How to Kill Your Wife Read online

  “What did she pester you about?”

  “The usual, you know.”

  “Peter, I don’t know, that’s why I asked.”

  “Doing the dishes, closing cupboard doors, taking out the trash, flossing my teeth, looking for work, not wasting my time painting and drawing or just thinking …”

  “Peter, what kind of work do you do?”

  “I run a small ad agency - very small these days - called The Idea Zone. I used to run it as a boutique agency that did a pretty large business, and I had a partner and a few employees. Now it’s down to just me and my dog. I did all the work, anyway, so I got rid of the whole lot of them. I write copy and do concept and graphic design. I used to be a pretty fair magic realist painter, but I do that just for fun now. I used to be a poet too, published in some junky little magazines, but I don’t write poetry any more.

  “I was going to semi-retire now that I’m approaching 60 and pursue my art; that was the plan, anyway. Kathryn actually did retire at 55 from the state government with a huge pension. That’s when all the trouble started. She was home all day spying on me and had time to search my computer whenever I was out. That’s how she caught me and Frannie.”

  “If you want to be an artist, why don’t you go hustle your work to galleries, get shows and contact dealers? Why don’t you sit down and write something and get it published for money? Lord knows you have enough time on your hands. You have hardly any clients left. Look at me; am I sitting on my ass and moaning about wanting to go see a shrink? If you think I’m going to support you, you have another thing coming.”

  “Whoa. You’re getting way ahead of me here, Peter. Our time is almost up. We’ll get back to all of those things in our next session, and I’ll need to ask you some more background questions then, too. Is there anything on your mind we need to talk about before we book a time for our next session?”

  “Nah, it can all wait. I feel better, sorta. I can’t really tell anybody most of this stuff. I have friends and all, but the stuff with me and Kathryn is pretty embarrassing, really. I never told anyone about Kathryn and sex before. Maybe I even have a fetish, huh? You know, for women with plastic parts?”

  Peter was pretty sure he had a fetish, but didn’t want to come out and say so. He didn’t want Lisa to think he was creepy.

  “Peter, when would you like to see me again?”

  “Sometime before I run out of money. But I still seem to be covered by her insurance so I’m good. How about next week, same day and time? Lisa, if I can figure out how to contact her, do you think we could both come to see you? I doubt she’ll do it, but I’d be willing.” Peter didn’t think that Kathryn would come, but couldn’t let go of a lingering hope that they could work things out. Maybe …

  “I’ve got an upcoming American Psychological Association conference, but I have one appointment open on Friday at 5 and one the Tuesday after I get back. Kathryn is welcome to participate in the session if she’s willing.”

  “Let’s go for this Friday, then. I’ll get busy playing detective and try to find her. But even if I don’t find her, or she won’t come, I want to get cured as soon as possible.” Peter gave Lisa one of his lady-killer grins and waved goodbye. Peter flirted out of habit, even though he had no sexual interest in Lisa.

  “Just see my assistant, Shelly, on the way out, to confirm Friday at 5 and get your receipt for this session.”

  Peter paid Lisa’s mousy, unsmiling assistant and gave her the same killer grin, which she didn’t return. Oh well, can’t win ’em all. Peter’s ego remained intact.

  Chapter 2

  Peter went out to his car and found a $20 parking ticket under the wiper. He threw it on top of the junk pile in the passenger-side footwell. He felt that he was entitled to artistic license when it came to having a filthy car. He also kept it that way because Kathryn refused to ride in it when it was dirty.

  He turned on his phone, got in the car and retrieved his messages.

  The first one was a woman who seemed to be disguising her voice. What she said never made any sense. This mystery caller had been calling on and off for a month - ever since Kathryn left. “Britches. Snitches. Stitches.”

  Peter was more curious about these calls than alarmed, but some little voice in the back of his head refused to let him dismiss them as benign. It could be some sex stalker after him. That was the upside. That could even be fun.

