Marsha and Gary Blackwell

A gentleman came to the door, "You Gary Blackwell, come to pick up a loveseat?"

"Yes sir," I replied, "that's me."

"The Jefferson's aren't here, but they left us to help you with the piece."

Another man stepped through the door; he was carrying my loveseat, "Where do you want it?"

I led him to the rear of my vehicle, opened the back, and he slid it in.

The first man stepped forward with a clipboard, "Sign here please," I signed and nodded my thanks.

As I started for my driver's door the second man said, "Oh, one more thing."

He slammed his fist in my stomach. The other man grabbed me by my tie and threw me against the still unopened door, he pulled my sports coat down around my arms so I couldn't fight back, and in the most matter of fact voice he said, "Mr. Jefferson has a message for you."

Using my tie and shirt collar as a weapon he smashed my head into my side door two, no three times. The other man, using his fists pummeled my chest. I heard a rib crack. I fell to the ground. The second man kicked me hard in the kidneys.

He was about to kick me again when the first man pulled him back, "No, we're only to rough him up a little. Give him the envelope."

The second man threw a manila envelope at me while the first opened my car door. Together they pushed me in. The first man said, "Now get out of here."

I felt sick to my stomach, my head hurt, my chest was pounding. My pants and shirt were both ripped. I'd pissed myself. I didn't waste another second. I put the key in the ignition, started my SUV, unlatched the emergency brake, and spun out. I drove as fast as I could, got out of the alley and sped down the street till I felt I was well away from those men and that shop. I pulled over; breathing heavily I opened the manila folder. No! Jesus no!

I should have known! A shop like that in the middle of the city, in that section of town? Of course the place was monitored. Mr. Jefferson, protecting himself from possible burglars had the premises, including his back room, hooked up with surveillance equipment. I was staring at myself and Varina Jefferson. She was atop my lap. Sure it was only a picture, but there could be no doubt. Further inside the manila envelope I found a DVD. I didn't need to be told. How could I have been so stupid?

I slumped my head on the steering wheel and started to cry, "This can't be happening. What had I been thinking?" Then it hit me, "What if...oh no. God no. Say it isn't so!"

I had to get home. Oh Marsha. What now? What could I say? She'd never... Oh God, oh Jesus, my kids, my wife, my family. I've fucked up everything. Please, oh please.

I drove as fast as I could. I needed a story. OK, I'd stopped at a Seven-Eleven for a coffee and a guy, no two guys tried to carjack me. I fought them off. That might work.

I got home, pulled straight in the garage, got out, took a deep breath, it hurt, and went in through the laundry room like always. I could smell dinner; roast beef, one of my favorites, didn't matter, look at me, what have I done?

As I walked into the kitchen Masha saw me. She rushed to my side, "Gary! What happened? Let me get your coat." She turned toward the dining room and called out, "Jamie, Wilson get in here! Right now!"

Another second and my two oldest boys were at my side helping me up the stairs. Allan was at the portal gaping at me. Meadow, behind him, looked terrified. Marsha, right behind the boys asked, "Who did this? I'll call the police."

I murmured, "Carjacking. Don't bother."

Silently my boys helped me to our bedroom. Marsha was in the bathroom wetting and wringing out some towels. She looked at Jamie, "Downstairs. Turn down the oven. Get your brothers and sister settled in the living room."

'Thank God for Jamie,' I thought.

Marsha had the covers pulled, "I'll get you fixed up. Where does it hurt? Looks like you've been kicked. God Gary, we need to get you to the ER."

"No, l, I'll be all right...just some rest."

She looked down skeptically, "Gary, oh Gary. For a car? You could've been killed," she knelt beside me, tears in her eyes, "That was so stupid...oh sweetheart, oh my darling," she pressed her hand on my cheek. She leaned in and kissed me.

I felt like shit.

The doorbell rang.

I heard it. Marsha heard it too. Downstairs one of the boys must have opened it, a second later Jamie called upstairs, "It was some man. He left a folder. He said it was for you mom."

Marsha stayed right beside me, but called down, "Did you thank the man? Bring whatever it is up here,"

I cringed and not from the beating. Marsha wiped my forehead with her fingertips, "Oh sweetie. We need to get you to the hospital."

Jamie came in with the folder. He handed it to his mom.

I knew what it was. My mind kept screaming, "Put it down! Don't open it!"

Marsha must have read my thoughts; she set the envelope on the nightstand. I breathed a sigh of relief; if only...if she doesn't open it, if she leaves it on the stand maybe I could get it later.

