In the Dog House. V.M. Burns

her lip and a shrug of her shoulders, and before I knew what came over me, I was halfway across the table with my hands wrapped around her throat. It took three people to pry my hands off her scrawny little neck.

      “You’re crazy,” she croaked.

      “I am crazy, you little bimbo.”

      She backed up to the door. “I’ll be in the ’Vette.” She marched toward the door. “And the name is Bambi.” She turned and left.

      The white-hot rage that propelled me across the table subsided, and I allowed myself to be placed in my seat.

      Albert stood in place, torn between his current wife, who was all but frothing at the mouth, and his girlfriend, who’d just walked out. He made his choice when he turned and walked out.

      His attorney followed not long afterward, leaving Stephanie and me alone in the conference room. We sat in silence for what felt like a long time but was only minutes. Then I hopped up from the upholstered wingback chair and paced in front of the large plate-glass window that looked out over the city of Chicago onto Lake Shore Drive. I was so angry I wanted to swear, but I’d never said the kind of words I saw spray-painted on the sides of buildings or scratched onto the walls in public restrooms. I was raised to believe well-bred ladies didn’t use those types of words. I trained my children that the English language was so rich, a well-educated person should be able to express themselves without resorting to those types of words. Today, I learned I was wrong. Well-bred ladies did use those types of words. In fact, I felt like stringing all of them together and saying them loud and repeatedly. Nevertheless, close to fifty years of training and Catholic school guilt didn’t dissolve in an instant.

      Instead, I said the harshest word I was capable of, “Rassa-frazzin’-fragdaggle-blasted-tater sauce!”

      “Mom!” Stephanie feigned a look of shock, but couldn’t prevent her lips from twitching or her eyes from sparkling. However, the look was brief, given the magnitude of the occasion.

      “I’m sorry, dear.” I stared at my daughter, embarrassed I’d lost control in front of her. “I shouldn’t have said those things about your father. Or tried to strangle his…whatever she is. This has to be hard enough for you, watching your parents split up, without your mother losing control like that.”

      “You’ve got to be joking. You should be furious. You should be swearing, with real curse words, throwing furniture and slashing his tires. Maybe not trying to kill the girl—at least not with so many witnesses.” She smiled briefly, but then she banged her hands on the desk, causing a glass of water to shake, sloshing water onto the table. “Get angry and let it out. I know I would.”

      Old habits die hard. I hurried to the table, grabbed several tissues, and mopped up the water before it could stain the lovely mahogany table that dominated the room.

      Stephanie sighed as she watched me clean. “You’ve spent your entire life cleaning up after other people—Dad, David, and me. After twenty-five years of marriage, he leaves you for a woman younger than me, and here you are, still cleaning up. You shouldn’t let him get away with it.” She reached across and grabbed my hands, preventing me from continuing. “I’m not going to let him get away with this.”

      I stared at the determined look in my daughter’s dark eyes and the set of her chin. For an instant, instead of the polished, intelligent, high-powered Chicago attorney, I saw the scrappy tomboy who got sent home from school for beating up the neighborhood bully when he tried to steal a younger kid’s lunch money. Stephanie had always been a defender of the poor and downtrodden. At twenty-five, she was still doing it. I felt a moment of pride, knowing I’d had a hand in creating such a strong, beautiful woman. My conscience pricked when I remembered that her father had also contributed to making her the woman she was.

      “I shouldn’t have allowed you to get involved like this. You shouldn’t take sides. He’s your father. I—”

      “Mom, stop.” She grabbed me by the shoulders and gave me a shake. “He is my father and I love him. I always will, but you always taught me it was our duty as good citizens to stand up for what was right and to fight for justice for those unable to fight for themselves.” She smiled. “That’s why I became a lawyer.”

      I pulled her close and hugged her. When we separated, we both needed tissues to wipe away the tears. We sat down and composed ourselves.

      Stephanie pulled some notes from the large folder on the desk. “Daddy’s attorney is asking for the house, the car, everything. He claims, as the sole provider, he’s entitled to all of the assets.”

      I swallowed the lump in my throat. “But your father never wanted me to work outside of the home. He said my job was taking care of my family.”

      “I know. Don’t worry. I won’t let him get away with that.” She scanned the papers. “He claims business hasn’t been good, so he can’t pay alimony or any type of spousal support.” She tapped her pencil on the table and mumbled, “We’ll see about that.”

      “I don’t want anything from him. I kept my CPA license, and I can always find a job.”

      “Mom! That’s not the point. You worked harder than anyone to help him build his business. You even did the books for years, plus you raised two kids, cooked, cleaned, and sacrificed. You deserve better than to be tossed aside after more than twenty-five years, like an old discarded newspaper.”

      Stephanie looked out the window.

      She spent several hours explaining things and making phone calls to Albert’s attorney. By the end of the day, she had a smug, satisfied look, which told me she’d gotten more than she’d given up in the negotiations. Between the shock of learning the man I’d pledged my troth to over twenty-five years ago not only wanted to call it quits, but he’d been unfaithful, too, had my head pounding beyond anything mere aspirin could soothe. Stephanie wanted me to go to dinner with her, stay overnight, and take the train back to Lighthouse Dunes, Indiana, in the morning, but I wanted to go home, while I still had a home to go to.

      The South Shore commuter train ran between Chicago and South Bend, Indiana. Lighthouse Dunes was about forty-five miles west of South Bend. The ride from beginning to end took two hours and twenty minutes and was popular, especially in the summer months, for Indiana residents to go to baseball games, museums, and shopping without the hassle of dealing with the often bumper-to-bumper traffic and parking in the Windy City. For me, the ride provided time to sit and think.

      When Albert first moved out, I was in denial. I felt like a statistic. At fifty, I was part of the 40 to 50 percent of marriages that end in divorce. Initially, I thought he just needed a little distance to realize he was making a mistake and would eventually come home. I spent the first few months cleaning the house and working out. I even read magazines and books on how to rekindle the spark. I actually replaced my warm flannel pajamas with flimsy negligees. Initially, I was embarrassed by the sheer fabric, which left nothing to the imagination. However, I had to admit they were perfect for coping with hot flashes and night sweats. After six months, the divorce papers arrived. That was when I burned the magazines, tossed out the books, and cried. I cried a lot. When my credit cards were declined and I could no longer get money from our bank account, I called Stephanie. I suspected there was another woman, but I never dreamed she would be so young.

      As the train sped through the night, I looked out the window as the trees and buildings sped past. In many ways, that ride mirrored my life. It felt like yesterday I was a new bride, in love and confident our love would conquer anything. Then came the children. Stephanie and David were the joys of my life. One minute they were chubby little babies, and the next they were graduating from college. The years rushed by as quickly as the scenery outside my window. In all likelihood, my life was more than half over, and what did I have to show for it apart from two children who were now adults with little need for me?

      I leaned my head against the cool window and pulled my coat tight. I didn’t realize I was crying until the woman next to me handed me a tissue.

      “Honey, whatever he did, it ain’t worth all them tears.”