When Love Goes Bad Page 12

  He released me and headed back to the tree. Halfway there, he turned back around to face me. “Once I finish here, I’m free for the rest of the day. Want to do something?”

  “Sure. Why don’t I start by helping you?”

  Together, we made quick work of the job. As we labored, I felt a peaceful calm wash over me, mingled with excitement at the thought of spending the day with Paul.

  I didn’t know if it would lead anywhere, but at least I no longer feared what the rest of my life might be like. Right then and there, the future held many pleasant possibilities. THE END

  Silicone And Scalpels Destroy A Marriage

  AFTER THE EXTREME MAKEOVER

  “I want my wife back!”

  I’ve always loved my wife.

  Correction: my ex-wife.

  I still love her. For twenty-five years I worked hard to keep our marriage together. But after Dreama had her extreme makeover, I couldn’t hold onto her any more.

  I wasn’t exciting enough for her. At sixty, I was dismal, dull. She sought the company of younger men. And with her new-and-improved looks and quirky personality, Dreama had no trouble attracting studs as young as our sons.

  As much as I’ve tried to hate her and whack her out of my mind, I know if all that silicone and Botox were to explode inside her flesh and every ounce of liposuctioned fat were to reattach itself to her body—if her surgeon botched her next plastic surgery and turned her into the Bride of Frankenstein—I’d take her back in a heartbeat, if she asked, sack of slop that I am where Dreama’s concerned.

  It’s been like that ever since the first time I laid eyes on her a quarter of a century ago.

  Dreama was working in a high-class ladies’ apparel shop—“Boutique is the correct term,” says Dreama.

  I trudged in the door. I’d never been inside a boutique before.

  The attractive saleslady approached. “Hi. Need some help?” She recognized right off what a rube I was.

  Awkward, ill at ease, I felt as out of place as a prizefighter at a tea party. I’d gone into the shop to buy my mother a birthday present. I was making pretty good money working for my mom’s brother, my Uncle Seth, at his salvage yard, and I wanted a special gift for her—something better than I’d ever given her—something that hadn’t come from the discount rack. I wanted Mom to know how much I appreciated all she’d done for me—and continued to do—over the years, raising me on her own like she had. Dad died unexpectedly when I was five years old, leaving Mom broke, so Uncle Seth let Mom work in the office at the salvage yard.

  “Uh, I’m looking for a present,” I told the saleslady, blushing furiously as I wiped my sweaty palms on my slacks.

  “Who for? Your girlfriend?” she asked robustly, trying to suppress a grin.

  “No. My mother.”

  “Oh. Your mother?” she repeated, her grin widening. I think she wanted to wisecrack right then and there, but then she thought better of it and went straight to helping me find a present.

  “Hmmm . . . what about a scarf? You can’t go wrong with a designer scarf.”

  “A designer scarf?” I repeated like an idiot.

  She nodded, eyes sparkling. “We just got these in.” She twirled behind the counter and pulled a couple of silk scarves off a display. “They’re Vera. Very popular and pretty. See anything here you think your mother would like?”

  She gazed squarely into my face. Her almond-shaped, crystal-blue eyes were mesmerizing. Her sleek, blond hair was turned up on the sides and in the front, in what she told me later was a Farrah Fawcett flip.

  “I say again, ‘see anything you like?’ Because I sure see something I like.” She smiled slyly, teasingly.

  I’d not yet glanced at the scarves. I was trapped like a moth in a web by this playful nymph’s come-on, but then her flirtatious manner somehow relieved my shyness and sparked my nerve. “I believe I see something I like, too.”

  Our eyes held steady until another customer swept in the door and the spell was broken.

  But in fact, the spell was not broken; it was cast. That foxy female—I learned that her name was Dreama—had my engine revved and running, and in sixty seconds, we were roaring off into the sunset together.

  Three months later, we were man and wife. Three years later, we were the parents of two sons. And in all the years we were married, I thought we were a pretty satisfied, old married couple. I know I was a pretty satisfied, old married man. Oh, we had our fits and starts, revving up and backing down, but I loved Dreama like crazy. And anything I could do to make her happy, I tried to do.