Marsha leaned in, she pressed her delicate hand softly on my cheek. She kissed me, "You try to stay comfortable while I see to the children. I'm getting you to the hospital," as she stood to go she turned back to the envelope. She had a curious look on her face. It's addressed to me. She touched it lightly, "That looks official."

I wanted to cry out, 'Stop!'

She picked it back up and started toward the door, opening the envelope as she went. She called down to our son Jamie, "Jamie I'm...," stopping in mid-sentence, envelope open; she turned back to me, still, like a stone. The look on her face...

I knew, "Marsha I..."

My wife reached back and quietly closed the bedroom door. She slowly moved to and sat down on the foot of the bed. She nervously fidgeted with the envelope. She looked at me, no crying, no anger, just tears. Face as grey as death she whispered, "Who is she?"

"Nobody...I...she's the woman where I bought the chairs and loveseat. I mean..."

She was silent; she just kept looking from me to what I now realized was my death sentence.

In spite of the pain in my side I fumbled my way to her. I wrapped her in my arms, "It was a mistake. I made a mistake."

Marsha didn't resist, she murmured, "She's old. She looks old." At last she looked up at me, "Gary...why?"

I tried to sound, what, comforting? It didn't work, "I don't know...it just happened."

Marsha rested her head on my shoulder, then she leaned back. Still looking at those horrid pictures she whispered, "We need to get you to the hospital." Avoiding eye contact she stood up, turned to the door, reopened it and called down, "Jamie I'm taking daddy to the hospital. You be a man and watch things while we're gone," she glided to her bureau, closed the envelope in the top drawer, turned to me and, breathing deep, she said, "Please put something on. I'm taking you to the hospital."

I was at a complete loss; this was Marsha in classic caregiver mode, "Honey...I...please."

She wouldn't look at me. She stepped toward the door, "I'll be downstairs," she slipped through the door, leaving it ajar.

I got dressed and followed her.

The trip to the hospital was accomplished in silence. It was after midnight before we finished. I had one cracked rib and a few minor contusions, nothing to write home about. When we got back home, Jamie was still up, but the others were all in bed, not asleep just in bed.

In the living room Marsha, tousling our boy's shaggy head said, "That's my man."

I added, "Good boy, now off with you."

Before leaving he asked, "You OK dad?"

I said, "I'm good."

He looked at his mom, "You?"

"Go to bed Jamie. We've got school tomorrow."

Marsha was a volunteer at Saint Timothy's where our kids went. We opted for Saint Tim's because it was one of the few coed parochial schools in the community. She played the piano and helped out with the preschoolers. She looked up at me, "You go to bed too. I'll be up later."

I needed her with me, "Marsha..."

She responded, "Just go to bed."

She didn't come up. The next morning when I went downstairs she was already in the kitchen packing lunches, getting things ready for our kids, and frying me some eggs.

As I stepped in she handed me a coffee, she set a plate of fried eggs on the table, and asked, "How's the case coming?"

I took a sip of my coffee, "Good. I think we'll win," then I asked, "Have you any plans? Other than school I mean."

She leaned back against the sink, "I think I'll stop off and see mom and dad later."

I tried to control myself, but inwardly cringed. Marsha's dad was a retired policeman, Captain Keith Fitzgerald. Two of his sons had followed him into the force. Her mom was the classic Irish housewife. They loved all their children, but Marsha had always been special. Last of their brood, late in life baby, born a little prematurely, and with her 'special difference'; she was to be their present to God; that was until she agreed to marry me. They'd been good to us; to me especially. They loved our kids as much as all their other grandchildren, but Marsha's decision to marry had been a disappointment, a small one, but a disappointment nonetheless. And I knew, deep down they resented me. Her dad never trusted me. Her brothers and mom politely tolerated me. Only her sister... And now this...

I whispered, "Honey maybe..."

"No," she said, "I've got to see mom and dad."

"OK," I said.

~~~V~~~

I was in a daze all morning in court. My colleagues noticed, but I had another problem. She'd talk to her parents, get advice. God I hoped... Just the same I had to think, think of something.

~~~V~~~

I got home a little after 6:00. I brought flowers. Marsha had another roast in the oven. I could tell she'd been crying. The kids were all upstairs; doing homework or playing I hoped. Marsha tried to smile, "How did it go today?"

I replied, "We got em. They know too. They'll fight a while longer, but now it's more a question of how much and how long."

"Gary," she said."

"Yes sweetheart?"

"Would you mind if I slept downstairs a few nights?"

