Marriage Made Me Do It: An addictive dark comedy you will devour in one sitting. Ashley Fontainne
a surgeon to reduce my oversized chest, much to the dismay of my husband, Carl (yet another young boy whose views of beauty were warped by media-generated garbage). For the first time since puberty dumped too many hormones into my breasts, I could walk around without a bra on and it didn’t look like two baby hippos were fighting under my shirt. Hallelujah! After going from cup size Holy Shit Those Are Huge down to Gee, I’m No Longer Carrying Fucking Watermelons On My Chest—Just Nice Oranges, I continued my relationship with wine. Why the hell not? Several glasses of Moscato each night kept me from acting out my sick, knife-wielding fantasies on those who’d pissed me off one way or another.
Though I wore the persona of a normal, well-adjusted person for others to see, inside my mind had always been a different story. Even when young, I learned to fake the smile and serene demeanor when faced with adversity, only unleashing my real emotions inside. Rather than slit the throat of my fourth grade teacher for dressing me down in front of the entire class over what she perceived as a “less than stellar” book report, I remained quiet. After school that day, I went home and took out my anger on one of Rebecca’s favorite dolls.
Adhering to the strict set of proper and correct rules for living, I refrained from punching in the throat—or worse—rude cashiers, snarky friends, impatient waitresses or any shorttempered individuals within my hearing range. Instead, I satisfied my dark, demented thoughts of retribution by simply envisioning my reactions.
Ol’ middle sis Rebecca didn’t have the same worries, for her body had been dipped in the pool of mishmash genes from my father’s side of the family. Shorter legs, smaller breasts, dingy brown hair, and an attitude the size of Texas. Oh, and Dad’s horrible eyesight. When she found out she needed to start wearing glasses—the kind as thick as Coke bottles—Rebecca Denise Rayburn flew into the biggest, ugliest, snot-filled tantrum of all time.
It was hysterical. I laughed so hard while she bawled and squalled like a newborn kitten, Dad grounded me for a week. Those seven days of banishment to my room had been worth the few minutes of hilarity at Rebecca’s expense.
If I had to pinpoint the moment our sisterly relationship curdled like sour milk, it would be the day she came home with enormous frames swallowing her small face. I teased her nonstop for hours until she sobbed. And no, an additional week of grounding didn’t faze me in the least.
Things were never right between us again. We’d fought before, but after the incident of the poor eyesight, it was full-on war. Roxy versus Rebecca was probably foretold by some ancient sage—detailing the apocalyptic event between two strong-willed, mean-as-fuck women.
Not that I gave a rat’s ass. Rebecca was a bitch. A raving, I’m-off-my-meds, lunatic bitch. When the song “Lunatic Fringe,” by Red Rider hit the airwaves in 1981, I changed the title and words to “Lunatic Bitch,” in honor of my insane sister. Rebecca didn’t stick to the rulebook completely. Yes, she married her high school sweetheart right after college, but she went to work immediately after graduating with a degree in accounting. Bucking tradition, Rebecca paid the bills while her hubster finished med school.
Demerit.
Rebecca earned another bad mark for not giving birth. Mom gave her—and Rachel—grief for years to give her grandchildren. Apparently, my single contribution wasn’t enough. Before Mom’s mind traveled to a new dimension, she’d whine and bitch about how all her friends had several grandchildren to spoil.
Demerit. Demerit.
Rachel, on the other hand, was the best sibling ever created from the union of an egg and sperm. Ever. She was kindhearted, full of smiles, never a complainer, which was sort of odd since she was the baby. Rachel was a free spirit, flitting from one moment to the next, distracted easily by a light wind, never one to hold a grudge. Rachel wasn’t as tall as me, yet had a similar build. She’d been born with an ample chest, thick, mahogany hair, and generous curves.
