Lust to Love
Jessica Laine
Being a trophy wife isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. I’ve given my husband the best year of my life and in return, he’s been playing hide the salami with some skank. When I find out who he’s sleeping with, there will be hell to pay or my name isn’t Lulita Conchita García de Bergen.
I met Jim twelve months ago while I was a junior at Rice College in St. Paul and working part-time at Second Chances, a used sporting goods company. At first, I didn’t know much about him other than he was in his forties, resembled Captain Stubing from The Love Boat, and liked to look down my shirt while I typed up documents for him. One day, I asked my girlfriends, Fawn and Sherry, about Jim.
Fawn looked at me like I was nuts. “Jim Bergen? He owns the company, airhead.”
A-ha. “What’s the deal? Is he divorced?”
“He was married but his wife, Rosemary, died last year.”
“From cancer?”
Sherry glanced around the cafeteria. “A boating accident on Lake Minnetonka. It was freaky, Lulita,” she whispers. “She slipped over the boat railing and her body was never found.”
“Did you ever meet her?” I asked.
“No,” Sherry said, “but she used to work here.”
“What did she do?”
“She worked in the typing pool, just like us. After they were married, she did a lot of charity work. I heard she was raised in an orphanage and wanted to give back.”
Fawn chimed in. “Anyway, Jim’s single now, and I think he likes you. Why wouldn’t he? You look like a Spanish Belinda Carlisle.”
“Aww, thanks.” I’d caught Jim staring at me like a man who was drowning, and I was the only one who could save him. It was both cool and creepy.
When I was single, the fun was in the capture and the kill, and let’s face it, old Jim was easy prey. I wore low-cut blouses until he worked up the nerve to ask me out. While we were dating, he never mentioned Rosemary. We married six months later.
At Jim’s insistence, I quit my job.
“You’ve been working too hard. Let me take care of you, Lulita,” he said.
There was something appealing about handing over the reins to my older, handsome husband. My days are spent tanning, Jazzercising, or enjoying the views from our McMansion on Lake Minnetonka. An empty boat slip sits at the edge of the property. When I asked Jim, what happened to the boat (the one Rosemary was on when she died, I wanted to add), he said, “I donated it to the fire department. They sunk it as a training exercise. It’s at the bottom of the lake.”
Lake Minnetonka is not a shallow body of water. At its center, it’s about 115 feet deep. Still, the thought of Jim and Rosemary’s boat somewhere out there—close to the house—creeps me out.
One afternoon, I invite Fawn over for drinks. We sip piña coladas on the patio as the sun sets on Lake Minnetonka.
“Wow, this is the life,” Fawn says. “Let me know if Jim ever needs another wife.”
“I will,” I say, glancing at Fawn’s floral Ship ’N Shore blouse which barely hides the bulging waistband of her leggings.
“Not that he’d want me,” Fawn says. “The Jims of the world only marry women who look like you.”
I tell Fawn that it’s not true, but later I wonder if it is.
“How was your day?” Jim asks me during dinner.
“Good. Fawn came over.”
“She did?”
“Yeah, she said if you ever need a new wife, she’s game.”
Jim’s smile seems forced.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“It doesn’t look good for my wife to be associating with my employees.”
“I don’t have many girlfriends.”
“You’ll make more friends.”
“Women don’t like me.” It’s true. You should see their faces as they look me up and down.
We sit in silence for a while until Jim says, “I was thinking you could drop out of school.”
“Why?”
“Beautiful girls like you don’t need an education, Lulita. College is for ugly girls like your friend, Fawn.” Jim chuckles at his own joke.
“Many women my age attend college, Jim.”
“Rosemary didn’t.”
Finally. For the past year, I’ve been waiting for him to say her name.
“I’m not Rosemary.”
He bangs his fist on the kitchen counter, startling me. “Listen, I didn’t marry you for your brains. I married you because you have a great rack and a pretty face, and don’t you forget it.”
“I won’t.”
“If you need me, I’ll be in my office.” I watch as Jim huffs and puffs his way down the basement stairs. Like a cannibalistic humanoid underground dweller, Jim spends most of his time below ground. I think he keeps his porn stashed in his office because the door is always locked. He’s probably in there right now, whacking off.
If Jim thinks he’s going to keep me from going to college, he’s got another thing coming. The last people who told me a high school degree and my pretty face were “enough,” my parents, died in a tragic house fire during my senior year of high school.
Hands trembling, I get into my car (Rosemary’s car), a newer-model Mercedes-Benz, and put the pedal to the metal. I drive downtown for my class, “Darkness Within: Literature’s Greatest Villains.” My instructor, Professor Underhill, is around thirty and attractive in an academic kind of way: tall, thin, with shaggy brown hair and a beard. Also, I’m pretty sure there’s a six-pack hiding underneath his tweed jacket.
