The Other Woman (18 page)

****

RITCHIE

“Rival!” I yell. “Where are you? Come back. This is not funny at all.”

No answer.

“Rival!”

I race over to the group of homeless people sitting outside a tattered little tent, a small fire burning in front of them.

“Hi,” I say to a Paul Hogan lookalike, puffing on a cigarette, “I’m looking for a

woman—”

“How old?” he asks, his head bobbing, a waft of cheap wine hitting me in the face.

“About—” I scratch my forehead. How old
is
Rival? “Late twenties, early thirties—”

“Ah, okay,” the man says, his index finger raised. “Don’t move.”

“Whew!” I shake my head as I eye the tent. Rival must be crazy to go in there. Bet it’s full of needles and stinks of piss.

“Len! Len!” The man shouts.

“What?” someone shouts from inside the tent.

“You late twenties, early thirties?”

“Who wants to know?”

“A man.”

The flap of the tent is jerked aside and a woman, appearing of Mauri descent and as big as the tent itself, waddles out. In her hand is a huge chicken leg. When the fifty-something, toothless woman sees me, she tosses the chicken leg over her shoulder, smiles coyly, and advances slowly toward me. “Hellooooo! I’m late twenties, early thirties, baby. What do like?” She cups her tits and shakes them in a suggestive manner. “You want girlfriend experience, baby? Bodyslide?”

Shit! No fucking way is she going to body slide me. I hold up both hands in a bid to stop her from creeping toward me,
and
to stop her saying those awful things,
and
to stop her from holding her tits that way.

“No, no, no. I’m looking for
another
woman.” As I speak, I walk backwards and peer inside the tent. There’s no one else inside the tent, which means Rival is not there.

“My friend’s wife.”

“I can be your friend’s wife, baby. Whatever you like. I can be your friend’s daughter, baby.”

“Uuuughhh! Would you stop?” I say, utterly mortified at her words.

Without another word, I turn and run back to the Jeep. As I drive around, I scan the place for Rival.

My stress levels are now soaring.
Where the hell are you, Rival?
Her words about throwing herself off The Gap cause me to shudder with fear. If anything happens to her…

Having no choice, I reluctantly dial my sister’s number, knowing she’s going to yell at me for losing her protégé. She'll accuse me of not looking after Rival, of not being patient with her, and then she'll yell at me some more. I am right.

“You what?!” Arena screeches. “You let her go? How could you be so impatient, Ritchie?”

“Well, Arena, it wasn’t my fault, really.”

“So tell me what happened?”

All my sister’s yelling has left me flustered. And nervous. “Well, this is what transpired. At 22h15, I picked up the susp – I mean, Rival, and proceeded to drive her home. As we drove, she displayed signs of aggression, became increasingly belligerent, and even combative, at which point—”

“Ritchie! Stop talking like a cop. You’re not SWAT anymore. Just spill, okay?”

“Sorry, I tend to switch into cop mode whenever I report an—”

“What happened?”

“Well, she insulted me. Called me MacFoul. Told me I stink.”

“Did you?”

“It was the
bait
, Arena. Then she…she elbowed me when I was—”

“What? And you let her go because of—”

“Hey Arena, she called me MacBastard, accused me of having a Celine Dion collection, told me I sucked at squash, and all sorts of terrible…Arena, man, I really don’t need this. You know I have my own problems I’m dealing with. And that Celine Dion collection was because of—”

“You could have taken better care of her, Ritchie. She’s a vulnerable, fragile woman, and you’re a big strong, cop-guy. How hard can it be?”

“She scratched my face when I tried to stop her from leaving.”

“Boohoo!”

“Seriously. I probably look like a rapist on the receiving end now. And she picked up a rock and tried to smash—”

“What? She hit you with a rock?”

“N…no, she…she…um,
threatened
to. And I was scared."

“Oh, please! What if something happens to her? You better hope nothing happens to her Ritchie, or I am going to kill you. Seriously.”

“Okay, okay, chill. I’ll go find her.”

“Okay, I’m sorry, Ritchie. I know you’ll do your best. You always do.”

That’s better. Now I feel appreciated.

“It’s just that, Rival reminds me of me a couple years ago. I was in a dark place, and I was scared.”

Damn! My sister knew what buttons to push with me.

“Fine, I’ll find her. I promise. I will find her.” I hang up and continue cruising the streets, a knot the size of a tennis ball in my gut. Where can she be? What if something does happen to her?

About seventy minutes later, I drive to our local park and cruise around with my lights off. Imagine if a cop spots me now, I think to myself. With the scratches on my face, the lights on my Jeep off, me cruising the parking lot in the dark…

My heart lurches when I spot a solitary figure sitting on a park bench hugging her knees. It’s her! Relief floods me.

****

RITCHIE

Worried that she will take off at the sight of me, I creep up to her and take her by surprise – stand right in front of her, blocking her path, determined to restrain her using force if necessary.

“Please don’t do that again,” I say. “If you do, I have to restrain you.”

She looks up at me, her face wet with tears. At the sight of her tears, I just melt. “I’m sorry,” I say in a timid voice. “I will get you a drink, if you promise not to take off and not to go after Bradley and…” I stop and put out my hand. She stares at my hand but doesn’t take it.

“Please. I understand what you are going through.”

“How can you understand, Ritchie?” she says in a hoarse voice. “Have you ever had your heart ripped out by the person you loved with all your heart, huh? The person who refuses to give you the time of day? Who thinks nothing of you anymore? Who doesn’t think you’re worth an answer – answer
s
, and when you demand it because of courage you obtained from a bottle, they slam the door in your face?”

The answer to her question is yes. Been down that road, got the t-shirt. Woke up and I was no longer a father or a husband. It hurt. It killed me.