  Dreama was spunky and energetic. Nobody was ever bored when Dreama was around. Including me.

  She was a good mother, too. Fun. And our sons adored her. When they were teenagers and older, Dreama was more like a sister to them than a mother. Then when the boys finally moved away and started families of their own, Dreama missed them more than she’d ever imagined she would. As long as they were around, Dreama kept herself busy and entertained doing for them. And for me.

  I worked hard, long hours—especially after Uncle Seth retired and turned the salvage yard over to me. That salvage dump made us a fine living. It’s a good thing, too, because Dreama spent moola as fast as I brought it home. Dreama liked nice clothes for all of us, nice furniture for the house, and a week’s vacation every year for our family at Point Pleasant or Belmar. One year, she even booked us on a five-day cruise to Aruba.

  She wanted the boys to have everything they wanted, too. And more. She didn’t spoil them exactly, but she didn’t want other kids to pick on our sons because they lacked the hottest toys or the latest fad sneakers or haircuts. At least Dreama respected and understood the tough labor it took for me to provide our family with those comforts, and she showed her appreciation willingly . . . in a very sexual manner, you might say.

  Too willingly sometimes, if you ask me. Dreama was certainly never a Frigidaire, like some men I know claim their wives are. No siree. Hot blood bubbled through that woman’s veins, and she’d take me on anytime, day or night.

  I’d drag home from the dump about eight or nine most nights, dog-tired. Dreama would have a good, hot supper waiting for me on the table, and after I’d had my fill washed down with a few brewskis, she’d send me to the shower and then to bed. I was always ready to saw some lumber. But then Dreama would crawl into our king-size bed and start making her moves, and I’d promptly forget how tired I was.

  I always wanted her luscious body, but it crossed my mind more than a few times: What if I didn’t? What if I turned her down when she came around, spraying her she-scent?

  That’s a far-fetched problem for most men. Most men can only dream of a passionate wife like Dreama. But Dreama wasn’t driven by passionate love for me. Oh, she loved me alright. But she loved herself more.

  Not exactly loved herself, but she had certain ideas about what her life should be like. And she definitely gave it her all, trying to make her life live up to her dreams.

  When I look back, it’s like she was living in a movie from the day I laid eyes on her. Dreama was the star—make that the starlet—and as long as she was on screen, commanding everyone’s attention, she was on top of the world. But if she was pushed off stage, not in the center of the limelight, she was bored and miserable. She knew only how to be adored and admired.

  And after the boys left home and she was stuck with me alone, Dreama kind of did an about-face. Suddenly, there was no one close by in her life to need her or brag on her or love her except me.

  And I simply wasn’t enough for her.

  I had to run the salvage business every day, still working long hours even after the boys were gone. Dreama had friends, but no purpose, no project—no reason, really, to get up in the mornings.

  I fault myself for not helping her enough in her transition. But I was simply too busy at work and too tired at home. Still, I should’ve had sense enough to see what was gradually happening right before my eyes when she stopped slipping into
her sexy nighties and lighting candles in our bedroom every night. I should have recognized that Dreama was in trouble. Depression, I guess you’d call it. Maybe even a midlife crisis, if ladies have them, too.

  Unfortunately, by the time I finally caught onto her “transformation,” she was already too far gone down the road looking for that fountain of youth for me to pull her back. Or maybe I couldn’t have, even if I’d tried.

  No, that’s false. I did recognize her unhappiness, and I did make an attempt to perk her up.

  I pulled her into my arms one night when she seemed especially down. “Are you missing the boys that much, Dreama?” I asked her. “You still have me, you know. And I love you more and more every day.” I kissed her tenderly, then fiercely. She still turned me on like I was seventeen.

  We made love that night, and Dreama seemed content afterward, lying in my arms. But then she started asking me questions that were strange, coming from the super-confident, super-sexy woman I’d always known.

  “Tony, do you think I’m losing my looks?”

  “Of course not! You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, babe.”

