The Woman was Trouble
 

A Short Story
By
Kim L. Sellers

 

 

           

Los Angeles, CA

1955

It was boiling hot but ensconced in a lounge chair under an apartment pool umbrella; I was enjoying a James Crumley novel between sips from a tall, cold Tom Collins. The book was entertaining, but the drink was delicious. Although not as tasty as Evie, my well-known actor neighbor looked as she basked in the hazy yellow sunlight.

Evie was attractive, with long, straight hair, red fire engine lips, and a sleek and black velvety body that oozed an inky glow. But unfortunately, she had hired me to do only one thing; shoo away her neighbors and their guests, who could be as annoying as a cadre of paparazzi.

While sitting there, I noticed I was rereading the same sentence. God, I hated that. I put the book down and focused on my Tom Collins.

That was the same afternoon Dick Francis called. He was upset.

"She's dead, Jack. Carolyn is dead. Gerry Comer murdered her."

"What the fuck are you saying, Dick? How did she die?"

"Gerry told the police that she had been drinking, fell off his sailboat, and drowned. I'm sorry, Jack. I know how much you loved her. But I'm sick to death. I didn't know what to do. Again, I'm so sorry."

"Dick, who said Gerry murdered her."

"No one, but I know he did."

"Don't tell anyone else. You have no evidence or proof. You could get in trouble. I'll leave for S.F. tomorrow morning, but keep your mouth shut. All right?"

"Okay, Jack, I understand."

"Has Gerry made any funeral arrangements yet?

"Not yet. Jesus, Jack, I don't know."

"Well, when you do, call me, and If I'm unavailable, leave a message with my answering service, okay?"

"Alright, Jack."

"And Dick, remember, keep your mouth shut."     

 

Dick Francis was Carolyn's first husband; Gerry Comer her second. Gerry and Carolyn had been married four years. It was dumbfounding because Carolyn had never hinted at being unhappy. If she had, I would have been the first person she would have contacted. Meaning Carolyn and I went back a long way.

We first met in the fifth grade, and after we advanced, we attended the same high school. One of the most popular girls in school, Carolyn, was also a favorite cheerleader. But their priorities were basketball and football. Ah, football, the golden boys.

In my senior year, I noticed many of the school's athletes were in relationships. The realization interested me so much that I conducted a survey under the pretense that it was for the school newspaper and because I was the paper's sports reporter. After adding the caveat of anonymity, almost everyone agreed to share their stories.  

After several weeks and hours of interviews, the survey's results unnerved me. What I had thought were innocent high school relationships turned out to be much more complex.

My survey showed a surprising number of gays, lesbians, and transsexuals. But the genuine shock was the widespread abuse of underage sex. On a lighter note, some groups mixed fantasy sex and entertainment. For example, there were various role play groups; doctor-nurse, firefighter-damsel in distress, and one that piqued my interest was Roman orgies, which needed elaborate costumes. Why did it interest me? Because Carolyn Brooks was an active member. But more about that later.

The report exposed darker elements, too: there was physical abuse, date rape, illegal drugs, unwanted pregnancies, and out-of-state abortions. The practices like girlfriend swapping and orgies, voluntary and involuntary, were copycats of the movies or literature. Bottom-line, the high school paper's editor never would have agreed to publish my article. But I digress.

Although embarrassing, the dating survey's final tally was a landslide for the golden boys. They accumulated more points than the other team sports. My wrestling team scored a zero.

After bugging the party organizer repeatedly, he finally relented and invited me to the Roman fantasy. His well-off parents owned a large home on the ritzy side of town, and their various business investments required frequent trips, which created the perfect opportunity for the teenage fantasy party.

Dressed as a Roman slave, it surprised me that my six-two frame and wrestling physique attracted more than a few eyes. But Carolyn, the person I most wanted to meet, ignored me. Too preoccupied with entertaining a crowd of teenage Roman courtiers, she didn't notice my arrival. Carolyn's costume was a sexy, low-cut, short, white linen dress and a sparkling rhinestone tiara that crowned her lemony blond hair. Then she shooed the boys away after a while and approached me.

"Don't we know each other?" She asked.