"Oh Marsha,"

"No I need to be alone. I mean away for a few nights. I have a lot on my mind."

I responded, "No, I'll sleep downstairs. You keep the bed."

She leaned to her left. I heard a faint whimper, "No, it's the bed...I mean...I need to sleep down here."

I nodded, "OK, if you say so."

She said, "I do."

That night's dinner was somber. The kids knew something was wrong. Meadow's eyes looked big and juicy. The boys just looked from me to their mom and then back at me again.

Marsha spent that first night on the living room sofa, and the next, and the next, and the next after that. Dinner time got progressively worse. I didn't know what to do, but I had to do something.

~~~V~~~

I took Saturday afternoon and drove over to Marsha's parents. Her mother saw me and disappeared in the kitchen. Mr. Fitzgerald invited me in to their dining room, "Well Gary what have you got to say for yourself?"

"She told you."

He nodded.

"Mr. Fitzgerald I made a mistake. I can't explain it. I can't get my head around what I did, but I know it was the stupidest thing I've ever done in my life. I'm so sorry. I know I've hurt her. I just don't know what to do."

His face revealed nothing, but right out of left field came, "She's been to see a lawyer."

"No...I...no...I mean...we're...she couldn't."

Her dad quietly replied, "Gary she's a mess. I've never see her like this. Divorce is...not. But her lawyer mentioned something called a 'Separation Agreement'. You would move out."

I was speechless, crushed, not Marsha, not my Marsha, not this, "Mr. Fitzgerald I need your help. Tell me what to do."

His response was like ice, "You should move out."

I could tell he was on the edge; another word from me and I'd be on the floor. I replied, "I'll do whatever she wants, but she...you've got to know...this was...it'll never happen again."

He grit his teeth; emotions, like cracks in a crumbling wall were pressing through. Looking down and away, barely audibly he muttered, "Never do it again," he looked up at me then. He looked old. I got a despairing stare, "You've broken her heart; to her you were...," he shook his head, "go...just get out...go home."

"Yes sir," I said. I got up, turned for the door and stepped outside.

Mrs. Fitzgerald was on the porch waiting for me. She came over and touched my arm; never the most articulate woman she started, "Gary. Marsha...she's...well...not...never...she's... It's her...you know...the story...you know. You...we...you weren't like...other...well...you know...people...you were...and she. Oh Gary you know what I mean," she was shaking, tears dripping down her face, "Gary...you. Go home Gary. Marsha's just... You have to fix this."

I knew what she meant. I walked down the steps, got in my car. I thought back to that first time...

~~~V~~~

I remembered Marsha. That first time...

I remember I didn't think she was pretty, not pretty at all. That lip, her nose; it was all wrong. I had the back of her head in my hand. I used her hair to pull her head up. Eyes, green eyes, red hair; no she was pretty, very pretty, if only I didn't have to look at that fucking lip, her left lip. Yeah, that was what was wrong, that angry red line from her lip to her nose just trapped my eyes, it pulled me away from the rest, the freckles, the cheeks, her hair, my God that hair, and those eyes. I pulled my gaze away and turned into her eyes. Jesus, she was looking at me and she knew.

"So you're Marsha."

She started to squirm again, "OK, you've had your look, so let me go."

"Not a chance; you remember my name?"

"Gary, Gary something. Blackwell, Blackwell the creep."

She started to squirm harder. I didn't let go, "Yeah that's me; Gary the creep. So when can I take you out?" I thought, 'Was I fucking crazy?'

She really pulled then, "If you don't let go I'll scream!"

Still not letting go I said, "Look I can't do that. How about if you agreed to let me take you to MacDonald's. We'll get a burger or something. That's the least you, we, can do. We'll talk a little, and then I'll drop you off. So how about it?"

"Why would you do that? You can see..."

I loosened my grip a little and she seemed to relax, "Yeah I can see, but on the phone, when we talked on the phone I thought we hit it off."

She replied, "That was a mistake."

I got pissed. I remember thinking, 'What the fuck? If any of my friends saw me with her, shit!' I said, "Look I'm not asking you to marry me. For shit's sake; it's just a fucking burger!"

She flinched, "You're not only a creep. You're a foul mouthed creep."

She had me there. I was probably just about the last, the worst person to be seen with her. Not just me being seen with her, but her with me. I really was a worthless piece of shit. Looking at her, and her looking at me made me see what a piece of shit I was. I said, "OK, I apologize. I used a bad word. Now how about it, a lousy coke that's all. Then I'll drop you off."

She relented, "OK, just a soda."

