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“I know having a child was supposed to make me happy. But it didn’t. Quite the opposite actually. And the saddest part of all is, it’s not his fault.”
She takes a deep breath. I’m just about to make a run for it when she says, “Do you know what it’s like to hate yourself, Melanie?”
“No. I’m a surface level kind of person, to tell you the truth.” Of course, I don’t tell her the real truth. That I don’t know because I don’t have real feelings.
She meets my eye. “Well, I do. My son, he deserves better. I know what it must look like to someone like you. But I clean, and I take these pills, and that’s enough for me. It has to be.”
I nod. She really should know better than to offer up this kind of honesty. Someone should warn her; it’ll only get her into trouble.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Tom
When I add it all up, ten grand and some change is what it takes to make Melanie happy. A car lease, clothing items no doubt made by slave laborers in horrific conditions, in addition to visits to the rejuvenation center for spa treatments, laser hair removal, and body sculpting. Who knew it could be so easy on someone else’s dime?
She looks good. Life is grand. We’re on an upswing. Nothing can stop us now. But it only leaves one question…what will it take to keep her happy?
When I was in junior high we participated in the Million Dollar Project. Now, I’m not exactly a young guy, but I start by saying that it is far, far easier these days than it was back then to blow a million bucks.
Back then, I thought it would be a dream, all those dollars. So many zeros. I literally dreamed about all the stuff I would buy. Being a poor kid, I assure you, it was a lot.
In the end though, there was a bigger lesson than getting rid of all those zeros. I was surprised to find that having the fake money hadn’t made me as happy as I thought it would. I was surprised to find it was a burden trying to spend it all.
I wanted more to manage it than see it fly out the window on fleeting happiness. What I learned is it took very little to actually make me happy. I realized then my threshold was lower than a lot of people’s. It was lower than June’s, and it’s certainly lower than Melanie’s. This adds up to a compatibility issue.
Clearly, I know my part in the problem: I have expensive taste in women. One I’ve managed to solve in the short-term by throwing off expenses onto the church’s back. But it’s only a matter of time before someone finds out. Not everyone gets to be Mark Jones. My work is to see how long I can.
Basically, you could say I’m testing his tolerance threshold. He hasn’t yet realized this. But he will. What Mark needs is something to worry about other than the killing spree he wants me to embark upon. It’s exhausting, this business of murder. Add in trying to maintain a job, and a home, and deal with a needy wife, and well, I have no idea who has the time for this. It’s time-consuming interviewing contract killers, trying to nab the proper one for the job while managing everyday life and trying to keep one’s hands clean in the process. It requires speaking in code, secret meetings, and a transfer of funds. I know enough to know you’re guilty the moment money exchanges hands. No one even has to die. Suffice it to say, I’m still not convinced I shouldn’t handle matters myself. Get my feet wet, so to speak.
In the meantime, as I weigh my options, life goes on as normal. I mostly work. It’s big business shuffling digits around, hiding some, bringing others to light. This is an art, crafting things the way you want them to be. Even numbers. Especially numbers.
Speaking of art, Melanie’s spending is out of control. She appears to be consumed with improving herself. She’s obsessed with what the other wives are up to. Lunching or brunching or whatever is popular these days. I’m too busy making it all work to dig too deep. It’s tough to stay caught up on the trends with so many balls in the air.
One morning over breakfast Melanie says to me, “You’ll be happy to know I scheduled my rhinoplasty for next week.”
This is news to me. “Your nose is fine.”
“Beth doesn’t think so.” She points. “And I’ve always had this little bump…”
I squint. “I have twenty-twenty vision, and I see nothing.”
“Don’t worry. It’s outpatient. So, I’ll be home in time for dinner.”
“Do you know how they perform rhinoplasty? They literally chisel your bone. With a chisel and a hammer.”
“I watched YouTube videos,” she says.
“Your eyes will be black…I’ve heard it’s quite painful.”
“Did you try and talk June out of the boob job?”
I deadpan. “No. Why?”
“Nothing,” she tells me. “I just thought you might be worried that the same thing might happen to me.”
“Anesthesia is relatively safe,” I inform her. “In most cases.”
I watch as she crosses the kitchen.