Professor Underhill has a kind face. I like the way he explains things without talking down to us. Since my marital problems began, I’ve been sitting in the front row sucking suggestively on my Bic pen while wearing progressively more revealing clothing. I won’t lie; I do it for the thrill of it all.
“Lulita, may I have a word?” Professor Underhill says when class is over.
“Sure.” I put down my Esprit tote bag and watch as the other students file out of the classroom.
“I’d like to speak with you about the essay you turned in last week.” Professor Underhill pulls out a crumpled document from the messy pile on his desk. “In your paper, you argue that none of literature’s greatest villains are actually villains. Instead, Dorian Gray ‘is a by-product of society’s obsession with youth culture,’ Mr. Hyde is a ‘victim of Victorian-age sexual repression,’ and Lady MacBeth is ‘an unfairly maligned female leader who was ahead of her time in terms of the management of people and tough situations.’” Professor Underhill removes his glasses and stares at me. “Is this what you truly believe?”
“Yes.”
To my surprise, he laughs. “You’re funny. Let me buy you a drink.”
No man has ever told me I’m funny. Usually, they’re too busy staring at my bountiful tetas to hear the words coming out of my mouth. I accept the professor’s offer which I might have rejected if things were going better on the home front. We walk to a nearby Bennigan’s. Professor Underhill asks for a Long Island Iced Tea. I order a Sex on the Beach.
“Have you decided upon a senior project?” he asks.
“Not yet, Professor Underhill,” I admit.
“Call me Gregory.”
I notice Gregory has been hiding cobalt-blue eyes behind his coke-bottle glasses. There’s a thin, white band on his ring finger. Is he recently divorced? He catches me staring at his hand and shoots me a shy grin.
“Luuuliitah.” He says my name like he’s just bitten into a juicy plum. “I have office hours on Thursday afternoons. Feel free to stop by anytime if you’d like to discuss possible topics for your senior project.” He strokes his beard as he bids me farewell.
I’m not used to hair, facial or otherwise. Aside from being bald, Jim is clean-shaven and doesn’t have much body hair. If I went down on Gregory, there’s a good chance I could choke on a guitar string. On the other hand, I’ve always wanted a free mustache ride.
I walk into the kitchen where I find Jim talking on the phone. When he sees me, the smile slides off his face. He carries the phone into the pantry and shuts the door. I hear muffled laughter before he hangs up.
“Who was that?” I ask.
“Someone from the office. They had questions regarding our year-end reporting.”
Year-end reporting, my Jazzercising ass.
I find an expensive-looking box behind some scuba-diving equipment in Jim’s closet. I open it and find a light-pink negligee inside. I don’t normally wear pink, but I’m touched Jim would buy it to help reignite the passion in our marriage. Recently, the TV commercial where the little old lady screams, “Where’s the beef?” has been hitting a little too close to home.
I turn off the lights with the Clapper when I hear the garage door open.
“Lulita?” Jim enters the bedroom.
“Surprise.” I lie spread-eagled on the bed.
“Jesus!” he yells. “You scared me. Where did you find that nightgown?”
“Why?”
“It belonged to Rosemary. I thought you were her.”
“Returned to haunt you?” I say.
Jim bridges the gap between us and grabs my arm.
“Ow!”
“Don’t you ever joke about that again.” Jim storms out of the room.
Later that evening, I burn the negligee in the wastebasket next to the bed. I use a match for every day of my marriage.
Our sex life—which was never anything to write home about—has become non-existent. I may have a great rack and a pretty face, but I’m not stupid. I hire a private investigator. A week later, he tells me, “Yup, your husband’s screwing someone.” Before he leaves, the investigator hands me some photos of Jim and his lover doing the horizontal bop. As I rifle through the photos, my blood begins to boil.
Jim’s mistress is my old work buddy, Fawn.
Fawn. The girl who looked up to me, told me I looked like a Latina Belinda Carlisle. Fawn. I’ve been Jazzercising my ass off, so I can fit into my size-four Girbaud jeans. Fawn isn’t even pretty, not to mention her pear-shaped body makes her look like Grimace. Still, she’s young. Younger than me.
That’s when I decide to take matters into my own hands.
I visit Gregory during office hours. He seems pleased to see me.
“I have an idea for my senior project.” I hand him a piece of paper. “I want to write crime fiction.”
“These People Must Die. Catchy title,” Gregory says. “A book featuring three short stories. What’s the first story about?”
“The first story is called ‘Fawn Must Die.’ It’s about a woman named Fawn who sleeps with Jim, the husband of her girlfriend. Her girlfriend finds out and kills Fawn by running her over.”
