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However, given the latest evidence to the contrary, which is sitting in my inbox, two was incorrect. She lied, and there can only be a handful of reasonable answers as to why that would be. I plan to force the right one.
I am thankful the bookstore has many materials on the subject from which to choose. I select the most obvious. A Survivor’s Guide to Sexual Abuse. At checkout, I ask the clerk to gift wrap it, and she gives me a strange look. “The gift that keeps on giving,” I say and then to clarify, “Closure.”
She studies me for a long moment before walking away. I am then handed off to a boy with bright blue colored hair. He offers no explanation for the delay in appropriate customer service, he only says the woman can no longer assist me. This is my fault. I should not have expected much. His eyebrows are painted on like rainbows. I can only assume his parents paid him little attention growing up, and now he is taking his revenge on the rest of society. “Very new wave,” he mentions, glancing toward the book even though I haven’t asked his opinion. I’ve never understood why people insist on making small talk at the expense of quality conversation. “With the gift wrapping,” he adds. “Gotta make these things mainstream.”
I shrug. I do not understand what he means. He could be speaking Portuguese for all I know. But I keep my mouth shut; I do not want to encourage him. Nor do I have time to be handed off to someone else.
Melanie is still seated on the new couch when I return. It’s not really my taste, but we needed a replacement quick. At least one of us likes it. When her eyes meet mine, I hand the gift to her. The ladies from the church have been by, she tells me. To match her need for small talk, I could tell her about the rude clerk or the guy with blue eyebrows but I am not feeling particularly generous where she is concerned.
“Open it,” I say.
She unwraps it carefully. “What’s this?” she asks as she flips it in her hands.
“I’m sorry you suffered.”
My lying wife throws the book at me. Literally.
I duck and cover.
Her brow furrows. “What is wrong with you?”
“So, you weren’t abused?”
“No,” she huffs. “Where would you get an idea like that?”
“But you lied.”
“About what?”
It concerns me that she has to ask.
“You had more than two sexual partners.”
Her eyes widen. She realizes she’s trapped. “I’m— I’m—what does it matter, anyway?”
“It matters because statistically speaking, the more—” I stop myself. Clearly, she doesn’t care about statistics. If she had, she would have been a little more reserved. “It matters because you lied.”
She scoffs. “I can’t believe you’re doing this now.” I recognize this as classic avoidance. In no time flat, the tears come. Soon, she has pulled out all the stops and she is full out crying. I recognize this too: A form of female manipulation.
I give her time and eventually, when I haven’t caved, she wipes her nose with the back of her hand.
“Well?”
“Seriously? You want to go there now? After what I’ve just been through.”
“What you’ve been through? I’ve just learned my whole marriage is a sham.”
“Really?” She cocks her head. “Is that what you think?”
I dig my heels in. “How many, Melanie?”
She narrows her eyes, and this is war.
“How many what?” All warfare is based on deception.
“How many men were there?”
“I’m not doing this with you, Tom.” she says. We stare at each other for a moment, waiting to see who will be the first to draw. Finally, she stands. I think for a second this is to achieve better aim. But she chooses to retreat. I listen as she climbs the stairs, goes into the guest room and locks the door. Subdue the enemy without fighting.