  The next call was Bobby. “Hi, beautiful. Call me back and tell me how it went at the shrink’s today. Did you have a good time? I always do with mine. Did you get into talking about your sexual orientation? You know that’s your real problem, honey. I can’t wait forever for you to finally come out of the closet and play with me. I’m not getting any younger, you big cocktease. When are you going to buy a girl some wings and a beer?” BEEP.

  Bobby was always good for some innocent flirting. They had been friends long before it was “in” to have a token gay friend. Peter loved attention, even if it was from a fag. Peter felt normal when he was around Bobby. His little fetish for plastic women seemed, well, insignificant, next to Bobby’s mad excursions into the freakier parts of the gay scene.

  The next call was a female voice. “Hello, Mr. Broviak, this is Martha Wainwright at King’s Cross Insurance. We’re your current provider for extended health-care insurance. I’m at 519-555-5115, extension 369 until 5 p.m. I have important information regarding your coverage.” BEEP.

  The next call was from Peter’s bank. “Peter, this is Don Wall, your account manager at the Commerce Bank and I’d appreciate a call back as soon as possible. I’m at 519-555-7845 and that’s a direct line.” BEEP.

  Peter returned Bobby’s call first as it seemed to hold the most potential for enjoyment. “Hello, Bobby. Don’t even dream that I’ll ever come out and that, if I did, I’d be interested in you.” The more he rejected Bobby, the more Bobby wanted him. Peter liked playing that card with Bobby and he suspected Bobby liked it too.

  “Oooh, aren’t we macho today? I like a strong man.”

  “What do you want, my faggy little friend?” It seemed kind of cool to Peter to be able to say “faggy,” especially to a fag.

  “Now you’ve hurt me. I take offense at being called ‘little’ by someone who doesn’t know whereof he speaks.”

  Peter wondered just how big Bobby’s dick was but didn’t really want to know. “Jesus. You sound like it’s your time of the month. And Bobby, cut the lisp. You sell brakes, shears and presses to sheet-metal shops, and I am certain you don’t lisp on sales calls.”

  “You have no idea how many queers work in sheet-metal shops, Peter. Most of the shops are like gay and smoky-gray Peyton Places, filled with big rough hands and tender hearts …”

  “Gay and gray, nice - a lot like you. I’m calling to ask when you want to buy me some wings and beer. It’s your turn. You know I’m paying the mortgage for two, now that the previous administration has abandoned me. Besides, you’re the only person I know with less luck in relationships than I have. And wear your lumberjack jacket and boots because we’re going to Buddy Jack’s for wings, and I don’t want us to get our asses whupped by drunken truck drivers.” Peter pictured himself playing the hero, standing up for his gay friend if someone started bothering him in the bar.

  “How’s Thursday at sixish? I’ll start planning my butch look right now.”

  “Over and out, good buddy. See you down the road at Jack’s.” Peter was already looking forward to it. He was really sweet on Bobby, but the game was never to let on.

  Faced with the prospect of returning the other calls, Peter opted for the insurance company as the least intimidating option.

  “Good afternoon, King’s Cross Insurance. How may I direct your call?”

  “I’d like my good friend Martha at 369, please,” Peter chirped in his friendliest voice.

  “One moment, sir, and I’ll connect you with 369. Thank you.”

  “Martha Wainright speaking. How may I help you?”
/>   “This is Peter Broviak. You left a message for me.”

  “Yes, Mr. Broviak, let me call up your file. Here it is. Just confirm a few details for me so that I can be assured of your identity. Give me your date of birth, please, and your Zip code.”

  Peter relayed the information, chafing at the red tape.

  “Thank you, Mr. Broviak. As you know, you were listed on your wife’s retirement and health coverage package as a dependant. You wife has instructed us by letter to remove you from her coverage. We tried to inform you of this by e-mail and have had no acknowledgement, so we’re telephoning as a courtesy.”

  “Okay. Consider me informed, then.” If this was a courtesy call, he wondered, what would a rude one sound like?

  “Oh, Mr. Broviak, there’s another matter we need to discuss. We paid for our portion of a prescription you ordered from the Tudhope Pharmacy last week. Is it correct that you filled a prescription for an antidepressant at that pharmacy? It seems we received the letter from your wife removing your coverage before the prescription was filled, but it was not entered into our system as of the date you filled the prescription. We have nullified the payment to the pharmacy, and we expect you may be getting a call from the Tudhope Pharmacy regarding this nullification. I hope this doesn’t inconvenience you, and we offer our apologies.”

