John Hart - The King Of Lies

“Move where?” I asked, because I had no choice. I dreaded her answer, mainly because I knew what it would be.

She laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Don’t joke,” she said.

The last of my pleasure vanished, devoured by the cruel hunger in her voice. “I’m not,” I said. “Are you?”

I watched as her face softened but saw that it was forced. The muscles still clenched in her once-lovely jawline.

“Into Ezra’s house. Into our new house.”

“What in the world makes you think that we’re moving into that house?”

“I just thought… I mean…”

“Damn it, Barbara, we can barely afford this house, and it’s not even half the size of my father’s.”

“It’s such a lovely home,” she said. “I just assumed…”

“You assumed we’d move into an eight-thousand-square-foot house we can’t afford to heat?”

“But the will-”

“I don’t even know what’s in the will!” I exclaimed. “I don’t have a clue!”

“But Glena said-”

I exploded. “Glena! I should have known. Is that what you two were talking about last night?” I thought of the miserable hours I’d spent in the garage while my wife and her detestable friend planned Barbara’s rise to eminence. “You had it all planned out.”

A change came over Barbara as I watched. Suddenly, she was cool dispassion.

“It makes sense if we’re going to start a family,” she said, then sipped her wine and watched me with a hunter’s patience. It was not fair. Barbara knew how much I wanted children. I sighed deeply and poured straight Baileys into my cup.

“Are you blackmailing me?” I asked. “Children for Ezra’s house?”

“Of course not,” she said. “I’m merely suggesting that children would be a logical next step for us, and we could use the extra space.”

I tried to calm myself. Exhaustion descended upon me like wet cement, but I decided nonetheless that it might be time to face some ugly truths. Vanessa’s tear-streaked face came unbidden to my mind. I thought of the things she’d said, the truths she’d thrust under my nose, truths so abhorrent to me that I’d crushed her rather than face them.

“How come we never had children, Barbara?” I asked.

“You said you needed to concentrate on your career.” Her response was immediate and unrehearsed, and I realized that she believed it. An appalling silence filled my head, an arctic calm.

“I never said that,” I assured her. The very thought of it was absurd. I had sacrificed more than enough to the hollow idol of my law career. I would never give up the idea of children.

“You most certainly did,” Barbara said. “I remember it clearly. You wanted to concentrate on the practice.”

“Every time I brought up children, Barbara, you told me that you weren’t ready yet. You changed the subject. If it had been up to me, we’d have five by now.”

Strange awareness moved across her face, a shadow of understanding. “Maybe it was Ezra,” she said, then jerked, as if stunned that she had actually said the words.

“‘Maybe it was Ezra’?” I repeated.

“That’s not what I meant,” she said, but it was too late. I knew what she meant, and suddenly my ears roared, a cacophony that threatened to knock me from my chair.

Maybe it was Ezra.

Maybe… it… was… Ezra.

I gaped at my wife as if from a distance and I understood. Ezra wanted me to carry on his tradition of greatness. She wanted me to make more money. Children would distract me. Her features rippled into something that terrified me. Wife and father had conspired to rob me of my children and I’d let them do it, as plodding and dumb as any farm animal. The clarity overwhelmed me. I stumbled from my chair, her voice a distant buzz. Somehow, I found the bottle of scotch and poured a full tumbler. Barbara was looking at me. Her lips moved, and then she walked to the kitchen on a stranger’s legs. Time stood still as she rinsed plates, loaded the dishwasher, and wiped down the counter. She looked at me as she worked, as if worried that I might disappear. But I could not move; there was no one to lead me. I think I laughed at that.

When she finally came for me, I was drunk beyond words, lost in depths I never believed could exist. Stolen! The children I’d always wanted, the family I’d looked forward to since college. By those I should trust the most, my life had been stolen from me. And I’d let it happen. Call it blind trust. Call it cowardice. Call it the complicity of inaction. I shared the guilt, and the enormity of that fact overwhelmed me.

As if through fog, my wife’s hand reached for me. She led me to the bedroom, put me down, and stood before me. Her lips moved and the words followed sometime later. “Don’t worry, darling. We’ll figure it all out. I’m sure Ezra provided.” Her words made little sense.

She undressed, hanging her top carefully before turning back to present her breasts to me like manna from some other man’s heaven. She slipped off her skirt, revealing legs of carved bronze. She was a statue brought to life, a trophy for good behavior. Her fingers found the fasteners of the clothes that should have armored me but didn’t; she took my pants with a victor’s smile, told me to relax, and knelt before me. I knew this was wrong but hid behind closed eyes as she spoke in tongues and wove spells of terrible power; so I surrendered myself, and in surrender knew the damnation of the utterly corrupt.

Sunday morning, early, I cracked my eyes to cold gray light. It stole under the blinds to touch the bed but left most of the room dark. Barbara slept beside me, her leg sweaty against my own. I edged to the far side of the bed and held myself still. I felt fragile. Glue bound my eyelids, and the tongue that filled my mouth tasted like something long dead. I thought of the brutal truths so often borne on predawn light. I’d had a few in my time, and they’d all led to this. I was a stranger to myself. I’d gone to law school for my father, married for my father; and for that same man, and for the vile woman who shared my bed, I’d surrendered my dreams of family-my very soul. Now he was dead and all I had was this truth: My life was not my own. It belonged to an empty shell that wore my face. Yet I refused to pity myself.

I lifted my head to peer at Barbara: sleep-matted hair, creased skin, open mouth that glistened on the inside. My face twisted at the sight, but still, even on this dawn of revelation, I had to acknowledge her beauty. But I hadn’t married her for her looks; I could tell myself that and believe it. I’d married her for her intensity, her energy. The tail wind of her convictions had swept me into her wake: She would make the perfect wife and only a fool would let her go. Somehow I’d come to believe that, and I thought that now I knew the ugly reasons why. Vanessa had said it: I married her for Ezra. Jesus.

My feet found the floor and I groped my way out of the room. In the laundry room, I found a pair of dirty jeans and some flip-flops. I collected the telephone and a pack of cigarettes and sat on the front porch. Mist was over the park and it was cold. I shivered as I lit up and blew smoke at the world. Nothing moved, and in the stillness I felt very much alive. I dialed Vanessa’s number. Her machine answered and I knew that she was already out of bed, barefoot in the wet grass. As I waited for the beep, I decided to tell her the truth: that she was right and that I was sorry. Not that I loved her. Not yet. That had to be face-to-face, and I wasn’t ready. There were other issues there, stuff that had nothing to do with truth or with the fact that my life was a mess. But I did want her to know that I understood. That she was right and I was wrong. So I let it all out. The words were just words, a pale start all in all, but they had to count for something. As I turned the phone off, I felt good. I had no idea what the future held, but I didn’t care.