“I pictured you writing something more literary.” Standing next to Gregory’s desk, I lean over and inhale the scent of his hair. Gee, it smells terrific. “Is this what you really want, Lulita?” Gregory’s voice grows husky as I caress a few of his wayward curls.
“When I read ‘great literature,’ I feel like it’s all words, words, words.” I straddle his lap and remove my Guess sweater. “I want action. I want something to happen, don’t you?”
Gregory’s hands shake as undoes the clasp of my Victoria’s Secret bra.
A few days later, my friend, Sherry, calls to give me the news.
“You’ll never guess what,” she says.
“What?”
“Fawn’s missing.”
“No.”
“When she didn’t show up at work, the police went to her apartment and busted down her door. The place was a mess and there wasn’t a trace of Fawn.”
“That’s awful.”
“I wish I knew what’s happened to her, poor thing.”
“Me, too,” I say, but I’m lying.
I know exactly what’s happened to Fawn.
That evening, I whistle as I serve dessert until Jim yells, “Will you stop that?”
“Excuse me for living,” I say. “I thought you’d be pleased. I made your favorite, 7-Up Lime Jell-O Salad.” Rosemary’s recipe includes pop, Jell-O, cream cheese, Cool Whip, and mayonnaise. How grody is that?
When Jim doesn’t answer me, I say, “What’s your damage?”
Jim waves me off. “Nothing,” he says. I hear him slam the door to the garage. A moment later, he reappears while I’m loading the dishwasher in the kitchen. “Where’s your Mercedes?”
“You mean Rosemary’s Mercedes?”
Jim slaps my face. “Don’t you screw with me.”
It’s been a long time since anyone slapped me. The last people who slapped me, my parents, died when my drunk father fell asleep on the couch with a lit cigarette in his mouth.
“Where is it?” He yells.
“I traded it in for a Chevy Camaro,” I say. “The Benz made me feel like a cheap replacement for Rosemary. I’m not Rosemary, Jim.”
“You can say that again.” Jim, the man who used to look at me as though I was saving him from drowning, now looks like he wants to drown me instead. “I’ll be in the basement.” After a long pause, he adds, “You should know there are consequences for disobeying me, Lulita.” I watch as he huffs and puffs his way down the stairs.
Alone in our bedroom, I pull out the photos the P.I. gave me of Jim and Fawn. I stare at Fawn’s beady eyes, pudgy face, and freckles, and feel my anger build again. What kind of a man would reject me for a woman who looks like a Cabbage Patch Doll?
A very sick one, obviously.
During office hours, I tell Gregory about my second story.
“‘Jim Must Die’?” he says.
I nod. “It’s about Jim, the husband who cheated on his wife with Fawn.”
“How is Jim going to die?” Gregory asks.
“He’s going to get run over by a truck.”
“Wouldn’t that be repetitive since Fawn died in a similar fashion? Wouldn’t the police be suspicious?”
“I guess so,” I say. “What about poison?”
“The medical examiner could test for poisoning,” he says.
As I kneel before Gregory’s chair, I say, “I’ll think of something.” Gregory lets out a small sigh as I undo his belt.
The next day, I weigh my options. I could leave, but I signed a prenuptial agreement so I wouldn’t be leaving with much. I could stay, but then I would likely face the wrath of Jim. Didn’t he say there would be consequences for disobedience before he stormed down to his office last night? I peer down the stairs. What’s up with his office anyway? Why does he keep it locked? Perhaps it’s time for me to find out.
Early in our marriage, I asked Jim why the basement always smelled wet. “Lake water,” he snapped. “Seeping into the foundation.” Today, the smell is stronger than usual, making me queasy. I put on a pair of yellow dishwashing gloves and grab a bobby pin. It takes me about five minutes to pick the office door’s lock. It’s nice to know my years as a juvenile delinquent have paid off. I check my watch. Almost an hour until Jim arrives home from work.
Jim’s study contains filing cabinets, a gun rack, and broken gym equipment which will not be given a second chance at his retail stores. A pile of invoices stamped “past due” in red ink sit on Jim’s desk. Sifting through official-looking documents, newspaper articles, and photographs, I piece together a nightmare of a story.
A wedding photo of Jim and a young, blonde woman (Rosemary) hangs on the back wall. I step closer to get a good look. The bride’s eyes have been crossed out with a black marker.
Too late, I hear the garage door open. I run upstairs.
“Lulita?” Where are you?” Jim yells.
When I remain silent, he says, “I know you’ve been in my office, Lulita. I think you’ve got the wrong idea.”
“I don’t think so.” I speak into the intercom. “What I don’t understand is why you killed Rosemary when you loved her so much.”
“I didn’t love her,” Jim says as he creeps up the stairs. “I loved her obedience.”
“To love, honor, and obey, huh?”
