Marriage Made Me Do It: An addictive dark comedy you will devour in one sitting. Ashley Fontainne
Dad missed the fine print which noted health concerns and advised to remain healthy in all other areas so as not to clog the arteries.
Oops.
Lunatic Bitch agreed with me for the first time since out of diapers, so we tag-teamed Rachel. Nothing we said changed her mind. In less than six months, she’d dropped so much weight, had the same gaunt, pale skin as Benny-Boo (her nickname for the sack of shit, not mine) Rebecca and I feared she was ill from lack of consuming animal protein.
“He’s got a lot of nerve showing his ugly face,” Rebecca whispered. “He needs to leave. It’s his fault Rachel’s dead! He’s the one who convinced her to go undercover and risk her life—over freaking animals! Plus, he convinced her to quit eating any type of meat. It made her body weak and that’s why she didn’t respond to treatment. He doesn’t deserve to be here. Wait, that’s not true. He does deserve to be here—inside that casket, not Rachel! Thank God, Mom’s not here to see him.”
“Mom’s not here because she doesn’t even know she’s our mother or her youngest child is dead. She’s a drooling, forgetful mess. You’re a heartless bitch, L.B. Heartless.”
Rebecca bristled. “I am not! And stop calling me that! Little Bit was cute when I was, like, 2, but not now. You’re the oldest and have Dad’s attitude, so you should do something! Make him leave.”
Despite the fact my beloved baby sister’s funeral was underway, I smiled. The little lie I’d told years ago when questioned by Dad about the meaning behind the nickname “L.B.” still stuck.
Wow, I am a sick, twisted wench who loves her petty torments.
Carl nudged my arm. “Shhh. The pastor isn’t finished with the service yet.”
Glancing over at my husband of close to twenty years, a spark of anger burned inside my chest. Carl Davenport sat next to me, all serious and sad, like a proud pimple on the ass of humanity. Though still quite handsome for his age, Carl’s thick, brown hair I used to love running my fingers through during heated sex was gone. What little hair he had left was all gray, including the newest addition to his sharp facial features: Long, white, obnoxious hair in and around his nose and ears. The little tendrils stood erect and strong, forcing your eyes to stare at them with disgusted awe.
Seeing Carl’s new, unnecessary hair, made me think about my own. Mine opted to sprout in areas hidden by clothing—thank God! Several thick, black pubic hair follicles became lost, choosing to take up residence around my nipples and right underneath my belly button. No amount of waxing, plucking, or shaving helped. My next plan of action was a blowtorch.
The strong, sexy muscles from his youth weren’t quite a fleeting memory yet, though dangerously close (similar to my once tight ass). Carl sported his own ripening watermelon right above the beltline. When we did get naked under the sheets, the sweaty monstrosity full of itchy hair rubbing against my body made me sick to my stomach. Thank goodness, Carl discovered Internet porn and spent most of his free time behind a closed, locked door in his study. Naked, pixilated sluts on a screen kept me from fulfilling, for the most part, Rule Number Ten:
Housewives must service their husband’s needs when the man’s urges overtake him, no matter how tired, sick, in pain, or stressed the wife feels.
Carl’s admonishment to remain silent worked just the opposite: It gave me the needed push to act a fool. So, of course, I did.
“That boy isn’t welcome here. Look, he’s up there saying his goodbyes to Rachel while the preacher is talking, and you’re giving me shit for whispering? Talk about disrespectful! Dad’s not here to toss him out the door but I am!”
“Roxy—wait!” Carl whispered.
Ignoring my wimpy husband, I stood and stomped with purpose down the aisle. Several mourners gasped, and the preacher’s words dried up. Grabbing a handful of Benny’s collar, I pulled him backward, bringing his ear inches from my lips. “Leave, now, or I swear I’ll make you wish your daddy had shot blanks. I’m not even kidding. Better yet, I’ll make sure you shoot blanks from now on after I slice your balls off.”
Ol’ Benny-Boo shook like he was in the midst of his own personal earthquake.
Sensing his fear, I let go and he turned and disappeared through a side door. Satisfied with myself, feeling a rush of power at releasing some of my pent-up anger, I walked back to my seat.
Carol and Carl looked mortified, their faces pale and mouths agape. Rebecca beamed with pride. We didn’t see eye to eye on pretty much anything, yet on this particular rule, we did.
Rule Number Eleven: One must defend their family, no matter what. This rule trumps everything else. (In my mind, I added a footnote: Even if the defense comes in the form of bodily harm to another.)
Once back in my seat, the preacher decided the service was over, and music filled the sanctuary. Tears welled up in my eyes. I should have acted on Rule Number Eight’s footnote sooner. Instead of trying to talk some sense into Rachel, I should have concentrated my efforts on forcing her to eat red meat and removing Benny’s eco-friendly ass from her life.
Permanently.
While those in attendance to the final adios of Rachel Danielle Rayburn stood and ambled outside, I remained stuck to the pew. Something sinister bubbled up inside my chest, worse than a wicked case of heartburn after eating fried foods.
Replaying Rachel’s entire life inside my head, watching memories zoom by of the life we once led and the one I hoped we’d continue living, made the mental safety valve break. Fury burned through me for failing to take care of her better. I didn’t keep the promise made to my mother years ago to watch over and care for my younger sibling. Mom seemed to recognize Rebecca could take care of herself and that Rachel was the neediest one of her three girls.
And for some reason, Mom thought I was the nurturing one. Pft! Joke’s on her!
Looking down at the remembrance card with Rachel’s sweet, happy face staring back at me—a picture I picked out from ones taken in our backyard last year—I swallowed hard, forcing my pain and sorrow deep inside. I’d failed my sister but there was no way I’d make the same mistake with my child. Despite all of the hormone-induced struggles during the past two years, Carol Claire Davenport was the reason I was put on this planet. With Rachel gone, all of my attention would be on Carol.
God help any fool who dared harm a hair on my precious child’s head.
I whispered a silent vow, promising to not make the same mistake again. Rachel’s death made me question the Handbook I’d used as a mental guide my entire life. While “Amazing Grace” filled the small room, I decided to alter the rules to suit my world. I was sick and beyond tired of it being the other way around.
I swear, Rachel, the next person who tries to disrupt my family—they won’t be granted a reprieve. I’ll do whatever necessary to keep the rest of us out of harm’s way. I promise.
Don’t Bite The Hand That Feeds You
Our slice of Heaven on Earth, a large McMansion with four bedrooms and three baths (Rule Number Nine—check—thanks to Carl’s wealthy family!) built on the backside of the suburbs I grew up in, was crammed full of people. Fancy cars filled the tree-lined streets. A smorgasbord of all sorts of metal chariots driven by grieving guests, ones insistent on paying their respects by trudging through my house, stuffing their faces with food, spilling wine on the expensive hardwood floors. Cleaning up after the invasion would be fun. Not.
Rule Number Fifteen: A woman’s job as housewife is to maintain a pleasant, always spotless home for her family.
Joy.