A Second Chance in Paradise (2 page)

Minutes after I sat down the usual glum mood in the conference room nosedived even further. Halsted began
reading everybody’s sales totals for the previous three months. The numbers were abysmal, but it wasn’t the salespeople’s fault. Times had gotten bad. Folks simply weren’t buying furniture.

Nevertheless, as if Halstead were addressing a room full of mindless idiots, he
announced, “And
there
people ... lies the problem. We are not meeting our sales quotas!  You
must
bring up your numbers!  Would you please tell me
what
seems to be the problem here?  Can anybody tell me?”

As I took this all in, hot perspiration surfaced beneath my collar. I could feel myself tightening up again too. Some serious anger was building up quickly. T
hinking how difficult things had become for Wendy and me, my pulse quickened as well. I just had to do something. I couldn’t sit there and listen to this off-the-wall finger pointing. Everyone in the room, Halstead included, knew why sales were down. We were in the midst of the deepest recession in decades.

Soon I’d had enough of Halstead’s nonsensical blabbering. Sick and tired of not only losing the war but every small battle as well, I rolled my eyes at all the people sitting around the table. As always, nobody was going to refute this foolishness. Nobody had the nerve. Nobody but me, that is. In a single motion I shoved the seat out from beneath me and rose to my feet. Still surveying my colleagues, carefully measuring every word, I blurted, “
Maybe all the rest of you are afraid to speak up, but I’m sure as hell not. I’ve had it!” 

I took one deep breath, swiveled my head toward the store manager, then went on, “
Who are you trying to snow, Halstead?  The reason our numbers are down and none of us are making even half a living is because
you
load the sales floor!” 

For the second time in twenty minutes my
hands began to tremble. But this time it wasn’t caused by anxiety or panic. This was different. Adrenaline provoked this shake, just like it sometimes had when I was growing up, back in Queens. Times when angry words precluded some pretty rough and tumble street fights. But this time, here in the conference room, I kept my clenched fists at my sides, trying hard to squeeze the shake out of them as I went on.

“
Three months ago you hired five additional bodies – which was the last thing we needed in this soft market. Hell, it was tough enough when there were only nine of us on the showroom floor.
Then
... what did you do after that?  You cut our commissions from five to four percent!”

I dropped my head, rotated it twice then looked back over at Halstead, scorching him with my eyes. Next I pointed at him, started shaking my index finger as if I’d just burnt it and went on, “Let me tell you something, my heartless friend
...
you’re
the reason we’re making crap ... you and Searcy’s!” 

“
Raines,” Halstead snapped, “I want you in my office right after this meeting. And if you hope to stay here for the remainder of it, just sit there and be quiet!  Do not interrupt me again!  We don’t need any more of your negative outbursts.” 

With that, the
room filled with excited whispers. Most of the salespeople seemed to be loving all this early morning action.              

“
No! I don’t think so, Halstead!” I shot back now. “I’m not shutting up this time. And you know what, FREAK your office. Why don’t you just come over here and kiss my ass instead? After all, that’s the kind of thing you’re good at. And let me tell you something else before you get some sick satisfaction out of firing me ... I QUIT!  I’M OUT OUTTA HERE!  Working in this place is like ... like mental masturbation. It’s a freaking joke, a bad joke.”

With
all that finally off my chest after keeping it inside for so long, I barged right the hell out of that kangaroo court. Fighting with myself as I stormed across the showroom toward the front exit, I somehow managed not to turn around. I really wanted to bust right back into that conference room and give Halstead more than words to remember me by. But I didn’t.

Pushing through both glass doors at once,
I bowed my head right into an onslaught of wind-driven snow. It was heavy now. The flakes were the size of nickels and plenty damp. Two inches of the thick white stuff had already accumulated on the ground, and the best I could do was to slowly shuffle my way across the slippery lot. When I finally made it to my van, I cranked her up and turned on the heater. Immediately it blew warm air. I hadn’t been inside Searcy’s Furniture World for very long.

I forged toward home as quickly as I safely could.
Steering stiffly, driving ever so carefully through the deepening snow, my only thoughts were of Wendy. Over and over I rehearsed how I was going to break the news to her. Once I said aloud, “Should I tell her I got fired or tell her the truth?”  But I knew damn well what I’d do. I couldn’t lie to her. I never had before. I’d have to fess up. I may have had my fair share of shortcomings but dishonesty wasn’t one of them.