"Yes," I said. "We met in the fifth grade."

"I'm sorry, but I don't remember. Where in the world have you been hiding?"

"I don't mean to be obtuse, but in plain sight."

"Well, shame on me."

"It's okay. I'm a big boy."

She felt my arm and said, "Yes, and strong, too. How can I make it up to you?"

"Would you like to go to the bar and get a drink?"

She slid her hand under my arm, and we walked to the crowded bar.

The bartender asked, "What's your poison?"

Looking at me, Carolyn said, "You look like a Jack and coke man."

"Two Jack and cokes, with a lime twist," I said.

Carolyn interjected, "Make it four, Ted."

"You got it, Carolyn. Who's your friend?"

Carolyn laughed, "I don't know. We've only met in the fifth grade."

Ted laughed, mixed our drinks, and said, smiling, "Watch out, buddy. The girl is trouble."

Carolyn shot back, "Shut up, Ted."

We took our drinks and walked back into the living room when Carolyn suggested we step outside.

"There are a couple of empty chairs by the pool."

On the way outside, I suggested we forego introducing ourselves, adding, "It might make the evening more interesting."

Carolyn laughed, "You have quite the imagination; I like that."

"You don't know, young lady. You do not know."

We moved closer to the pool and put our feet in the water. Carolyn's feet were tiny, her long legs Slim, and her short white dress had inched halfway up her thighs.

"What's your costume supposed to be?"

"A bathhouse gown; you know, Roman baths, sin, and corruption." She said, laughing.

"When Caligula was emperor, women wore nothing in the bathing rooms."

"Interesting, but I have read little about the Romans."

"Reader's Digest published a condensed version of The Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire. I recommend it."

"Isn't that cutting corners?"

"Hey, the only thing corners are good for is street signs."

"You're funny."

"I'm reading their version of Victor Hugo's Les Misérables.

"What's that about?"

"Redemption."

"Do you believe in redemption?"

"No. I'm too young."

Carolyn laughed, "My sentiments, exactly."

After that night, Carolyn and I were inseparable.

One evening, she asked, "Jack, do you want to see a movie tonight?"

"I don't know. What's playing?"

"Is that important?"

"No, let's go."

After buying popcorn and drinks, Carolyn said, "I'm going to go to the restroom."

Then, leaning closer, she whispered. 

"I have a surprise. I'm not wearing panties tonight." 

 

After graduation, U.C.L.A. offered scholarships to Carolyn for cheerleading and me for wrestling. We were giddy, and we were in love. Funny how a platonic relationship can bring two people close to insanity. We learned, however, how to pleasure each other outside of intercourse. We were so good at it that we spent much time taking cold baths together.

"Jack, look at my nipples. They're hard as a rock."

"Well, they're certainly harder than me right now."

"Don't worry, Jack, I'll take care of that later tonight."

The first thing Carolyn asked her U.C.L.A. Cheerleading Coach was, do the cheerleaders support the wrestling team?

She said, of course, but only for the home matches.

"Why, do you ask, Carolyn?"

"My boyfriend is on the team."

"How long have you known him?"

"Since the fifth grade, Coach."

"My goodness, that's a long time."

 

At our college graduation party, we tried to say our goodbyes several times, but we always cried and felt miserable. Then, the following afternoon, while sulking in my bed, I got sick, thinking Carolyn and I might not be in each other's lives as much as we had been, and the thought made me so angry that I leaped out of bed, ran to the dorm hall phone, and called her. But, of course, another student answered and said she'd fetch her.

"Tell her it's Jack."

"Hi Jack, it's Lorraine Hoffman. Happy Graduation."

"Thanks, Lorraine, but I need to speak to Carolyn."

"Oh, I'm sorry, I'll get her."

Answering the dorm phone was one of Carolyn's pet peeves, and when I asked why, she said, "I'm not a goddamn maid, Jack."

When she answered, she cried, "Oh Jack, I miss you already. Please save me."

"Okay, why don't you come over here? I have an unopened Jack Daniels and some white stuff you like."

"What's my record?"

"Three minutes and forty-seven seconds, door to door."

"Start the clock, Jack."

