Mad Man

Sep 7, 2018
12 min read

by C. Cimmone

I hated having sex in the shower, but I was a dutiful wife: I held on to a soppy wet rag, moaned and moved as he finished, all the while rolling my eyes with impatience.

“Mommy! The stove is making a funny noise!”

“Shit. The casserole.” I reached for a towel with insincerity. He washed his hair, leaned his head back and stood relieved, still with open legs and closed eyes as I carefully escaped the bathroom.

The kids had forgotten about the beeping stove and toys hummed and rang from the great room to the laundry room. The Christmas tree was barely breathing — intubated with colorful flashing lights and I LOVE DADDY ornaments from the past three years. Tiny pink and blue footprints cascaded down the stale limbs and bits of missed Minnie Mouse wrapping paper hid under the tree skirt.

“I promise I’ll take the tree down this week.” He dried his hair like a floppy-eared dog and stared at the tree.

I knew the tree was a reminder of death and a New Year’s funeral. When the hospice nurse advised that his father only had “a few weeks,” I failed to respect her educated theory. I had never watched someone die. I didn’t know the death gurgle or what happens when the human body gives up and shuts down. I didn’t think he would die on Christmas day, but to be safe, we had let the kids open their gifts a day early in avoidance of a lifelong reminder of “gifts in the morning, death in the evening.”

The least I could do for him was bake a casserole, have sex in the shower, and let him drink beer in the garage. I was “a stick in the mud,” constantly worried his drinking habits would escalate with such ferocity he would find himself in a casket with amputated legs and crying children hovering near.

“I’m not going to get trashed. You think because I buy beer I want to get fucked up.”

“Well why do people drink a twelve pack?” I picked his wet towel off of the bedroom floor.

He was disgusted with me, as usual. We bounced between drinking arguments and “I found another pipe stashed in the garage” arguments.

“It’s just weed. Calm down.” He rolled his eyes at me like I had cut him off in traffic. Maybe weed wasn’t a big deal. Maybe him drinking and driving with our newborn in the truck wasn’t a big deal. Maybe the daycare teachers didn’t notice my kids smelled like marijuana when he dropped them off every day. Maybe I grew up too stiff and brittle. Maybe he was right.

“Well, if you go out to the garage to do whatever the fuck you are doing, please lock the door.” I raised my left eyebrow with threat. He pulled his basketball shorts over his thighs and brushed past me like a stranger.

I heard the garage door slam; and I heard the tiny lock roll over.

***

The squatter in his dead father’s house was a drunk. She wore cheap perfume and an 80's haircut. She was probably cute and fun in her younger years, but his father had let her fall short of responsibility, and she drank in his garage when she wasn’t drinking at the bar. His father kept a running tab of her debts and trades:

09–15–2017. Becky owes $3 for cigarettes

09–17–2017. Becky owes $25 for electric

09–17–2017. Becky owes $10 for beer, cigs, bread

His face clenched in disgust as he flipped through his father’s journal.

“How were they even living like this?”

“I have no idea. It’s really sad. But — we have got to get her shit out of here and fix this place up if you don’t want to sell.” I had persuaded him to sell his dead grandmother’s car — and I carried guilt about that since a blonde girl and her father drove it out of our driveway.

“I just can’t sell this place. I grew up here. My grandma lived here. My dad lived here. I just can’t do it. It means too much.”

And that was fine. I understood the sentimental attachment: I hoarded old movie stubs, round rocks my father and I had collected when I was a child, and our children’s first scribblings and car seats.

It took a few weeks to get Becky out of the house. We considered lawyers and police, but he felt sorry for Becky and kindly placed a call to her each Friday urging her to move out and move on. My father wrote him a check to pay the back taxes and have the house put in his name. We called our realtor and advised we were selling our newly built dream home only six months after moving in.

“I’m going to work on the house tomorrow after work,” he informed.

“Ok. I will put your dinner in the fridge. Try not to be over there too late — you know I hate being here by myself.”

“Babe. This is the safest neighborhood in the county. Nothing is going to happen.” He shook his head and held back a grin.

“I know, but I still don’t like being here with two little kids. They are still building houses back behind us; and they do it all night — who knows who is out there.”

“You’re paranoid.” His head shaking was more intense and he laughed.

Netflix lit our bedroom with red and black boldness.

“What are you binge watching now?” We both stared at the paused screen.

“Mad Men. It’s really good. It’s funny that I never heard much about it when it was on regular TV, but now that it’s on Netflix, it’s all the rage.”

He did a final head shake and in a few minutes I heard the garage door shut and the kids scream and giggle. His phone lit up on the dresser. Don Draper made his appearance on the screen and the forgotten telephone buzzed and lit up again.

I unwound myself from the bed and stood over the phone.

AMY: Are we doing lunch 2morrow?

I stared at the phone. Amy. Amy. Amy. Who the fuck is Amy?