A half hour
after leaving the store I turned right onto New Bridge Street. Like all the rest of Long Island, my neighborhood was now blanched white with clean, fresh snow. Slowly, I motored up the residential street until I was about a half block away from my house. Then I noticed something odd. A gold car, it looked like a Lexus, was pulling away from the curb near my house. It seemed to be right in front of it. Next to nobody on the block ever parked in the street. All the houses had their own driveways. Moments later, I slowed to a stop before pulling into my driveway. Sure enough, alongside the curb was a perfectly dry, dark asphalt rectangle where the Lexus had been parked.

Who the hell
could that have been?
  I wondered, the fresh snow mashing beneath my wheels as I rolled into the driveway.

I killed
the ignition, climbed out and closed the door ever so gently. Then I trudged through the five inches of white stuff to where the car had been parked. With a cold mist now escaping my nostrils with every quickening breath, I noticed there were footprints on the front yard. About the same size as my own, just one set, they were fresh as can be – and those tracks led from the front door to exactly where I was standing at the curb. Whoever had been inside the house had been there a while.

With my mind whizzing around in all different directions, I made my
way across the small front yard to door, carefully avoiding the footprints as if they were HIV-positive. I climbed the three steps, entered the house and closed the door firmly – making sure the act was audible. Then I just stood there. I didn’t move a muscle or make another sound. All I could hear was the ticking clock in the living room and the sound of my molars grinding. In the excruciating silence my heart thumped hard against my ribs, and I felt hot blood pulsating in my temples.

God, I hope she has a legitimate excuse
! She must have! But how can that be possible?  Hayley and Marlene are the only of Wendy’s friends who ever stop over here. Neither of them could ever afford to drive a Lexus, and their feet, they must be six sizes smaller than those prints outside. Ohhh shit, no! She’s my wife, my mate, my confidante and partner. We’ve been together all our adult lives. She’s been part of me the whole time – the best part of me. Why would she ever ....

Abruptly,
my
thoughts ended there. The sound of creaking springs cut them short. It was Wendy, climbing out of our bed.

Padding up the short hallway toward the living room, still out of sight, she said,
“Steve?  Is that you?  Did you forget something?” 

It had been her boss
, Steve Silverman.

My
heart stuttered as I stood there, breathless now. My wind-chilled face contorted as if I were experiencing some horribly painful physical torture. I’d have preferred that any day. That I could take – anything but this! 

I stood there
motionless, my back against the door, listening to Wendy’s steps as she made her way down the short hallway.

Then she stepped into the living room
– completely naked.

Seeing now that it was me, not Steve Silverman, th
e smile on her face instantly drooped. Her lips parted slightly, as if she were going to say something, explain, but she didn’t. She just froze.

This was it
– I was living out the worst nightmare any caring husband could imagine. Some men may think of this dreaded scenario often, others rarely, but, no matter what the frequency, if and when it happens, if a man truly loves his women, it is the most devastating of all human experiences. It can cripple the ego, no, worse than that, far worse, when the husband worships his wife the way I had.

Through glazed e
yes I stood  surveying my wife, who stood there, totally undressed for another man. My eyes moved to all the places that, before today, only I had ever touched, fondled, kissed and entered. The creamy flesh of her soft, erect breasts; her impossibly trim waist; the tantalizing curve of her hips; the triangular patch of silky, auburn hair where the inside of her thighs met.

“My good God, Wendy! What have you done?  Why would you ever do something like this?  How in the hell could you?”

She said nothing. Arms still at her sides, she turned her palms out and opened her mouth to speak. But nothing came out.

A long moment passed, an agonizing moment neither of us would ever forget. Then, s
tartled by my own calmness, disappointed by it, I began to weigh my few options as I continued to stare at her in disbelief.

Do I kill her, right here and now
?  Do I go get that bastard Silverman?  Should I kill them both? 

S
lowly but deliberately – as if in a trance, I approached her. With each small step my tormented eyes cut deeper into hers. They spoke to her – cried out to her, and she understood them. They told her what she had done to me. They told her my heart felt like it was being wrenched by a thousand savage hands.

