Separating Riches (12 page)

It was like stepping back in time. The parlor looked exactly the same as when I frequented it in college. The smell of pizza mixed with sweaty kids, actually made me feel younger. It was like I was transformed into a teenager again, ready to party.

I stood in the doorway and smiled. The music was blaring, the kids were scarfing down pizza, and the place was packed. Feeling nostalgic, I walked over to the jukebox in the corner, and unplugged it. Unlike the last time I had done that, the cursing was much more aggressive in its venom. Didn’t bother me. In fact, it encouraged me. All eyes were on me as I walked into the middle of the room and put my hands on my hips.

“The rich bitch is back, and lunch is on her!” I shouted.

The kids went crazy. Jumping up and applauding.
Oh yeah, I’m back.
I sauntered over to the bar and sat down on a stool.

“What’ll you have?” the bartender asked.

“Domestic on tap, and a slice of pepperoni, please,” I replied.

The beer came instantly, and as I sampled a sip before taking a large gulp, not surprisingly, I was hit on.

“Come here often, ma’am?”

Okay, even if I was interested in the young man, which I could never be, I wouldn’t give him the time of day because he called me ma’am. Worse than a cuss word when it comes from a teenager.

“Your pick up line needs work, fella,” I said, taking another gulp of my beer. “It makes you sound like a little boy.”

“Shit!” he cried. “Okay, well, what about it. Do you want to?”

“Not if you were the last boy on earth,” I scoffed. “I’m gay, you idiot.”

He finally got the hint and skulked away. By the time my pizza slice arrived, I was on my second beer and second come on.

“Hey gorgeous, what’s your line?” she asked, climbing up onto the stool next to me.

“My line? Well, it would be that I’m married.” I held up my ring finger and wiggled it.

“Sorry, my bad,” she said and climbed down from the stool.

I pulled my wallet out to pay for the tab, and lunches, when the bartender slid another glass of beer my way.

“No thanks. I promised the wife that I’d keep it at two,” I said.

“It’s from the lady sitting over there.” He nodded toward a table in the corner.

I turned and gasped when I saw her. “What the hell is
she
doing here?”

Chapter Ten

Have You Seen My Wife? — Chris
Blackstone-Livingston

I texted Melinda three times before I finally decided to take a taxi to the pizza joint. If I had known where it was at, I would have walked across campus, because as it turned out, the restaurant wasn’t that far away. I couldn’t stop thinking about Emily and how pleased I was that she decided to be our spokeswoman. I couldn’t wait to tell Melinda that she wouldn’t have to do another television commercial for a while. That’s not one of her favorite things to do, although she’s so damn cute on camera.

The taxi let me off in front of the restaurant and I saw that Melinda’s car was in the parking lot.
Good, she’s still here.
When I opened the door the smell of fresh baked pizza washed over me and suddenly I was hungry. If Melinda hadn’t eaten yet, maybe we could split a pizza. That is if they do half and halfs here. Melinda and I don’t like the same type of pizza. She prefers pepperoni, and I like sausage and hamburger. I looked around, but didn’t see her, so I walked over to the counter.

“Hi, I’m looking for Melinda Blackstone-Livingston. She’s tall, black hair, gorgeous. Have you seen her?”

The bartender, who was polishing a shot glass, looked up at me. “Lady, do you know how many people come through here every day? I don’t have time to memorize all their names.”

“Wait.” I dug in my purse and pulled out my cellphone. Clicking on the photo app, I pulled up my favorite picture of Melinda holding our kitten. “Here, does she ring a bell?” I asked, and held the phone up to him.

“Oh, yeah, she’s here. Back in the pool room, but I don’t think she wants to be disturbed.”

“Why do you say that?” I asked, stuffing the phone back in my purse.

“Because she’s not shooting stick. Well, not that kind, anyway,” he said, and winked at me.

What the hell was he saying?
“Where is the room?” I asked pointedly.

“Hang a left at the end of the hall over there,” he replied, and then returned to polishing the glass in his hands.

My heart was in my throat. I looked at him for a moment, and the tiny hairs on the back of my neck stood up. What was he saying? That she’s drinking again, or… or that she was with someone?
No, that can’t be right. Melinda would never do that to me.
But then, she didn’t expect me to show up here. Maybe she thought she had more time? Maybe I should stop speculating and just go see for myself.
Or maybe I should turn and run away before it’s too late.

I came to the door, which had a sign saying
do not enter
, and I timidly placed my hand on the doorknob. I put my ear against the door, but didn’t hear anything, so I figured the bartender was wrong. What was I thinking, of course there’s nothing going on in there. I pushed the door open and stepped inside the room.