I pressed START on my wristwatch and imagined Carolyn running through her crowded dorm hallway, down the stairs, and out the building's front door. Of course, her first challenge would be the expansive U.C.L.A. campus. Still, Carolyn knew a shortcut, which included running through buildings, steeple jumping over bushes, and vaulting walls until she saw the notorious and illegal outside ladder of my dorm, the portal of everything good and evil. Then, she'd turn on the afterburners and speed climb to the second floor, making a beeline for my room, fighting through a gauntlet of overly friendly students.

While I waited for her, I prepared two tall Jack and coke cocktails with a twist of lime and ice. Next, I set up two lines of the white powder, pushed the dorm room's windows wide open, lit a Pall Mall, took a hit, coughed, and then went to my door, opened it just as Carolyn sprinted into the room. I pressed STOP.

"What's my time, Jack?" Carolyn asked, trying to catch her breath while snatching the Pall Mall and taking a drag.

         "Three minutes and forty-three seconds."

"Wahoo! A record!"

Carolyn began dancing around the room, cheering as she sucked her glass dry and snorted a line of the white dirt.

"Jack, I love you. I love you. I love you."

"Would you like another drink?"

"Of course. Jack, I've decided tonight is a going away party."

"It's our graduation."

"Screw the graduation. That's yesterday's news. Going away is happening now, and I intend to get high as a kite."

Carolyn paused her dancing, but her motor continued to idle as I held her fresh drink in hand and pushed the dust-streaked mirror close enough for her to take another hit, and after shaking her head, she grabbed her glass and began dancing again.

"Jack, turn on the radio. I need music."

I turned on the radio and moved the dial until I hit on "Swing Swing Swing." 

"Oh, I love Benny Goodman, Jack."

"What do you want for dinner?"

"Chinese. We can eat in the park."

I poured us another drink, and Carolyn, exhausted, stopped dancing and removed her sweaty dress. She smiled and then collapsed onto my bed. I handed her the glass.

"Thank you, Jack. Come lay next to me. I want your arms around me."

We had dinner in bed that night and never did make it to the park.

People always said I look big for my age. I'm six-foot-two and weigh two hundred and twenty-five pounds on a good day. I was a wrestler in both high school and college and won more than my share of matches. If I had had a killer instinct. I could have won more titles. But it just wasn't in me.

I quit professional boxing for the same reason. Opponents wanted to hurt me more than I wanted to hurt them. My dad, who had been a successful L.A. Asst. D.A. finally suggested that I enroll in the Los Angeles Police Academy, so I did. And after five hard years, I passed the detective's exam, and they assigned me to the homicide division. Where I flourished. But over time, it became clear the L.A.P.D. was so corrupt that I resigned. So, what does an ex-cop do after retirement? Well, I became a private investigator and my dad, fortunately, recommended more than enough clients.

 

I had only seen Carolyn off and on the last few years, and When I called to invite her to the grand opening of my Detective Agency, she said. 

"Jack, I can't believe you're a fucking private dick?"

We laughed.

My new offices on Wilshire Boulevard were an ideal spot. It was on the famous Miracle Mile. It had cost me a small fortune, but it was worth it, especially when we installed the office signage.

 

Merritt Detective Agency

Jack Merritt, Detective

 

When Carolyn entered my office, I at once noticed she had had her hair cut in the popular pixie style. I told her I liked it. But, for me, the change opened her face more and stressed her eyes, which were lovely and unforgettably blue. I tried to offer her a place to sit, but I decorated the only other chair with at least a dozen multicolored party balloons. So, I showed her my desk chair instead.

"Cute, Jack, but where's my party hat?"

"No hat, but that chair has wheels."

I shouldn't have said that because Carolyn began wheeling around the office as though she was a drunken sailor. That's When I saw she was trying to conceal her arm. When I looked closer, it was in a cast.

"Hey, take it easy."

"Why? Am I scuffing your precious floor?"

I grabbed the chair. "How in the hell did you break your arm?"

"It wasn't me. A creep named Tony De Franco was playing chiropractor."

"Aren't you too old for playing doctor-nurse?"

"Tony wasn't playing, Jack, and chiropractors aren't doctors. They're quacks."