  “Okay, Martha, I understand, but I have a little story to tell you. I’ll try to keep it short.”

  “Certainly. We’re here to listen.”

  “Thank you. My wife and your client, Kathryn Stanton, isn’t big on reading. When she retired from the government, she asked me to look over her retirement plan. I remember we were both kind of shocked that some of the coverage of the named dependant – that would be me - was irrevocable and non-transferable. I remember the life-insurance part in particular, and the pension-guarantee provision to pay the full pension out to the dependant in the case of the pension holder predeceasing said dependant.”

  Peter thought that if only Kathryn could step in front of a bus, all of his money problems would be solved. As he was the beneficiary of her pension and insurance, Kathryn was certainly worth more to him dead than alive.

  “I assure you, Mr. Broviak, that the health coverage was revocable and transferable. I don’t know about the rest of the coverage. You would have to talk to one of our life and annuity specialists. Would you like me to transfer you?"

  “No, no. That’ll be all right. I’m sure you know your end of the business. I guess there isn’t much use in claiming the psychological services I consumed earlier today?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Broviak. If that’s all for you today, I thank you for calling King’s Cross Insurance and let me assure you that we’re always here for you - just a phone call away.”

  With this good news under his belt, Peter figured that, what the heck, the call to the bank couldn’t be any worse. After all, he had money in both his personal and business accounts and was not behind on the mortgage payment. But it was worse - far worse.

  “Hello, you’ve reached the Commerce Bank, Don Wall speaking.”

  “Hello, Don, it’s Peter Broviak. You called me earlier.”

  “Yes, Mr. Broviak. I tried to reach you earlier today when your wife was here. I’m afraid we had a misunderstanding with her that turned into an ‘incident,’ but it has now been resolved. I’m afraid that several people at this branch, me included, are new hires and we didn’t recognize your wife when she tried to execute a rather large transaction.”

  “Don, my wife has only ever visited your branch once to sign our mortgage papers, and that was three years ago. She doesn’t bank with you and doesn’t have an account there. How could she try to execute a transaction?”

  “Uh, Mr. Broviak, I’m afraid your wife does indeed have an account here. Your checking account is joint, as is the line of credit attached to it. We always put the co-mortgage holder’s name on the account from which the mortgage payments are automatically withdrawn. It’s policy. You and Ms. Stanton signed the papers making the account joint at the same time as you signed the mortgage agreement.

  “Maybe I should explain the incident. Your wife was quite upset, and I assure you that it was not our intention to upset her in any way. We telephoned you to help us identify her, since the transaction she requested was both unusual and large. Your wife wanted to withdraw the entire balance of the checking account - some six thousand, three hundred and eleven dollars and eleven cents - as well as the full twenty thousand dollars of the credit line attached to that account, and she wanted it all in cash. I’m afraid when we attempted to verify her identity beyond the signature - which, admittedly, did look similar to the one on the signing card - she verbally assaulted a teller and the teller’s supervisor. We had to give the teller the rest of the day off because she was so upset by your wife’s behavior, particularly after we told Ms. Stanton that we were going to telephone you. This made your wife very angry. I’m afraid she said some rather unflattering things about you.

  “Then she stormed out of the branch only to return later with a small dark-haired woman she said was her lawyer. Ms. Stanton brought her passport with her this time, which listed you as her spouse. You see, she only had a driver’s license with her the first time she was here and it didn’t have the current address of your co-mortgaged matrimonial home on it. We’re very sorry if we upset Ms. Stanton in any way.”

  “Don, I’m sure you did your best. My wife can be difficult when she doesn’t get her way. She was, until recently, the former head of the State Department of Education and is used to lording it over mere clerks. Thank you for calling me, Don. Good luck with your new job.”

