Double Blind, Chapter Five: Horny Housewives

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Five

Being Jessie’s husband is not always bad. I am seated in the second row at the Paul Masson Winery in Saratoga as Chris Isaak floats a high note. I am close enough to see my reflection in his boots.

            The seats belong to Richard and Darlene Zwei, Jessie’s parents – as does the VIP membership that allows us to spend intermission inside the old chateau. Richard brings a couple martinis to the balcony, where the Silicon Valley spreads out before us like a streetlight wheatfield. I study the ice crystals on the surface of my drink, then lob Richard a sports prelude.

            “Bonds.”

            He chuckles. “Most ungodly hitter I ever saw. Did you see that ball he hit the other day?”

            I shake my head, concurring with his disbelief – the high arc, the landing in the Bay, the scrum of orange kayaks going for the grail.

            “Is he gonna catch Aaron?”

            Richard sips, shuffles the juniper across his tongue. “Entirely up to him. Fire in the belly. That clock is ticking, though. One serious injury…”

            None of this is important. The object is simply to exchange words. We observe the ten-second pause between subjects. The air around us is a hive of sounds: a hundred bursts of laughter, two hundred footsteps, the slam of thirteen doors. Richard rubs a hand over his silvered mustache.

            “Jessie seems downright… bubbly. Has she picked up some new medication?”

            I laugh appropriately. “It’s like living in a rainy environment,” I say. “Lots of clouds, lots of the time, but when the sun does come out, it’s brilliant.”

            “You have a flair for lowered expectations. Not that I’m criticizing. The women in this family are lunatics. Keep a close eye on Laura. Ah, there’s my nutcase now, calling me in to charm the pants off of one of her friends. Stay here a little longer – enjoy the peace. I’ll cover for you.”

            “Thanks, Dad.”

            Richard walks away with that Deep South amble – a limp from Vietnam – and I am left alone with gin, vermouth and the lights of the South Bay.

            I love that man. In a world composed mostly of shit, he is the closest thing I’ve found to actual grace. Unlike my own father, he didn’t let a crazy wife drive him away. I hope I get him in the divorce settlement.

            I chew my olives and rejoin my wife, who takes my hand as we head back to our seats. A drift of fog settles over the ridge like a phantom crop of Chardonnay. Chris opens the second act with “Baby Did a Bad Thing.”

I am flat on my back on the eighth green of the Stanford golf course. The maple tree above me hatches a trio of leaves, which descend like paratroopers and land right next to me. Kelly sputters awake.

            “Pfft! Jesus!”

            “Wait a minute. You’re naked on a public golf course and you fall asleep? How does one go about doing that?”

            She laughs and reaches for my dick, which has begun to shrivel in the night air.

            “One gets oneself roto-rooted by a manly man.”

            I grab her moon-white butt and heft her across me like a blanket, then I notice the surface of the green.

            “Damn! Divots.”

            She giggles and slides upward till our genitals are rubbing. I don’t anticipate a second erection, but here in the open – cars whooshing by on the expressway – it sure feels nasty.

            “Tell me something, Miss Kell. I know you’re not necessarily getting reports from Damon, but I’m having a hard time understanding the effect my wife is having on men.”

            This seems to catch her interest. She stops her gyrations and cocks a pierced eyebrow. “You want to give me some examples?”

            “Sure. We took Marcus to watch his team in the playoffs. Jessie walked over to say hi to Nils, the coach. Nils reacted like a thirteen-year-old asking a girl to the dance. I mean, he squirmed! Then there’s our mailman, Peter. We’re on the usual small-talk terms: How ya doin’, nice weather. But yesterday, Jessie comes out on the porch and surprises him. He hands her the mail and speeds off like he’s seen a ghost. A couple hours later, a carful of boys drives by while she’s out gardening and shouts ‘Hot Mama!’ Like they’ve rehearsed it.”

            Kelly snickers into her hand. “A drive-by flirting!” She taps a finger against her nose, giving my stories a thorough analysis. “So what’s your wife’s reaction to all of this?”

            “She’s so blissed out it’s hard to tell, but I think she’s enjoying it.”

            “Sort of a power trip?”