"Forget that. What happened?"

She said she had met Tony De Franco at a party, that they had gotten along well and dated. But when he began demanding benefits, they argued. Carolyn tried to force him out of her apartment, and that's when Tony grabbed her and snapped her arm.

"You should have called me earlier; maybe I could've prevented this broken wing."

"Right, easy for you to say, Jack. You'd hate me if I called you whenever I thought I needed you."

"What do you want me to do?"

"Talk to him, convince him to get out of my life. Then, I don't know, twist his goddamn fucking arm off and hand it to him."

I laughed and couldn't stop. Then Carolyn caught the bug, and we both laughed ourselves sick. Later, I brought out the paper cups and Jack Daniels. We got smashed.

Two days later, I stopped Tony in a garage, and wearing a ski mask, I beat him to an inch of his life. Then I gritted my teeth and broke his arms. After that, Tony never bothered Carolyn again.

 

Two years later, after Carolyn announced her wedding details, I performed a quiet background check on Gerry Comer. He was clean. A successful business executive, he paid his taxes, never had a felony arrest, and had twin daughters from an earlier marriage, the wife deceased; the county coroner's determination: suicide because of advanced postpartum depression syndrome.

Of course, I never told Carolyn about the background check. She would have been aghast, except if I had turned up something grisly, like him murdering his first wife.

Carolyn happily filled me in on the mundane details one evening. We had bought tickets for the theater, a real-life stage theater. We were excited.

"Gerry owns a stock brokerage firm, a big house in Mill Valley, a condo in S.F., a Bentley, Corvette, and a big sailboat."

"And twin daughters," I added.

"Oh yes, Jack. They're adorable."

"How big is the sailboat?"

"I don't know; I've never been on it."

"Are you going to take a cruise around the world? As I remember, you came up short last time."

"Dammit, Jack, now you're just being mean."

"I'm just sparring with you, getting you ready for the main event."

"What main event?"

"Your second marriage."

"Stop it, Jack. I wanted to have a nice evening tonight. Not one filled with caddy comments and sports metaphors."

"I'm sorry, would you like another drink?"

"No, I want the whole damn bottle."

We had an enjoyable evening, a tasty dinner, dessert, fine wine, and after-theater drinks at a nearby hotel, where we talked each other into spending the night.

 

My thoughts rolled around in my head randomly until they settled on Dick Francis, Carolyn's first husband. I liked him. He, too, was rich.

Carolyn, several years earlier, had blurted out her updated status while we sat at our favorite bar.

"Jack, I'm engaged."

I stared at her for the longest moment before saying.

"That's great, Carolyn. So, what's the lucky man's name?"

"Dick Francis, and he's handsome and rich, Jack, a Brentwood boy. His family owns a small, regional airline called Western or Northwestern. I think I told you about him hiring me last year. Two weeks ago, he proposed to me on a flight from L.A. to San Francisco while on the family's private plane. He said he was madly in love with me. Jack, Dick's only flaw is that he's a U.S.C. graduate. You know the joke, university of spoiled children?"

Three months later, at their wedding, Carolyn flashed a rock that Liz Taylor could have killed for. They announced they were taking a cruise around the world for their honeymoon, which sounded terrific. Aren't all honeymoons?

Then, in the middle of their love cruise, Carolyn flew home alone. Number one on her list was to find herself a good divorce lawyer; number two was to call me.

"I have to see you, Jack."

"Where are you? Where is Dick?"

"I'm home. The last time I saw Dick, he was swimming in the Aegean."

"What happened?"

"Irreconcilable differences."

"What?"

"He's a fucking mommy's boy, satisfied?"

"Well, he's back in town."

"How do you know?"

"He called me."

"Are you taking sides?"

"No, I don't do that, but he loves you, Carolyn."

"Then you are taking sides."

When Carolyn sued for divorce and Dick was served, he tried suicide, except that he dropped the gun and shot himself in the groin. It was a messy accident. They both called me. First, Carolyn, because she wanted me to help enforce the restraining order forbidding Dick from seeing or contacting her. Dick called because he wanted to see his wife again before she became his ex-wife. The poor man was a basket case, and I felt sorry for him.

