your name across the napkin.

"I remember the time," he says, "in the Pro Bowl when you intercepted a pass and ran it back eight-five yards for a TD."

"Excuse me," you say. "Got to make a call. You have a great evening, man."

"Maxie Malone," he says, wiping the bar. "My god, I got Mean Maxie Malone's autograph."

You keep it all inside and it burns like fire. You shamble out of the bar, pushing the swinging half-doors aside, and step into the hotel lobby. You sink your six-four, 240-pound body—only ten pounds over your playing weight—into a chair where you can see the hotel's front door. You whip out your cell phone, call the hotel, and ask the clerk to connect you with room 331. It rings twice, then a click, a voice: "Hey, babe! Where are you?"

The words churn up a gallon of acid in your stomach, but you keep your cool. Making your voice smile, you say, "Artie! It's me, Maxie Malone. How you doing, man?"

"Who—?"

"Maxie Malone, man! Ain't seen or heard from you for a while? How you doing, Artie?"

Silence. Then a struggle for words. "Oh, h-hi, Maxie. Great to hear your voice again. How you doing?"

"Just got home early from being on the road. Couple of speeches in Tennessee. Ginger told me you'd called and said you're passing through. Got an email from my agent. Says the movie deal for the book is looking good. She tell you that? Thought you'd like to know. How you doing, Artie?"

His voice cracks.  "I—I'm just great, Maxie."

"I was just telling Ginger we ain't seen you for ages. Not since we wrapped up the book, actually. We shouldn't let an awesome partnership like this die."

"Yeah...it's been a while."

You partially cup your hand over the cell phone, muffling your voice, and call off to the side: "Ginger, sweetheart, how long's it been since we seen Artie Townsend?"

"What?" Artie says.

You wait a second, then speak: "Talking to Ginger, Artie. She says the last time she saw you was here in town at the Country Club's New Year's Eve party. What? Three months ago. We'd finished the book, but you hadn't left town—I had a gig in Chicago."

"Look, Maxie—"

"Remember? I couldn't make it to the party.  Flight snowed in at O'Hara. Ginger bitched about me being gone so much and her having to stay home all the time I told her to go with you."

"Yeah," Artie says. "We had a good time—it was a nice party."

"Ginger never told me this, but the word gets around, you know. She never told me—"

"Look, Maxie—"

 "—about her getting so smashed, you practically had to carry her out of the joint, draped all over you."

He says quickly, "People exaggerate, Maxie. She was just tired. That's all. Just tired. People make a big deal out of nothing. They exaggerate, you know?"

"She used to do that a lot, get smashed, but I thought she was over that. She'd reformed. Dried out. I never got a chance to thank you for taking care of her, Artie. You left the next day. Before I got home."

"It was really nothing. Believe me."

"Don't say that, Artie." The phone trembles in your hand. "It was everything. I owe you, man. No telling what kind of trouble she might've got herself into."

"Maxie—"

"Look, Artie...Ginger says I should ask what you're doing tonight?"

A long silence follows until Artie clears his throat. "Um...nothing. But listen, Maxie—"

You turn your head, muffle your voice with your hand. "He says he's doing nothing tonight, Ginger."

"What—?"

"I was just telling my lovely wife you were doing nothing tonight, Artie.  She says how about if we all go out?"

His voice suddenly seems scratchy, like his throat is sandpaper. "I'm not feeling well, Maxie. Upset stomach. And I got this early flight in the morning. I just called earlier to say hello."

"Hell, you can make it, Artie. Tough guy like you."

"Honest, Maxie. I can't."

"For old times? Celebrate the movie deal?"

"I swear—"

"For Ginger's sake? She'd love to see you."

He coughs again. "Max, no lie...I'm not feeling well. And I got this early flight in the morning."

You turn you head again and muffle your voice. "He can't make it, sweetheart. He's not feeling too good. And he's got an early flight."

"What—?"

"I was just telling Ginger you couldn't make it because you're not feeling too good and you got an early flight."

"I'm sorry, Maxie."

You been watching the lobby door, and finally she struts in. You grip the phone harder, and your knuckles turn white. She's tall and leggy in a red clingy dress, cut low around the neck and cut short around the knees. Her red hair's piled high on her head in curls. Long gold ear rings with circles on the end dangle from her ears.

