Short Shorts for the Summer

Short Shorts

~Bittersweet Realization~

    It all started when I was putting away laundry and came across a woman’s hanky in Jim’s sock drawer. The delicate, frilly piece of cloth was a sure sign that I wasn’t the only woman in my husband’s life. The dark, red initials, SR, embroidered on the inside corner, stared back at me as I stood there holding the telltale evidence. Why hadn’t I seen this before? It wasn’t as if it was buried deep in the back of the drawer, or hidden in a box somewhere with other mementoes from his past. As in any crime or misdemeanor, I knew the evidence I was holding was not something I could just let slide. I stood there for the longest time trying to decide how to handle the situation.
     Had my husband been unfaithful? Was there someone else? I had to know the truth. I had to confront him.
     It’s the same old song and dance, my friend. Isn’t that what they all say when people find out that your husband was having an affair, and then left you for the bimbo at the office? This was a story so old that it’s no longer startling news when it’s told. I wouldn’t be surprised if statistics say this happens to one out of every three marriages. Considering the world’s population, that’s a lot of cheating going on.
     I stopped short. I must be losing my mind. Was I just being my usual jealous self or was there a reason why he would keep something so incriminating, knowing the whole time that if I found it, I would be outraged? Are all men that simple-minded? I didn’t think so. I was sure that Jim had a good explanation—and I needed to hear it.
     We all know that keeping secrets can ruin a marriage. Deceit can lead to a loss of trust, and isn’t trust a necessity for a good marriage?
     On second thought, maybe the hanky belongs to his mother. Perhaps it got mixed up in his laundry, and he’d forgotten to return it. I thought about it for a moment longer and realized what a silly idea that was. Why would he keep her hanky this long? He hasn’t lived at home for many years. Plus, Jim’s mom wasn’t the kind of woman who would carry a hanky. If she would’ve been a southern lady, I would say yes, but she wasn’t. And… the initials weren’t hers.
     I knew it didn’t belong to my mother, even though she is a true lady from the south, and southern women, especially those from way back when, always carried a frilly hanky. Waving it with different moves of the hand was their way of communicating to their possible suitors that they were available for a date, or in my mother’s case, she probably carried one to wipe her children’s runny noses.
     Oh my, what a mess.
     I didn’t want to think there was another woman. Just the thought of it made me sick to my stomach. My heart started to palpitate as the tears welled in my eyes, and I knew it was only a matter of time before I would lose control and break down. I would sob until my eyes were red and puffy, and then my face would look like my hands do when I’ve had them in dish water too long. How could I confront Jim looking like one of those shriveled up old ladies that I used to make fun of? No wonder he wanted someone else.
     Anger set in. How could he share the same tenderness we’ve shared… with someone else? After four years of picking up after him, doing his laundry and fixing his meals, I deserved better than this. I have always been a devoted wife. I’ve never strayed and if I ever looked at another man, believe me, it wasn’t in that way.
     There was an awful emptiness in my soul. I felt lost.
     I reminisced about our past life together, and after a few heartfelt moments, I realized that I had to be wrong. Jim had always been faithful. That’s just the kind of man he is. He’s honest, trustworthy and the best husband a woman could want. He was not a cheater. I knew this because he’d never given me a reason to think otherwise. Until now.
     That being said, I had to find out who the owner of the hanky was and why it was hidden in my husband’s drawer. That nagging feeling I had just wouldn’t let go. I knew I’d never be at peace until he told me himself that I had nothing to worry about. My mind was in a state of panic. What should I do? Should I call him at work and put my fears to rest right now, or should I hang in there long enough for him to come home where we could settle this matter in private?
     I know what I’ll do. I’ll call my sister and see what she has to say. Maybe she’ll be able to soothe my bruised heart. She has always been good at that. She has a way of making everything seem all right, even when it wasn’t. At least she’d be able to help me make it through the day.
     I shoved the dresser drawer shut and walked over to the night stand beside the bed. I laid the hanky down beside the alarm clock and then picked up the telephone receiver. After dialing her number and waiting for what seemed like an eternity, I lay the receiver back down in its cradle. There was no one home—no one for me to talk with about my problem… and no one to help fix my broken heart. I paced the floor. Time passed and my sadness that had turned to anger had now turned into rage. I’ll scratch her eyes out for trying to steal my man. Who does she think she is?