The room was small and dark, and smelled of chalk and beer. Then I saw them. There, on the pool table, my wife, the love of my life, the reason my heart beats, had her face buried between two double D cup breasts. Large, liquid breasts that completely covered Melinda’s face. The woman whom the boobs belonged to looked at me and smile. Her pink hair and dark rouge made me think that she was a prostitute.

Oh, God, this can’t be happening.

“Honey, do you mind, we’re kind of busy here,” the bitch lady smirked. “Unless you want to join in?”

“Melinda?” I whimpered, but Melinda didn’t move. She didn’t bother to look at me. She just laid there on top of that woman on the pool table, her hand on that woman’s breast, her face hidden by pink flesh.

I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t think, I couldn’t even cry. I rushed from the room, not bothering to close the door.
Why? Why? Oh, God, why?
I ran back to the bar, my first thought was to drown the piercing pain in my heart with liquor.

“I tried to tell you, lady,” the bartender chastised. “Here.” He sat a shot glass of whiskey on the counter in front of me. “It’s on the house.”

I stared at the whiskey for a long time, even put my fingers around the glass. I was stalling. I guess I was hoping that Melinda would come running after me and assure me that it wasn’t what it looked like.
What the hell else could it have been?
She professes her love to me one week, and then fucks a prostitute the next. She didn’t even acknowledge that I was in the room. Too busy with those hooters to be bothered with me.

“Fuck it!” I lifted the glass to my lips, smelling the wood-grain alcohol, tasting the smell on my tongue. I wanted to, oh, God how I wanted to drink it. But I didn’t. Instead I sat it back on the bar and swiveled on the stool to look down the hallway.
Why hasn’t she come for me?
The thought that she never really loved me caused a lump to form in my throat. Did she play me for a fool?

“Can I get you something else, lady?” the bartender asked.

“Yes, will you call me a cab, please?” I replied. My feet wanted to run out onto the street, but my heart told my brain not to go yet. It was bizarre. I was sitting there, waiting for my wife to finish munching the prostitute so I could what, throw my drink in her face? What good would that do? It would tell Melinda that she just fucked herself out of the best thing that ever came into her life. Me.

I was beyond furious. Furious at Melinda, at that skank of a woman she was with, at myself for sitting there waiting.
Well, fuck that!
I jumped down and ran back to the pool room, my hands clenched in tight fists of anger, ready to punch something, anything. But when I walked back in, Melinda was lying across the pool table and the bitch was nowhere to be seen.

“What the hell is going on here?” I demanded to know, but Melinda didn’t move. “Damn you, Melinda, answer me!”

Finally I walked over to her and saw a whiskey bottle lying near her hand. Obviously she had passed out, if the smell of liquor was any indication. She reeked of it. But her eyes were open, so she wasn’t completely unconscious. “Fuck you, Melinda, you’ve ruined everything,” I bellowed, and then slapped her hard across the face. Her head jerked to the side at the force of my slap, but there was no reaction from her. Her eyes didn’t even blink when I slapped her. I thought I would feel satisfied, but I didn’t. The only thing I felt was the stinging in my hand.
This is so not fair.

“Hey, lady, your cab’s here,” the bartender said as he walked up behind me. “Whew, she reeks of it,” he said, pinching his nose. “How’d she get this way?”

“You tell me, you’re the only one who hands out free drinks around here,” I growled, hoping to lay the blame on him. On anyone else but Melinda.

“She didn’t get that bottle from me,” he said, picking up the whiskey bottle. “We don’t sell whiskey by the bottle here, and besides, she only had two beers. Said the wife made her promise.”

I did, and she did, but that promise was broken now. Our marriage was broken… my life is broken. I turned and walked away, leaving Melinda and our marriage behind.

“Whoa, hold up, lady. You can’t leave her here.”

“Why the hell not?” I snarled at him.

“She’s your friend, isn’t she?” the bartender asked. “What if she tries to drive and hits someone with her car. Do you want that on your conscious?”

Oh, my, God!
His words slammed into me as if I were back in my car again, running over that pedestrian. “Shit!” I screamed, startling the bartender. He took a step back, and I knew that I needed to calm down before he had me arrested. Closing my eyes so I could think without seeing Melinda lying there, my first inclination was to call Melinda’s father and have him take care of her. But even as angry as I was, as confused and hurt as I was, I couldn’t do that to her.

“All right,” I said, opening my eyes again. “Can you put her in the cab that’s here for me, and then order me another one?”

“Yeah, I can do that, but you’re paying the cabbie, right?”

“Yes, I’ll pay for the cab,” I said disdainfully.