After much thought, I told them I wasn't comfortable being involved. That I wanted out. We agreed to disagree. A week later, I received a note from Carolyn saying,

"My Dearest Jack, I love you. I will always love you. I'm sorry that I have once again made a mess of things. C."

 

The drive from L.A. to San Francisco is long and tedious, and as I approached Bakersfield, I saw a billboard advertising endless coffee with breakfast. So, I stopped, thinking I would drown my sorrow in an ocean of java. Instead, the diner's décor was orange and white: orange and white Naugahyde upholstery, orange and white speckled countertops, and orange and white server uniforms. Even the painted walls were orange and white. Hello, and welcome to Pumpkin Land, weary travelers.

"Hi, honey. How can I help you?" asked the counter server.

"A cup of coffee, please." 

As she poured the hot, dark liquid into an orange ceramic cup, we discussed life's more important questions.

"Do you want to order, big boy?"

"I'll have the steak platter."

"You're hungry."

"Starved; skipped breakfast."

"Your eggs?"

"Not runny and preferably not orange."

She rolled her eyes. "Trust me, I get it. Hash browns or skillet potatoes with onions?"

"Skillet."

"Anything else, love?"

"A newspaper?"

"Be right back."

When she returned with the paper, she opened it for me. I thanked her. After a few more minutes, she brought my meal. I devoured it. Then, folding my paper, I left fifteen dollars under the edge of my plate. It included a generous but well-deserved tip. Then I headed to the diner's pay phone, where I called my answering service.

    The operator said, "You have three messages, Mr. Merritt."

With my pocket notebook and pen in hand, I said,

"I'm ready, shoot."

"The first message is from a Mr. Henry Wilson."

"Save."

"The second is from a Mr. Horace Jacoby."

"Save."

"The last message, Mr. Merritt, is from a Carolyn Comer."

"What?! Did you say, Carolyn Comer!?"

"Yes, sir. It's somewhat cryptic. Would you like me to read it to you?"

"Yes. Please."

"Jack, I'm alive. Can you believe it? Call me at this number, 6-7049. Don't worry, Jack, I'm safe. But please call me.

I hung up the phone and called the number. Carolyn answered. She said a trawler boat captain had saved her life and that she was recuperating at his and his wife's home. When I asked for more details, she said.

"Not now, Jack. But trust me, it was a nightmare. Gerry tried to kill me."

 

My god, I thought, Carolyn was alive. I couldn't believe it. But then, as I started my car, I surprised even myself by making a solemn promise. First, I would tell Carolyn how much I truly loved her. Then, after the mess was over. I would ask her to marry me. Hell, it was the only way I knew to keep the woman out of trouble.

We had a lovely June wedding, and Carolyn finally had her cruise around the world. But before our honeymoon, while still standing at the altar, Carolyn asked.

"Where in the hell have you been hiding all this time, Mr. Merritt?"

I said, "In plain sight, Mrs. Merritt, plain sight."

We laughed and then kissed.

Mazel tov.

 

The end.

Her Volvo

He had lived in the quaint apartment house, for over three months before he first saw her.  It was early, very early and they were both exiting their adjacent apartments at the same time.  He, dressed in suit and tie, while she was clad in nothing more than her bra and underpants.  Her only real cover was the large plastic bag of trash, which she pressed to her bosom.  She was in the lead and hadn’t noticed him, yet.

           
He, of course, said nothing, because what can you say at such a time? And she said nothing because she refused to acknowledge this horrible, embarrassing situation. If she had, she would have screamed and run away.
           
He wasn't stalking her either, not on purpose anyway. It was that they had a common destination, the hallway elevator. She had trash to dump, and he was late for a breakfast meeting with his agent. 
           
Then it hit him, the woman was damn attractive.

She was petite.  Not as petite as Tinker Bell might have been.  But her snow-white complexion and short blond hair made her appear fairytale-like.  And he would have pinched himself.  Except he was afraid that he might wake up, ending this dreamy infatuation.

           
When they finally reached the elevator.   He pushed the down button, and then turning to face her, said: “I’d be more than happy to dump that trash for you.”