     And what about Jim? How dare he do this to me! What kind of sneaky rat would do something like this to the one person who has loved him and seen him through some pretty rough times all these years? Who was the one who sat up all night long worrying about him when he was in such terrible pain, and had catered to his every need after he broke his leg? And who was the one who told him we’d be okay when he got laid off from his construction job?
     “I’ll tell you who it was,” I said out loud, talking to myself. “Me, that’s who—I was the one who wiped his forehead for hours at a time when pneumonia set in after that terrible accident last fall that almost left him a cripple. I was the one who stayed at the hospital and took care of him when everyone else was too busy.”
     No, I couldn’t hold this in. I have to confront him, and I have to do it now. This would not wait. I snatched up the home-wrecker hanky and marched out of the room. I flew down the stairs in a huff, knowing the whole time that I would soon go off the deep end. No man was going to treat me this way. If he wanted someone else, then so be it. He could have her. There’re other fish in the sea. I would find someone else. I’m
sure that somebody would want me.
     But before I do anything, I was going to have a drink. I’ve never been much of a drinker, but if it worked for Jim, it would work for me. He always had a drink when he got home from work. He said it helped him unwind after a long day at the office. I walked to the kitchen and opened the cabinet door under the sink where he kept his liquor, and almost laughed when I looked at the bottles. They reminded me of my father.
     Daddy used to come home from work and go straight to the kitchen to have a drink before dinner. He’d have one drink before dinner and then a few more afterwards. He said it was a rite of passage—that all men did it as they got older. But the truth is he’d been drinking for as long as I could remember. Maybe that’s why Mom divorced him. She never did have much use for anyone who indulged in the bottle.
     After they separated, she told everyone it was because they had grown apart, but I knew the real reason. She had just gotten tired of his drinking. I knew Mom wouldn’t think too highly of my having a drink, but I wasn’t like my dad—I wasn’t a lush, and having one drink wouldn’t hurt.
     I reached down into the cabinet and pulled out a bottle of whiskey. After unscrewing the cap and putting the bottle to my nose, I decided against drinking something that smelled so vile. As upset as I was, I knew the bitter liquid wouldn’t sit well in my stomach. Memories of throwing up after drinking alcohol at a party some years ago came vividly back. No—I wouldn’t go there. I would not drown my sorrows in a bottle.
     Tears spilled down my cheeks. The ache in my heart wouldn’t go away.
     I put the bottle back in the cabinet, closed the doors and walked over to the kitchen table. I pulled out the chair and sat down—contemplating what had happened to my life, and how it had changed so quickly since I found a woman’s handkerchief in my husband’s sock drawer. Could my marriage and my whole life be over because of a silly handkerchief? I stared down at the hanky that I clutched so tightly. Maybe I should put it back in Jim’s drawer and pretend that I never saw it. That would sure make life a lot easier.
     The chime of the doorbell startled me.
     “Who is it?” I asked as I got up from the chair and headed to the front door.
     I wasn’t in the mood to have company, but as soon as I got close to the front door, I was relieved to hear a familiar voice.
     “It’s me, Anna,” she responded. “May I come in?”
     I reached out, grabbed the doorknob, and opened the door.
     “Come on in,” I said as I tried to be pleasant and welcome my guest. “I’m not very good company today. I found this in my husband’s sock drawer.”
     I shook the hanky as I held it out for her to see.
     “Jim’s having an affair with another woman! I don’t know what I’m going to do! I’m so furious—my blood’s boiling.”
     Anna walked inside and closed the door.
     I began to shake as my words built momentum. I started to pace.
     “I was going to get in my car and go confront him at work, but I didn’t want to make a scene,” I ranted. “I don’t want him to get fired.”
     “Calm down,” Anna said. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
     After a moment, a lone tear slid down her face.
     I was surprised to see the sadness in her eyes. She seemed visibly rattled. Fearing that I had upset her, I tried to make light of the situation.
     “Oh, don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll handle my husband.” I shook the hanky again. “I’ll get to the bottom of this, one way or another. Jim won’t get away with his indiscretion!”
     Anna walked up to me, put her arm around my shoulder and cried, “Daddy’s been dead for twelve years now, Mama… and that’s your handkerchief. See the initials.” She pointed to the crimson letters. “SR—Sarah Riley—that’s you, Mama. Every year on your anniversary, you drag out that old hanky and swear Daddy’s having an affair.”
     She took the delicate hanky from my hand and neatly folded it into a small triangle with the red initials showing on top. She placed it on the table beside us.
     “Now let’s go to the kitchen, and I’ll fix us a nice hot cup of tea.”

The moral of the story: Things aren't always what they seem to be.

The End.

Click here to tell Ann Mullen what you think of her story.