  And I meant it. No woman had ever caught my eye like Dreama did. I’m a one-woman man and I’d never had any reason to bypass Dreama and look elsewhere.

  “Well, I do. I’ve been thinking of getting my eyes done, actually. Just a little lift. And maybe a tuck under my chin.” Frowning, she pulled at an almost nonexistent pinch of skin under her chin.

  “Your eyes are gorgeous just the way they are, babe,” I told her, kissing her again and then rolling over to go to sleep.

  It was the wrong thing to say.

  “You mean you don’t want to pay for the surgery. That’s what you mean,” she spat coldly.

  I turned back over to face her. “No, honey, that’s not it at all.” I had my first awakening then about just how deep her problem lay. I sat up in the bed and paused, wide awake now. “Look, Dreama—if you really want to go messing with your face and do something like that, then—okay. The money doesn’t have anything to do with it. I just don’t see the need for it. But if you want it, do it.”

  She was soaring that night. I guess she thought a nip here, a tuck there would bring back her youthful vitality. And like I’d vowed, if Dreama wanted something, I tried to give it to her.

  She had the bags removed from under her eyes and her chin done.

  “Don’t you think I look ten years younger?” she exclaimed several weeks after the surgery. “I went to Merle Norman today and had a personal makeup artist do my face. I bought a ton of great, new beauty products. Don’t I look beautiful, Tony?” She was as giddy as a schoolgirl.

  “You look amazing, babe!” She did look beautiful. But she had been beautiful before; I couldn’t see why she needed all of this. But I said, “You’re gorgeous, doll—simply gorgeous. And if you’re happy, I’m happy.”

  She was happy alright, and she showed me—physically. We gave our mattress a workout like it hadn’t had in months.

  Next was the tummy tuck.

  “I need to get rid of some of this flab,” she piped one night, inspecting herself in the full-length mirror on the back of our bedroom door. She turned from side to side with a frown on her face, picking and pulling at the tight, tan skin that covered her flat stomach. “It’s a disgrace. And I want to look sexy in my bikini this summer. Tony, let’s go to Point Pleasant! We’ll rent a big beach house and invite the boys and their families!”

  She was high on hopes and dreams again. As long as Dreama was reshaping her body and making grandiose plans for fun and frolic, she was satisfied. For a while.

  So Dreama had the tummy tuck and we rented the beach house.

  “Mom, you look great!” the boys told her that summer.

  “I sure hope I look that good when I’m your age,” one of our daughters-in-law, Denise, chimed in. Immediately, she clamped her hand over her mouth, realizing what she’d said. “Oh—gosh—I didn’t mean that you’re old, Dreama. I mean, nobody would ever guess that you’re a day over twenty-five!”

  Dreama’s dark thundercloud of a frown was instantly replaced with a brilliant-white, dazzling Colgate smile. “Well, thank you, Denise honey.”

  That week at Point Pleasant showed me a side of Dreama I’d never seen before. And I didn’t like it one bit.

  “Let’s go to the tiki bar with the kids tonight, okay, Tony?”

  Dreama had just stepped out of the shower after a day in the sun, soaking up the rays on the beach in her Day-Glo pink thong bikini. Now, back in our bedroom at the beach house, she slathered lotion on her smooth skin, which was toned and tanned and looked like caramel candy: good enough to eat.

  “I bet I know what we can do to pass the time till dinner,” she purred, letting her towel drop to the floor and sliding onto the bed where I was resting.

  Who could resist an invitation like that? Well, I could—but I didn’t. Sure, I was dead tired from working all week trying to get the salvage yard in sufficient shape to go off and leave it in my assistant’s hands for seven days. And I’d driven for two hours to get to Point Pleasant, and all I really wanted right then was to lie back on the bed with a cold beer in my hand and watch the news, and then go off to the Steak And Ale for a nice, thick, juicy T-bone. But I couldn’t turn Dreama down. I never had. In all the years we’d been married, I’d never let her know that I didn’t want or need sex as much as she did.