Don Draper presented an ad on cigarettes above me.

The phone buzzed again.

I slid the tab across and entered my birthday. The stream of text messages flooded out.

AMY

Today, yesterday, the day before, and the week before. Amy was having lunch with my husband. They were meeting. They were talking. They were sharing emojiis and exclamation points. My bare feet stomped to the garage door. The phone was afraid and still buzzing.

“Who the fuck is Amy?” I held the phone out to him. He looked in disbelief. I tossed the phone onto the cement floor.

“What is wrong with you?”

“I want to know who Amy is.” My heart was thumping and fluttering. I held back screams. This was a nice neighborhood. My kids were playing. I was overreacting. As usual.

“It’s just a lady I meet at lunch to pick up weed.” He was disgusted with me again.

“You act like I’m fucking other chicks like your stupid TV show.”

I thought about Don Draper selling magazine ads during the day and philandering at night. I thought about his happy family and the secrets he kept neatly folded inside his briefcase.

“Look, if you don’t believe me, call Nathan.”

I grabbed the phone.

“Nope. I’m calling this Amy bitch and telling her no more lunches.”

He was immune to my threats. He knew Amy would not answer the phone. He also knew that Nathan kept his secrets like that briefcase of Don Draper’s. He knew I didn’t want to break up the family over drinking and pot smoking — I had left before…and I had returned…three times.

***

Amy texted him the night he dropped off milk and diapers. I saw the phone light up. I didn’t enter my birthday and he left as soon as the diapers hit the floor.

“I’m going to the other house.” He pulled the front door open.

“I guess I’m confused here,” I began. I pulled the front door closed, cutting off the sound of toys and cartoons. “Do you just not want to be here?” I pulled my robe closed as the neighbor pulled in.

“I’m working on the fucking house. I’m over there every day trying to get it done so we can move in. You act like I’m over there getting drunk and partying.” His face curled and he climbed into his truck. His beard protected his mouth but his eyes were fully exposed. I thought about being on my knees in our shower. I thought about him washing his hair like a king who had just met with his usual concubine. I thought about Amy and her lunch hour.

He slammed the door and the truck barreled out of the driveway and around the corner. I watched him wind through the neighborhood. I listened as his engine pushed as hard as it could to get away from me.

My phone buzzed in the pocket of my robe.

I HAVE ISSUES. FIND A GUY THAT WILL TAKE CARE OF YOU AND THE KIDS SO I DONT DRAG U DOWN WITH ME.

I stood at the front door with confusion and tears. The cold winter air stung my cheeks and my fingertips. I sat down on the porch swing and cried.

I THINK HE’S CHEATING ON ME AND I GUESS I DONT EVEN CARE ANYMORE

My best friend texted back. I texted her and then she called. I told her how he had grabbed Emma’s neck in fit of rage when she wouldn’t sit down on the couch. I told her about his erratic texts one minute and his requests for sex an hour later. I told her how he wanted to go eat lunch but then changed his mind on a dime and left the house, unexplained.

“He says he’s working on the house over there. I mean, I don’t know what he’s doing. If he has a woman over there I wouldn’t even know.”

I cried.

My best friend was exactly that. She had been with me from the beginning of the madness. She brought her family to help the kids and I packed up our lives and got a rent house, then another…and then packed it all up only to come back to him. She was patient. She was faithful. She was fearful.

“I know you don’t want to hear this, but, yes, I think you are right. Whatever he is doing at that other house is something he doesn’t want you to know about.”

She was always right; and she always confirmed my suspicions. I had never followed him or gone looking for him in the middle of the night. He knew I would never wake up my children and load them into cold car seats to drive half an hour across town to check on him.

“And the crazy texts and him grabbing Emma’s neck — it’s too bizarre. You’ve been with him a long time and he’s never acted like that. I think if he really is seeing this Amy lady, then he probably is angry that he has to come back to you and the kids.”

I googled MY HUSBAND IS CHEATING ON ME and read the comments in front of Mad Men. I tried calling him night after night, only to hear a jammed voicemail box recording. His texts were scattered and illogical. He professed his love on Tuesday, but by Wednesday morning, he was professing his hatred for my motherly practices.

***

“Yes, I need to see if my prescription is ready. Yes, the anxiety medication. It is? Okay. I will head over and pick it up. Thank you.”

I tied my robe and carried the kids to the car. The air was cold and tight. I hadn’t seen him in weeks since he said he wanted freedom and spontaneity. He agreed to live in his father’s house while the kids and I kept the new house and safe neighborhood. He was getting away from me, as he described it. He had “hurt Emma” because he was mad at me. I was too controlling and he wanted to do what he wanted to do.

I put the car in reverse and drove to the pharmacy. I tried to call him, as I did each day.

“What?” he answered.

“Luke cut his ear and I think he needs stitches. I keep trying to bandage it up, but it keeps coming back open. I’ve tried to call you all morning. Why wouldn’t you answer your phone when you have two kids?”

