DITW 14-11: Odyssey 6

An anxious flittering roused him. That strange kaleidoscopic shiver that sometimes swirled in the viscera. It woke him with inescapable dread. Dread and regret. And at first he did not know where he was or what was happening, but soon his reality took shape, brought to form like cold wet hands on a frenzied potter’s wheel. The urge to retch hit him, and it wasn’t just the drinking. Something else was there, something dark and provocative, and if he thought he could return to sleep and forget about it, figure it out in the light of day, he was wrong. It whispered the nameless dread right in his ear.

You told them. You told them everything.

He sat up with a start, fear racing in his mind, his eyes wild and rolling in the dark like a frightened horse’s. Fuck. He’d pissed himself. His crotch was wet. No, it was from . . . From what? The hot tub. 

No. It was urine. He’d pissed the bed, and holy fuck, what bed was this? Whose bed was this?

God, someone was in it with him.

Now he was reeling, his heart galloping with fright, his mind piecing together the night, hearing his own voice repeating truths he swore he would carry to the grave. He’d told them. He’d told them what she’d done. Kimmy. Kimmy and Devlin. He’d told them he watched. He told them how big Devlin’s cock was.

Shame and humiliation tormented him now, and he leaned away from the person in the bed with him, his stomach queasy, his brain sloshing in his skull. And his skull! Oh, the pain. It rung like a tuning fork. The booze burned his nose. Not just whisky and beer, but all kinds of different beer; lagers, and pumpkin ales and IPAs and some Quebecois strong beer. And bourbon. Too much bourbon. He felt the toxic flame of barrel-aged alcohol in his nose, like if he lit a cigarette, his whole face might catch fire.

He buried his face in his hands while his heart turned to cold rock, knowing he’d humiliated himself to strangers, said out loud the things that burned his soul. His wife cuckolded him. His wife shamed him to his face. There was no coming back and there was no turning away. Any pride he owned had soured. No one would ever respect him again. Another man had fucked his wife and his horse cock did things to her he could and would never do. He’d told them. He’d described it all to them.

The fucking horror of it all.

He would puke. It was coming and nothing would stop it. Fuck, he’d pissed the bed. The wet wasn’t just on his shorts; it was on the sheets. Oh fuck, this was a bunkie. Yes? No? Fuck, Quinn’s bunkie. He’d gone to his cousin’s new girlfriend’s family cottage and told them all the horror show of his sex life, played it out for them in a drunken charade, then he’d pissed in one of their beds.

And who was in the bed?

He could make out the shape in the growing gray light of predawn. Hips and a narrow waist. A woman. He was in bed with a woman. She faced away, curled like a shrimp in bed next to him. Had they had sex? Who was it? Blond hair. 

Karina.

He was in bed with Karina.

He was in bed with Karina and he pissed himself.

Never in his life had he been so overwhelmed with bottomless remorse. The dread was insurmountable. A deep green despondency bashed its waves against the hearty ramparts of shame and guilt and dread. Kimmy’s boot would forever stomp on his face. He wished to blip out of existence. Anything that would ease this mortal pain. He crawled out of the bed, and clawed himself to stand, then staggered away, heading to where he thought he might find the door. There was a window by the bed and his shadow cast out ahead of him, stretching over Karina’s sleeping hump. His stomach churned and heaved. There was no bathroom in a bunkie, no plumbing at all. He needed air, that was all. Then maybe he’d stop panicking, stop his mind from ping-ponging. He could hear his own voice regaling to everyone the glory of Kimmy’s orgasm delivered by her boss. In a hotel room. A luxury hotel room in Yorkville. Why would he tell them anything?

That’s why I hit him with the chair.

Oh god, no. His hand covered his mouth as he found the doorknob, twisted it and stepped outside into the cold, wet morning. Tears were in his eyes and they froze in the frigid air. He stumbled along the bunkie’s tiny deck, thinking he would head to the bushes, but there were bunkies everywhere. Lights were on in the cottage, but he would never go there. He would run into someone who’d heard his tale of dirty cuckolding and they would scamper away, cringing from the sheer awkwardness of Quinn’s new boyfriend’s weird cousin. The tears were on his cheeks now, and he headed down the hill, headed to where he’d shared the quiet moment with Karina. The only moment for months where he’d felt human. Felt like he mattered.

The gray dawn was quiet and still, the smoke from last night’s fire hanging heavy. The tub was off, the patio lights shut. Beer bottles and cans littered the ground. He wove through them, getting into the grass and down where the crashing waves on the rocks would hide the sounds of one mournful loser hurling up his drunken guts. He would call an Uber. He would be gone before anyone woke up. He would escape social death.

But there were no Ubers out here. He would see their faces, witness their avoidance, see his truth reflected in their painted sympathy and pursed lips. No one would say anything. Their silence would crush him. 

His stomach was twisting, and the bile was splashing the back of his throat. The cold seized his wet crotch and shrunk his manhood to a raisin. His feet were bare and slippery. He wore urine-soaked shorts and a sweatshirt.

He headed to the rock where he’d sat with Karina, then changed his mind, knowing he was going to vomit and not wanting to desecrate that hallowed ground with the contents of his drunken stomach.