Out of the three of us Rayburn girls, Rachel was the animal lover, though Rebecca attempted to keep up, yet always failed (i.e., Rebecca neglected to remember animals need to eat or they die). Every baby bird on the ground, abandoned cat, scrawny stray dog, half-dead hamster—they gravitated to Rachel’s sweet soul. Like some cosmic connection, a weird instinct guided them to head directly into her path. And sure enough, Rachel Danielle Rayburn scooped them up and brought them home, much to the dismay of our parents.
I didn’t have any lovey-dovey, sisterly, protective feelings toward Rebecca (again, Lunatic Bitch), but boy, I sure did with Rachel. Instead of getting caught up in the Eighties’ drug scene (like Rebecca and I both dabbled with—Lunatic Bitch snorted so much she had to stop and have surgery for a deviated septum—ha!) Rachel was the exception to the hedonistic lifestyle embraced by most.
Looking back on it now, it was kind of like Rachel was an old soul meant to be in her teenage years during the Sixties. Rachel would have been the perfect flower child, right at home in Haight-Ashbury, wearing flowy dresses, her dark mahogany hair dotted with flowers as it billowed around her sexy body. Well, a flower child minus the drug part. To my knowledge, Rachel never got high or drunk. Life, and all it had to offer, was enough stimulation for my baby sister.
God, I miss her so much. It isn’t right. Carol and Rachel were my two reasons for living. Rachel should be here, sitting on the stiff, uncomfortable pew, mourning the loss of one of her screwed-up sisters, not the other way around. Rachel’s life ended with eerie finality before the age of 35, damn near close to how Dad always said it would: Animals would be her downfall.
Rachel’s ill-fated stint working undercover for some whiny, ASPCA-type sacks of shit, ended her life. While trying to save a dog from being put down, Rachel suffered a wicked bite. Instead of going to the doctor immediately, she waited until infection set in—and rabies. For two weeks, doctors fought to save her life, yet failed. The only Rayburn daughter to toss The Suburbia Handbook to the wayside and live in—gasp!—the big city, was dead. I hate myself for thinking it, but I’m sort of glad Dad passed on and Mom is lost inside her mind, wandering the locked hallways of Dementia Hotel.
No parent should have to bury their child. It was wrong—a crime against the natural progression of the way the world was supposed to work.
Rebecca pinched my arm, drawing me back to the funeral service. With a nod of her head, she directed my attention to the center aisle. If I wasn’t half-bombed on wine, I would have stood and said something. Opened my smart mouth and given the worthless piece of shit shambling toward the casket an earful of my internal thoughts. Maybe kicked him in the crotch with my high heel, laughing, while he fell to the floor clutching his busted ball sack.
A funeral to remember!
Instead, I simply glared at—oh, shit, what’s his name? I just drew a total blank, which makes no sense. Carl always said he admired my elephant-like memory, though I believe that was a Freudian slip—Carl meant he admired my elephant-sized mammary glands.
Aha! The little panty-waste’s name is Benny Rogers, Rachel’s boyfriend. Gaunt and pale, he looked like a walking corpse. All he needed were some bloodstains and rotting skin to complete the look. Wisps of mousy brown hair stood up in all directions, his thin chest covered in a disheveled white dress shirt, tan khakis sagging around a non-existent ass. Some artsy-fartsy emo kid who spent his time and money on animals rather than buying things like deodorant or clothes that fit. The boy was a real winner. The kind of date you brought home to meet your parents just to cause a massive heart attack or stroke.
Memories of conversations with Rachel popped into my head. She’d gushed over the phone about her new boyfriend, how he’d helped her see the light about the plight of animals that were tortured and lived short lives full of nothing but pain just so we could eat them. Benny convinced her to become not just a vegetarian, but a freaking vegan.
A vegan! If Dad wasn’t already dead, the knowledge his youngest child refused to eat meat would have sent him to the grave. Nobody loved throwing animal flesh on a grill more than Roger Rayburn.
Nobody.
Rule Number Four: One must cook meat outside over hot coals (or propane if you’re lazy)