I walked her back to my car. All the way back I kept thinking about my best friend, or almost best friend who'd recently been killed in an auto crash. He'd been driving a Sting Ray and run a red light. He hit a utility pole. They said the damn thing just exploded. His body was a mess. I'd been a pall bearer for a closed coffin. Yeah, but it hadn't been his death that had me thinking; not about his death, it was what I'd agreed to. My good friend had a girlfriend. She really loved him, but he'd knocked her up. She didn't want an abortion; she wanted to get married. He hadn't said yes or no; then he'd started thinking, he started going to his pals, guys like me. One by one we agreed that if he told her no, and she pressed him we'd all say we'd fucked her too. My friend figured she'd look like a whore if we all did that, and she'd back off. Nobody was thinking about DNA back then; it was 1998 and we were too stupid. He even figured she might get so distraught she'd kill herself. Either way my pal figured his problem would be solved, but then he got killed instead.

That was the kind of guy I was; the kind of guy who'd lie about a nice girl to get a 'no good' friend out of a jam. That was 1998. Now I was older, and I was walking this 'hare lipped skank' to my car so I could take her to MacDonald's. I said MacDonald's so we wouldn't have to get out of the car. No way was I going to be seen with her.

Jesus shit, if it'd been 1998 I would've probably laughed at her and called her some stupid name, then I would've laughed harder if she'd cried. Hell I might have done that a couple months ago, but now? No maybe not.

So we went to MacDonald's.

~~~V~~~

Later that same afternoon. Back to the here and now...

When I got home Marsha was in the kitchen. I smelled something, maybe oysters. I went in and knew right away she knew I'd been to see her father. I took a seat, "I saw your dad."

"I know. He called me."

"I didn't know you went to see a lawyer."

Marsha sat for what seemed like ten minutes, tearful but in control, she told me, "I talked to Helen. They have a room if you want it."

"You want me to move out."

"Helen's house is close by. I could drop the kids off. You could stop by when I'm out."

My stupid pride took over, "No I think I'd rather..."

Marsha interrupted, "No Helen's is a good place. You'd be close by if I, or any of the children needed you. I might want to stop over some. It would be good for Helen too."

I understood; I was out, but not quite all the way. I replied, "Well Helen and I have always gotten along, and since Bryan died she's been pretty much on her own. I guess I could go there, and then be here if something came up." Helen was Marsha's closest sibling; her husband Bryan had died of Hodgkin's disease a while back, and she'd still not gotten over it. She had a little boy, Marion, not quite five, good kid, missed his dad.

Troubled, I added, "Marsha we don't have to do this. Couldn't we..."

She interrupted me again, "No, this is better. You should go to Helen's."

"When do you want me out?"

"After dinner tonight."

"What about the kids?"

"They already know."

Jesus she'd told the kids, "What if I stayed tonight and left after mass tomorrow?"

"No, tonight."

I needed help. I needed someone I could talk to. I needed advice. I replied, "I guess that's that."

Marsha stood up and turned to the skillet on top of the oven, "We're having one of your favorites, fried oysters."

That's how I felt, fried, and oysters yet, "That's nice."

Dinner was funereal. No one said anything. After we ate the kids disappeared. Marsha must have told them to hide out someplace after supper. I cleaned the skillet while Marsha loaded the dishwasher. I had to say something. I ended up saying the same damn things I'd been saying.

"Marsha it didn't mean anything."

"I know."

"Honey, she meant nothing; I don't know how it happened, it was just...like nothing. I can't explain it."

"You already told me."

"Sweetie do I have to leave? Do I really have to leave?"

"Yes."

"Marsha please?"

"Helen's is a good place."

I stood there. I couldn't cry. I wouldn't cry. I refused to cry. I started to cry.

Marsha finished loading the dishwasher, "You should pack up your clothes now. I washed everything. Don't forget your toiletries. Helen knows you're coming. Oh, and leave your house key on the table."

"My house key?"

"Leave it on the table. You won't be needing it. Besides you know where we hid the spare key outside. If there's an emergency you'll have that."

"But my house key? My key?"

"Just leave it."

What choice did I have? She had me. She had pictures. I'd not denied anything. She wanted me to leave. It made sense, the kids needed her more than they needed me. All I did was pay the bills and serve as a playmate. Anyway, it wasn't like she was actually divorcing me, not exactly anyway, just a separation, we'd be apart. I'd be cut off, not the sex, that didn't matter: I'd be cut off from her, from my kids, from my life. This couldn't be happening...but it was.