“Oh, would you?” She replied, “I’m so embarrassed. Thank you.”

           
Then, as if playing Tinker Bell, herself; she flickered away, leaving behind a small trail of fairy dust.

The second time they met, which was later that evening, it was on purpose. There was a knock at his apartment door.   And when he opened it, she was standing in front of him, holding a bottle of wine in one hand and two wine glasses in the other.  She was wearing a short white dress.   And she was so beautiful, that he was at a loss for words.
           
“Well,” she said, “are you going to invite me in? I promise I won’t bite.”

After that evening, they met often, but because of their mutual reclusive natures (she an artist and he a poet).   Most of the time he would sit outside her apartment door and recite poetry.  While she, between brush strokes, would vote Yea if she liked it and Nay if she didn’t.

           
“I’m crazy about you,” he told her.
           
“I’m crazy about you too.  But I don't fall in love and I will never marry.  God granted me this one shot at life and I don’t intend to screw it up.”
           
“Now I know why I’m crazy about you.”
           
“Why?”
           
“Because you’re hopelessly crazy.”

She always wore white, sometimes, a darker shade of pale.  She never wore makeup, except for a lick of lipstick.  She was always turning heads, and people tripped over themselves when in her presence.
          
Overnight, he became her escort.  Her protector.  Her lover.  Always demanding that he held her hand, in case she’d got lost, or tried to run away.
           
When they were alone, she always dressed down.  "Clothing," she said, "was a social thing.  While privacy should be very personal."

Georgia O’Keeffe was her favorite artist.  And when she asked who his favorite artist was, he said, “Jackson Pollock.”
           
She swooned, “Pollock is breathtaking.  Breathtaking.”
           
They didn’t realize it at the moment, but they had stumbled upon something important.  Very important.  He liked something she liked, they had something in common.
           
They started going to art museums and the public library.  They would sit for hours, while they devoured one artbook and poetry book after another.  When they got home, they’d make love; he'd cook dinner, and they'd drink and laugh, and fall asleep, holding hands.
           
“You love my body, don’t you?”
           
“I do, it’s exquisite.”
           
“How nice of you.”
           
“Ask me what part of you I like most?”
           
“You like my pretty feet?”
           
“yes, but higher.”
           
“I know, you’re a leg man.”
           
“you’re hot, very hot.”
           
“Stop it, you’re embarrassing me.”
           
“No, listen. It’s your vulva. It's so beautiful that Rodin himself could have sculptured it.”
           
Her face reddened. Then he recited the beginning of a favorite poem:

                        In Xanadu did Kubla Khan

                        A stately pleasure doom decree:

                        Where Alph, the sacred river, ran

                        Through caverns measureless to man,

                        Down to a sunless sea.

 She pressed her lips against the nape of his neck and whispered, “Yea.”

           
Less than a month later, she suffered a sudden seizure.  Two weeks later she died her mother's arms,  
           
Her loss devastated him.

When her mother visited, she handed him her daughter’s apartment key and told him that the Salvation Army was coming that afternoon.  And that if there was anything he wanted, anything at all, he should help himself. 
           
Adding, “Thank you for caring for her, and for calling me.  Those last weeks were so important for both of them."  
           
“But her paintings!”
           
“Everything.” She said, squeezing his hand.
           
"Oh, I’m sorry, I almost forgot.  Did she own a car?  In the end, when she was half out of her mind, she kept mentioning that you loved her Volvo?"

“Her Volvo?”

“Yes, it’s an automobile isn’t it?”

End.

KLS

07/2019

Not so Far Back in Her Memory

(Part One)

Not so far back in her memory, when she didn't care about anything except getting drunk, high, and laid. Back when she fell in love with an older man (a suit). Back when being close wasn’t close enough, close in her mind, was being on top. He was rich and wanted to marry her. She was white and beautiful and young and at that moment higher than a kite. Believing with all her heart, that she had somehow died and gone to heaven.

Their bed always looked ransacked. There were dirty dishes piled to the ceiling. And, their soiled clothes were beginning to take on a life of their own. They were drunk and in love. Their closest friends (his friends), were beginning to have concerns. But neither of them gave a rat’s ass (she didn’t for sure, they weren’t her fucking friends).