Face to face now, c
lose enough to smell the familiar scent of her bare skin, the shock, hurt, and profound sense of loss I’d felt suddenly vanished. Contempt kicked in. I was now working – working
hard
to fight back my rage.

Through
quivering lips, with my voice breaking, I managed to say, “I hope you enjoyed yourself, Wendy. You’ve given me one hell of a birthday gift.”  After that I dropped my eyes from hers and gave my wife one long, last look – head to toe and back again. In a tone drenched with hurt, sorrow, regret and a host of other miserable emotions I said, “Have a nice life ... Wendy.”  Then, as I brushed past her, I shouted so loud that the fogged-up windows vibrated, “NOW, GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY WAY!”

I
stormed down the hallway, into the bedroom, and started packing everything except my business suits. Those I would leave behind.

“That’s it, I’m finished with these!” I muttered to myself, realizing I needed to do something else with my life. But still, as I
struggled to lock the two overstuffed suitcases lying on that tainted bed, I felt like I might vomit. Strengthened by my rage, I managed to close the luggage and snap them shut. There would be no coming back and I knew it.

On
my way out the front door, I stopped to look at her one last time. Still stark naked, she looked so pitiful. Slumped down on our plaid sofa; streams of tears and mascara networking down her cheeks, she sobbed, “Sonny ... I am so sorry.”   She then hung her head and shook it as she reflected,  “It’s just ... just that with you working evenings and weekends all these years and with all the money problems we’ve had, we ... we’ve drifted apart, somehow.” 

It was true.

Outside, with the snow still falling, I loaded my belongings into the van. I opened the garage door, grabbed all my fishing rods, threw them in the back of the van, cleared off the windows, cranked up the engine and, for the last time, drove away from 902 New Bridge Street. Looking into the fogged-up rear-view mirror, I watched my home and my past life shrink out of sight.

Then
I lost it. I wept profusely, tasting the saltiness of my tears as I drove on.

Chapter 2

I didn’t confront Steve Silverman. I knew if I did, I wouldn’t have been able to contain myself. I’d have gone absolutely crazy. Probably would have killed him, gotten locked up, who knows what after that. In modern society, repressed emotions and actions may be considered signs of mature male behavior, but that didn’t mean a thing to me. My instincts sent me different signals. I didn’t like holding back. Deep inside, it didn’t feel natural. The only thing that kept me from paying Silverman a visit was the consequences I would have paid.

I
didn’t talk to or lay eyes on Wendy for three solid months. Oh, there were times, plenty of them, when I thought,
Damn it all! I don’t want to go on another minute like this. I can’t. Without her there’s nothing in front of me. Ten minutes from now, tomorrow, a year from now – none of it means a damned thing without her. If she’s truly sorry; if she wants to get back together, who knows, maybe I could eventually get over what she did to me. Maybe things could someday be the same again.

But, bad as I wanted to, I never did jump into my van, speed out to Smithtown, bust into 902 New Bridge, and take the love of my life into my arms. Bad as I wanted to, I knew I couldn’t. Because every time I reached the end of that reoccurring thought – the part about eventually getting over Wendy’s infidelity – I’d listen to my heart. What was left of it told me,
Forget it Sonny, things can never be the same. You and I will never get over this thing, but we will learn to live with it
.       

During the course of those first few months, I’d taken
a temporary job painting apartments back in Queens. Bobby Slap, a divorced buddy I grew up with and my closest friend not only put me to work but opened his apartment to me as well. Then, on the last afternoon of my stay, after we’d knocked off of work early, I thanked my good friend one last time.

It was just a few days before Memorial Day weekend, a Tuesday, a glorious Tuesday with a perfect sky and mild spring weather. I was sitting opposite Bobby in his bare-bones living room, sipping Miller-Lite with my lifelong friend. On the opposite wall, above the television’s black screen, two pennants hung. White letters on the navy-blue one read “Yankees”, the royal-blue and orange one shouted “New York Mets”. Between the two was a framed photograph of the 1971 Bayside High School “Commodores” football team. Front and center, standing on the field side by side, each of us holding a football were Bobby and I. He played quarterback, I was a
wide receiver, and we were the team’s co-captains. 