“Yes, obey,” Jim agrees. “You could’ve learned a lot from her.”
“Screw you, Jim.”
I hear a soft click as Jim removes the safety from his handgun. “See, that right there is one reason why it could never work between us,” he says. “You’ve got a mouth on you.”
“Want to know another?” I say. “Because you’re a huevón.”
“What’s that?”
“A fucking dickhead,” I yell as I jump out of my hiding place.
The paramedics arrive quickly, perhaps ten minutes after I phone them to let them know Jim has fallen and he can’t get up because he’s dead. Sobbing tears of relief, I watch as they pick up his cold, lifeless body from the bottom of the stairs, place it on the stretcher, and cart it away in the ambulance.
After a long night at the police station, I fall asleep in the guest room. When I wake up, it’s late afternoon. I picture Gregory’s kind face. If I hurry, I can make the tail-end of his office hours. I throw on a dress and hop into my Camaro. What began as a welcome distraction from my marital problems has blossomed into something more. I’m not sure what, but I’d like to find out. I put my foot on the gas.
The door to Gregory’s office is locked. I hear muffled voices inside and pound on the door until one of my classmates, Heather, bolts out of the office. Avoiding my gaze, she hurries down the hallway as she buttons her shirt. Jim may have chosen Fawn over me, but this feels infinitely worse. With her spiky blonde hair, big nose, and fake tan, Heather looks like Alf. What kind of a man would want to diddle Alf?
Gregory appears in the doorway. “Lulita,” he says, “it’s not what you think.”
“Isn’t it?” I say.
Gregory’s eyes flicker toward his desk. I push past him and pick up two newspaper clippings. One article details the story of a missing woman named Fawn Higgins. I recognize the other one from the morning newspaper—the front-page article announcing the untimely death of Minnetonka millionaire, Jim Bergen.
“I’ve got an idea for my third story,” I say.
“Oh, really?” A bead of sweat runs down Gregory’s temple.
“You’ll like this one.” I smile. “It’s about a student named Heather.”
Gregory doesn’t smile back. “How does Heather die?”
“Someone cuts the brake line on her Gremlin.”
“Does Heather have to die?”
“Not necessarily,” I say. “I had another idea for a story involving an amateur detective named Professor Peter Overhill. He’s a thirty-something Lothario who solves mysteries while porking every woman in sight. Eventually, his pecker gets him in trouble, and one of his ex-lovers demands her pound of Peter.”
“Why did you kill them?” Gregory asks.
“Kill who?”
“Jim and Fawn.”
“I didn’t kill Jim until he tried to kill me.” I tell Gregory about what I learned sifting through the papers, letters, and news clippings in Jim’s office. “Jim’s business, Second Chances, was going under. He married a young woman named Rosemary who’d been raised in an orphanage. Once he learned she had no surviving family, Jim took out an insurance policy on her life. Rosemary, an experienced sailor, drowned under mysterious circumstances. Jim’s business stayed afloat for a while after the insurance payout. When it began to go under again, he married another young woman—me—after learning my parents were also deceased. He took out an insurance policy on my life a few months ago.”
“What about Fawn?”
“I didn’t kill Fawn.”
“She’s not dead?”
“Only in the story I wrote about her. Once I found out she was sleeping with Jim, I told that pendeja she’d better get out of town or else. She’s been staying at her grandparents’ home in Duluth and guess what.”
“What?”
“Her parents are dead, too.”
“Both of you are lucky you didn’t end up like Rosemary,” Gregory says. “Think they’ll ever find her?”
“I think so,” I say. “I told the police about the scuba diving equipment I found in the back of Jim’s closet. My guess is he kept her body hidden on land until the fire department sunk his boat in Lake Minnetonka. Then he swam to the bottom of the lake and put Rosemary’s body in the hull of the boat, probably weighed it down with the anchor.”
“That’s terrible.”
“Yes.” I change the subject. “What’s the deal with you and Heather?”
“Nothing,” Gregory says. “She came on to me, but I told her I was seeing someone.”
“You did?”
Gregory nods. “You weren’t serious about killing Heather or the professor, were you?”
“No, I told you I’m a crime writer. Piss me off, and you’ll probably end up dead in one of my stories, but I have no interest in killing anyone else.”
“Good.” He moves a little closer to me.
“So now what?” I say.
He strokes his beard. “I have an idea for a story.”
“Hit me.” I lean over Gregory’s desk and pull up my dress, far enough so he can see I’m not wearing any underwear. I hear him suck in his breath.
“Perhaps instead of killing people, the wife in your story could fall in love instead,” Gregory whispers as he positions himself behind me.
“Got anyone in mind?”
“I might.” I hear him unzip his pants.
“Everyone loves a happy ending,” I say.