At the end of the day, they (the twice divorced, and eight-year Senate Majority Leader, and Mr. Republican, and oh yes, his new trophy wife), rented a large hall to announce their marriage. They also revealed a tongue in cheek reparations plan, which said that anyone, who felt slighted by the couple's marriage, or their extended honeymoon, could go fuck themselves. The large room exploded with cheers and applause.

After the announcement, he told her, "Never forget that money and power, although they're used to start wars; they also can end them, too. And, more importantly they heal all wounds.”

Later that evening he said, "You're a Republican, now. And handed her a book, “The Art of the Deal.”

The problem with marriage is that it’s an imperfect institution. And as she was soon to find out, marrying an older man, meant that, sooner rather than later, those imperfections would be exposed. Over time the old man began to lose interest, he lost his luster and began taking frequent naps. When he woke, he'd find his young wife gone.

When she returned, they'd argue. He would accuse her of drinking, and to irritate him, she'd make herself a cocktail because drinking in front of him imbued her with even more power. Later, when she provided him a monthly calendar of her schedule he became even more irate.

"Jesus Christ, you're doing something every fucking day, what about me, when do I get to see you?"

"Every day when I get home, except you're always napping."

"And what's all this goddamn Republican Party crap?"

"I'm your wife. and you're Mr., Republican. You may have retired, but I'm still very much in demand."

"Well, fuck'em, I want you home."

"I can't, I'm running for President of the PTA."

"Jesus, you're a goddamn idiot. Republicans hate the fucking PTA."

"I know. We know. I'm going to run, I'm going to win, and when I do, I'm going to implode the entire organization from the top down."

The old man was speechless, tears began to roll down his cheeks. Finally, he said: "It's brilliant, absolutely brilliant."

With her success, her ambivalence toward her family only grew. Yes, the old man was more interesting, but that was only because he was more interested in her and what she was doing. The children didn't like her, she believed they never had. They were after all, Republicans. Fucking obnoxious, YAF'ers. She understood why in nature, mothers ate their infants.

Early on, it was her friends (Yes, her friends) that gave her her first clues about herself and her potential. Remarking how perfect her husband was, how well behaved the children were. And, more importantly, their endless homages to her. She was the envy of everyone who was anyone in this rich and powerful, republican enclave. She had become Mrs., Republican and no one dared to fuck with her. After all, she had learned from the best, her husband, Mr. Republican.

She did what she promised she'd do, she destroyed the PTA. Next on her agenda was a State Senate seat and she won by landslide.  After a single term, she set her sights on the U.S. House of Representatives and won again by a landslide.  After two terms in the House, she ran and won the U.S. Senate seat. Yes, by a landslide. But it was her selection to nominate the next President of the United States, that put her name and face at the top of the list.  It set her apart from all the other Republicans at the convention. Her speech raised the bar, and overnight she became an important national figure. Then a little bird whispered in her ear, the Presidential nominee was into infidelity.

Then, providence intervened.

Aide: "Senator!"

Senator: "Yes?"

Aide: "The next President of the United States, would like to speak with you."

She stabbed the phone from the aide's grasp and walked to a more private area of her hotel suite.

Senator: "Governor?"

Governor: "Senator, or should I say Mrs. Republican."

Senator: "That's a fairy tale; I'm still waiting for my Prince."

Governor: "I was sorry to hear about your husband."

Senator: "Thank you, but it was the best thing that God could do for him. He's finally at peace. And now, I'm in a perfect position to become the first woman President of the United States.."

They laughed.

Governor: "I wanted to call to thank you for your nominating speech. It was kick ass. Hey, you could be speaking to the next Mr. Republican."

Senator: "Sorry, but I wouldn't wish that on anyone. Well, not anyone, I liked."

Governor: "The National Governor's Conference is next month. And, well. Would you like to have dinner?"

Senator: “That would nice, I'd love to.”

Governor: “Great Senator, you made my day.”

Senator: “Until then Governor.”

Click.

As she returned to her covey of aides and consultants, there was only one thought emblazoned on her mind: she was going to fuck the next President of the United States.

End, Part One