I watched as the bartender wrapped Melinda’s arm around his shoulder, and lifted her off the table. She mumbled something incoherent, but I doubt she was speaking to me. She didn’t seem to know that I was there at all. The bartender half dragged, half walked her out the door and stuffed her into the backseat of the cab. Melinda fell over on the seat and she looked like she was sleeping. I gave the cabbie the address and paid him handsomely to help Melinda get inside the house when they got there. Then I called Charlotte to let her know that Melinda was on her way.

As I waited for the next taxi, I paced back and forth outside, trying to decide whether I should follow Melinda home, or get a hotel room, or fly home to mother.
What do I do now?
I didn’t want to go to our rental house, but I didn’t want to desert Norma and the staff.
George will be there… no, he’s on a date and we may not see him again until tomorrow. Charlotte is there, she’ll take care of Norma… and Melinda.
The second taxi finally arrive and the driver asked me where I wanted to go. Knowing that I never wanted to see Melinda again, I made my decision, and told him to take me to the airport.

Running Home to Mother — Chris
Blackstone-Livingston
and
Felicia Livingston

It was almost easier to stay in California than to face my parents. But that was rational thinking and I wasn’t ready to be rational yet. I needed to erase the memory of my lover’s face buried in someone else’s titties. That kind of betrayal created a thick layer of black oil in my heart, choking my blood flow, suffocating my mind. I needed the real love of my parents to help lift it off. Their love had always been real and supportive, and even when they kicked me to the streets, deep down inside I knew they were trying to help me. I just hoped they could help me now.

I walked into my parents’ house, after paying the taxi driver, and waited for the butler to announce me. If it had been any other day, I would have ran past him and into my parents’ arms. But Melinda’s betrayal left me feeling very insecure, frightened, and unworthy. Even the butler, who was the complete opposite of Charlotte, made me feel like I was intruding. As he turned toward the study, I darted up the stairs to my bedroom. I was surprised that he didn’t run after me.

My room still looked the same as when I lived there. My dolls were lined up on the bookshelf. My Mary Janes sat in the closet under my frilly dresses.
I outgrew those dresses when I was a teenager, why would my mother keep them?
Just the same, I found comfort in seeing them hanging in my closet.

“Honey, I’m so happy to see you,” my mother said, walking into my room wearing her favorite tunic-length, jade Kimono jacket. I found comfort in that jacket. I found comfort in everything I saw in my bedroom, and everything I saw in my mother’s eyes.

Sitting down on my bed, I picked up a plush teddy bear and hugged it as Mom sat down beside me. When she saw the tears that I couldn’t hold back spill down my cheeks and onto the toy, she wrapped her arm around my shoulder.

“Oh, sweetheart. What’s wrong?” she asked, kissing my forehead.

I couldn’t bring myself to tell her. “Mom, can I stay here tonight?”

“Of course, honey. But aren’t you supposed to be in San Francisco right now?”

I nodded, but I couldn’t elaborate. I couldn’t allow myself to talk about it yet, for fear of falling deeper into that pit of despair I was fighting so hard to climb out of.

“Honey, please tell me what has you so upset?”

“I can’t, Mom,” I sobbed. “Not now.”

“All right,” she said, hugging me close and then standing up. “You rest now, and maybe you’ll feel like talking about it in the morning. Everything always looks better in the morning light. I’ll have the cook make your favorite breakfast,” she said over her shoulder as she left.

It was a wonder that I wasn’t fat, as much as my mother used food as a cure for everything. Well, food wasn’t going to cure this pain in my heart. Nothing would. I shivered at the thought of how close I had come to drinking again. That glass was at my lips, the smell of whiskey wafting up to my nostrils, increasing the urge to take a sip. Thank God, my will to abstain was stronger than my desire to drink. Another second and I would have downed it in one gulp.

“Honey, it’s me again.” Mother tapped on my door, and entered when I said come in. She had brought me a pair of father’s pajamas. “I remembered how much you used to love to sleep in your father’s pajamas, and since I noticed that you didn’t have a suitcase with you, I thought maybe you’d want something to wear.”

I began crying again, and my mother dropped the pajamas on the bed and hugged me until I could regain my senses. When I still said nothing, she kissed me on the forehead and left the room again. My mother’s unconditional love assured me that I would always have a sanctuary… as long as I didn’t go back to drinking again. I could accept that. If only Melinda had.

Mechanically, I changed in to the pajamas and pulled the covers back on the bed. I laid down, adjusting my pillow, and stared up at the canopy over my bed. I remembered going with my mother to pick out this bed when I was a young girl. She explained to me that the canopy would catch all the good dreams and keep them safe. I asked her what would happen to the bad dreams and she said that my father would scare them away. And he did. When I was a little girl, he would check the closet and look under the bed to assure me that there were no monsters hiding there. I thought about asking him to check again for me now, but the monsters weren’t hiding under the bed, they were hiding in my mind.