But I don’t say any of that. Instead, I raise my palms in the air in a motion of surrender.

“You can’t, Ritchie. Not unless you woke up one day and found that you had no place in society. That you were no longer a father because your children were stolen from you? That you no longer had a home to go to? That you were lost, and nobody was looking for you? That nobody cared what happened to you except strangers who
rescued
people, because it’s guilt-appeasing? Like you’re a dog from the pound. Huh? Do you know how it f…feels to be a
rescued
human, Ritchie? All we needed was a video of me being rescued, an Avril Lavigne song in the background and, and…YouTube, here we come!”

Slowly, I sink into the seat next to her and sit with my elbows on my knees. She is as broken as I am.

“He’s an attorney who is milking the law to suit himself. Not only that, he’s got a posse of shady individuals ready to help finish me off, and what have I got?”

I flinch on cue. I’m part of the shady posse she’s talking about. Ouch! That hurts more than the scratches on my face.

“Zilch. That’s all I have.”

“I’m sorry, Rival,” I say, meaning it.

“I didn’t do drugs, Ritchie. Scarlett, she slipped it into my drink. Only she could have done it that day. She was the only person I saw before my breakdown.”

I say nothing.

“I swear to God, Ritchie. I swear on my two children, on my dead mother, I did not do drugs. I wouldn’t ever. I swear.” Her voice is beseeching, and it seems important to her that I believe her.

I give a vigorous nod.

Her shoulders sag. “You don’t believe me.” She visibly starts to withdraw from me.

“Look, I’m sorry, I want to be honest with you, okay? It’s hard for me to believe you, Rival. There, I’ve said it. This is me being honest with you and…and…and that’s all I can offer you right now, Rival. But I would like you to hear you out, and I promise to keep an open mind. I
promise
.”

She doesn’t answer, and I feel a flicker of panic.

“Honesty must count, Rival,” I say, feeling desperate. “After all that you’ve been through, isn’t that what you need? Isn’t it refreshing to be hit by blast of simple truthfulness?”

In her eyes, I think I see a grain of understanding.

“Please, get in the car. I will get you a drink. I will get
me
a drink, because, fuck, after tonight, after the way you assaulted me, the way you spooked me, I need a goddamn drink. And as we drink, I promise to listen to you.”

I stand up and put out my hand. “Please. My girls are with their mother, Girly is off for the night, and…I’ve got plenty of booze.”

Without a fight, and to my relief, she stands up and takes my elbow.

Hallelujah!

“I need to pick up Puppy from Arena’s,” she mumbles.

“Puppy? Ssss…ure!”

Yeah, Mother Cat and her kittens are probably going to have puppies when they see Puppy, but…

****

RITCHIE

Utterly relieved, I drive over to Arena’s house, pick up Puppy, who is simply thrilled to see us, and drive us back to my place.

I sit her front of the TV, place Puppy on her lap, pour her a vodka and orange juice, and myself a triple Johnny Walker. “Tell me,” I say, sitting across from her.

“They are living large and they are so…so happy,” she says as tears run down her face. “I’m forgotten, while they are going from strength to strength, bragging and boasting and living a dream, while I wither away in a tiny, dark room all by myself. That is my reality. And yes, I am feeling sorry for myself. How can I not, when I long for my kids, for Bradley, for my life? I walk past their school and look at my babies, but I’m scared of them – don’t know if they know me.”

“That must hurt,” I say, switching to my hostage negotiator voice.

“Bradley, he…he…I call just to hear his voice, then I quickly hang up. All I want to hear him say is, ‘Hey, baby’. That’s how he used to answer his phone when I called. But he doesn’t. He says, ‘Hello’.”

I think about Liefie, my ex-wife. There were nights when I held a pillow and pretended it was her. There were times when I would listen to a song we both liked and wonder if she was listening to it too, wondered if she was tripping down memory lane as she listened.

Suddenly, I’m shrouded in despair.

“Whenever I call, I hear laughter and glasses tinkling in the background. A party just about every day. His life has become one big party since he dumped me. That cuts like a knife, Ritchie, and the bleeding, it just won’t stop. No matter how hard I try, no matter how much I design and decorate and paint and draw neon-colored jars and practice my affirmations in front of the mirror…the hurt can’t be salved. The wound, it stays raw and angry. They are so happy. We were never
that
happy, Ritchie. Not even in the beginning when Bradley chased me all around town and badgered me to go out with him.” Tears cascade down her face and drip all over the front of her top. She doesn’t bother to wipe them away.

“You know what I want to do? What would make me feel better?”

My eyebrows elevate, my drink in mid-air

“I wanna burn down that house, Ritchie.”

I jerk back in my seat, then stare at my Johnny Walker.
Don’t panic. She’s venting, that’s all. Get a grip.

“It’ll make me feel better.” Her large eyes glint in the dark, reminding me of the time I saw her at Dunhill, when she looked like a crack addict.

“I dream of it. Day and night, I dream of the house going up in flames. Petrol. I can buy a liter of petrol, sprinkle it all over the place, and light a match, throw it on the ground, and watch my hard work, my dream, my home that I wanted to grow old in, burn to the ground. Then the hurt will go away. Some of it. That’s what I fantasize about. Burning down that house after my children and Bradley have left it.”

She’s so graphic with her description, I’m spooked. “Rival, you will go to prison—”

“I am already in prison, Ritchie!” She thumps her chest with her fist. “I’m in chains right now, can’t you see? I can’t move forward, I’m stuck in a nightmare. It’s too hard. Living is a chore right now. I don’t want to carry on anymore. There’s no point. There’s nothing to look forward to. Tomorrow will come, but tomorrow will be just as grey and dull. And all the days after that will look the same: bleak and gloomy, like a winter’s Monday."