He found the dock and pulled himself onto it, then stumbled its length, remembering now it was the dock to end all docks, heading far out into the lake, large enough to accommodate an armada of jet skis and bass boats, stumbling into the cold wet air, the morning mist folding around his shoulders. It was perfect. The never-ending dock would take him far away from the shame. It would take him where no one could hear his vomitous cries. One look over his stooped shoulder and it was confirmed: He couldn’t see the shore. The shore couldn’t see him. It was him alone, stumbling deep into a purgatorial brume.

A man burdened by inescapable shame. A man betrayed by his love. Betrayed and humiliated. Bullied by the woman he trusted. Bullied by a ghost of trauma past. Bullied by his own lust and a weakness bred by fear. A tragic agreeableness formed out of cowardice; an affable, witless charm that would rather lead him to believe he wanted his wife to open her legs for Devlin Stone because that was easier than lifting a chair over your head and collapsing the schemers who wanted you under their boot. And the whole while he’d been a man capable of pride and the courage it would take to stand for it. He could have lifted that chair overhead on the first day.

Each bare footstep now brought him deeper into the heart of the cold, into the frigid wet misery that prickled his skin and opened his eyes to the harsh realities of existence. It was amazing how far this dock extended into the lake. How far would he have to travel to find release? 

He lifted his woozy head and closed his eyes, the mist on his cheeks, walking into glorious oblivion.

  *

Sophie was the first one up, and Kimmy woke on the couch to the sound of her niece flipping the large pages on a children’s picture book. It was a warm and dry sound, and a pleasure far greater than a weekday alarm. She roused to find Sophie on the opposite sofa, dressed in her pajamas, content to sit with her aunt nearby and wait for her to wake.

Kimmy said, “Good morning,” and Sophie smiled, looked up and said it back.

She sat up, and despite the charm of the morning, felt the guilt of how she’d gone to sleep last night, given the innocence her eyes opened on. Before Sophie scooted over and looked for attention, she slipped out from under the blanket and headed into the kitchen, asking over her shoulder if Sophie would like some juice. Sophie said no thank you, and Kimmy ran hot water in the kitchen sink, still coming awake. There was a distinct absence in her heart, like something should be there and it wasn’t. She wasn’t whole. The strongest urge came over her to call Josh. Ask him how he’s doing. And not tease him or harangue him, not goad him into defense, but ask him if he wanted to hang out today.

She washed her hands in the sink, then wiped her face with a damp paper towel, able now to return to Sophie without worry.

“Is your mother up?”

“She’s awake. She was getting dressed.”

“That’s good,” Kimmy said and sat back down on the spot where she’d slept. Sophie came over to her sofa and brought her book. Kimmy held out an arm and encouraged Sophie to take up the space at her hip, Sophie opening the book and flipping pages again, intricate, colorful drawings on every one of them.

“What do you want to do today? Do you want to go to the zoo?”

Sophie liked the idea, but was hesitant. “We could do stuff here.”

Kimmy said, “Is your auntie running you ragged, keeping you too busy?” She bumped Sophie with her hip and Sophie giggled. They had a big night out last night, after all. You didn’t need to make every minute a spectacle. Was she trying to prove something? She leaned over and kissed the top of Sophie’s head.

Hyun’s light footsteps preceded her, slipper sounds on parquet flooring coming down the hall. Hyun came in soft and radiant, smiling, seeing Kimmy and her daughter cuddled up on the couch. “Can I make coffee? Or do you want tea?”

“Tea would be excellent,” Kimmy said, and moved to rise. “I’ll come and help.”

“No, sit there, stay with Sophie,” Hyun said, and their eyes met. Hyun smiled sweetly, bashfully, then looked away, saying over her shoulder, “It’s not a two-person job.”

Kimmy laughed and dropped to sit with Sophie again, putting an arm around Sophie’s narrow little shoulders and admiring the drawings, her mouth and nose hovering above Sophie’s sweet head.

Hyun returned with a teapot and cups, and brought Sophie the juice box she’d said no to earlier. Kimmy poured them two cups while Hyun worked the straw into the box for Sophie. 

“Sophie wants a lazy day today,” Kimmy said, waiting for Sophie’s reaction. Sophie’s mouth dropped, and she looked at her aunt, who smiled. She hugged her niece. “Let’s hang around here today,” she said to Hyun now.

“I’d like that,” Hyun said.

This was a morning better than the one she would have had alone in the apartment, Josh off who knew where, probably playing video games with Meyer all night long. That was no good for him. But this was good. This was healthy. Hyun sipping tea, checking her phone, Sophie sipping juice and reading her book. She rested her hand on her tummy. Soon Josh would have responsibility. They would start over. Continue where they should have been in the spring. That was if the worst things didn’t happen. If they didn’t, it opened the way for the best things to happen.

Across from her, she watched Hyun’s color fade, along with the small smile she’d showed. Her eyes were lowered to her phone. When she raised them, they were wet with fear. She looked directly at Kimmy, and something about the fear Hyun showed froze Kimmy’s heart. No words were spoken, but she knew right away that reality had shifted and something horrible had happened.

Kimmy said, “What is it?” Her voice was thin, and it cracked. Sophie looked up from her book.

Hyun whispered, “It’s Josh...”