Her lips are curved in a half-smile as she scurries to the elevator, looking neither left nor right. She pokes the button and then taps the toe of a spiked red shoe on the tiled floor in front of the elevator. You wonder if she remembers she was nothing but a cheap bar slut with a long history of one-night stands until you found her and felt sorry for her because her life as a kid mirrored yours. You sobered her up. You dressed her in fancy clothes, gave her money and jewelry, and promised her the good life. She promised to be faithful, loving, and sober. But then a fucking writer shows up—a high-class guy—and she kicks your fucking ass to the sidelines.

Your lips tremble in rage. You can hardly stop your voice from breaking. "Artie, Ginger says I got to get my ass in gear if we're going out. Man, she's hot. She's wearing this clingy, slinky red dress. Boobs and legs to die for."

"Sure, Maxie. You better get ready."

"I'll call you. Keep you posted about them movie rights."

"You do that."

As she steps onto the elevator, you snap your cell phone closed and jam it into your pants pocket. You feel like a raging animal inside—like it's first down, one yard to go for the opposing team to score the winning TD, but you're going to pulverize their running back and make him cough up the football.

You march across the lobby into the bar. The pudgy, red-faced bartender smiles his toothy smile. "Another Scotch?"

"Make it a double."

You figure to give her just enough time to rap on his door and step inside his room for a second or two.

The bartender sets up your drink and starts in again. "Looks like you're still in shape," he says. "Like you could still rip an entire offensive line apart."

You swallow the drink down in a single gulp and wipe your lips with the back of your hand. You think of the panic that must be on the bastard's face this instant—because he's opened the door and sees her standing there dressed in a slinky red dress, cleavage and legs gleaming.

"Still in shape," you tell the bartender, and smile for the first time. "And feeling like my old self. Mean as hell—Mean Maxie Malone." You push quickly through the bar's swinging half-doors and step into the lobby again. Then you cross to the carpeted stairs that lead to the hotel's third floor and take them three at a time...

The End

Getting Even

Her body's a bunch of soft curves, Charlie. A bunch of hills and valleys. While she rubs the towel back and forth across the back of her shoulders, her boobs bounce—their cherry-red nipples alive.

How about a drink, Charlie? You ain't closed, are you? Christ, I was afraid I'd be too late. Alone? Good. Almost dark in here, only them beer-sign lights on.

No Scotch, just a mug of beer.

No, things ain't so good with me, Charlie. It's a long story. You know how it is with wives, especially jealous ones. Real bitches. They never forget or forgive.

Yeah, that's right. I've been gone for a while. Navy, you know. Two-year deployment on a destroyer, bouncing around in the Mediterranean Sea. Life's a bitch, ain't it? Got seven days leave, though. Not much time. Got to make the best of it.

Beer's nice and cold, Charlie. Give me another—first one went down like nothing. Thanks, Charlie.

Nice place you got here, The Vanishing Point. Laura and me always liked it. Clean. Good food. Cold drinks. See you ain't changed it none. Yeah, I give up Scotch. You got a minute while you check the register? Good. Need to talk to someone.

Plane all the way from San Diego brought a bunch of us guys in. Laura met me at the airport about five-thirty. Some chick, ain't she? I always could pick 'em—hell, you know that. Well, I ain't seen her in a goddamned while, and we didn't get along too good before I left, not after she caught me with that redhead, one of her friends. Alicia. An ex-friend now. But Laura and me, we decided to work things out. You know, give it a try. Even though it was stupid of me to cheat on her.

Anyway, when I get my luggage at the airport, she's there waiting for me, a real blonde, blonde right down to the roots with a shape that'll burn your eyeballs. She's all over me with hugs and kisses. I laugh and think maybe if I'm lucky I'll get seduced right here in the airport on the baggage carousel. I'm thinking, Eddie, your wife's got a new spark. Absence has definitely made her heart grow fonder. And I can't wait till I get her home.

But she wants to see the town. We ain't been out together, like, forever. Man, her silky, red T-dress with a plunging neckline clings to her—lots of cleavage—and hugs her butt like nothing you ever seen. And shows off her killer legs from mid-thigh down.

She drives us to this fancy place out by the lake. I've never been there, but she seems to know all about it. We sit on the deck so we can smell the pine trees all around the lake and see the sun sink behind them. The sky all purple and scarlet. Just like looking at a freakin' picture.