  It caught up with me on that trip, though. Even with her retouched body parts and her wild-girl attitude, I still couldn’t make love to her as much as she wanted. In fact, that beach trip was the first time in our life together that I had to tell Dreama, “Honey, I’m just too tired right now.” In fact, that’s exactly what I said to her after our late night out at the tiki bar with the boys and their wives.

  I didn’t have a good time that night. As it was, I was longing for our king-size bed back at the beach house and a ballgame on the bedroom TV. But Dreama was all into the club thing big-time. She was drinking a little too much—more than I’d known her to—and she wanted to dance, dance, dance to the music.

  I did a few bumps and grinds with her out on the dance floor, but then I’d had it. Dreama was acting silly and reckless. A couple of muscular lifeguard types asked her to dance and she was thrilled like she was the queen of the prom or something. If our sons noticed that their mother was making a bit of a fool of herself, they didn’t let on. And I decided that I should keep my cool and just let her have her fun.

  Because she did seem like she was having the best time she’d had since the boys left home. After all, we were on vacation, and people tend to relax and do dumb things on vacation that they might not do otherwise. So I let it go. I didn’t scold or ridicule her.

  And that night when we got back to our bedroom at the beach house, Dreama was definitely still revved up. She pulled off all of her clothing piece by piece, bumping and grinding around the room seductively like a stripper during Fleet Week.

  “Tony, come to Mama. I’m ready to do the nasty,” she purred, grinding suggestively.

  “Baby, I’m just too tired right now. I’ve got to catch some Z’s.” I fell onto the bed. “Just come to bed and go to sleep,” I coaxed, patting the pillows.

  That sobered her up. “What?” she snapped tersely. “You mean you don’t want to do it?” Her face flushed scarlet. “You mean you’re refusing me?” She staggered to the bed and plopped down beside me almost haggardly. “I don’t believe this. You’ve never said no to . . . aw, to hell with you then, Tony! Never mind! Who needs you, anyway? Did you see those hunks tonight? They were lovin’ me!”

  Dreama wavered. She clutched her hand to her forehead. “I don’t feel so good,” she mumbled, and then she toppled back onto the bed and fell asleep. Wrong—

  She passed out.

  It wasn’t a scene I wanted to remember. But I did, and I wondered if Dreama would remember. Or if she’d been too stoned to realize how repugnant she’d been,
and that I had not answered her call to ecstasy.

  She remembered. “What was wrong with you last night, Grandpa?” she snorted the next morning when we were laying on the beach, soaking up the rays. “Too old to cut the mustard?”

  “I was tired, babe. And you were. . . .” I didn’t want to say what I really thought. “. . . . not well.”

  “Oh, I was well! You just can’t handle this hot tamale!”

  We spoke little the rest of the day, tiptoeing around each other, trying to make nice around the others, but put out with each other big-time. As the evening wore on and our annoyance with each other wore out, we went for seafood at Moe’s Shrimp Shack with the whole family. And when Dreama and I met up in bed that night, things were good again. We made up and made love.

  But I didn’t forget that unpleasant episode from the previous night. Neither did Dreama. Because that was the night I guess we both realized that our marriage was beginning to crack.

  We came back from vacation and I delved right back into my workload at the salvage yard. As usual, it took me weeks to catch up on everything that had fallen behind while I was gone for only one week.

  Once again, Dreama was left with little to do and it was now a whole year until our next vacation when she said to me one night, “Tony, I’m getting a part-time job. At Lacey’s—that women’s boutique over in the Ridgefield Mall.”

  “You are?” I was taken aback. She hadn’t worked in ten years—not since the boys were in junior high. “Well, I guess that’ll be good, if you think so.”

  “I do. I need to get out of this house and do something! And a little extra money will be nice, even though I probably won’t make that much. But I’m not doing it for the money, anyway.”

  A few weeks into the job, Dreama announced that she wanted to have Lasik surgery on her eyes. “I can’t stand wearing reading glasses just to try and read price tags and run the cash register,” she groused.

  “I feel like some little, old, white-haired lady with those glasses dangling from a chain around my neck. I’ve gotta fix that.”