So if Mom Jeans is the least of my troubles, Bloody Mary is the most of it. Mr. N's former employee , she quit, years ago (I now believe it was because her husband is smarter than I am, figured out what was going on between them, and made her quit) but their relationship lives on to this day.
When I started poking around Mr. N's emails and phone records I was alarmed to see that they talk on a daily basis. Funny, he never mentions her to me, not ever in 15 years since she left the company unless I ask. And they'e so close, it's obvious. Among other things, he does homework for her kids and helps her family members get jobs; oh, and that car we gave to the poor down-and-out soul at work? The poor down-and-out soul was Bloody Mary's sister. He's taken a more active interest in her and her family than in ours and I pretty much immediately decided I needed to get a look at her, so planned a field trip to her house.
She didn’t appear to be home, but I couldn’t be sure. The garage door was closed and the newspaper was still on the front porch. It was possible that she wasn’t yet up, but unlikely since it was 9:00 am and I probably just hadn’t gotten there early enough. I decided that I would wait until 11:00 for any sign of her and that if there was none, I’d return the following Tuesday at 7:00 am or maybe even earlier. Mr. N was going to be out of town and I could (and should) leave the house by 6:00 am. It was a good plan.
I’d brought a book to read and a spy kit and they lay waiting for me on the passenger seat. I unpacked the kit and made a little mission control center on my dashboard. Camera? Check. Binoculars? Check. Notebook and pen? Check and check. Looking at them made my stomach hurt a little and at the same time I was oddly encouraged, like I was taking control of the situation. Doing something, anyway.
I didn’t feel like picking up the book yet and I’d noticed a garage sale at the house directly across from 23 Erie Street so I decided to gather up the binocular and camera and take a little stroll. I hate garage sales – who wants other people's old shit anyway? The shit at this garage sale was particularly shitty but I pretended to be interested in a beat up razor scooter, “for my niece”, I told the woman who lived there. I barely looked at it, focusing most of my attention across the street. But the woman didn’t seem to notice. She seemed pretty excited to be unloading the razor scooter and I felt a little bad to be wasting her time. I almost bought the thing, I honestly did, just to thank her for letting me spy from her driveway.
Still keeping half an eye on 23 Erie Street I noticed that the mailman was on the porch and leaving mail and so I abruptly put the scooter down and told the dejected looking woman that I was “going to have to think about it”. Walking as slowly as I possibly could back to my car I watched to see if anyone came out to collect the mail. No luck. “Wow their mail comes early here in Whoretown,” I remember thinking. “She’s so lucky.”
Finally after about a half hour later something happened – the garage door at 23 Erie Street opened and a black Lexus SUV approached from the street. Was it her? Damn, I couldn’t see! The door stayed open but from my car I just couldn’t see anyone at all. When I was imagining this day and planning it I’d pictured myself sitting in my car from the side street to do my spying but I could see now that this was impractical. I guess having been there a while I was getting a little bold because I decided to leave the car completely and stand out in the open on the sidewalk across the street. I guess I remember wondering if anyone could see me doing it, but I didn’t care. I’d driven all that way and I really didn’t want to have to come back on Tuesday. I ended up standing there for a good hour.
“Come out here you bitch. Your mail’s here. Don’t you want your mail?” I was talking out loud now, and maybe loud enough for the people in the house I was standing in front of to hear me. “You never brought your newspaper in, you whore. Why don’t you come and get it? There might be some news in it that fucking whores like you enjoy.” Still out loud and maybe even a little louder, “ I said come out here you fucking cunt. I don’t have all day. Fine, I can wait, you bitch. And if you don’t come out this morning I’ll come back Tuesday. And every week after that until I see you, you filthy, stinking whore.”
A young Asian man was walking toward me down the sidewalk. Had he heard me? Who cared? – not me. I almost hoped that he had, and that he knew her and would tell her the next time he saw her, “Hey, there was a nice looking (that’s the way he said it in my day dream) lady standing across the street from you this morning calling you a cunt and telling you to come out and get your paper.” I guess anything’s possible.
At 11:00 am I gave up and went back to my car. You’d think I would have been feeling defeated but I felt good to be taking action. The mailman was walking up the side street giving me a funny look and I imagined him calling the police to report a suspicious character in the neighborhood. No matter, I had taken this possible eventuality into consideration while I was making my plans to visit 23 Erie Street. I’d decided what I’d say if a police officer (or anyone else for that matter) approached me. I’d planned to say I was house hunting, but then when I saw the garage sale I figured I could just say I was there for that.
I considered telling anyone who asked the truth. That I was there to get a look at a woman that was sleeping with my husband. I wasn’t planning to confront her or anything, or have any kind of conversation at all. I just wanted to see her; to know what I was dealing with. I wanted to know what it was about this stinking cunt that Mr. N was so infatuated with. What was so wonderful about her that he was willing to risk our marriage, ruin our family, and change all of our lives for?
I took one more look at 21300 from my car and then started driving home. She wasn’t coming out any time soon, I guessed. Fuck her. I’d be back.
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