I get a feeling that Laura's not my wife but some sexy, high-class chick I'm playing around with, and she's crazy about me. We sip a couple of martinis and devour rare steaks with a bottle of wine. I don't know where she got her taste for rare steaks—she never liked them before—but I forget it and think, Eddie, your wife's hotter than ever, dude! Freakin' hot.

All the time, she's a couple of drinks ahead of me. Her eyes are lit up. She's in horny mood. Then she takes another sip of wine and asks me this stupid question about did I know any chicks aboard ship. I mean, Charlie, we got Navy chicks now aboard ships that serve right along with guys. I ain't saying it's right or wrong. It's just the way things are, and a guy's got to live with it. We got maybe twenty of them aboard my ship, some of them not bad to look at. Some pretty ugly.

I ask Laura what does she mean did I know any Navy chicks.

Her eyes dart toward me—not horny anymore—but narrow and sharp—and she says she means did I go to bed with any of them.

I know she's thinking about her redheaded ex-friend Alicia.

"Christ," I tell her, "hell no!" I mean, a couple of guys messed around. Bound to happen—you throw guys and chicks aboard the same ship. Buy I didn't mess around at all. None. A guy could find his ass in the brig on bread and water."

And then she wants to know how about when I pulled liberty did I mess around. She knows my battle group's sailing around the Mediterranean—off the shores of Libya and Egypt—and we pull liberty in Barcelona and Palermo. Lot of hot-blooded chicks in Spain and Sicily, Charlie. Olive skin, dark eyes and hair. Boobs and butt that can drive a man wild. They'll gladly do anything money. Not that much money, either.

I’m a little nervous. My knees start to jiggle. I don't know what to make of it, Laura kissing and hugging me, then asking me questions like that. Then I think maybe she's getting pretty drunk and just joking with me. I tell her hell, yes, a lot of guys messed around with them chicks. Lot of them got the clap, too, and gonorrhea, their peckers falling off. But not me. And then I'm thinking, Eddie, you better get your bitch home and show her what kind of man you still are. Before she asks you more questions. Or before she passes out.

Home in the condo, she's in the shower, sobering up a bit, I hope, while I'm unpacking my things in the bedroom. I yell at her where can I put this souvenir pistol I brought home. I bought it off an Arab—a shiny Russian gun with plenty of bullets. I nice little conversation piece to show off.  She can't hear me, so she swings open the bathroom door wide, and she's standing naked in front of me, swaying a bit, still a little drunk, drying herself with a big white towel and says I can put the gun and shells in my drawer under my underwear and stuff. Same drawer I've always had. Don't shoot myself.

At the sight of her, my heart jumps and slams into my throat.

Her body's a bunch of soft curves, Charlie. A bunch of hills and valleys. While she rubs the towel back and forth across the back of her shoulders, her boobs bounce—their cherry-red nipples alive. And then my heart, still stuck in my throat, nearly chokes me. She's shaved her pussy, man. Shaved it!  The tangle of silky blonde hair I used to gladly lick my way through is gone. It was never like that before.

Gimme another beer, will you, Charlie? I'm talking so goddamned much and so fast, getting all wound up, I'm forgetting my mug is empty. How about you? Good. See you're still drinking that same off-beat rum you always liked. Never could stomach them tropical drinks myself. Never liked that shit.

Hmmm, good cold beer, Charlie. Thanks.

Well, seeing Laura like that standing stark naked in front of me, a feeling I want to bury my face between her hot boobs and jam my cock into her shaved pussy sweeps over me—you now what I mean?

She climbs into the sack first. I shower and by the time I crawl in next to her I'm in a sweat, my hard-on a flagpole. But when I bury her lips with mine, she clenches her mouth shut. And when I run my hand down her belly toward her pussy expecting her to clutch me, moan, and beg me to hurry up, she just lays there, an iceberg that's floated into our bed from the North Atlantic.

Then she rolls away from me, her backside facing me.

What the fuck!

I can't believe it.

"What the hell's wrong?" I yell at her.

Not looking at me, talking at the wall on her side of the bed, she asks if I'm asking her to believe that everyone else played around at sea, but I didn't. I tell her again, "Hell, no I didn't mess around. Just because a lot of guys did, doesn't mean I did, too."

