SURPRISE

QUESTION MARC?

 

Where is he? Marc was due home at eight for dinner. It's now nine, no call, no cherry red Corvette in our garage. My grandfather's clock in the foyer chimes ten. I've hated that clock since I was a child, then had the misfortune of inheriting that monster from my Grandpa. Now I hate it more. The Corvette's lights shine around our circular driveway. The double doors open automatically. The key to the Jacuzzi door turns in the lock. Marc comes in soused, waves to me and heads for the stairs. He trips on the second step, steadies himself on the railing and makes it to the top.

 

'Marilyn, where are you? I'm in bed already. Where are you, Kiddo?'
Having expected my new husband home for dinner at eight, I am dressed in very little, just a lacy thong under my peignoir and a snit on my face. Either I go into him or sleep in my room. Neither choice will be comfortable. I choose his bedroom, hear Marc snoring, and I am left alone, almost falling off the edge of our king sized bed. My aggravation eats a hole in my stomach. I can feel it writhing. Maybe I should try a Tums or Aleve, get some rest. I take both and eventually fall asleep.

 

I wake when Marc gets out of bed and lovingly taps my rear. He's already dressed in his Captain's uniform. He is top man at the E. Franklin Ave. Police Station, #305.  Marc looks so handsome, sharp, alert, I can't help myself and give him a very hot goodbye kiss. Last night's anger has gone–until the next time.

 

Al, my twin brother, does not like Marc, doesn't care what a prestigious position he holds. He calls him a dodo who happened to know somebody who knew somebody who got him on the force. After that Marc passed every test with flying colors. Several times this past month Al has warned me that Marc loves his growing gun collection more than he loves me. I tell him the same two words every time he starts picking on Marc. 'Shut up.'

 

He's home on time tonight, comes in the front door, tosses his white cap on the stereo cabinet and tells me to bring him a shot of Seagram's Raspberry Vodka, no ice. 'Marc, don't order me around, ring for David and tell him what you want. I'm not your servant. Remember, I'm your wife, your wealthy wife, so be good.' David brings the drink with ice and Marc flies off the handle, cusses,. 'Get it right next time, David or there won't be a next time.'  I am angry at Marc for treating David so badly. He's been around since I was born and is as close to me as Al.

 

Caroline has prepared one of my favorite dinners, a crisp salad with just about every veggie I adore, a tender, lean fillet minion, home fries,  asparagus and one thick slice of a Maryland red tomato at its height of delight. Marc doesn't like to slice his own steak and, not  roughly or too condescendingly,  asks her to slice his steak and not take too long. He likes it hot. Ha, does he ever. I have hot tea and am ready for bed. So is Marc. He carefully hangs up his Captain suit, straightens the slax first and hangs them up. His trustworthy Glock, as always, is in his night table drawer

 

I have a peculiar slight taste in my mouth like salt, rinse it with Listerine and the taste goes away. Marc cuddles close and I forget the lousy dinner talk. Now there is a smell. I am sure it's Elizabeth Taylor's Diamonds but say nothing.

 

On the weekend we attend a dinner party given by my long time friend, Frieda Glass. Again I get the salty taste. This time my stomach hurts too. Marc asks me if I want to go home. I tell him I think that is a good idea. Al wanders by talking to a young lady I've not seen before. Mark's eyes look her over from toe tip to her green eyes. He calls Al aside for a minute, returns to me, and lets me know Al will drive me home. He has to get back to the station. The more often things of this nature happen, the more my stomach hurts. My internist's tests show nothing. He prescribes Valium to calm down what seems to be anxiety attacks. I doubt that is the answer and cut the pills in half. With the concern Al has about Marc wanting to murder me, I am frightened, definitely frightened.

 

The pain goes on for weeks. Marc is out until 11, 12 almost every night. He doesn't get into my bed because, he says, he knows I don't feel well.
Ha!  On Friday, October 24th, I am in bed early. It is dark outside. There is the tiniest rustling sound from my terrace. It stops. I wait. It starts again. Somebody is there. Marc is coming to kill me. I get out of bed a s quietly as I can and hug the wall. The door opens slowly, doesn't creak. I see the tip of Marc's glock but not Marc. It's my brother, Al.
'Goodbye, Sister,' he says and inches closer. The shock is so great I can do nothing, not even move away.

 

There are more sounds, moving sounds. Marc, with a squadron of his men, take Al into custody. He hurries over to me, tells me how he has been watching Al for months, knowing Marc's in gambling trouble and was going to blame him for killing me.

 

It's like a fairy tale, and it is one I don't believe. Al has pleaded guilty but only gets fined as he didn't shoot me, didn't poison me. Marc give himself an accommodation, lets the press know he saved my life and Al's.

 

The next time I smell Elizabeth Taylor's Diamonds, (or any body else's) on Marc, I may get the courage to divorce Marc and find husband 4.