Through an open window leading to the fire escape, a pleasant spring breeze ruffled the sheer curtains. Coming in with the fresh air were the excited shouts of children playing on the wide sidewalk three stories below. Being city boys, neither Bobby nor I noticed the occasional honking horn or the nonstop, gurgling co-roo-coo of pigeons perched on the iron fire escape.

Keeping my elbow on the arm of the chair I was in, I tilted my beer can in my friend’s direction and said, “You know, Bobby ... I owe you one for all you’ve done for me.”

“Don’t be a jerk, man. What’d I do for you?”

“Come on. You know what I’m talking about. How could I ever have saved enough to go south without your help?  You put me up, for free. You put me to work. I won’t forget that.”

Bobby took a long gulp of a fresh cold beer then brought his eyes back to mine saying, “Getouttahere, I needed a helper. You needed work. It was a win-win. Besides
... it gets kind of lonely living alone. I hate to say this, but you’ll find that out soon enough.”

I reached for my cigarettes lying on the garage-sale table alongside the chair, took one out, and without lighting it said, “You know, Bobby, if I made it through these past three months, I think I can make it through anything. You’ve been there. You know it isn’t easy. And don’t think I haven’t noticed how you’ve tried to make it easier for me to handle all this time.”

“You’re nuts,” Bobby said, waving me off, turning towards the open window for a second. “I treated you the same as I always have. All we did was work, hang out here and go out for a few beers now and then. I wasn’t babying you.”

“Yeah, sure, tough guy. Like you never tried to clear off the road for me, did you?”

“Look, I did whatever I did. That’s all there is to it. How’s your beer?  You need another one? And by the way, you never should have gone back to smoking. “

“Yeah, yeah, I know. What can I tell you? I’ll get myself a beer in a minute.”  I said, before lighting up the cigarette, taking a drag and blowing the filtered smoke towards the sixty-year-old ceiling. “You know I’m leaving right after court tomorrow.”

“Yeah, I know. Tomorrow’s D-day. I’m gonna kinda miss you being around here, always being in the way, you pain in the ass.”  

With a broad smile rising beneath my new moustache, I said, “Yeah, I know. But this is what
I want to do right now. This is what I
need
to do right now. You remember when we were kids – those times my parents took me to Fort Lauderdale. I had the time of my life down there. The eternal sunshine, all that blue water full of fish, palm trees, suntan oil, it was great. Then when ... when Wendy and I went to Key West on our honeymoon, well, that was it. I was hooked.”

“Hell yes, I remember you going down to Lauderdale.” Bobby said, purposely not mentioning the part about Wendy and me. “I hated you for it. I was one jealous SOB.”

“Do you remember the time my parents offered to take you with us?”

“Sure do. I’ll never forget that one. We were about fourteen. It took me weeks to talk my mother into letting me go. Then what happens! Two days before we’re supposed to leave she changes her mind. She said she’d worry herself sick. Guess it was a good thing I didn’t go. It was only about a month later that she had her first nervous breakdown.”

“Yeah,” I said, “thank God she’s doing better nowadays.

My best friend, this man I shared a thousand memories with, looked at me pensively. My look at him lingered as well. Nodding my head ever so slowly I knew exactly what he was thinking when I said, “Look, man, I’ve got to give this Florida thing a shot. If it doesn’t work out, I’ll be back.”

“If you do, you know you can stay here as long as you have to.”

“Thanks, man. You’re the greatest.”

“Oh stop! Don’t be getting all sappy on me now because you’re gonna be leaving”

Shortly before ten the next morning my divorce was finalized at a courthouse in Hauppauge, Long Island. And not once during the proceedings did I allow myself to make eye contact with Wendy. I just couldn’t. Angry as I was at her, I knew if our eyes met it would only have intensified the hurt I was just learning to live with. Sitting in that cold, legal, strictly-business courtroom wasn’t easy. I wanted to scream at Wendy, so loud that the walls would shake. I wanted to jump up from my wooden chair and give her all kinds of hell. I wanted to dash past the judge’s bench, shove my wife’s damned lawyer on his ass, throw my arms around her and whisk her the hell out of there. I wanted to take her home and go on with our lives just the way we did before the morning of my birthday. But none of that happened. I stayed in my seat and did what I had to. When it was finally over, I simply stood up, about-faced, and strode to the exit door.