But she doesn't believe me. I lied to her once before, you know. About Alicia.

I lose my head. I lose my patience. I burn up. I sit up in bed. I try to reason with her. I tell her it's a man's nature to get fucked when he can, just like a ship belongs at sea. He's got to have some once in a while. He can't go months at a time without any. I remind her that I'm a First Class Gunners Mate aboard a ship that's in danger night and day, sailing in the most dangerous seas in the world, protecting our country and our fighting men in Afghanistan and Iraq—lots of stress involved. Messing around doesn’t mean a guy doesn't love his wife. I try to laugh now, hoping she's convinced. I pat her tender-like on the ass and tell her she's the only woman in the whole universe that I love.

But she leaps out of bed ands wraps herself in pink, silky negligee that you can see through and leaves her legs bare. I wonder where she got that—I never seen it before.

She marches into the living room. I jump into my robe, belt it, and stalk after her. She pours herself a drink from a decanter marked HERS. There's a second one marked HIS. They're a set, a wedding present from six years ago.

She gulps her drink down and then wants to know if it isn't the same with chicks. They need to get fucked when they can, too. They've got to have some once in a while. It doesn't mean a chick doesn't love her husband. She reminds me that she's a blackjack dealer at a casino, and she meets lots of studs, some of them with lots of money they're willing to spend on a chick. Sometimes it's hard to say no. Even if you're married.

I feel funny inside, Charlie. Like I'm falling apart, and I need a drink. I pour myself a stiff one from the decanter marked HIS and make a face. I expect it to be Scotch because that's what I like—she knows that. I start to say, "What the fuck is—?"

But she wants to know don't I agree with her about chicks. A million pictures flash through my mind—pictures of her fucking another guy. I'm dizzy like a sailor in a rowboat lost at sea in a storm, my little boat rolling and heaving over gigantic waves. "Yes! Yes! Fuck yes!," I tell her. "It's the same with chicks." Then I ask her what the fuck's going on. Is she so drunk tonight she's forgetting how much we mean to each other. Forgetting the good times we've had—she seems to remember all the bad shit.

She throws her blonde head back and laughs. Her nipples make red points under he negligee. She says, yes, she's a little drunk tonight and maybe a little forgetful, but she remembers I cheated on her and she remembers there's something she needs to tell me.

I clench my fists. I know I'm not going to like this.

She tells me she's been having a million laughs with some guy since right after I shipped out for the Mediterranean. She wants a divorce. She wants to marry him. She tells me she planned this whole evening to get even, Charlie—because of her redheaded friend Alicia that I fucked. And a few others she found out about while I was gone.

That's right, Charlie, it was all a plan to get even—her dressing sexy that way, her loving me up, letting me see her naked in the bathroom, then cutting me off when I climbed into the sack with her, making me admit things about what I did when at sea. That joint where we had steaks—it's the same joint her and that asshole she met went to the first time they fucked.

And then she tells me if I don't like it, get the hell out. She'll never tell me who the guy is. And I'll never guess. When the divorce is final and I go back to sea, they got plans to marry and disappear.

Christ, I'm raving mad, Charlie. I'm out of my mind. My hand whips out and slaps her across the face, a wicked backhanded shot. I feel her mouth go soft under my knuckles. She drops to the floor, kicking around, and blood trickles from the corner of her mouth. She's crying and suddenly I'm crying and I'm telling her I'm sorry—I never hit women—never in my life—I'll make it up to her. Just give me a chance. Please give me a chance. But she screams at me to get the fuck out and leave her alone. She buries her face in her hands and sobs.

The sight kills me, Charlie. I mean, I really love her.

 I can hardly breathe. I can hardly stand. The deck's rolling under my feet. I feel like I'm being washed overboard in a hurricane, like I'm tumbling over the side of my ship, but I can't grab anything to save myself. And I'm thinking, Why does this have to happen to me? Why me? Lots of guys mess around, but this doesn't happen to them. With shaky hands I pour myself another drink from the HIS decanter.

I make a face.

That's right, Charlie. It tastes like some off-beat rum. Shit I never liked. My forgetful drunken wife—who forgot all about me and her and the good times—forgot what was in my decanter.

This pistol's loaded, Charlie.

The End