“You’re talkin’ to me now, aren’t you?” His voice was deflated and unconcerned. He was detached and lingering. I hung up.

The pharmacist explained drowsiness and not driving while on medication. I ripped open the paper bag in the parking lot, popped the top of the orange bottle and chewed up a blue pill.

“We are taking a little trip,” I told the kids. Their shoeless feet were unprepared for such an event, but they were excited to hear of the adventure. I braced myself for the upcoming visual stimulation: women’s panties, beer bottles, and Don Draper’s suitcase — full of lies and philandering texts.

The car drove over each hill with purpose and finality. “Today is the day,” I whispered. Today I would finally learn my fate. The kids laughed and screamed at grazing cattle and statuesque equestrians. I gripped the steering wheel and waited for the blue powder to coat the inside of my brain. I didn’t want to call my best friend and tell her about my silly idea. I was overreacting again. I was a jealous stick in the mud and no one could stop me.

His father’s house was sealed up and locked. The dead tree in the front yard watched me fumble for the key to the front door. The running car kept the kids warm and distracted. I pulled back the screen door and inserted the silver key. My hand shook as I pushed open the door. My mind began spinning. I could hear him yelling at me as I entered the house. I could feel him grabbing Emma’s neck because he was mad at me; and I could see all of his texts moving up and down with emotion and insanity.

Our spare twin mattress sat in the middle of the living room floor. A green sheet was smeared over the soft springs and one of our living room pillows crouched next to the window. The air was silent and laced with marijuana and stale beer. I looked out the front door, afraid that his grumbling truck would pull into the drive and find me discovering his life with Amy.

I looked down the hall. Shadows and closed doors kept me from further investigation and I walked into the dining room. His grandmother’s quaint dining room table bled with cuts and gashes. My keys slipped from my right hand and the slamming chunk of metal frightened me. I fumbled for my phone.

WHERE IS THE FUCKING CAMERA?? COME ON! COME ON!

I slid apps to the right and to the left. My brain was not locating the camera. I stood over the dining room table cluttered with white-stained bulging glass pipes and chopped straws. Blue latex gloves were missing their tips and his grandmother’s mirrored perfume tray cried as yellow rocks raped her Catholicism.

The screen door shivered and I turned to verify its innocence.

Demons screamed at me from the dining room table. Tacky, stretching horrific moans and amplified roars stabbed with steely knives in every direction. A blow torch feverishly waved hello from the far side of the wooden table; and two chairs turned out to welcome their guests. Broken glass pipes sat wide-eyed on a bathroom rag. Bottle caps waited and a bowie knife boasted his grandiosity. Black spots swam across my eyes and the sweat of my skin stung with each gush of cold air from the open door.

I turned to the mattress in the living room and watched nauseously as our beautiful new home closed its doors and exploded. Nails and boards flew across his father’s dining room. I saw our children crying in the arms of a police officer as I still sat in the delivery room, bleeding from labor and stab wounds of a large bowie knife. Seven years of my life twisted into a great, dark cloud and the spiral blew out of the top of his father’s living room. The tornado ripped off the side of the house as the glass pipes stood up and chanted THY KINGDOM COME. THY WILL BE DONE, ON EARTH AS IT IS IN HEAVEN. The spinning tornado picked up my car, filled tight with briefcases and naked, philandering bodies, slithering like snakes, and sucked it into the black dust.

I looked back at the dining room table, now empty of straws and crystal meth, void of hate and abuse. The table stood strong with his dead body atop its leaves. His head turned from the corpse pose and smiled at me. His smile rolled and turned. His laugh was loud and deep, dark and true. The house shook with a violent roar.

The corpse kicked and squirmed as the skin I used to love melted and dripped onto the floor. Two fetuses floated by, both choking and gasping for air as his bare teeth belted and chattered above them,

AMY ISN’T HERE!

***

I talked to a priest yesterday. I told him about the meth. He told me to think about how unclean I was. He told me to accept God into my life. I told him I’d think about it.

C. Cimmone is an author and comic specializing in blue and observational comedy, short fiction, and narrative nonfiction. Cimmone serves as contributing author for Arouse Magazine and editor-at-large for Trampset. She also is a contributing journalist for The Austinot and has served as a volunteer reader for The Literary Nest literary magazine. Her prose has been featured in The Fiction Pool, The Penmen Review, GNU Journal, Embodied Effigies, and Belle Reve Literary Journal. Her creative non-fiction piece “Chip” was recognized as the Judge’s Choice in Heart and Mind Zine literary magazine in 2016. Print publications showcasing her narrative nonfiction include Crux Magazine, 2015 Story Shelter Anthology, and Jokes Review inaugural issue. Cimmone’s chapbook When I Was Alive was released via Underground Voices and is available on both Amazon and Barnes & Noble.