  Peter started the car and began the 20-minute drive to the bedroom community where he lived. The rather large and rather expensive co-mortgaged matrimonial home took up nearly an acre on the pretty tree-lined main street. Seeing from the little light on his dash that his tank was almost empty, Peter pulled into the nearest gas station. It was a full-service location where attendants still washed the windshield and called a driver “sir” or “ma’am.”

  After filling the tank and trying to run Peter’s credit card, the attendant came up to the car and said hesitantly, “Sir, I believe there’s a problem with your credit card. I’m sure it’s nothing, but do you have a different card, maybe? Our machine is sometimes funny about some of these older magnetic strips.”

  Peter knew immediately what was wrong with the credit card. It was a joint card with Kathryn. He couldn’t wait to get home and check his online banking to see exactly how and where she had maxed out the $30,000 credit limit. The balance on this card was normally under a thousand a month, so Kathryn must have gone on a $29,000 spending spree.

  Peter dug out another card he kept in the car for emergencies, and paid the polite attendant. But he didn’t pull out immediately to drive home. He sat in stunned silence until someone behind him honked, wanting him to get out of the way. It was getting late in the day, and Rex needed a walk. Peter was too frightened to contemplate how much other shit Kathryn had pulled, or was thinking of pulling, on this nightmarish day.

  Chapter 3

  It was now early evening. Peter drove up his driveway and swung around at the end, parking the car nose out near the back door. He cast his usual appreciative glance at his near-mint ’86 Cobra. It was sitting in its normal spot and glowing a sunset red but listing oddly to port.

  “Shit, it’s the fucking tire. Shit, it’s both fucking tires on that side, and one on this side,” Peter said aloud. It struck him as odd that only three of the tires had been slashed. One or four seemed to make more sense, if there was any way of making sense out of a senseless act. And he had only one spare in the garage.

  Peter retreated to the house to call AAA and report the vandalism. He unlocked the door and turned on some lights. The house seemed different, in a way that didn’t instantly register. Even more oddly, Rex wasn’t running up to greet him.

  “Rex. Rex. Here, boy … where are you, Re
x?” Whenever Rex didn’t come right way, Peter started to think he might have died of a mysterious illness. It was a morbid thought, but Peter depended on the dog for emotional support now that Kathryn was gone.

  Then he noticed that all of the windows in the house were staring at him like big square dark eyes. The curtains were gone! Rex was gone! Someone had flattened his tires, stolen his curtains and done God-knows-what to his dog! Curtains? Who would steal curtains? Peter knew this was the work of the bitch, just like the credit card, the bank accounts and the insurance.

  “Rex! Rex!”

  Nothing … No dog … Peter began to panic in earnest.

  Then he had a sudden burst of intuition. Kathryn had been there in his absence and used her old house key. She had taken the curtains, stolen his dog and flattened his tires. He rushed through the house looking for the evidence of her raid, and what he saw paralyzed him. Three of his best paintings, his very best work that he had proudly hung in the dining room, had been spray-painted and slashed. The word “WHORE” in Day-Glo orange was written across each painting and again on the adjoining wall.

  He rushed to the living room and found the words “One, Two, “Me” written in what looked like blood on the picture window. Peter collapsed to his knees and started sobbing, “Rex, Rex, Rex,” over and over again.

  He heard barking from the street side of the house and ran to the front door. He unlocked it and opened it, and Rex bounded into the house looking no worse for wear.

  “Rex, Rex, Rex, my Rexy dog, you’re alive! My pretty baby dog … Were you out in the road? Oh, God, what did that cunt do to us? She slashed my babies and let you loose in the street! What kind of fucking monster would do that? You’re all I have left!” Peter wept openly and pounded his fists on the floor. The noise frightened Rex and he backed off a few steps.

  “Look! My paintings!” Peter pointed out the paintings to Rex; Rex looked at Peter’s finger. “All I had left were some stupid fucking paintings that nobody wanted to buy and a stupid fucking dog who runs away. At least I still have you, baby dog, but all my other treasures are fucked! We’re gonna find her. She can’t get away with this. Are you okay, Rexy? Did she hurt you, too?” Peter quit pounding on the floor and gestured to Rex to come back to his hands.