            “Yeah.”

            “I think that’s your answer. Power. Boys in a car, they’ll yell at anything that moves. But the men… Your wife’s pretty intimidating to begin with. Damon has added a certain sexual charge, and the combination is probably a little overwhelming.”

            I spot a quarter moon cutting up through the trees and consider her conclusion. “Yeah. I could see that. Should we start back?”

            “Yeah. I think we’d better.”

            Our luxurious weekend is the payout from several synchronicities. My blessed in-laws made off with the kids for a trip to Mammoth Lakes. Jessie made up some story about an ill friend in Placerville – where she is, no doubt, being plowed silly by Damon. And Kelly just happened to be house-sitting at a country estate across from the golf course.

            We’re traversing San Francisquito Creek when I spot a light coming from the pool house.

            “What’s that doing on?”

            “Kevin’s down there with his friend Arvind.”

            That freezes me. “Kevin? Son Kevin?”

            “Yes. Son Kevin.”

            “Goddammit, Kelly!” I whisper-shout. “I told you…”

            “I know what you told me,” she says, full-voice. “Did it occur to you that this could be a tremendously fun experience for my child?”

            “Yeah. And if you had told me he’d be here, I wouldn’t have come. I am not comfortable with your kid getting any impression of me as a father figure.”

            “Oh you’re so fucking gracious! Like you’re doing Kevin some goddamn favor. Everything you do is for the sake of one person – Hopkins Grinder – and nobody’s kid, yours or mine, figures into the eq…”

            I grab her by the arm.

            “I do everything for my kids, and you have no fucking right to say otherwise!”

            She shakes my grip and rubs her arm. If she had a paring knife, my eyes would be in jeopardy.

            “What about fucking me?” she says. “Are you doing that for your kids?”

            “As a matter of fact – yes.”

            “Asshole!” she hisses, then turns for the house. I can hear her muttering curses all the way up the path. I turn to see Kevin and his friend watching me from the pool house.

            I consider the jacket that I’ve left in the house and decide that it’s dispensable. I get out my keys, and head for the car.

Two days later, I’m the last one in the office, finishing a grant report. I’m almost done when I hear the steady pad of athletic shoes – Marty Quock, coming down the hallway.

            Marty’s the senior scientist, and therefore the guy I come into the most contact with. He’s a finely balanced blend of mellow but professional, with a quirk or two to make things interesting. With his gangly frame and round spectacles, he’s got the bookworm vibe nailed, but he’s also into nude beaches and those impossibly perfect Japanese anime girls.

He peers over the top of my cubicle like an anxious prairie vole.

            “Marty! What’s up?”

            “Hi, Hopkins. Are we… alone here?”

            “Far as I know.”

            He nudges his spectacles, trying to balance them on his thin nose. “It’s very important. I need to tell you something, and it’s very… sensitive information.”

            I stand and lean against my desk to give Marty my full attention. He rubs an earlobe between thumb and forefinger, the most favored of his nervous gestures.

            “I do not wish you to think badly of me, Hopkins. By telling you about this… item that I have found, I reveal something about myself that is not so flattering. But I feel I must do so, regardless.”

            He’s certainly got my attention. And now he’s rubbing the other earlobe.

            “What is it, Marty?”

            He reaches for his wallet and extracts a Post-It note, folded in half, temporarily sealed.

            “Please, Hopkins – wait till I’m gone. And when you pull it up, make sure that no one can see. I’m… I’m very sorry.”

            He walks away quickly, down the hall and out of the office. I open the Post-It to find an Internet address. I take a survey of the grounds, then angle my monitor toward the inside of my cubicle.

            When I punch in the address, the screen fills up with blue squares, then the squares turn into pictures. The first is my wife’s mouth, wrapped around Damon Karvitz’s penis. Damon is one well-hung motherfucker.

            A heading appears in gaudy orange – Horny Housewives – followed by a block of text: Watch our studly trio as they chase down married hotties and catch it all on hidden cameras. Wait till their husbands find out!

            I turn off my speakers and pull up a video file. Damon is doing Jessie doggie-style, gleefully mauling her cheeks. I gotta admit, she looks good.

Photo by MJV